tell it sooner rather than later. Come, now! No lies! What were you doing at that window??' The fellow looked at us in a helpless way, and he wrung his hands together like one who is in the last extremity of doubt and misery. "I was doing no harm, sir. I was holding a candle to the window." "And why were you holding a candle to the window?" "Don't ask me, Sir Henry -- don't ask me! I give you my word, sir, that it is not my secret, and that I cannot tell it. If it concerned no one but myself I would not try to keep it from you." A sudden idea occurred to me, and I took the candle from the trembling hand of the butler. "He must have been holding it as a signal," said I. "Let us see if there is any answer." I held it as he had done, and stared out into the darkness of the night. Vaguely I could discern the black bank of the trees and the lighter expanse of the moor, for the moon was behind the clouds. And then I gave a cry of exultation, for a tiny pin-point of yellow light had suddenly transfixed the dark veil, and glowed steadily in the centre of the black square framed by the window. "There it is!" I cried. "No, no, sir, it is nothing -- nothing at all!" the butler broke in; "I assure you, sir --" "Move your light across the window, Watson!" cried the baronet. "See, the other moves also! Now, you rascal, do you deny that it is a signal? Come, speak up! Who is your confeder- ate out yonder, and what is this conspiracy that is going on?" The man's face became openly defiant. "It is my business, and not yours. I will not tell." "Then you leave my employment right away." "Very good, sir. If I must I must." "And you go in disgrace. By thunder, you may well be ashamed of yourself. Your family has lived with mine for over a hundred years under this roof, and here I find you deep in some dark plot against me." "No, no, sir; no, not against you!" It was a woman's voice, and Mrs. Barrymore, paler and more horror-struck than her husband, was standing at the door. Her bulky figure in a shawl and skirt might have been comic were it not for the intensity of feeling upon her face. "We have to go, Eliza. This is the end of it. You can pack our things," said the butler. "Oh, John, John, have I brought you to this? It is my doing, Sir Henry -- all mine. He has done nothing except for my sake and because I asked him." "Speak out, then! What does it mean?" "My unhappy brother is starving on the moor. We cannot let him perish at our very gates. The light is a signal to him that food is ready for him, and his light out yonder is to show the spot to


him out the second time it happens. “Right,” Jack says, unruffled, and I spend the next two turns blushing and fidgeting in his lap, till his grip tightens on me and his words in my ear are a distracted “Be good.” Something scalding and liquid blooms inside me. Jack still wins. And I must get the hang of it, because I win mine, too. I win a practice match against George, who bought four types of cheese because Jack told her it’s all I eat. I win against Sunny. I win against another person whose name I don’t recall. I win against Andrea in just a handful of moves. “Easy to advance when you’re the only sober person in the room,” she mutters, some teeth behind it, but when I say “You’re not wrong,” she bursts into laughter and tips her glass at me, and I’m sure I imagined the hostility. There’s wine, beer, shots, academic horror stories, a whiteboard in front of George’s fireplace with the brackets written on it, and somewhere around midnight Blitz Go becomes my favorite thing in the world. I’m having fun. Genuinely having lots of fun. When Sunny announces the final match, her words are slurred. A frame with George’s wedding photo is poorly balanced on her head. “The two people who haven’t lost a game yet are . . . Jack, of course—fuck you, Jack, for making our lives so boring, you periodic-motion poster child—and, drumroll please . . . Elsie! Elsie, please, at least once in my life I want the opportunity to see this smug-ass face lose at something.” “I lost at number of urine sample jars on my desk,” he points out. The frame drops softly into the carpet. Sunny grasps my hand. “Avenge me, Elsie. Please.” I nod solemnly, taking a seat on the side of the black. Jack picks up a stone and leans back in the chair, eyes glued on me, the blue as bright as the sea, a small smile on his lips. “And so we meet again,” he says, loud enough for everyone, and I tune out the way his friends whistle and cheer for me, how they fall silent as we squeeze every last second from each turn. Whenever I look up, Jack’s already looking at me. I remember the first time we played, at Millicent’s house, and wonder if it was the first of many. Wonder if Jack owns a board. Wonder if he keeps it in his study. Wonder why, when he looks at me, I forget how scared I am to be seen. Wonder why when I win, he seems as happy as I feel. “Well played,” he says, ignoring the way everyone is ribbing him for breaking his eight-month streak. I nod. Suddenly, again, I’m all heartbeat. I duck inside the bathroom, high on victory. When I slip out, George is right there, scaring the shit out of me. “Jesus.” “I fully own that I followed you,” she says, leaning casually against the wall. “Were you listening to me pee?” “No. Well,


Andy’s stomach. “Sorry,” Nick says. “Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up.” Andy turns his head, pressing his face into Nick’s neck, and Nick can feel his breath, warm on his skin. “I want this. Do you?” “Jesus Christ.” “That’s not an answer.” “Yes.” “You always smell so good.” As Andy speaks, his lips brush against Nick’s throat, and Nick wants to groan. Andy’s mouth is moving now, up and over, toward Nick’s mouth. When he finally slides his lips over Nick’s, Nick involuntarily grips Andy’s shirt. “Hi, Nick,” Andy says, and Nick can feel the smile against his mouth. “Hi yourself,” Nick mumbles, and he pulls Andy closer. He feels the wiry muscles of Andy’s arms tighten around him at the same time Nick opens his mouth, just a little. Andy’s hands go up to cradle Nick’s face, cool against the flaming heat of Nick’s cheeks. They’re pressed together now, chest to chest, no space between them, but Nick wants more, so he backs Andy up against the wall and presses him there. “Oh shit,” Andy gasps. He’s hard now, too (Thank God, thank God, whispers the part of his brain that still needs reassurances), and Nick lets out a groan at the feel of him. “Stop?” “God no, don’t stop.” Andy twists them around so it’s Nick’s back against the wall, which is not a position he’s ever spent much time in, but with Andy it’s fine. Andy can shove him into however many walls he pleases. “You want this,” Nick says, his lips moving against Andy’s. “You really do.” Andy pulls back, just enough to give Nick a severely unimpressed look. “I told you.” “I know, I know. You know what—” Here, Nick swears that he means to say You know what you want, but what comes out is “You know what gets your dick hard.” “Nick,” Andy says, half laughing, but with this shuddering little rasp in his voice that makes Nick glad he has the wall to prop him up. Andy moves one hand so it’s braced on the wall beside Nick’s head and the other goes to Nick’s throat. He presses a kiss to the divot of Nick’s collarbone. “You have no idea,” Andy murmurs. Nick isn’t thinking clearly enough to understand what Andy’s talking about, so he dips his head for another kiss. He bites Andy’s lower lip and Andy makes a broken sound that goes like lightning through Nick’s body. He wants all these clothes gone. Clothes are such bullshit, it turns out. He untucks Andy’s shirt and pushes up his undershirt and gets a hand on his lower back, seeking out skin. “Wait,” Andy pants. “Hold up.” But he doesn’t move—he still has Nick pressed against the wall. Nick drops his hands. “You okay?” Andy leans back and looks at Nick, his cheeks flushed and his eyes a little wild. He looks slightly deranged, and all Nick can think is that at least he isn’t the only one. “Time out.” Nick can do that. He can do a time-out. He doesn’t know


see what I sometimes refuse to show myself. “And you’ve had it figured out for so long.” “What other people think of me, maybe. But not who I really am.” As his face softens, he cracks a smile. “In fact, I think we wrote a whole book about that.” I don’t laugh. “That’s the whole point.” Because he is someone worthy of a memoir, and in my lowest moments, sometimes I feel like a blank page. I don’t want to squeeze myself into the nooks and crannies of someone else’s life. Have I been so wrapped up in the fantasy of him that I’ve forgotten how difficult this relationship will be? The past few days, we’ve just been playing house. Pretending that this is our real life, the same way we’ve been pretending the whole trip. Because now when I picture my relationship with Finn, I can see myself flying to LA every other weekend, feeling guilty if he paid for the flight and putting myself on a budget if not, the two of us arguing about what to watch that night or which new vegetarian restaurant to try. I can see him at benefits and events for his nonprofit, taking the occasional role in a holiday movie with a menorah hiding in the background. I’ll be the nameless person on his arm at premieres and events. The supportive girlfriend. I can fit into his life, sure. I can be in that relationship. But what about him fitting into mine? “I admire you so much,” I whisper, reaching for his hand and giving it a squeeze. “I just wish I felt the same way about myself.” Slowly, I stand up, retrieve my bag from the hallway. “And I think I need a little time to figure that out.” Finn gets to his feet, looking torn between going after me and giving me space. “You could stay,” he says. This time, he doesn’t sound at all like he did when he begged Meg Lawson not to leave him. His chin is wobbling, eyes wide and glassy. “We can keep talking about it. Please, Chandler. We could figure it out together.” If he really could categorize every expression my face makes, then he’d know I’m serious. Terrified of what might happen if I leave this house but serious nonetheless. I shake my head, adamant now. “I’m sorry. I think I have to do it alone.” And with trembling footsteps, I head for the door. chapter twenty-seven LOS ANGELES, CA In the backseat of an Uber, I try my best to act like I haven’t made the single stupidest decision of my life. This translates into some truly terrible small talk. “Some traffic, huh?” I ask the driver, who just rolls her eyes. I end up at the hotel the publisher originally booked for me, since they obviously weren’t planning on me shacking up with Finn. It’s in downtown LA, a gritty section of the city with none of the charm of Los Feliz. And then, because it’s my go-to coping mechanism, I call Noemie.


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

kept thinking of those people drinking brewed belladonna in the corner. In the scents of whirling dancers and strong perfume, there was also the scent of food. Lore’s stomach twisted in her too-tight bodice. “Any idea where the buffet is?” she asked Gabriel, pitching her voice to carry over music and laughter. “On the right side, I think,” he said, eyes shifting like prey in a predator’s den. Other courtiers had noticed them now, gazes flickering their direction and then away with practiced nonchalance. The ebb and flow of the party revealed a table set up before the golden depiction of a fox hunt, baying dogs and howling hunters chasing the ruby-encrusted animal across the wall. Two fountains in the center of the table flowed with wine, red and white, with crystal goblets set in precarious gleaming pyramids next to them. Bowls of bright fruit sat beside artfully stacked pastries, jewels on an expensive necklace. Her stomach rumbled. Lore stepped forward, ready to weave her way through to the table, but the parting crowd revealed the throne at the front of the room, and for the first time, she noticed someone was on it. One leg was tossed over the arm, booted foot swinging in the air, and an elbow was propped on the opposite side, head leaned against a clenched, ring-studded fist. Even in the decadent chaos of his own party, Bastian Arceneaux somehow managed to look bored. That sense of familiarity came again, looking at him. Almost like déjà vu. Like Bastian fit perfectly into a place in her head that she hadn’t even known was empty. “Gabriel?” The woman’s voice coming from behind them was light and musical. And from the way the Presque Mort froze beside Lore, it seemed he recognized it. “Gabriel Remaut?” A questioning lilt, a hint of nervousness. “I’m sorry, maybe I’m mistaken—” Lore tugged on Gabriel’s arm and turned him around to face the person speaking. A diminutive woman stood on the edge of the dance floor, with an anxious expression and hair the color of white marble in a cloud of airy curls. Pearlescent dust gleamed across warm copper-brown cheekbones scattered with freckles, sparkling like the wings attached to her white tulle gown, and her eyes matched the delicate dark-green embroidery across the sheer neckline. She looked like a flower fairy, straight from a children’s book, and the smile she broke into was nearly as bright as the rest of her. His arm somehow tenser than before beneath Lore’s palm, Gabriel inclined his head. “Alienor.” “It’s really you!” The sparkling woman laughed aloud, clapping her hands together. “Bastian told me you were coming back from the north for a while, to introduce your cousin to society, but I thought he had to be joking!” “Bastian is less than trustworthy at the best of times, true.” “Fourteen years of holy service and you still harbor the sin of jealousy.” Alienor mockingly shook her head, making glitter fall from her false wings. “I was never jealous of him, Alie.” “Of course you were; every time


the casserole in the fridge. “You know that, right?” “My lawyer said—” But she isn’t finished. “David and the other partners are consumed with the case. They’re meticulous and brilliant. And they’re ruthless. They will get the case dismissed, Hazel. It’s only a matter of when. You need to be ready.” Feeling unsteady on my feet, I slide onto a barstool. Vanessa takes a seat next to me. “You need your own lawyer.” “I have a lawyer. A victim’s rights attorney.” “Good. You’ll need a divorce lawyer, too.” She cocks an eyebrow at me. “Obviously you want to divorce him.” “O-obviously,” I stammer, though my thoughts have been on more pressing matters. Like the threat on my life. “And your prenup won’t hold up now. Not after he planned to kill you.” I’m impressed by Vanessa’s knowledge. Was she a lawyer once? A paralegal? Or has she gone through a divorce herself? I have never asked who she was before David Vega. “Do you still have your credit cards?” “Yes.” “Go to the bank and get cash advances. Benjamin will cancel your cards as soon as he gets a chance.” Her eyes drift around the open room. “There are a lot of valuable items in this house. The art. The sculptures. You should hire an asset advisor. I’ll send you a name.” “Thanks.” She turns to face me. “What about your LLC?” “My what?” “Benjamin makes a lot of money. I’m sure he filters some of it through a limited liability corporation in your name. Did you sign anything?” “I signed a lot of things. I signed whatever he asked me to.” “You need access to that account, Hazel.” She digs in a designer purse, extracts a matching wallet. From it, she presents a business card. “George Scofield is a forensic accountant. Call him.” I stare blankly at the card. “I… I don’t know what that is.” “George will find out what Benjamin earned during your marriage. I’m sure it’s hidden… in businesses, offshore accounts, creative investments. But George is great at finding out where the bodies are buried.” She realizes her mistake, pats my hand. “Not literally.” There is a weight on my chest, and I struggle to take a breath. I don’t know how to do this. To hire lawyers and accountants and to fight for what is rightfully mine. My vision blurs as tears well in my eyes. Vanessa rubs my back. “I know this is a lot to take in. But I couldn’t stand by and let Benjamin destroy you. Not like he did his first wife.” My head snaps up. “His first wife?” “He didn’t tell you about Karolina?” But it is obvious he didn’t. “Christ,” she mutters, shaking her head. “We were told not to mention her. That it was awkward and uncomfortable for Benjamin. And David said the marriage was a blip. A mistake. That Benjamin shouldn’t be haunted by a bad choice he made years ago.” Since I became Mrs. Laval, Vanessa has been the closest thing I’ve had to a real friend. But


chorus of voices asked. `Why, SHE, of course,' said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused way, `Prizes! Prizes!' Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one a-piece all round. `But she must have a prize herself, you know,' said the Mouse. `Of course,' the Dodo replied very gravely. `What else have you got in your pocket?' he went on, turning to Alice. `Only a thimble,' said Alice sadly. `Hand it over here,' said the Dodo. Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying `We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble'; and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. `You promised to tell me your history, you know,' said Alice, `and why it is you hate--C and D,' she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again. `Mine is a long and a sad tale!' said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing. `It IS a long tail, certainly,' said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; `but why do you call it sad?' And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- `Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, "Let us both go to law: I will prosecute YOU. --Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do." Said the mouse to the cur, "Such a trial, dear Sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath." "I'll be judge, I'll be jury," Said cunning old Fury: "I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death."' `You are not attending!' said the Mouse to Alice severely. `What are you thinking of?' `I beg your pardon,' said Alice very humbly: `you had got to the fifth bend, I think?' `I had NOT!' cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily. `A knot!' said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. `Oh, do let me help to undo it!' `I shall do nothing of the sort,' said


time I ought to have put on my studies; and secondly, I was deceiving my teacher in trying to make it appear I was reading a history when it was a storybook instead. I had never realized until that moment, Marilla, that what I was doing was deceitful. I was shocked. I cried bitterly, and asked Miss Stacy to forgive me and I'd never do such a thing again; and I offered to do penance by never so much as looking at Ben Hur for a whole week, not even to see how the chariot race turned out. But Miss Stacy said she wouldn't require that, and she forgave me freely. So I think it wasn't very kind of her to come up here to you about it after all." "Miss Stacy never mentioned such a thing to me, Anne, and its only your guilty conscience that's the matter with you. You have no business to be taking storybooks to school. You read too many novels anyhow. When I was a girl I wasn't so much as allowed to look at a novel." "Oh, how can you call Ben Hur a novel when it's really such a religious book?" protested Anne. "Of course it's a little too exciting to be proper reading for Sunday, and I only read it on weekdays. And I never read ANY book now unless either Miss Stacy or Mrs. Allan thinks it is a proper book for a girl thirteen and three-quarters to read. Miss Stacy made me promise that. She found me reading a book one day called, The Lurid Mystery of the Haunted Hall. It was one Ruby Gillis had lent me, and, oh, Marilla, it was so fascinating and creepy. It just curdled the blood in my veins. But Miss Stacy said it was a very silly, unwholesome book, and she asked me not to read any more of it or any like it. I didn't mind promising not to read any more like it, but it was AGONIZING to give back that book without knowing how it turned out. But my love for Miss Stacy stood the test and I did. It's really wonderful, Marilla, what you can do when you're truly anxious to please a certain person." "Well, I guess I'll light the lamp and get to work," said Marilla. "I see plainly that you don't want to hear what Miss Stacy had to say. You're more interested in the sound of your own tongue than in anything else." "Oh, indeed, Marilla, I do want to hear it," cried Anne contritely. "I won't say another word-not one. I know I talk too much, but I am really trying to overcome it, and although I say far too much, yet if you only knew how many things I want to say and don't, you'd give me some credit for it. Please tell me, Marilla." "Well, Miss Stacy wants to organize a class among her advanced students who mean to study for the entrance examination into Queen's. She intends to give them extra lessons


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

to university.” “Do you ever go back to England?” “Of course,” I say. “I spend some Christmases there. I speak to my mother regularly. I’d planned to move back after I’d graduated uni, but life had other plans.” “And what about present day?” she asks. “Are you remarried? Out every night, living the hot single life?” I clear my throat, frowning as I adjust the napkin on my lap. “I—no. Neither,” I admit. “My daughter is still quite young. I only have her on weekends, and I work late most weeknights—so I haven’t. I don’t. That is, I don’t date much.” I hear the stumbling clutter of my words and squint past her, to stare at a flock of birds picking at something on the sand. “What’s her name?” I’m grateful that she’s letting me move on. “Stefania Elena Garcia Prince.” Fizzy bites back a smile and I laugh in understanding. “I know. My last name always sounds like the sad friend at the party. She’s a trip, though. Part princess, part evil mastermind.” “She sounds like my kind of girl.” “I genuinely fear the day you two meet. I think Nostradamus wrote about it.” When I look up at her, I register that she’s been studying me. Her dark eyes are wide and gently set on my face. “Anyway, we should be talking about you, not me.” She doesn’t look away as my gaze holds hers. It’s this, and the way her voice goes a little hoarse when she says, “I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” that make me suspect I am absolutely, irrevocably, and undeniably fucked. thirteen FIZZY I assume we all have the proverbial angel on one shoulder and devil on the other, but in my case, they’re very real, and the devil is a shouter. I know that it is stupid to flirt with Connor. I know how absurd it is to develop sexy desires for this man in particular, but it’s been so long since I’ve been attracted to anyone that I feel like a starving dog staring at a T-bone. Connor licks his lips, pulling them in between his teeth, and I realize he’s reacting to the weight of my stare. Blinking away, I focus my attention on the waves crashing into the smooth sand instead. I need to get my shit together. As much as I’m glad I’m a butterfly coming out of the cocoon of sexual stagnation, I probably shouldn’t fly directly to the first flower I see. Especially if that flower’s professional goal is finding me a soulmate. “Well,” he says after our odd, lengthy showdown, “let’s start easy.” I stretch, pretending to crack my neck. “Tell me what you look for in a guy.” Taking a deep breath, I look out at the waves in the distance, thinking. “Have you ever gone to the grocery store hungry?” Connor laughs in understanding. “Yes.” “Cheese plate, carrots, chips, salsa, Cocoa Pebbles, and sugar cookies. Whatever sounds good at the time.” “Right.” “I’d describe my dating energy a little like that. I don’t


that you should think of such a thing." "My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think of it. I do not want the match--I do not want to injure dear little Henry-- but the idea has been given me by circumstances; and if Mr. Knightley really wished to marry, you would not have him refrain on Henry's account, a boy of six years old, who knows nothing of the matter?" "Yes, I would. I could not bear to have Henry supplanted.-- Mr. Knightley marry!--No, I have never had such an idea, and I cannot adopt it now. And Jane Fairfax, too, of all women!" "Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as you very well know." "But the imprudence of such a match!" "I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its probability." "I see no probability in it, unless you have any better foundation than what you mention. His good-nature, his humanity, as I tell you, would be quite enough to account for the horses. He has a great regard for the Bateses, you know, independent of Jane Fairfax-- and is always glad to shew them attention. My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take to match-making. You do it very ill. Jane Fairfax mistress of the Abbey!--Oh! no, no;--every feeling revolts. For his own sake, I would not have him do so mad a thing." "Imprudent, if you please--but not mad. Excepting inequality of fortune, and perhaps a little disparity of age, I can see nothing unsuitable." "But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry. I am sure he has not the least idea of it. Do not put it into his head. Why should he marry?-- He is as happy as possible by himself; with his farm, and his sheep, and his library, and all the parish to manage; and he is extremely fond of his brother's children. He has no occasion to marry, either to fill up his time or his heart." "My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if he really loves Jane Fairfax--" "Nonsense! He does not care about Jane Fairfax. In the way of love, I am sure he does not. He would do any good to her, or her family; but--" "Well," said Mrs. Weston, laughing, "perhaps the greatest good he could do them, would be to give Jane such a respectable home." "If it would be good to her, I am sure it would be evil to himself; a very shameful and degrading connexion. How would he bear to have Miss Bates belonging to him?--To have her haunting the Abbey, and thanking him all day long for his great kindness in marrying Jane?-- `So very kind and obliging!--But he always had been such a very kind neighbour!' And then fly off, through half a sentence, to her mother's old petticoat. `Not that it was such a very old petticoat either--for still it would last a great while--and, indeed, she must thankfully say that their petticoats were all very strong.'" "For shame,


in de ole tumble-down cooper-shop on de bank to wait for everybody to go 'way. Well, I wuz dah all night. Dey wuz somebody roun' all de time. 'Long 'bout six in de mawnin' skifts begin to go by, en 'bout eight er nine every skift dat went 'long wuz talkin' 'bout how yo' pap come over to de town en say you's killed. Dese las' skifts wuz full o' ladies en genlmen a-goin' over for to see de place. Sometimes dey'd pull up at de sho' en take a res' b'fo' dey started acrost, so by de talk I got to know all 'bout de killin'. I 'uz powerful sorry you's killed, Huck, but I ain't no mo' now. "I laid dah under de shavin's all day. I 'uz hungry, but I warn't afeard; bekase I knowed ole missus en de widder wuz goin' to start to de camp- meet'n' right arter breakfas' en be gone all day, en dey knows I goes off wid de cattle 'bout daylight, so dey wouldn' 'spec to see me roun' de place, en so dey wouldn' miss me tell arter dark in de evenin'. De yuther servants wouldn' miss me, kase dey'd shin out en take holiday soon as de ole folks 'uz out'n de way. "Well, when it come dark I tuck out up de river road, en went 'bout two mile er more to whah dey warn't no houses. I'd made up my mine 'bout what I's agwyne to do. You see, ef I kep' on tryin' to git away afoot, de dogs 'ud track me; ef I stole a skift to cross over, dey'd miss dat skift, you see, en dey'd know 'bout whah I'd lan' on de yuther side, en whah to pick up my track. So I says, a raff is what I's arter; it doan' MAKE no track. "I see a light a-comin' roun' de p'int bymeby, so I wade' in en shove' a log ahead o' me en swum more'n half way acrost de river, en got in 'mongst de drift- wood, en kep' my head down low, en kinder swum agin de current tell de raff come along. Den I swum to de stern uv it en tuck a-holt. It clouded up en 'uz pooty dark for a little while. So I clumb up en laid down on de planks. De men 'uz all 'way yonder in de middle, whah de lantern wuz. De river wuz a- risin', en dey wuz a good current; so I reck'n'd 'at by fo' in de mawnin' I'd be twenty-five mile down de river, en den I'd slip in jis b'fo' daylight en swim asho', en take to de woods on de Illinois side. "But I didn' have no luck. When we 'uz mos' down to de head er de islan' a man begin to come aft wid de lantern, I see it warn't no use fer to wait, so I slid overboard en struck out fer de islan'. Well, I had a notion I could lan' mos' anywhers, but


Or Benjamin Laval’s security detail. Or anyone suspicious. But all seems quiet, normal. An Uber driver delivers a pizza to the building next door. A woman with a green helmet rides past on her bike. At the end of the block, a landlord in sweatpants waters a sad flower bed. Parking on a side street, I face the next hurdle. Getting inside. Last night, I’d opened the small office window as Jesse searched for my keys. If he hadn’t closed it, I will be able to climb through it. I slip down the side of the building, concealed by the heavy evergreens that border it. The office window is closed, but the kitchen window is open a few inches. I yank it fully open and hoist myself onto the ledge. Wriggling inside, I land on the kitchen counter, out of breath. With my feet on the parquet floor, I freeze, listening. The apartment is silent. The blinds are tightly closed over the barred windows, a single lamp burns in the living room, though it is daylight. Tentatively, I move through the space, peeking into the bedroom and bathroom, ensuring I am alone. That I am safe. At least for now. My throat clogs with nostalgia as I take in the familiar surroundings. The dark gray couch where we’d sat and kissed; chatted about his sister and his nieces; had coffee and muffins. The table where we’d eaten coq au vin and sipped red wine. The bedroom where he had held me and made love to me and made me feel like I was desirable. Like I was enough. And then the frantic, almost animal sex we’d had in the entryway, against the kitchen counter, on the parquet floor. Hazel’s warning runs through my mind. Jesse is not who you think he is. “Neither were you, Hazel,” I mutter to myself. I know I can’t trust her, but those words ring true. Something in this apartment will tell me who Jesse really was. And why he was murdered. I will find it, but I have to hurry. 39 I START IN THE BEDROOM. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but I rummage through the closet and the dresser, lift the mattress and search beneath it. There is nothing unusual or incriminating. Just clothes, coins, a few dumbbells… The guitar case. I open it and find it empty. Did Jesse even play? I’d wanted to believe he had the soul of a poet, the body of a Greek god. I’d never asked him to play for me. Had I been a fool? In the bathroom, I dig under the sink but find only Band-Aids, a box of condoms, and sports tape. On the counter sits a hair-brush suited to a thick mane of hair, not Jesse’s short cut. In the shower, I note the vanilla-scented shampoo. They’re signs of a female presence that I had ignored, hadn’t wanted to see. Was that presence Hazel? Opening the medicine cabinet, I sift through bottles of over-the-counter pain meds, toothpaste, and sunscreen. I find Jesse’s expensive


parking lot. While she’d known men like Brody Carr existed, she’d never been so close to such a monster before now. She locks her doors and leans her head against the headrest after he disappears around the side of the building. Maybe she was too quick to judge Crystal for cutting men out of their lives so often. Her boyfriends likely weren’t psychopaths like Brody Carr, but they probably weren’t saints either. Sloane closes her eyes, and for a second, wonders what her mother would do. If Brody keeps quiet about their affair, everything should be fine. Unless the FBI gets involved. Or Ethan finds a way to charge him with murder. Then, there would be nothing to keep Brody from confessing their affair and casting blame on her. She glances in the direction she last saw Brody before she throws her car into reverse. When the time comes, cutting ties with him is not going to be easy. If Brody could so easily kill his wife, and seemingly get away with it, what might he do to Sloane when he finds out she’s staying with Ethan? Chapter 33 Ethan fills his mug with his fourth cup of coffee in the homicide unit’s small breakroom. That morning, he found Jonah poring over the security footage from Carr’s mansion when he got to work. As Ethan slung his coat over his chair, he braced himself for his partner to tell him Sloane had been to the app founder’s house. Ethan prepared to feign ignorance—and shock—over his wife’s relationship with their murder suspect. Instead, Jonah was riled up: Carr had turned the cameras off on several occasions, almost always in the evenings. As soon as his partner refocused on his laptop screen, Ethan found the link to the footage and scrolled through the dates. He sank against the back of his chair when he saw that one of the gaps in the footage was the night of Sloane’s award gala. But he was only partially relieved. Carr going to such lengths to keep his affair with Sloane a secret didn’t mean she was innocent. Only that Carr was good at covering his tracks. When he had arrived home last night and saw the damage to Sloane’s car, he rushed inside, both surprised and relieved to find her reading in bed with a glass of wine, looking unscathed from the accident. He stopped in their bedroom doorway. “Are you okay? What happened to your car?” “I’m fine.” Sloane set down her novel. “A rock flew up and hit my windshield on I-5. I jerked the wheel when it happened and hit the concrete barrier on the side of the road.” She shrugged. “I’m fine though. It looks worse than it was.” She lifted her book, flipping to the place she’d left off as Ethan stared at her. She reclined against a pillow. How could she be so calm and collected after ramming into a barrier on the freeway and mangling the side of her precious Porsche? She’s lucky no one hit her. Or that she


see what she’s getting at. “I am not Chinese,” I say curtly. “If that’s what you’re asking. It’s not ‘own voices,’ or whatever you want to call it. Is that a problem?” “No, no, not at all, we’re just covering our bases. And you’re not . . . anything else?” Emily winces the moment those words leave her mouth, like she knows she shouldn’t have said that. “I am white,” I clarify. “Are you saying we’ll get in trouble because I wrote this story and I’m white?” I immediately regret phrasing it like that. I’m being too blunt, too defensive; wearing my insecurities on my sleeve. Both Emily and Jessica begin blinking very quickly, glancing at each other as if hoping the other will speak first. “Of course not,” Emily says finally. “Of course, anyone should be able to tell any kind of story. We’re just thinking about how to position you so that readers trust the work.” “Well, they can trust the work,” I say. “They can trust the words on the page. The blood and sweat that went into telling the story.” “No, of course,” says Emily. “And we don’t mean to invalidate that.” “Of course not,” says Jessica. “Again, we think anyone should be able to tell any kind of story.” “We’re not censors. That’s not our culture here at Eden.” “Right.” Emily then shifts the conversation to where I’m based, where I might be up to travel, etc. The meeting fizzles out pretty quickly after that, before I’ve gotten a chance to get my bearings back. Emily and Jessica tell me again how excited they are about the book, how wonderful it was to meet me, and how they can’t wait to keep working with me. Then they’re gone, and I’m staring at an empty screen. I feel awful. I shoot off an email to Brett, airing out all my anxieties. He responds an hour later, assuring me not to worry. They just want to be clear, he says. On how exactly they can position me. As it turns out, they want to position me as “worldly.” Jessica and Emily send us a longer email detailing their plans the next Monday: We think June’s background is very interesting, so we want to make sure readers are aware of that. They highlight all the different places I lived when I was little—South America, Central Europe, a half-dozen cities in the US that were stops on my dad’s never-ending tour as a construction engineer. (Emily really likes the word “nomad.”) They highlight the year I spent in the Peace Corps in my newly written author biography, although I never went near Asia (I was in Mexico, making use of my high school Spanish, and I quit early because I got a debilitating stomach virus and had to be medically evacuated). And they suggest I publish under the name Juniper Song instead of June Hayward (“Your debut didn’t reach quite the same market we’re hoping for, and it’s better to have a clean start. And Juniper is so, so unique. What


circumstances someone counts as a moral agent that deserves consideration. I didn’t understand much of his work, but his central argument was quite compelling: we owe nothing to the dead. Especially when the dead are thieves and liars, too. And fuck it, I’ll just say it: taking Athena’s manuscript felt like reparations, payback for the things that Athena took from me. Four PUBLISHING MOVES SLOWLY, UNTIL IT DOESN’T. THE TRULY EXCITING moments—going to auction, negotiating deals, fielding calls from potential editors, choosing a publisher—are a dizzying whirlwind, but the rest involves a lot of staring at your phone and waiting for updates. Most books are sold up to two years before they’re released. The big announcements we’re always seeing online (Book deal! Movie deal! TV deal! Awards nominations!) have been open secrets for weeks, if not months. All the excitement and surprise are feigned for social clout. The Last Front won’t come out until fifteen months after I sign my contract. Until then, there’s production. I receive my edit letter two months after the deal. My editor at Eden is Daniella Woodhouse, a deep-voiced, no-nonsense, fast-talking woman who both intimidated and intrigued me during our first phone call. I remembered she’d gotten into some kerfuffle at a conference last year when she called a fellow female panelist “pathetic” for arguing that sexism in the industry remained an obstacle, after which all sorts of online personalities labeled her an enemy of women and demanded she make a public apology, if not resign. (She did neither.) That doesn’t seem to have impacted her career. In the last year, she’s published three bestsellers: a novel about the interior lives of murderous and sexy housewives, a thriller about a classical pianist who makes a deal with the literal devil in exchange for a legendary career, and a memoir by a lesbian beekeeper. I was hesitant about signing with Eden Press at first, especially since it was an indie publisher instead of one of the Big Five—HarperCollins, Penguin Random House, Hachette, Simon & Schuster, and Macmillan. But Brett convinced me that at a midsize house, I’d be a big fish in a small pond; that I’d get all the care and attention I never felt at my first publisher. Sure enough, compared to Garrett, Daniella practically coddles me. She responds to all my emails within the day, often within the hour, and always in depth. She makes me feel like I matter. When she tells me this book will be a hit, I know that she means it. I like her editorial style, too. Most of her requested changes are simple clarifications. Are American audiences going to know what this phrase means? Should this flashback be placed in this early chapter when we haven’t met the character in the proper timeline yet? This dialogue exchange is artful, but how does it move the story along? Honestly, I’m relieved. Finally someone’s calling Athena out on her bullshit, on her deliberately confusing sentence structures and cultural allusions. Athena likes to make her audience “work for it.” On the topic


striving to enforce it, blind with weakness half the time and keeping the trail by the loom of it and by the dim feel of his feet. It was beautiful spring weather, but neither dogs nor humans were aware of it. Each day the sun rose earlier and set later. It was dawn by three in the morning, and twilight lingered till nine at night. The whole long day was a blaze of sunshine. The ghostly winter silence had given way to the great spring murmur of awakening life. This murmur arose from all the land, fraught with the joy of living. It came from the things that lived and moved again, things which had been as dead and which had not moved during the long months of frost. The sap was rising in the pines. The willows and aspens were bursting out in young buds. Shrubs and vines were putting on fresh garbs of green. Crickets sang in the nights, and in the days all manner of creeping, crawling things rustled forth into the sun. Partridges and woodpeckers were booming and knocking in the forest. Squirrels were chattering, birds singing, and overhead honked the wild-fowl driving up from the south in cunning wedges that split the air. From every hill slope came the trickle of running water, the music of unseen fountains. All things were thawing, bending, snapping. The Yukon was straining to break loose the ice that bound it down. It ate away from beneath; the sun ate from above. Air-holes formed, fissures sprang and spread apart, while thin sections of ice fell through bodily into the river. And amid all this bursting, rending, throbbing of awakening life, under the blazing sun and through the soft-sighing breezes, like wayfarers to death, staggered the two men, the woman, and the huskies. With the dogs falling, Mercedes weeping and riding, Hal swearing innocuously, and Charles's eyes wistfully watering, they staggered into John Thornton's camp at the mouth of White River. When they halted, the dogs dropped down as though they had all been struck dead. Mercedes dried her eyes and looked at John Thornton. Charles sat down on a log to rest. He sat down very slowly and painstakingly what of his great stiffness. Hal did the talking. John Thornton was whittling the last touches on an axe-handle he had made from a stick of birch. He whittled and listened, gave monosyllabic replies, and, when it was asked, terse advice. He knew the breed, and he gave his advice in the certainty that it would not be followed. "They told us up above that the bottom was dropping out of the trail and that the best thing for us to do was to lay over," Hal said in response to Thornton's warning to take no more chances on the rotten ice. "They told us we couldn't make White River, and here we are." This last with a sneering ring of triumph in it. "And they told you true," John Thornton answered. "The bottom's likely to drop out at any moment. Only fools,


closes his eyes and takes a deep, undone breath. “Sorry.” His rhythm on my clit is picking up, and I’m fading fast, all shallow breathing and spotty vision. “Sorry?” “Just trying to get a grip.” “You don’t have to get a grip. You can take me upstairs and—” My channel contracts around him and we both groan. “You sure you don’t want two fingers, Elsie?” I let my shoulders fall back against the window. It’s wet with my sweat, not cold anymore. “We should try.” He watches himself this time. He stares at his index finger disappearing inside me alongside the middle, his other hand drawing calming patterns on my waist. I clench and gasp and twist on him, but he doesn’t let up, keeps pushing in slowly, and after some resistance, I’m taking him, arching involuntarily to make room, letting out a final little noise of gratitude and disbelief. “Jesus,” Jack says. “Fuck.” I’m getting used to it. This sense of being crammed with something hot and beautiful. I move experimentally. Squeeze around him till we both make sounds that belong to animals. “Good?” I nod. The edges of my vision are blurry. “Good.” His kisses are gentle pecks, almost chaste. Afterthoughts, punctuations to this lurid, soaking thing we’re doing. “So maybe you like to be full,” he says, voice husky. I nod. Maybe I do. “I will give you anything I have—anything you want, if you let me go down on you right now.” I lie back, enjoy the fullness, and try to decide in the mush that is my brain. “I’ve never done it,” I whisper, and Jack must find the situation unacceptable, because he drops to his knees in front of me and inhales deeply against the crease of my abdomen. It takes exactly two swipes of his tongue to send me to outer space. One around my opening, where he’s stretching me too wide, and I think I’m going to die of embarrassment, of heat, of the liquid pressure that grows with each of his guttural groans. Then he moves up to my clit, and I know—I know— that nothing has ever felt like this in my life, that good things come sparingly, that I should try to make this last, but it’s over before it starts. My body seizes and snaps and bursts into a bubble of simple, pure, physical pleasure that feels too intense to weather alone. My fingers pull Jack’s hair too tight, dig in his scalp, and he keeps on eating at me, even when I’m coming down. His fingers stay deep inside, as if to give me something to contract around while I ride it out, and it’s perfect, this. It’s explosive, crashing, nuclear. Somewhere in the universe antimatter is being produced, and it’s all because of this. Because of us. “I think I’m dying,” I say the second I can breathe, completely serious. My heels are digging into his back, and wet noises rise up from where he’s still running his tongue over me. “I think I want to do this


however short this window in the pandemic might prove. It sounded like something the attorneys would object to, but I couldn’t think why. It was just a party, albeit one remarkably close to the scene of the crime. Three other kids had joined Fran’s boys—two boys and a girl—and their mother jumped gracefully in to swim a couple of laps. She was our age, irritatingly cellulite-free. Fran cleared her throat, looked meaningfully over my shoulder. I turned to see, across the pool, a man in blue swim trunks, his belly soft but his arms and legs muscled. I took in his face: This was Robbie Serenho. This was his lovely wife. These were his kids. He was blowing up a floatie. The wife emerged from the water, wrapped herself in a towel, grabbed a key card from him, and left. I spent a panicked moment wondering what to do—diving under the water and staying there seemed out of the question—before I remembered the choice had already been made for me. I wasn’t allowed to talk to him. At least not about the hearing, but that was excuse enough to stay planted. I raised a tentative palm from my leg as offering. He squinted, confused, at both of us. His hairline had receded dramatically. “I’ll go say hi,” Fran said, before I could even ask her to. She rounded the pool, pausing to tell Jacob not to splash water in Max’s eyes. Had I built Robbie up in the past few years into some towering, symbolic figure? Or had he lurked like that in my imagination since high school? Or was my blood pressure rocketing for other reasons: my guilt at upending his life, my fear that he hated me? There seemed to be no oxygen in the room, only gaseous chlorine. Fran was beside him now, her hands moving as she spoke. I couldn’t make out her words through the thick air. Robbie laughed at something, she laughed at something. One of Robbie’s boys clambered out of the water, dripping, stood whining. Robbie put a hand on the boy’s head, made him wait while he talked to Fran. I remembered that I could pretend to look at my phone, so I did that until Max, clinging to the gutter, lost his kickboard; I knelt and reached over the water and sent it sailing to him, then tossed him rings to dive for. Robbie’s voice grew loud, traveled across the pool. He’d turned in my direction. “I know I can’t talk to Bodie,” he half shouted, “but I hope you’ll tell her it’s good to see her.” Thank God. I laughed, shrugged, waved again. He said, to the middle of the room, “Please tell her I think she turned out pretty cool. No hard feelings. Tell her my wife’s a big fan!” He turned his attention to the younger boy, who looked about seven. As Fran walked back to me, he picked the boy up and swung him—a giggling sack of potatoes—into the water. Robbie backed up, ran to the pool edge himself,


!” I don’t budge. “Just give it,” I pant. “Give it, and I’ll—” “You fucking bitch!” She bites my wrist. Pain shoots up my arm. I jerk back, shocked. She’s drawn blood—Jesus fucking Christ, it’s all over her teeth, all over my arm. Candice thrashes once more. My knees slip off her chest. She breaks loose, coils up, and kicks out at my stomach. Her foot lands with such force—so much more force than I thought possible from that tiny body. It doesn’t hurt so much as it stuns, knocks the air out of my lungs. I reel backward, arms windmilling for balance, but the ground I thought was behind me is not there. Just empty air. Twenty-Four THE DOCTORS LET ME LEAVE THE HOSPITAL AFTER FOUR DAYS, AFTER my clavicle and ankle have been set and I’ve proven I can hop my way into and out of a car without assistance. It doesn’t seem like I’ll need surgery, but they want me back in two weeks to check that my concussion has resolved itself. The whole thing costs me thousands of dollars even after insurance, though I suppose I should be grateful I got off this easy. No police were standing over my bedside when I woke up. No investigators, no journalists. I slipped on the ice while jogging, I’m told. An anonymous Good Samaritan found me and called the EMTs using the emergency feature on my phone, but they’d disappeared by the time the ambulance arrived. Candice has played this perfectly. Any accusation I make will appear utterly groundless. From the outside, we are near strangers to each other. Our last email interaction was years ago. I don’t have her number in my phone. There is no room to suspect foul play, for what motive could there be? It’s been storming for days now; the rain will have washed away all fingerprints, all proof of her cameras. Even if I can somehow prove Candice was at the steps that night, this only turns into a battle of verbal testimony that will cost us both thousands in legal fees. What’s more, I’m sure I’ve left bruises on Candice, too—bruises she’s no doubt embellished and documented by now. There’s no guarantee I’d win. No. Whatever plays out now will happen in the realm of popular narrative. I look up Candice’s name during the Uber ride back to my apartment, just as I’ve been doing every few hours since I woke up. It’s only a matter of time, I figured. I’d like to see the news the moment it drops. This time, the headline I’m awaiting tops the search results. An interview has just dropped from the New York Times: “Former Editor Candice Lee on Athena Liu, Juniper Song Hayward, and the Confession of a Lifetime.” I’m honestly impressed. Putting aside the fact that Candice has managed to retcon her job title from assistant to editor, it’s hard to get a New York Times piece published in just four days, especially one about a literary feud that passed out of the news cycle


unpaid for three weeks, explaining to his landlady that he would get money at the end of the month; she did not say anything, but pursed her lips and looked grim. When the end of the month came and she asked if it would be convenient for him to pay something on account, it made him feel very sick to say that he could not; he told her he would write to his uncle and was sure to be able to settle his bill on the following Saturday. "Well, I 'ope you will, Mr. Carey, because I 'ave my rent to pay, and I can't afford to let accounts run on." She did not speak with anger, but with determination that was rather frightening. She paused for a moment and then said: "If you don't pay next Saturday, I shall 'ave to complain to the secretary of the 'ospital." "Oh yes, that'll be all right." She looked at him for a little and glanced round the bare room. When she spoke it was without any emphasis, as though it were quite a natural thing to say. "I've got a nice 'ot joint downstairs, and if you like to come down to the kitchen you're welcome to a bit of dinner." Philip felt himself redden to the soles of his feet, and a sob caught at his throat. "Thank you very much, Mrs. Higgins, but I'm not at all hungry." "Very good, sir." When she left the room Philip threw himself on his bed. He had to clench his fists in order to prevent himself from crying. CHAPTER C SATURDAY. It was the day on which he had promised to pay his landlady. He had been expecting something to turn up all through the week. He had found no work. He had never been driven to extremities before, and he was so dazed that he did not know what to do. He had at the back of his mind a feeling that the whole thing was a preposterous joke. He had no more than a few coppers left, he had sold all the clothes he could do without; he had some books and one or two odds and ends upon which he might have got a shilling or two, but the landlady was keeping an eye on his comings and goings: he was afraid she would stop him if he took anything more from his room. The only thing was to tell her that he could not pay his bill. He had not the courage. It was the middle of June. The night was fine and warm. He made up his mind to stay out. He walked slowly along the Chelsea Embankment, because the river was restful and quiet, till he was tired, and then sat on a bench and dozed. He did not know how long he slept; he awoke with a start, dreaming that he was being shaken by a policeman and told to move on; but when he opened his eyes he found himself alone. He walked on, he did


hunt was a test of character and merit, to ensure I earned my rewards. And the tests were never simple." Langdon eyed the device again, still looking skeptical. "But why not just pry it apart? Or smash it? The metal looks delicate, and marble is a soft rock." Sophie smiled. "Because Da Vinci is too smart for that. He designed the cryptex so that if you try to force it open in any way, the information self-destructs. Watch." Sophie reached into the box and carefully lifted out the cylinder. "Any information to be inserted is first written on a papyrus scroll." "Not vellum?" Sophie shook her head. "Papyrus. I know sheep's vellum was more durable and more common in those days, but it had to be papyrus. The thinner the better." "Okay." "Before the papyrus was inserted into the cryptex's compartment, it was rolled around a delicate glass vial." She tipped the cryptex, and the liquid inside gurgled. "A vial of liquid." "Liquid what?" Sophie smiled. "Vinegar." Langdon hesitated a moment and then began nodding. "Brilliant." Vinegar and papyrus, Sophie thought. If someone attempted to force open the cryptex, the glass vial would break, and the vinegar would quickly dissolve the papyrus. By the time anyone extracted the secret message, it would be a glob of meaningless pulp. "As you can see," Sophie told him, "the only way to access the information inside is to know the proper five-letter password. And with five dials, each with twenty-six letters, that's twenty-six to the fifth power." She quickly estimated the permutations. "Approximately twelve million possibilities." "If you say so," Langdon said, looking like he had approximately twelve million questions running through his head. "What information do you think is inside?" "Whatever it is, my grandfather obviously wanted very badly to keep it secret." She paused, closing the box lid and eyeing the five-petal Rose inlaid on it. Something was bothering her. "Did you say earlier that the Rose is a symbol for the Grail?" "Exactly. In Priory symbolism, the Rose and the Grail are synonymous." Sophie furrowed her brow. "That's strange, because my grandfather always told me the Rose meant secrecy. He used to hang a rose on his office door at home when he was having a confidential phone call and didn't want me to disturb him. He encouraged me to 135 do the same." Sweetie, her grandfather said, rather than lock each other out, we can each hang a rose-la fleur des secrets-on our door when we need privacy. This way we learn to respect and trust each other. Hanging a rose is an ancient Roman custom. "Sub rosa," Langdon said. "The Romans hung a rose over meetings to indicate the meeting was confidential. Attendees understood that whatever was said under the rose- or sub rosa-had to remain a secret." Langdon quickly explained that the Rose's overtone of secrecy was not the only reason the Priory used it as a symbol for the Grail. Rosa rugosa, one of the oldest species of rose, had five petals and pentagonal symmetry, just like the


affection, some warmth, but his features are barren, like the earth in winter. “You have made Timandra a murderess,” Leda says. Her eyes are red—she must have been crying. “She is only fourteen.” She is a Spartan. If I have made her a murderess, then what of Father, who ordered her to break Chrysanthe’s face? What of the priestess, who cut her back with a whip? As if reading her mind, Tyndareus shifts on his throne. “Timandra is strong enough to bear the burden. But those slaves were following orders, Clytemnestra. Those lives weren’t yours to take.” A scream in her head is clawing to get out. She spits each word as if it were poison. “You sit there, telling me about lives that were wrongly taken, after you helped a monster murder your grandchild.” “Agamemnon and Menelaus are our guests.” Tyndareus’s voice is flat. “They must be treated with respect.” “They showed no respect to us,” replies Leda. She raises her eyes and meets her daughter’s. Clytemnestra tries to understand whose side Leda has taken. “Agamemnon has shown disrespect to a foreign man, not to us,” Tyndareus says. “He is Greek, and this makes him an ally.” “He slaughtered your grandson!” Clytemnestra shouts. Tyndareus looks down at his hands. When he speaks, his voice shakes slightly. “I wanted to keep the baby alive.” This, for Clytemnestra, is even worse than his coldness. Does he expect her to forgive him now? Did he expect the Atreidai to keep their word? “You are a king,” she says sharply. “If you want something, you demand it.” “You are young still,” Tyndareus says, “and do not understand that sometimes you have to compromise. It is my fault; I have failed to teach you this. I have always given you too much freedom.” “I do not need you to give me my freedom,” Clytemnestra says. “I am free. But you are not. You are Agamemnon’s puppet now, because you are weak.” “Your husband was weak,” Tyndareus replies coolly. “Tantalus was a good man, a kind man. But you can’t see that, because in your world, only the brutes can live, and they do so by tearing down everything else.” “That is how life is. The weak have to die so that the rest may survive.” “You disgust me,” she says. Tyndareus stands and slaps her face before she can back away. She feels her father’s scar on the back of his hand scratch her cheek. She looks up into Tyndareus’s eyes and sneers. “What kind of father are you?” She turns to her mother, seated in her chair with her head lowered. “And you do not fight him. You forgive him. You are no better.” “There are laws to be respected,” Leda says quietly. “You don’t seek vengeance because you have become a coward,” Clytemnestra says. Her hands are trembling, and she clutches them tightly. “But know this. I will have my justice. I swear it here and now. I swear it by the Furies and every other goddess who has known vengeance. I will stalk


out in the park at five as usual,' she said as she left him. I heard no more. They drove away in different directions, and I went off to make my own arrangements." "Which are?" "Some cold beef and a glass of beer," he answered, ringing the bell. "I have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to be busier still this evening. By the way, Doctor, I shall want your cooperation." "I shall be delighted." "You don't mind breaking the law?" "Not in the least." "Nor running a chance of arrest?" "Not in a good cause." "Oh, the cause is excellent!" "Then I am your man." "I was sure that I might rely on you." "But what is it you wish?" "When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear to you. Now," he said as he turned hungrily on the simple fare that our landlady had provided, "I must discuss it while I eat, for I have not much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we must be on the scene of action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns from her drive at seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her." "And what then?" "You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to occur. There is only one point on which I must insist. You must not interfere, come what may. You understand?" "I am to be neutral?" "To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small unpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will end in my being conveyed into the house. Four or five minutes afterwards the sitting-room window will open. You are to station yourself close to that open window." "Yes." "You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you." "Yes." "And when I raise my hand--so--you will throw into the room what I give you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the cry of fire. You quite follow me?" "Entirely." "It is nothing very formidable," he said, taking a long cigar- shaped roll from his pocket. "It is an ordinary plumber's smoke- rocket, fitted with a cap at either end to make it self-lighting. Your task is confined to that. When you raise your cry of fire, it will be taken up by quite a number of people. You may then walk to the end of the street, and I will rejoin you in ten minutes. I hope that I have made myself clear?" "I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you, and at the signal to throw in this object, then to raise the cry of fire, and to wait you at the corner of the street." "Precisely." "Then you may entirely rely on me." "That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time that I prepare for the new role I have to play." He disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes in the character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist


Jesse wants me—I hear it in his panting breaths, feel it in the pressure of his erection against my thigh. His lips travel from my mouth, down my neck to my collarbone. Soon, his hands are fumbling with the button of my pants. “You make me so hot.” The ache in his voice, the need, renders me weak with desire. I grab at his belt, undoing it with trembling hands. This is a bad idea. Randy or Vincent or anyone could come out for a smoke at any moment. I’d be humiliated. I could be fired. But Jesse pushes me up against my car and I gasp as he enters me. I wrap my legs around him, bury my face in his neck as he moves inside me. Soon, he climaxes. “God, Lee.” His body collapses against me. “You do something to me.” I suppose it’s a compliment, but I’m not sure how to respond. “Thanks?” I mumble. “I’d better go.” He zips his pants and then smirks. “I told my sister I was running out to get milk.” “She’ll think you’ve gone searching for a cow.” He kisses my lips, a quick peck. “They’re leaving tomorrow morning. You can come over later, yeah?” “Sure,” I say. “I’ll cook for you.” But he doesn’t respond. He is already hurrying away. I button my pants with shaking hands. I feel strange, almost light-headed, unmoored. I didn’t come—it was too quick, too frenzied—but that’s not why I feel empty, dissatisfied. What I have loved about being with Jesse is the tenderness, the closeness, the normalcy. Fucking me up against my car in a parking lot, the scents of grease and garbage around us… it felt dirty. It felt demeaning. But this is my issue, not Jesse’s. He doesn’t know that I am broke, homeless, and running away from my past. He doesn’t know that I need tenderness, warmth, and care. “Hey.” I turn toward the voice. It’s Vincent, from the kitchen. Did he see what just happened? My face burns with humiliation. “Hey.” Farther down the alley, the Audi starts up. Vincent’s eyes follow the sound, but they give away nothing. Without a word, he turns and heads back inside. As the car drives off, I realize I forgot to get Jesse’s number. 19 THE SPA HAS GLEAMING WHITE walls lined with pine shelving, each one displaying an array of beautifully packaged products. The bright scent of citrus lingers in the air, melding with the ambient electronic music that plays softly in the background. It has a Scandinavian feel to it, clean and modern and luxurious. As I walk to the reception desk, I feel out of my element. I used to get waxed and buffed and polished. Not often, but I had personal grooming standards then. Such treatments are a luxury I could never even consider now. A young woman with dewy skin greets me with a smile. “I’m Lee Gulliver,” I say. “I have an appointment?” It comes out a question. Hazel had promised to book my treatments, but I haven’t had


enough?’ Esbar asked her in a strained voice. ‘Is our life enough for you now, Tuva?’ ‘It was always enough. I just wanted the truth.’ Esbar tightened her grasp. ‘I would not live another day without you by my side,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Be with me. Forgive me, and I will give you the same grace. Let us do what we were born to do.’ Tunuva leaned across to her, setting their brows together. There they sat, for a long time: breathing, staying. 82 East The sun rose cold and grim above Mount Ipyeda. Each day, more smoke was darkening the sky. ‘So you have all but declared war on the Kuposa,’ the Grand Empress said. ‘Well, granddaughter, I suppose that was one way to handle them. I expect the River Lord – the regent – will retaliate.’ She sat with Dumai and Unora in her quarters, just as they had all sat on the night Dumai learned who she was. Two years later, they were almost back to where they had begun. ‘He has what he wants. A meek child on the throne, and the regency. There is no reason for him to attack me,’ Dumai said. ‘The River Lord may be concerned with his own power, but even he must see now that the wyrms and the sickness are more important. I have seen the destruction they have already wreaked in the rest of the East. Even in the North.’ ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps he will now see you as the only real threat to his dominion. After all, a Noziken has never defied him so openly, nor established a rival court.’ The Grand Empress gazed towards the window. ‘Unora, what do you say to all this?’ ‘I am no child of the rainbow, Manai.’ ‘You bore one, and she will need you. Dumai has no knowledge of the provinces. You do,’ the Grand Empress said. ‘You know how to survive in times of scarcity. That will be useful.’ Dumai said, ‘I have your blessing, then?’ ‘My son wanted a shadow court. A rival court is . . . less subtle, perhaps, but this is no time for subtlety, and we are the rightful monarchs. We do not need to stoop to smiles and puppetry.’ The Grand Empress looked at Unora. ‘Prepare to leave. Help your daughter.’ Unora nodded and left, her face set in determination. Dumai knew her mother was angry with her for absconding to the North, but she also knew she was already forgiven. Her grandmother set a taper to the woodfall. ‘Osipa used to light this. I keep forgetting to do it myself,’ she said, with a thin smile. ‘She became my handmaiden when I was six, still the disregarded princess. Without her, I am having to learn new ways to live. I imagine you have these moments, too, when you trip on the spaces Kanifa filled.’ Dumai nodded. Being in the temple without him already hurt almost too much to bear. The Grand Empress returned to her stool. ‘Tell me your dreams, as you


and I never saw her again. I was left alone, as Picasso-faced person after Picasso-faced person came up to me and forced me to Sherlock Holmes one theory after another about who I was talking to. Looking back, I could have just left. I could have found Joe’s floppy hair and hipster glasses and steered him off to feed me that meal he’d promised. But he was lost in the faceless crowd, too—and all attempts to search for him got intercepted by faceless people hugging me, until I wound up making way-too-friendly chitchat with my ex-boyfriend for five solid minutes before realizing who he was. All to say, the situation snowballed. Before I even really saw it coming, I was having a panic attack out behind the utility room. At least I think it was a panic attack. Is it a panic attack when your entire body is utterly hijacked by … panic? And you get dizzy? And you sweat and have the chills at the same time? And your heart pounds and your chest hurts and your hands go cold? And you can’t catch your breath? And you feel like you’re dying? And you collapse to your knees in a dark corner and press your forehead to the concrete to try to make the world stop spinning? Is that a panic attack? ’Cause that was me. And I sure as hell wasn’t celebrating. I have no idea how long I’d been there, trying not to pass out, when I heard a voice say, “Are you having a panic attack?” So of course I said, “No.” “You look like you’re … not okay.” Not okay? That was just insulting. Okay was my whole thing. “I am always okay,” I said, to set the record straight. And then, when the person didn’t accept that and leave, I said, “I’m fine.” Then, my voice muffled against the concrete, I added, “I’m good.” “You don’t look good.” This wasn’t Parker, was it? She never missed a chance for an insult. But no—of course not. It was a man’s voice. One, as usual, I couldn’t recognize. “Identify yourself, please,” I said into the roof. A rustling beside me as whoever it was sat down. “It’s your pal, Joe,” the voice said, closer and softer now. “Hi, Joe.” For a second, knowing it was him made me feel palpably better. But then it occurred to me to wonder if he might be filming this moment for later blackmail, and I felt worse again. “I’m no psychiatrist,” Joe said then, “but I’ve seen a lot of panic attacks. And this kind of looks like that.” “I’m fine,” I insisted. I was always fine—whether I was fine or not. “Okay,” Joe said. “A friend of mine—who clearly had a totally different thing from you—used to find it helpful for me to pat her back in moments that were nothing at all like this.” “I’m not having a panic attack,” I said. “Great,” Joe said. “Neither am I.” “So I don’t need you to pat my back.” “Cool. You don’t


either on the starboard or the larboard quarter, objects of interest will be continually descried. In short,' said Mr. Micawber, with the old genteel air, 'the probability is, all will be found so exciting, alow and aloft, that when the lookout, stationed in the main-top, cries Land-oh! we shall be very considerably astonished!' With that he flourished off the contents of his little tin pot, as if he had made the voyage, and had passed a first-class examination before the highest naval authorities. ' What I chiefly hope, my dear Mr. Copperfield,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'is, that in some branches of our family we may live again in the old country. Do not frown, Micawber! I do not now refer to my own family, but to our children's children. However vigorous the sapling,' said Mrs. Micawber, shaking her head, 'I cannot forget the parent-tree; and when our race attains to eminence and fortune, I own I should wish that fortune to flow into the coffers of Britannia.' 'My dear,' said Mr. Micawber, 'Britannia must take her chance. I am bound to say that she has never done much for me, and that I have no particular wish upon the subject.' 'Micawber,' returned Mrs. Micawber, 'there, you are wrong. You are going out, Micawber, to this distant clime, to strengthen, not to weaken, the connexion between yourself and Albion.' 'The connexion in question, my love,' rejoined Mr. Micawber, 'has not laid me, I repeat, under that load of personal obligation, that I am at all sensitive as to the formation of another connexion.' 'Micawber,' returned Mrs. Micawber. 'There, I again say, you are wrong. You do not know your power, Micawber. It is that which will strengthen, even in this step you are about to take, the connexion between yourself and Albion.' Mr. Micawber sat in his elbow-chair, with his eyebrows raised; half receiving and half repudiating Mrs. Micawber's views as they were stated, but very sensible of their foresight. 'My dear Mr. Copperfield,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'I wish Mr. Micawber to feel his position. It appears to me highly important that Mr. Micawber should, from the hour of his embarkation, feel his position. Your old knowledge of me, my dear Mr. Copperfield, will have told you that I have not the sanguine disposition of Mr. Micawber. My disposition is, if I may say so, eminently practical. I know that this is a long voyage. I know that it will involve many privations and inconveniences. I cannot shut my eyes to those facts. But I also know what Mr. Micawber is. I know the latent power of Mr. Micawber. And therefore I consider it vitally important that Mr. Micawber should feel his position.' 'My love,' he observed, 'perhaps you will allow me to remark that it is barely possible that I DO feel my position at the present moment.' 'I think not, Micawber,' she rejoined. 'Not fully. My dear Mr. Copperfield, Mr. Micawber's is not a common case. Mr. Micawber is going to a distant country expressly in order that he may be


a slab of moist chocolate children’s birthday cake slathered with an inch of thick, tooth-disintegrating grocery store buttercream. But that’s a weird thing to show up with unless the guest of honor is a seven-year-old. My clothes will be ugly, allowing you to shine. I understand that as the host, you need to be the best-looking person in your apartment. So if you invite me to your party I will arrive early enough that you don’t panic about no one showing up, and I will be wearing some sort of shapeless black reaper-style garment that will easily fade into the background of every picture. “Who is that fat ghost?” your friends will ask as they swipe through the pictures you posted to prove to everyone that you know people and like to have a good time. Then they’ll immediately forget they saw me and swipe to you in your sequined celebration frock and sigh in contentment while witnessing your glory. And if you need someone to play tunes? I can do that. I know how to create a chill and sexy vibe, if that’s the kind of vibe you’re into, but I am also familiar with other vibes, and I pay for Spotify Premium. I don’t remember what payment method or email address it’s attached to, so I will never be free of it. All that to say you won’t have to worry about annoying commercials interrupting the flow. I can play fast songs for dancing or slow songs for smooching or oldies for old people, and I’m the kind of freak who’ll put twenty-seven hours’ worth of songs on a playlist, so if your party happens to go on for an entire day, you won’t have to listen to the same song twice. If it’s less of a “hey, let’s marvel at what good music taste I have” party, and more of a “passive-aggressive storytelling competition” party, I’d be great at that, too. I have so many good stories. I won’t say weird, off-putting, or challenging shit to casual acquaintances of yours, threatening to make your future relationships with them awkward as hell. I have a deep reservoir of jokes and funny anecdotes that’ll thaw even the chilliest of the coworkers you invited just to be nice. And I know how to land a fucking punch line! You also won’t have to worry about me posting all your business online. That’s right, you’re never gonna log on to be confronted by the ten worst pictures of you and/or your apartment you’ve ever seen in your whole fucking life, posted by me, not even with the decency to put a flattering filter on your mismatched furniture and trash. If my phone is out, it’s because I’m trying to find a meme to show someone, so I won’t be that person trying to explain a visual medium to a person who is already bored, not because I am taking shadowy pictures of all your stuff that I plan to post at three in the morning when I know you’re not going to see


soul! here is her carriage at the door." He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the most lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her violet eyes shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks, all thought of her natural reserve lost in her overpowering excitement and concern. "Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" she cried, glancing from one to the other of us, and finally, with a woman's quick intuition, fastening upon my companion, "I am so glad that you have come. I have driven down to tell you so. I know that James didn't do it. I know it, and I want you to start upon your work knowing it, too. Never let yourself doubt upon that point. We have known each other since we were little children, and I know his faults as no one else does; but he is too tenderhearted to hurt a fly. Such a charge is absurd to anyone who really knows him." "I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner," said Sherlock Holmes. "You may rely upon my doing all that I can." "But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion? Do you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think that he is innocent?" "I think that it is very probable." "There, now!" she cried, throwing back her head and looking defiantly at Lestrade. "You hear! He gives me hopes." Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am afraid that my colleague has been a little quick in forming his conclusions," he said. "But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James never did it. And about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the reason why he would not speak about it to the coroner was because I was concerned in it." "In what way?" asked Holmes. "It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had many disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that there should be a marriage between us. James and I have always loved each other as brother and sister; but of course he is young and has seen very little of life yet, and--and--well, he naturally did not wish to do anything like that yet. So there were quarrels, and this, I am sure, was one of them." "And your father?" asked Holmes. "Was he in favor of such a union?" "No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in favor of it." A quick blush passed over her fresh young face as Holmes shot one of his keen, questioning glances at her. "Thank you for this information," said he. "May I see your father if I call to-morrow?" "I am afraid the doctor won't allow it." "The doctor?" "Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong for years back, but this has broken him down completely. He has taken to his bed, and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck and that his


one she couldn’t see. Much easier, this time. Lore shot up from the too-soft bed, pressing her knuckles against her eyes until stars danced behind them. The mental barrier Gabriel had helped her make had finally failed, as if the strange nightmare even now fading from her memory had burned through her forest. She sensed Mortem in everything—the walls, the bedding, the furniture. It made her every limb feel leaden, made her head pound, the symptoms of suffocation even as she heaved lungfuls of air. The moment of death, crystallized and endless, all the pain with none of the peace. Lore stood on shaky legs, hissing against the throbbing in her head. Between her mad dash away from the Northwest Ward, being tied to a chair for all of one night, and nearly dancing through another, her body felt like the end of a fraying rope. With a lurch, she forced herself forward, through the bedroom door and into the shared sitting room. She nearly hit the wall, reeled back, gritted her teeth. Touching anything felt like a punch to her brain, and part of her wanted to claw off her perfectly tailored nightgown. She stayed her hand, but only just. Gabe would have to help her with this, and he wouldn’t be much assistance if his celibate heart gave out at the sight of her naked. The one-eyed monk was still half propped against the threshold that led to the hallway, like a human doorstop. She prodded his shoulder with her foot; her head hurt too much to crouch down, she’d probably be sick all over him if she tried. “Gabe. It’s back.” He went from sleep to wakefulness in an instant. Gabe sat up, his sheet slipping down to his waist, concern scrunching the skin around his eye patch—he slept in the thing, apparently, at least when he was guarding doors. His one blue eye flickered over her, took quick stock of the situation, thankfully knowing exactly what she spoke of without Lore having to explain. “Did you ground yourself before you fell asleep?” “Did I what?” “I’ll take that as a no.” “How the fuck would I have known to do that?” Pain made her sharp; Lore’s teeth were nearly bared. Gabe took it in stride. He shifted his position so he sat cross-legged on the floor, palms on his knees. A sweep of his hand indicated he wanted her to do the same. Lore did, slowly, hissing a string of curses. Her legs prickled with pins and needles; trying to move them felt like hauling sacks of unresponsive meat. “Grounding,” Gabe said when she was settled, “is visualizing your barrier, setting it in place. Making it as real as possible in your mind, so that you don’t have to be actively concentrating to keep it up.” “I haven’t concentrated on it all day, and it held up fine.” It’d only been a problem since her nightmare. Lore could still feel it tugging at the edges of her mind, at her heart, as if she hadn’t really woken up


too. I found myself halfway down one of the two chapel aisles. A living room was set up on the stage—flowery sofa, a lamp with no cord, a coffee table with a lace throw—and I remembered the posters around campus for the one-act festival happening here. The sun was setting through the stained glass on the west wall. Everything smelled like warm, ancient wood. I said, “Would he really trade a drug charge for a murder charge?” There was a long pause, and a couple of times I heard him take a breath to start, but nothing came out. Finally he said, “A lot of my research touches on amnesty and human rights. And I’m seeing this case, and I feel like such a hypocrite. I contributed to this.” “Plenty of people contributed.” “Probably he did, but what do I know? It’s not up to me to decide, and teenage me shouldn’t have had a say either. Maybe we shouldn’t have let, you know, a bunch of kids hand someone to the police. What I mean is, the stuff they had on him—it came from us. Except the DNA, I guess. But none of us thought, hey, I’m personally framing this guy. And—very much off the record—maybe we did. We might have set up a guilty guy, but we set him up.” By that point I felt physically unsettled in a way that had nothing to do with speaking to someone I’d once found attractive. He didn’t mean to include me in his “we,” but he had. I walked back to the vestibule and headed into the bathroom, although I didn’t need it—bathrooms simply being the place you go when you feel sick, when you need to be alone. The door was old and swung in on two familiar decrepit stalls, a familiar sink, the warped mirror above it, the crank paper towel dispenser. I couldn’t have told you a thing about this bathroom five seconds earlier, and now I recognized every inch. There was a radiator under the tiny frosted window, and I leaned back against it, grilling my butt through my jeans. I said, “This is random, but do you remember if students were drinking backstage that night, at Camelot? Would Thalia have been drinking?” He puffed out air. “I mean, in general, sure. That night? Who knows. Why?” I explained, as best I could, my concerns about the timeline. He gave a noncommittal “Huh.” He said, “I just—God, this could be such a mess. I don’t trust my memory of what I ate last night. What do you think happens to memory over twenty years? Anyway, your students ask me to chat and this is what goes through my mind. I just feel like—it’s such a can of worms.” I couldn’t figure out if he was arguing against looking into the case. Surely not. But he sounded pained. “It’s only a student project,” I said, feebly. “So was Facebook.” He agreed, in the end, to talk to Britt and Alder about his memories of Thalia, at least; he’d see


juice glasses—because of course Nick doesn’t have any vases, what was Andy thinking—Nick comes over to the table. “Thanks. I mean—thank you.” “It’s my pleasure.” The moment stretches too long, with Andy ineptly fiddling with daffodil stems and Nick watching him and something hanging in the air just out of sight, and if Andy keeps his eyes averted, maybe he won’t have to see it. * * * They’re well into the first bottle of wine when Linda knocks on the door. “I brought Sylvia and her brother, Charlie,” she says, indicating the model, who is now dressed, even if it’s only in what appears to be a silk robe over a pair of jeans, and a young man who wears a black turtleneck sweater and round horn-rimmed glasses. They both have light brown skin with dark brown freckles; they’re also both intensely gorgeous in a way that makes Andy hope he isn’t staring. “Catch up,” says Nick, handing the bottle of wine to Linda. Andy fetches two more juice glasses and an empty jam jar from the kitchen, because of course Nick doesn’t have wineglasses, either. “What happened to your face?” Linda asks Nick. “Kids,” Nick answers, kicking off a conversation about which of them’s been mugged and in what neighborhoods and how much money they lost. Andy hangs back at first, overwhelmed with a sort of social paralysis that hasn’t afflicted him since he was in school. He isn’t a born charmer, but he makes do. He knows how to make people like him. He might not have his father’s charisma or his mother’s force of personality, but he’s good at turning the tables and making people talk about themselves, which is all they usually want. But everyone else is charming and talkative and there isn’t much for Andy to do but listen and be amused. The conversation darts from Linda’s account of an art show she went to, to Sylvia’s stories about modeling, and Charlie’s relentless flirtation with Nick. Which is fine! And definitely doesn’t make Andy feel strange at all. “And then, just when I thought the plaster of paris was dry—” “It turns out nobody’s paid rent on that gallery on Tenth Street for months—” “She said she was doing a series of landscapes, but there I am, naked as a baby—” “Were you at Ed Wortman’s party—he’s the poet with all the screaming, you know—because I’m sure I recognize you from somewhere, darling—” Andy pours himself another glass of wine, and when the bottle is empty, he gets the corkscrew and opens another. Not wanting to return to the living room just yet, he lights the candles and turns out the flickering overhead light. The timer dings, so he pulls the lasagna—which weighs about as much as a small child—out of the oven, then puts together a plate for Mrs. Martelli. He’s about to take it down to her when he realizes that Nick is standing in the doorway. “I’m going to bring this downstairs,” Andy says when Nick makes no move to step aside. “I’ll


move into the Silts fifteen years ago when the bank foreclosed on their house. The same phrase was underlined in her public registry file, too: No known other-born affiliation. “It makes no sense.” The records had to be wrong. Io’s mind denied any other explanation on a fundamental level. Only moira-born could hold the threads of fate; it was a fact of life, as undeniable as the sun rising every morning and setting every evening. They were silent for a few minutes as they skimmed through other papers in the file: coroner reports, witness transcripts, background checks on family members and neighbors of both the victims and the murderers. “Wait,” Edei said. “We’ve seen this name before.” He took the file from her, thumbed through the papers, and pulled out two: a police testimony by Drina Savva’s husband, claiming his wife had been assaulted with the intention of kidnapping, and the records of the orphanage where Emmeline Segal and her brothers were raised, stating the girl had been kidnapped when she was eight. Suspected but not convicted were two men: one Horace Lark and one Holland Lowe. “I’ve heard of him. They’re the same man—aliases of a crook called Horatio Long,” Edei explained. “He has as many names as schemes.” “The attempted kidnappings are both dated the same day, twelve years ago.” Edei’s mouth was scrunched up to the side. “He’s known for setting up brutal fighting dens. Bianca banned him from her turf a few years ago, after he was accused of mistreating his fighters.” “Mistreating them how?” “I’ve heard some strange stories. Supposedly, he uses nefarious methods to increase their stamina and aggression. Our neighbor used to wrestle way back when—he says Horatio’s fighters were bloodthirsty, frenzied, like rabid dogs.” “Like the woman last night?” Io said. “So what, he tried to recruit Emmeline and Drina twelve years ago, failed, and now he’s returned to finish the job? But then why would they be out in the city, murdering people and talking of justice, instead of fighting in his matches?” “It’s worth checking out.” “I suppose it’s the only connection we have so far.” “You’re in here, too.” He had been skimming through the file and now handed her a witness report with her name typed in bold. “That makes sense, the officers called to the scene escorted me home last night.” She read through her own deposition, then through reports on investigations she had carried out for some of her more recent clients, a detailed account of her taxes, known addresses, and acquaintances. They’d been thorough. Attached to hers was a brief report on Ava, focusing mainly on her job at the Fortuna. And then: a file with a familiar name. Thais Ora. Io’s heart started beating fast. She pulled the spotless white folder out slowly, almost unwillingly. A black-and-white photo was clipped on the first page. Her sister gazed back at the photographer with pure hatred, her dark brows cast close over her eyes, her lips pursed in a severe line. Io remembered the day the photo was


choosy. “You can read all about it in The Truth of Alante tomorrow.” Gods, this guy was asking for a good punch to the face. Six years of school, one more of running into him during jobs, and it was a miracle she hadn’t obliged him yet. Quite frankly, it was owed to Rosa, who thought he wasn’t even worth the effort to raise her fists. “Another think piece on the dangers of unsupervised cutters?” she asked. “Have you ever considered how much trouble you’re raising for folks who’ve never done anything wrong besides being born with a power you can’t even begin to comprehend?” “I don’t raise trouble; I merely report on it.” He folded his notebook into his coat and gave her a putrid smirk. “But no, I won’t be writing about other-born at all. Much more important business here.” Involuntarily, Io scowled. The jab was directed at her, with the singular self-assurance of a man who knew more than you. What had Io missed and Xenophon caught? Oh. Oh. “You don’t think the women were other-born?” she guessed. Xenophon looked very satisfied with himself. “You assumed they were. Who’s prejudiced now, huh, Ora?” “She had to be. She held the thread in her hand—I saw it with my own eyes.” “What if I told you that the police have found the women’s names and are refusing to release them to the press?” “There are hundreds of other-born in Alante; we’ll find her tomorrow when the registry opens.” “Good luck with that,” Xenophon said in singsong; Io had to physically keep her fingers from balling up. “The day after the chernobog-born’s death, all other-born records were pulled from the public registry. Coincidence?” “But that’s illegal.” At the end of the month-long Kinship Treaty negotiations sixty years ago, the other-born delegation, led by the Agora of the horae-born, had conceded to a compromise: they would receive citizenship rights in all city-nations in exchange for several precautions, such as lower wages, special restrictions to rent and own property, as well as their private information made public. Their names, affiliations, and powers would be listed in public records for everyone to see. People had a right to protect themselves, authorities said. Bullshit, Thais always argued. It’s us that have had to protect ourselves from them. But other-born were tired of being emigrants, seeking shelter from city to city, and so they accepted. “No shit, detective,” said Xenophon. “But as of a week ago, Alante is the first city under the Kinship Treaty that made other-born records private. Guess who confiscated them.” Io waited, eyes hard, jaw set. This had a bad smell all about it. “Come on, Ora, don’t ruin it,” Xenophon whined. “Guess.” She truly hated the boy. And he was a boy, large as a boar, but more juvenile than a toddler. She would not indulge a child— “The Initiative,” Edei said, straightening from the dresser he had been going through. “Ding, ding, ding.” Xenophon mimicked ringing an invisible bell. “Edei Rhuna, is it? Witnesses say you were here yesterday. Got


into his mouth at the sudden sensation of so much of him on so much of me. The bands of muscle across his stomach tighten. My lips part hungrily under his. His hands untie my bathing suit top, peel it away, and my heart pounds into his urgent touch. He whispers my name at the hinge of my jaw, the water spraying over his shoulders, wrapping us in its heat. He groans, palming me in slow, intense circles as my breath quickens. His mouth glides down my throat. “Are you sure about this?” he murmurs. I hold him tighter. He draws back to ask again, but I pull him close, my tongue slipping into his mouth, finding the bitter, bready taste of Corona and sharp tang of lime. I reach between us and thrill at the feeling of him in my hand. His head bows into my shoulder, one of his hands coming to grip the top of the wall behind me. “I didn’t bring condoms here,” he says, but neither of us has stopped moving, looking for more friction, for release. The muscles all down his back and stomach and arms and ass are rigid with tension as our hips roll together. His hands slide roughly behind my hips, canting them up to him. “We shouldn’t do this while you’re upset anyway,” he says. I move my hand down him. “I’ll be less upset once you’re inside me.” He wraps a hand over mine, holding me still for a second, our hearts slamming together, hot water racing down us. “We don’t have a condom,” he says again. Some kind of pathetic sound of dissent squeaks out of me, and he seems to forget what he was saying, pushes me back into the wall, our hips grinding together, nails skating over wet skin. He lifts me a half inch so he’s right against me now. It’s not enough. He grabs the top of the wall again for support as we move together. “Harriet,” he rasps against my ear. “You’re so fucking soft.” “Thanks,” I say, breathless, “I don’t work out.” “Don’t joke right now,” he says. “We can joke later. Right now, tell me what you want.” “I already told you,” I say. “We can’t,” he says. “I’ll find a way to get some while we’re out for dinner.” I laugh into his throat, catch a rivulet on my tongue. “Are you going to hang out in alleyways and wave twenties at strangers who look like they’re packing condoms?” “I was thinking I’d go to a drugstore,” he says, “but I like your way better.” He draws back, his hands slowing my descent until my feet meet the wet cedar planks. Everything in me rises in protest until he turns me, lifts my hands to the edge of the wall, and lets his own slide down the backs of my arms, down my sides. One slips around my hip and between my thighs as he presses in behind me. For a second, I can’t breathe. Even my organs are too busy wanting