girl, darling. ANTONYMS: (n) (n) shamelessness, brazenness. quiveringly, quaveringly, fidgetily, grownup, adult, adolescent. respiration: (n) breathing, breath, vibratingly. lowly: (adj) base, lower, low, inferior, breathe, aspiration, respire, vibrate: (v) shake, shiver, oscillate, baseborn; (adv) meekly, meanly, inspiration, wind, breathing place, tremble, quiver, shudder, swing, modestly, poorly, softly, humbly. periodic breathing, panting, wobble, palpitate, thrill, throb. ANTONYMS: (adj) noble, privileged, exercising. wondrous: (adj) marvelous, high, aristocratic, refined, exalted, transgress: (v) offend, infringe, break, miraculous, marvellous, astonishing, comfortable. trespass, contravene, violate, tremendous, fantastic, phenomenal, repentance: (n) contrition, penance, overstep, disobey, breach, infract; extraordinary, rattling; (adv) remorse, regret, compunction, (adj, v) err. ANTONYM: (v) behave. wonderfully, marvellously. Nathaniel Hawthorne 63 Discerning the impracticable state of the poor culprit's mind, the elder clergyman, who had carefully prepared himself for the occasion, addressed to the multitude a discourse on sin, in all its branches, but with continual reference to the ignominious letter. So forcibly did he dwell upon this symbol, for the hour or more during which is periods were rolling over the people's heads, that it assumed new terrors in their imagination, and seemed to derive its scarlet hue from the flames of the infernal pit. Hester Prynne, meanwhile, kept her place upon the pedestal of shame, with glazed eyes, and an air of weary indifference. She had borne that morning all that nature could endure; and as her temperament was not of the order that escapes from too intense suffering by a swoon, her spirit could only shelter itself beneath a stony crust of insensibility, while the faculties of animal life remained entire. In this state, the voice of the preacher thundered remorselessly, but unavailingly, upon her ears. The infant, during the latter portion of her ordeal, pierced the air with its wailings and screams; she strove to hush it mechanically, but seemed scarcely to sympathise with its trouble. With the same hard demeanour, she was led back to prison, and vanished from the public gaze within its iron-clamped portal. It was whispered by those who peered after her that the scarlet letter threw a lurid gleam along the dark passage-way of the interior.% Thesaurus demeanour: (n) behavior, behaviour, blasted, unholy, wicked; (adj, v) swoon: (adj, n, v) faint; (adj, n) conduct, demeanor, comportment, diabolic, satanic. collapse; (n) fainting, syncope, deportment, manner, citizenship, insensibility: (n) callousness, prostration, deliquium; (v) conk, correctitude, carriage, attitude. hardness, indifference, dullness, black out, pass out, die; (adj) puff. impracticable: (adj) unfeasible, stupidity, stupor, impassiveness, sympathise: (v) sympathize, infeasible, impractical, unrealistic, coma, physical insensibility, commiserate, empathise, empathize, unworkable, impervious, unusable, impassivity, trance. gather, infer, interpret, read, realise, unattainable, useless; (v) crotchety, remorselessly: (adv) mercilessly, realize, see. fussy. ANTONYMS: (adj) viable, relentlessly, unmercifully, ruthlessly, unavailingly: (adv) vainly, uselessly, feasible, possible, accustomed. brutally, unrelentingly, fiercely, inefficaciously, ineffectively, futilely, infernal: (adj) devilish, fiendish, grimly, unpityingly, inhumanly, inutilely, otiosely, ineffectually, diabolical, demonic, damned, cursed, callously. bootlessly, abortively, pointlessly. Nathaniel Hawthorne 65 CHAPTER IV. THE INTERVIEW After her return to the prison, Hester Prynne was found to be in a state of nervous excitement, that demanded constant watchfulness, lest she should perpetrate violence on herself, or


it, shaking it out on the bedspread. From it spilled a random assortment of photographs and papers, along with a thumb drive labeled “Percy.” With what I’ve got on the guy, he can’t say no to me, I remembered Cass saying. I spread out the papers and photos with a slow sweep of my hand, feeling uneasy. There didn’t seem to be any clear theme among the documents. A photo showed a man I didn’t know, laughing and holding a bong. A printed-out email from someone at a construction company seemed to be discussing wetland delineation and something about drain tile and “Section 404.” There were a handful of other photographs, some showing obviously sketchy behavior but most seemingly innocent without context. A duplicate check from Meredith Green to someone named Alicia Barlow for $15,000, dated April 2000. And at the bottom of the stack, there was one more photograph. This one was older, dented from poor storage. It was a photograph of Jim Green, his hands on the hips of a slim woman in tight jeans and a Chester Lumber Co. T-shirt, what looked like the old mill in the background. His head was bent toward hers, almost kissing her. Close enough that there was no ambiguity about his intent, or hers. The woman was in profile, her face turned away from the camera, but still I recognized her. Jessi Walker. Jessi’s mystery man was the mayor. Something like sorrow slithered through me. It wasn’t like I’d ever cared much for Jim. He wasn’t a surrogate father or a protector. But he’d been a constant presence. One more thing turned foul. When I’d gotten the summer job filing, it had been Meredith’s idea. I’d heard her and Big Jim arguing about it once—what had she said? This way you won’t have to stay late at the office. I’d assumed she’d meant that he wouldn’t have as much work to do. I’d been naïve in my own way, even after everything that had happened. I gathered everything and stuffed it back into the envelope. The content of the photograph was less of a surprise than the fact that Cass had it at all. What the hell was this? A blackmail stash? I shook my head. I didn’t know what the hell Cass was doing with this stuff, but the implications of it were clear. Big Jim had been sleeping with Jessi. I’d been focused on Oscar—his jealousy, his rage. But jealousy wasn’t the only thing that could drive a man to kill. She’d told Oscar she was going to start a new life with her lover. Which meant she’d thought Big Jim would leave his wife for her. He was going to take her away from this small town and give her everything she dreamed of. Because that’s what you tell your pretty mistress before you get bored with her. But maybe she pushes. She asks for a deadline. She tells him to step up, or she’ll tell his wife, she’ll tell everyone. So things get heated. Maybe it’s an accident, maybe


became restless. The sorrow and guilt of her mother’s death was climbing up her bones again, and she had no choice but to light her candle with a gasp. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand, her shoulders hunched. She was so exhausted; why couldn’t she sleep? When she opened her eyes, her gaze fixed on the narrow wardrobe door on the other side of her room. She wondered if this threshold would work just like the one in her bedroom. If she typed on Nan’s typewriter, would her letters still reach the nameless boy she had been writing? Iris wanted to find out how strong this magical bond was. If six hundred kilometers would break it. She slipped off her mattress and sat on the floor, opening her typewriter case. This was familiar to her, even in a different place, surrounded by strangers who were becoming friends. This motion, her fingers striking words onto a blank page, cross-legged on a rug. It grounded her. I know this is impossible. I know this is a bloody long shot. And yet here I am, writing to you again, sitting on the floor with a candle burning. Here I am reaching out to you and hoping you’ll answer, even as I’m in a different house and nearly six hundred kilometers away from Oath. And yet I can’t help but wonder if my words will still be able to reach you. If so, I have a request. I’m sure you remember the first true letter you wrote me. The one that detailed the myth of Dacre and Enva. It was only half complete, but do you think you could find the corresponding piece? I would like to know how it ends. I should go. The last thing I want is for my typing to wake someone up, because this place is so quiet, so silent that I can hear my own heart, beating in my ears. And I shouldn’t hope. I shouldn’t try to send this. I don’t even know your name. But I think there is a magical link between you and me. A bond that not even distance can break. Iris gently removed the paper and folded it. She rose with a pop in her knees and approached the wardrobe door. This will be wild if it works, she thought, proceeding to slip the letter beneath the door. She counted three breaths, and then opened the closet. To her shock, the paper was gone. It was wonderful and terrible, because now she had to wait. Perhaps he wouldn’t write her back. Iris paced her room, wrapping tendrils of hair around her fingers. It took him two minutes to reply, the paper whispering over her floor. She caught it up and read: SIX HUNDRED KILOMETERS FROM OATH?!!! Answer me, and I’ll do my best to find the other half of the myth: Did you go to war? And before you ask, yes. I’m relieved to discover more paper of yours on my floor. P.S.—Forgive my lack of manners. How are you


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

put into her middle, the feeling of vertigo that the thought of running away brought her. Leaving would be as futile as trying to catch the ocean in your hands. Not just physically, but spiritually, like something anchored her here. “We can’t,” she murmured. “As much as I don’t want to trust him, Anton is our only—” “You don’t understand, Lore.” There was something desperate in Bastian’s tone, something that told her he felt the same pull to this night as she did and was desperately fighting against it. “It happened again. Another village.” Only Bastian’s hand on her waist kept her from tripping over her hem. Lore’s fingers went cold. “When?” “Last night.” He kept her close, spoke in her ear—to anyone watching, they’d look two minutes away from sneaking off to a secluded corner, but their faces were twin masks of fear. “A few of the Presque Mort went to collect the bodies—Anton put Malcolm in charge.” Another village. She thought of her uncomfortable sleep, dark dreams she could only recall fragments of. Lore shook her head, banishing the half-formed speculations. “Where is Anton, then?” “I don’t know.” Bastian led her through a spin. “Preparing to stop August, I guess. It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to let my uncle be the only thing that stands between you and death. I can get you money. Food. Get you on a ship—” “I can’t leave Dellaire. Mortem won’t let me.” “Damn this.” He hissed it through his teeth, his grip on her waist so tight it almost hurt. “Damn this. Fine. I can find a place for you in the city—” “Bastian.” She shook her head again, her nose grazing his neck. They didn’t have to stand this close, but it was a comfort, and neither of them moved away. “They’d just find me. You know that.” Her road ended here, in the Citadel. Either dead from August’s ritual, or kept in a gilded cage, a tool to aid in controlling a mad and dying King. Lore knew it. Gabe knew it. Bastian did, too. Of the three of them, he was the most likely to try to change the unchangeable, the one most predisposed to thinking he could shift the world to suit him. But even Bastian had to realize it was pointless this time. Lore was caught. But just because she was caught didn’t have to mean all of them were. “I can’t leave,” Lore repeated, a murmur against his ear. “But you can.” For the first time, Bastian stuttered in their dance; other courtiers swirled around them as if she and the Sun Prince were rocks in a stream, but he and Lore just stood still, her hands on his shoulders, his on her waist, his eyes boring down into hers. “And leave you.” Gruff, not quite angry, but more than halfway there. “Leave you here.” “Anton said he’d stop the ritual.” A thin defense, but it was all she had. “Say he does. Then what?” People were starting to stare; Bastian swept her up into the dance


had already moment, she yawed sharply and seemed to change her course. fetched up level with the camp-fire. The ship was talking, as The speed in the meantime had strangely increased. sailors say, loudly, treading the innumerable ripples with an I opened my eyes at once. All round me were little ripples, incessant weltering splash; and until I got my eye above the combing over with a sharp, bristling sound and slightly phos- window-sill I could not comprehend why the watchmen had phorescent. The HISPANIOLA herself, a few yards in whose taken no alarm. One glance, however, was sufficient; and it wake I was still being whirled along, seemed to stagger in her was only one glance that I durst take from that unsteady skiff. course, and I saw her spars toss a little against the blackness of It showed me Hands and his companion locked together in the night; nay, as I looked longer, I made sure she also was deadly wrestle, each with a hand upon the other’s throat. wheeling to the southward. I dropped upon the thwart again, none too soon, for I was I glanced over my shoulder, and my heart jumped against near overboard. I could see nothing for the moment but these my ribs. There, right behind me, was the glow of the camp- two furious, encrimsoned faces swaying together under the fire. The current had turned at right angles, sweeping round smoky lamp, and I shut my eyes to let them grow once more along with it the tall schooner and the little dancing coracle; familiar with the darkness. ever quickening, ever bubbling higher, ever muttering louder, The endless ballad had come to an end at last, and the it went spinning through the narrows for the open sea. Contents whole diminished company about the camp-fire had broken Suddenly the schooner in front of me gave a violent yaw, into the chorus I had heard so often: turning, perhaps, through twenty degrees; and almost at the Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 190 191 same moment one shout followed another from on board; I could hear feet pounding on the companion ladder and I knew that the two drunkards had at last been interrupted in their quarrel and awakened to a sense of their disaster. I lay down flat in the bottom of that wretched skiff and devoutly recommended my spirit to its Maker. At the end of the straits, I made sure we must fall into some bar of raging breakers, where all my troubles would be ended speedily; and though I could, perhaps, bear to die, I could not bear to look upon my fate as it approached. So I must have lain for hours, continually beaten to and Chapter 24. fro upon the billows, now and again wetted with flying sprays, The Cruise of the Coracle. and never ceasing to expect death at the next plunge. Gradu- ally weariness grew upon me; a numbness, an occasional stu- IT was broad day when I awoke and found myself tossing por, fell upon my mind


there were any one to talk to I could bear it, but there is no one. I have only the Count to speak with, and he--I fear I am myself the only living soul within the place. Let me be prosaiac so far as facts can be. It will help me to bear up, and imagination must not run riot with me. If it does I am lost. Let me say at once how I stand, or seem to. I only slept a few hours when I went to bed,and feeling that I could not sleep any more, got up. I had hung my shaving glass by the window, and was just beginning to shave. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, and heard the Count's voice saying to me, "Good morning." I started, for it amazed me that I had not seen him, since the reflection of the glass covered the whole room behind me. In starting I had cut myself slightly, but did not notice it at the moment. Having answered the Count's salutation, I turned to the glass again to see how I had been mistaken. This time there could be no error, for the man was close to me, and I could see him over my shoulder. But there was no reflection of him in the mirror! The whole room behind me was displayed, but there was no sign of a man in it, except myself. This was startling, and coming on the top of so many strange things, was beginning to increase that vague feeling of uneasiness which I always have when the Count is near. But at the instant I saw the the cut had bled a little, and the blood was trickling over my chin. I laid down the razor, turning as I did so half round to look for some sticking plaster. When the Count saw my face, his eyes blazed with a sort of demoniac fury, and he suddenly made a grab at my throat. I drew away and his hand touched the string of beads which held the crucifix. It made an instant change in him, for the fury passed so quickly that I could hardly believe that it was ever there. "Take care," he said, "take care how you cut yourself. It is more dangerous that you think in this country." Then seizing the shaving glass, he went on, "And this is the wretched thing that has done the mischief. It is a foul bauble of man's vanity. Away with it!" And opening the window with one wrench of his terrible hand, he flung out the glass, which was shattered into a thousand pieces on the stones of the courtyard far below. Then he withdrew without a word. It is very annoying, for I do not see how I am to shave, unless in my watch-case or the bottom of the shaving pot, which is fortunately of metal. When I went into the dining room, breakfast was prepared, but I could not find the Count anywhere. So I breakfasted alone.


long whistle of surprise. "Jake! Look here!" he said. "You were right. The gold's here all right. And how easy to take away! All in ingots -my word, this is the most amazing thing we've ever struck." "This gold is mine," said George, in a fury. "The island and the castle belong to my mother- and so does anything found here. This gold was brought here and stored by my great-great-great-grandfather before his ship got wrecked. It's not yours, and never will be. As soon as I get back home I shall tell my father and mother what we've found- and then you may be sure you won't be able to buy the castle or the island! You were very clever, finding out from the map in the old box about the gold -but just not clever enough for us. We found it first!" The men listened in silence to George's clear and angry voice. One of them laughed. "You're only a child," he said. "You surely don't think you can keep us from getting our way? We're going to buy this island- and everything in it- and we shall take the gold when the deeds are signed. And if by any chance we couldn't buy the island, we'd take the gold just the same. It would be easy enough to bring a ship here and transfer the ingots from here by boat to the ship. Don't worry- we shall get what we want all right." "You will not!" said George, and she stepped out of the door. "I'm going straight home now- and I'll tell my father all you've said." "My dear little girl, you are not going home," said the first man, putting his hands on George and forcing her back into the dungeon. "And, by the way, unless you want me to shoot this unpleasant dog of yours, call him off, will you?" George saw, to her dismay, that the man had a shining revolver in his hand. In fright she caught hold of Tim's collar and pulled him to her. "Be quiet, Tim," she said. "It's all right." But Tim knew quite well that it wasn't all right. Something was very wrong. He went on growling fiercely. "Now listen to me," said the man, after he had had a hurried talk with his companion. "If you are going to be sensible, nothing unpleasant will happen to you. But if you want to be obstinate, you'll be very sorry. What we are going to do is this- we're going off in our motor-boat, leaving you nicely locked up here- and we're going to get a ship and come back for the gold. We don't think it's worth while buying the island now we know where the ingots are." "And you are going to write a note to your companions above, telling them you've found the gold and they are to come down and look for it," said the other man. "Then we shall lock up all of you in this dungeon, with the ingots to play with, leaving you


attics. If I’m going to assess this place, then you need to find me a reason to get into the good part of the house.” Winnie hesitated. “I’m sure you’ll find a way,” she said. Mrs. Bone gripped Winnie’s wrist. “I’m not going to be boiled like a load of old petticoats in the laundry room. You can find the way.” Winnie shook her off. “Very well,” she said, voice hardening. She paused to consider it. “They’d allow the daily woman upstairs if there was a cleaning job that the other girls couldn’t manage. Rough work, you know.” “I’m not doing anything with blood. And nothing in the privy. Don’t even ask.” “Look in the dining room. It always gets the worst of the grime—the motor cars are parked right outside the front windows. Find something filthy, and then tell them you’ll clean it.” Mrs. Bone sucked in her cheeks. “Simple as that, is it?” “It’ll work, Mrs. Bone.” “Hmm. Now, you can do something else for me. Have you got the local bobby’s name?” “What do you need that for?” asked Winnie, dubiously. “Have you got it or not?” Winnie frowned. “Not his name. But naturally I’ve kept his beat under observation.” She hesitated, then drew out a notebook from her pocket. Flipped the pages. “He comes around at these times, without fail.” She tore out the piece of paper for Mrs. Bone. “Hmm,” Mrs. Bone said, approving. “You’re on top of the detail, I’ll grant you that.” Winnie looked pleased, but made her expression grave. “You really oughtn’t to see a policeman by yourself, Mrs. Bone. Something might go seriously awry. Alice can keep an eye on the mews yard, if you like. The second you go and see him, she’ll hurry down and give you some support. Will that suit?” “Support? I don’t need support from the sewing maid.” Then Mrs. Bone pondered it. “Scrap that, she’ll be very useful. Tell her to bump into us in the yard.” Mrs. Bone waved Winnie away. “Now, clear off before they see you.” She hurried as fast as she could back across the mews yard. She was preoccupied, and so she didn’t notice a weaselly little face watching her from the staircase that led to the cellars. “Whatchoo doing?” it said. “You’re not allowed out there.” A boy peeped up at her. An errand boy or kitchen boy, she couldn’t remember which. “Ain’t I?” she said. “Well, whatchoo doing?” “Nothing.” “Well then, I’m doing nothing, too, and you can go on doing nothing before I come down there and box your ears.” He muttered something. “And I’ll knock your teeth out for good measure,” she called after him. Little runt, she thought, but she knew a rogue element when she saw one. She could hear the patter of his footsteps all the way down the stairs and away through the cellars. She stopped and paid attention to them, the beat and the rhythm and the direction as he traveled through the foundations of the house, and committed them to memory. Rats


water, for her daughter to join her at the bottom. Jinju climbed down, joining her mother. ‘We have to let go.’ ‘I can’t swim.’ ‘I’ll swim for both of us. Hold me tight.’ Holding hands, they let go of the rope and the rapids took them out, into the middle of the river. They didn’t splash, or make a sound, going underwater, and surfacing again, never gasping for breath, calm and patient, kicking together to steer themselves across to the Chinese side. Washed up on the Chinese riverbank, they lay for a moment, catching their breath. Quickly they were up, running across the filthy grey sands into Changbai city. There was no need for stealth now; the city was empty, there were no soldiers on the street, no citizens in their homes; every person had been evacuated and only a few dogs remained. Jinju guided her mother to a grocery store, where she had transacted business in the past. Much of the food remained on the shelves. Jinju hesitated before taking an apple. It was the first time in her life that she’d stolen something. Her mother chose a yellow sweet rice cake, wrapped in bright plastic. The two of them ate guiltily, expecting police officers to scream at them. Out the back of the store there was a padlocked hut. Jinju took her knife and removed the screws, taking the door off its hinges. Inside was a motorbike. She said: ‘The owner of this store is very rich. He owns a car and a motorbike. He would’ve taken his family in his car.’ ‘I’ve never ridden a motorbike.’ ‘Nor have I. But I’ve watched him. How hard can it be? He was lazy. Not so bright. You turn it on. You push the peddle. And that’s it.’ They experimented for a few minutes, feeling its weight, sitting on it. They were terrified of the noise it would make when they turned it on. ‘We’re not in Hyesan anymore. This town is empty.’ Fearfully, they started the engine. Jinju took control, looking at her mother standing beside her. ‘Hold on.’ Her mother climbed onto the bike, clasping her hands around her daughter’s waist, and slowly, uncertainly, they drove out of the alley, bumping along beside the brick wall of the grocery store, until they reached the main street. Jinju picked up speed, getting a feel for the motorbike, setting off, heading west out of Changbai, away from Hyesan, away from North Korea, and towards the mountains, towards the strange spinning alien ships, towards the bright lights and the military jets, towards the exodus taking place in Shenyang. It took Jinju some time before she realized that for the first time in her life, she was free. THE ROSS ICE SHELF FINAL STAGE CHAMBERS SAME DAY JINJU WATCHED THE CREATURE SHE’D named after her mother walk to the edge of her enclosure and tear the steel bars aside as if they were no obstacle and never had been. She scaled the wall of her chamber, reaching the reinforced plate glass at the observation


or her daughter—Lucy decided that for now she would simply see how Mr. Calloway fared. Perhaps he was awake and recovering by now so she could ask him for advice and he would still be the kind and thoughtful man she had met at the inn yesterday. Had it been only yesterday? The day had felt like an eternity. Slipping from beneath the covers, she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and crept toward the door. The house was quiet around her, making her think perhaps it was later than she’d realized, and she hoped that meant everyone was asleep. She would be able to slip into Mr. Calloway’s room and ensure he was improving, and then she would try to find something to wear so she could get to the nearest town, Downingham, and find a conveyance to Lowbury. If she did everything under the cover of night, perhaps she could avoid the risk of running into Granger again. She had just about reached the door when she tripped over something and landed in a heap on top of a person lying on the floor. “Lucy!” “Rebecca!” Rebecca clapped a hand over Lucy’s mouth, even though she’d been the first to shout, and then she untangled herself and sat up. “Where are you going?” the maid demanded. Lucy rubbed the sore spot on her elbow where it had hit the floor. “Why are you sleeping in front of the door?” “To make sure you don’t go tell the Calloways who you are.” Groaning, Lucy wrapped her blanket a little tighter around her shoulders. Goodness, this blanket was soft. “I can’t keep lying to them, no matter what you say.” “But you have to!” Now that she was a little more awake, Lucy could see the fear in Rebecca’s eyes, even though it was dark. If the woman was willing to sleep on the cold, hard floor, perhaps her fears were not unwarranted. Rebecca truly believed what she had heard Mr. Granger say about carrying Lucy off and forcing her into marriage. Lucy could hardly stomach the idea. “You said Mr. Granger was hoping to intercept us,” she said. “Perhaps he was simply conducting business in the area and you were mistaken.” Rebecca shook her head, helping Lucy to her feet. “He never leaves Town this time of year.” That was true. Over the years, Jonathan Granger had waxed long about his business ventures, and he was always particularly adamant about remaining in London during the summers even though most of the ton tended to gravitate back toward their country estates until the next Season. Or perhaps he’d simply remained in Town because that was where Lucy had been. “What was he planning to do if we reached the Winthrops’ before he found us?” Lucy asked, trying not to picture the man dragging her from a coach in the middle of nowhere. She failed, and the thought made her shudder again. Rebecca shrugged. “I didn’t hear anything about that, but . . . you know Mr. Granger. What he wants, he gets.”


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

on a cooking spree. My dad is also a beloved fixture at almost every signing I’ve had in the Southwest. Readers love taking pictures with him and getting him to sign their copies of my books, too. Some photos of him cheekily pretending to read The Pirate’s Darkest Wish or Dirty Deeds on the High Seas have gone viral online. So Alice’s idea is smart: introduce Dad to Hot Brit, let the Brit do his flashy sales pitch, and let Dad take the information home to Mom. Boom, genius. “Tell me about this guy,” Alice says, watching me fiddle with the broken zipper. “What’s he like?” “Tall.” I think of some other adjectives. “Uh. Dark hair. Well dressed.” “I mean is he nice?” she asks, laughing. “I guess?” “Is he excited for the show?” “Not overtly.” “How long will you be filming?” she asks. “Five or six weeks, and then I pick who I want to take on some flashy trip at the end.” “Oh my God, what about Peter’s wedding? Can you still go?” Our baby brother is getting married in a matter of weeks, and it promises to be an opulent circus with the most ridiculous menu I’ve ever laid eyes on. Brother or no, I wouldn’t miss those eight courses for anything. “I’ll be there, ah mui. This won’t interfere with any of that.” I stand in front of the mirror, surveying. The dress is fine—it does great things for my boobs and is super comfy. But the problem isn’t really the clothes. It’s knowing this is my first public event in six months, that I have to face my readers and smile and pretend like everything is fine and the next book release is right around the corner, that the producer dude will be there watching, and that it was my idea for him to come pick me up. It’s weird that I did that. He’ll be coming over. Will I invite him in? I don’t need to, right? It’s been ages since anyone other than Jess, Juno, or my family stepped foot in my house. “Mui mui, does my place look like the home of someone who lets their cat casually stroll around on kitchen countertops?” Alice sits up. “Did you get a cat?” “I mean the overall vibe.” “Um. No?” Alice returns to the plush array of pillows and digs back into the chips. “But can we talk about this show? What is it?” “It’s me going on dates with some guys they’ve screened for DNADuo compatibility, and the audience gets to vote on who they think I’m most compatible with—Will you stop eating chips in my bed?” She ignores me and angles a few more into her mouth, speaking around them. “Why do you need to go on a dating show, though?” “I don’t need to. I—” I break off, unclear how to best explain to the most competent woman I know that I’m stuck in my writing, stuck in my dating, how the only thing I’m sure about is that I love my readers,


it from Piggy. "What's grownups going to say?" cried Piggy again. "Look at 'em!" The sound of mock hunting, hysterical laughter and real terror came from the beach. "Blow the conch, Ralph." Piggy was so close that Ralph could see the glint of his one glass. "There's the fire. Can't they see?" "You got to be tough now. Make 'em do what you want." Ralph answered in the cautious voice of one who rehearses a theorem. "If I blow the conch and they don't come back; then we've had it. We shan't keep the fire going. We'll be like animals. We'll never be rescued." "If you don't blow, we'll soon be animals anyway. I can't see what they're doing but I can hear." The dispersed figures had come together on the sand and were a dense black mass that revolved. They were chanting something and littluns that had had enough were staggering away, howling. Ralph raised the conch to his lips and then lowered it. "The trouble is: Are there ghosts, Piggy? Or beasts?" "Course there aren't." "Why not?" "'Cos things wouldn't make sense. Houses an' streets, an'--TV--they wouldn't work." The dancing, chanting boys had worked themselves away till their sound was nothing but a wordless rhythm. "But s'pose they don't make sense? Not here, on this island? Supposing things are watching us and waiting?" Ralph shuddered violently and moved closer to Piggy, so that they bumped frighteningly. "You stop talking like that! We got enough trouble, Ralph, an' I've had as much as I can stand. If there is ghosts--'' "I ought to give up being chief. Hear 'em." "Oh lord! Oh no!" Piggy gripped Ralph's arm. "If Jack was chief he'd have all hunting and no fire. We'd be here till we died." His voice ran up to a squeak. "Who's that sitting there?" "Me. Simon." "Fat lot of good we are," said Ralph. "Three blind mice. I'll give up." "If you give up," said Piggy, in an appalled whisper, "what 'ud happen to me?" "Nothing." "He hates me. I dunno why. If he could do what he wanted--you're all right, he respects you. Besides--you'd hit him." "You were having a nice fight with him just now." "I had the conch," said Piggy simply. "I had a right to speak." Simon stirred in the dark. "Go on being chief." "You shut up, young Simon! Why couldn't you say there wasn't a beast?" "I'm scared of him," said Piggy, "and that's why I know him. If you're scared of someone you hate him but you can't stop thinking about him. You kid yourself he's all right really, an' then when you see him again; it's like asthma an' you can't breathe. I tell you what. He hates you too, Ralph--" "Me? Why me?" "I dunno. You got him over the fire; an' you're chief an' he isn't." "But he's, he's, Jack Merridew!" "I been in bed so much I done some thinking. I know about people. I know about me. And him. He can't hurt you: but if you stand out


fibres of the building getting under my skin, filling my head with ideas of a future I would never have dared to dream about. Yet when I saw Opaline’s letter to Sylvia, I knew that the book she referred to was the one that had been given to me. Was it all somehow linked to Madame Bowden? All I had were questions and the only person I could talk to about it was Henry. Could we be friends? The idea made me feel so sad. But I couldn’t see any other way. I couldn’t risk losing myself again, not when I’d fought so hard to rebuild my life. As I lay in bed reading one of the books on my literature course, Persuasion by Jane Austen, I noticed more books lying flat on the branch that had flattened out as a shelf. The words emblazoned on their spines were almost golden in the lamplight. Dear Reader by Cathy Rentzenbrink, Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro and Flowers in the Attic by V. C. Andrews. Gosh. Did Madame Bowden really think I could manage all of this extra reading? I looked back down at the page I was reading. I couldn’t let myself get distracted, as I had to finish it before my next class. My curiosity wouldn’t let me be and I looked up again, only this time, certain words seem to stand out more than others. Dear Reader Go In The Attic I held my breath and pressed the book I was reading to my chest. This was properly spooky. I looked at the clock. A minute past midnight. I looked back at the books and they seemed perfectly normal and harmless once again, no word more luminous than the rest. There was no secret message at all. I should just ignore it, I told myself, figuring my eyes were tired and seeing things that weren’t there. Intuition, Madame Bowden had called it. Maybe ignoring it had been the problem all along. I slipped my feet into my sneakers and pulled around me the old cardigan that doubled as a dressing gown. I didn’t want to turn on the hall light upstairs – I knew Madame Bowden was a light sleeper – and as a result I stubbed my toe on the last step to the top floor. I silently cried out in pain and at being gullible enough to believe the books were telling me something. But was it gullible? I was wearing a tattoo on my back, half of which I didn’t put there. I came to a small door at the highest point of the building and had to crouch down. I pushed and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. I searched fruitlessly at the top of the architrave for a key, finding only dust. It was pointless. There was nothing I could do in the dark. I made my way a little more carefully down the stairs and as I trod softly past her bedroom door, the lady of the house called out. ‘Is that you, Martha?’


there to curse at him, to insist he keep his eyes open, to hold his hand and ensure he was all right. She swallowed, her mouth dry and full of ash. She blinked away her tears. It was just smoke in her eyes. Smoke in her eyes, burning her up from within. “I think we can retrieve one more,” Stanley said. “As long as there’s gunfire, we have time. Can you do that?” Iris nodded, listening to the pop of the guns in the distance. But her shoulders were sore, her breaths were uneven. Her heart pounded a painful song in her chest as she ran behind Stanley, the stretcher banging against her sore thighs. They went deeper into the trenches this time. Iris’s legs were trembling as she realized the gunfire was beginning to ease. Did that mean Dacre’s soldiers had killed everyone at the front? Did that mean they would soon press closer? Would they kill her if they found her, stranded in the thick of the trenches? Did they take prisoners? Before Dacre takes them. The captain’s words echoed through her, making her shiver. Distracted, Iris tripped over something. It brought her to her knees, and she felt stray pieces of shrapnel bite into her skin. Stanley paused, glancing over his shoulder to look at her. “Get up,” he said, and he suddenly sounded afraid, because the gunfire was waning. But Iris was scarcely listening to him, or the way the world was becoming eerily silent again. Because there on the ground was a leather bag that looked just like the one she was carrying. Scuffed and freckled with blood and trampled by countless boots. Roman’s bag. Iris slipped it onto her shoulder. It rested beside her own bag, and she felt the weight settle on her back as she rose to her feet once more. “What are you still doing here, correspondent?” Captain Speer shouted at Iris. “Get in the lorry! You should have evacuated an hour ago!” Iris startled. She was standing in Station Fourteen, uncertain what she should be doing. All she knew was there was blood dried on her hands and jumpsuit, and the scrape on her chest was burning, and her pulse was frantic, wondering where Roman was. “Go!” the captain screamed when Iris remained standing blankly. Iris nodded and stumbled through the dusky light to the back of the lorry. Soldiers were being loaded, and she waited, not wanting to push her way through. Eventually, one of the privates saw her and hefted her up into the crowded bed without a word. She sprawled on top of someone groaning in pain. Iris shifted her weight, unbalanced by the two bags on her back. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” “Miss Winnow?” She studied the bloodied soldier beneath her. “Lieutenant Lark? Oh my gods, are you all right?” It was a ridiculous thing for her to ask. Of course, he wasn’t all right— none of them were all right—but she suddenly didn’t know what to do, what to say. She gently moved to sit beside him,


the awkward way she held them, the raw red scars, the stiffness of the last two fingers on her left. "You've been hurt." He took her hands in his own, turned them over. "Gods. Those are deep cuts . . . a gash from a sword or . . . how did this happen, my lady?" Catelyn slid a dagger out from under her cloak and placed it in his hand. "This blade was sent to open Bran's throat and spill his life's blood." Ned's head jerked up. "But . . . who . . . why would She put a finger to his lips. "Let me tell it all, my love. It will go faster that way. Listen." So he listened, and she told it all, from the fire in the library tower to Varys and the guardsmen and Littlefinger. And when she was done, Eddard Stark sat dazed beside the table, the dagger in his hand. Bran's wolf had saved the boy's life, he thought dully. What was it that Jon had said when they found the pups in the snow? Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord. And he had killed Sansa's, and for what? Was it guilt he was feeling? Or fear? If the gods had sent these wolves, what folly had he done? Painfully, Ned forced his thoughts back to the dagger and what it meant. "The Imp's dagger," he repeated. It made no sense. His hand curled around the smooth dragonbone hilt, and he slammed the blade into the table, felt it bite into the wood. It stood mocking him. "Why should Tyrion Lannister want Bran dead? The boy has never done him harm." "Do you Starks have nought but snow between your ears?" Littlefinger asked. "The Imp would never have acted alone." Ned rose and paced the length of the room. "If the queen had a role A GAME OF THRONES 177 in this or, gods forbid, the king himself ... no, I will not believe that." Yet even as he said the words, he remembered that chill morning on the barrowlands, and Robert's talk of sending hired knives after the Targaryen princess. He remembered Rhaegar's infant son, the red ruin of his skull, and the way the king had turned away, as he had turned away in Darry's audience hall not so long ago. He could still hear Sansa pleading, as Lyanna had pleaded once. "Most likely the king did not know," Littlefinger said. "It would not be the first time. Our good Robert is practiced at closing his eyes to things he would rather not see." Ned had no reply for that. The face of the butcher's boy swam up before his eyes, cloven almost in two, and afterward the king had said not a word. His head was pounding. Littlefinger sauntered over to the table, wrenched the knife from the wood. "The accusation is treason either way. Accuse the king and you will dance with Ilyn Payne before the words are out of your mouth. The queen . .


on either side of her, puffing out their cheeks and exhaling air through pursed lips like two demented blowfish. I’m not sure it was helping but I could see by Lucinda’s face that she was just glad of the quiet. It was an improvement on all of the shouting. I was quietly congratulating myself for being the rock in the situation and pulled up outside A&E. ‘Here we are,’ I said, as though I were dropping them off at the airport for a fortnight on the Costa. ‘This … isn’t … maternity,’ Lucinda said in a very low, threatening voice and then emitted what could only be described as something akin to a cow bellowing. I stamped my foot on the accelerator and followed the signs for maternity before once more pulling up at the door. After helping them out, I parked the car and, by the time I got back, everything was over. ‘It’s a girl,’ my mother whispered through tears and I hugged her tightly under a broken fluorescent light that flickered overhead. I couldn’t quite believe that we had arrived as four people and we would be going home as five. ‘They’re delivering the afterbirth now.’ ‘Mum, please, no details.’ ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she said, smacking me lightly on the arm. ‘It’ll be your turn one day.’ Would it? I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a father. I didn’t want to inflict what I had experienced on anyone else. ‘You can come in now.’ Neil popped his head around the door. He was wearing a plastic apron over his clothes, as though he had delivered the baby. He was crying. ‘Happy tears,’ he said and I couldn’t help but put my arms around him. It was endearing to see him so vulnerable. The room was buzzing with the sense that something important had just happened. Then I saw my sister, her dark fringe pushed back off her face with sweat, her nakedness covered with a sheet and a little dark-haired head resting in the crook of her arm. ‘Felicity, it’s time to meet your uncle Henry.’ And then I was crying. Which didn’t seem to matter so much because the baby was crying now too. Then we all laughed and cried until the nurse told us to get out because she had to show Lu how to get Felicity to ‘latch on’. She wasn’t going to get any rest, that was for sure. Ever, probably. We spent the night at the hospital together, none of us wanting to break the little bubble of joy we had created. Well, that Neil and Lu had created, to be precise. A new person had joined our family and, without saying as much, we all seemed to be united in the conviction that her experience would be better than our own. We would become better people for her. The process had already started. Perhaps this was why people referred to new life as a miracle, because it had the power to change everything. I suddenly had an overwhelming longing to see


Why couldn’t I be stronger? He shook his head and widened his eyes in disbelief. ‘Nice to see where your priorities lie.’ ‘It is my job, Shane. I’ll call home tonight and be on the first bus down in the morning.’ ‘There, you have your answer,’ Madame Bowden said, stepping in front of me. ‘Don’t call the house, there’s no one home, obviously.’ It seemed as though he was giving up. What else could he do with her there? He took one last look around the place, then filled his mouth with saliva and spat on the floor before walking out and slamming the front door. My lungs exhaled and I realised I’d been holding my breath for who knows how long. The relief of his absence was spoiled only by the embarrassment I felt in front of my employer. ‘I’ll clean that,’ I said, reaching into my apron pocket for a cloth and walking away quickly so I could hide my tears. ‘Martha Winter, you’ll do no such thing!’ she commanded. ‘I think it’s time you told me what exactly is going on.’ Chapter Twenty-One HENRY ‘I’m following a new lead.’ The sigh on the other end of the line was not open to interpretation. ‘I’m just wondering, is all of this really worth it?’ said Isabelle. I gave my own version of the frustrated sigh. She had no idea. How could she? I’d been cryptic about my research for so long that she’d lost interest in asking. ‘It’s worth it to me.’ ‘Fine. Well, I suppose there’s no point in me saying that I miss you, it hardly seems relevant to you.’ ‘Of course it’s relevant, I really miss you too, Issy.’ And there it was. My first lie. Or rather, the first lie that I was blindingly aware of, like staring into the sun and seeing the worst part of yourself eclipsed. I didn’t want to be the kind of person who simply told someone what they wanted to hear, but I didn’t know what the truth was any more. Or maybe I did but I didn’t know what to do about it. I was stalling. Did that make me a bad person? ‘Your mother called.’ ‘What? My mother called you?’ ‘Yes, Henry. She is going to be my future mother-in-law. If we ever get married, that is.’ I gulped. ‘She said your father’s checked himself into rehab.’ I’m not sure how many seconds passed by. ‘Henry? Are you there?’ I cleared my throat. It felt thick with something I was determined to suppress. ‘Yep, I’m still here.’ ‘Well, aren’t you going to say anything?’ This was typical of my mother – using someone else to deliver the news she should have told me herself. I hated her and pitied her at the same time. She was always hiding behind someone or something. Perhaps she was ashamed of the whole thing. I know I was. ‘What is there to say? Am I supposed to be impressed? He’ll sober up for a fortnight, maybe three weeks at a stretch, then


demanded. “I followed you from the courtyard. If you need someone to help, I can do it, but not if you’re going to mess with my mind.” “No way are you getting involved.” Alex said. “Absolutely not.” Dawes looked horrified. “Wait, who … what does she know?” “Most of it.” “You told her about—” Dawes’s voice dropped to an angry whisper. “About Lethe?” “Yes,” Alex snapped. “And I’m not going to apologize for it. She’s the one who fished me out of my own misery last year. She’s the one who called my mom and made sure I was okay when you were holed up at your sister’s house watching old sitcoms and hiding under the blankets.” Dawes ducked her chin into her sweatshirt and Alex felt instantly terrible. “I can help,” Mercy said, breaking the silence. “You said you need someone to watch over you. I can do that.” “No.” Alex cut her hand through the air as if she were slicing the thought in half. “You have no idea what you’re signing up for. No.” Mercy crossed her arms. She was wearing a bright blue granny sweater today, crocheted roses gathered around the neck. She looked like a disapproving kindergarten teacher. “You can’t just say no, Alex.” “You could be killed.” Mercy scoffed. “Do you really think that will happen?” “No one knows what will happen!” “Can you give me a weapon?” Alex pinched the bridge of her nose. At least Mercy was asking the right questions. “You kind of don’t get to say no, right?” Mercy continued. “You don’t have anyone else. And you owe me for all the magical stuff.” “I don’t want you to get hurt.” “Because you’d feel guilty.” “Because I like you!” Alex shouted. She forced herself to lower her voice. “And yes, I’d feel guilty. I rescue you, you rescue me. That’s what you said, remember?” “So if something goes wrong, that’s what you do.” Dawes cleared her throat. “We do need someone.” Mercy stuck her hand out. “Mercy Zhao, roommate and bodyguard.” Dawes shook it. “I … Pamela Dawes. Doctoral candidate and…” Alex sighed. “Just say it.” “Oculus.” “That’s a really good code name,” said Mercy. “It’s my office,” Dawes said with as much dignity as she could muster. “We’re not spies.” “No,” said Alex. “Espionage would be too easy for Lethe.” “Actually,” Mercy said, “there’s speculation that the term spooks for CIA operatives originated from so many recruits coming from Skull and Bones.” Alex laid her head down on the table. “You’re going to fit right in.” “Just tell me where to start.” “Don’t get excited,” Alex warned. “We haven’t even figured out how the Gauntlet works or if we’ve got this whole thing wrong.” Dawes gestured to the blueprint of Sterling. “There’s supposed to be a circuit, a circle for us to complete, but…” Mercy studied the blueprint. “It looks like you’re headed around the courtyard.” “That’s right,” said Dawes. “But there’s no way to complete the circuit. The path dead-ends at Manuscripts and Archives.” “No, it doesn’t,” said Mercy. “Just


phone once he got home, discussing how he had planned the proposal, reviewing their life together so far, revisiting the moments when each had realised they were in love with the other. By the time Wúràọlá drifted off to sleep, the proposal felt like a culmination, the point to which the arc of their lives had been bending, a convergence as inevitable as fate. She set down the novel and sent Kúnlé a text. Awake? Her phone did not vibrate in response. She leaned back in her chair and stared at the inky sky. Kúnlé’s alarm usually went off at five a.m., and he always dragged himself out of bed for a run around the compound without ever hitting the snooze button. Maybe he was out running. He could also be ignoring her call because he was still upset with her. They had argued before getting off the phone last night. He wanted them to get married within six months, but she wanted to wait for at least one year. She was supposed to start her national service year right after her house job and could be posted to any state in Nigeria. If they got married before the service year started, Wúràọlá would be allowed to serve wherever her husband was domiciled. His argument made sense, but she was unwilling to budge. She was looking forward to living elsewhere during the service year, far from the two cities where she had spent most of her life. Marriage could come after that year of freedom from the close-knit circles that had orbited her from childhood through university, where she always seemed to be in a room with someone her parents knew. Her phone vibrated. “Hello, baby,” Wúràọlá said, holding the phone to her ear. “Hello,” Kúnlé said. “Have you been running?” “No.” “Is it raining in your area?” “I wasn’t in the mood to run.” She knew he was trying hard to keep his tone light, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him and reminded her of the first time she had noticed a wobble in his voice while he faked a smile. Kúnlé had graduated from secondary school and Wúràọlá was home from her boarding school on a midterm break when her father sent her to the Cokers with a sealed envelope. She knew from eavesdropping on her parents that the white envelope contained dollar notes for Kúnlé’s father, who was preparing to leave for a sabbatical in Saudi Arabia. Kúnlé’s family still lived in the General Hospital’s staff quarters, and though the row of identical bungalows confused Wúràọlá, her father’s driver had driven straight to the Cokers’ doorstep. Kúnlé had been standing on the lawn when she stepped out of the car, his back to the house, where his parents were fighting about his results. Láyí, who had aced all his exams, had already told Wúràọlá about Kúnlé’s terrible results. Kúnlé had failed biology and chemistry, key requirements for admission into any medical school in the country. Kúnlé’s father wanted him to write the exams again. Meanwhile, his mother


hot bags of colored guts, pushing them into a pile on the rock while the others watched him. He talked as he worked. "We'll take the meat along the beach. I'll go back to the platform and invite them to a feast. That should give us time." Roger spoke. "Chief--" "Uh--?" "How can we make a fire?" Jack squatted back and frowned at the pig. "We'll raid them and take fire. There must be four of you; Henry and you, Robert and Maurice. We'll put on paint and sneak up; Roger can snatch a branch while I say what I want. The rest of you can get this back to where we were. We'll build the fire there. And after that--" He paused and stood up, looking at the shadows under the trees. His voice was lower when he spoke again. "But we'll leave part of the kill for . . ." He knelt down again and was busy with his knife. The boys crowded round him. He spoke over his shoulder to Roger. "Sharpen a stick at both ends." Presently he stood up, holding the dripping sow's head in his hands. "Where's that stick?" "Here." "Ram one end in the earth. Oh--it's rock. Jam it in that crack. There." Jack held up the head and jammed the soft throat down on the pointed end of the stick which pierced through into the mouth. He stood back and the head hung there, a little blood dribbling down the stick. Instinctively the boys drew back too; and the forest was very still. They listened, and the loudest noise was the buzzing of flies over the spilled guts. Jack spoke in a whisper. "Pick up the pig." Maurice and Robert skewered the carcass, lifted the dead weight, and stood ready. In the silence, and standing over the dry blood, they looked suddenly furtive. Jack spoke loudly. "This head is for the beast. It's a gift." The silence accepted the gift and awed them. The head remained there, dim-eyed, grinning faintly, blood blackening between the teeth. All at once they were running away, as fast as they could, through the forest toward the open beach. Simon stayed where he was, a small brown image, concealed by the leaves. Even if he shut his eyes the sow's head still remained like an after-image. The half-shut eyes were dim with the infinite cynicism of adult life. They assured Simon that everything was a bad business. "I know that." Simon discovered that he had spoken aloud. He opened his eyes quickly and there was the head grinning amusedly in the strange daylight, ignoring the flies, the spilled guts, even ignoring the indignity of being spiked on a stick. He looked away, licking his dry lips. A gift for the beast. Might not the beast come for it? The head, he thought, appeared to agree with him. Run away, said the head silently, go back to the others. It was a joke really--why should you bother? You were just wrong, that's all. A little headache, something you ate, perhaps.


authoritatively to his mother; who, after a painful period of inward resistance and outward temporising, succumbed to his instances (as she always did), and immediately embracing his cause with an energy redoubled by her previous hesitations, put on her grey velvet bonnet and said: "I'll go and see Louisa van der Luyden." The New York of Newland Archer's day was a small and slippery pyramid, in which, as yet, hardly a fissure had been made or a foothold gained. At its base was a firm foundation of what Mrs. Archer called "plain people"; an honourable but obscure majority of respectable families who (as in the case of the Spicers or the Leffertses or the Jacksons) had been raised above their level by marriage with one of the ruling clans. People, Mrs. Archer always said, were not as particular as they used to be; and with old Catherine Spicer ruling one end of Fifth Avenue, and Julius Beaufort the other, you couldn't expect the old traditions to last much longer. Firmly narrowing upward from this wealthy but inconspicuous substratum was the compact and dominant group which the Mingotts, Newlands, Chiverses and Mansons so actively represented. Most people imagined them to be the very apex of the pyramid; but they themselves (at least those of Mrs. Archer's generation) were aware that, in the eyes of the professional genealogist, only a still smaller number of families could lay claim to that eminence. "Don't tell me," Mrs. Archer would say to her children, "all this modern newspaper rubbish about a New York aristocracy. If there is one, neither the Mingotts nor the Mansons belong to it; no, nor the Newlands or the Chiverses either. Our grandfathers and great- grandfathers were just respectable English or Dutch merchants, who came to the colonies to make their fortune, and stayed here because they did so well. One of your great-grandfathers signed the Declaration, and another was a general on Washington's staff, and received General Burgoyne's sword after the battle of Saratoga. These are things to be proud of, but they have nothing to do with rank or class. New York has always been a commercial community, and there are not more than three families in it who can claim an aristocratic origin in the real sense of the word." Mrs. Archer and her son and daughter, like every one else in New York, knew who these privileged beings were: the Dagonets of Washington Square, who came of an old English county family allied with the Pitts and Foxes; the Lannings, who had intermarried with the descendants of Count de Grasse, and the van der Luydens, direct descendants of the first Dutch governor of Manhattan, and related by pre-revolutionary marriages to several members of the French and British aristocracy. The Lannings survived only in the person of two very old but lively Miss Lannings, who lived cheerfully and reminiscently among family portraits and Chippendale; the Dagonets were a considerable clan, allied to the best names in Baltimore and Philadelphia; but the van der Luydens, who stood above all of them,


realized that, for all of their talk and preparation, none of them had really believed it would work. Despite every miracle and horror she had witnessed in her time at Yale, she hadn’t been able to buy into a pathway to the underworld hidden right beneath their noses. Had some other group of fools once stood at this doorway awakened by their blood, on this same precipice, trembling and afraid? Dawes claimed the Gauntlet had never been used. But again Alex had to wonder, if that was the case, why build it at all? “Alex is first, right?” Tripp asked, a quaver in his voice. Her courage had shriveled at the sight of all of that empty. But there was no time to second-guess. She could hear people approaching down the street. Come get me, Stern, he’d said. Please. Alex touched her hand to the porcelain box in her pocket and stepped through the door. Nothing happened. She was standing in Sterling’s cavernous nave. It looked no different than it had before. Dawes bumped into her, and they both stumbled out of the way as Turner and then Tripp came through. “I don’t get it,” said Tripp. “We have to walk the path,” Dawes said. “That was only the start.” Single file, they made their way down the nave toward the Alma Mater mural: soldier, scholar, priest, and prince, shrouded in gloom. A strange, shuffling parade. They turned right at the mural and marked the arches beneath the Tree of Knowledge with their blood. Again, the corridor beyond seemed to dissolve, as if their reality had dropped away and left a gaping void. Again, Alex took a deep breath, the diver preparing to sink beneath the surface, and stepped through. On their right, they passed the glass door through which Alex would enter, but it wasn’t her time yet. The soldier would close the circle. They moved down the corridor, past Death peering over the student’s shoulder, and into the vestibule full of Jost Amman’s woodcuts. Above them Alex could just make out the black iron silhouettes of the mermen with their split tails, monster and man, man and monster. The cut on Alex’s arm had begun to close, so she had to squeeze it to get the blood to well up again. One by one they anointed the doorway beside the stone spider, beneath the inscription of Yale’s motto. Light and Truth. It felt like a joke when the door disappeared into flat black darkness. “This is your station,” Dawes whispered, the first words any of them had spoken since they’d stepped back into Sterling. Tripp’s jaw was set. His fists were clenched. Alex could see he was shaking slightly. She almost expected him to just turn on his heel and march right out of the library. Instead he gave a single, firm nod of his head. Alex gave him a quick squeeze on the shoulder. It was easy not to take Tripp seriously, but he was here facing the same shapeless dread as the rest of them, and he hadn’t


I had brought with me eight years ago from Gateshead.     The box was corded, the card nailed on. In half an hour the carrier was to call for it to take it to Lowton, whither I myself was to repair at an early hour the next morning to meet the coach. I had brushed my black stuff traveling dress, prepared my bonnet, gloves and muff; sought in all my drawers to see that no article was left behind; and now, having nothing more to do, I sat down and tried to rest. I could not, though I had been on foot all day, I could not now repose an instant I was too much excited. A phase of my life was closing to-night, a new one opening to-morrow: impossible to slumber in the interval; I must watch feverishly while the change was being accomplished.     "Miss," said a servant who met me in the lobby, where I was wandering like a troubled spirit, "a person below wishes to see you."     "The carrier, no doubt," I thought, and ran down-stairs without inquiry. I was passing the back parlor, or teachers' sitting-room, the door of which was half-open, to go to the kitchen, when some one ran out.     "It's her, I am sure! I could have told her anywhere!" cried the individual who stopped my progress and took my hand.     I looked. I saw a woman attired like a well-dressed servant, matronly, yet still young; very good-looking, with black hair and eyes, and lively complexion.     "Well, who is it?" she asked, in a voice and with a smile I half recognized: "you've not quite forgotten me, I think, Miss Jane?"     In another second I was embracing and kissing her rapturously. "Bessie! Bessie! Bessie!" that was all I said; whereat she half laughed, half cried, and we both went into the parlor. By the fire stood a little fellow of three years old, in plaid frock and trousers.     "That is my little boy," said Bessie, directly.     "Then you are married, Bessie?"     "Yes. Nearly five years since, to Robert Leaven, the coachman; and I've a little girl besides Bobby there, that I've christened Jane."     "And you don't live at Gateshead?"     "I live at the lodge; the old porter has left."     "Well, and how do they all get on? Tell me everything about them, Bessie; but sit down first; and, Bobby, come and sit on my knee, will you?" but Bobby preferred sidling over to his mother.     "You're not grown so very tall, Miss Jane, nor so very stout," continued Mrs. Leaven. "I dare say they've not kept you too well at school. Miss Reed is the head and shoulders taller than you are; and Miss Georgiana would make two of you


into my neck, and I nod, keep nodding, because he has permission, frankly, to do whatever the hell he wants. I want to put together a coherent thought about what this feels like, the way his hands wrap so imposingly around my thighs, the heat and scrape of his teeth on my skin, but only later will I really be able to process anything but the flood of sensation, this feeling of what it’s like to be completely consumed with wanting someone. We are live wires, bare nerves, moving on instinct. His palm slips back up my thigh, teasingly slow, his kiss still rough and playful, teeth tugging my bottom lip. And then his fingertips graze over me, slippery and hot for him. His mouth goes soft and overcome against mine before he pulls away a fraction, balancing care and command, watching my face as he fucks me with one finger, and then two, maddeningly slow. I’m watching his mouth, the way it shapes these half-formed words, the way his teeth bear down on his lower lip when he presses his thumb to me, circling, the cocky smile that appears when I let out an involuntary cry. Under my impatient fingers, his pants are soon down around his knees, beautiful cock finally in my hand, and I bring him to me, teasing us both until we’re a fevered mess, kisses sloppy and biting, the head of him pressing into me and— We pause, sensibility over sense, fumbling for that stray condom in the junk drawer, laughing into a kiss about how convenient that was, how being a mess is sometimes useful. He does it because my hands are shaking and his are steady, but I watch because I’m smart and naked Connor is the sexiest thing I have ever seen. And when he steps forward again, I say his name, a question mark in my voice, but he kisses me, says, “Don’t,” against my mouth, “I can’t say no again,” as he pushes forward. It’s slow, perfect torture. Sanity is so fragile, I think, losing my mind in inches, one after another as he works his way into me, carefully, his focus on my expressions and sounds. But then it goes from careful to starving the second he’s all the way in, like stone in silk, and I become a wind tunnel of thoughts, tiny particles and fragments flying by too fast for me to process. I am a selfish monster wanting more. I am a wizard toying with time to make this sex last an eternity. I am the first woman to ever be with a man, I’m sure of it. I’m still sitting on the counter but it’s a formality. His hands are under my ass, arms holding me up, angling me so that he can move in a way that makes us both gasp. There’s so much power behind each thrust, so much pent-up need coursing between us. For all my talk about enjoying sex, I’ve never been a noisy lover, but with Connor there isn’t room for anything


to shaggy heads. Piggy crouched, his back shapeless as a sack. "I'm calling an assembly." Silence. Roger took up a small stone and flung it between the twins, aiming to miss. They started and Sam only just kept his footing. Some source of power began to pulse in Roger's body. Ralph spoke again, loudly. "I'm calling an assembly." He ran his eye over them. "Where's Jack?" The group of boys stirred and consulted. A painted face spoke with the voice of Robert. "He's hunting. And he said we weren't to let you in." "I've come to see about the fire," said Ralph, "and about Piggy's specs." The group in front of him shifted and laughter shivered outwards from among them, light, excited laughter that went echoing among the tall rocks. A voice spoke from behind Ralph. "What do you want?" The twins made a bolt past Ralph and got between him and the entry. He turned quickly. Jack, identifiable by personality and red hair, was advancing from the forest. A hunter crouched on either side. All three were masked in black and green. Behind them on the grass the headless and paunched body of a sow lay where they had dropped it. Piggy wailed. "Ralph! Don't leave me!" With ludicrous care he embraced the rock, pressing himself to it above the sucking sea. The sniggering of the savages became a loud derisive jeer. Jack shouted above the noise. "You go away, Ralph. You keep to your end. This is my end and my tribe. You leave me alone." The jeering died away. "You pinched Piggy's specs," said Ralph, breathlessly. "You've got to give them back." "Got to? Who says?" Ralph's temper blazed out. "I say! You voted for me for chief. Didn't you hear the conch? You played a dirty trick--we'd have given you fire if you'd asked for it--" The blood was flowing in his cheeks and the bunged-up eye throbbed. "You could have had fire whenever you wanted. But you didn't. You came sneaking up like a thief and stole Piggy's glasses!" "Say that again!" "Thief! Thief!" Piggy screamed. "Ralph! Mind me!" Jack made a rush and stabbed at Ralph's chest with his spear. Ralph sensed the position of the weapon from the glimpse he caught of Jack's arm and put the thrust aside with his own butt. Then he brought the end round and caught Jack a stinger across the ear. They were chest to chest, breathing fiercely, pushing and glaring. "Who's a thief?" "You are!" Jack wrenched free and swung at Ralph with his spear. By common consent they were using the spears as sabers now, no longer daring the lethal points. The blow struck Ralph's spear and slid down, to fall agonizingly on his fingers. Then they were apart once more, their positions reversed, Jack toward the Castle Rock and Ralph on the outside toward the island. Both boys were breathing very heavily. "Come on then--" "Come on--" Truculently they squared up to each other but kept just out of fighting distance. "You come on and see


three of them left, Noah waved from the doorway. “See you at the table read,” he said. Wednesday, 4:43 a.m. When Danny returned, he looked exhausted but gave off a happy energy. Before I could ask, he said, “All’s well in Bellyville.” “Glad to hear it.” Since my editing session with Noah, I’d spent two and a half hours working on the Cheesemonger sketch. After he’d left, I’d felt churned up, presumably from his celebrity aura, and I hadn’t tried to go back to sleep. I currently had four pages of the sketch, which weren’t very good, and the overstimulation that had gripped me at 2 a.m. was long gone. I reached for the pages of the Danny Horst Rule sketch sitting on my desk and held them out to Danny. “Will you help me with your dialogue?” “Man, Sally, have some self-respect.” “I’m trying to turn in three separate sketches,” I said. “That’s on you. Do you think it would be weird if Belly and I break a glass at our wedding? She suggested it.” “Do you want to?” He shrugged. Though he rarely mentioned it, a widely known part of Danny’s origin story was that he’d grown up in an Orthodox Jewish enclave in New Jersey. As the oldest boy of seven siblings, he’d attended a yeshiva through high school and had been expected to become a rabbi like his dad. But he’d secretly watched comedians on cable from the age of twelve on, and he’d left his community after his first year at a rabbinical college, when he moved into a homeless shelter for young adults that, by coincidence, was about a mile from the TNO studio. Seven years later, Danny was still estranged from all of his family except a brother, which he joked was a reasonable price to pay for getting to eat fried shrimp. And he was far from the only person at TNO who’d endured misfortune; tragedy, of course, often begat comedy. Danny had taken the pages from me, and he read them so quickly that if I didn’t know him, I’d have thought he was skimming. “This is brutal,” he said. “In an awesome way.” He took a pen off his desk and began filling in the spaces I’d left blank. When he’d finished, he said, “It’s definitely better if I’m the second cop who comes in, not the first.” “Because it increases the tension of when will you appear?” He nodded. “I wonder if Noah would be willing to be the first cop instead of the guy on the date,” I said. “But he was so negative about the sketch in the pitch meeting that I don’t even want to ask.” “Yeah, that was a real slap-down from him in Nigel’s office.” I thought of telling Danny about my recent encounter with Noah, but how would I tell it? I wasn’t sure. Instead, I said, “Thanks for noticing.” Danny smirked as he handed back the pages. He said, “Chuckles, everyone noticed.” Wednesday, 2:57 p.m. In the interlude between turning in my sketches and


now, the awkward way he holds his bandaged hands. “I really am sorry about your hands.” “It doesn’t matter, Katniss,” he says. “I’ve never been a con- tender in these Games anyway.” “That’s no way to be thinking,” I say. “Why not? It’s true. My best hope is to not disgrace myself and . . .” He hesitates. “And what?” I say. “I don’t know how to say it exactly. Only . . . I want to die as myself. Does that make any sense?” he asks. I shake my head. How could he die as anyone but himself? “I don’t want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of monster that I’m not.” I bite my lip feeling inferior. While I’ve been ruminating on the availability of trees, Peeta has been struggling with how to maintain his identity. His purity of self. “Do you mean you won’t kill anyone?” I ask. “No, when the time comes, I’m sure I’ll kill just like every- body else. I can’t go down without a fight. Only I keep wishing 140 I could think of a way to . . . to show the Capitol they don’t own me. That I’m more than just a piece in their Games,” says Pee- ta. “But you’re not,” I say. “None of us are. That’s how the Games work.” “Okay, but within that framework, there’s still you, there’s still me,” he insists. “Don’t you see?” “A little. Only . . . no offense, but who cares, Peeta?” I say. “I do. I mean, what else am I allowed to care about at this point?” he asks angrily. He’s locked those blue eyes on mine now, demanding an answer. I take a step back. “Care about what Haymitch said. About staying alive.” Peeta smiles at me, sad and mocking. “Okay. Thanks for the tip, sweetheart.” It’s like a slap in the face. His use of Haymitch’s patronizing endearment. “Look, if you want to spend the last hours of your life planning some noble death in the arena, that’s your choice. I want to spend mine in District Twelve.” “Wouldn’t surprise me if you do,” says Peeta. “Give my mother my best when you make it back, will you?” “Count on it,” I say. Then I turn and leave the roof. I spend the rest of the night slipping in and out of a doze, imagining the cutting remarks I will make to Peeta Mellark in the morn- ing. Peeta Mellark. We will see how high and mighty he is when he's faced with life and death. He'll probably turn into one of those raging beast tributes, the kind who tries to eat someone's heart after they've killed them. There was a guy 141 like that a few years ago from District 6 called Titus. He went completely savage and the Gamemakers had to have him stunned with electric guns to collect the bodies of the players he'd killed before he ate them. There are no rules in the arena, but cannibalism doesn't play well with


He spat on the deck, at the idea of this ship and everything it represented. ‘These people don’t stand a chance.’ Bedri didn’t turn away as his crew threw his father off the boat. WEST AFRICAN COASTLINE MAURITANIA TWENTY-FIVE KILOMETRES WEST OF NOUAKCHOTT SAME DAY ACCEPTING THE FACT THAT THEY couldn’t simply pull up alongside the tanker and plead for charity, Liza and Atto had devised a plan. There were three steel masts on the oil tanker, the tallest at the front with two narrower masts towards the control tower used for venting gases from the hold. These masts hadn’t been put to any use. Though their fishing boat had little to offer, it did carry kilometres of incredibly strong synthetic fishing nets. Their idea was to use these nets to hang inflatable life-craft from the outlet masts, suspending bundles of people above the deck like sacks of fruit in mesh bags. It would be uncomfortable, perhaps even degrading for the people inside them, but it would cost the tanker nothing in terms of passenger space and the additional weight would be inconsequential to a ship this size. Nudging up alongside the tanker, Atto climbed up onto the roof of the wheelhouse and fired a distress flare to catch their attention. Immediately a line of people appeared along the entire deck, numerous faces peering down at the less fortunate refugees in their tiny fishing boat. Multilingual from his work in the tourist trade, Atto addressed the tanker in French, Spanish and English. After much commotion, a handsome man appeared, apparently the captain of this vessel, speaking boarding school English: ‘This ship is full. There’s no space.’ Ready for this rebuttal, Atto made his pitch: ‘We won’t take up any space. We can create more space for you and for hundreds of additional passengers.’ ‘We’ve used all the space. How can you create more?’ ‘We have fishing nets.’ ‘What of them?’ ‘We can use them to hang our inflatable lifeboats from your tanker’s masts. We’d be above the deck. You aren’t using those masts.’ ‘Lifeboats full of people? Hanging from the masts?’ ‘I know it sounds crazy, but it could work.’ The captain disappeared. Atto turned to Liza, taking her hand, waiting to see if the captain would return. When he did, his demeanour had changed. He was no longer brusque. ‘My name is Bedri, I’m the captain of this ship.’ ‘My name is Atto. And this is Liza.’ ‘Lifeboats hanging from the masts is an interesting idea. How many could you make?’ ‘We could save all the people on this boat. And hundreds more.’ Bedri countered with an offer of his own: ‘For every two of my country’s people that you save you can bring one person from your boat. We leave at sunset. Build your nets.’ Feeling proud that she’d repaid his faith in her, Liza was about to hug Atto when Bedri called down: ‘The rules for boarding remain the same – no one over the age of forty-five, no one under the age of fourteen, no one who is


there? Old Thunder! said Ahab, groping his way along the bulwarks to his pivot-hole; but suddenly finding his path made plain to him by elbowed lances of fire. Now, as the lightning rod to a spire on shore is intended to carry off the perilous fluid into the soil; so the kindred rod which at sea some ships carry to each mast, is intended to conduct it into the water. But as this conductor must descend to considerable depth, that its end may avoid all contact with the hull; and as moreover, if kept constantly towing there, it would be liable to many mishaps, besides interfering not a little with some of the rigging, and more or less impeding the vessel's way in the water; because of all this, the lower parts of a ship's .. <p 498 > lightning-rods are not always overboard; but are generally made in long slender links, so as to be the more readily hauled up into the chains outside, or thrown down into the sea, as occasion may require. The rods! the rods! cried Starbuck to the crew, suddenly admonished to vigilance by the vivid lightning that had just been darting flambeaux, to light Ahab to his post. Are they overboard? drop them over, fore and aft. Quick! Avast! cried Ahab; let's have fair play here, though we be the weaker side. Yet I'll contribute to raise rods on the Himmalehs and Andes, that all the world may be secured; but out on privileges! Let them be, sir. Look aloft! cried Starbuck. The corpusants! the corpusants! All the yard-arms were tipped with a pallid fire; and touched at each tri-pointed lightning-rod-end with three tapering white flames, each of the three tall masts was silently burning in that sulphurous air, like three gigantic wax tapers before an altar. Blast the boat! let it go! cried Stubb at this instant, as a swashing sea heaved up under his own little craft, so that its gunwale violently jammed his hand, as he was passing a lashing. Blast it! --but slipping backward on the deck, his uplifted eyes caught the flames; and immediately shifting his tone, he cried -- The corpusants have mercy on us all! To sailors, oaths are household words; they will swear in the trance of the calm, and in the teeth of the tempest; they will imprecate curses from the topsail-yard-arms, when most they teter over to a seething sea; but in all my voyagings, seldom have I heard a common oath when God's burning finger has been laid on the ship; when his mene, mene, Tekel Upharsin has been woven into the shrouds and the cordage. While this pallidness was burning aloft, few words were heard from the enchanted crew; who in one thick cluster stood on the forecastle, all their eyes gleaming in that pale phosphorescence, like a far away constellation of stars. Relieved against the ghostly light, the gigantic jet negro, Daggoo, loomed up to thrice his real stature, and seemed the black cloud from which the thunder had come. The parted mouth


man with a very smiling face and a great heavy chin which rolled down in fold upon fold over his throat sat at her elbow with a pair of glasses on his nose, looking very earnestly at the ladies who entered. As I came in he gave quite a jump in his chair and turned quickly to Miss Stoper. "'That will do,' said he; 'I could not ask for anything better. Capital! capital!' He seemed quite enthusiastic and rubbed his hands together in the most genial fashion. He was such a comfortable-looking man that it was quite a pleasure to look at him. "'You are looking for a situation, miss?' he asked. "'Yes, sir.' "'As governess?' "'Yes, sir.' "'And what salary do you ask?' "'I had 4 pounds a month in my last place with Colonel Spence Munro.' "'Oh, tut, tut! sweating--rank sweating!' he cried, throwing his fat hands out into the air like a man who is in a boiling passion. 'How could anyone offer so pitiful a sum to a lady with such attractions and accomplishments?' "'My accomplishments, sir, may be less than you imagine,' said I. 'A little French, a little German, music, and drawing --' "'Tut, tut!' he cried. 'This is all quite beside the question. The point is, have you or have you not the bearing and deportment of a lady? There it is in a nutshell. If you have not, you are not fined for the rearing of a child who may some day play a considerable part in the history of the country. But if you have why, then, how could any gentleman ask you to condescend to accept anything under the three figures? Your salary with me, madam, would commence at 100 pounds a year.' "You may imagine, Mr. Holmes, that to me, destitute as I was, such an offer seemed almost too good to be true. The gentleman, however, seeing perhaps the look of incredulity upon my face, opened a pocket-book and took out a note. "'It is also my custom,' said he, smiling in the most pleasant fashion until his eyes were just two little shining slits amid the white creases of his face, 'to advance to my young ladies half their salary beforehand, so that they may meet any little expenses of their journey and their wardrobe.' "It seemed to me that I had never met so fascinating and so thoughtful a man. As I was already in debt to my tradesmen, the advance was a great convenience, and yet there was something unnatural about the whole transaction which made me wish to know a little more before I quite committed myself. "'May I ask where you live, sir?' said I. "'Hampshire. Charming rural place. The Copper Beeches, five miles on the far side of Winchester. It is the most lovely country, my dear young lady, and the dearest old country-house.' "'And my duties, sir? I should be glad to know what they would be.' "'One child--one dear little romper just six years old. Oh, if you could see him killing


Ralph--remarks that did not need an answer, and therefore could not invite a snub; and still Ralph was silent. No one, not even Jack, would ask him to move and in the end they had to build the fire three yards away and in a place not really as convenient. So Ralph asserted his chieftainship and could not have chosen a better way if he had thought for days. Against this weapon, so indefinable and so effective, Jack was powerless and raged without knowing why. By the time the pile was built, they were on different sides of a high barrier. When they had dealt with the fire another crisis arose. Jack had no means of lighting it. Then to his surprise, Ralph went to Piggy and took the glasses from him. Not even Ralph knew how a link between him and Jack had been snapped and fastened elsewhere. "I'll bring 'em back." "I'll come too." Piggy stood behind him, islanded in a sea of meaningless color, while Ralph knelt and focused the glossy spot. Instantly the fire was alight, Piggy held out his hands and grabbed the glasses back. Before these fantastically attractive flowers of violet and red and yellow, unkindness melted away. They became a circle of boys round a camp fire and even Piggy and Ralph were half-drawn in. Soon some of the boys were rushing down the slope for more wood while Jack hacked the pig. They tried holding the whole carcass on a stake over the fire, but the stake burnt more quickly than the pig roasted. In the end they skewered bits of meat on branches and held them in the flames: and even then almost as much boy was roasted as meat. Ralph's mouth watered. He meant to refuse meat, but his past diet of fruit and nuts, with an odd crab or fish, gave him too little resistance. He accepted a piece of halfraw meat and gnawed it like a wolf. Piggy spoke, also dribbling. "Aren't I having none?" Jack had meant to leave him in doubt, as an assertion of power; but Piggy by advertising his omission made more cruelty necessary. "You didn't hunt." "No more did Ralph," said Piggy wetly, "nor Simon." He amplified. "There isn't more than a ha'porth of meat in a crab." Ralph stirred uneasily. Simon, sitting between the twins and Piggy, wiped his mouth and shoved his piece of meat over the rocks to Piggy, who grabbed it. The twins giggled and Simon lowered his face in shame. Then Jack leapt to his feet, slashed off a great hunk of meat, and flung it down at Simon's feet. "Eat! Damn you!" He glared at Simon. "Take it!" He spun on his heel, center of a bewildered circle of boys. "I got you meat!" Numberless and inexpressible frustrations combined to make his rage elemental and awe-inspiring. "I painted my face--I stole up. Now you eat--all of you--and I--" Slowly the silence on the mountain-top deepened till the click of the fire and the soft hiss of roasting meat could


either.” He makes it sound so simple, but believing it is much harder. “That’s just ice cream. This is—” My whole life plan. “My Steps to Success board says—” “Change it.” “But that’s not the point! The point is, how many things have I done or wanted to do just to…to show someone who is never going to care and never going to change? How pathetic does that make me?” It feels like everything is slightly twisted, like my vision doesn’t align with the angle of the world around me. I thought I was someone strong. I might be the opposite. “You know what you said to me before?” Brad asks, his voice low, his eyes pinned to mine. “You said it’s not fair. Because you, Celine, are the kind of person who cares about fairness. You’re the kind of person who wants justice, and that’s not him—that’s the opposite of him. It’s all you. So you’ve been doing the most to balance the scales. So what? That doesn’t make you pathetic. It makes you yourself. You just needed to figure out on your own that…that fairness is about you being happy, not him being punished.” A stubborn part of me wants to insist that he’s wrong, that I’m still fucked up and this is the end of the world, but the thing is, he’s making sense. And I like sense. I can follow his logic step-by-step and I think he’s right. I want things to be just. I want things to be good. I want harm to be made up for—the same things Katharine Breakspeare fights for when she takes on these human rights cases. That’s what I care about. That’s who I am. And maybe I’ve let that shape my choices in a way that does me no good, but choices can change. I have control over that. I have control over myself. My dad doesn’t. Except that’s not true, because I feel the weight of everything he’s done—everything he hasn’t done—on my back. And I don’t know if it’s ever going away. But you can try to push it off, surely? I swallow the last lump of tears. “You were right, before. I do avoid my feelings. But I’m going to…try. To do better.” To let them drive my choices, instead of letting my dad rule over me. “And I…feel like I don’t want to see him at the ball.” Brad nods slowly. “But I can’t just…not go. Can I? Wouldn’t that be giving him too much power?” Brad’s response is careful. “I don’t want him to ruin this for you. Either by upsetting you when you’re there, or by taking it away from you altogether. I think maybe…you should talk to your mum.” My stomach thuds down into the concrete bench. “Right.” Mum doesn’t know anything about this because I’ve very specifically kept it from her, and suddenly that feels less like protection and more like the betrayal my sister said it was. We don’t sneak around behind Mum’s back. She’s never done anything to deserve it. But


distant squawk of herring gulls. My body feels like melted ice cream, in the best way. Bits of last night glance over my mind: hands fisting into bedding and hair and skin, ragged whispers and pleas. And then everything that came before. The fight. The rest of the week. Everything with Wyn. That today is the last day of our trip. The pleasant soreness gives way. Now I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus, then backed over and hit one more time at an angle. Wyn is fast asleep, one arm still draped over my ribs and one corner of his mouth lifted. My chest aches at the sight. Usually, he’s a back sleeper. We used to fall asleep curled up like this, but we’d never get any rest until he shifted onto his back. If we were fitted together like spoons, he’d always start moving restlessly in his sleep, and we’d find our way to each other in a heady, lust-crazed blur. Which was great until the morning, when we both had to get up for work or school. He’s made it through the whole night beside me, but the whole night, for us, was no more than a couple of hours. He doesn’t so much as stir as I slide out from under him. He always looks younger when he’s asleep. I wonder if that’s some evolutionary trait: What animal could stand attacking someone who looks so peaceful and innocent? Okay, I could, but the nice thing would be to let him sleep. I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweater and sneak out of the room, making my way through the silent house. As eager as I am to fix what happened last night, everyone’s either still asleep or in hiding. After a couple of minutes of aimlessly wandering the kitchen, I decide to walk into town and get everyone drinks from the Warm Cup as a peace offering. I’ve often thought that the world saves its very best weather for days when you feel like everything’s gone wrong, and today is no different. It’s gloriously sunny, with a refreshing breeze. When the sun reaches its high point, Knott’s Harbor will no doubt be sweltering. Or sweltering for the midcoast anyway, which is to say extremely comfortable when compared to the swampy summers of southern Indiana or the burning-under-a-microscope heat of July in New York City. A midcoast summer day is the exact day you pine for in the dead of winter. Still, after ten minutes of following the curving road, past overflowing rhododendron bushes and graying wood-shingled inns being scraped and repainted for the hundredth time, I’m wishing I’d put a tank top on under my sweater. I’ll have to find a cab back, easier said than done in a tiny village like this. Usually, Sabrina schedules our transportation, and I’m not sure how far ahead she has to do it. If I waited on all of you, this friendship would already be over, she said. She’s not entirely wrong. Friendship with Sabrina, with


artistic temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is still more to me. To become the spectator of one's own life, as Harry says, is to escape the suffering of life. I know you are surprised at my talking to you like this. You have not realized how I have developed. I was a school-boy when you knew me. I am a man now. I have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. I am different, but you must not like me less. I am changed, but you must always be my friend. Of course I am very fond of Harry. But I know that you are better than he is. You are not stronger,--you are too much afraid of life,--but you are better. And how happy we used to be together! Don't leave me, Basil, and don't quarrel with me. I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said." Hallward felt strangely moved. Rugged and straightforward as he was, there was something in his nature that was purely feminine in its tenderness. The lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning-point in his art. He could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble. "Well, Dorian," he said, at length, with a sad smile, "I won't speak to you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your name won't be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?" Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at the mention of the word "inquest." There was something so [55] crude and vulgar about everything of the kind. "They don't know my name," he answered. "But surely she did?" "Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned to any one. She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince Charming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of her, Basil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some broken pathetic words." "I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you must come and sit to me yourself again. I can't get on without you." "I will never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!" he exclaimed, starting back. Hallward stared at him, "My dear boy, what nonsense!" he cried. "Do you mean to say you don't like what I did of you? Where is it? Why have you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It is the best thing I have ever painted. Do take that screen away, Dorian. It is simply horrid of your servant hiding my work


of Gondor. 368 Teleri The third and greatest of the three hosts of the Eldar on the westward journey from Cuivinen, led by Elw (Thingol) and Olw. Their own name for themselves was Lindar the Singers; the name Teleri the Last-comers, the Hindmost, was given to them by those before them on the march. Many of the Teleri did not leave Middle-earth; the Sindar and the Nandor were Telerin Elves in origin. 36, 54-7, 60-4, 71, 79-80, 83, 96-8, 101, 107, 111,117, 159-60, 164, 306-9, 310, 315, 354 Telperion The elder of the Two Trees of Valinor. 34, 47, 62, 82, 114-5, 247, 324, 361-2. Called the White Tree 62 Telumendil Name of a constellation. 48 Thalion 'Steadfast, Strong'; see Hrin. Thalos The second of the tributaries of Gelion in Ossiriand. 147, 167 Thangorodrim 'Mountains of Tyranny', reared by Morgoth above Angband; broken down in the Great Battle at the end of the First Age. 90, 109, 125-8, 136,139-40, 180-3, 215, 221, 232, 234, 240, 254, 312, 320, 353-4, 364 Thargelion 'The Land beyond Gelion', between Mount Rerir and the river Ascar, where Caranthir dwelt; called also Dor Caranthir and Talath Rhunen. 148, 158, 171, 174, 184 Thingol 'Grey-cloak', 'Grey-mantle' (in Quenya Sindacollo, Singollo), the name by which Elw, leader with his brother Olw of the host of the Teleri from Cuivinen and afterwards King of Doriath, was known in Beleriand; also called the Hidden King. See Elw. 58, 103-10, 125, 130-1, 134, 145, 151-5, 157, 172, 176-7, 182, 190, 199-204, 208-9, 217, 222-7, 229-30, 243-7, 260, 267,269,280, 285-92, 297, 315 Thorondor 'King of Eagles'. Cf. The Return of the King VI 4: 'Old Thorondor, who built his eyries in the inaccessible peaks of the Encircling Mountains when Middle-earth was young'. See Crissaegrim. 129, 149, 186, 191, 221, 281, 297, 301, 312 Thousand Caves See Menegroth. Thranduil Sindarin Elf, King of the Silvan Elves in the north of Greenwood the Great (Mirkwood); father of Legolas, who was of the Fellowship of the Ring. 371 ThurIngwthil 'Woman of Secret Shadow', the messenger of Sauron from Tol-in-Gaurhoth who took the form of a great bat, and in whose shape Lthien entered Angband. 216 Tilion A Maia, steersman of the Moon. 114-7 Tintall 'The Kindler', a name of Varda as maker of the Stars. She is called thus in Galadriel's lament in Lrien, The Fellowship of the Ring II 8. Cf. Elbereth, Elentri. 48 Tinviel The name that Beren gave to Lthien: a poetic word for the nightingale, 'Daughter of Twilight'. See Lthien. Tirion 'Great Watch-tower', the city of the Elves on the hill of Tna in Aman. 62, 65-7, 74-5, 77-8, 83, 91, 94-6, 117, 134-5, 149-52, 205, 297, 307, 361 Tol Eressa 'The Lonely Isle' (also simply Eressa), on which the Vanyar and the Noldor and afterwards the Teleri were drawn across the ocean by Ulmo, and which was at last rooted in the Bay of Eldamar near to the coasts of Aman. On Eressa the Teleri long remained before they went to Alqualond; and there dwelt many of the Noldor and the