thing I register is the smell of goat cheese. He’s holding out half a roll spread with the creamy white stuff and topped with apple slices. “Don’t be mad,” he says. “I had to eat again. Here’s your half.” “Oh, good,” I say, immediately taking a huge bite. The strong fatty cheese tastes just like the kind Prim makes, the apples are sweet and crunchy. “Mm.” “We make a goat cheese and apple tart at the bakery,” he says. “Bet that’s expensive,” I say. “Too expensive for my family to eat. Unless it’s gone very stale. Of course, practically everything we eat is stale,” says Peeta, pulling the sleeping bag up around him. In less than a minute, he’s snoring. 305 Huh. I always assumed the shopkeepers live a soft life. And it’s true, Peeta has always had enough to eat. But there’s something kind of depressing about living your life on stale bread, the hard, dry loaves that no one else wanted. One thing about us, since I bring our food home on a daily basis, most of it is so fresh you have to make sure it isn’t going to make a run for it. Somewhere during my shift, the rain stops not gradually but all at once. The downpour ends and there’s only the resi- dual drippings of water from branches, the rush of the now overflowing stream below us. A full, beautiful moon emerges, and even without the glasses I can see outside. I can’t decide if the moon is real or merely a projection of the Gamemakers. I know it was full shortly before I left home. Gale and I watched it rise as we hunted into the late hours. How long have I been gone? I’m guessing it’s been about two weeks in the arena, and there was that week of prepara- tion in the Capitol. Maybe the moon has completed its cycle. For some reason, I badly want it to be my moon, the same one I see from the woods around District 12. That would give me something to cling to in the surreal world of the arena where the authenticity of everything is to be doubted. Four of us left. For the first time, I allow myself to truly think about the possibility that I might make it home. To fame. To wealth. To my own house in the Victor’s Village. My mother and Prim would live there with me. No more fear of hunger. A new kind of freedom. But then . . . what? What would my life be like on a 306 daily basis? Most of it has been consumed with the acquisition of food. Take that away and I’m not really sure who I am, what my identity is. The idea scares me some. I think of Haymitch, with all his money. What did his life become? He lives alone, no wife or children, most of his waking hours drunk. I don’t want to end up like that. “But you won’t be alone,” I whisper to myself. I have


was paralyzed by this never-before-seen sight – the entire ice shelf ablaze. Fire had always been one of the Senate’s gravest fears, since there was never any rain and the structures were tinder dry. In the past, even small fires in Antarctica had brought an end to operations, British Hope Bay Station in 1948 and Argentinian Almirante Brown Base in 1984, both of which could only be remedied by rescue and evacuation. Since there was no chance of rescue and nowhere to be evacuated to, mitigation measures had been extensive, fire breaks and fire marshals. But no one could have predicted that the first great fire of Antarctica would be deliberately started by the cold creatures intended to save them, an act of wilful sabotage, a scorched-earth annihilation of resources that could never be replaced. As the fire’s edge reached the original base buildings, some of the oldest human structures on the continent caught ablaze, the historic canteen, Ex-Presidents bar, the Chapel of the Snows, the Museum of Life on Ice, until the entire circumference of buildings around Observation Hill was burning. Unlike other catastrophic fires in human history, the sacking of Carthage, the great fires of Hangzhou, the medieval fires of London, there would be no rebuilding this time, since there was nothing to rebuild with. At the top of Observation Hill, they could see the colony of cold creatures, safely away from the heat of the fire, smashing the memorial tablets of the former nations. Feeling Eitan’s thoughts inside her mind, Echo addressed the president: ‘They want to negotiate your surrender.’ MCMURDO CITY HISTORIC BASE DISTRICT SAME DAY THE ROAD BETWEEN OBSERVATION HILL and Crater Heights was lined with smouldering ruins, historic buildings reduced to ash, the same colour as the black basalt rocks they’d been built upon. Factories, breweries and food farms had all been destroyed. The gas storage tanks were among the few structures left intact. Yotam wondered whether, in a thousand years, these might be the only surviving remnants of McMurdo City, relics of a baffling civilization tucked away on the bottom of the planet, or whether they’d be in a museum, visited by thousands of curious cold people, amazed that ordinary people had once needed to burn gas to keep warm. Yotam was part of the diplomatic envoy, chosen since he was on intimate terms with the creature called Eitan, the apparent leader of the escaped creatures. The remaining members of the envoy consisted of President Mues, her security detail, Echo and her family, including the young man Tetu. For obvious reasons, Echo needed to be part of the team as the only communication with the colony had been directed into her thoughts, bypassing the hierarchy of the Senate, effectively anointing a sixteen-year-old as the leader of a people she felt an outsider to. Liza and Atto had insisted on accompanying their daughter. To their surprise, Tetu had hesitated. He was afraid of witnessing the moment when she might choose this new creature over them. He sensed that he wouldn’t survive her desertion – their relationship


confusion. I love existential confusion! That missing paragraph reminds me of the missing Watergate tapes. (I’m trying to impress you with historic political references because that seems like something a TNO writer would be into. Is it working?) You’re my first pen pal! Am I, um, your first? from: Sally Milz <Smilz@TNOshow.com> to: Noah Brewster <NoahRBrewster@gmail.com> date: Jul 24, 2020, 10:22 AM subject: Actually Okay, I have A LOT of questions! Were you really a shy freaky goth teen or is that what you tell people out of modesty? Do you work out for three hours a day?! What kind of music does your side project band play? But above all, how can your parents not be so proud and impressed that you are a super-talented and successful musician beloved by millions of people around the world? That’s batshit crazy! In his heart of hearts, my stepdad doesn’t even find TNO funny (it’s in the “There’s a lot going on, isn’t there?” category for him), and he’ll still tell anyone who’ll listen that I’m a writer there. The best part is that he refers to it as The Night Owl, singular, instead of The Night Owls. Maybe this is the moment to confess that since 2018, I’ve listened to your music a lot. Like, even before you emailed me a few days ago. It might be a tiny bit true that when you hosted TNO, I wasn’t as familiar with your non-greatest hits as I could have been, but I’ve now gone back so far and so deep that I might even know the songs you forgot writing. (Have you forgotten writing certain songs? I’ve forgotten writing certain sketches, although if someone mentioned them, I’d remember. It’s not unlike a high school classmate that you don’t see for 22 years then spot in the cereal aisle of Hy-Vee after you’ve moved home during a pandemic and you recognize Vinny Kaplan immediately, but since you’re both wearing masks you just slink away and you’re pretty sure Vinny didn’t notice you but maybe he was pretending exactly like you were.) Anyway, at the risk of sounding like a cringey fangirl, it turns out you’re a great musician! Who knew?! Besides everyone?? I’m not sure whether a genius reveals the details of her screenplay, but I do reveal the details of mine (to a select few). It’s about a single Supreme Court Justice who falls in love with a lawyer who regularly argues cases in front of her. Or maybe it’s about a single advertising exec who oversees a cat food brand and falls in love with the single advertising exec who oversees the dog food brand. Or maybe the other single advertising exec oversees the rival cat food brand? Or, well, welcome into my brain. Several times, I’ve written about ten pages (probably not a coincidence that that’s the average length of a TNO sketch) before I start questioning not just the premise of the screenplay but all the life choices I’ve ever made up to now, abandoning that idea, and starting over. Btw


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

charm; he indeed must be vanished. Yet a certain melancholy mixed with this: I was almost sorry for my brilliant success. I was fumbling under the door mat for the key, which Bartleby was to have left there for me, when accidentally my knee knocked against a panel, producing a summoning sound, and in response a voice came to me from within—”Not yet; I am occupied.” It was Bartleby. I was thunderstruck. For an instant I stood like the man who, pipe in mouth, was killed one cloudless afternoon long ago in Virginia, by a summer lightning; at his own warm open window he was killed, and remained leaning out there upon the dreamy afternoon, till some one touched him, when he fell. “Not gone!” I murmured at last. But again obeying that wondrous ascendancy which the inscrutable scrivener had over me, and from which ascendancy, for all my chafing, I could not completely escape, I slowly went down stairs and out into the street, and while walking round the block, considered what I should next do in this unheard-of perplexity. Turn the man out by an actual thrusting I could not; to drive him away by calling him hard names would not do; calling in the police was an unpleasant idea; and yet, permit him to enjoy his cadaverous triumph over me,—this too I could not think of. What was to be done? or, if nothing could be done, was there any thing further that I could assume in the matter? Yes, as before I had prospectively assumed that Bartleby would depart, so now I might retrospectively assume that departed he was. In the legitimate carrying out of this assumption, I might enter my office in a great hurry, and pretending not to see Bartleby at all, walk straight against him as if he were air. Such a proceeding would in a singular degree have the appearance of a home-thrust. It was hardly possible that Bartleby could withstand such an application of the doctrine of assumptions. But upon second thoughts the success of the plan seemed rather dubious. I resolved to argue the matter over with him again. “Bartleby,” said I, entering the office, with a quietly severe expression, “I am seriously displeased. I am pained, Bartleby. I had thought better of you. I had imagined you of such a gentlemanly organization, that in any delicate dilemma a slight hint would have suffice—in short, an assumption. But it appears I am deceived. Why,” I added, unaffectedly starting, “you have not even touched that money yet,” pointing to it, just where I had left it the evening previous. He answered nothing. “Will you, or will you not, quit me?” I now demanded in a sudden passion, advancing close to him. “I would prefer not to quit you,” he replied, gently emphasizing the not. “What earthly right have you to stay here? Do you pay any rent? Do you pay my taxes? Or is this property yours?” He answered nothing. “Are you ready to go on and write now? Are your eyes recovered?


as he explained Synthesis and the Bliss-Mini and the Bliss-Mini 2 (currently in development), clearly distracted by the beauty of the farmhouse, which I’d had redecorated in reds and golds specifically for their visit (red and gold being Jeremy’s favorite colors). When Jeremy was finished with his ribeye, he slouched in his seat and began somewhat vigorously kicking Chuck’s shins under the table. “Don’t kick your father,” Priscilla said. “Fuck you,” Jeremy said. Chuck stood, rounded the table, and once again smacked Jeremy on the back of the head. I jumped. Jeremy didn’t move, just stayed staring into the middle distance with his arms crossed. Priscilla began to cry. “It’s like this every day,” she said. “These two just fight all the time. Jeremy won’t let up.” Jeremy smiled wickedly at Orson. Chuck’s face was stony. He, too, could have benefited from some behavior modification therapy. “Can I borrow Jeremy for a minute?” Orson asked. “Go ahead,” said Chuck. “Borrow him for a fucking decade.” Orson brought Jeremy out onto the patio, leaving the rest of us to finish lunch. Chuck ate his steak sternly while Priscilla glanced from her plate of asparagus to the patio. “You have a kid and you dream of, you know, meeting his first girlfriend, sending him off to college, visiting his first house,” Chuck said, declining to look up from the neat row of cubes he’d made of his steak. “Never in my wildest dreams did I think any of this was going to happen.” “He’s our only child,” Priscilla added, and began crying again. “Frankly? I’ve given up. I’ve tried everything with him. He responds to nothing. Not doctors, not shrinks, not us. Nothing.” “What’s he doing?” Priscilla asked. Orson and Jeremy were sitting across from each other on a pair of Adirondack chairs, Orson gesticulating like he had with the celebrities. Jeremy seemed to be enraptured. “It’s the precursor to Synthesis,” I said. “We always do an individual assessment before beginning the treatment.” “Strap him to a bed and run electrodes through his head for all I care,” Chuck said. “Chuck!” Priscilla looked more stunned than angry. “How could you say that?” Chuck shrugged. “How could he behave the way he does? It’s one of the world’s greatest mysteries.” “Mrs. Enner,” I said. “I encourage you to focus on your lunch while Orson’s working. If he sees us watching, your son is likely to lose focus.” Priscilla nodded resignedly and continued picking at her asparagus. We finished eating, the kitchen staff cleared the table, and I gave the Enners a tour of the farmhouse, pointing out the small details I’d put in place to appease Jeremy: a Paramore band poster, red carpeting for the stairs, boxes of sugar-dusted chocolate Pop-Tarts in the lazy Susan. “We want him to feel at home,” I said. Chuck grunted. Priscilla’s eyes watered yet again. We finished to find Orson and Jeremy in the living room, Orson standing with his arms crossed and Jeremy sleeping peacefully on the couch. “He told me he was exhausted,” Orson said. “He said


strengthened his memory; being singled out made him more than ever anxious to return to the Group. The idea was profound, but as usual, in Maycomb it didn't work very well. In the first place, few rural children had access to newspapers, so the burden of Current Events was borne by the town children, convincing the bus children more deeply that the town children got all the attention anyway. The rural children who could, usually brought clippings from what they called The Grit Paper, a publication spurious in the eyes of Miss Gates, our teacher. Why she frowned when a child recited from The Grit Paper I never knew, but in some way it was associated with liking fiddling, eating syrupy biscuits for lunch, being a holy-roller, singing Sweetly Sings the Donkey and pronouncing it dunkey, all of which the state paid teachers to discourage. Even so, not many of the children knew what a Current Event was. Little Chuck Little, a hundred years old in his knowledge of cows and their habits, was halfway through an Uncle Natchell story when Miss Gates stopped him: "Charles, that is not a current event. That is an advertisement." Cecil Jacobs knew what one was, though. When his turn came, he went to the front of the room and began, "Old Hitler-" "Adolf Hitler, Cecil," said Miss Gates. "One never begins with Old anybody." "Yes ma'am," he said. "Old Adolf Hitler has been prosecutin' the-" "Persecuting Cecil...." "Nome, Miss Gates, it says here- well anyway, old Adolf Hitler has been after the Jews and he's puttin' 'em in prisons and he's taking away all their property and he won't let any of 'em out of the country and he's washin' all the feeble-minded and-" "Washing the feeble-minded?" "Yes ma'am, Miss Gates, I reckon they don't have sense enough to wash themselves, I don't reckon an idiot could keep hisself clean. Well anyway, Hitler's started a program to round up all the half-Jews too and he wants to register 'em in case they might wanta cause him any trouble and I think this is a bad thing and that's my current event." "Very good, Cecil," said Miss Gates. Puffing, Cecil returned to his seat. A hand went up in the back of the room. "How can he do that?" "Who do what?" asked Miss Gates patiently. "I mean how can Hitler just put a lot of folks in a pen like that, looks like the govamint'd stop him," said the owner of the hand. "Hitler is the government," said Miss Gates, and seizing an opportunity to make education dynamic, she went to the blackboard. She printed DEMOCRACY in large letters. "Democracy," she said. "Does anybody have a definition?" "Us," somebody said. I raised my hand, remembering an old campaign slogan Atticus had once told me about. "What do you think it means, Jean Louise?" "'Equal rights for all, special privileges for none,'" I quoted. "Very good, Jean Louise, very good," Miss Gates smiled. In front of DEMOCRACY, she printed WE ARE A. "Now class, say it


note-passing, and grew up to be a noted economist. Geoff essentially lived in the Granby darkroom. The nearest Rite Aid was in Kern, so Geoff processed film not only for the yearbook and the Sentinel but had a side hustle for kids who wanted personal shots developed. Even photography students had to sign up on the darkroom schedule, but Geoff finagled a key and unlimited use in exchange for maintenance. I’d find him there during free periods or after dinner. I’d perch on the table and we’d talk, red light illuminating our faces like campfire. Mr. Levin said, “I remember every student. You’d think my brain would be full after thirty years, but no.” “I don’t even remember last year’s students,” Fran said. “Quiz him!” called one of the young teachers from the end of the table. “We should go get, like, the 1970 yearbook!” Mr. Levin cleared his throat and asked exactly how old they thought he was. A ruckus, then, of laughter and teasing. Mr. Levin was born in 1962. One woman at the table coached crew, and was thrilled to learn I’d rowed. “I wish you were here in warm weather!” she said. “We’d get you out with us!” It was in that same dining hall that Karen King and Laura Tamman had stopped me with a survey, the first week of school. They asked how much I’d grown in the past year. “Not much,” I said, bewildered, and they seemed unduly pleased. They asked if I considered myself a leader or follower, if I was a morning person. Then Laura said, “You’d be perfect for crew.” I hadn’t arrived early for preseason—had signed up for PE instead, not understanding that PE was for hard-core smokers and kids with heart issues, that preseason was when everyone bonded and forged friend groups. I told them I’d never been in a boat and my arms weren’t strong. I didn’t add that crew seemed like something for girls named Ashley. I didn’t add that I was overweight (only a bit, but enormously so in my mind) and worried I’d tip the boat. “No one has experience,” Karen said. “That’s the beauty.” She said I’d have a year to row novice, with and against girls who’d never rowed before. She explained it was about your core and legs. She got me out of PE that afternoon to try the erg, which turned out to be a rowing machine like the one in the Robesons’ basement. The crew girls were hilarious and tough, kids who made fun of the sports where you hopped around in a tiny skirt. Within the week, I found myself rising at dawn to ride the Dragon Wagon to the boathouse down at the wider, deeper part of the Tigerwhip, found myself holding my breath as I climbed into the boat with eight other girls, wondering how easily this thing could capsize, found myself rowing three seat and then, as they discovered I had rhythm, four seat. Part of what I loved was the escape from campus. A boat was


little creature bestirred itself, and did just that.

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For MEG AND ARCHIE AND LILI...AND, OF COURSE, MY MOTHER

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Acknowledgments

The length of this list alone leaves me deeply humbled.

On the publishing side, thank you to everyone at Penguin Random House,

U.S. and U.K., beginning of course with the sage and forbearing Gina

Centrello, plus super-genius-editor (and all-around top bloke) Ben

Greenberg. Thanks to Markus Dohle and Madeline McIntosh for the

understanding as timelines changed, not once, but twice. Thanks to Bill

Scott-Kerr, Tom Weldon, Andy Ward, David Drake, Madison Jacobs, Larry

Finlay, Theresa Zoro, Bill Takes, Lisa Feuer, Katrina Whone, Benjamin

Dreyer, Sally Franklin, Catriona Hillerton, Linnea Knollmueller, Mark

Birkey, Kelly Chian, Derek Bracken, Kate Samano, Simon Sullivan, Chris

Brand, Jenny Pouech, Susan Corcoran, Maria Braeckel, Leigh Marchant,

Windy Dorresteyn, Leslie Prives, Aparna Rishi, Ty Nowicki, Matthew

Martin, Anke Steinecke, Sinead Martin, Vanessa Milton, Martin Soames,

Kaeli Subberwal, Denise Cronin, Sarah Lehman, Jaci Updike, Cynthia

Lasky, Allyson Pearl, Skip Dye, Stephen Shodin, Sue Malone-Barber, Sue

Driskill, Michael DeFazio, Annette Danek, Valerie VanDelft, Stacey

Witcraft, Nihar Malaviya, Kirk Bleemer, Matthew Schwartz, Lisa Gonzalez,

Susan Seeman, Eric Tessen, Gina Wachtel, Daniel Christensen, Jess Wells,

Thea James, Holly Smith, Patsy Irwin, Nicola Bevin, Robert Waddington,

Thomas Chicken, Chris Turner, Stuart Anderson, Ian Sheppard, Vicky

Palmer, and Laura Ricchetti.

On the audio side, thanks goes to Kelly Gildea, Dan Zitt, Scott Sherratt,

Noah Bruskin, Alan Parsons, Ok Hee Kolwitz, Tim Bader, Amanda

D’Acierno, Lance Fitzgerald, Donna Passannante, Katie Punia, Ellen Folan,

and Nicole McArdle.

Special thanks to Ramona Rosales for her sensitivity, humor, and artistry,

Hazel Orme for her careful copyedits, Hilary McClellen for her superb fact-

checking, Tricia Wygal for her eagle-eyed readings—likewise Elizabeth

Carbonell, Tory Klose, Janet Renard, and Megha Jain. Thank you for the

huge team effort.

440


purposely responsible, explicable adamant, stubborn, obdurate, uncontrollable: (adj) unruly, unaccountably: (adv) mysteriously, inexorable, severe, intractable, incontrollable, ungovernable, especially, curiously, bizarrely implacable, obstinate. ANTONYMS: unmanageable, intractable, unaccustomed: (adj) new, strange, (adj) flexible, bending, compliant, undisciplined, disobedient, indocile, unusual, inexperienced, pliable, weak, soft, irresolute, overwhelming, boisterous; (adj, v) unseasoned, unacquainted, floppy, lenient, liberal, uncontrolled. ANTONYMS: (adj) uncustomary, rare, unfamiliar, accommodating controllable, imperceptible, orderly, unwonted; (adj, v) untrained. unborn: (adj) uncreated, unmade, biddable, weak ANTONYMS: (adj) familiar, normal, unproduced, unconceived, unbred, uncouth: (adj) rough, rude, ready, usual, prepared, not begotten, unbegotten; (n) barbarous, vulgar, crude, awkward, knowledgeable, customary posterity. ANTONYM: (adj) born clumsy, gross, unrefined, ungainly, unacquainted: (adj) unaware, uncanny: (adj) weird, eerie, strange, common. ANTONYMS: (adj) unaccustomed, strange, oblivious, ghostly, unearthly, unnatural, refined, couth, polite, sophisticated, ignorant, unapprized, unapprised, eldritch, mysterious, odd, frightful, pleasant, proper, genteel unweeting, inexperienced, innocent, hideous. ANTONYMS: (adj) normal, uncovered: (adj) naked, open, bare, not learned. ANTONYMS: (adj) common, ordinary nude, unclothed, bald, unreserved, accustomed, knowledgeable, unceremonious: (adj) informal, unprotected, evident, frank, conscious, informed familiar, casual, abrupt, uncivil, manifest. ANTONYMS: (adj) indoor, unadulterated: (adj) clean, simple, ungracious, rough, sharp, curt, concealed genuine, sheer, absolute, perfect, unceremonial, bluff. ANTONYMS: unction: (n) salve, ointment, balm, unsophisticated, true, authentic, (adj) formal, gracious unguent, gusto, anointment, real, neat. ANTONYMS: (adj) uncheerful: (adj) cheerless, drabber, inspiration, smarm, cream, diluted, hidden, imitation, drear, dreary, gloomy, lacking oleaginousness, smarminess provisional cheer, disconsolate, unwilling, grim, undergo: (v) experience, encounter, unaltered: (adj) unalterable, drab, dismal. ANTONYM: (adj) sustain, have, endure, bear, tolerate, unmoved, same, unaffected. cheerful go through, take, feel, know. 334 The Scarlet Letter ANTONYMS: (v) commit, do, everlasting, deathless, permanent, unfinished: (adj) rough, rude, execute imperishable, endless, unending, unaccomplished, imperfect, undermine: (v) weaken, subvert, lasting, abiding; (adj, v) incomplete, partial, immature, cave, damage, sabotage, break, indestructible. ANTONYMS: (adj) unpolished, raw, undone; (v) impair, derail; (adj, v) mine, dig; (n, temporary, mortal, impermanent, uncompleted. ANTONYMS: (adj) v) overthrow. ANTONYMS: (v) ending, inconstant finished, complete, complex, bolster, boost, confirm, stabilize, unearthly: (adj) weird, ghostly, completed inflate, support uncanny, ethereal, unworldly, unflinching: (adj) resolute, steadfast, undertone: (n) undercurrent, preternatural, spectral, eerie, undaunted, firm, unfaltering, murmur, tinge, nuance, whisper, spiritual, strange, heavenly. determined, dauntless, intrepid, suggestion, implication, ANTONYMS: (adj) natural, undeviating, constant, unswerving connotation, overtone, association, physical, acceptable, normal, human unfolding: (n) development, growth, hint uneasily: (adv) apprehensively, flowering, display, recitation, dawn, underwent: (v) endure, tolerate restlessly, worriedly, nervously, process, solution, disclosure; (adj) undesirable: (adj) unwelcome, solicitously, unquietly, ongoing, duration inexpedient, objectionable, constrainedly, awkwardly, fretfully, unforgiving: (adj) uncharitable, unsuitable, distasteful, undesired, unsettledly, fearfully. ANTONYMS: implacable, relentless, unrelenting, unwanted, wrong, unalluring, (adv) calmly, confidently, stern, merciless, grim, unattractive; (n) persona non grata. unconcernedly, comfortably, unappeasable, inexorable, cruel, ANTONYMS: (adj) desirable, fearlessly intransigent. ANTONYMS: (adj) wanted, welcome, acceptable, unequal: (adj) different, unlike, charitable, merciful, forgiving, kind, appealing, favorable, fortunate, uneven, rough, lopsided, unfair, considerate, gentle, tolerant convenient, pleasant inadequate, disparate, unfrequently: (adv) not much, not undisclosed: (v) unbreathed, disproportionate, unbalanced, often, unoften, rarely unexpressed, unproclaimed; (adj) unsymmetrical. ANTONYMS: (adj) ungracious: (adj) discourteous, anonymous, hidden, covert, equal, even, fair, identical, similar, impolite, uncivil, surly, unkind, clandestine, mysterious, invisible, same, level, constant, balanced, like, unceremonious,


woman they are speaking of," Teabing explained, "is Mary Magdalene. Peter is jealous of her." "Because Jesus preferred Mary?" "Not only that. The stakes were far greater than mere affection. At this point in the gospels, Jesus suspects He will soon be captured and crucified. So He gives Mary Magdalene instructions on how to carry on His Church after He is gone. As a result, Peter expresses his discontent over playing second fiddle to a woman. I daresay Peter was something of a sexist." Sophie was trying to keep up. "This is Saint Peter. The rock on which Jesus built His Church." "The same, except for one catch. According to these unaltered gospels, it was not Peter to whom Christ gave directions with which to establish the Christian Church. It was Mary Magdalene." Sophie looked at him. "You're saying the Christian Church was to be carried on by a woman?" "That was the plan. Jesus was the original feminist. He intended for the future of His Church to be in the hands of Mary Magdalene." 167 "And Peter had a problem with that," Langdon said, pointing to The Last Supper. "That's Peter there. You can see that Da Vinci was well aware of how Peter felt about Mary Magdalene." Again, Sophie was speechless. In the painting, Peter was leaning menacingly toward Mary Magdalene and slicing his blade-like hand across her neck. The same threatening gesture as in Madonna of the Rocks! "And here too," Langdon said, pointing now to the crowd of disciples near Peter. "A bit ominous, no?" Sophie squinted and saw a hand emerging from the crowd of disciples. "Is that hand wielding a dagger?" "Yes. Stranger still, if you count the arms, you'll see that this hand belongs to... no one at all. It's disembodied. Anonymous." Sophie was starting to feel overwhelmed. "I'm sorry, I still don't understand how all of this makes Mary Magdalene the Holy Grail." "Aha!" Teabing exclaimed again. "Therein lies the rub!" He turned once more to the table and pulled out a large chart, spreading it out for her. It was an elaborate genealogy. "Few people realize that Mary Magdalene, in addition to being Christ's right hand, was a powerful woman already." Sophie could now see the title of the family tree. THE TRIBE OF BENJAMIN "Mary Magdalene is here," Teabing said, pointing near the top of the genealogy. Sophie was surprised. "She was of the House of Benjamin?" "Indeed," Teabing said. "Mary Magdalene was of royal descent." "But I was under the impression Magdalene was poor." Teabing shook his head. "Magdalene was recast as a whore in order to erase evidence of her powerful family ties." Sophie found herself again glancing at Langdon, who again nodded. She turned back to Teabing. "But why would the early Church care if Magdalene had royal blood?" The Briton smiled. "My dear child, it was not Mary Magdalene's royal blood that concerned the Church so much as it was her consorting with Christ, who also had royal blood. As you know, the Book of Matthew tells us


step. “Go ahead.” He sits beside me. “Why are you nervous?” I ask. “I have an important meeting tomorrow.” “It’ll be fine.” He turns to me and that easy smile I remember slides seamlessly into place. “How do you know that?” “I don’t, but it’s nice to hear, isn’t it?” He nods. “You’ve done a great job with this party, by the way; Em was just telling us and Cam was quick to acknowledge how much of it was down to your execution.” I frown. “Eugh, Jo must think I’m such a loser. We … we’re not really that close.” “No, she was touched,” Sam assures. “But if you’re not that close, why do so much?” I shrug. “I had amends to make, plus I like making an effort for other people. Turns out, I’m a bit of a people pleaser. It’s something I’m working on. But I just like the idea of people being happy because I know how great it is to feel happy, if that makes any sense.” He draws from his cigarette. “Are you generally sad?” I look at him and he doesn’t turn away. “Yes,” I answer. “Sometimes I’m really sad. It sounds like a childish word to use and ‘depressed’ is the adult equivalent, but for me ‘sad’ works best.” “What causes it?” I’m surprised by his genuine interest and once again hear those words from Mum about keeping our matters private. “Sometimes, nothing,” I tell him. “It’s been a rough couple of months. I got fired from a job I hated, was dumped by my boyfriend after finding out he was someone else’s boyfriend, and then, as you already know, my dad died.” “Yes, I remember. Do you want to talk about it?” “No.” “Want to trash-talk the ex-boyfriend?” he offers. “What was his name?” “Ben.” “He sounds like a dick.” I shrug. “It was my first real relationship, if I can call it that. I didn’t love him, but it hurts knowing I got a different man than the one his actual girlfriend did. She got the better version of him; he gave her the better version of him. I don’t see why I’m good but not good enough,” I say quietly. “I once thought, maybe I should only date Black men who date Black women because maybe I’d never feel let down, well, in that area anyway. I wouldn’t have to psychoanalyze their actions toward me or think thrice about something they’ve said or feel misunderstood or like too much effort to understand and maybe, just maybe, I could end up being loved—just for who I am.” When I look at Sam, his mouth is slightly open. “Shit,” I say. “Sorry, that really brought the mood down. I’m experimenting with honesty. Erm, so what’s tomorrow’s meeting about?” He smiles sadly. “I’m really sorry someone made you feel that way, Maddie.” “Life lesson, I suppose.” “Yeah, dating gives you a lot of those.” We both look at each other. “Bad experience yourself?” “You could say that.” I think he means to stop there but


Spaniard at last. "I'll sit to you, but not for money, for my own pleasure." Philip expostulated, but the other was firm, and at length they arranged that he should come on the following Monday at one o'clock. He gave Philip a card on which was printed his name: Miguel Ajuria. Miguel sat regularly, and though he refused to accept payment he borrowed fifty francs from Philip every now and then: it was a little more expensive than if Philip had paid for the sittings in the usual way; but gave the Spaniard a satisfactory feeling that he was not earning his living in a degrading manner. His nationality made Philip regard him as a representative of romance, and he asked him about Seville and Granada, Velasquez and Calderon. But Miguel bad no patience with the grandeur of his country. For him, as for so many of his compatriots, France was the only country for a man of intelligence and Paris the centre of the world. "Spain is dead," he cried. "It has no writers, it has no art, it has nothing." Little by little, with the exuberant rhetoric of his race, he revealed his ambitions. He was writing a novel which he hoped would make his name. He was under the influence of Zola, and he had set his scene in Paris. He told Philip the story at length. To Philip it seemed crude and stupid; the naive obscenity-- _c'est la vie, mon cher, c'est la vie_, he cried--the naive obscenity served only to emphasise the conventionality of the anecdote. He had written for two years, amid incredible hardships, denying himself all the pleasures of life which had attracted him to Paris, fighting with starvation for art's sake, determined that nothing should hinder his great achievement. The effort was heroic. "But why don't you write about Spain?" cried Philip. "It would be so much more interesting. You know the life." "But Paris is the only place worth writing about. Paris is life." One day he brought part of the manuscript, and in his bad French, translating excitedly as he went along so that Philip could scarcely understand, he read passages. It was lamentable. Philip, puzzled, looked at the picture he was painting: the mind behind that broad brow was trivial; and the flashing, passionate eyes saw nothing in life but the obvious. Philip was not satisfied with his portrait, and at the end of a sitting he nearly always scraped out what he had done. It was all very well to aim at the intention of the soul: who could tell what that was when people seemed a mass of contradictions? He liked Miguel, and it distressed him to realise that his magnificent struggle was futile: he had everything to make a good writer but talent. Philip looked at his own work. How could you tell whether there was anything in it or whether you were wasting your time? It was clear that the will to achieve could not help you and confidence in yourself meant nothing. Philip thought of Fanny


away. Helen keeps talking to her about the wind that can’t bend the strongest trees, about the heroes who are never forgotten, about bird songs carrying the word of the dead. She keeps talking to Clytemnestra to remind her to stay in the world of the living. “Think of all the golden masks made for our heroes. The goldsmiths will prepare one for Tantalus, as beautiful as his face, and under it he will sink into the most peaceful sleep,” Helen says. All Clytemnestra can think of is the image of Tantalus’s body dragged through his own blood, the feel of his lifeless hands, too cold in her own. Agamemnon’s stare as he cleaned her husband’s blood from his sword. He knew he had broken her, but there was no regret on his face. Her boy, dead in the arms of Leda. His little body was motionless, his turquoise eyes closed. Clytemnestra wanted to touch him, shake him, wrap herself around him. But arms held her, her sisters’, keeping her away, rocking her. Outside the windows, life goes on, its sounds scratching the sky like claws. Clouds form, then scatter. In the night, the stars twinkle and swim in the sorrowful sky. When Clytemnestra falls asleep, Helen lights the lamps and covers her sister with thick blankets. Clytemnestra dreams about something that happened a long time before: when she was seven, she witnessed a fight in the gymnasium when a young boy’s neck was broken by another Spartan, an accident. The boy was left in the burning sand, like a bird with crushed wings, until his mother came and cried to the gods. He died fighting, Tyndareus said. Clytemnestra wakes from the dream, sweat and tears streaming down her face. “My boy didn’t die fighting,” she whispers. * * * Timandra brings her food, but Clytemnestra doesn’t touch it. She is sitting by the window, listening to voices rise and fall from the village. The tears on her cheeks have dried and there is a coldness in her, grief freezing into anger. “You should eat,” Timandra says. Her voice is so soft it doesn’t even sound like hers. “She won’t,” Helen says from her corner of the room. “I have tried.” Clytemnestra’s head sinks into her palms. She doesn’t see the point in eating. She doesn’t see the point in anything. Nothing she can do will bring back those she has lost. Timandra steps forward cautiously. “Their bodies have been washed and burned,” she says. “Their ashes are safe in the royal tomb. Together.” And there they will rot and be forgotten. The worst fate of all, to fade and wither into obscurity. Clytemnestra wanted to clean Tantalus’s body, to dress him in his best tunic, but Tyndareus wouldn’t let her out of her room. She feels something tearing under her skin as she thinks of another woman laying out her husband’s body, touching him and mourning him. Was it her mother? Was it a servant? “Agamemnon wasn’t alone in planning this,” Timandra says after a long pause. Clytemnestra’s head jerks up.


he asked tentatively. "Nothing to speak of," I said. Francis came out on the catwalk. "You gonna take it back, Fra- ancis?" But I was too quick on the draw. Francis shot back into the kitchen, so I retired to the steps. I could wait patiently. I had sat there perhaps five minutes when I heard Aunt Alexandra speak: "Where's Francis?" "He's out yonder in the kitchen." "He knows he's not supposed to play in there." Francis came to the door and yelled, "Grandma, she's got me in here and she won't let me out!" "What is all this, Jean Louise?" I looked up at Aunt Alexandra. "I haven't got him in there, Aunty, I ain't holdin' him." "Yes she is," shouted Francis, "she won't let me out!" "Have you all been fussing?" "Jean Louise got mad at me, Grandma," called Francis. "Francis, come out of there! Jean Louise, if I hear another word out of you I'll tell your father. Did I hear you say hell a while ago?" "Nome." "I thought I did. I'd better not hear it again." Aunt Alexandra was a back-porch listener. The moment she was out of sight Francis came out head up and grinning. "Don't you fool with me," he said. He jumped into the yard and kept his distance, kicking tufts of grass, turning around occasionally to smile at me. Jem appeared on the porch, looked at us, and went away. Francis climbed the mimosa tree, came down, put his hands in his pockets and strolled around the yard. "Hah!" he said. I asked him who he thought he was, Uncle Jack? Francis said he reckoned I got told, for me to just sit there and leave him alone. "I ain't botherin' you," I said. Francis looked at me carefully, concluded that I had been sufficiently subdued, and crooned softly, "Nigger-lover..." This time, I split my knuckle to the bone on his front teeth. My left impaired, I sailed in with my right, but not for long. Uncle Jack pinned my arms to my sides and said, "Stand still!" Aunt Alexandra ministered to Francis, wiping his tears away with her handkerchief, rubbing his hair, patting his cheek. Atticus, Jem, and Uncle Jimmy had come to the back porch when Francis started yelling. "Who started this?" said Uncle Jack. Francis and I pointed at each other. "Grandma," he bawled, "she called me a whore-lady and jumped on me!" "Is that true, Scout?" said Uncle Jack. "I reckon so." When Uncle Jack looked down at me, his features were like Aunt Alexandra's. "You know I told you you'd get in trouble if you used words like that? I told you, didn't I?" "Yes sir, but-" "Well, you're in trouble now. Stay there." I was debating whether to stand there or run, and tarried in indecision a moment too long: I turned to flee but Uncle Jack was quicker. I found myself suddenly looking at a tiny ant struggling with a bread crumb in the grass. "I'll never speak to you again as long as I live!


pick a pocket. Mrs. Bone used to truss herself in her vulcanite and black bog oak beads and sit on a bench in Regent’s Park, going over and over the process: Gently, girl, like your fingers are made of air... She always said she had great expectations of Dinah. She said she knew a sharp eye and a good temper and a strong character when she saw one. They shared good, quick-moving O’Flynn blood, after all. “Don’t get up,” Mrs. Bone said, and pressed both hands to her thighs. “Gawd’s sake, I’m puffed.” The nursemaids were out in force, pushing modern perambulators with wheels that wouldn’t go amiss on an omnibus. The scene looked tranquil, but it wasn’t. Mrs. King had seated herself on a bench facing the palace and the sheep, and counted the men. One on the Broad Path, unmoving. Three under the parasols by the tea tent. Two more on the water, gliding past in a boat, very upright. She knew what that meant. They had pistols strapped to their ribs. Mrs. Bone had brought reinforcements for this discussion. Mrs. King was inclined to take this as a good sign. She knew her aunt. This meant she was in a negotiating mood. She was ready to buy in. Mrs. King rebuttoned her gloves. Smoothed her skirts. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Bone,” she said pleasantly. “Yes, yes, how d’ye do, splendid to see you. I’ve only got chilblains and blisters and bleedin’ corns popping up all over my feet, tramping around that great blooming place for you.” Mrs. Bone sat down with a thump, the vibration passing through the bench, and stretched her legs. She’d picked up the aroma of the back offices already. Stewed gammon and carbolic. It gave Mrs. King a strangely homesick feeling. She brushed that away at once: that sort of sensation was extremely dangerous, not required, not to be repeated. “Well?” she said, awaiting Mrs. Bone’s decision. Mrs. Bone breathed out. Closed her eyes. “I don’t like the odds.” Mrs. King nodded her head at that. She’d expected that response. “I appreciate your candor.” “Well, candidly, duck, the plan’s a load of balderdash.” “Balderdash?” “Hogwash. A load of old bull. I’ve looked around. I’ve sneaked into every nook and cranny I could find. You’ve got umpteen floors to sweep, a garden lying crossways to the house, a backyard in full view of the lane, and motor traffic the likes of which you wouldn’t see at the gates of hell, not even when they’re sending the pimps and whores and fornicators down for their just desserts...” She paused to take a lungful of air. “I mean for heaven’s sake, girl. You can’t give me one reason the whole thing won’t fall apart in five seconds.” “Certainly I can.” “Go on, then.” Mrs. King gazed out at the water. Watched Mrs. Bone’s men paddling slowly by. “Because I’m running it.” Mrs. Bone smiled sadly. “You’ve a good fire in your belly, dear. I’ll grant you that. But that’s all. You do my small jobs. Side stuff. You always


his comrades had aroused a strong dislike in Tarzan, and now that he saw him quarreling with the fine-looking young man his animosity was still further stirred. Tarzan had never seen the effects of a firearm before, though his books had taught him something of them, but when he saw the rat-faced one fingering the butt of his revolver he thought of the scene he had witnessed so short a time before, and naturally expected to see the young man murdered as had been the huge sailor earlier in the day. So Tarzan fitted a poisoned arrow to his bow and drew a bead upon the rat-faced sailor, but the foliage was so thick that he soon saw the arrow would be deflected by the leaves or some small branch, and instead he launched a heavy spear from his lofty perch. Clayton had taken but a dozen steps. The rat-faced sailor had half drawn his revolver; the other sailors stood Chapter 13 watching the scene intently. Professor Porter had already disappeared into the jungle, whither he was being followed by the fussy Samuel T. Philander, his secretary and assistant. Esmeralda, the Negress, was busy sorting her mistress' baggage from the pile of bales and boxes beside the cabin, and Miss Porter had turned away to follow Clayton, when something caused her to turn again toward the sailor. And then three things happened almost simultaneously. The sailor jerked out his weapon and leveled it at Clayton's back, Miss Porter screamed a warning, and a long, metal- shod spear shot like a bolt from above and passed entirely through the right shoulder of the rat-faced man. The revolver exploded harmlessly in the air, and the seaman crumpled up with a scream of pain and terror. Clayton turned and rushed back toward the scene. The sailors stood in a frightened group, with drawn weapons, peering into the jungle. The wounded man writhed and shrieked upon the ground. Clayton, unseen by any, picked up the fallen revolver and slipped it inside his shirt, then he joined the sailors in gazing, mystified, into the jungle. "Who could it have been?" whispered Jane Porter, and the young man turned to see her standing, wide-eyed and wondering, close beside him. "I dare say Tarzan of the Apes is watching us all right," he answered, in a dubious tone. "I wonder, now, who that spear was intended for. If for Snipes, then our ape friend is a friend indeed. "By jove, where are your father and Mr. Philander? There's someone or something in that jungle, and it's armed, whatever it is. Ho! Professor! Mr. Philander!" young Clayton shouted. There was no response. "What's to be done, Miss Porter?" continued the young man, his face clouded by a frown of worry and indecision. "I can't leave you here alone with these cutthroats, and you certainly can't venture into the jungle with me; yet someone must go in search of your father. He is more than apt to wandering off aimlessly, regardless of danger or direction, and Mr. Philander is only a


the cavernous stone barn where the work was done. When the armorer opened the door, the blast of hot air that came through made Ned feel as though he were walking into a dragon's mouth. Inside, a forge blazed in each corner, and the air stank of smoke and sulfur. Journeymen armorers glanced up from their hammers and tongs just long enough to wipe the sweat from their brows, while bare-chested apprentice boys worked the bellows. The master called over a tall lad about Robb's age, his arms and chest corded with muscle. "This is Lord Stark, the new Hand of the King," he told him as the boy looked at Ned through sullen blue eyes and pushed back sweat-soaked hair with his fingers. Thick hair, shaggy and unkempt and black as ink. The shadow of a new beard darkened his jaw. "This is Gendry. Strong for his age, and he works hard. Show the Hand that helmet you made, lad." Almost shyly, the boy led them to his bench, and a steel helm shaped like a bull's head, with two great curving horns. Ned turned the helm over in his hands. It was raw steel, unpolished but expertly shaped. "This is fine work. I would be pleased if you would let me buy it." The boy snatched it out of his hands. "It's not for sale." Tobho Mott looked horror-struck. "Boy, this is the King's Hand. If his lordship wants this helm, make him a gift of it. He honors you by asking." "I made it for me," the boy said stubbornly. "A hundred pardons, my lord," his master said hurriedly to Ned. "The boy is crude as new steel, and like new steel would profit from some beating. That helm is journeyman's work at best. Forgive him and I promise I will craft you a helm like none you have ever seen." "He's done nothing that requires my forgiveness. Gendry, when Lord Arryn came to see you, what did you talk about?" 248 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN "He asked me questions is all, m'lord." "What sort of questions?" The boy shrugged. "How was 1, and was I well treated, and if I liked the work, and stuff about my mother. Who she was and what she looked like and all." "What did you tell him?" Ned asked. The boy shoved a fresh fall of black hair off his forehead. "She died when I was little. She had yellow hair, and sometimes she used to sing to me, I remember. She worked in an alehouse." "Did Lord Stannis question you as well?" "The bald one? No, not him. He never said no word, just glared at me, like I was some raper who done for his daughter." "Mind your filthy tongue," the master said. "This is the King's own Hand." The boy lowered his eyes. "A smart boy, but stubborn. That helm . . . the others call him bullheaded, so he threw it in their teeth." Ned touched the boy's head, fingering the thick black hair. "Look at me, Gendry." The


girls,” she said. “What’s happening to the girls?” Winnie paled. Her eyes widened. Mrs. Bone jabbed Mrs. King’s arm with her finger. “I know a bad business when I see it. I can smell it a mile off. I’m not a fool. Someone’s using these girls. Getting ’em out of bed at all hours. I know what that means.” Mrs. Bone jabbed her again, harder. “You brought me in here under false pretenses.” Winnie sucked in her breath. “No, Mrs. Bone.” “I’ve been making a fool of myself, crawling around on my hands and knees, wiping everyone’s arses. You should have told me what I was getting into. It’s sick; it’s rotten. I’ve never let myself get anywhere near this sort of business.” At first Mrs. King looked entirely nonplussed. But then something moved in her eyes, a slow and creeping fear. It made Mrs. Bone clench her fists. “What sort of house was you running here?” she said. Winnie raised a hand. “Please don’t,” she said, voice constricted. “Don’t put this on Mrs. King. She doesn’t know.” “Doesn’t know what?” said Mrs. King, voice taut. Mrs. Bone let out a short bark of laughter. “What sort of person doesn’t know what’s going on under her own roof?” “Winnie?” said Mrs. King. Winnie sagged against the wall, closing her eyes. “I only found out three years ago.” “Found out what?” “Girls,” said Mrs. Bone. “They’ve been meddling with the girls.” Mrs. King’s face went very still. She took this in, assessed it. Clearly, she understood what that word meant, what meddling was: of course she did. Everyone did. “No,” she said, her voice growing cold. “That’s not correct.” Mrs. Bone snapped her fingers at Winnie. “You. Tell us. What do you know?” Winnie rubbed her hand over her face. Her voice was low, hoarse. “I was here. I mean...here, in the garden. The mews house has a loft above it. There’s a little staircase that comes down to the stables. They used to keep a carriage there, but it’s empty now. I saw a man, someone I didn’t recognize. He had a beautiful coat on. It was... I don’t know. Seal gray. Sealskin.” She took a shuddering breath. “It was very smooth, like silk. I thought: Oh, what a lovely coat.” She paused, frowning. “He was walking a girl down the stairs. I mean, he had his hand on her shoulder. He was pressing her down. Pushing her along. Like he was shoving her out. I knew at once it was wrong. I mean, my whole body felt it.” Mrs. King watched her the whole time she was speaking. Her face changed, grew ashen. “It was Ida,” said Winnie. “One of the kitchen girls. And I didn’t know the man at all.” Mrs. Bone knew that mews house. She’d seen it every time she crossed the yard. Pale gray plasterwork, ivy beginning to climb the walls. One small window. “How old?” she said. “I don’t know.” “How old, Winnie?” said Mrs. King, voice hard. “Not old, not old enough. She looked...” Winnie


status,” predicted Josh Venable, Trump’s former Education Department chief of staff. The idea was a “cockroach that wouldn’t die,” he said. In summer 2018, Venable was with Education Secretary Betsy DeVos in the Netherlands on a work trip when they got a call from the White House. It was Stephen Miller. The Trump aide demanded that department leaders figure out how to cut off money to states that allowed undocumented immigrants to enroll in public schools. DeVos and her team had already told the White House it wasn’t legal. “Just find a way to do it,” Miller told her. “Are you afraid of getting sued, Betsy?” Miller was apparently fine with breaking the law. “Their plan was ignore it, get sued, and litigate it up to the Supreme Court,” Venable recalled. Like this, there are dozens of levers the White House could pull to make daily life harder for undocumented immigrants. None would be as powerful as the threat of mass deportation. The Next Trump will almost certainly break with long-standing U.S. policy of prioritizing the deportation of criminal aliens by ordering a widespread roundup of innocent immigrants and their families, regardless of whether they’ve committed crimes. Trump realized Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) didn’t have sufficient resources to do this. According to former ICE officials, his successor may use presidential powers to “deputize” other agencies to assist with deportation operations. Many of the anti-immigrant policies eyed by MAGA forces would be difficult to unravel. “It will be rule-making warfare from Day One,” a current CBP official told me, referring to the process of codifying new policies into permanent U.S. immigration rules. “You can’t just turn those off overnight. It takes years to undo them.” Second, the White House will turn migrants into political pawns. MAGA acolytes in Florida and Texas are already doing this by implementing “bus and dump” programs of the kind we once told Trump were illegal. The Next Trump will use federal resources to ship migrants from the border to Democratic cities across the United States in order to overwhelm social services and local law enforcement as a form of political punishment. The White House will also make an example out of recent arrivals. Expect a return of Trump’s family separation policies, this time on steroids. Before adopting Jeff Sessions’s zero-tolerance program, MAGA officials originally wanted to pull apart every child from their parents at the border, not just those who slipped between ports of entry illegally. They won’t hold back next time, and the message will be unmistakable: show up with a kid, and you may never see him or her again. Third, the Next Trump will go on offense. Americans should expect the resurrection of zombie policies involving destructive force against innocent civilians. This might include the regular use of tear gas to repel arriving migrants, the deployment of heat-ray technology to make asylum-seekers feel like their skin is on fire, or shoot-to-kill orders for anyone who rushes the U.S. border—all in the name of deterrence. They might even be treated as terrorists. Trump contemplated the


a tremor running under the skin of his face. “No? HARP 217, I am ordering you to—” He said, “No.” The smooth man stepped back, turned his head, and spoke to someone just out of sight. “This HARP unit is defective. Dismantle him. Learn everything he knows, and then process him for decommissioning.” Hap didn’t struggle as hands fell upon him, some covered in skin, others nothing but metal. The Hap in the chair rose and fell, rose and fell, hips twisting as he struggled against the bands around him. Darkness. It was all darkness. But he was awake. He was aware. “What are we doing with these?” someone asked. “Scrap,” another voice replied. “These are the older models. No need for them anymore. They were decommissioned decades ago. Put in storage. We’re going to break them down. Take what we need if there’s anything to salvage, strip what remains, and then send them out to the Scrap Yards.” “Which Scrap Yards?” “All of them. Spread them out. You have your orders. Get to work. If it looks corroded, leave it. We have no use for it.” “Such a waste,” came the reply. “They should have planned better for this.” “They should have. But they didn’t. And we do not question it. Stop talking. The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll be done.” Light flooded Hap’s vision. He was hung suspended in the air. Rows of HARPs stretched out before him, each held up by a hook through the backs of their necks. He looked down, his feet dangling high above the ground. The row of HARPs began to lower as they moved forward. In the distance, machines waited for each of the HARPs, machines with serrated saws and large claws that gripped each body as they pulled them off the hooks. They broke the HARPs, one by one, skin tearing, metal breaking. And in the sounds of destruction, Hap on the screen and Hap in the chair said together, “I want to be different.” I want to be better. He didn’t move as the saws descended. They cut into the skin of his face. His chest. His legs. His back. Hap didn’t make a sound as they descended on his throat with an audible crack. But before they could break him wide open, an alarm began to blare, signaling the end of a shift. The saws stopped spinning. The machines turned and left. He waited until they were out of sight. He looked down, his remaining foot almost to the floor. He reached up before falling to the ground on his knees. He rose quickly, his steps awkward as he hopped forward. In front of him, piled high, were bodies, the skin stripped, limbs removed, their batteries torn from their chests. He lifted the dismembered parts and crawled inside, covering himself with the remains of the other HARPs with his only arm. He closed his eyes and drifted away. Skip. Jump. Static. Voices. And Vic recognized them. “Still registering the power source?” “Yes.” “Is it a new friend?” “Perhaps. Or perhaps


had these phone calls and order forms and I was doing time sheets for my student trainers. I listened to the radio a little. Then I went home, I called this girl Marissa I’d been seeing, we talked from about one a.m. to two a.m. She testified to that. Later in court it becomes this whole thing, my calling her at one. They say I called her because I couldn’t sleep, because I felt guilty. The next day was Saturday and I didn’t have to work. We were between sports seasons, no games or meets. This is one of my only weekends off all school year, so I basically slept all day. The next day, Sunday, I see this girl Marissa, then I go to my mom’s for dinner, and when I get back to my place there’s a squad car out front. I honestly—I grew a little weed, and it’s the only law I’d ever broken besides running a few lights. So that’s where your mind goes. That’s what I assumed was up. They want me to come back to the station in Granby, and they won’t say why. What I know now is, you get a lawyer, always. But at the time, I figure that looks weird. Especially once they tell me what it’s about, and I realize it’s not the weed. I’m spooked hearing about it, this girl I kind of knew. I thought she was great, and she’s dead so young. She’s dead at my place of work. That’s a mindfuck. This first round of questioning, they’re chill about it, they’re like, We just want to see if you heard anything. So why would I go, Hold it, I gotta lawyer up? It’s like you’re announcing you’ve done something wrong. And I hadn’t. It’s the local police. The State Police weren’t involved yet. I’m not even sure when they finished the autopsy. They aren’t faking being casual because at this point, they still think it’s a drunk accident. They’re just trying to figure out how she got in the gym, just writing up this little police report. And it makes sense that it’s an accident. I’m sure some people thought those kids were angels, but I got to hear a lot of shit. I wasn’t a teacher, so they’d talk right in front of me. Just drinking, sneaking around, nothing you wouldn’t expect, but these kids are bored in the woods, they’ve got money, they get up to shit. So I go back to work Monday, and things are almost normal except the pool and back hallway are taped off. But other than that, like, there’s kids all over that gym until they kick them out again a couple days later. Early the next week, they call me in again. This time it’s the State Police, and by now we all know something looks wrong about the way she died. They’ve been questioning students and teachers, I know. So okay, I didn’t need a lawyer the first time, why would I need a lawyer the second time? They


in a cell, then sent me to kill him.” “Why you?” “He thought I was weak. He was always looking for ways to test me. I went to the dungeon and saw my father for the first time. See how cruel the Fates are? I met him moments before I was meant to kill him. I didn’t know who he was, but when I unsheathed my sword, Thyestes said it was his. That is how I knew he might be my father. The only thing my mother had left me was the sword of her rapist, whom she didn’t know either, because his face was concealed when he took her. His sword was all she had. So I didn’t kill Thyestes. I went to Agamemnon and asked him to find my mother, and I told Atreus that I would let Thyestes live only for a while. I needed to know if he was my real father. That was my mistake.” It shocks her when he speaks of his failings and weaknesses. The only other men she has known to do that were Tantalus and Odysseus, but they would do it in a way that asserted their power. They spoke of their mistakes to achieve something, to soften and bend the world to their will. That was what Tantalus had done to win her over. Aegisthus doesn’t speak of his failures to gain a reward. His purposelessness appalls her. “Atreus’s men found Pelopia and brought her to the palace. I remember thinking she was too young to be my mother, but I brought her to the megaron nonetheless. Atreus ordered Thyestes to be brought there too. Pelopia didn’t cry when she saw her father. I showed her the sword and told her it belonged to him. She looked at him, at the sword, then at me. Her eyes were like fire. She jumped forward and grabbed the sword from my hands. “When she stabbed herself in the stomach, no one did anything. We all stayed and watched as she gurgled and died in her own blood. When I looked up, Atreus was smiling on his throne. The sun was on his face and he was laughing. I hated him then, for all he had done to me. I pulled the sword out of Pelopia’s body and thrust it into Atreus’s neck.” “What did Agamemnon do?” “He ran away with Menelaus. He could have stayed and wrestled—he was always stronger than me—but he knew that not all the guards would side with him after Atreus’s death. We took back the palace then, Thyestes and I.” “You gave your loyalty to a man who raped his own daughter.” She doesn’t mean to insult him, but the words come out as blades. “I had no one else,” he replies. She touches his head and he closes his eyes. They are silent for a long time, until the rain outside lightens. She traces his jaw with a finger. He has told her his secrets and now it is her duty to carry them, like gems. And what


his view of her so deadened her that she staggered; and he stepped forward, thinking she was going to fall. "Sit down, sit down," he said gently. "You are ill; and it is natural that you should be." She did sit down, without knowing where she was, that strained look still upon her face, and her eyes such as to make his flesh creep. "I don't belong to you any more, then; do I, Angel?" she asked helplessly. "It is not me, but another woman like me that he loved, he says." The image raised caused her to take pity upon herself as one who was ill-used. Her eyes filled as she regarded her position further; she turned round and burst into a flood of self-sympathetic tears. Clare was relieved at this change, for the effect on her of what had happened was beginning to be a trouble to him only less than the woe of the disclosure itself. He waited patiently, apathetically, till the violence of her grief had worn itself out, and her rush of weeping had lessened to a catching gasp at intervals. "Angel," she said suddenly, in her natural tones, the insane, dry voice of terror having left her now. "Angel, am I too wicked for you and me to live together?" "I have not been able to think what we can do." "I shan't ask you to let me live with you, Angel, because I have no right to! I shall not write to mother and sisters to say we be married, as I said I would do; and I shan't finish the good-hussif' I cut out and meant to make while we were in lodgings." "Shan't you?" "No, I shan't do anything, unless you order me to; and if you go away from me I shall not follow 'ee; and if you never speak to me any more I shall not ask why, unless you tell me I may." "And if I order you to do anything?" "I will obey you like your wretched slave, even if it is to lie down and die." "You are very good. But it strikes me that there is a want of harmony between your present mood of self-sacrifice and your past mood of self-preservation." These were the first words of antagonism. To fling elaborate sarcasms at Tess, however, was much like flinging them at a dog or cat. The charms of their subtlety passed by her unappreciated, and she only received them as inimical sounds which meant that anger ruled. She remained mute, not knowing that he was smothering his affection for her. She hardly observed that a tear descended slowly upon his cheek, a tear so large that it magnified the pores of the skin over which it rolled, like the object lens of a microscope. Meanwhile reillumination as to the terrible and total change that her confession had wrought in his life, in his universe, returned to him, and he tried desperately to advance among the new conditions in which he stood. Some consequent action was necessary;


rap, a whisper, and a long waiting. Then, after a minute, a small light flickered inside Faber's small house. After another pause, the back door opened. They stood looking at each other in the half-light, Faber and Montag, as if each did not believe in the other's existence. Then Faber moved and put out his hand and grabbed Montag and moved him in and sat him down and went back and stood in the door, listening. The sirens were wailing off in the morning distance. He came in and shut the door. Montag said, "I've been a fool all down the line. I can't stay long. I'm on my way God knows where." "At least you were a fool about the right things," said Faber. "I thought you were dead. The audio-capsule I gave you--" "Burnt." "I heard the captain talking to you and suddenly there was nothing. I almost came out looking for you." "The captain's dead. He found the audio-capsule, he heard your voice, he was going to trace it. I killed him with the flamethrower." Faber sat down and did not speak for a time. "My God, how did this happen?" said Montag. "It was only the other night everything was fine and the next thing I know I'm drowning. How many times can a man go down and still be alive? I can't breathe. There's Beatty dead, and he was my friend once, and there's Millie gone, I thought she was my wife, but now I don't know. And the house all burnt. And my job gone and myself on the run, and I planted a book in a fireman's house on the way. Good Christ, the things I've done in a single week! " "You did what you had to do. It was coming on for a long time." "Yes, I believe that, if there's nothing else I believe. It saved itself up to happen. I could feel it for a long time, I was saving something up, I went around doing one thing and feeling another. God, it was all there. It's a wonder it didn't show on me, like fat. And now here I am, messing up your life. They might follow me here." "I feel alive for the first time in years," said Faber. "I feel I'm doing what I should have done a lifetime ago. For a little while I'm not afraid. Maybe it's because I'm doing the right thing at last. Maybe it's because I've done a rash thing and don't want to look the coward to you. I suppose I'll have to do even more violent things, exposing myself so I won't fall down on the job and turn scared again. What are your plans?" "To keep running." "You know the war's on?" "I heard." "God, isn't it funny?" said the old man. "It seems so remote because we have our own troubles." "I haven't had time to think." Montag drew out a hundred dollars. "I want this to stay with you, use it any way that'll help when I'm gone."


in our coffers, it made me believe that maybe we could save it after all. We needed more. Ninety-three thousand more, to be exact. But I could see it now. It was possible. I brushed my teeth, threw on my clothes, and opened the door. The air was ever-so-slightly chilly, the grass damp. Everything smelled like earth and water and a quickly approaching summer. I practically skipped over to Dudley, Holly Springs’s lead landscape technician. He stopped the lawn mower, its roar dulling to a gentle hum, and removed his large headphones. “Sounds like family camp was a great success!” he said. I nodded enthusiastically. Dudley hadn’t had any idea about the dire straits we were in before we announced the plans for family camp. Part of my hesitation in telling the larger staff earlier than we absolutely had to was because I didn’t want to worry them or make them feel like they had to look for new jobs. On the contrary, everyone on our wonderful, dedicated team volunteered to pitch in for family camp. Everyone had really leaned in to their positions, supporting us more than ever before. It was a good feeling. We really were a family. “The guys and I were talking and, you know, June, we could probably all pick up some outside work over the next few weeks. You don’t need to pay us if that’ll help you out.” I was somewhere between bursting with pride and bursting into tears. “You are so kind, but no. You all have families and responsibilities. This isn’t a volunteer position.” “Okay, well, just know the offer stands.” “Thanks for all you do!” I called as the lawn mower roared back to life. Birds were erupting into song, and the entire camp felt alive, teeming. We were only a few weeks out from our first session. Then it would really feel alive. Instead of turning right to walk to my office, I turned left, taking the long route so I could circle by the river. I stopped for just a moment to take a deep breath. This morning I’d decided that I was going to focus on the beauty of the sunlight on the river. I would worry about money later. Only, when I got to my office, it seemed the day had other plans. Jillian was at her desk and across from her was a man in a navy Price Development polo. I smiled tightly as he stood up. “June. What a pleasure to see you again.” It was not a pleasure. It was not a pleasure at all. I didn’t want this man sniffing around my camp. But I knew why he was here. I’d never followed up with him after his last offer. And men like David Price don’t just slink off into the darkness and take your silence as a no. “I was just telling Jillian here how great the camp is looking.” I tried not to smile at the compliment, but I couldn’t help myself. “There’s nothing better than this place when it’s all shined


I am in a happy dream. I waltz with the eldest Miss Larkins once again. She says I waltz so well! I go home in a state of unspeakable bliss, and waltz in imagination, all night long, with my arm round the blue waist of my dear divinity. For some days afterwards, I am lost in rapturous reflections; but I neither see her in the street, nor when I call. I am imperfectly consoled for this disappointment by the sacred pledge, the perished flower. 'Trotwood,' says Agnes, one day after dinner. 'Who do you think is going to be married tomorrow? Someone you admire.' 'Not you, I suppose, Agnes?' 'Not me!' raising her cheerful face from the music she is copying. 'Do you hear him, Papa? - The eldest Miss Larkins.' 'To - to Captain Bailey?' I have just enough power to ask. 'No; to no Captain. To Mr. Chestle, a hop-grower.' I am terribly dejected for about a week or two. I take off my ring, I wear my worst clothes, I use no bear's grease, and I frequently lament over the late Miss Larkins's faded flower. Being, by that time, rather tired of this kind of life, and having received new provocation from the butcher, I throw the flower away, go out with the butcher, and gloriously defeat him. This, and the resumption of my ring, as well as of the bear's grease in moderation, are the last marks I can discern, now, in my progress to seventeen. CHAPTER 19 I LOOK ABOUT ME, AND MAKE A DISCOVERY I am doubtful whether I was at heart glad or sorry, when my school-days drew to an end, and the time came for my leaving Doctor Strong's. I had been very happy there, I had a great attachment for the Doctor, and I was eminent and distinguished in that little world. For these reasons I was sorry to go; but for other reasons, unsubstantial enough, I was glad. Misty ideas of being a young man at my own disposal, of the importance attaching to a young man at his own disposal, of the wonderful things to be seen and done by that magnificent animal, and the wonderful effects he could not fail to make upon society, lured me away. So powerful were these visionary considerations in my boyish mind, that I seem, according to my present way of thinking, to have left school without natural regret. The separation has not made the impression on me, that other separations have. I try in vain to recall how I felt about it, and what its circumstances were; but it is not momentous in my recollection. I suppose the opening prospect confused me. I know that my juvenile experiences went for little or nothing then; and that life was more like a great fairy story, which I was just about to begin to read, than anything else. MY aunt and I had held many grave deliberations on the calling to which I should be devoted. For a year or more I had endeavoured to find


former Lord Greystoke, disappeared, presumably lost at sea." "But how do you account for these things being here, in this savage African jungle?" exclaimed the girl. "There is but one way to account for it, Miss Porter," said Clayton. "The late Lord Greystoke was not drowned. He died here in this cabin and this poor thing upon the floor is all that is mortal of him." "Then this must have been Lady Greystoke," said Jane reverently, indicating the poor mass of bones upon the bed. "The beautiful Lady Alice," replied Clayton, "of whose many virtues and remarkable personal charms I often have heard my mother and father speak. Poor woman," he murmured sadly. With deep reverence and solemnity the bodies of the late Lord and Lady Greystoke were buried beside their little African cabin, and between them was placed the tiny skeleton of the baby of Kala, the ape. As Mr. Philander was placing the frail bones of the infant in a bit of sail cloth, he examined the skull minutely. Then he called Professor Porter to his side, and the two argued in low tones for several minutes. "Most remarkable, most remarkable," said Professor Porter. "Bless me," said Mr. Philander, "we must acquaint Mr. Clayton with our discovery at once." "Tut, tut, Mr. Philander, tut, tut!" remonstrated Professor Archimedes Q. Porter. "`Let the dead past bury its Chapter 17 dead.'" And so the white-haired old man repeated the burial service over this strange grave, while his four companions stood with bowed and uncovered heads about him. From the trees Tarzan of the Apes watched the solemn ceremony; but most of all he watched the sweet face and graceful figure of Jane Porter. In his savage, untutored breast new emotions were stirring. He could not fathom them. He wondered why he felt so great an interest in these people--why he had gone to such pains to save the three men. But he did not wonder why he had torn Sabor from the tender flesh of the strange girl. Surely the men were stupid and ridiculous and cowardly. Even Manu, the monkey, was more intelligent than they. If these were creatures of his own kind he was doubtful if his past pride in blood was warranted. But the girl, ah--that was a different matter. He did not reason here. He knew that she was created to be protected, and that he was created to protect her. He wondered why they had dug a great hole in the ground merely to bury dry bones. Surely there was no sense in that; no one wanted to steal dry bones. Had there been meat upon them he could have understood, for thus alone might one keep his meat from Dango, the hyena, and the other robbers of the jungle. When the grave had been filled with earth the little party turned back toward the cabin, and Esmeralda, still weeping copiously for the two she had never heard of before today, and who had been dead twenty years, chanced to glance toward the harbor. Instantly her tears


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

turn your clothes inside out, do you disappear? I have always wondered.” The dark mood vanished like smoke, and he gave me a youthful grin. “Shall we try it?” “Oh, yes,” I said, an unlikely giggle escaping me. I seized his cloak and reversed it, and he pulled it on. “Oh,” he said, his face blank. “What is it?” I gripped his arm. “Wendell? What’s wrong?” “I don’t—I feel most unwell.” He let me strip the cloak from him, and then he collapsed into the chair. Only after I had made him another mug of chocolate and built the fire up for him again did he start to laugh at me. “Bastard,” I said, which only made him laugh harder. I stomped off to my room, having had quite enough of him for one night. 17th November I woke some hours before dawn in the quiet of a winter night, snow pattering against the window. Shadow was curled against my back, his favourite position, nose whistling. I lit the lantern upon my bedside table (both lantern and table had appeared earlier in the week, despite my objections) and held my hand up to the light. For a moment, I saw something—a shadow upon my third finger. It was visible only from the corner of my eye, and only then when I let my mind wander and did not think of it. My hand was very cold. I had to hover it above the lantern for some minutes before it warmed. I curled the hand into a fist and pressed it to my chest as an unpleasant shiver ran through me. I lifted the covers, intending to go to Wendell immediately and admit my foolishness. But no sooner had the thought entered my mind than it drifted away again. Even now as I write these words, I must hold tight to my coin to keep them from slipping from my memory. Each time I open my mouth to tell Wendell, a fog arises in my thoughts, and I know that if he were to ask me whether I have been enchanted, I would lie quite convincingly. “Shit,” I said. I took out my coin and pressed it to my hand. I did not know what manner of enchantment the king in the tree had ensnared me with. What was clear was that I was ensnared. Now, there are faerie enchantments that fade with time and distance if they are not renewed. I could only hope it was of this nature. If I found my feet taking me back to the tree, I would have to cut off my own hand. Naturally, I spent the rest of the night in a misery of shame and worry, cursing myself. The worst of it was that Bambleby had warned me away from the tree—if I descended into a murderous rage, or turned into a tree myself, he would be very smug about it. As soon as the winter dawn ghosted over the snowpack, I dressed and hiked up to the spring in my snowshoes, Shadow at


with her.’ I looked away, trying to shield my emotions from him. I had my pride, after all. Was he just telling me what he thought I wanted to hear? The human heart does not weigh these cold facts. It sees hope in the impossible, love where perhaps there is only desire. It acts without rhyme or reason. His arms were around me now. I stood motionless as he continued with his soft, comely words, how I was all that mattered to him now. ‘Will you come with me? We can talk better at my apartment.’ Of course I would go. I was willing to make believe with him. He lived in an area of the city called Montmartre. We walked under the gleaming white domes of the Sacré-Cœur that kept watch over the city, and followed the cobbled street into a bustling little square. Place du Tertre was like something from a postcard – elegant buildings with shutters rose above restaurants and cafés, and artists lined the perimeter, selling their wares cheek by jowl. He turned the key in the lock of a blue door and we climbed the stairs to the second floor. Once inside, neither of us seemed sure what to do. A small table and two chairs stood invitingly in front of the long window overlooking the square and he gestured for me to sit. ‘I will make us some tea.’ He arrived back at the table with a silver tray bearing an antique silver teapot with ornate patterns and little glasses printed with gold writing, which looked to be Arabic. However, it was the scent of sweet mint that surprised me the most. ‘Have you ever tasted Moroccan tea?’ he asked. I shook my head and watched as he lifted the lid of the teapot and stirred a copious amount of thick leaves into the hot water. Then he set about the ritual of pouring the tea into the glasses from an impossible height. My eyes widened as he held the teapot further and further away from the glass on the tray and he tried not to laugh. ‘It is the traditional way,’ he replied simply, before handing me the glass. I blew on the surface of the golden-hued tea and let the exotic flavours fill my nose. Some musicians had begun playing in the square, gitane music, with a rhythmic guitar and virtuosic violin. It filled the spaces where our words could not. I had spent the entire time searching the room for somewhere to hide my gaze: the silk rug on the floor, the strange leather slippers by the door that came to a point at the toe, a small wooden table with a gold inlay of Moorish design. Finally, I looked back to him and realised he had been staring at me the entire time. Without breaking his gaze, he stood up, took the glass from my hand and placed it on the tray beside his. Taking my hand in his, he raised me up and I stood so close to him that I


bad taste that point was; at least I thought so.     Adle sang the canzonette tunefully enough, and with the navet of her age. This achieved, she jumped from my knee and said, "Now, mademoiselle, I will repeat you some poetry."     Assuming-an attitude, she beganLa Ligue des Rats: fable de La Fontaine . She then declaimed the little piece with an attention to punctuation and emphasis, a flexibility of voice and an appropriateness of gesture, very unusual indeed at her age, and which proved she had been carefully trained.     "Was it your mamma who taught you that piece? I asked.     "Yes; and she just used to say it in this way: 'Qu'avez vous done? lui dit un de ces rats; parlez!"' She made me lift my hand so to remind me to raise my voice at the question. "Now shall I dance for you?"     "No, that will do; but after your mamma went to the Holy Virgin, as you say, with whom did you live then?"     "With Madam Frdric and her husband; she took care of me, but she is nothing related to me. I think she is poor, for she had not so fine a house as mamma. I was not long there. Mr. Rochester asked me if I would like to go and live with him in England, and I said yes; for I knew Mr. Rochester before I knew Madam Frdric, and he was always kind to me and gave me pretty dresses and toys; but you see he has not kept his word, for he has brought me to England, and now he is gone back again himself, and I never see him."     After breakfast, Adle and I withdrew to the library, which room, it appears, Mr. Rochester had directed should be used as the school-room. Most of the books were locked up behind glass doors; but there was one book-case left open, containing everything that could be needed in the way of elementary works, and several volumes of light literature, poetry, biography, travels, a few romances, etc. I suppose he had considered that these were all the governess would require for her private perusal; and, indeed, they contented me amply for the present; compared with the scanty pickings I had now and then been able to glean at Lowood, they seemed to offer an abundant harvest of entertainment and information. In this room, too, there was a cabinet piano, quite new and of superior tone; also an easel for painting, and a pair of globes.     I found my pupil sufficiently docile, though disinclined to apply; she had not been used to regular occupation of any kind. I felt it would be injudicious to confine her too much at first; so, when I had talked to her a great deal, and got her to learn a little, and when the morning had advanced to noon, I allowed


Best Buy to replace it, and if we’re being honest—I would absolutely fistfight him again today. My love for “Typical Situation” knows no bounds. So here’s the thing, women of a certain age (forty-three years old, to be precise), who no longer get their period and can’t eat dairy anymore, need romantic music to vibe to. Of course, when I was a wee lass of twenty-two freezing my face off waiting for the L at Granville at seven thirty in the morning, I did so while listening to Trina rapping about grinding on a dick. But listen, I use a retinoid before bed every night now. I am officially in my smooth-jazz adult contemporary years! And yeah, I listen to a lot of metal or whatever in the daytime. But I like to sit in my chair with my eyes closed, swaying to gentle songs and imagining Dave is singing to me when it’s the middle of the night and I’m spiraling. 4. “Here On Out” most romantic lyric, to me: “When you laugh, it’s like a light / That fills me up” This song has a lot of guitar plucking but also a whole orchestra playing on it, which is how you know it’s a “Very Serious Love Song.” Anytime you hear a French fucking horn?????? Babe, you are being wooed. I heard myself laughing on a podcast once and damn near projectile vomited. Having a nice-sounding laugh is nearly impossible, even beautiful famous people mostly have gross discomfiting laughs that make your skeleton want to jump out of your body, so the thought of someone saying “your laugh fills me with light” is astonishing. Oh yeah? Your heart beats for the seal barks that escape my throat every time I hear a good joke? I’m yours forever. 5. “Stay or Leave” (the live Vegas version) most romantic lyric, to me: “Remember we used to dance / And everyone wanted to be you and me?” Okay, this is not an example of my best self, BUT: Wouldn’t it be cool to be a couple that everyone else wants to be? Not to rub it in anybody’s face, of course, I just mean it would feel good to know you’re admired by other people who aren’t as happy as you. They’re not doing choreo; they’re at home, glaring at each other over plates of roast chicken! Obviously their jealousy would be built on whatever lies and artifice you presented to the outside world, but still. I feel like when people see me and my old lady, they’re like, “Sheesh, Kirsten is probably tired as hell of dealing with that,” and YES SHE IS. No one is watching us dance and thinking anything other than Is Sam using her wife as a human walker? And the answer is DUH, OF COURSE. No one wants to be their partner’s sexy cane! 6. “You & Me” (Planet Hollywood acoustic version) most romantic lyric, to me: “We’re gonna take a boat to the end of the world” I’m not one of these freaks who thinks you


full of forebodings. "On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went from home to visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is in command of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad that he should go, for it seemed to me that he was farther from danger when he was away from home. In that, however, I was in error. Upon the second day of his absence I received a telegram from the major, imploring me to come at once. My father had fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound in the neighborhood, and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull. I hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered his consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from Fareham in the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him, and the chalk-pit unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of 'death from accidental causes.' Carefully as I examined every fact connected with his death, I was unable to find anything which could suggest the idea of murder. There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no robbery, no record of strangers having been seen upon the roads. And yet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I was well-nigh certain that some foul plot had been woven round him. "In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why I did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well convinced that our troubles were in some way dependent upon an incident in my uncle's life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one house as in another. "It was in January, '85, that my poor father met his end, and two years and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time I have lived happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this curse had passed way from the family, and that it had ended with the last generation. I had begun to take comfort too soon, however; yesterday morning the blow fell in the very shape in which it had come upon my father." The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and turning to the table he shook out upon it five little dried orange pips. "This is the envelope," he continued. "The postmark is London--eastern division. Within are the very words which were upon my father's last message: 'K. K. K.'; and then 'Put the papers on the sundial.'" "What have you done?" asked Holmes. "Nothing." "Nothing?" "To tell the truth"--he sank his face into his thin, white hands--"I have felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight and no precautions can guard against." "Tut! tut!" cried Sherlock Holmes. "You must act, man, or you are lost. Nothing but energy can


Natalie backed out of the bathroom and closed the door behind her. Guilt burned inside every one of her organs. Made her limbs feel like dead weight. All this time, he’d been trying to fulfill this dream for his late best friend and everyone had been ridiculing him for it? The reality of that was too much to bear. Natalie’s hand still rested on the bathroom doorknob and she watched through gritty eyes as it turned in her grip, letting her back into the now-fogged-up space. What am I doing? No idea. But she knew that she’d been extremely unfair to the man on the other side of the shower curtain. He was clearly hurting after having painful memories dredged up . . . and she wanted very badly to comfort him. In any way she could. Maybe the only way she could in this exact moment? Natalie untucked her T-shirt from the waistband of her skirt, pulling it off over her head. Her skirt dropped to the floor, followed by her sandals. Her fingers hesitated for only a moment on the front clasp of her bra before releasing it. Baring her breasts to the hot, foggy room. Too eager to touch him to realize she still wore her mint green panties, she walked slowly to the curtain and drew it back, stepping into the stall. Or . . . squeezing into it, rather. August occupied nearly every inch of space. He stood with his head hanging forward beneath the spray, but the sound of the curtain being pulled back and her stepping into the shower had the meat of his shoulders flexing dramatically—and he turned with an incredulous expression. “Natalie? What are you . . .” If he was a cartoon dog, his tongue would have rolled out of his mouth. “Are those your tits?” “No, they’re somebody else’s.” Apparently the sarcasm didn’t register. He was too busy bracing his hands on the wet shower wall and leaning down to look at them. “Oh my God. They’re incredible.” He choked a sound and winced. “Jesus. My balls have never gotten so heavy so fast in my life. Pretty sure every drop of blood in my head just went south. Give me like . . . eight seconds to make sure I’m not going to pass out.” Seriously, that wasn’t a problem. With his eyes clamped shut and his bottom lip being pulverized between his teeth, Natalie was given the opportunity to look him over. Starting from the top of his wet warrior’s torso covered in dark hair, down his egg-carton stomach to the . . . whoa, mama. His balls were not the only thing that was hard. If the financial sector didn’t work out, maybe she had a future in snake charming. Her sex clenched and turned warm, so warm. So ready. And if she was being honest with herself, this wasn’t instantaneous arousal. This physical attraction had been brewing for months. Plaguing her. Keeping her awake at night. God, it felt incredible to stop fighting it. To let her


to the blanket. “Tell me what you said in Reno.” Because there was no romance there, only pure physical need. He blows out a breath when he leans over me, slips his hand inside my underwear. “About how wet I wanted to make you?” An amused chuckle. “I think you’re already there.” I practically tear my panties in my rush to get them down my legs. “More.” A hum against my mouth as he parts me with his fingers. “I want you to be loud,” he says, timing his words with his strokes. He draws a circle. A square. A shape that mathematicians haven’t discovered yet. “I want to feel your body tremble, until you just can’t keep it in any longer, and then I want you to come on my tongue.” I’m gasping now, clutching his shoulders. His finger isn’t enough. I need more. He lowers his head to my chest, dropping kisses to my abdomen, my thighs. My lips. Then, when I’m squirming and shaking and more than ready for him, he gives me a long, slow lick. I let out a moan at the contact, the hot, slick feel of his mouth on me. “God, you taste so good.” He keeps teasing, alternating quick strokes with longer, torturous ones. Only when I’m aching for it does he finally take his tongue to my clit, quickly learning that the softest little flicks are enough to drive me wild. “Finn,” I murmur as he falls into a steady rhythm. “Finn.” He pauses for a moment. Glances up at me. “What?” I ask. “I think that’s the first time you’ve said my name. When we’re like this.” He’s right—I’ve avoided it. Now I say it again, which makes him sigh and press his mouth against me harder. For a moment, I can almost forget that he’s Finnegan Walsh and I’m the nameless person writing his book. For a moment, we are just two people with a desperate attraction warming up on a snowy day. Except, of course, this isn’t real. He’s not doing any of these things because he’s madly in love with me—he’s trying to learn. So he can eventually please someone who isn’t me. I still my hand in his hair. “Hold on.” Immediately he stops, glancing up at me. “Sorry, I—I have to pee.” I haul myself off the floor, untangling myself from the blankets, slipping on a T-shirt—I don’t stop to check whether it’s his or mine—on my way to the bathroom. Of course it’s his. Of course it fits the way a boyfriend’s shirt should fit, baggy and sexy and perfect. Get a grip, I tell my reflection once I’ve locked myself inside. My face is flushed, hair wild. You are not having feelings for him. Two months, and it already feels like I’m deeper than I ever was with Wyatt. It doesn’t make sense. My feelings for Wyatt grew over the course of ten years of friendship, classes and parties and late nights talking about our futures. I tended to that crush like a fussy succulent,


his own ear in a way that could not be mistaken for jest. He drew back in consterna- tion. I lifted Hareton in my arms, and walked off to the kitchen with him, leaving the door of communication open, for I was curious to watch how they would settle their disagreement. The insulted visitor moved to the spot where he had laid his hat, pale and with a quiver- ing lip. "That's right!" I said to myself. "Take warning and begone! It's a kindness to let you have a glimpse of her genuine disposition." "Where are you going?" demanded Catherine, ad- vancing to the door. He swerved aside, and attempted to pass. "You must not go!" she exclaimed energetically. "I must and shall!" he replied in a subdued voice. "No," she persisted, grasping the handle; "not yet, Edgar Linton. Sit down. You shall not leave me in that temper. I should be miserable all night, and I won't be miserable for you!" "Can I stay, after you have struck me?" asked Lin- ton. Catherine was mute. "You've made me afraid and ashamed of you," he continued. "I'll not come here again." Her eyes began to glisten, and her lids to twinkle. "And you told a deliberate untruth," he said. "I didn't," she cried, recovering her speech. "I did nothing deliberately. Well, go, if you please---get away. And now I'll cry---I'll cry myself sick." She dropped down on her knees by a chair, and set to weeping in serious earnest. Edgar persevered in his resolution as far as the court; there he lingered. I re- solved to encourage him. "Miss is dreadfully wayward, sir," I called out. "As bad as any marred child. You'd better be riding home, or else she will be sick only to grieve us." The soft thing looked askance through the window. He possessed the power to depart as much as a cat pos- sesses the power to leave a mouse half killed or a bird half eaten. Ah, I thought, there will be no saving him; he's doomed, and flies to his fate! And so it was. He turned abruptly, hastened into the house again, shut the door behind him; and when I went in a while after to inform them that Earnshaw had come home rabid drunk, ready to pull the whole place about our ears (his ordinary frame of mind in that condition), I saw the quarrel had merely effected a closer intimacy--- had broken the outworks of youthful timidity, and enabled them to forsake the disguise of friendship, and confess themselves lovers. Intelligence of Mr. Hindley's arrival drove Linton speedily to his horse, and Catherine to her chamber. I went to hide little Hareton, and to take the shot out of the master's fowling-piece, which he was fond of playing with in his insane excitement, to the hazard of the lives of any who provoked or even attracted his notice too much; and I had hit upon the plan of remov- ing it, that he might do less mischief if he did go the length