read the deliciously turned speech that had been written for him, and had flipped the switch on the remote control device in his pocket. Away in front of them a huge white dome that bulged against the sky cracked down in the middle, split, and slowly folded itself down into the ground. Everyone gasped although they had known perfectly well it was going to do that because they had built it that way. Beneath it lay uncovered a huge starship, one hundred and fifty metres long, shaped like a sleek running shoe, perfectly white and mindboggingly beautiful. At the heart of it, unseen, lay a small gold box which carried within it the most brain-wretching device ever conceived, a device which made this starship unique in the history of the galaxy, a device after which the ship had been named - The Heart of Gold. "Wow", said Zaphod Beeblebrox to the Heart of Gold. There wasn't much else he could say. He said it again because he knew it would annoy the press. "Wow." The crowd turned their faces back towards him expectantly. He winked at Trillian who raised her eyebrows and widened her eyes at him. She knew what he was about to say and thought him a terrible showoff. "That is really amazing," he said. "That really is truly amazing. That is so amazingly amazing I think I'd like to steal it." A marvellous Presidential quote, absolutely true to form. The crowd laughed appreciatively, the newsmen gleefully punched buttons on their Sub-Etha News-Matics and the President grinned. As he grinned his heart screamed unbearably and he fingered the small Paralyso-Matic bomb that nestled quietly in his pocket. Finally he could bear it no more. He lifted his heads up to the sky, let out a wild whoop in major thirds, threw the bomb to the ground and ran forward through the sea of suddenly frozen smiles. ================================================================= Chapter 5 Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz was not a pleasant sight, even for other Vogons. His highly domed nose rose high above a small piggy forehead. His dark green rubbery skin was thick enough for him to play the game of Vogon Civil Service politics, and play it well, and waterproof enough for him to survive indefinitely at sea depths of up to a thousand feet with no ill effects. Not that he ever went swimming of course. His busy schedule would not allow it. He was the way he was because billions of years ago when the Vogons had first crawled out of the sluggish primeval seas of Vogsphere, and had lain panting and heaving on the planet's virgin shores... when the first rays of the bright young Vogsol sun had shone across them that morning, it was as if the forces of evolution ad simply given up on them there and then, had turned aside in disgust and written them off as an ugly and unfortunate mistake. They never evolved again; they should never have survived. The fact that they did is some kind of tribute to the thick- willed slug-brained stubbornness


a handkerchief out of his pocket and throws it at Andy. Andy sits up and rests his chin on the back of the sofa. He lets his eyes unfocus and his mind wander. He watches as Nick puts a grocery sack on the table and takes out an onion, some garlic, a dozen eggs, a couple of cans, a lemon, and some cheese. Then Nick washes his hands and rolls up his sleeves. Andy closes his eyes and is left with the rhythmic thwack of the knife against the butcher’s block, the sizzle of onions hitting oil, Nick’s off-key humming. He must fall asleep, because when he opens his eyes, Nick is standing over him, brushing Andy’s hair off his forehead. “Come and eat something.” Andy gets to his feet and stumbles over to the table, where a bowl of yellow soup and a piece of toast wait for him. “Egg soup,” Nick says, sitting down across from Andy. “It’s good when you’re sick.” Andy would eat a bowl of motor oil if Nick put it in front of him and it’s completely insane that Nick doesn’t seem to already know this. He sits and takes a spoonful. “S’good,” he says. “Lemony.” He thinks he’d probably appreciate it better if his nose weren’t so stuffed up, but the lemon and steam cut through some of the more nightmarish things happening in his sinuses. “It’s what my mother made when we were sick,” Nick says. “I miss my mom,” Andy says. He’s pretty sure he hadn’t meant to say that, but he’s tired and his head hurts. He’s not even sure why he misses his mother now, of all times: God knows she never cooked soup or anything else in her entire life and was hardly the kind of person who could be described as nurturing. She would have shot anyone who called her nurturing, and that thought only makes him miss her more. But she was his mother and now she’s gone, she’s left him again, and Andy is all alone, and will always be alone, and— After dinner, Andy lands on the couch and drifts off, waking to hear Nick’s hushed voice. “I don’t have a thermometer, but he feels hot,” Nick is saying, and then there’s a pause. “Really hot. No, no cough.” He must be on the phone. “Okay,” he says a minute later. “Got it. Thanks, Bev.” The sofa shifts under Nick’s weight. “Hey, I’m heading out to the drugstore to get you some medicine.” “Don’t need medicine. I’m fine.” Nick snorts. “You have the flu, pal.” “Says who?” “Says Beverly. She’s a nurse.” Beverly is Michael’s wife, Nick’s sister-in-law. Andy doesn’t know what to make of the fact that Nick went so far as to call his brother. “I don’t get the flu,” Andy says. “That might be half the problem. She asked when was the last time you had the flu and I told her I didn’t know.” “High school,” Andy mumbles. “Yeah, well, remember how bad the flu was last year?” “Sorta.” Andy does remember—they


now, it’s no longer just a print in a freezer, it’s somethings that lives. The more we use magic and the more he interacts with us, the stronger he becomes. Yes, he’s feeding off us, but we’re feeding off him, too. That’s why suddenly there’re magic dogs and furniture flying around. It’s like Abel said: pressure building up inside a pot. It’s decades of deaths and malice and spells.” “How much more powerful can Ewers get?” Tristán asked worriedly. Powerful enough that he might actually be able to return to life, Montserrat thought. Oh, she hadn’t been sure his ritual would have worked in the first place back in 1961, but she thought it might work now. Alma Montero had drawn on Ewers’s spell, his old magic, for her own purposes, but she had not drained it completely, and Ewers’s magic had also remained latent in that nitrate film. It persisted, Montserrat and Tristán’s tinkering with this magic made it worse, and at this point Montserrat was certain that if Clarimonde Bauer and her associates got hold of the nitrate print they would somehow be able to restore Ewers to pristine health. They were two steps from encountering Ewers in the flesh. This would surely be disastrous for Montero and López. Montserrat wasn’t sure it would be better for her and Tristán. They were not members of his cult, and Ewers was no friend of theirs. Who knew, maybe the first thing Ewers would do after returning to life might be to kill both of them. “He’s concerned, otherwise he wouldn’t have come here,” López said. “He wanted to stop us. He knows he’s in danger. We will use the sequence of runes as dictated by Abel—” “There was something wrong with Abel,” Tristán said, cutting him short. “There, toward the end, before Ewers interrupted him. He was trying to tell me something and couldn’t.” “You need to get that film,” López said and pointed to an armoire across the room. “There are blessed nails in there. Take my car, sprinkle the nails behind you as you get into the vehicle…the wards I drew, they haven’t washed off…that should suffice. I will not survive a second attack. You need to go, now.” Montserrat opened the armoire’s door and began pulling out drawers. She found a plastic bag filled with copper nails and turned to Tristán, who took her aside. “If we go out there we are completely exposed,” he said, his voice low. “And should we be leaving the man alone like this? What if Ewers comes back?” “He’s coming back one way or another,” Montserrat said. “You don’t know that.” “He is not going to give up. But neither are we.” Montserrat hurried back to the room where they’d slept and put on her jacket, slinging her purse over her shoulder. The keys to the car were on a shelf by the front door, under a postcard from Hawaii that had been taped to the wall. Tristán pressed a hand against the door, blocking her way. “Have you paused to think


I mislike the way she appeared out of nowhere. I mislike what you tell me of this other magic. How can I make a sister of a woman I don’t trust?’ ‘If not for her, I might not be standing here—’ ‘Perhaps you should not stand here, then, Tunuva Melim,’ Esbar snapped. ‘In fact, if you are so grateful to Canthe of Nurtha, why not go to her chamber instead?’ A terrible silence rang. ‘Don’t,’ Tunuva said quietly, a hot stone in her throat. ‘Don’t ever speak that way, Esbar.’ Esbar looked shaken by her own words. ‘I’m sorry, Tuva. I was—’ She held herself tighter. ‘No. I will not make excuses for it.’ ‘Explain it, then.’ Tunuva went to her. ‘Esbar, it’s us.’ ‘I have not slept well.’ Esbar braced a hand on the table. ‘What is happening to us, Tuva?’ Tunuva could bear it no longer. She closed the space between them and kissed Esbar with as much resolve as she had on that first day in the desert, thirty years before. A lifetime. No time. Esbar came to life in her arms. She kissed back with frustration and love, whispering her name. Breathing hard, they stripped each other, not waiting to reach the bed. Their hands trembled in a way they never had since they were young and hungry, clumsy with desperation. Tunuva pressed Esbar to the wall. She pulled at the sash of her brocade robe, and Esbar wrestled with her tunic in return, opening it to her waist, pressing kisses to each breast. Tilting her head back, Tunuva savoured the feel of those lips on her burning skin. Her clothes were travelstained and she was clammy from the rain, but Esbar had never cared. They knocked a platter to the floor and fell in a tangle to the bed. Tunuva mounted Esbar, so they faced one another, and looked her in the eyes. When they kissed, it was sure and deep, and the more she had, the more Tunuva wanted. Esbar drew her nails all the way down her spine. Tunuva groaned at the flare of smarting pleasure, the fire-tipped arrow it sent to her depths. While Esbar nipped at her ear, her jaw, Tunuva grasped her hair in answer, needing to hold all of her, draw this woman close enough to knit the sinew of their souls. She wanted to make love, slow and tender, and she wanted to be seized in passion – two sacred wants, as pressing as thirst, as radiant as the fruit. Though war had come for them at last, there was still this. There would always be this. She lowered Esbar to the bed and kissed the rippling scars on her hip. Esbar wrapped a leg around her. Their lips met, each kiss hot and urgent. Esbar sighed a soft ‘yes’ as Tunuva stroked a hand between her thighs, stowing her fingertips there, in the warmth of her. She was sleek as a river. Tunuva found the sweet place where she most loved to be touched. Esbar arched her hips, and


so he could get a good job and someday provide for his family.) “Your parents must be so proud,” the women would say, smiling with their lips closed, worried that they’d stained their teeth with Vacio. “I suppose you could say that,” Orson would reply. “How can I be of help?” they wanted to know. “In thirty years when you’re a famous senator or a rich CEO, I want to be able to say ‘I knew him when.’ ” “Oh, well, your kindness is help enough.” They would open their purses and start counting off hundreds: three, four, five, six. “Just a little something to get you started.” “Mrs. X, I couldn’t possibly accept that.” They’d stuff the bills into his hand. “Let’s just say it’s for the wine, then.” Orson would offer them a rueful look, fold the bills, and wedge them in his pocket. “This is really generous of you,” he’d say. “Oh, it’s nothing,” they’d say. “When you’ve become successful, this will be chump change to you.” Emboldened by their tipsiness, the women would open their arms for a hug, which Orson would reciprocate, hugging them for as long as they wanted (typically a few seconds too long), and then allowing them to hold him at arm’s length and look him in the eyes. “You really are something special, Mr. Ortman,” they’d say, their own eyes wine glazed. “If you need any favors in this life—I mean anything whatsoever—you just call me up.” Sometimes they gave him a printed business card, sometimes they put their contact information in his phone, and sometimes (the best times), they gave him another hundred or two. On an average wine night, we came away with anywhere between $500 and $900. There were, of course, the marks who couldn’t be manipulated. There was a woman in her late fifties, a self-proclaimed oenophile who tasted the wine, wrinkled her nose, and asked if it was a “cheaper vintage recorked.” The conversation after that had been stilted, awkward, and Orson had left her room without a tip. Then there were the women who wanted everything but wouldn’t give up the money. A younger one with platinum blond hair, late thirties or early forties, flat out asked Orson to join her in bed for a grand total of $50. Another one tweaked his nipple and pretended that it had never happened, then got flustered when he got flustered and ordered him out of the room. Another one told him that she wanted to see him again every night for a month, and after that she told him she was in love with him and asked him to join her in escaping her possessive husband. On the night he was supposed to meet her on the front steps of the Boyd, ready to start a new life, he didn’t show. She and her husband checked out early the next day and never came back. Of the frequent flyers, the wealthiest were Carol and Dmitri Argyros. Dmitri was the CEO of Argyros Oil, a company whose net worth exceeded


stuffing as far away as the edge of the backyard. A Pupkin had gotten into the groceries and stomped most of them to mush on the kitchen floor. One of them had torn every single page out of the phone book and stuffed them in the downstairs toilet. “My parents are going to renovate this place anyways,” Clark said. “Don’t worry about it. What’s important is that I got an entire pad of notes. You’ve tapped into some powerful archetypes. This is the beginning of a really vital show. I felt like I was alone in the house with a bunch of monsters. It was absolutely terrifying.” Then he laughed. I’d never seen him so happy. — Clark never took Pupkin off, and he had us wear our Pupkin masks for longer and longer. Our lives turned into bleary dreams punctuated by waking moments when we were cold and sick and felt awkward and uncomfortable. More and more, it felt better to disappear into Pupkin’s dreams. We’d wake up and find the house littered with Little Debbie wrappers, empty candy bags, crushed Entenmann’s boxes. We woke up sick to our stomachs with dried icing crusted around the mouth holes of our masks. Pupkin had a sweet tooth, apparently. We filled the basement with puppets Pupkin made, and all of them were of Pupkin. Pupkin mask after Pupkin mask hung from the walls, ranging in size from as small as a bottle cap to as big as a garbage can lid. We woke up encrusted in papier-mâché. After a few days, we started waking up naked and smeared with shit. Bruises and cuts covered our bodies. Words were written on the walls in Pupkin talk, like Kakawewe!, his victory cry. When we were awake we took showers and ate without talking, and Clark always told us, “We’re getting great material.” Then we’d put our masks back on and become Pupkin again. We lost track of time. Holes started showing up in the walls, and my left toes felt broken. Windows got smashed but only in the back where you couldn’t see them from the street. We woke up one time to find half the drywall ripped down in the living room and insulation strewn throughout the house. A Pupkin broke the hot-water heater so we started taking cold showers. Eventually, even the water stopped. It sounds stupid now. Clearly, we were losing our shit. But it didn’t feel that way then. It felt like we were doing magic. It felt like we were possessed by forces larger than ourselves. It felt powerful. Now I realize we were hiding. Hiding from our fuckup at Worcester Elementary. Hiding from the fact that we couldn’t stop the war. Hiding from the fact that we weren’t going to change the world with our tiny talents. Everyone realizes that at some point, right? It’s part of growing up. You realize you’re not going to be the star of the show. You realize you’re going to be lucky to scrape by and pay the rent. That’s when a lot


with their adieux. At last, after much dodging search, he finds the Tarshish ship receiving the last items of her cargo; and as he steps on board to see its Captain in the cabin, all the sailors for the moment desist from hoisting in the goods, to mark the stranger's evil eye. Jonah sees this; but in vain he tries to look all ease and confidence; in vain essays his wretched smile. Strong intuitions of the man assure the mariners he can be no innocent. In their gamesome but still serious way, one whispers to the other --"Jack, he's robbed a widow;" or,"Joe, do you mark him; he's a bigamist;" or,"Harry lad, I guess he's the adulterer that broke jail in old Gomorrah, or belike, one of the missing murderers from Sodom." Another runs to read the bill that's stuck against the spile upon the wharf to which the ship is moored, offering five hundred gold coins for the apprehension of a parricide, and containing a description of his person. He reads, and looks from Jonah to the bill; while all his sympathetic shipmates now crowd round Jonah, prepared to lay their hands upon him. Frighted Jonah trembles, and summoning all his boldness to his face, only looks so much the more a coward. He will not confess himself suspected; but that itself is strong suspicion. So he makes the best of it; and when the sailors find him not to be the man that is advertised, they let him pass, and he descends into the cabin. "Who's there?" cries the Captain at his busy desk, hurriedly making out his papers for the Customs --"who's there?" Oh! how that harmless question mangles Jonah! For the instant he almost turns to flee again. But he rallies. "I seek a passage in this ship to Tarshish; how soon sail ye, sir?" Thus far the busy captain had not looked up to jonah, though the man now stands before him; but no sooner does he hear that hollow voice, than he darts a scrutinizing glance. "We sail with the next coming tide," at last he slowly answered, still intently eyeing him. "No sooner, sir?" --"Soon enough for any honest man that goes a passenger." Ha! Jonah, that's another stab. But he swiftly calls away the Captain from that scent. "I'll sail with ye," --he says, --"the passage .. <p 43 > money, how much is that, --I'll pay now." For it is particularly written, shipmates, as if it were a thing not to be overlooked in this history,"that he paid the fare thereof" ere the craft did sail. And taken with the context, this is full of meaning. Now Jonah's Captain, shipmates, was one whose discernment detects crime in any, but whose cupidity exposes it only in the penniless. In this world, shipmates, sin that pays its way can travel freely, and without a passport; whereas Virtue, if a pauper, is stopped at all frontiers. So Jonah's Captain prepares to test the length of Jonah's purse, ere he judge him openly. He charges him thrice


these moments, as to the summit of my happiness, with hopeless regret. But let me not misuse them by useless anticipation; let me hope I shall not live to mourn the loss of those who are dearer to me than life.' To relieve, or perhaps to indulge, the pensive temper of his mind, he bade Emily fetch the lute she knew how to touch with such sweet pathos. As she drew near the fishing-house, she was surprised to hear the tones of the instrument, which were awakened by the hand of taste, and uttered a plaintive air, whose exquisite melody engaged all her attention. She listened in profound silence, afraid to move from the spot, lest the sound of her steps should occasion her to lose a note of the music, or should disturb the musician. Every thing without the building was still, and no person appeared. She continued to listen, till timidity succeeded to surprise and delight; a timidity, increased by a remembrance of the pencilled lines she had formerly seen, and she hesitated whether to proceed, or to return. While she paused, the music ceased; and, after a momentary hesitation, she re-collected courage to advance to the fishing-house, which she entered with faltering steps, and found unoccupied! Her lute lay on the table; every thing seemed undisturbed, and she began to believe it was another instrument she had heard, till she remembered, that, when she followed M. and Madame St. Aubert from this spot, her lute was left on a window seat. She felt alarmed, yet knew not wherefore; the melancholy gloom of evening, and the profound stillness of the place, interrupted only by the light trembling of leaves, heightened her fanciful apprehensions, and she was desirous of quitting the building, but perceived herself grow faint, and sat down. As she tried to recover herself, the pencilled lines on the wainscot met her eye; she started, as if she had seen a stranger; but, endeavouring to conquer the tremor of her spirits, rose, and went to the window. To the lines before noticed she now perceived that others were added, in which her name appeared. Though no longer suffered to doubt that they were addressed to herself, she was as ignorant, as before, by whom they could be written. While she mused, she thought she heard the sound of a step without the building, and again alarmed, she caught up her lute, and hurried away. Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert she found in a little path that wound along the sides of the glen. Having reached a green summit, shadowed by palm-trees, and overlooking the vallies and plains of Gascony, they seated themselves on the turf; and while their eyes wandered over the glorious scene, and they inhaled the sweet breath of flowers and herbs that enriched the grass, Emily played and sung several of their favourite airs, with the delicacy of expression in which she so much excelled. Music and conversation detained them in this enchanting spot, till the sun's last light slept upon the plains; till the white


none know how he found a way, and so came by paths that no Man nor Elf else ever dared to tread to the borders of Doriath. And he passed through the mazes that Melian wove about the kingdom of Thingol, even as she had foretold; for a great doom lay upon him. It is told in the Lay of Leithian that Beren came stumbling into Doriath grey and bowed as with many years of woe, so great had been the torment of the road. But wandering in the summer in the woods of Neldoreth he came upon Lthien, daughter of Thingol and Melian, at a time of evening under moonrise, as she danced upon the unfading grass in the glades beside Esgalduin. Then all memory of his pain departed from him, and he fell into an enchantment; for Lthien was the most beautiful of all the Children of Ilvatar. Blue was her raiment as the unclouded heaven, but her eyes were grey as the starlit evening; her mantle was sewn with golden flowers, but her hair was dark as the shadows of twilight. As the light upon the leaves of trees, as the voice of clear waters, as the stars above the mists of the world, such was her glory and her loveliness; and in her face was a shining light. But she vanished from his sight; and he became dumb, as one that is bound under a spell, and he strayed long in the woods, wild and wary as a beast, seeking for her. In his heart he called her Tinviel, that signifies Nightingale, daughter of twilight, in the Grey-elven tongue, for he knew no other name for her. And he saw her afar as leaves in the winds of autumn, and in winter as a star upon a hill, but a chain was upon his limbs. There came a time near dawn on the eve of spring, and Lthien danced upon a green hill; and suddenly she began to sing. Keen, heart-piercing was her song as the song of the lark that rises from the gates of night and pours its voice among the dying stars, seeing the sun behind the walls of the world; and the song of Lthien released the behind the walls of the world; and the song of Lthien released the bonds of winter, and the frozen waters spoke, and flowers sprang from the cold earth where her feet had passed. Then the spell of silence fell from Beren, and he called to her, crying Tinviel; and the woods echoed the name. Then she halted in wonder, and fled no more, and Beren came to her. But as she looked on him, doom fell upon her, and she loved him; yet she slipped from his arms and vanished from his sight even as the day was breaking. Then Beren lay upon the ground in a swoon, as one slain at once by bliss and grief; and he fell into a sleep as it were into an abyss of shadow, and waking he was cold as


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

several times). Anyway. That was not terribly academic, was it? Only I cannot stop picturing you reading this. I think that I have to picture you reading this, otherwise I will go mad. But let me try again. Once I finished reading your letter—thank you for being so matterof-fact about this suicidal mission of yours; it’s not as if I had just begged you to marry me and might thus be inclined to some emotion about the whole thing—and once I had calmed down afterwards, I naturally set out for the tavern to petition the locals for assistance. Rather, I tried to set out; when I opened the cottage door a little avalanche of snow came tumbling in, sending me reeling backwards. Lovely: it had blizzarded in the night, so much that a drift was piled halfway up the door. I collected myself and went hurrying down the stairs too fast, tripped, and plunged face-first onto the snow-shrouded lawn. The wind was vicious—it was cold like I’d never felt before, not even in Ljosland. It took me a quarter of an hour just to wade down the lane, and by the time I reached the tavern, there was such a quantity of snow in my boots and sleeves that I was soaked through and shuddering. Such an enchanting place this is. Fortunately, Aud and Thora were both in attendance, as well as sundry village youths, having been bestirred from their beds to dig out the village. Aud seemed concerned by my appearance, saying something about my colouring, and it was only then that I noticed I’d forgotten to don my cloak before stepping out into the arctic chill. Aud and Thora kept trying to herd me to the fire, talking endlessly about tea and breakfast, ignoring my protestations, which were rather garbled on account of my lips being turned to ice, until finally I took up the breakfast tray and hurled it against the wall, whereupon it shattered into a plume of leaves and pine cones (I did not mean to do this, only my magic was flaring erratically). I feel rather badly about that now—I believe I scared them, though Aud didn’t show it, merely shoved me into a fireside chair with more force than necessary. “I don’t want tea,” I informed her when she pressed a mug into my hand. “Either drink it or have it emptied over your head, you mad faerie,” she replied, flinging a blanket in my face. It was a struggle to hold the mug, and I realized then the state I was in. I am so cut off from my own forests and lakes here in this land of winter, and it weakens me terribly. The tips of my fingers were blue, probably my nose also. Aud must have thought I was dying. Shadow padded up to me and put his head on my knee, all forgiven, as it always is with dogs. If I frightened my cat as I had Shadow, she’d ignore me for days, or possibly put a curse on me, but


one ship for another. In fact, it was nearly becoming a common practice. So what’s really going on here? Seeing the pain in her eyes, I took a step closer. “I know it’s difficult, Viv. But you’re not alone. I’ll be with you, just as I’ve always been.” She looked away, her gaze fixed upon the deck. The compartment fell into a heavy silence, punctuated only by the distant hum of the ship’s drives. It was a moment pregnant with unspoken emotions, the weight of an unresolved past and an equally uncertain future. Finally, Viv sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. Her words were barely audible. “Fine, Galvin. Do what you have to do. We’ll just throw this on the growing pile of reasons we should never have …” She let her words die. I nodded, my heart heavy with regret. My Jadoo ring was vibrating. “I’m needed on the bridge.” She nodded. As I turned to leave, the air between us was still thick with unresolved tension. I stopped and looked back at her. “Think about what you want, Viv … what you really want. I’ll support you in any way I can.” Chapter 44 I reached the captain’s mount and took a seat, eyes locked onto the halo display. “We’re just entering the asteroid field, Captain,” Grimes said. “Yeah, well, there’s no clear path to Adams,” Akari added. “This field has obviously moved, drifted, since Lincoln traversed this rocky maze almost a decade ago. I’ll try to use rail guns sparingly.” A sudden burst of rail spikes eviscerated an asteroid the size of the Hub Gunther, clearing their slow, methodical progression deeper into the field. Seeing Akari’s profile, I glimpsed a smile—at least someone still loved her job here. Bosun Polk joined me at the captain’s mount. “Sitrep, Bosun?” “The crew is … begrudgingly making preparations to abandon ship. Only what someone can carry with them on their person goes onboard Lincoln.” “Let’s dedicate extra resources to HealthBay … kid gloves when it comes to moving the patients—” “Met with Doc Viv an hour ago; we’ll be using hovercarts to move the patients. They’ll hardly know they’re being moved.” I looked over to Polk. “Wait, she didn’t have a problem with moving them?” Polk hitched a shoulder. “I guess, but no more than anyone else has a problem with the move.” Viv’s vehement reaction earlier … What was all that about? “Just make sure anything she wants to take with her, MediBots, specialized equipment, her medication stores; hell, if she wants the deck plates—make sure it’s moved over.” “Don’t worry, Cap … We’ll take care of your … um, Doc Viv.” Polk’s cheeks flushed, catching herself misspeaking. Another burst of rail spikes shattered an even larger asteroid, Adams’ shields coming alive as an influx of gravel pieces peppered the protective barrier. I let Polk’s comment go unanswered but was curious as to what she’d almost said. My what? My main squeeze? My girlfriend? Perhaps that was the problem. Hell, if I didn’t know … Chen said, “I have confirmation both


in front of your favorite dive ever. Sabrina, Parth, Cleo, and Kimmy are already at the front door. I take one step to follow them, only for my heel to catch in a crack between two cobblestones. Wyn appears at my side, dutifully steadying me by the elbow before I can break my ankle. “Careful,” he says in a low murmur. “You’re not used to wearing shoes like that.” Anger shoots through me like an emergency flare, the only thing bright and hot enough to be seen through the fog of nostalgia. “At this point, Wyn,” I say, jerking my arm free, “you have no idea what I am or am not used to.” I stalk off through the portholed front doors into the dark bar, a karaoke version of “Love Is a Battlefield” folding around me at full volume. The smell of fried haddock and paprika-dusted potato wedges hangs thick in the air, right alongside the tang of beer and vinegar, and the year-round Christmas lights strung back and forth over the ceiling dust the crowd in every color of glitter. As I catch up with Cleo, she looks over, the lights accentuating the bits of gold in her eyes and the matching gold undertones in her deep brown skin. Leaning in, she says, “This place never changes, does it?” “Everything changes eventually,” I say, and then, at her odd expression, force a smile and thread my arm through hers. “Remember when the lobster rolls here used to be like six dollars?” She’s not falling for the false cheeriness. A divot forms between her winged brows. “You okay?” “Hard to breathe in this dress without worrying about the seams splitting,” I say, “but otherwise good.” She still looks unconvinced. Cleo’s always been able to see through me. When we lived together, I used to watch her paint for hours and think, How does she always see things so clearly? She knew what colors to start with and where, and none of it made sense to me until, suddenly, it all looked exactly right. Wyn brushes past us, swims through the crowd toward the too-small table Sabrina’s already claimed at the back of the room. Cleo catches me watching him. “We had a little argument,” I admit, surprised by the relief I feel at sharing this tiny sliver of truth with her. “You want to talk about it?” she asks. “Let me rephrase that: maybe you should talk about it.” “It’s fine,” I say. “I don’t even know what it was about, really.” “Oh, yeah.” Cleo nods. “The am I hungry/tired/stressed or are you actually being the worst fight. I know it well.” I snort. “You and Kimmy don’t fight.” She drops her head against my shoulder. “Harriet. I’m a sober introvert homebody, and my girlfriend is a human party bus, complete with flashing lights and spinning dance poles. Of course we fight.” Across the bar, Sabrina waves us over. “Well, whatever’s going on between you and Wyn,” Cleo says as we start across the packed bar together, “you’ll figure it out.


mud and mildew had permanently seeped into my skin. The least he could do was pay extra for the soap I needed to mask it. I arranged the poultices, sealing each jar carefully before placing it inside the basket. One of the rare times I’d found myself on the wrong side of Rory’s temper was after I had forgotten to seal the ointments before sending them off with Yuli’s boy. I learned as much about the spread of disease that day as I did about Rory’s staunch ethics. Rory returned. “Off with you already. Get some sleep. I do not want the sight of your face to scare off my patrons tomorrow.” He prodded in the bucket, turning over a few of the frogs. Age weathered Rory’s narrow brown face. His long fingers were constantly stained in the color of his latest tonic, and a permanent groove sat between his bushy brows. I called it his “rage stage,” because I could always gauge his level of fury by the number of furrows forming above his nose. Despite an old injury to his hip, his slenderness was not a sign of fragility. On the rare occasions when Rory smiled, it was clear he had been handsome in his youth. “If I find that you’ve layered the bottom with dirt again, I’m poisoning your tea.” He pushed a haphazardly wrapped bundle into my arms. “Here.” Bewildered, I turned the package over. “For me?” He waved his cane around the empty shop. “Are you touched in the head, child?” I carefully peeled the fabric back, half expecting it to explode in my face, and exposed a pair of beautiful golden gloves. Softer than a dove’s wing, they probably cost more than anything I could buy for myself. I lifted one reverently. “Rory, this is too much.” I only barely stopped myself from putting them on. I laid them gingerly on the counter and hurried to scrub off my stained hands. There were no clean cloths left, so I wiped my hands on Rory’s tunic and earned a swat to the ear. The fit of the gloves was perfect. Soft and supple, yielding with the flex of my fingers. I lifted my hands to the lantern for closer inspection. These would certainly fetch a pretty price at market. Not that I’d sell them right away, of course. Rory liked pretending he had the emotional depth of a spoon, but he would be hurt if I bartered his gift a mere day later. Markets weren’t hard to find in Omal. The lower villages were always in need of food and supplies. Trading among themselves was easier than begging for scraps from the palace. The old man smiled briefly. “Happy birthday, Sylvia.” Sylvia. My first and favorite lie. I pressed my hands together. “A consolation gift for the spinster?” Not once in five years had Rory failed to remember my fabricated birth date. “I should hardly think spinsterhood’s threshold as low as twenty years.” In truth, I was halfway to twenty-one. Another lie. “You are as old as


whether with his circumambient subjects browsing all around at the horizon, the White Steed gallopingly reviewed them with warm nostrils reddening through his cool milkiness; in whatever aspect he presented himself, always to the bravest Indians he was the object of trembling reverence and awe. Nor can it be questioned from what stands on legendary record of .. <p 189 > this noble horse, that it was his spiritual whiteness chiefly, which so clothed him with divineness; and that this divineness had that in it which, though commanding worship, at the same time enforced a certain nameless terror. But there are other instances where this whiteness loses all that accessory and strange glory which invests it in the White Steed and Albatross. What is it that in the Albino man so peculiarly repels and often shocks the eye, as that sometimes he is loathed by his own kith and kin! It is that whiteness which invests him, a thing expressed by the name he bears. The Albino is as well made as other men --has no substantive deformity --and yet this mere aspect of all-pervading whiteness makes him more strangely hideous than the ugliest abortion. Why should this be so? Nor, in quite other aspects, does Nature in her least palpable but not the less malicious agencies, fail to enlist among her forces this crowning attribute of the terrible. From its snowy aspect, the gauntleted ghost of the Southern Seas has been denominated the White Squall. Nor, in some historic instances, has the art of human malice omitted so potent an auxiliary. How wildly it heightens the effect of that passage in Froissart, when, masked in the snowy symbol of their faction, the desperate White Hoods of Ghent murder their bailiff in the market-place! Nor, in some things, does the common, hereditary experience of all mankind fail to bear witness to the supernaturalism of this hue. It cannot well be doubted, that the one visible quality in the aspect of the dead which most appals the gazer, is the marble pallor lingering there; as if indeed that pallor were as much like the badge of consternation in the other world, as of mortal trepidation here. And from that pallor of the dead, we borrow the expressive hue of the shroud in which we wrap them. Nor even in our superstitions do we fail to throw the same snowy mantle round our phantoms; all ghosts rising in a milk-white fog --Yea, while these terrors seize us, let us add, that even the king of terrors, when personified by the evangelist, rides on his pallid horse. Therefore, in his other moods, symbolize whatever grand or .. <p 190 > gracious thing he will by whiteness, no man can deny that in its profoundest idealized significance it calls up a peculiar apparition to the soul. But though without dissent this point be fixed, how is mortal man to account for it? To analyse it, would seem impossible. Can we, then, by the citation of some of those instances wherein this thing of whiteness --though for


and what used to be the video store. The Circle K was unchanged, but it was hard to get nostalgic over a gas station. Here was the campus road, and here was a wave of adrenaline. I ended my fake phone call, wishing Gary a great day. When all the leaves fell that first November, I expected to see the houses and buildings that had been waiting, all along, through the trees. But no: Beyond these bare branches, more bare branches. Beyond them, only more. At night, there were owls. Sometimes, if the dumpsters hadn’t been latched, black bears would take entire garbage bags, drag them across campus to open like party favors. The car we’d been following took the fork toward the boys’ dorms, but Lee opted for the long route around Lower Campus so he could give me a tour, and all I could do now was listen politely. He said, “Where you have me dropping you, that’s Upper Campus, above the river, the fancy new buildings. But down here, this is the old part, going back to seventeen-something.” The 1820s, but I didn’t correct him. It was midafternoon, and a few kids trudged out of Commons and across the quad, hunched against the cold. Lee pointed out the original classroom building, the dorms adolescent farmer boys used to freeze in, the cottages where bachelor teachers of yore passed solitary lives, Old Chapel and New Chapel (neither a real chapel anymore, both impossibly old), the headmaster’s house. He pointed out the bronze statue of Samuel Granby and said, falsely, “That’s the guy who started the school with just one classroom.” As a student, I couldn’t pass Samuel Granby without rubbing his foot, a tradition shared by no one. I also couldn’t pass a pay phone without flipping the receiver upside down. This was incredibly witty and rebellious; you’ll have to believe me. When Lee finally circled to the bottom of Upper Campus and stopped the car, I opened the door onto a wall of cold. I paid him and he told me to stay warm, as if that were a choice—as if it weren’t the absolute pit of winter, everything locked in ice and salt. Looking at buildings that hadn’t changed, at the thin ridge of White Mountain crest rising above the eastern tree line, it was easy to imagine the place had been cryogenically preserved. Fran had offered me her couch, but the way she said it—“I mean, there’s the dog, and Jacob’s always at volume eleven, and Max still doesn’t sleep through the night”—made it seem more gesture than invitation. So I’d opted to stay in one of the two guest apartments, located right above the ravine in a small house that used to be the business office. There were a bedroom and bathroom on each floor, plus a downstairs kitchen to share. The whole place, I found, smelled like bleach. I unpacked, worrying I hadn’t brought enough sweaters, and thinking, of all things, about Granby pay phones. Imagine me (remember me), fifteen, sixteen, dressed in black even


word I had not gone (We know it to be true): If she should push the matter on, What would become of you? I gave her one, they gave him two, You gave us three or more; They all returned from him to you, Though they were mine before. If I or she should chance to be Involved in this affair, He trusts to you to set them free, Exactly as we were. My notion was that you had been (Before she had this fit) An obstacle that came between Him, and ourselves, and it. Don't let him know she liked them best, For this must ever be A secret, kept from all the rest, Between yourself and me.' `That's the most important piece of evidence we've heard yet,' said the King, rubbing his hands; `so now let the jury--' `If any one of them can explain it,' said Alice, (she had grown so large in the last few minutes that she wasn't a bit afraid of interrupting him,) `I'll give him sixpence. _I_ don't believe there's an atom of meaning in it.' The jury all wrote down on their slates, `SHE doesn't believe there's an atom of meaning in it,' but none of them attempted to explain the paper. `If there's no meaning in it,' said the King, `that saves a world of trouble, you know, as we needn't try to find any. And yet I don't know,' he went on, spreading out the verses on his knee, and looking at them with one eye; `I seem to see some meaning in them, after all. "--SAID I COULD NOT SWIM--" you can't swim, can you?' he added, turning to the Knave. The Knave shook his head sadly. `Do I look like it?' he said. (Which he certainly did NOT, being made entirely of cardboard.) `All right, so far,' said the King, and he went on muttering over the verses to himself: `"WE KNOW IT TO BE TRUE--" that's the jury, of course-- "I GAVE HER ONE, THEY GAVE HIM TWO--" why, that must be what he did with the tarts, you know--' `But, it goes on "THEY ALL RETURNED FROM HIM TO YOU,"' said Alice. `Why, there they are!' said the King triumphantly, pointing to the tarts on the table. `Nothing can be clearer than THAT. Then again--"BEFORE SHE HAD THIS FIT--" you never had fits, my dear, I think?' he said to the Queen. `Never!' said the Queen furiously, throwing an inkstand at the Lizard as she spoke. (The unfortunate little Bill had left off writing on his slate with one finger, as he found it made no mark; but he now hastily began again, using the ink, that was trickling down his face, as long as it lasted.) `Then the words don't FIT you,' said the King, looking round the court with a smile. There was a dead silence. `It's a pun!' the King added in an offended tone, and everybody laughed, `Let the jury consider their verdict,' the King said, for about the twentieth time that day. `No,


the inner temple that housed one of the supercomputers – the last depository of human knowledge. Perhaps with a sense of irony, it was here that Eitan had instructed that they should meet to discuss the terms of humanity’s surrender. True to his word, he stood outside the stone walls alone, the sole representative of his colony of Cold People, his armour skin radiant with the colours of Antarctica, hues of blue, not as an act of camouflage but as a peacock display of prowess, a triumphant declaration of a species that was finally free. Like gunslingers from a western, the human delegation stopped at a distance waiting for Eitan to make the first move. Grasped in his hand was one of the elegant crystalline javelins from the floor of his enclosure. With sudden speed and immense strength, he threw the javelin at Echo. With ease she side-stepped, catching it mid-flight. This hadn’t been an act of violence; she was never in any danger and, understanding that he wanted to share this object with her, she raised the tip to her eye, observing its unique texture and form. She hadn’t seen anything like it before – it was altered-ice, reformed at a molecular level, harder than diamond, yet as malleable as clay. She wondered how he’d created this new substance, how such a transfiguration of frozen water was even possible. As she pondered these questions, she felt him enter her thoughts. Let me show you the world we can build together. Not a refugee encampment with buckets for toilets and vats of kelp soup. She saw Antarctica pristine again, no bases or buildings, no flags or footprints, as it had been before human discovery, the brief two-hundred-year history of people erased from the continent. A new society emerged, not limited to the warmer fringes but concentrated in the coldest centre, a civilization rising from the south pole plateau consisting of buildings unlike any she’d seen before. There were no bricks or girders; these were structures rendered whole, as though they’d been pressed out of a baking mould, crystal domes and spiral towers. Surrounding this new citadel was Antarctic vegetation, crops capable of living in the cold, fields of icicles, and beyond them was a forest, trees with stalactite roots and snowflake leaves. Above this city, not in the stars, but among the clouds, was a synthetic cold blue sun, the powerplant of this species, with a swirling blue-fire surface not as a source of heat but as life-giving light. At a castle in the very centre, standing on a terrace overlooking this kingdom, stood Echo and Eitan. MCMURDO CITY HISTORIC BASE DISTRICT THE ARCHIVE SAME DAY LIZA COULD ONLY WATCH, HELPLESS on the sidelines, as her daughter fell under the spell of this creature. Echo was somewhere else, no longer by her side, her thoughts far away, someplace unseen. Liza was certain, as only a mother could be, that he didn’t have her daughter’s interests at heart. He was a specimen composed entirely of strengths, his flawless armoured torso brazenly naked in


Christian lady. I don’t gloat about nobody’s passing.” Her eyes darkened. “They’re calling him that name in the papers.” “You still don’t care for ‘de Vries’?” Mrs. Bone began shredding receipts. “He was Danny O’Flynn when he was born. He was Danny O’Flynn when he died.” She sniffed. “If he died. If it’s not a great prank. If it’s not an almighty tease.” Mrs. Bone’s personal feelings about Danny O’Flynn, the man who transformed himself into Wilhelm de Vries, were well-known to Mrs. King. They were among the category of sensitive things, topics avoided. “No, he’s gone, Mrs. Bone.” “And what’s he left behind?” Mrs. King glanced down at the paper. They’d printed a photograph of Madam, too. “A fair flower in bloom, Miss de Vries in her winter garden...” She appeared in a cloud of chiffon, blurry, hard to pin down. Innocent looking. Mrs. King had been present when they’d taken that photograph. They did it in the winter garden, the conservatory overlooking the park. They made the photographer stay all day, long after the light had faded. Madam faced the window, eyes flat and unreadable, telegraphing a silent order through the air. Get it right. Make it perfect. “The daughter.” Mrs. Bone’s gaze tightened. “And?” “And nothing.” “Were his affairs in order? That’s what I want to know.” Mrs. King sighed. “I’ve no notion, Mrs. Bone.” “Then what are you here for?” Mrs. Bone replied, snapping her fingers. “I’m a busy lady. I don’t have time for nonsense conversations.” She’s rattled today, thought Mrs. King. Combing the newspapers, picking over old ground. “Perhaps I just came to say hello,” said Mrs. King calmly. Mrs. Bone’s eyes flew upward. “You’re up to something.” “Am I?” “You’ve got something cooking up here.” Mrs. Bone tapped the side of her head. “Not a nice thing. It never is.” “Heavens,” said Mrs. King. “You taught me everything I know.” Mrs. Bone’s mouth thinned. Evidently, she didn’t like that: she saw it as an aspersion on her character. And Mrs. Bone took good care of appearances. Gave generously to the church collection, kept an entirely dull front parlor, still wore mourning clothes for her long-departed Mr. Bone, erstwhile husband and ironmonger. Her jet ornaments clanked every time she moved. “They gave you the shove,” she said, “didn’t they?” Mrs. King inclined her head. “For a minor indiscretion.” “What did you do?” Mrs. King told her. Mrs. Bone raised an eyebrow. “You were visiting your fancy man?” she asked. “It was all a great misunderstanding,” said Mrs. King smoothly. “You’ve got something cooking. I can smell it!” Mrs. Bone sighed. “Come on back.” * * * Mrs. Bone’s private office was behind the shop, far away from the street. The windows faced another dirty courtyard where young men stood smoking. Mrs. Bone banged on the window. “Company,” she shouted, and they started like pigeons, scattering, disappearing into the shadows. The front of the shop was gloomy, shabby, full of cheap rings and watches. The private office was different altogether. Here Mrs. Bone kept her fancies, her


back up, dragging her with him, her injured leg taking all her weight, and she screamed and tried to sit up but she couldn’t get any leverage. She hammered at his face with her other foot, driving her heel into his muzzle over and over again, but he just lowered his massive head and took it on his bony forehead. She dug her nails into the carpet but couldn’t stop her motion. The pain in her ankle got worse and she gasped out loud but couldn’t suck in enough air to scream, so she just hyperventilated. All the fight went out of her. Her spine stopped sending messages to the rest of her body. Her arms and legs went limp. This was it. Her brother’s imaginary dog was going to kill her. She couldn’t fight him anymore. At first she didn’t even notice that Spider had let go of her ankle, and then his feet were stepping on her chest, her ribs, her shoulders, one paw stepping on her face and sliding off, hooking her lip as it went. She turned to the side so he didn’t tear it off. Spider walked a circle on her body to face the other way down the hall, and over the blood roaring in her ears she heard him whining, but it sounded different now, frantic and fast, in and out, the unmistakable sound of fear. High-pitched and discordant, whines piling up on top of each other, he wasn’t attacking her anymore, he was standing on her to press himself as far away as possible from whatever was in the hall. He charged away, forcing himself up the wall to her left, and she saw him fade while still hearing his paws thundering down the wall, passing the attic stairs, then losing his grip as he rounded the far corner of the hall. His body slammed into the floor and shook the house and she heard claws on linoleum, she heard wood and glass splinter as he smashed through the door to the garage, then silence. She didn’t want to move. She’d never felt so wrung out in her life, but she raised her lacerated body on its elbows and looked down the hall and saw the dim outline of a man standing in the middle of the dark hall. Mark. He had his right arm held high, and something on the end of it seemed to dance and squirm. The rest of his body stood still. The writhing upright arm moved, scanning the hall, looking for something, and then Mark stepped out of the shadows and into the weak daylight coming from the dining room. His face hung slack. On his right hand he wore Pupkin. Pupkin waved at her. He leered and capered, as animated and vibrant as Mark was motionless and dead. “Kakawewe!” Pupkin screeched in his high-pitched voice, and it came out of Mark’s throat but it was Pupkin’s voice. Louise remembered it all the way back to their childhood. “No,” she said. Pupkin began to sing, dancing from side to


is desperate to coax even a hint of a smile from the very serious people tasked with making sure she lives to honk her big red nose another day. I think about dying all the time; I wonder when it’s gonna happen and what embarrassing thing I’ll be wearing when it does, and if anyone is gonna see me dying and think I look stupid. I started thinking about death so much that when the pandemic hit and every news report was like, “Bye, fat people!” I added Kirsten to my bank account, which is a thing I never thought I’d do because what if she decides to get cute? I don’t even like sharing popcorn with her at the movies, but if someone coughed into my mouth and I died from it, I didn’t want her to be tasked with that olden-times gay shit where she has to go through a bunch of headachy paperwork just to withdraw whatever money I have to cremate me before she moves on to her new nonfat wife who loves nonfat lattes and also being alive. Sob. But never in all my fatalistic daydreaming did it ever occur to me that I would go down to hell doing a dumb-ass bit. I am very good in an emergency. One of the things that made me so good at my animal hospital job is that I am unflappable in a crisis, which is a quality I didn’t even know I possessed until the first time someone ran in screaming with an injured, bloody pet, and instead of crawling under the desk to tremble and cry, I took the shrieking dog from its owner and ran it back for a doctor to start working on it. I sat at the front desk, literally the first semi-friendly face people would see (you gotta withhold the exuberant friendliness until you gauge whether the client approaching the desk is cool or an asshole), and I can’t count how many times over fourteen years someone was shoving a wounded half-dead (or sometimes fully dead) animal at my face while screaming “HELP ME” in all caps. I never freaked out or got scared. I just assessed what was going on as quickly as I could (hit by car, attacked at the dog park, consumed a pan of weed brownies) and did whatever was supposed to happen next without falling apart. I mean, who does that help? Maybe that’s why I was so cool and relaxed in the face of my own demise? Either the doctors were gonna fix me or not, no use panicking and wailing about it, may as well try to have a good time while gasping out these final jokes. If only I could apply that to my living life. My airway was clear enough not to need intubation, so I laid there with my eyes shut and tried not to say anything as the doctors and nurses went about their business of injecting me with antihistamines and Pepcid and enough prednisone to knock down a horse. I opened


time in history the Church has killed to protect itself. The documents that accompany the Holy Grail are explosive, and the Church has wanted to destroy them for years." Langdon was having trouble buying Teabing's premise that the Church would blatantly murder people to obtain these documents. Having met the new Pope and many of the cardinals, Langdon knew they were deeply spiritual men who would never condone assassination. Regardless of the stakes. Sophie seemed to be having similar thoughts. "Isn't it possible that these Priory members were murdered by someone outside the Church? Someone who didn't understand what the Grail really is? The Cup of Christ, after all, would be quite an enticing treasure. Certainly treasure hunters have killed for less." "In my experience," Teabing said, "men go to far greater lengths to avoid what they fear than to obtain what they desire. I sense a desperation in this assault on the Priory." "Leigh," Langdon said, "the argument is paradoxical. Why would members of the Catholic clergy murder Priory members in an effort to find and destroy documents they believe are false testimony anyway?" Teabing chuckled. "The ivory towers of Harvard have made you soft, Robert. Yes, the clergy in Rome are blessed with potent faith, and because of this, their beliefs can weather any storm, including documents that contradict everything they hold dear. But what about the rest of the world? What about those who are not blessed with absolute certainty? What about those who look at the cruelty in the world and say, where is God today? Those who look at Church scandals and ask, who are these men who claim to speak the truth about Christ and yet lie to cover up the sexual abuse of children by their own priests?" Teabing paused. "What happens to those people, Robert, if persuasive scientific evidence comes out that the Church's version of the Christ story is inaccurate, and that the greatest story ever told is, in fact, the greatest story ever sold" Langdon did not respond. "I'll tell you what happens if the documents get out," Teabing said. "The Vatican faces a crisis of faith unprecedented in its two-millennia history." After a long silence, Sophie said, "But if it is the Church who is responsible for this attack, why would they act now? After all these years? The Priory keeps the Sangreal documents hidden. They pose no immediate threat to the Church." Teabing heaved an ominous sigh and glanced at Langdon. "Robert, I assume you are familiar with the Priory's final charge?" Langdon felt his breath catch at the thought. "I am." "Miss Neveu," Teabing said, "the Church and the Priory have had a tacit understanding for years. That is, the Church does not attack the Priory, and the Priory keeps the Sangreal documents hidden." He paused. "However, part of the Priory history has always included a plan to unveil the secret. With the arrival of a specific date in history, the brotherhood plans to break the silence and carry out its ultimate triumph by unveiling the Sangreal documents to


any signs of the police. He suddenly wished he had not decided to run. You didn't, he reminded himself. Sophie had made the decision for him when she threw the GPS dot out the bathroom window. Now, as they sped away from the embassy, serpentining through sparse traffic on Champs-Elyses, Langdon felt his options deteriorating. Although Sophie seemed to have lost the police, at least for the moment, Langdon doubted their luck would hold for long. Behind the wheel Sophie was fishing in her sweater pocket. She removed a small metal object and held it out for him. "Robert, you'd better have a look at this. This is what my grandfather left me behind Madonna of the Rocks." Feeling a shiver of anticipation, Langdon took the object and examined it. It was heavy and shaped like a cruciform. His first instinct was that he was holding a funeral pieu-a miniature version of a memorial spike designed to be stuck into the ground at a gravesite. But then he noted the shaft protruding from the cruciform was prismatic and triangular. The shaft was also pockmarked with hundreds of tiny hexagons that appeared to be finely tooled and scattered at random. "It's a laser-cut key," Sophie told him. "Those hexagons are read by an electric eye." A key? Langdon had never seen anything like it. "Look at the other side," she said, changing lanes and sailing through an intersection. When Langdon turned the key, he felt his jaw drop. There, intricately embossed on the center of the cross, was a stylized fleur-de-lis with the initials P.S.! "Sophie," he said, "this is the seal I told you about! The official device of the Priory of Sion." She nodded. "As I told you, I saw the key a long time ago. He told me never to speak of it again." Langdon's eyes were still riveted on the embossed key. Its high-tech tooling and ageold symbolism exuded an eerie fusion of ancient and modern worlds. "He told me the key opened a box where he kept many secrets." Langdon felt a chill to imagine what kind of secrets a man like Jacques Saunire might keep. What an ancient brotherhood was doing with a futuristic key, Langdon had no idea. The Priory existed for the sole purpose of protecting a secret. A secret of incredible power. Could this key have something to do with it? The thought was overwhelming. "Do you know what it opens?" Sophie looked disappointed. "I was hoping you knew." Langdon remained silent as he turned the cruciform in his hand, examining it. "It looks Christian," Sophie pressed. Langdon was not so sure about that. The head of this key was not the traditional long-stemmed Christian cross but rather was a square cross-with four arms of equal length-which predated Christianity by fifteen hundred years. This kind of cross carried none of the Christian connotations of crucifixion associated with the longer-stemmed Latin Cross, originated by Romans as a torture device. Langdon was always surprised how few Christians who gazed upon "the crucifix" realized their symbol's violent


the lobby downstairs and out to the parking lot. My spot was empty, and I felt a jolt of panic. Where the fuck was the car? I thought back to the night before but couldn’t piece together what had happened. Tequila shots under the yellow lights of the bar. The rest was spotty. I remembered opening the trunk in front of other people. Back in the lobby, I rushed to the elevator. The front desk attendant hollered at me. “Your girlfriend called!” That was a weird thing to say, I thought. “Excuse me?” I asked. “I got it this morning when I came in. ‘Anna Bell’ called for you. She left a voicemail message.” “Oh, yeah. Thank you. I lost my phone.” “You lose your mind, too? You can’t park in the loading zone, sweetie.” The car was on the other side of the building. I wanted to hug her. “Yes, sorry. I wasn’t sure which one was mine.” It was a stupid lie. The unit numbers were spray-painted in each parking spot. “All right, well just be careful out there. Take care of yourself, and make sure you’re watching out for others. Okay?” “Always,” I replied, my cheeks filling with hot shame. She knew I’d driven drunk. Out in the car, everything was there, untouched. Personal phone. Burner phone. Briefcase. I was relieved, but I lost a day of writing. I was too hungover and consumed by continuous self-flagellation, as my brain fought itself. How could you be so stupid? This put everything at risk. My capacity for self-preservation was continuous, too. Not a big deal. This hasn’t happened before. It won’t happen again. All three reassurances were lies. Nevertheless, the incident became a scared-sober cliché for a period of time. I emptied the liquor bottles in the kitchen, and my nightly routine at the bar ceased. I doubled down on writing, afraid of losing more time. I also became a touch paranoid. Shaken by the potential that I could have exposed the project if the car had been stolen, I started taking extra steps to guard my possessions. I placed tamper tape on the trunk. I also attached it to the condo door when I left, so I’d know if someone entered. Weeks later at a hotel, I came back from grabbing food to find the tamper tape breached. My iPad had been in the room with the manuscript on it. What if someone had come in and installed malware? The cleaning staff probably missed the “Do Not Disturb” sign, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I went to a shopping center, smashed the device against a brick wall outside with my foot, and bought a new one. Despite the setbacks, I finished the book titled A Warning on time. It was an unsparing indictment of Donald Trump with a two-pronged caution: Americans shouldn’t reelect the man and, more importantly, we needed to unite to fix our broken republic. “If we look within ourselves and undertake the arduous task of moral repair, America can restore the soul of its political


set out on a journey of revenge, you must dig two graves,’ said a woman’s voice, deepened by time and wisdom, yet unmistakably that of my old friend Jane. ‘Jane!’ I cried, embracing her tightly. I had written and asked if she would meet me in the hotel lobby. ‘Confucius said that,’ she warned, fearing the endeavour would somehow destroy me too. ‘Are you sure you want to go through with this?’ ‘I need to own my story. To take back my power.’ I realised now that I shared another commonality with the families of those dead soldiers. I was shamed into silence. Ashamed of what happened to me, of how I had somehow ‘let’ it happen to me and of how people would look on me now, as some sort of damaged woman. I felt tainted by it. Other than Josef’s quiet and humble company, I had isolated myself from the world because of it. Was I ready to return? Maybe not, but then, does one ever feel truly ready? All I knew was that, in that moment, I had suffered enough in my silence. At least the pain of speaking out might bring me courage. ‘The world needs to know who Lyndon Carlisle really is. I offered up my own story - Commanding Officer Carlisle, The Reaper, had his own sister locked up in an asylum for the insane.’ ‘Good grief! Will your editor print it?’ Jane asked. ‘It’s something of an old boys’ network at The Times. What Lyndon did to me doesn’t count, apparently.’ ‘That’s absurd!’ ‘Mr Turner was of the view that any hint of mental weakness could tarnish my reputation and detract from the “real story”. His words.’ ‘Perhaps he has a point,’ Jane mused, chewing her lip. ‘Lyndon might use it to his advantage.’ ‘I suppose you’re right. One last sacrifice to see justice done.’ I had set events in motion now; there was no turning back. Was I scared? Of course I was. Yet the story had now become so much bigger than me, I felt responsible to act on behalf of all those who would never have the opportunity to get justice for what my brother did to them. I would restore some integrity to the Carlisle name. I felt it was what my father would have wanted also. The time had come. I had to confront him face to face. As the evening grew dark, I made my way to my erstwhile family home. The air was still and quiet, my footsteps on the pavement the only sound, save for the blood pounding in my ears. I came to the front gate of the house. How much smaller everything looked. I knocked on the door, and in the moments while I waited, I tried to imagine myself as a very tall, strong-rooted tree. I let the muscles in my shoulders release and focused all of my energy into the centre of my belly. That’s where the fire burned, and I knew I would need to draw on it now, with precision and


the family. At least, it had never happened when Ẹniọlá was present. There had been times when he wanted his mother to say something like this, worse things, sure her cutting words might push him out of whatever it was he had sunk into after he was sacked. Now that it was happening, he wished he could be elsewhere. Why had it taken both of them so long to become the parents he needed? “You’re disappointed? Answer me now. When was the last time you gave me one naira—no, one kobo—for our upkeep in this house?” “Abọ́sẹ̀dé,” Ẹniọlá’s father said. “Abọ́sẹ̀dé, please.” It was strange to hear his father call her anything other than Ìyá Ẹniọlá, to watch them stare at each other across the room as tears spilled down his father’s cheeks. He felt as if he had walked in on them as they undressed, witnessed something he was not meant to see. Ẹniọlá headed towards the door. This time, his father stepped aside and let him go. In Aunty Caro’s shop, Ẹniọlá had to clear his throat twice before he could greet anyone. His day had gone well until Sàámú became angry with him. Since then, everything that had happened made him want to cry. He did not chat with anyone after he sat at his station. Not even Maria, who kept trying to catch his eye. Instead, he focused on the dress he had been working on the previous day, worried that he might burst into tears if he opened his mouth. When he was done with the dress, he picked up the patchwork blouse he had started making for Bùsọ́lá. Aunty Caro had showed him how to lay the scraps of fabric on top of one another so there would be no gaps. Once he was finished with his assigned tasks for the day, he was free to work on the blouse. Yèyé came in after the sun had set. The girls had already left, and Ẹniọlá was the only one who had waited behind to help Aunty Caro put away half-sewn fabric. He prostrated when Yèyé came in. She was accompanied by a younger woman who was carrying a cloth bag. “Thanks again for the other day ma,” Ẹniọlá said to Yèyé. Aunty Caro gestured to Ẹniọlá while she exchanged pleasantries with the women. He followed her unspoken instructions and cleared room on the cloth-laden sofa for the women to sit on. “Ìyàwó, yawò,” Aunty Caro greeted the younger woman. “Congratulations o, Dr. Wúrà.” “Thank you ma.” Yèyé grinned. “Ìyàwó nìyẹn. Hope the clothes are all ready?” “Yes ma. Ẹniọlá, check that table for that cream bag, I put Yèyé’s things in it this afternoon.” “My own is just ìró and bùbá, but I want Wúràọlá to try her dress now in case it will need adjustment.” Aunty Caro stood up. “Should we go to my sitting room so she can change there?” “That will be good.” Yèyé cupped a knee with one hand and stretched out the other to her daughter, who gripped it and pulled


the same spot from which I had departed. Besides, they observed that it appeared that I had brought the body from another place, and it was likely that as I did not appear to know the shore, I might have put into the harbour ignorant of the distance of the town of ---- from the place where I had deposited the corpse. Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should be taken into the room where the body lay for interment, that it might be observed what effect the sight of it would produce upon me. This idea was probably suggested by the extreme agitation I had exhibited when the mode of the murder had been described. I was accordingly conducted, by the magistrate and several other persons, to the inn. I could not help being struck by the strange coincidences that had taken place during this eventful night; but, knowing that I had been conversing with several persons in the island I had inhabited about the time that the body had been found, I was perfectly tranquil as to the consequences of the affair. I entered the room where the corpse lay and was led up to the coffin. How can I describe my sensations on beholding it? I feel yet parched with horror, nor can I reflect on that terrible moment without shuddering and agony. The examination, the presence of the magistrate and witnesses, passed like a dream from my memory when I saw the lifeless form of Henry Clerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath, and throwing myself on the body, I exclaimed, "Have my murderous machinations deprived you also, my dearest Henry, of life? Two I have already destroyed; other victims await their destiny; but you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor--" The human frame could no longer support the agonies that I endured, and I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions. A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death; my ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my attendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was tormented; and at others I felt the fingers of the monster already grasping my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately, as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but my gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to affright the other witnesses. Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doting parents; how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was I made that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture? But I


way to Black Elm, fed Cosmo, wandered the overgrown hedge maze. But always she returned to the house on Orange, to Il Bastone. She’d thought she would feel lonely here, without Dawes or Darlington, but instead she’d sipped sodas straight from the old-fashioned icebox, napped in the fancy bedroom with its moon-and-sun stained glass, snooped around the armory. The house always had something new to show her. Alex didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to go back to her mother’s miserable apartment in Van Nuys. And she didn’t want to talk to Eitan. Did he have unfinished business with Len that had been put on hold for a year? Or did he somehow know what Alex had done? Had he connected her to his cousin’s death? It didn’t much matter. She had to go. She toggled through the numbers on her phone and found Michael Anselm. He was the Lethe board member who had stepped into the authority-shaped hole left by Dean Sandow. He’d graduated fifteen years before, and Alex and Dawes had looked up his Lethe Days Diary but found it particularly boring. Names and dates of rituals and little else. That was how he seemed on the phone too. Dry, dull, eager to get back to his job in finance or banking or whatever passed for printing money. But he’d gotten Alex a bike and a laptop, so she wasn’t going to complain. Anselm picked up on the second ring. “Alex?” He sounded worried and she couldn’t blame him. She might very well be calling to tell him that the law school library had caught fire or an undead army was amassing in Commons. She didn’t know much about Anselm but she pictured him wearing striped ties and going home to a yellow Lab, two kids involved with Habitat for Humanity, and a wife who stayed in shape. “Hi, Michael, sorry to bother you in the middle of the day—” “Is everything okay?” “Everything is fine. But I need to go home for the weekend. To see my mom.” “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, as if she’d told him her mother was ill. Which Alex had been perfectly prepared to do. “Can you, I mean, can Lethe help me out with the fare?” Alex knew she was supposed to be embarrassed, but since nearly dying in this house, she hadn’t hesitated to ask Lethe for anything and everything she might need. They owed her, and Dawes, and Darlington. Dawes wasn’t asking and Darlington sure as hell wasn’t going to collect, so it was up to Alex to clear the ledger. “Of course!” Michael said. “Whatever you need. I’ll put you on with my assistant.” And that was that. Anselm’s assistant arranged for a car to the airport and the return flight. Alex wondered if she would be on it or if she would die at the top of Mulholland Drive. She packed underwear and a toothbrush in her backpack, and made a stop in the armory, but then realized she had no idea what to bring


the sight. They bent the knee when they saw the boys, and Robb greeted each of them with a lordly nod. With his legs unable to grip, the swaying motion of the horse made Bran feel unsteady at first, but the huge saddle with its thick horn and high back cradled him comfortingly, and the straps around his chest and thighs would not allow him to fall. After a time the rhythm began to feel almost natural. His anxiety faded, and a tremulous smile crept across his face. Two serving wenches stood beneath the sign of the Smoking Log, the local alehouse. When Theon Greyjoy called out to them, the younger girl turned red and covered her face. Theon spurred his mount to move up beside Robb. "Sweet Kyra," he said with a laugh. "She squirms like a weasel in bed, but say a word to her on the street, and she blushes pink as a maid. Did I ever tell you about the night that she and Bessa-" "Not where my brother can hear, Theon," Robb warned him with a glance at Bran. Bran looked away and pretended not to have heard, but he could feel Greyjoy's eyes on him. No doubt he was smiling. He smiled a lot, 350 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN as if the world were a secret joke that only he was clever enough to understand. Robb seemed to admire Theon and enjoy his company, but Bran had never warmed to his father's ward. Robb rode closer. "You are doing well, Bran." "I want to go faster," Bran replied. Robb smiled. "As you will." He sent his gelding into a trot. The wolves raced after him. Bran snapped the reins sharply, and Dancer picked up her pace. He heard a shout from Theon Greyjoy, and the hoofbeats of the other horses behind him. Bran's cloak billowed out, rippling in the wind, and the snow seemed to rush at his face. Robb was well ahead, glancing back over his shoulder from time to time to make sure Bran and the others were following. He snapped the reins again. Smooth as silk, Dancer slid into a gallop. The distance closed. By the time he caught Robb on the edge of the wolfswood, two miles beyond the winter town, they had left the others well behind. "I can tide!" Bran shouted, grinning. It felt almost as good as flying. "I'd race you, but I fear you'd win." Robb's tone was light and joking, yet Bran could tell that something was troubling his brother underneath the smile. "I don't want to race." Bran looked around for the direwolves. Both had vanished into the wood. "Did you hear Summer howling last night?" "Grey Wind was restless too," Robb said. His auburn hair had grown shaggy and unkempt, and a reddish stubble covered his jaw, making him look older than his fifteen years. "Sometimes I think they know things . . . sense things . . ." Robb sighed. "I never know how much to tell you, Bran. I wish you were older." "I'm


in my hair. My clothes are clean, washed in Jesse’s basement laundry room. At work, the tale of his mother’s abusive relationship runs through my mind as I refill coffees and pour beers, shuttle plates of food to and from the kitchen. Like Jesse’s mom, Hazel is afraid, ashamed, hiding the truth. I am likely her sole confidante. So, she put on a show of perfection for those glossy women, pretended I was a virtual stranger, a charity case. It still smarts but I am willing to give Hazel a chance to apologize. After the way I treated Teresa, I would be a hypocrite if I wasn’t. After my shift, I drive back to the beach and park my car in that wooded alcove. I recline my seat, close my eyes, and listen to the waves crashing against the rocky shore, the knife cradled loosely in my grip. This is not a home, but the spot gives me a sense of familiarity, of belonging. I’d much rather be with Jesse, pressed against his smooth, warm back in his double bed, but this is second best. With thoughts of our recent night together in my mind, I drift off to sleep. * * * The tapping at the window startles me, though I am half awake, half expecting it. I fumble for the knife, but it has slipped down, perhaps under my seat now. Early morning sun filters through clouds, revealing Hazel’s face—pretty, contrite—framed in the window. I’m relieved. She came. And I wonder… Has she come every morning since our awkward encounter in front of the oyster bar? It was days ago, and yet, she is here, her features contorted with remorse. “Thank god you came back,” she says when I open the door. “I’m so sorry.” I climb out of the car and stretch before I mumble, “It’s fine.” “I should never have treated you that way, Lee. I panicked. I didn’t know what to say. I fucked up.” I don’t respond. I’m enjoying her groveling, just a little. “I brought breakfast. And coffee.” She indicates the familiar little pack on her back. “Shall we go to our log?” When we are seated, side by side, Hazel offers me the thermos. “Those women are not my friends,” she says, digging in the backpack. “They’re married to Benjamin’s colleagues. He insists I see them for lunch a couple of times a month. They’re shallow and horrible.” She hands me a brown paper bag. The scent of sugar, butter, and flour hits me. “Peach and brown butter scones,” she says with a rueful smile. “I made them.” Has Hazel baked each night, hoping to win me over with pastries? I bite into the buttery scone. It’s delicious. I’d forgive almost anything for this. She picks up the thread of her explanation. “If I’d introduced you as my friend, those women might have mentioned you to their husbands. And then they might have said something to Benjamin. He’d stop me from seeing you, Lee. He vets all my friendships. I couldn’t risk it.” “It


to return if we are not destroyed. Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision; I come back ignorant and disappointed. It requires more philosophy than I possess to bear this injustice with patience. September 12th It is past; I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes of utility and glory; I have lost my friend. But I will endeavour to detail these bitter circumstances to you, my dear sister; and while I am wafted towards England and towards you, I will not despond. September 9th, The ice began to move, and roarings like thunder were heard at a distance as the islands split and cracked in every direction. We were in the most imminent peril, but as we could only remain passive, my chief attention was occupied by my unfortunate guest whose illness increased in such a degree that he was entirely confined to his bed. The ice cracked behind us and was driven with force towards the north; a breeze sprang from the west, and on the 11th the passage towards the south became perfectly free. When the sailors saw this and that their return to their native country was apparently assured, a shout of tumultuous joy broke from them, loud and long-continued. Frankenstein, who was dozing, awoke and asked the cause of the tumult. "They shout," I said, "because they will soon return to England." "Do you, then, really return?" "Alas! Yes; I cannot withstand their demands. I cannot lead them unwillingly to danger, and I must return." "Do so, if you will; but I will not. You may give up your purpose, but mine is assigned to me by heaven, and I dare not. I am weak, but surely the spirits who assist my vengeance will endow me with sufficient strength." Saying this, he endeavoured to spring from the bed, but the exertion was too great for him; he fell back and fainted. It was long before he was restored, and I often thought that life was entirely extinct. At length he opened his eyes; he breathed with difficulty and was unable to speak. The surgeon gave him a composing draught and ordered us to leave him undisturbed. In the meantime he told me that my friend had certainly not many hours to live. His sentence was pronounced, and I could only grieve and be patient. I sat by his bed, watching him; his eyes were closed, and I thought he slept; but presently he called to me in a feeble voice, and bidding me come near, said, "Alas! The strength I relied on is gone; I feel that I shall soon die, and he, my enemy and persecutor, may still be in being. Think not, Walton, that in the last moments of my existence I feel that burning hatred and ardent desire of revenge I once expressed; but I feel myself justified in desiring the death of my adversary. During these last days I have been occupied in examining my past conduct; nor do I find it blamable. In a fit of enthusiastic madness


good luck's a-comin' for? Want to keep it off?" And he said: "Ef you's got hairy arms en a hairy breas', it's a sign dat you's agwyne to be rich. Well, dey's some use in a sign like dat, 'kase it's so fur ahead. You see, maybe you's got to be po' a long time fust, en so you might git discourage' en kill yo'sef 'f you didn' know by de sign dat you gwyne to be rich bymeby." "Have you got hairy arms and a hairy breast, Jim?" "What's de use to ax dat question? Don't you see I has?" "Well, are you rich?" "No, but I ben rich wunst, and gwyne to be rich agin. Wunst I had foteen dollars, but I tuck to specalat'n', en got busted out." "What did you speculate in, Jim?" "Well, fust I tackled stock." "What kind of stock?" "Why, live stock -- cattle, you know. I put ten dollars in a cow. But I ain' gwyne to resk no mo' money in stock. De cow up 'n' died on my han's." "So you lost the ten dollars." "No, I didn't lose it all. I on'y los' 'bout nine of it. I sole de hide en taller for a dollar en ten cents." "You had five dollars and ten cents left. Did you speculate any more?" "Yes. You know that one-laigged nigger dat b'longs to old Misto Bradish? Well, he sot up a bank, en say anybody dat put in a dollar would git fo' dollars mo' at de en' er de year. Well, all de niggers went in, but dey didn't have much. I wuz de on'y one dat had much. So I stuck out for mo' dan fo' dollars, en I said 'f I didn' git it I'd start a bank my- sef. Well, o' course dat nigger want' to keep me out er de business, bekase he says dey warn't business 'nough for two banks, so he say I could put in my five dollars en he pay me thirty-five at de en' er de year. "So I done it. Den I reck'n'd I'd inves' de thirty-five dollars right off en keep things a-movin'. Dey wuz a nigger name' Bob, dat had ketched a wood- flat, en his marster didn' know it; en I bought it off'n him en told him to take de thirty-five dollars when de en' er de year come; but somebody stole de wood-flat dat night, en nex day de one-laigged nigger say de bank's busted. So dey didn' none uv us git no money." "What did you do with the ten cents, Jim?" "Well, I 'uz gwyne to spen' it, but I had a dream, en de dream tole me to give it to a nigger name' Balum -- Balum's Ass dey call him for short; he's one er dem chuckleheads, you know. But he's lucky, dey say, en I see I warn't lucky. De dream say let Balum inves' de ten cents en he'd make a raise for me. Well, Balum he tuck de money, en


the street. The house swarmed with inmates. As we went up, doors of rooms were opened and people's heads put out; and we passed other people on the stairs, who were coming down. In glancing up from the outside, before we entered, I had seen women and children lolling at the windows over flower-pots; and we seemed to have attracted their curiosity, for these were principally the observers who looked out of their doors. It was a broad panelled staircase, with massive balustrades of some dark wood; cornices above the doors, ornamented with carved fruit and flowers; and broad seats in the windows. But all these tokens of past grandeur were miserably decayed and dirty; rot, damp, and age, had weakened the flooring, which in many places was unsound and even unsafe. Some attempts had been made, I noticed, to infuse new blood into this dwindling frame, by repairing the costly old wood-work here and there with common deal; but it was like the marriage of a reduced old noble to a plebeian pauper, and each party to the ill-assorted union shrunk away from the other. Several of the back windows on the staircase had been darkened or wholly blocked up. In those that remained, there was scarcely any glass; and, through the crumbling frames by which the bad air seemed always to come in, and never to go out, I saw, through other glassless windows, into other houses in a similar condition, and looked giddily down into a wretched yard, which was the common dust-heap of the mansion. We proceeded to the top-storey of the house. Two or three times, by the way, I thought I observed in the indistinct light the skirts of a female figure going up before us. As we turned to ascend the last flight of stairs between us and the roof, we caught a full view of this figure pausing for a moment, at a door. Then it turned the handle, and went in. 'What's this!' said Martha, in a whisper. 'She has gone into my room. I don't know her!' I knew her. I had recognized her with amazement, for Miss Dartle. I said something to the effect that it was a lady whom I had seen before, in a few words, to my conductress; and had scarcely done so, when we heard her voice in the room, though not, from where we stood, what she was saying. Martha, with an astonished look, repeated her former action, and softly led me up the stairs; and then, by a little back-door which seemed to have no lock, and which she pushed open with a touch, into a small empty garret with a low sloping roof, little better than a cupboard. Between this, and the room she had called hers, there was a small door of communication, standing partly open. Here we stopped, breathless with our ascent, and she placed her hand lightly on my lips. I could only see, of the room beyond, that it was pretty large; that there was a bed in it; and


day. She took the medicine he had prescribed and followed his directions, and soon the results were so apparent that she gained the greatest confidence in Philip's skill. As she grew better she grew less despondent. She talked more freely. "As soon as I can get a job I shall be all right," she said. "I've had my lesson now and I mean to profit by it. No more racketing about for yours truly." Each time he saw her, Philip asked whether she had found work. She told him not to worry, she would find something to do as soon as she wanted it; she had several strings to her bow; it was all the better not to do anything for a week or two. He could not deny this, but at the end of that time he became more insistent. She laughed at him, she was much more cheerful now, and said he was a fussy old thing. She told him long stories of the manageresses she interviewed, for her idea was to get work at some eating-house; what they said and what she answered. Nothing definite was fixed, but she was sure to settle something at the beginning of the following week: there was no use hurrying, and it would be a mistake to take something unsuitable. "It's absurd to talk like that," he said impatiently. "You must take anything you can get. I can't help you, and your money won't last for ever." "Oh, well, I've not come to the end of it yet and chance it." He looked at her sharply. It was three weeks since his first visit, and she had then less than seven pounds. Suspicion seized him. He remembered some of the things she had said. He put two and two together. He wondered whether she had made any attempt to find work. Perhaps she had been lying to him all the time. It was very strange that her money should have lasted so long. "What is your rent here?" "Oh, the landlady's very nice, different from what some of them are; she's quite willing to wait till it's convenient for me to pay." He was silent. What he suspected was so horrible that he hesitated. It was no use to ask her, she would deny everything; if he wanted to know he must find out for himself. He was in the habit of leaving her every evening at eight, and when the clock struck he got up; but instead of going back to Harrington Street he stationed himself at the corner of Fitzroy Square so that he could see anyone who came along William Street. It seemed to him that he waited an interminable time, and he was on the point of going away, thinking his surmise had been mistaken, when the door of No. 7 opened and Mildred came out. He fell back into the darkness and watched her walk towards him. She had on the hat with a quantity of feathers on it which he had seen in her room, and she


I told you that," he said. "If I were to live, this place would sometime belong to me. They all know that. I would make them tell me." Mary had not known that she herself had been spoiled, but she could see quite plainly that this mysterious boy had been. He thought that the whole world belonged to him. How peculiar he was and how coolly he spoke of not living. "Do you think you won't live?" she asked, partly because she was curious and partly in hope of making him forget the garden. "I don't suppose I shall," he answered as indifferently as he had spoken before. "Ever since I remember anything I have heard people say I shan't. At first they thought I was too little to understand and now they think I don't hear. But I do. My doctor is my father's cousin. He is quite poor and if I die he will have all Misselthwaite when my father is dead. I should think he wouldn't want me to live." "Do you want to live?" inquired Mary. "No," he answered, in a cross, tired fashion. "But I don't want to die. When I feel ill I lie here and think about it until I cry and cry." "I have heard you crying three times," Mary said, "but I did not know who it was. Were you crying about that?" She did so want him to forget the garden. "I dare say," he answered. "Let us talk about something else. Talk about that garden. Don't you want to see it?" "Yes," answered Mary, in quite a low voice. "I do," he went on persistently. "I don't think I ever really wanted to see anything before, but I want to see that garden. I want the key dug up. I want the door unlocked. I would let them take me there in my chair. That would be gettingfresh air. I am going to make them open the door." He had become quite excited and his strange eyes began to shine like stars and looked more immense than ever. "They have to please me," he said. "I will make them take me there and I will let you go, too." Mary's hands clutched each other. Everything would be spoiled--everything! Dickon would never come back. She would never again feel like a missel thrush with a safe-hidden nest. "Oh, don't--don't--don't--don't do that!" she cried out. He stared as if he thought she had gone crazy! "Why?" he exclaimed. "You said you wanted to see it." "I do," she answered almost with a sob in her throat, "but if you make them open the door and take you in like that it will never be a secret again." He leaned still farther forward. "A secret," he said. "What do you mean? Tell me." Mary's words almost tumbled over one another. "You see--you see," she panted, "if no one knows but ourselves--if there was a door, hidden somewhere under the ivy--if there was--and we could find it; and if we could slip through it together


like a bird preparing for flight. “I like my space.” “There’s space here,” I said, resigning myself to generosity. It was a trait that didn’t get you very far at Last Chance, but I couldn’t help it: there’d been something captivating about him in those first moments I’d seen him, something worthy of investigation. “Do you want me to get you a plate?” I shrugged. “I’ll get you a plate,” he said. “Just give me a second.” He sprung grasshopper-like from his seat and came back with two plates of brownish mash and green beans. The food was nauseating, as always, and I was almost too weak to eat it, but I wanted to perform normalcy. I drew a fork from the canister in the middle of the table, watching him. “Is this meat loaf?” he asked, poking at his. “It’s always meat loaf,” I said. “We have to cook it and there’s, like, only one recipe.” He took a bite and grimaced. “We cook it?” “Eventually you’ll cook it. Maybe you’re the one person in the world who knows how to make it better.” My head echoed with the sound of Sledge’s voice. I felt the crust of the previous hour’s sweat on my face. “No phones here, huh?” Orson said. “No screens of any sort.” I lowered my face close to the mash, struggling to raise my arm from the plate to my mouth. “Didn’t Kimborough tell you? We make calls on pay phones. The only good thing to do is read, really.” He nodded. “That’s fine,” he said, too chipper. And then he extended his hand to shake. “You should shake my hand.” “What?” He kept it extended. “You should shake it.” “Dude, what the fuck?” His insistence—the small smile, the way he nodded toward his outstretched hand—was both frustrating and inviting. “I swear I’m going to stand up and leave this fucking table,” I said. He shrugged, his hand still extended. “You’re too tired to stand up. I know that for a fact.” His smile broadened. “Jesus,” I muttered, and took his hand in mine. I felt something between our palms and pulled away, frightened, but not so frightened that I would risk dropping it in front of the counselors, who were roaming the mess hall in their utility belts and too-short haircuts. When I opened my hand, I saw that he’d given me a perfectly rolled joint. I pocketed it immediately. “I don’t drink or do drugs of any sort,” he said, as though this could possibly be an explanation for what had just happened. “I’ve always been pretty straight-edge. My dad just, you know, sits on the sofa in front of the TV the minute he gets home and drinks a six-pack. So I’m trying to be different.” And yet he’d just given me a joint. I was too shocked to speak. “You seem nice,” he said, and winked so quickly I almost missed it. “You seem reliable.” At night, the barn and the mess hall were locked: if we wanted to go to the bathroom,