aloud. "If we wait for my brother to grace us with his royal presence, it could be a long sit." "Our good King Robert has many cares," Varys said. "He entrusts some small matters to us, to lighten his load." "What Lord Varys means is that all this business of coin and crops and justice bores my royal brother to tears," Lord Renly said, "so it falls to us to govern the realm. He does send us a command from time to time." He drew a tightly rolled paper from his sleeve and laid it on the table. "This morning he commanded me to ride ahead with all haste and ask Grand Maester Pycelle to convene this council at once. He has an urgent task for us." Littlefinger smiled and handed the paper to Ned. It bore the royal seal. Ned broke the wax with his thumb and flattened the letter to consider the king's urgent command, reading the words with mounting disbelief. Was there no end to Robert's folly? And to do this in his name, that was salt in the wound. "Gods be good," he swore. "What Lord Eddard means to say," Lord Renly announced, "is that His Grace instructs us to stage a great tournament in honor of his appointment as the Hand of the King." "How much?" asked Littlefinger, mildly. Ned read the answer off the letter. "Forty thousand golden dragons to the champion. Twenty thousand to the man who comes second, another twenty to the winner of the melee, and ten thousand to the victor of the archery competition." "Ninety thousand gold pieces," Littlefinger sighed. "And we must not neglect the other costs. Robert will want a prodigious feast. That means cooks, carpenters, serving girls, singers, jugglers, fools "Fools we have in plenty," Lord Renly said. Grand Maester Pycelle looked to Littlefinger and asked, "Will the treasury bear the expense?" "What treasury is that?" Littlefinger replied with a twist of his mouth. "Spare me the foolishness, Maester. You know as well as I that the treasury has been empty for years. I shall have to borrow the money. No doubt the Lannisters will be accommodating. We owe Lord Tywin some three million dragons at present, what matter another hundred thousand?" Ned was stunned. "Are you claiming that the Crown is three million gold pieces in debt?" A GAME OF THRONES 173 "The Crown is more than six million gold pieces in debt, Lord Stark. The Lannisters are the biggest part of it, but we have also borrowed from Lord Tyrell, the Iron Bank of Braavos, and several Tyroshi trading cartels. Of late I've had to turn to the Faith. The High Septon haggles worse than a Dornish fishmonger." Ned was aghast. "Aerys Targaryen left a treasury flowing with gold. How could you let this happen?" Littlefinger gave a shrug. "The master of coin finds the money. The king and the Hand spend it." "I will not believe that Jon Arryn allowed Robert to beggar the realm," Ned said hotly. Grand Maester Pycelle shook his great bald head,


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

boys with gentle words and telling them the mistakes they had made. His voice was very gentle and soft. Then he returned to his seat and said to Fleming and Stephen: --You may return to your places, you two. Fleming and Stephen rose and, walking to their seats, sat down. Stephen, scarlet with shame, opened a book quickly with one weak hand and bent down upon it, his face close to the page. It was unfair and cruel because the doctor had told him not to read without glasses and he had written home to his father that morning to send him a new pair. And Father Arnall had said that he need not study till the new glasses came. Then to be called a schemer before the class and to be pandied when he always got the card for first or second and was the leader of the Yorkists! How could the prefect of studies know that it was a trick? He felt the touch of the prefect's fingers as they had steadied his hand and at first he had thought he was going to shake hands with him because the fingers were soft and firm: but then in an instant he had heard the swish of the soutane sleeve and the crash. It was cruel and unfair to make him kneel in the middle of the class then: and Father Arnall had told them both that they might return to their places without making any difference between them. He listened to Father Arnall's low and gentle voice as he corrected the themes. Perhaps he was sorry now and wanted to be decent. But it was unfair and cruel. The prefect of studies was a priest but that was cruel and unfair. And his white-grey face and the no-coloured eyes behind the steel-rimmed spectacles were cruel looking because he had steadied the hand first with his firm soft fingers and that was to hit it better and louder. --It's a stinking mean thing, that's what it is, said Fleming in the corridor as the classes were passing out in file to the refectory, to pandy a fellow for what is not his fault. --You really broke your glasses by accident, didn't you? Nasty Roche asked. Stephen felt his heart filled by Fleming's words and did not answer. --Of course he did! said Fleming. I wouldn't stand it. I'd go up and tell the rector on him. --Yes, said Cecil Thunder eagerly, and I saw him lift the pandy-bat over his shoulder and he's not allowed to do that. --Did they hurt you much? Nasty Roche asked. --Very much, Stephen said. --I wouldn't stand it, Fleming repeated, from Baldyhead or any other Baldyhead. It's a stinking mean low trick, that's what it is. I'd go straight up to the rector and tell him about it after dinner. --Yes, do. Yes, do, said Cecil Thunder. --Yes, do. Yes, go up and tell the rector on him, Dedalus, said Nasty Roche, because he said that he'd come in tomorrow again and pandy you. --Yes,


empty? he wondered. Who takes it out of you? And that awful flower the other day, the dandelion! It had summed up everything, hadn't it? "What a shame! You're not in love with anyone !" And why not? Well, wasn't there a wall between him and Mildred, when you came down to it? Literally not just one, wall but, so far, three! And expensive, too! And the uncles, the aunts, the cousins, the nieces, the nephews, that lived in those walls, the gibbering pack of tree-apes that said nothing, nothing, nothing and said it loud, loud, loud. He had taken to calling them relatives from the very first. "How's Uncle Louis today?" "Who?" "And Aunt Maude?" The most significant memory he had of Mildred, really, was of a little girl in a forest without trees (how odd!) or rather a little girl lost on a plateau where there used to be trees (you could feel the memory of their shapes all about) sitting in the centre of the "living-room." The living-room; what a good job of labelling that was now. No matter when he came in, the walls were always talking to Mildred. "Something must be done!I" "Yes, something must be done!" "Well, let's not stand and talk!" "Let's do it! " "I'm so mad I could SPIT!" What was it all about? Mildred couldn't say. Who was mad at whom? Mildred didn't quite know. What were they going to do? Well, said Mildred, wait around and see. He had waited around to see. A great thunderstorm of sound gushed from the walls. Music bombarded him at such an immense volume that his bones were almost shaken from their tendons; he felt his jaw vibrate, his eyes wobble in his head. He was a victim of concussion. When it was all over he felt like a man who had been thrown from a cliff, whirled in a centrifuge and spat out over a waterfall that fell and fell into emptiness and emptiness and never-quite-touched-bottom-never-never-quite-no not quite-touched-bottom ... and you fell so fast you didn't touch the sides either ... never ... quite . . . touched . anything. The thunder faded. The music died. "There," said Mildred, And it was indeed remarkable. Something had happened. Even though the people in the walls of the room had barely moved, and nothing had really been settled, you had the impression that someone had turned on a washing-machine or sucked you up in a gigantic vacuum. You drowned in music and pure cacophony. He came out of the room sweating and on the point of collapse. Behind him, Mildred sat in her chair and the voices went on again: "Well, everything will be all right now," said an "aunt." "Oh, don't be too sure," said a "cousin." "Now, don't get angry!" "Who's angry?" "YOU are ! " "You're mad!" "Why should I be mad!" "Because!" "That's all very well," cried Montag, "but what are they mad about? Who are these people? Who's that man and who's that woman? Are they husband and wife, are they


me too. I go back and forth every thirty seconds thinking I’m hurting you just by being here, and then thinking you couldn’t possibly still love me after all this time, and even if it’s not real, a part of me wants to pretend I have you, but another part thinks I’ll die if you don’t tell me you love me, even if it doesn’t change anything. Even if it’s just getting to hear it one more time. “Everything’s different and nothing’s changed, Harriet,” he says. “I tried so fucking hard to let you go, to let you be happy, and when I see you, I still feel like—like you’re mine. Like I’m yours. I got rid of every single piece of you, like that would make a difference, like I could cut you out of me, and instead, I just see everywhere you’re supposed to be.” I stare at him, heart cracking open under the weight of what I’m feeling. “Please say something,” he whispers. My eyes fill. My throat fills. I drop my face into my hands again. “I thought you didn’t want me,” I choke out, “so I tried. I tried to love somebody else. I tried to even like somebody else. I kissed someone else. I slept with someone else, but I couldn’t stop feeling like I was yours.” My eyes tighten against another wave of tears. “Like you’re mine.” “Harriet.” He tilts my face up. “Look at me.” He waits. “Please, Harriet.” It takes a few seconds to force my eyes open. Water droplets still cling to his brows. Rivulets race down his jaw and throat. His thumb grazes my cheekbone. “I am,” he says. “I am still yours.” The nail that has been driving closer and closer to my heart all week sinks home. The pads of his fingers slide across my bottom lip. His eyes are so soft, every ginger touch pushing back another layer from my heart. But does it even matter that we belong to each other when we can’t be with each other? Our lives are immovably separate. Everything may look different than it did ten minutes ago, but nothing’s changed. He’s mine, but I can’t have him. My hands tangle in his wet hair, as if that can keep him here with me. His do the same to mine. “What is this?” he whispers. I want it to be an I’m sorry and an I forgive you and a Promise you won’t ever let me go and a million other words I can’t say. Wyn’s finally happy. He has the life that was meant for him. He has a career he’s proud of, one predicated on his being in Montana, and even if he didn’t, there’s Gloria, who needs him. The time with her that he needs, time he missed with Hank. And I’m in California for at least a few more years, too deep in to back out but not so far into the tunnel as to see the light at its end. Maybe, in another life, things could be


they had a fire to warm them when chill and delicious viands when hungry; they were dressed in excellent clothes; and, still more, they enjoyed one another's company and speech, interchanging each day looks of affection and kindness. What did their tears imply? Did they really express pain? I was at first unable to solve these questions, but perpetual attention and time explained to me many appearances which were at first enigmatic. "A considerable period elapsed before I discovered one of the causes of the uneasiness of this amiable family: it was poverty, and they suffered that evil in a very distressing degree. Their nourishment consisted entirely of the vegetables of their garden and the milk of one cow, which gave very little during the winter, when its masters could scarcely procure food to support it. They often, I believe, suffered the pangs of hunger very poignantly, especially the two younger cottagers, for several times they placed food before the old man when they reserved none for themselves. "This trait of kindness moved me sensibly. I had been accustomed, during the night, to steal a part of their store for my own consumption, but when I found that in doing this I inflicted pain on the cottagers, I abstained and satisfied myself with berries, nuts, and roots which I gathered from a neighbouring wood. "I discovered also another means through which I was enabled to assist their labours. I found that the youth spent a great part of each day in collecting wood for the family fire, and during the night I often took his tools, the use of which I quickly discovered, and brought home firing sufficient for the consumption of several days. "I remember, the first time that I did this, the young woman, when she opened the door in the morning, appeared greatly astonished on seeing a great pile of wood on the outside. She uttered some words in a loud voice, and the youth joined her, who also expressed surprise. I observed, with pleasure, that he did not go to the forest that day, but spent it in repairing the cottage and cultivating the garden. "By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment. I found that these people possessed a method of communicating their experience and feelings to one another by articulate sounds. I perceived that the words they spoke sometimes produced pleasure or pain, smiles or sadness,in the minds and countenances of the hearers. This was indeed a godlike science, and I ardently desired to become acquainted with it. But I was baffled in every attempt I made for this purpose. Their pronunciation was quick, and the words they uttered, not having any apparent connection with visible objects, I was unable to discover any clue by which I could unravel the mystery of their reference. By great application, however, and after having remained during the space of several revolutions of the moon in my hovel, I discovered the names that were given to some of the most familiar objects of discourse; I learned and applied


a fit of school spirit (where I didn’t last long but took Geoff Richler’s friendship as a souvenir). They saw me try to befriend people like them, before I found my way to Fran. From the perspective of girls like Rachel and Beth, having lost track of me around November of freshman year, my transformation over the next summer must have seemed abrupt. I cut my hair chin-length, chopped my bangs Bettie Page–style. I left my hand-me-downs in Indiana and, when I got back to campus a week early to stay with the Hoffnungs, went thrifting with Fran in Hanover, spending my Baskin-Robbins wages on dark, oversized clothes, fishnets I carefully ripped, a fake army jacket. We went through her sisters’ closets for things they hadn’t been back to claim. I cultivated a look I’d now call goth grunge, designed to hide my weight: all black, a flannel shirt either tied around my waist or flung on open like a coat. At Clover Music in Kern, I bought chokers made of hemp and Fimo, black-light nail polish. Fran gave me her old Doc Martens, duct-taped at the toes and a size too big. I plucked my eyebrows into sharp little checkmarks. Everyone was doing this, but mine were extreme. I learned to apply thick black eyeliner. I’d spent the summer shedding what I’d seen as pathetic artifice, ready to return as my true self. Sophomore year was when Carlotta French showed up, a refugee from an all-girls’ school in Virginia, and all but announced that Fran and I were her new best friends, positions we happily accepted because Carlotta was cooler than either of us. Carlotta wore ankle bracelets and no bra. When she played guitar on a blanket under trees, boys who theoretically were interested only in preppy girls out of shampoo commercials would move their Frisbee games closer, end up lying on their stomachs to talk to her. She found them ridiculous. She sang “Rhiannon” for Follies, an ethereal version that made me want to be her. Her hair was wild, the color of sand. She was reed-thin, but I didn’t hate her for it. She seemed to have sprung from the earth that way, rather than crafting herself from the pages of a magazine. That winter, Fran pulled out the previous year’s Dragon Tales and showed Carlotta, in the freshman section, how I used to dress, and Carlotta let out her most frog-like laugh. “Were you kidnapped into a cult? It’s like—if JCPenney was a cult!” And I was able to laugh with her, grateful she saw the girl in the picture as the fake me, the one who’d gotten something terribly wrong. But most people that fall greeted my transformation with concern. Karen King saw me on move-in day and said, “Oh God, does this mean you’re quitting crew?” Poor Ms. Shields tried to suss out if I was okay. Before practice one morning, as we waited outside the gym for the Dragon Wagon, she started asking about my summer but within two minutes was listing resources: people


as if the veins ran close together. She wore no jewelry, no ornaments of any kind. She looked like meat that had been well wrapped in muslin, to keep her fresh and away from flies. The water poured out scalding hot, steam rising in a vicious cloud. Hephzibah thought, with sudden conviction, I don’t want to stay in this room a moment longer than I need to. “Miss de Vries,” she said, summoning her courage. “I come to you today as an emissary of the royal household. I received your letter of invitation. The private secretary passed it to me. I’m sorry it’s taken us such a terribly long time to respond.” “Not a terribly long time at all,” said Miss de Vries, passing a cup and saucer. “We’ve been quite run off our feet. We’ve any number of engagements. You know how it is.” The boy took the tea tray and began backing out of the room. “I do,” Miss de Vries said. Her eyes were lizard like, unreadable. Then she added, with a tiny twist in her voice, “Was it considered—an impertinence?” “An impertinence?” “My invitation, my letter to the palace. Did it cause offence?” Something was moving in Miss de Vries’s eyes. Something uneasy. She was doubting herself. “Good heavens,” said Hephzibah. “All approaches to the palace must be considered an offence. To request the attention of Their Royal Highnesses is an impertinence by its very nature. It cannot be helped. Now, tell me, I hear this is a costumed ball, correct?” “Indeed.” “But that is too enchanting. As what shall you go? A Van Dyck? A masked temptress?” Miss de Vries’s smile grew colder. “I shall have to keep it a secret, Your Grace.” “But you must confide in me. I’m dying to know. Will you be a sorceress? A sea serpent? A succubus?” Miss de Vries stared at her. “Oh, don’t let me torture you. I’m being such a gorgon. But tell me you’ll make the papers. Did you go to the Devonshires’ ball?” “I did not.” “No? A pity. It’s helpful to measure the competition, I find. People bore so easily. Have you hired Whitman for the entertainments?” Mrs. King had told her exactly how to put the question. Gently, gently, almost like it was nothing at all... Miss de Vries frowned. “I’ve not heard of Whitman.” Whitman was one of Hephzibah’s greatest gifts to Mrs. King: a costumier and impresario who came from the Rookery in Spitalfields, and who kept a splendid side business in pickpocketing. Between Whitman, Hephzibah and the Janes, there wasn’t a music-hall troupe or traveling fair they couldn’t hire for this job. “Of course you haven’t. He doesn’t advertise.” Hephzibah fiddled in her reticule, drew out a card. “I doubt you’d get him now. Not worth asking. Perhaps next year.” She tossed the card on the table, then sipped her tea. “He does the most stupendous entertainments. And by the by, in case you’re wondering, I did mention your ball to the Princess Victoria.” “You did?” “But of course! She was


for the rest of your life? Don’t you want more?” “I happen to like my job. And what more should I expect? I’m not pretty like you, it’s not like anyone’s knocking on my door to get married.” Marion drew back, surprised. “You want to get married?” “Of course. I want a family, kids. But it’s probably not in the cards.” “Our lives aren’t set in stone. You can do anything you want.” “No. You can do anything you want. For the rest of us, the choices are rather limited.” “That’s not true.” Yet Marion knew she was treated differently from her sister because of her looks. By friends, by strangers. And it wasn’t fair. Judy glided to the middle of the rink and came to a stop, facing Marion. The other skaters flew around them in a blur of brightly colored coats and hats. “Do you remember my friend Stan? We were in the math club together.” “Sure, I remember him.” He was the boy who’d left suddenly one day, and Judy wouldn’t tell Marion what was wrong. “I was worried he’d hurt you in some way, attacked you.” “Oh, no, there was no threat of that.” “Then what?” “He’d made a big deal of wanting to come over and do our algebra homework together, but he was top of the class in algebra, it didn’t make any sense. Then I remembered prom was coming up soon, and I started wondering if maybe he was going to ask me to it, and this way he could do so in private. As we were studying at the dining room table, I had this whole movie playing in my head: going to you for advice, shopping for a dress together, Stan and I walking arm in arm into the school gym, everyone saying what a nice couple we made. Maybe a kiss at the end of the night.” She paused. “At one point, he excused himself to go to the bathroom. When he didn’t come back after a while, I went upstairs and found him staring into your room through your cracked door. Watching you as you changed clothes.” Marion involuntarily crossed her arms over her chest, as if the boy were there now. “That’s awful.” “He ran out of the house when I caught him, and then I resigned from the math club for good. I don’t know why I even bothered.” “It’s not your fault, what happened.” Marion wished she could throttle Stan. At the same time, she was amazed and gratified that Judy would have asked for her advice on a prom gown. “He’s the one who should have resigned, not you.” “For a long time, I thought it was your fault.” “He was a creep. There are plenty of them out there.” She was thinking of Dale. “But they’re not all like that. Dad’s not like that.” Judy looked up at the city skyline to the south, which rose high above the tree branches. “There’s something going on with him.” “With Dad? What do you mean?” “I know what


Tom's dreams that night. Four times he had his hands on that rich treasure and four times it wasted to nothingness in his fingers as sleep forsook him and wakefulness brought back the hard reality of his misfortune. As he lay in the early morning recalling the incidents of his great adventure, he noticed that they seemed curiously subdued and far away -- somewhat as if they had happened in another world, or in a time long gone by. Then it occurred to him that the great adventure itself must be a dream! There was one very strong argument in favor of this idea -- namely, that the quantity of coin he had seen was too vast to be real. He had never seen as much as fifty dollars in one mass before, and he was like all boys of his age and station in life, in that he imagined that all references to "hundreds" and "thousands" were mere fanciful forms of speech, and that no such sums really existed in the world. He never had supposed for a moment that so large a sum as a hundred dollars was to be found in actual money in any one's possession. If his notions of hidden treasure had been --------------------------------------------------------- -250- analyzed, they would have been found to consist of a handful of real dimes and a bushel of vague, splendid, ungraspable dollars. But the incidents of his adventure grew sensibly sharper and clearer under the attrition of thinking them over, and so he presently found himself leaning to the impression that the thing might not have been a dream, after all. This uncertainty must be swept away. He would snatch a hurried breakfast and go and find Huck. Huck was sitting on the gunwale of a flatboat, listlessly dangling his feet in the water and looking very melancholy. Tom concluded to let Huck lead up to the subject. If he did not do it, then the adventure would be proved to have been only a dream. "Hello, Huck!" "Hello, yourself." Silence, for a minute. "Tom, if we'd 'a' left the blame tools at the dead tree, we'd 'a' got the money. Oh, ain't it awful!" "'Tain't a dream, then, 'tain't a dream! Somehow I most wish it was. Dog'd if I don't, Huck." "What ain't a dream?" "Oh, that thing yesterday. I been half thinking it was." "Dream! If them stairs hadn't broke down you'd 'a' seen how much dream it was! I've had dreams enough all night -- with that patch-eyed Spanish devil going for me all through 'em -- rot him!" --------------------------------------------------------- -251- "No, not rot him. Find him! Track the money!" "Tom, we'll never find him. A feller don't have only one chance for such a pile -- and that one's lost. I'd feel mighty shaky if I was to see him, anyway." "Well, so'd I; but I'd like to see him, anyway -- and track him out -- to his Number Two." "Number Two -- yes, that's it. I been thinking 'bout that. But I can't make nothing


"You, miss." "By writing to him that his house is poisoned and his little nephew and niece mad?" "But if they ARE, miss?" "And if I am myself, you mean? That's charming news to be sent him by a governess whose prime undertaking was to give him no worry." Mrs. Grose considered, following the children again. "Yes, he do hate worry. That was the great reason--" "Why those fiends took him in so long? No doubt, though his indifference must have been awful. As I'm not a fiend, at any rate, I shouldn't take him in." My companion, after an instant and for all answer, sat down again and grasped my arm. "Make him at any rate come to you." I stared. "To ME?" I had a sudden fear of what she might do. "'Him'?" "He ought to BE here--he ought to help." I quickly rose, and I think I must have shown her a queerer face than ever yet. "You see me asking him for a visit?" No, with her eyes on my face she evidently couldn't. Instead of it even-- as a woman reads another--she could see what I myself saw: his derision, his amusement, his contempt for the breakdown of my resignation at being left alone and for the fine machinery I had set in motion to attract his attention to my slighted charms. She didn't know--no one knew--how proud I had been to serve him and to stick to our terms; yet she nonetheless took the measure, I think, of the warning I now gave her. "If you should so lose your head as to appeal to him for me--" She was really frightened. "Yes, miss?" "I would leave, on the spot, both him and you." XIII It was all very well to join them, but speaking to them proved quite as much as ever an effort beyond my strength--offered, in close quarters, difficulties as insurmountable as before. This situation continued a month, and with new aggravations and particular notes, the note above all, sharper and sharper, of the small ironic consciousness on the part of my pupils. It was not, I am as sure today as I was sure then, my mere infernal imagination: it was absolutely traceable that they were aware of my predicament and that this strange relation made, in a manner, for a long time, the air in which we moved. I don't mean that they had their tongues in their cheeks or did anything vulgar, for that was not one of their dangers: I do mean, on the other hand, that the element of the unnamed and untouched became, between us, greater than any other, and that so much avoidance could not have been so successfully effected without a great deal of tacit arrangement. It was as if, at moments, we were perpetually coming into sight of subjects before which we must stop short, turning suddenly out of alleys that we perceived to be blind, closing with a little bang that made us look at each other--for, like all bangs, it was something


know it, to my cost! My wife kept a cent-shop three months, and lost five dollars on her outlay." "Poor business!" responded Dixey, in a tone as if he were shaking his head,--"poor business." For some reason or other, not very easy to analyze, there had hardly been so bitter a pang in all her previous misery about the matter as what thrilled Hepzibah's heart on overhearing the above conversation. The testimony in regard to her scowl was frightfully important; it seemed to hold up her image wholly relieved from the false light of her self-partialities, and so hideous that she dared not look at it. She was absurdly hurt, moreover, by the slight and idle effect that her setting up shop--an event of such breathless interest to herself--appeared to have upon the public, of which these two men were the nearest representatives. A glance; a passing word or two; a coarse laugh; and she was doubtless forgotten before they turned the corner. They cared nothing for her dignity, and just as little for her degradation. Then, also, the augury of ill-success, uttered from the sure wisdom of experience, fell upon her half-dead hope like a clod into a grave. The man's wife had already tried the same experiment, and failed! How could the born, lady the recluse of half a lifetime, utterly unpractised in the world, at sixty years of age,--how could she ever dream of succeeding, when the hard, vulgar, keen, busy, hackneyed New England woman had lost five dollars on her little outlay! Success presented itself as an impossibility, and the hope of it as a wild hallucination. Some malevolent spirit, doing his utmost to drive Hepzibah mad, unrolled before her imagination a kind of panorama, representing the great thoroughfare of a city all astir with customers. So many and so magnificent shops as there were! Groceries, toy-shops, drygoods stores, with their immense panes of plate-glass, their gorgeous fixtures, their vast and complete assortments of merchandise, in which fortunes had been invested; and those noble mirrors at the farther end of each establishment, doubling all this wealth by a brightly burnished vista of unrealities! On one side of the street this splendid bazaar, with a multitude of perfumed and glossy salesmen, smirking, smiling, bowing, and measuring out the goods. On the other, the dusky old House of the Seven Gables, with the antiquated shop-window under its projecting story, and Hepzibah herself, in a gown of rusty black silk, behind the counter, scowling at the world as it went by! This mighty contrast thrust itself forward as a fair expression of the odds against which she was to begin her struggle for a subsistence. Success? Preposterous! She would never think of it again! The house might just as well be buried in an eternal fog while all other houses had the sunshine on them; for not a foot would ever cross the threshold, nor a hand so much as try the door! But, at this instant, the shop-bell, right over her head, tinkled as if it were bewitched. The old


rabbits and held them up for the cheering crowd. Brandon moved from the beer table to stand next to Natalie, a frown on his face and a beer glass in his hand. He stretched out to touch her as she edged closer to Finn Toomey. Natalie launched herself at Finn, kissing him as hard as she could. Then she turned to Brandon, her face furious. ‘Just go away, Brandon.’ Brandon tried again. ‘Natalie?’ ‘I told you. We’re done.’ She pulled the ring from her finger and pushed it into his hand. ‘There. Now go away.’ ‘Wait…’ She ignored him, stood on tiptoes and snogged Finn once more. Brandon glanced around to see who was looking. Those who had noticed shifted away and went back to their business. Brandon slunk off through the crowd. Finn extracted himself from the kiss, confused. All attention was on Josie now: she held out another present and the applause rang out as Florence unwrapped a musical mobile in a rainbow design. Neil whispered into Lin’s ear. ‘I thought George’s granddaughter was going to marry that bloke. Did they just split up?’ ‘I’m sure he deserved what he got.’ Lin wrinkled her nose. She inhaled aftershave, not his usual brand, a new one. Neil smelled of something delicious that a man would wear when he wanted to impress a woman, a warm spicy scent that made Lin want to kiss him. She met his eyes and her own were small with contempt. ‘I expect Brandon’s been cheating,’ she said simply. ‘All men who cheat are pigs.’ Then she turned on her heel and, without another word, she tottered away, heading towards the village green, hurrying home as fast as her wobbly legs would carry her. She didn’t want to talk to Neil now. She wasn’t sure what to say. She had no idea how she’d ever be able to talk to him about the affair with Carole Frost. Perhaps it was better just to say nothing at all right now. She’d go home, lie down, sober up and her head would clear. Then she’d know what to do. Lin was determined to find out the facts. She needed to be calm, lucid and assertive, to be sure about what was going on. She’d ask straight questions, demand honest answers. And once she knew the truth, she’d tell her cheating husband of fifty years exactly what she thought of him. 29 September was the warmest month of the year, the sun beating down so hard in Middleton Ferris that only Tina Gilchrist stayed outside during the fierce noonday heat. She was working in her allotment, watering vegetables in the sweltering sunlight with a hose pipe while everyone else did their best to stay cool. The Toomeys lazed on their barge, Devlin and Finn swimming in the river, Fergal cooking Joe Grey on the stove or dozing below deck. Gerald Harris abandoned the weeds in his garden to watch cricket on TV. Dangerous Dave retreated to the cool interior of his garage; he was busier than ever, and the money


in her father's exile and became one of the most beautiful girls in Mbanta. She was called Crystal of Beauty, as her mother had been called in her youth. The young ailing girl who had caused her mother so much heartache had been transformed, almost overnight, into a healthy, buoyant maiden. She had, it was true, her moments of depression when she would snap at everybody like an angry dog. These moods descended on her suddenly and for no apparent reason. But they were very rare and short-lived. As long as they lasted, she could bear no other person but her father. Many young men and prosperous middle-aged men of Mbanta came to marry her. But she refused them all, because her father had called her one evening and said to her: "There are many good and prosperous people here, but I shall be happy if you marry in Umuofia when we return home." That was all he had said. But Ezinma had seen clearly all the thought and hidden meaning behind the few words. And she had agreed. "Your half-sister, Obiageli, will not understand me," Okonkwo said. "But you can explain to her." Although they were almost the same age, Ezinma wielded a strong influence over her half-sister. She explained to her why they should not marry yet, and she agreed also. And so the two of them refused every offer of marriage in Mbanta. "I wish she were a boy," Okonkwo thought within himself. She understood things so perfectly. Who else among his children could have read his thoughts so well? With two beautiful grown-up daughters his return to Umuofia would attract considerable attention. His future sons-in-law would be men of authority in the clan. The poor and unknown would not dare to come forth. Umuofia had indeed changed during the seven years Okonkwo had been in exile. The church had come and led many astray. Not only the low-born and the outcast but sometimes a worthy man had joined it. Such a man was Ogbuefi Ugonna, who had taken two titles, and who like a madman had cut the anklet of his titles and cast it away to join the Christians. The white missionary was very proud of him and he was one of the first men in Umuofia to receive the sacrament of Holy Communion, or Holy Feast as it was called in Ibo. Ogbuefi Ugonna had thought of the Feast in terms of eating and drinking, only more holy than the village variety. He had therefore put his drinking-horn into his goatskin bag for the occasion. But apart from the church, the white men had also brought a government. They had built a court where the District Commissioner judged cases in ignorance. He had court messengers who brought men to him for trial. Many of these messengers came from Umuru on the bank of the Great River, where the white men first came many years before and where they had built the centre of their religion and trade and government. These court messengers were greatly hated in


more to the point than a sharpshooter. It was an admirable quality, one that Io lacked herself, but it made for uneasy conversations. Io didn’t miss the embarrassed stare of the campaign managers or the concerned frown that descended on Saint-Yves’s brow. Aris, for his part, shifted uncomfortably on the bench. Io couldn’t see his full reaction because she didn’t dare look into his face. But she heard alarm in his voice, or perhaps trepidation. “Luc tasked me with watching the House of Nine,” the phobos-born replied. “The Muses refused to meet with both the Commissioner and the Mayor, even after strict orders from the Agora to assist on the Silts murders—but they let a cutter and a gang member into their House, their first guests in months? I had to find out who they were and what the Nine told them, so I followed them. They realized and cornered me.” “Did you use your powers on them?” asked Thais, her tone dripping with danger. “The thug would have roughed me up, if not worse! Am I not allowed to defend myself now?” Thais leveled a finger at him. “You were stalking them—I’d say you deserved a good roughing-up. We are conduits of the divine, not gods ourselves. Other-born powers are ours to use, to control, and to limit. We will be harshly judged, and we, more than anyone else, do not want to be found lacking.” “Justice is the virtue of great souls,” Hanne said gravely as if quoting someone. The campaign manager looked like ice cream coated in cherry syrup: her skin pale white, her long hair an artificial crimson color, cascading in waves over her naked shoulders. Calmly, Saint-Yves added, “You could have explained the situation. Have you considered that Io might have shared her information if you had not terrified the shit out of her?” “Apologize,” Thais ordered the phobos-born. “And mean it.” Io felt as if the conversation didn’t involve her at all. As if this was a performance and she a spectator, observing but never truly participating. And like in the theater, there was subtext beneath the layers of drama, delivered almost too fast to keep track of: The Nine had been refusing visitors, even after a mandate from the Agora. Lefteriou thought of Edei as a thug, which confirmed he must be a rare upper-class other-born. And finally, the Initiative was a damned cult. Conduits of the divine, control and limit, justice and great souls: this was some top-quality bullshit. Io had heard roughly the same drivel from Other-Born Separatists like Edei’s father, or bougie assholes like Thomas Mutton and his For the Other scheme. Io was peripherally aware of Lefteriou turning to her. She heard him say, “I am sorry. I overstepped, on both accounts.” There was a long pause, during which Io supposed she was expected to accept the apology, but she was too electrified by fear to respond. Lefteriou grumbled, “See? She won’t even look me in the eye. Doesn’t matter how I behave. I’ll always be a villain to them.” Next


clarified, explaining that we needed to intercept drones electronically. Some could fly in excess of 100 mph, too fast to shoot down with a gun. Trump talked over me, uninterested in the details. “No, no, no, just shoot ’em down.” We gave up. Even the distraction proved counterproductive. No more than two weeks passed before the president was at it again, looking for ways to mix politics with disaster response. The secretary flew to California in mid-August in response to the Carr Fire, the sixth most destructive wildfire in state history, and briefed the president on the damage and the urgent need for a federal response. Trump didn’t see tragedy. He saw revenge. California’s governor Jerry Brown was a vocal critic of the president, and Trump wanted him to feel the pain. He told the secretary not to release FEMA aid to the state’s wildfire victims. She was taken aback and pretended the conversation hadn’t happened. The president wouldn’t relent. When FEMA updated him again, he went on a harangue about how much he hated California Democrats like Jerry Brown and said not to release assistance grants. Afterward, I called the FEMA administrator and told him not to take the president’s venting as a direct order. If the White House sent a written directive, then we’d have a problem, but until then, it was just the ravings of an angry man. When Trump later refused to approve a disaster declaration for California—a decision only a president can make—we enlisted the help of House Majority Leader Kevin McCarthy to change Trump’s mind. “Why the fuck did it take me to do this?” McCarthy complained to Kirstjen and me on a phone call. “What’s his problem?” I’d given up on answering the question because Trump wasn’t fixable. That much was clear. Knowing that our efforts to manage the man were faltering, the real dilemma was what to do next. Before the series of disaster response trips in August, I’d had drinks on a rainy night with a group of close friends, many of whom I hadn’t seen in months because of the 24/7 nature of my job. The gathering at a downtown D.C. bar was supposed to be relaxing. It wasn’t. A woman in our group whom I’d known for ten years lashed out, asking why I voted for Donald Trump. “I didn’t,” I told her. “I actually opposed his election.” “So why did you go in to serve him?” “I didn’t go in to serve him. I went in to serve you,” I told her irritably, listing off the ways DHS protected the country. “Oh, like ripping kids at the border away from their moms?” The comment set me off. I told her I wasn’t in charge of immigration at DHS, opposed the policy so directly that hard-liners accused me of tipping off the media, and cowrote the executive order to end it for good. “If you’re blaming someone for the Trump presidency,” I pointed out, “there are sixty-three million fucking people ahead of me. They voted for him. I didn’t. At least


of the rope were placed in the stranger's hands, he growled menacingly. He had merely intimated his displeasure, in his pride believing that to intimate was to command. But to his surprise the rope tightened around his neck, shutting off his breath. In quick rage he sprang at the man, who met him halfway, grappled him close by the throat, and with a deft twist threw him over on his back. Then the rope tightened mercilessly, while Buck struggled in a fury, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his great chest panting futilely. Never in all his life had he been so vilely treated, and never in all his life had he been so angry. But his strength ebbed, his eyes glazed, and he knew nothing when the train was flagged and the two men threw him into the baggage car. The next he knew, he was dimly aware that his tongue was hurting and that he was being jolted along in some kind of a conveyance. The hoarse shriek of a locomotive whistling a crossing told him where he was. He had travelled too often with the Judge not to know the sensation of riding in a baggage car. He opened his eyes, and into them came the unbridled anger of a kidnapped king. The man sprang for his throat, but Buck was too quick for him. His jaws closed on the hand, nor did they relax till his senses were choked out of him once more. "Yep, has fits," the man said, hiding his mangled hand from the baggageman, who had been attracted by the sounds of struggle. "I'm takin' 'm up for the boss to 'Frisco. A crack dog-doctor there thinks that he can cure 'm." Concerning that night's ride, the man spoke most eloquently for himself, in a little shed back of a saloon on the San Francisco water front. "All I get is fifty for it," he grumbled; "an' I wouldn't do it over for a thousand, cold cash." His hand was wrapped in a bloody handkerchief, and the right trouser leg was ripped from knee to ankle. "How much did the other mug get?" the saloon-keeper demanded. "A hundred," was the reply. "Wouldn't take a sou less, so help me." "That makes a hundred and fifty," the saloon-keeper calculated; "and he's worth it, or I'm a squarehead." The kidnapper undid the bloody wrappings and looked at his lacerated hand. "If I don't get the hydrophoby--" "It'll be because you was born to hang," laughed the saloon- keeper. "Here, lend me a hand before you pull your freight," he added. Dazed, suffering intolerable pain from throat and tongue, with the life half throttled out of him, Buck attempted to face his tormentors. But he was thrown down and choked repeatedly, till they succeeded in filing the heavy brass collar from off his neck. Then the rope was removed, and he was flung into a cagelike crate. There he lay for the remainder of the weary night, nursing his wrath and wounded pride. He could not


the android blinked slowly. Nurse Ratched said, “It appears his eyes are working. Success.” The android turned his head to look at them, mouth open, no sound coming out. He sat up, a great mechanical groan coming from deep within him. He turned on the table, his feet settling down on the floor. He raised his hand in front of him, turning it back and forth, staring at the wood encasing the bones of metal and the wiring underneath. “Wh-wh-wh … what. Wh-what. Have you. D-done. To me?” It was the same voice from the Scrap Yards, deep and guttural. Pointed and sharp. Angry, borderline furious, or so Vic thought. Vic’s own mind was short-circuiting. Here was what he’d worked for. Here was what he’d hoped for. Here, at last. A face, alive. Just like his father’s. Just like his own. And he couldn’t bring himself to look at it for long, glancing at the machine, then away, back, and then away again. Nurse Ratched rolled forward. “We healed you,” she said, words appearing on her screen that read YOU’RE ALIVE! CONGRATULATIONS! “You were found in a pile of rubble. We put you back together again.” The android dropped his hands. His face twisted into a dark scowl. “T-ttogether.” “Yes,” Nurse Ratched said. “You will find that certain parts needed to be replaced. I am going to run a diagnostic check. Please follow along with my instructions. Raise your right hand.” The android said, “My … m-my chest. What have you d-done t-to my chest? It b-b-burns.” His hand shook as he rubbed the skin above the heart. “We had to replace your power source,” Nurse Ratched said. “Your old one was dead. Can you tell us your make and model? Your designation? You still have not raised your right hand as I instructed. How disappointing. You need to listen to your mother. That is me. I am your mother.” The android grimaced, baring his square teeth. “I … wh-who are you. Who are y-you? Who are you?” He tried to stand. His metal right leg held his weight, but the wooden left buckled. He stumbled forward. “Ahh!” Rambo cried. “He’s attacking! I’m brave. I’m so brave!” He rolled forward, banging the broom against the android’s knees. “Die, murderous revenge machine, die!” “S-s-stop that,” the android growled. He tried to swat at the broom, but his center of gravity was off, and he missed, almost falling on top of Rambo. He managed to catch himself at the last moment, Rambo moving deftly between his feet, the broom knocking against the android’s thighs. “Do not touch Rambo,” Nurse Ratched said, one of her tentacles whipping dangerously in the air. “If you do, you will find it to be rather shocking. Because I will shock you. That was another pun. They do not get old no matter how many times I say them.” “Wh-where am I?” the android snapped. “What is this p-place?” “You are in the laboratory of the great inventor Victor Lawson,” Nurse Ratched said, the tip of her tentacle crackling. “And


against her. He’s never going to let her be free of this. Which leaves her no choice but to free herself. Chapter 44 Sloane looks up from the couch when Ethan walks into the living room. “Thanks for coming home.” He sinks into one of the costly designer armchairs Sloane ordered at the same time as their barstools. “You’re welcome.” The security company who serviced Carr’s San Juan Island home told Jonah they’d send the requested footage over first thing tomorrow morning. Jonah had already gone home when Ethan got Sloane’s text saying they needed to talk. The gas fireplace flickers in the dimly lit room. Sloane is still wearing her scrubs and refills her wine glass from the opened bottle on the coffee table. “Wine?” “No, thanks.” Ethan watches her lift her glass to her lips, preparing himself for his wife to confess her role in murdering Chelsea. She returns her glass to the coffee table before meeting his eyes. “Brody snuck into our garage yesterday and attacked me. Before your mother came.” “What?” He stands from the uncomfortable chair, scanning Sloane’s face and arms for a sign of injury from Carr’s attack. He balls his hands into fists, imagining that sadistic prick inside his garage, coming at his wife. “He threatened to make it look like I conspired with him to kill Chelsea if I didn’t help him.” She scoots toward him. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Because your mother showed up, then you came at me guns blazing at dinner. “I thought I had it handled.” Ethan paces in front of the fireplace. Thinking about that murdering bastard breaking into his house makes his skin crawl. “Brody’s crazy, Ethan. Delusional. Dangerous. He’s never going to let me be free of this. I thought about what you said earlier, and I want to come forward about our affair.” Ethan stops. “We’ll say you didn’t know,” Sloane continues. “That I just told you tonight, and you advised me to make a statement in the morning.” Ethan runs his hand down the back of his head. “I can’t see any other way out.” Sloane glances at her purse lying atop the coffee table beside the wine. “And believe me, I’ve thought of everything. This is the only way to keep Brody from having a hold on me. I know it’ll make me a suspect, at least for a while, but there’s no way they can prove I helped Brody kill his wife. Because I didn’t.” He starts pacing again, not sure of what to say. If Jonah finds out Ethan knew about Sloane’s affair, he could lose his job. His entire career. What had been his purpose in life. “Will you go with me? Help me?” He stares at the floor, remembering what Evelyn told him when they met for coffee. And the firefighter’s account of Sloane shouting at the nurse not to give Narcan. “Ethan!” Sloane stands from the couch. “Will you? And can you please stand still?” He spins toward her. “No! No, I can’t. I talked to Evelyn. I


six-figure deposit on Tribeca Rooftop. He would look so out of place among the wedding guests. He’d probably show up in jeans, a ballcap, and that faded gray navy T-shirt. He would crush her ex in an arm-wrestling match, too. Why did that make her feel better enough to continue? “In short, yes, I do have some money. If I was simply going back to New York, I could afford to find an apartment and live comfortably for a few months. But that is not what I want to do.” The kick of adrenaline in her bloodstream felt good. It had been a long time. Or maybe while getting lit to mourn the loss of everything she’d worked for, she’d accidentally numbed her ambition, too. Right now, in this moment, she had it back. She was the woman who used to look down at rows of analysts from her glass office and demand they eat their competition’s balls for breakfast. “I want to return better than ever. I want my former colleagues to realize they made a mistake . . .” “You want to rub it in their faces,” Corinne supplied. “Maybe a little,” Natalie admitted. “I might have made one huge mistake, but I know if Morrison Talbot the Third had made that bad call instead of me, excuses would have been made. He probably would have been given a promotion for being a risk-taker. They met in secret and voted to oust me. My partners. My fiancé.” She closed her eyes briefly to beat back the memory of her shock. Betrayal. “If you were me, Mother, you would want a shot to go back and prove yourself.” Corinne stared at her for several beats. “Perhaps I would.” Natalie released a breath. “Unfortunately, I don’t have the money to loan you,” Corinne continued, her face deepening ever so slightly with color. “As you are aware, the vineyard has been declining in profitability. With your brother’s unexpected help, we’re turning it around, but it could be years before we’re back in the black. All I have is this house, Natalie.” “My trust fund,” Natalie said firmly, forcing it out into the open. “I’m asking for my trust fund to be released.” “My, times have changed,” Corinne said with a laugh. “When you graduated from Cornell, what was it that you said at your postceremony dinner? You would never take a dime from us as long as you lived?” “I’m thirty years old now. Please don’t throw something in my face that I said when I was twenty-two.” Corinne sighed and refolded her hands in her lap. “You are well aware of the terms of your trust fund, Natalie. Your father might be racing cars in Italy and parading around with women half his age like a fool, but he set forth the language of the trust and as far as the bank is concerned, he’s still in control.” Natalie lunged to her feet. “The language in that contract is archaic. How can it even be legal in this day and age? There


her footsteps had disappeared. CHAPTER 22 - THE HASTENING SALOON From that day Bond's recovery was rapid. He sat up in bed and wrote his report to M. He made light of what he still considered amateurish behaviour on the part of Vesper. By juggling with the emphasis, he made the kidnapping sound much more Machiavellian than it had been. He praised Vesper's coolness and composure throughout the whole episode without saying that he had found some of her actions unaccountable. Every day Vesper came to see him and he looked forward to these visits with excitement. She talked happily of her adventures of the day before, her explorations down the coast and the restaurants where she had eaten. She had made friends with the chief of police and with one of the directors of the Casino and it was they who took her out in the evening and occasionally lent her a car during the day. She kept an eye on the repairs to the Bentley which had been towed down to coachbuilders at Rouen, and she even arranged for some new clothes to be sent out from Bond's London flat. Nothing survived from his original wardrobe. Every stitch had been cut to ribbons in the search for the forty million francs. The Le Chiffre affair was never mentioned between them. She occasionally told Bond amusing stories of Head of S's office. She had apparently transferred there from the WRNS. And he told her of some of his adventures in the Service. He found he could speak to her easily and he was surprised. With most women his manner was a mixture of taciturnity and passion. The lengthy approaches to a seduction bored him almost as much as the subsequent mess of disentanglement. He found something grisly in the inevitability of the pattern of each affair. The conventional parabola - sentiment, the touch of the hand, the kiss, the passionate kiss, the feel of the body, the climax in the bed, then more bed, then less bed, then the boredom, the tears and the final bitterness - was to him shameful and hypocritical. Even more he shunned the mise en scne for each of these acts in the play - the meeting at a party, the restaurant, the taxi, his flat, her flat, then the week-end by the sea, then the flats again, then the furtive alibis and the final angry farewell on some doorstep in the rain. But with Vesper there could be none of this. In the dull room and the boredom of his treatment her presence was each day an oasis of pleasure, something to look forward to. In their talk there was nothing but companionship with a distant undertone of passion. In the background there was the unspoken zest of the promise which, in due course and in their own time, would be met. Over all there brooded the shadow of his injuries and the tantalus of their slow healing. Whether Bond liked it or not, the branch had already escaped his knife and was ready to


been successful: Republican localities are getting redder and Democratic localities are getting bluer. Think of polarization as the fuel. A CBS News poll found that a majority of both Democrats and Republicans no longer described each other as “political opponents” but as “enemies.” It’s so bad that these Americans see each other as “the biggest threat” to their way of life—more than foreign countries, military threats, natural disasters, environmental factors, viruses, or economic forces. With moderates and independents fleeing the two major parties, the problem has gotten worse. What is causing higher polarization? The obvious culprit is social media. Social psychologist Jonathan Haidt has cataloged it better than anyone. “The dart guns of social media give more power and voice to the political extremes while reducing the power and voice of the moderate majority,” Haidt wrote in The Atlantic. He pointed to research which found that people on the far-left and far-right fringes—who make up only slivers of the population (8 percent and 6 percent, respectively)—are the most prolific “sharers” on social media. The two extremes represent the “whitest and richest” parts of the country, “which suggests that America is being torn apart by a battle between two subsets of the elite who are not representative of the broader society,” Haidt explained. But I believe there is something more troubling. Americans aren’t just silencing each other. They are choosing to silence themselves. U.S. voters are afraid to share their beliefs because of reprisal attacks or getting socially canceled—or even fired from their jobs. A groundbreaking study by nonpartisan think tank Populace Insights found that respondents often presented to others very different views than they actually held about hot-button topics. “The pressure to misrepresent our private views—to offer answers on politically and socially sensitive questions that are out of sync with our true beliefs—is pervasive in society today,” the report concluded. “Across all demographics every subgroup had multiple issues with at least a double-digit gap between public and private opinion.” Political independents were “the least comfortable sharing their private views in public.” So what does self-censorship mean for truth? Taken together, these findings are bad news for democracy. Independents represent the largest voting bloc in the United States. If they are increasingly afraid to share their views, or speak up at all, it has ominous implications for a free and open society. If we accept John Stuart Mill’s way of thinking, it means the broader marketplace of ideas will become less competitive. The result is there will be fewer opportunities for “truth” and “error” to collide, and we will be more liable to stumble into civic danger and national decline. We need to make it easier to dissent by making democracy competitive again. When I speak to student groups around the country, I use an example from economics to describe the situation. The conversation goes the same way almost every time. “How many of you have taken Econ 101?” I ask. Most of the hands go up. “And how many of you remember supply and demand curves?” The hands stay up. “What do


flown on to one of its branches and had burst out into a scrap of a song. Ben Weatherstaff laughed outright. "What did he do that for?" asked Mary. "He's made up his mind to make friends with thee," replied Ben. "Dang me if he hasn't took a fancy to thee." "To me?" said Mary, and she moved toward the little tree softly and looked up. "Would you make friends with me?" she said to the robin just as if she was speaking to a person. "Would you?" And she did not say it either in her hard little voice or in her imperious Indian voice, but in a tone so soft and eager and coaxing that Ben Weatherstaff was as surprised as she had been when she heard him whistle. "Why," he cried out, "tha' said that as nice an' human as if tha' was a real child instead of a sharp old woman. Tha' said it almost like Dickon talks to his wild things on th' moor." "Do you know Dickon?" Mary asked, turning round rather in a hurry. "Everybody knows him. Dickon's wanderin' about everywhere. Th' very blackberries an' heather-bells knows him. I warrant th' foxes shows him where their cubs lies an' th' skylarks doesn't hide their nests from him." Mary would have liked to ask some more questions. She was almost as curious about Dickon as she was about the deserted garden. But just that moment the robin, who had ended his song, gave a little shake of his wings, spread them and flew away. He had made his visit and had other things to do. "He has flown over the wall!" Mary cried out, watching him. "He has flown into the orchard--he has flown across the other wall--into the garden where there is no door!" "He lives there," said old Ben. "He came out o' th' egg there. If he's courtin', he's makin' up to some young madam of a robin that lives among th' old rose-trees there." "Rose-trees," said Mary. "Are there rose-trees?" Ben Weatherstaff took up his spade again and began to dig. "There was ten year' ago," he mumbled. "I should like to see them," said Mary. "Where is the green door? There must be a door somewhere." Ben drove his spade deep and looked as uncompanionable as he had looked when she first saw him. "There was ten year' ago, but there isn't now," he said. "No door!" cried Mary. "There must be." "None as any one can find, an' none as is any one's business. Don't you be a meddlesome wench an' poke your nose where it's no cause to go. Here, I must go on with my work. Get you gone an' play you. I've no more time." And he actually stopped digging, threw his spade over his shoulder and walked off, without even glancing at her or saying good-by. CHAPTER V THE CRY IN THE CORRIDOR At first each day which passed by for Mary Lennox was exactly like the others. Every morning she awoke in her tapestried room


sped on. Because of this topological awkwardness Damogran has always remained a deserted planet. This is why the Imperial Galactic Government chose Damogran for the Heart of Gold project, because it was so deserted and the Heart of Gold was so secret. The boat zipped and skipped across the sea, the sea that lay between the main islands of the only archipelago of any useful size on the whole planet. Zaphod Beeblebrox was on his way from the tiny spaceport on Easter Island (the name was an entirely meaningless coincidence - in Galacticspeke, easter means small flat and light brown) to the Heart of Gold island, which by another meaningless coincidence was called France. One of the side effects of work on the Heart of Gold was a whole string of pretty meaningless coincidences. But it was not in any way a coincidence that today, the day of culmination of the project, the great day of unveiling, the day that the Heart of Gold was finally to be introduced to a marvelling Galaxy, was also a great day of culmination for Zaphod Beeblebrox. It was for the sake of this day that he had first decided to run for the Presidency, a decision which had sent waves of astonishment throughout the Imperial Galaxy - Zaphod Beeblebrox? President? Not the Zaphod Beeblebrox? Not the President? Many had seen it as a clinching proof that the whole of known creation had finally gone bananas. Zaphod grinned and gave the boat an extra kick of speed. Zaphod Beeblebrox, adventurer, ex-hippy, good timer, (crook? quite possibly), manic self-publicist, terribly bad at personal relationships, often thought to be completely out to lunch. President? No one had gone bananas, not in that way at least. Only six people in the entire Galaxy understood the principle on which the Galaxy was governed, and they knew that once Zaphod Beeblebrox had announced his intention to run as President it was more or less a fait accompli: he was the ideal Presidency fodder*. What they completely failed to understand was why Zaphod was doing it. He banked sharply, shooting a wild wall of water at the sun. Today was the day; today was the day when they would realize what Zaphod had been up to. Today was what Zaphod Beeblebrox's Presidency was all about. Today was also his two hundredth birthday, but that was just another meaningless coincidence. As he skipped his boat across the seas of Damogran he smiled quietly to himself about what a wonderful exciting day it was going to be. He relaxed and spread his two arms lazily across the seat back. He steered with an extra arm he'd recently fitted just beneath his right one to help improve his ski-boxing. "Hey," he cooed to himself, "you're a real cool boy you." But his nerves sang a song shriller than a dog whistle. The island of France was about twenty miles long, five miles across the middle, sandy and crescent shaped. In fact it seemed to exist not so much as an island in its own right


up and get her the hell out of there—but in all the hubbub of, ya know, the brain surgery, I’d forgotten. He wasn’t still holding her captive in there, was he? I thought about asking. But that’s when he turned to me, all friendly and breathless, and said, “Made it!” The way a nice person might talk to another nice person. I kept my eyes down and edged away. Really, pal? You think you can just wildly bad-mouth your one-night stands and also get to be a normal member of society? Not on my watch, buddy. I wasn’t going to be complicit in this nice-guy gaslighting. Also: What the hell? What adult just sprints through a building lobby willy-nilly like that? What if he’d slammed into me? What if I’d hit my head and the plug in my skull had popped like a champagne cork—and then it was right back to the hospital? I wasn’t used to feeling fragile. And I definitely didn’t like it. So I glared at him, like, Thanks a lot for reminding me. I could deduce that he was smiling, even despite his puzzle-piece face. Those big teeth were pretty unmistakable. How dare he? It was frustrating beyond measure to look straight at a person and have no idea what he looked like. Especially since I really might have to pick him out of a lineup someday. One of the tips Dr. Nicole had given me for coping with the sudden lack of faces in the world was to notice other things about people. Most of us used faces by default, she’d explained, but there were plenty of other details to notice. Height. Body shape. Hair. Gait. “Gait?” I’d said, like that was a stretch. “Everybody’s walk is a little different, once you start noticing,” Dr. Nicole said, doubling down. So I tried it on the Weasel. What did he have besides a face? But I guess I wasn’t very good at this yet. All that really stood out was the bowling jacket—which had the name Joe embroidered vintage style across the chest. The rest? Shaggy hair falling aggressively over his forehead. General tallness. Thick-framed gray hipster glasses. And I don’t know what else. Arms and legs, I guess. Shoulders? Feet? This was hard. Normally, in elevator situations with strangers, even if you accidentally talk at the start, you settle back into standard elevator behavior pretty fast: eyes averted, quiet, as much space as possible between bodies. But I could feel the Weasel breaking the rules. Standing too close. Trying to make eye contact. Oh god. Had he thought I was checking him out just now? I felt a sting of humiliation. That was scientific research, damn it! I dropped my eyes straight to the floor and edged even farther away. Unmistakable we-don’t-know-each-other body language. But maybe he didn’t speak that language? I could feel him studying me as we rose to the next floor. “Great sweatpants,” he said then, his voice still at maximum friendliness. “Thank you,” I replied. Nice and curt. “Are they comfortable?” What? Who


common. They are devils of the Pit! I shall not remain alone with them. I shall try to scale the castle wall farther than I have yet attempted. I shall take some of the gold with me, lest I want it later. I may find a way from this dreadful place. And then away for home! Away to the quickest and nearest train! Away from the cursed spot, from this cursed land, where the devil and his children still walk with earthly feet! At least God's mercy is better than that of those monsters, and the precipice is steep and high. At its foot a man may sleep, as a man. Goodbye, all. Mina! CHAPTER 5 LETTER FROM MISS MINA MURRAY TO MISS LUCY WESTENRA 9 May. My dearest Lucy, Forgive my long delay in writing, but I have been simply overwhelmed with work. The life of an assistant schoolmistress is sometimes trying. I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air. I have been working very hard lately, because I want to keep up with Jonathan's studies, and I have been practicing shorthand very assiduously. When we are married I shall be able to be useful to Jonathan, and if I can stenograph well enough I can take down what he wants to say in this way and write it out for him on the typewriter, at which also I am practicing very hard. He and I sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he is keeping a stenographic journal of his travels abroad. When I am with you I shall keep a diary in the same way. I don't mean one of those two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-in-a-corner diaries, but a sort of journal which I can write in whenever I feel inclined. I do not suppose there will be much of interest to other people, but it is not intended for them. I may show it to Jonathan some day if there is in it anything worth sharing, but it is really an exercise book. I shall try to do what I see lady journalists do, interviewing and writing descriptions and trying to remember conversations. I am told that, with a little practice, one can remember all that goes on or that one hears said during a day. However, we shall see. I will tell you of my little plans when we meet. I have just had a few hurried lines from Jonathan from Transylvania. He is well, and will be returning in about a week. I am longing to hear all his news. It must be nice to see strange countries. I wonder if we, I mean Jonathan and I, shall ever see them together. There is the ten o'clock bell ringing. Goodbye. Your loving Mina Tell me all the news when you write. You have not told me anything for a long time. I hear rumours, and especially of a tall, handsome, curly-haired man.??? LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY 17, Chatham Street Wednesday My dearest Mina,


visit: he only wished it had come sooner, and spared him a certain waste of emotion. As he went out into the wintry night, New York again became vast and imminent, and May Welland the loveliest woman in it. He turned into his florist's to send her the daily box of lilies-of-the-valley which, to his confusion, he found he had forgotten that morning. As he wrote a word on his card and waited for an envelope he glanced about the embowered shop, and his eye lit on a cluster of yellow roses. He had never seen any as sun-golden before, and his first impulse was to send them to May instead of the lilies. But they did not look like her--there was something too rich, too strong, in their fiery beauty. In a sudden revulsion of mood, and almost without knowing what he did, he signed to the florist to lay the roses in another long box, and slipped his card into a second envelope, on which he wrote the name of the Countess Olenska; then, just as he was turning away, he drew the card out again, and left the empty envelope on the box. "They'll go at once?" he enquired, pointing to the roses. The florist assured him that they would. X. The next day he persuaded May to escape for a walk in the Park after luncheon. As was the custom in old-fashioned Episcopalian New York, she usually accompanied her parents to church on Sunday afternoons; but Mrs. Welland condoned her truancy, having that very morning won her over to the necessity of a long engagement, with time to prepare a hand-embroidered trousseau containing the proper number of dozens. The day was delectable. The bare vaulting of trees along the Mall was ceiled with lapis lazuli, and arched above snow that shone like splintered crystals. It was the weather to call out May's radiance, and she burned like a young maple in the frost. Archer was proud of the glances turned on her, and the simple joy of possessorship cleared away his underlying perplexities. "It's so delicious--waking every morning to smell lilies-of-the-valley in one's room!" she said. "Yesterday they came late. I hadn't time in the morning--" "But your remembering each day to send them makes me love them so much more than if you'd given a standing order, and they came every morning on the minute, like one's music-teacher--as I know Gertrude Lefferts's did, for instance, when she and Lawrence were engaged." "Ah--they would!" laughed Archer, amused at her keenness. He looked sideways at her fruit-like cheek and felt rich and secure enough to add: "When I sent your lilies yesterday afternoon I saw some rather gorgeous yellow roses and packed them off to Madame Olenska. Was that right?" "How dear of you! Anything of that kind delights her. It's odd she didn't mention it: she lunched with us today, and spoke of Mr. Beaufort's having sent her wonderful orchids, and cousin Henry van der Luyden a whole hamper of carnations from Skuytercliff. She seems so surprised to


“You don’t understand. You can’t understand what it was like in this place. It wasn’t there, not on the surface of things. It was...” She tried to find the words. “It was underneath everything.” “And what about our fine lady mistress? Did she notice girls coming and going? Or was she as dense as you?” Mrs. King’s face closed up. “Winnie?” she said. Winnie ran her hands through her hair. “I don’t know—I’ve never known. It’s... She was...” “What?” “She was always friends with them. With the girls in the house.” “Friends?” “Yes, friends.” Winnie reached for Mrs. King. “You remember what it was like up there, in the schoolroom, before Madam came out. Just the tutors, and the governesses, and the dance mistress. Mr. de Vries let her make friends below stairs.” She closed her eyes again. “I thought it was such a kindness,” she whispered. “Friends?” said Mrs. Bone. Winnie nodded, voice strained. “It seemed...natural. That a girl would want to make friends with other girls. To learn about their lives. Understand where they came from. Share a little schooling.” “Earn them an afternoon off,” said Mrs. King quietly. “And those girls took liberties. Grew cheeky. Felt they were favored. I always chalked it up to a lapse in discipline. The master allowing indulgences, just to favor Miss de Vries.” Mrs. Bone dragged her gaze back from the house. “Clever, really. A neat way to put the girls at ease. I daresay he needed them to be comfortable upstairs.” Mrs. Bone felt a shudder pass through her. “Does Miss de Vries know?” Winnie simply shook her head. “It’s like I said. You can’t...you can’t tell. It’s not spoken of.” “Who was the man, then? The man in the gray coat.” “I never found out.” “Never asked, you mean.” “He would have been a gentleman of means,” said Mrs. King. “He would have paid well for the visit.” “Danny didn’t need more money.” “Money isn’t everything,” said Mrs. King. “It isn’t influence.” Mrs. Bone knew that. She understood patronage. A corkscrew chain of favors. Tastes, pleasures, likes, fancies. Powders, perfumes, poppies. And in the night, behind rich drapes, with oil lamps: girls. Dancing girls, chorus girls, waifs and strays. You had to know where to find them, how to train them, how to get rid of them. Mrs. Bone didn’t just avoid that business. She took in plenty of those girls, over the years. All those Janes. She suddenly addressed Mrs. King. “No one ever came for you, did they?” Winnie straightened, her eyes fierce. “Never. I shared a room with her the whole time. I wouldn’t have let them. I looked after you.” There was something heated, something desperate, in the way she said it. Mrs. King said, voice grave. “And you, Winnie? You were all right?” Winnie’s eyes flickered back and forth. “Yes,” she said, quickly. “Yes, I was fine.” “What about our fine lady duchess?” said Mrs. Bone, quietly. “Hephzibah?” said Mrs. King. Her eyes widened at that, shocked. It was rare to ever see that look upon


involuntarily wandered to the gray church-tower near the gates,, and I asked, "Is he with Damer de Rochester, sharing the shelter of his narrow marble house?"     Some answer must be had to these questions. I could find it nowhere but at the inn, and thither ere long I returned. The host himself brought my breakfast into the parlor. I requested him to shut the door and sit down: I had some questions to ask him. But when he complied, I scarcely knew how to begin, such horror had I of the possible answers. And yet the spectacle of desolation I had just left prepared me in a measure for a tale of misery. The host was a respectable-looking middle-aged man.     "You know Thornfield Hall, of course?" I managed to say at last.     "Yes, ma'am; I lived there once."     "Did you?" Not in my time, I thought; you are a stranger to me.     "I was the late Mr. Rochester's butler," he added. The late! I seemed to have received with full force the blow I had been trying to evade.     "The late!" I gasped. "Is he dead?"     "I mean the present gentleman's (Mr. Edward) father," he explained.     I breathed again my blood resumed its flow. Fully assured by these words that Mr. Edward my Mr. Rochester (God bless him, wherever he was!) was at least alive was, in short, "the present gentleman." Gladdening words! It seemed I could hear all that was to come whatever the disclosures might be with comparative tranquillity. Since he was not in the grave, I could bear, I thought, to learn that he was at the Antipodes.     "Is Mr. Rochester living at Thornfield Hall now?" I asked, knowing, of course, what the answer would be, but yet desirous of deferring the direct question as to where he really was.     "No, ma'am oh, no! No one is living there. I suppose you are a stranger in these parts, or you would have heard what happened last autumn. Thornfield Hall is quite a ruin; it was burned down just about harvest-time. A dreadful calamity! such an immense quantity of valuable property destroyed; hardly any of the furniture could be saved. The fire broke out at dead of night, and before the engines arrived from Millcote the building was one mass of flames. It was a terrible spectacle; I witnessed it myself."     "At dead of night!" I muttered. Yes, that was ever the hour of fatality at Thornfield. "Was it known how it originated?" I demanded.     "They guessed, ma'am they guessed. Indeed, I should say it was ascertained beyond a doubt. You are not perhaps aware," he continued, edging his chair a little nearer the table, and speaking low, "there was a lady a a lunatic, kept in the house?"


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

the axe—oh, only to check that the blade hadn’t dulled, of course. Better lift it a little higher to catch the moonlight. I carried on this way until the last moment, at which point I threw my will against the enchantment with all my might. For the briefest of seconds, I was free. I thought the enchantment was surprised, but probably that was only my fancy. I knew I would not have more than that single second—certainly it would not allow me a second chance—and drove the axe towards my finger. I did it the way Lilja had taught me—fixing my eyes on the target, letting the weight of the axe do the work. My other fingers I folded against the side of the stump, to keep them out of the way. I was half convinced I would miss and drive the axe into my hand—it was not at all the same as aiming for a crack in a log, no matter what I tried to tell myself—but I heard Lilja’s voice in my head, her offhanded good cheer, as if there was nothing in the world more ordinary than what I was doing, and I didn’t hesitate. My aim was true, and suddenly I was gazing at my finger, and it was not at the end of my hand. It was the most curious sensation. At first, I was conscious only of the enchantment leaving me—it felt like falling, that dream sensation in which there is no ground to hit, only wakefulness. I awoke, and then immediately after that, the pain rolled over me in a red wave. I staggered about, fading in and out of consciousness. I threw up at one point, I think. But somehow, when I fully returned to my senses, I found that I had wrenched off my glove and pressed my scarf against the hollow where my third finger had been. I sobbed there in the snow for a moment or two, from relief as much as from the pain. When I’d got that out of my system, I returned to the cottage and bandaged my hand. Then I set off again for the white tree. 3rd December (?) I just read over that again. It sounds irrational, if not insane—but I assure you, my mind was quite clear. Of course I considered waking Wendell. But that would have given me away—the king in the tree would have known I wasn’t enchanted if I arrived with Wendell in tow. As a general rule, the Folk do not take kindly to mortals who find ways to break their enchantments—they see it as an affront to their craftsmanship—and so to travel there in an unenchanted state would have been a risky prospect indeed. I suppose most would ask why I wished to go to the king at all. I cannot answer that adequately, other than by posing more questions. If you give an astronomer a telescope through which he can view an undiscovered galaxy, but allow him only a glimpse of a single star, will he be content?


it and offered some explanation for His unnatural state of bachelorhood." Teabing located a huge book and pulled it toward him across the table. The leatherbound edition was poster-sized, like a huge atlas. The cover read: The Gnostic Gospels. Teabing heaved it open, and Langdon and Sophie joined him. Sophie could see it contained photographs of what appeared to be magnified passages of ancient documents-tattered papyrus with handwritten text. She did not recognize the ancient language, but the facing pages bore typed translations. "These are photocopies of the Nag Hammadi and Dead Sea scrolls, which I mentioned earlier," Teabing said. "The earliest Christian records. Troublingly, they do not match up with the gospels in the Bible." Flipping toward the middle of the book, Teabing pointed to a passage. "The Gospel of Philip is always a good place to start." Sophie read the passage: And the companion of the Saviour is Mary Magdalene. Christ loved her more than all the disciples and used to kiss her often on her mouth. The rest of the disciples were offended by it and expressed disapproval. They said to him, "Why do you love her more than all of us?" The words surprised Sophie, and yet they hardly seemed conclusive. "It says nothing of marriage." "Au contraire." Teabing smiled, pointing to the first line. "As any Aramaic scholar will tell you, the word companion, in those days, literally meant spouse." Langdon concurred with a nod. Sophie read the first line again. And the companion of the Saviour is Mary Magdalene. Teabing flipped through the book and pointed out several other passages that, to Sophie's surprise, clearly suggested Magdalene and Jesus had a romantic relationship. As she read the passages, Sophie recalled an angry priest who had banged on her grandfather's door when she was a schoolgirl. "Is this the home of Jacques Saunire?" the priest had demanded, glaring down at young Sophie when she pulled open the door. "I want to talk to him about this editorial he wrote." The priest held up a newspaper. Sophie summoned her grandfather, and the two men disappeared into his study and closed the door. My grandfather wrote something in the paper? Sophie immediately ran to the kitchen and flipped through that morning's paper. She found her grandfather's name 166 on an article on the second page. She read it. Sophie didn't understand all of what was said, but it sounded like the French government, under pressure from priests, had agreed to ban an American movie called The Last Temptation of Christ, which was about Jesus having sex with a lady called Mary Magdalene. Her grandfather's article said the Church was arrogant and wrong to ban it. No wonder the priest is mad, Sophie thought. "It's pornography! Sacrilege!" the priest yelled, emerging from the study and storming to the front door. "How can you possibly endorse that! This American Martin Scorsese is a blasphemer, and the Church will permit him no pulpit in France!" The priest slammed the door on his way out. When her grandfather came into the kitchen, he


the covers piled on top of her. Her defiance and anger were gone, drained away by nightmares of Darlington crushed beneath Black Elm, Hellie fading before her eyes, Babbit Rabbit’s bloodied little body. After Anselm had banished them, Alex had invited Dawes to stay with her and Mercy at the dorm. It was closer to the Hutch than her apartment. But Dawes had wanted to be alone. “I just need some time to myself. I—” Her voice broke. Alex had hesitated, then said, “Someone needs to go to Black Elm.” “The cameras are all clear,” said Dawes. “But I’ll check in on him tomorrow.” Whatever I am will be unleashed upon the world. Alex had seen the circle of protection flicker herself. “You shouldn’t go alone.” “I’ll ask Turner.” Alex knew she should volunteer, but she wasn’t sure she could face Darlington—in any form. Did he know how close they’d come? He’d been there. He’d saved her yet again, and sacrificed his chance at freedom. She wasn’t ready to look him in the eye. “You went to see him,” said Dawes. “The night before the ritual.” Alex must have been spotted on the camera. “I had to get the vessel.” “He won’t talk to me. Just sits there meditating or whatever.” “He’s trying to keep us safe, Dawes. The way he always did.” Except this time he was the threat. Dawes nodded, but she didn’t look convinced. “Be careful,” Alex said. “Anselm—” “Black Elm isn’t Lethe property. And someone has to take care of Cosmo. Of both of them.” Alex watched Dawes disappear into the rain. She wasn’t made to take care of anyone or anything. Hellie was proof of that. Babbit Rabbit. Darlington. She had trudged home in the wet, changed into dry pajamas, eaten four Pop-Tarts, and fallen into bed. Now she rolled over, shaking with chills and famished. Mercy was sitting up in bed, a copy of Orlando open in her lap, a cup of tea steaming atop the upended vintage suitcase she used as a bedside table. “Why can’t we just try again?” Mercy asked. “What’s stopping us?” “Good morning to you too. How long have you been up?” “A couple of hours.” “Shit.” Alex sat up too fast, the head rush immediate. “What time is it?” “Almost noon. On Monday.” “Monday?” Alex squeaked. She’d lost all of Sunday. She’d slept nearly thirty-six hours. “Yup. You missed Spanish.” What did it matter? Without her Lethe scholarship there would be no way for her to stay at Yale. She’d lost her chance to get away from Eitan. She’d lost her chance at a new life for her mother. Would they let her finish out the year? The semester? But all of that was too miserable to contemplate. “I’m starving,” she said. “And why is it so cold in here?” Mercy dug in her bag. “I brought you two bacon sandwiches from breakfast. And it’s not that cold. It’s because you brushed up against hellfire.” “You’re a beautiful angel,” Alex said, snatching the sandwiches from Mercy and unwrapping one. “Now


Sophie said, as the car lurched down the road. "What are you doing?" "I tried to warn you," he shouted over the sound of gnashing gears. "I drive an automatic!" 113 CHAPTER 39 Although the spartan room in the brownstone on Rue La Bruyre had witnessed a lot of suffering, Silas doubted anything could match the anguish now gripping his pale body. I was deceived. Everything is lost. Silas had been tricked. The brothers had lied, choosing death instead of revealing their true secret. Silas did not have the strength to call the Teacher. Not only had Silas killed the only four people who knew where the keystone was hidden, he had killed a nun inside Saint-Sulpice. She was working against God! She scorned the work of Opus Dei! A crime of impulse, the woman's death complicated matters greatly. Bishop Aringarosa had placed the phone call that got Silas into Saint-Sulpice; what would the abb think when he discovered the nun was dead? Although Silas had placed her back in her bed, the wound on her head was obvious. Silas had attempted to replace the broken tiles in the floor, but that damage too was obvious. They would know someone had been there. Silas had planned to hide within Opus Dei when his task here was complete. Bishop Aringarosa will protect me. Silas could imagine no more blissful existence than a life of meditation and prayer deep within the walls of Opus Dei's headquarters in New York City. He would never again set foot outside. Everything he needed was within that sanctuary. Nobody will miss me. Unfortunately, Silas knew, a prominent man like Bishop Aringarosa could not disappear so easily. I have endangered the bishop. Silas gazed blankly at the floor and pondered taking his own life. After all, it had been Aringarosa who gave Silas life in the first place... in that small rectory in Spain, educating him, giving him purpose. "My friend," Aringarosa had told him, "you were born an albino. Do not let others shame you for this. Do you not understand how special this makes you? Were you not aware that Noah himself was an albino?" "Noah of the Ark?" Silas had never heard this. Aringarosa was smiling. "Indeed, Noah of the Ark. An albino. Like you, he had skin white like an angel. Consider this. Noah saved all of life on the planet. You are destined for great things, Silas. The Lord has freed you for a reason. You have your calling. The Lord needs your help to do His work." Over time, Silas learned to see himself in a new light. I am pure. White. Beautiful. Like an angel. At the moment, though, in his room at the residence hall, it was his father's disappointed voice that whispered to him from the past. Tu es un dsastre. Un spectre. Kneeling on the wooden floor, Silas prayed for forgiveness. Then, stripping off his robe, he reached again for the Discipline. 114 CHAPTER 40 Struggling with the gear shift, Langdon managed to maneuver the hijacked taxi to the


it’s Jack, calling to say that he’s late, or that I’m late, or that someone hammered him in the frontal lobe and the resulting brain injury helped him realize that he doesn’t want to see me ever again. A tragic miscalculation on my part, because: “Elsie, finally. You need to come home right now.” “Mom?” “Lance is now with Dana. And Lucas punched him after the soccer game. Everyone saw.” God. “But I talked to them last week. Lance said he wasn’t interested—” “He lied, Elsie. I’m disappointed in you for not picking up on it.” “I—” I exhale, stepping out of the building. “He seemed sincere.” “That’s why you need to come home and help me sort this out. I have been so tense and jittery. My poor nerves.” “Mom, I can’t. I don’t have a car, for one. And I have classes.” “Just find a substitute teacher.” “That’s not—I’m not—Mom.” I spot Jack’s car. It’s freezing cold. Every instinct yells at me to first finish my conversation, but I cannot resist getting in. The seat is already heated, Jack’s hair still shower damp, curling in soft wisps on his neck. He looks freshly shaved and smells divine—like soap they sell in fancy boutiques and the hollow of his throat when I slept nestled in his arms. One minute, I mouth. He nods. Mom’s going on about how Lance is misunderstood, Lucas is sensitive, Dad is busy with work, and the mean ladies at church are sure to be rejoicing in the downfall of the once-esteemed Hannaway household. Meanwhile, Jack studies me through my open coat. My dress hits only about midthigh when I’m sitting. His eyes follow the line of the hem, stop on my knees. Linger for a longer-than-polite moment. Then his Adam’s apple bobs, and he turns away. His shoulders rise, then fall, and then he’s driving out of the parking lot, looking anywhere but at me. Oh. “Mom, I have to go. I’ll call them both tomorrow and talk them out of . . . illegal stuff, at the very least—” “You can’t solve this at a distance.” I sigh. “I’ll do my best. Honestly, I’m not sure I can solve this at all. I’m not sure anyone can.” Mom gasps, outraged. “How can you be so selfish, Elsie?” I exhale slowly. “I don’t think I’m being selfish. I’ll help as soon as I’m able, but they’re both beyond listening to anything I—” “Unbelievable,” she says, and then . . . nothing. Absolutely nothing. “Jack?” I say. “Yes?” “If I’m talking with someone and out of the blue I hear the busy signal . . . what does it mean?” He gives me a look. “Sounds like you already know.” “Oh my God.” I’m dumbstruck. “My mom just hung up on me.” He nods. “Should I be shocked? Is that something that doesn’t happen in functional families?” “I . . . don’t know. Does your father hang up on you?” “Does my father have my number?” I laugh, and we exchange a half-clueless, half-amused glance. Peas in


. it’s actually Dad . . .” She shook her head. “It’s time to go,” she repeated. He swallowed. Then nodded. Then the four of them—Mark, Louise, Poppy, and Red Rabbit—walked out of the house and closed the door behind them. And after a while, the smell of stollen faded away. — For Louise, it came and went. Sometimes it wouldn’t bother her for years, and sometimes it hit hard. The worst was when she dreamed they were still alive and it had all been a terrible mistake. In those dreams, she was still thirty-nine and when she got Mark’s call she called home and this time her dad answered the phone and she talked to him and then to her mom and she would wake up glowing. She’d open her eyes and sit up in bed full of energy and actually reach for her phone, and that’s when she’d remember they were dead and it would hit her all over again, as hard as it did the very first time. When that happened, she felt a deep ache inside her chest, like her rib cage was being split open with an axe. When that happened, she needed to call the only other person who knew how this felt. When that happened, she called her brother. In loving memory CELEBRATE THE LIVES AND ART OF Eric Joyner & Nancy Cooke Joyner ORDER OF SERVICE Call to Worship—Reverend Michael Bullin “This Little Light of Mine” performed by The Doll Wiggler Quartet (featuring Joshua Bilmes, Adam Goldworm, Harold Brown, Daniel Passman) TESTIMONIALS Miss Mouse in the House & Her Human, Eddie Schneider Monsieur Brady McReynolds with His Friends Jacques & Andre Valentina “Mrs. Snowball” Sainato “The Five Penguins” performed by Susan Velazquez Jessica “Make a Joyful Noise” Wade Kitty-Cat Camacho MUSICAL INTERLUDE A Tribute to Nancy Joyner in Body Music, performed by Doogie Horner and His Body “Candle in the Wind” performed by The Treblemakers Alexis Nixon Danielle Keir Fareeda Bullert Daniela Reidlová Jin Yu Craig Burke Gabbie Pachon Lauren Burnstein TESTIMONIALS “My Ducky Has Big Eyes” recited by Claire Zion A Silent Meditation led by Jeanne-Marie Hudson and Oliver the Ostrich Emily Osborne and Scarlett Flufflebear Laura Corless the Dancing Meerkat Anthony Ramondo and Snocchio Hosannas and Praise by The Australian Trio MUSICAL INTERLUDE Eine kleine Nachtmusik by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, performed by Megha Jain (spoons) “Where Have All the Flowers Gone” by Pete Seeger, performed by William Barr (harmonica) TESTIMONIALS “I Mime the Body Electric,” an original poem by Lydia Gittens A Guided Visualization by Frances “The Magnificent” Horton and Puppy Kevin Kolsch and His Dancing Cat, Church The Original Lounge Lizard (and His Two Frogs), Davi Lancett Dr. Ralph Moore and the Three Pigs O’Plenty Interpretive Ballet by Mr. Giraffe and Friends (Y. S. T.) A FINAL SONG “Rainbow Connection” by Kermit the Frog RECESSIONAL “When the Saints Go Marching In” Everybody (kazoo) We would like to thank the Hendrix Family for the beautiful flowers donated to the sanctuary (Julia, Kat, Ann, David). The Fellowship of Christian Puppeteers wish to extend


cruise around in it this summer. But it’s not Sabrina standing against the hood, face illuminated by the glow of a cell phone. He looks up. A square jaw, narrow waist, messy golden hair pushed up off his forehead except for one lock that falls across his brow the second our eyes meet. “Harriet?” His voice is velvety. It sends a zing of surprise down my spine, like a zipper undone. I’ve seen him in pictures of my friends over the last semester, and before that, on campus, but always from a distance, always on the move. This close, something about him seems different. Less handsome, maybe, but more striking. His eyes look paler in the cell phone’s glow. There are premature crow’s-feet forming at their corners. He looks like he’s mostly made out of granite, except for his mouth, which is pure quicksand. Soft, full, one side of his Cupid’s bow noticeably higher. “A whole semester apart,” I say, “and you look exactly the same, Sabrina.” Symmetrical dimples appear on either side of his mouth. “Really? Because I cut my hair, got colored contacts, and grew four inches.” I narrow my eyes. “Hm. I’m not seeing it.” “Sabrina and Cleo had one too many boxes of wine,” he says. “Apiece.” “Oh.” I shiver as a breeze slips down the collar of my shirt. “Sorry you got stuck with pickup duty. I could’ve scheduled a cab.” He shrugs. “I didn’t mind. Been dying to see if the famous Harriet Kilpatrick lives up to the hype.” Being the object of his full focus makes me feel like a deer in headlights. Or maybe like I’m a deer being stalked by a coyote. If he were an animal, that’s what he’d be, with those strange flashing eyes and that physical ease. The kind of confidence reserved for those who skipped their awkward phases entirely. Whereas any confidence I have is the hard-won spoils from spending the bulk of my childhood with braces and the haircut of an unfortunate poodle. “Sabrina,” I say, “tends to embellish.” Weirdly, though, her descriptions of him didn’t come close to capturing the man. Or maybe it was that because I knew she had a crush on him, I’d expected something different. Someone more polished, suave. Someone more like Parth, his best friend. The corners of his mouth twitch as he ambles forward. My heart whirs as he reaches out, as if planning to catch my chin and turn it side to side for his inspection to prove that I’ve been oversold. But he’s only taking my bag from my shoulder. “They said you were a brunette.” My own snort-laugh surprises me. “I’m glad they spoke so highly of me.” “They did,” he says, “but the only thing I can corroborate so far is whether you’re a brunette. Which you’re not.” “I am definitely a brunette.” He tosses my bag into the back seat, then faces me again, his hips sinking against the door. His head tilts thoughtfully. “Your hair’s almost black. In the moonlight it looks blue.” “Blue?” I