keep up two places.” She nodded. “After Harold passed. It was hard. He loved it there so, the fishing you know. But Father Anthony encouraged me to sell.” She brightened at the mention of the priest. “He helped me through a hard, hard time, you know. Father Anthony is as fine a man as I’d ever want to meet.” Bentz withheld judgment until he, too, met the parish priest in his office a few minutes later. Father Anthony Creswell was seated at his desk, computer open, reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose, earbuds visible. His brown hair flopped over a high forehead and he looked up quickly when Bentz appeared in the open doorway. “Oh.” Off came the bifocals, out came the earbuds, all dropped onto the desk. “I—uh—wasn’t expecting anyone. Can I help you?” Closing his laptop in one swift motion, he stood, a tall, lanky man in jeans and a faded T-shirt, who looked more like an outfielder for the Atlanta Braves than a parish priest in his faded, ripped Levi’s and T-shirt. “I hope so.” Bentz introduced himself and took the chair that Father Anthony had cleared for him. “Sorry. Didn’t expect anyone today,” the priest said as he put the backpack and several books that had been on the folding chair onto a stool near the closet. His office was cluttered, books and papers scattered over the desk, a huge crucifix mounted on the wall behind the desk, a large window offering a view of the parklike grounds. A bookcase climbed one wall and opposite was a closet, the door hanging open, a long black cassock on a hanger and clerical collar hung on a hook just inside the door. “Now, Detective, what can I do for you?” Bentz had the priest’s full attention. Father Anthony sat, leaning forward, elbows propped on the scattered pages upon his desk, hands clasped together, eyes intent, expression earnest. Bentz went through the same questions he’d asked Opal Guidry and offered up the same pictures, which the priest studied. “Wow. Never seen this guy.” Father Anthony was much more firm about it than Mrs. Guidry had been. He handed the iPad and pages back to Bentz. “Sorry.” “You’re certain?” “I know every parishioner, every traveling priest, and am usually aware when someone new comes into the church.” “But you don’t have cameras on the parking lot or the porch or”—Bentz motioned with a hand to include all the surroundings—“anywhere.” “That’s right.” Father Anthony flashed a quick, almost humble grin. “We aren’t a rich parish here, so we don’t spend much money on frills—or extras. Besides, this is a house of worship, a sanctuary where everyone is welcome, no one is judged, and a place of peace. We don’t need cameras or alarms.” Bentz wasn’t sure of that, but changed the subject to Hugo Laroche. “His family belongs to the congregation.” For the first time since he’d stepped into the office, Bentz saw Father Anthony flinch a bit. “I’m sorry, Detective,” he said, “but I really don’t discuss my parishioners.”


table in front of her, as the rowers pulled at their oars and Ser Rodrik leaned across a rail, shaking and heaving. A storm was gathering ahead of them, a vast dark roaring lashed by lightning, but somehow they could not see it. He looked south, and saw the great blue-green rush of the Trident. He saw his father pleading with the king, his face etched with grief. He saw Sansa crying herself to sleep at night, and he saw Arya watching in silence and holding her secrets hard in her heart. There were shadows all around them. One shadow was dark as ash, with the terrible face of a hound. Another was armored like the sun, golden and beautiful. Over them both loomed a giant in armor made of stone, but when he opened his visor, there was nothing inside but darkness and thick black blood. He lifted his eyes and saw clear across the narrow sea, to the Free Cities and the green Dothraki sea and beyond, to Vaes Dothrak under its mountain, to the fabled lands of the Jade Sea, to Asshai by the Shadow, where dragons stirred beneath the sunrise. Finally he looked north. He saw the Wall shining like blue crystal, and his bastard brother Jon sleeping alone in a cold bed, his skin growing pale and hard as the memory of all warmth fled from him. And he looked past the Wall, past endless forests cloaked in snow, past the frozen shore and the great blue-white rivers of ice and the dead plains where nothing grew or lived. North and north and north he A GAME OF THRONES 145 looked, to the curtain of light at the end of the world, and then beyond that curtain. He looked deep into the heart of winter, and then he cried out, afraid, and the heat of his tears burned on his cheeks. Now you know, the crow whispered as it sat on his shoulder. Now you know why you must live. "Why?" Bran said, not understanding, falling, falling. Because winter is coming. Bran looked at the crow on his shoulder, and the crow looked back. It had three eyes, and the third eye was full of a terrible knowledge. Bran looked down. There was nothing below him now but snow and cold and death, a frozen wasteland where jagged blue-white spires of ice waited to embrace him. They flew up at him like spears. He saw the bones of a thousand other dreamers impaled upon their points. He was desperately afraid. "Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?" he heard his own voice saying, small and far away. And his father's voice replied to him. "That is the only time a man can be brave." Now, Bran, the crow urged. Choose. Fly or die. Death reached for him, screaming. Bran spread his arms and flew. Wings unseen drank the wind and filled and pulled him upward. The terrible needles of ice receded below him. The sky opened up above. Bran soared. It was better than climbing.


die because of a stupid mistake I’d made, something I hadn’t even been awake for? Andrew didn’t text me until two in the morning the following Saturday: Hey, u up? I saw it when I got up to pee and deleted it, hoping to spare my waking self the reminder of his existence. But I couldn’t get his face, his smell, his touch out of my mind. I started taking incredibly long showers, three or four times a day. I kept having nightmares in which I was pinned beneath him, trapped under his scratchy chin, unable to move or scream. Michelle would wake me up, shaking my shoulders gently, asking me apologetically and diplomatically if I had earplugs she could borrow, because she had discussion section at eight in the morning and I was interrupting her REM cycles. I found myself weeping randomly in the afternoons, overwhelmed with self-loathing. I even considered going to a student Bible study group, though I’d stopped going to church after Dad since the pastor told me he was going to hell as he’d never been baptized, just because I wanted something that could help me make sense of my very retrograde but still strong conviction that I was irreversibly tainted, used, and dirty. “Hey, Juniper?” Athena stopped me one afternoon on my way back from the dining hall. Back then, Athena was the only one who used my full name, which was a habit she would sustain through adulthood, calling Tashas “Natasha” and Bills “William” as if this insistence on formality would elevate everyone in the conversation. (It did.) She touched my arm. Her fingers were smooth and cool. “Are you okay?” And maybe it was because I’d been holding it all in for so long, or because she was the first person at Yale who’d really looked at me and noticed that something wasn’t right, but I burst immediately into loud, ugly tears. “Come on,” she said, rubbing gentle circles on my back. “Let’s go to my room.” Athena held my hand while I recounted the whole thing through hiccupping sobs. She talked me through my options, made me look through the campus resources list, and helped me decide if I wanted to seek counseling (yes) or report Andrew to the campus police to try and press charges (no). She walked with me to my first appointment with Dr. Gaily, where I got a diagnosis for my anxiety, unpacked all this shit I’d been carrying since my father’s death, and learned coping mechanisms that I still use today. She left takeout meals from the cafeteria outside my door when she noticed I hadn’t gone to dinner. She texted me puppy photos late at night captioned, Hope you dream of this! For two weeks, Athena Liu was my guardian angel. I thought she was so kind. I thought we would be friends forever. But freshman friendships don’t last. By our second semester, I was running in my own circles, and she in hers. We still smiled and waved when we passed each other in the dining


towers. But the cigarettes were releasing only little wisps of smoke. “We come back every couple of minutes to replace the cigarettes,” said Jane-two. “And we’ve checked the gauges. They’re set to double.” “None of that means anything to me.” “It means you should get ready,” said Jane-one firmly. * * * Alice had slipped into Miss de Vries’s bedroom. She envisioned the other women looking for her, growing angry when they couldn’t find her. She pictured Mrs. King’s face, her disappointment, confusion. Alice’s nerves were skimming through her skin, fingers trembling. She moved like a mouse, zigzagging, touching Miss de Vries’s bureau—because it was something cool, something solid. Her crucifix felt hot, sweaty, the chain scratching her throat. She was tempted to throw it out of the window. What use was it now? She heard a soft tread from the passage. It made her start, swing around. The big bedroom doors rolled slowly back. Miss de Vries stood silhouetted in the lamplight. It made Alice squint, put a hand to her eyes. The movement must have alerted Miss de Vries to her presence. She heard her say, on an outward breath, “Ah.” Miss de Vries stayed standing on the other side of the bed. The sight of her, so familiar, made Alice’s heart start pelting. She knew every inch of Madam, every line: every nick and hollow. She’d watched her long enough. Good, she thought, mind racing. Keep her here. Keep her with you, away from everyone else. Just as Mrs. King would have wanted. But it wasn’t Mrs. King’s orders that made her cross the carpet. It wasn’t because of the plan. It was something different, circling deeper in her gut. For once Miss de Vries’s expression was easy to read. Anger. Alice felt it in her own body, too. It enraged her, that she should be so frightened, that she should be made to feel so. “Whatever are you doing up here?” said Miss de Vries. “I...felt unwell,” said Alice. “I didn’t want to cause a fuss.” Miss de Vries took a half step backward. “You should go to your own room, not mine.” Her headdress glittered; her shoulders were pale in the light. “Are you feeling faint?” Alice didn’t move. “Yes,” she said. “Then sit down, for heaven’s sake. I’ll send someone to help you.” “No,” said Alice, voice rising. “Don’t. Please.” Miss de Vries stared at her. Something was working in her mind, and it was hard to interpret. She raised a hand to her forehead. Her movements seemed fractious, edgy: there was something crackling in the atmosphere around her. “I hope you’re not going to be disagreeable. I’ve had a very long evening.” She was still close enough that Alice could smell her. A stinging scent, something bitter, something burned. It clung to the silvery white-blond sheen of her hair. “Madam,” said Alice, taking a breath. “Your costume.” A pause. Miss de Vries’s eyes darted to meet hers. “What of it?” Alice made sure her voice didn’t sound weak. “Are you pleased with it?” Miss de


a real interview: hideous just because it WAS human, as human as to have met alone, in the small hours, in a sleeping house, some enemy, some adventurer, some criminal. It was the dead silence of our long gaze at such close quarters that gave the whole horror, huge as it was, its only note of the unnatural. If I had met a murderer in such a place and at such an hour, we still at least would have spoken. Something would have passed, in life, between us; if nothing had passed, one of us would have moved. The moment was so prolonged that it would have taken but little more to make me doubt if even _I_ were in life. I can't express what followed it save by saying that the silence itself-- which was indeed in a manner an attestation of my strength-- became the element into which I saw the figure disappear; in which I definitely saw it turn as I might have seen the low wretch to which it had once belonged turn on receipt of an order, and pass, with my eyes on the villainous back that no hunch could have more disfigured, straight down the staircase and into the darkness in which the next bend was lost. X I remained awhile at the top of the stair, but with the effect presently of understanding that when my visitor had gone, he had gone: then I returned to my room. The foremost thing I saw there by the light of the candle I had left burning was that Flora's little bed was empty; and on this I caught my breath with all the terror that, five minutes before, I had been able to resist. I dashed at the place in which I had left her lying and over which (for the small silk counterpane and the sheets were disarranged) the white curtains had been deceivingly pulled forward; then my step, to my unutterable relief, produced an answering sound: I perceived an agitation of the window blind, and the child, ducking down, emerged rosily from the other side of it. She stood there in so much of her candor and so little of her nightgown, with her pink bare feet and the golden glow of her curls. She looked intensely grave, and I had never had such a sense of losing an advantage acquired (the thrill of which had just been so prodigious) as on my consciousness that she addressed me with a reproach. "You naughty: where HAVE you been?"--instead of challenging her own irregularity I found myself arraigned and explaining. She herself explained, for that matter, with the loveliest, eagerest simplicity. She had known suddenly, as she lay there, that I was out of the room, and had jumped up to see what had become of me. I had dropped, with the joy of her reappearance, back into my chair--feeling then, and then only, a little faint; and she had pattered straight over to me, thrown herself upon my knee, given herself to be held with the


before a smile could be extorted from Jane. ``I do not know when I have been more shocked,'' said she. ``Wickham so very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! dear Lizzy, only consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the knowledge of your ill opinion too! and having to relate such a thing of his sister! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it so.'' ``Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so full of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion makes me saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will be as light as a feather.'' ``Poor Wickham; there is such an expression of goodness in his countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner.'' ``There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it.'' ``I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it as you used to do.'' ``And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one's genius, such an opening for wit to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually abusive without saying any thing just; but one cannot be always laughing at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty.'' ``Lizzy when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat the matter as you do now.'' ``Indeed I could not. I was uncomfortable enough. I was very uncomfortable, I may say unhappy. And with no one to speak to of what I felt, no Jane to comfort me and say that I had not been so very weak and vain and nonsensical as I knew I had! Oh! how I wanted you!'' ``How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they _do_ appear wholly undeserved.'' ``Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There is one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintance in general understand Wickham's character.'' Miss Bennet paused a little and then replied, ``Surely there can be no occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your own opinion?'' ``That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised me to make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his conduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent, that it would be the death


to pass behind a bowl of flaming spirits in a dark room. Induced to take particular notice of the housekeeper, both by her own striking appearance and by Wemmick's preparation, I observed that whenever she was in the room, she kept her eyes attentively on my guardian, and that she would remove her hands from any dish she put before him, hesitatingly, as if she dreaded his calling her back, and wanted him to speak when she was nigh, if he had anything to say. I fancied that I could detect in his manner a consciousness of this, and a purpose of always holding her in suspense. Dinner went off gaily, and, although my guardian seemed to follow rather than originate subjects, I knew that he wrenched the weakest part of our dispositions out of us. For myself, I found that I was expressing my tendency to lavish expenditure, and to patronize Herbert, and to boast of my great prospects, before I quite knew that I had opened my lips. It was so with all of us, but with no one more than Drummle: the development of whose inclination to gird in a grudging and suspicious way at the rest, was screwed out of him before the fish was taken off. It was not then, but when we had got to the cheese, that our conversation turned upon our rowing feats, and that Drummle was rallied for coming up behind of a night in that slow amphibious way of his. Drummle upon this, informed our host that he much preferred our room to our company, and that as to skill he was more than our master, and that as to strength he could scatter us like chaff. By some invisible agency, my guardian wound him up to a pitch little short of ferocity about this trifle; and he fell to baring and spanning his arm to show how muscular it was, and we all fell to baring and spanning our arms in a ridiculous manner. Now, the housekeeper was at that time clearing the table; my guardian, taking no heed of her, but with the side of his face turned from her, was leaning back in his chair biting the side of his forefinger and showing an interest in Drummle, that, to me, was quite inexplicable. Suddenly, he clapped his large hand on the housekeeper's, like a trap, as she stretched it across the table. So suddenly and smartly did he do this, that we all stopped in our foolish contention. "If you talk of strength," said Mr. Jaggers, "I'll show you a wrist. Molly, let them see your wrist." Her entrapped hand was on the table, but she had already put her other hand behind her waist. "Master," she said, in a low voice, with her eyes attentively and entreatingly fixed upon him. "Don't." "I'll show you a wrist," repeated Mr. Jaggers, with an immovable determination to show it. "Molly, let them see your wrist." "Master," she again murmured. "Please!" "Molly," said Mr. Jaggers, not looking at her, but obstinately looking


mention it?” The lawyer seemed smooth, but he only seemed it. Really he was serrated all over, knicked and ridged from top to toe. You could prick your skin if you got too close. “I’m not at all sure about that,” he said. “It hardly seems—proper.” “I’m in mourning, Mr. Lockwood,” she said. “Naturally the arrangements will reflect that. You needn’t be alarmed. I won’t be dressed as a chorus girl.” “But aren’t you alarmed?” He was giving her his usual look, implacable and unrelenting. “By the risk?” A motor engine coughed outside on the road. She gave him a level stare. “What risk, Mr. Lockwood? A ball in this house has been long expected. I am pressed for one, day and night.” “By whom?” he asked, dubiously. “I have already commenced the preparations. It would be a great inconvenience to cancel it now.” “You know it’s my duty, Miss de Vries, to give you good counsel,” he said quietly. “Legal counsel, Mr. Lockwood,” said Miss de Vries. “I didn’t have you down as chaperone.” “A young lady’s reputation,” he said, with that same fishlike smile, “is a fine and delicate thing.” “It is immeasurably precious,” she agreed. “Of near-incalculable value. It should be burnished, brightened, properly displayed.” Something flickered in Lockwood’s eyes, a flash of—what? Recognition? Papa would have said, Do what I want—make it happen. He made himself especially vulgar for Lockwood, wore his biggest gold rings, placed gigantic fuchsias in his buttonhole. He liked battering the man over the head. “Modesty,” said Mr. Lockwood, “is the most bewitching virtue in the world. It has enormous currency in these affairs.” “Affairs?” “In the conveyancing of a marriage.” He studied her mildly, one hand in his waistcoat. The motor outside barked and roared to life. Of course it wasn’t proper to hold the ball now. The notion that this hadn’t occurred to her, made her stomach churn with anger. It was improper. That was precisely the point: she needed to stand firm, deviate not an inch. No bets came without risks. They gave a game its dimensions, its oxygen. She needed to catch the world’s attention. Now was the moment. Now, more than ever, while her power was still fresh and newly minted. Mrs. King had said as much herself when they’d first discussed the arrangements. “You’ve only got one life to live, Madam. Don’t spare any expense. Best put on a good show.” After Lockwood had gone, Miss de Vries went up to her own rooms. They had once belonged to Mama, but carried no remnants of her at all, sparked no memories: she died before Miss de Vries had even reached the schoolroom. This suite was perfumed the way Miss de Vries liked it: violently and completely of orchids. She breathed it in for comfort, for surety. It wasn’t easy, maintaining the scent. In this house foul odors rolled in from every direction: the pavement, the cellars, the city. They reminded her that she was making entirely the right decisions. 3 Twenty-four days to go Petticoat Lane. Mrs. King


a manner that I could ill endure after this inhospita- ble treatment. "What the devil, indeed!" I muttered. "The herd of possessed swine could have had no worse spirits in them than those animals of yours, sir. You might as well leave a stranger with a brood of tigers!" "They won't meddle with persons who touch noth- ing," he remarked, putting the bottle before me, and restoring the displaced table. "The dogs do right to be vigilant. Take a glass of wine." "No, thank you." "Not bitten, are you?" "If I had been, I would have set my signet on the biter." Heathcliff's countenance relaxed into a grin. "Come, come," he said; "you are flurried, Mr. Lockwood. Here, take a little wine. Guests are so ex- ceedingly rare in this house that I and my dogs, I am willing to own, hardly know how to receive them. Your health, sir!" I bowed and returned the pledge, beginning to per- ceive that it would be foolish to sit sulking for the mis- behaviour of a pack of curs; besides, I felt loath to yield the fellow further amusement at my expense, since his humour took that turn. He---probably swayed by pru- dential consideration of the folly of offending a good tenant---relaxed a little in the laconic style of chipping off his pronouns and auxiliary verbs, and introduced what he supposed would be a subject of interest to me ---a discourse on the advantages and disadvantages of my present place of retirement. I found him very intel- ligent on the topics we touched; and before I went home I was encouraged so far as to volunteer another visit to- morrow. He evidently wished no repetition of my in- trusion. I shall go, notwithstanding. It is astonishing how sociable I feel myself, compared with him. CHAPTER II. Yesterday afternoon set in misty and cold. I had half a mind to spend it by my study fire, instead of wading through heath and mud to Wuthering Heights. On coming up from dinner, however (N.B. ---I dine between twelve and one o'clock. The house- keeper, a matronly lady, taken as a fixture along with the house, could not, or would not, comprehend my request that I might be served at five), on mounting the stairs with this lazy intention, and stepping into the room, I saw a servant girl on her knees surrounded by brushes and coal-scuttles, and raising an infernal dust as she extinguished the flames with heaps of cinders. This spectacle drove me back immediately. I took my hat, and after a four miles' walk, arrived at Heathcliff's garden gate just in time to escape the first feathery flakes of a snow-shower. On that bleak hill-top the earth was hard with a black frost, and the air made me shiver through every limb. Being unable to remove the chain, I jumped over, and running up the flagged causeway bordered with strag- gling gooseberry bushes, knocked vainly for admit- tance, till my knuckles tingled and the dogs howled. "Wretched inmates!" I ejaculated mentally, "you de- serve


the Court of the Citadel for you. If the piety can’t be seen, it doesn’t matter.” Gabriel sat back on his heels, watching flames lick up the kindling, catch on the logs. “So what’s your story, if that’s the game we’re playing? I’m assuming it’s nothing quite so dramatic as having your eye ripped out by the heir to the Kirythean Empire. So was it a more mundane near-death experience? Some accident that left you with power and your family afraid?” And Bleeding God help her, for a moment, Lore considered telling him the truth. Her mouth was open to let it all spill out—well, you see, I was born in the catacombs and I’ve been able to channel Mortem for as long as I can remember—and she choked the words back just in time. Dammit. That feeling of familiarity that plagued her when it came to this man was more than irritating. It was dangerous. She recovered with a sip of wine. “Fell off a bridge, drowned for a minute. Came back. Family wasn’t into it, so they kicked me out when I was thirteen.” Vague details. Easy lies. “Some family,” Gabriel muttered to the flames. He stood, went to sit on the couch. “Though, granted, I have no room to judge on that front.” “What about you?” Lore asked, eager to turn the conversation away from herself. “How’d you fall in with the Presque Mort, after…” “After my father betrayed August to the Kirythean Empire and gave them a stronghold directly on Auverraine’s border?” Gabriel’s voice was flat and inflectionless. “Anton found me. Told me it was my destiny to join the Presque Mort, to make something holy out of something terrible.” He’d been ten. She remembered him saying so in the throne room. He’d been ten, newly orphaned and horribly injured, and Anton had twisted that into loyalty. Her distaste for the man grew teeth. She didn’t ask Gabriel how it happened, but he continued as if she had. Sometimes all you needed was a sign that someone was listening. “My father pledged fealty to Kirythea when they approached the Balgian border. August had denied military help; all his extra troops were guarding the Burnt Isles.” A pause. “They still killed my father, though. The Kirytheans. Jax said a man who’d betray one country would easily betray another, then cut off my father’s head.” He made a rueful noise. “Jax was sixteen. Still a child, and already ruthless.” “You were there?” Lore murmured. Then she shook her head. “I mean, of course you were there, since then he…” She didn’t finish, and swallowed against sudden dryness in her throat. Gabriel Remaut had watched his father beheaded, and then the person who’d done it had plucked out his eye. Gabriel nodded. In the dim light, she could almost see the vestiges of that scared boy in the scarred man. “I’m not sure why Jax let me live, to be honest. He wasn’t the Emperor yet, and killing us all certainly would’ve made his point about traitors. But he sent me


Elizabeth drily -- ``Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr. Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.'' ``Care of him! -- Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him in those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture.'' ``What is it you mean?'' ``It is a circumstance which Darcy, of course, would not wish to be generally known, because if it were to get round to the lady's family, it would be an unpleasant thing.'' ``You may depend upon my not mentioning it.'' ``And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be Bingley. What he told me was merely this; that he congratulated himself on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other particulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer.'' ``Did Mr. Darcy give you his reasons for this interference?'' ``I understood that there were some very strong objections against the lady.'' ``And what arts did he use to separate them?'' ``He did not talk to me of his own arts,'' said Fitzwilliam smiling. ``He only told me what I have now told you.'' Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she was so thoughtful. ``I am thinking of what you have been telling me,'' said she. ``Your cousin's conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?'' ``You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?'' ``I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his friend's inclination, or why, upon his own judgment alone, he was to determine and direct in what manner that friend was to be happy.'' ``But,'' she continued, recollecting herself, ``as we know none of the particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed that there was much affection in the case.'' ``That is not an unnatural surmise,'' said Fitzwilliam, ``but it is lessening the honour of my cousin's triumph very sadly.'' This was spoken jestingly, but it appeared to her so just a picture of Mr. Darcy that she would not trust herself with an answer; and, therefore, abruptly changing the conversation, talked on indifferent matters till they reached the parsonage. There, shut into her own room as soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption of all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other people could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There could not exist


dream, en de dream tole me to give it to a nigger name' Balum -- Balum's Ass dey call him for short; he's one er dem chuckleheads, you know. But he's lucky, dey say, en I see I warn't lucky. De dream say let Balum inves' de ten cents en he'd make a raise for me. Well, Balum he tuck de money, en when he wuz in church he hear de preacher say dat whoever give to de po' len' to de Lord, en boun' to git his money back a hund'd times. So Balum he tuck en give de ten cents to de po', en laid low to see what wuz gwyne to come of it." "Well, what did come of it, Jim?" "Nuffn never come of it. I couldn' manage to k'leck dat money no way; en Balum he couldn'. I ain' gwyne to len' no mo' money 'dout I see de security. Boun' to git yo' money back a hund'd times, de preacher says! Ef I could git de ten CENTS back, I'd call it squah, en be glad er de chanst." "Well, it's all right anyway, Jim, long as you're going to be rich again some time or other." "Yes; en I's rich now, come to look at it. I owns mysef, en I's wuth eight hund'd dollars. I wisht I had de money, I wouldn' want no mo'." CHAPTER IX. I WANTED to go and look at a place right about the middle of the island that I'd found when I was exploring; so we started and soon got to it, because the island was only three miles long and a quarter of a mile wide. This place was a tolerable long, steep hill or ridge about forty foot high. We had a rough time getting to the top, the sides was so steep and the bushes so thick. We tramped and clumb around all over it, and by and by found a good big cavern in the rock, most up to the top on the side towards Illinois. The cavern was as big as two or three rooms bunched together, and Jim could stand up straight in it. It was cool in there. Jim was for putting our traps in there right away, but I said we didn't want to be climbing up and down there all the time. Jim said if we had the canoe hid in a good place, and had all the traps in the cavern, we could rush there if anybody was to come to the island, and they would never find us without dogs. And, besides, he said them little birds had said it was going to rain, and did I want the things to get wet? So we went back and got the canoe, and paddled up abreast the cavern, and lugged all the traps up there. Then we hunted up a place close by to hide the canoe in, amongst the thick willows. We took some fish off of the lines and set them again, and begun to get


ith precipitation. In a few moments I saw him in his boat, which shot across the waters with an arrowy swiftness and was soon lost amidst the waves. All was again silent, but his words rang in my ears. I burned with rage to pursue the murderer of my peace and precipitate him into the ocean. I walked up and down my room hastily and perturbed, while my imagination conjured up a thousand images to torment and sting me. Why had I not followed him and closed with him in mortal strife? But I had suffered him to depart, and he had directed his course towards the mainland. I shuddered to think who might be the next victim sacrificed to his insatiate revenge. And then I thought again of his words -- "I WILL BE WITH YOU ON YOUR WEDDING-NIGHT." That, then, was the period fixed for the fulfillment of my destiny. In that hour I should die and at once satisfy and extinguish his malice. The prospect did not move me to fear; yet when I thought of my beloved Elizabeth, of her tears and endless sorrow, when she should find her lover so barbarously snatched from her, tears, the first I had shed for many months, streamed from my eyes, and I resolved not to fall before my enemy without a bitter struggle. The night passed away, and the sun rose from the ocean; my feelings became calmer, if it may be called calmness when the violence of rage sinks into the depths of despair. I left the house, the horrid scene of the last night's contention, and walked on the beach of the sea, which I almost regarded as an insuperable barrier between me and my fellow creatures; nay, a wish that such should prove the fact stole across me. I desired that I might pass my life on that barren rock, wearily, it is true, but uninterrupted by any sudden shock of misery. If I returned, it was to be sacrificed or to see those whom I most loved die under the grasp of a daemon whom I had myself created. I walked about the isle like a restless spectre, separated from all it loved and miserable in the separation. When it became noon, and the sun rose higher, I lay down on the grass and was overpowered by a deep sleep. I had been awake the whole of the preceding night, my nerves were agitated, and my eyes inflamed by watching and misery. The sleep into which I now sank refreshed me; and when I awoke, I again felt as if I belonged to a race of human beings like myself, and I began to reflect upon what had passed with greater composure; yet still the words of the fiend rang in my ears like a death-knell; they appeared like a dream, yet distinct and oppressive as a reality. The sun had far descended, and I still sat on the shore, satisfying my appetite, which had become ravenous, with an oaten cake, when I saw a fishing-boat


she were a prize he'd won. She does cling to him, trusting him more than the motherly women around her. No one seems to take Silas' announcement seriously, however. Like the men at the Rainbow, these people stir themselves to help Silas. There are limits, however, to their charity. Mrs. Kimble is reluctant to touch the dirty baby. The Squire suggests to Kimble to send his apprentice to the woman in the snow instead of going himself. To the public eye, Godfrey appears to be helping out of a sense of duty. What do you think his real motives are? Notice how his daughter's cry tears at his heart, as if a plant ("some fibre") were growing there. Eliot emphasizes his emotional state with one detail--the thin dress shoes that, in his hurry, he wears out into the snow. Dolly Winthrop, whom he fetches for help, ironically praises him for going to such trouble. Later, his uncle Kimble tells him it was silly for him to come out to help. It seems the gentry aren't expected to help the way villagers are. As Godfrey wrestles with his conscience, waiting to hear if his wife is dead, he feels responsible for his child. He considers acknowledging her, which he knows is the right thing to do. But he realizes that if he doesn't, he'll be able to marry Nancy. Love for Nancy, not just shame over his wife, pushes him toward moral cowardice. In Silas' cottage, he takes one last look at his wife, who's been pronounced dead. (Eliot calls her "unhappy," which can mean unlucky as well as miserable.) What do you think Godfrey feels as he looks at her? NOTE: FORESHADOWING Eliot tells you that, sixteen years later, Godfrey will tell the "full story of this night." Thus, you know Godfrey won't tell his secret now, but in the future something will make him tell all. This sixteen year period will complete the symmetry of the plot (it's been sixteen years since Silas' loss of faith). At this moment, Godfrey is at the peak of his fortune, while Silas has just passed the bottom of his. Another sixteen years may change their positions. Godfrey turns to see Silas cradling the child in his arms. Eliot describes the baby's peaceful presence as a sacred, natural thing, and Godfrey is affected by it. How do you think he feels when she turns her eyes away to gaze lovingly at Silas? Remember this scene--it will be re-enacted later. Godfrey nonchalantly discusses the child's fate with the "withered" weaver. Silas stubbornly repeats his intention to keep her. You don't enter his feelings but you hear his reasons. The first one is logical enough--he senses a kinship with her, as two lonely, abandoned creatures. The second reason is more irrational--he thinks she's come to replace his gold. Silas' mind isn't working clearly, but his heart is. In contrast, Godfrey's heart seems confused while his mind is working busily. He doesn't protest; he hands Silas some money and leaves quickly. His conversation with Dr. Kimble as they


Oh, Rose: in the name of my ardent and enduring attachment; in the name of all I have suffered for you, and all you doom me to undergo; answer me this one question!' 'Then, if your lot had been differently cast,' rejoined Rose; 'if you had been even a little, but not so far, above me; if I could have been a help and comfort to you in any humble scene of peace and retirement, and not a blot and drawback in ambitious and distinguished crowds; I should have been spared this trial. I have every reason to be happy, very happy, now; but then, Harry, I own I should have been happier.' Busy recollections of old hopes, cherished as a girl, long ago, crowded into the mind of Rose, while making this avowal; but they brought tears with them, as old hopes will when they come back withered; and they relieved her. 'I cannot help this weakness, and it makes my purpose stronger,' said Rose, extending her hand. 'I must leave you now, indeed.' 'I ask one promise,' said Harry. 'Once, and only once more,--say within a year, but it may be much sooner,--I may speak to you again on this subject, for the last time.' 'Not to press me to alter my right determination,' replied Rose, with a melancholy smile; 'it will be useless.' 'No,' said Harry; 'to hear you repeat it, if you will--finally repeat it! I will lay at your feet, whatever of station of fortune I may possess; and if you still adhere to your present resolution, will not seek, by word or act, to change it.' 'Then let it be so,' rejoined Rose; 'it is but one pang the more, and by that time I may be enabled to bear it better.' She extended her hand again. But the young man caught her to his bosom; and imprinting one kiss on her beautiful forehead, hurried from the room. CHAPTER XXXVI IS A VERY SHORT ONE, AND MAY APPEAR OF NO GREAT IMPORTANCE IN ITS PLACE, BUT IT SHOULD BE READ NOTWITHSTANDING, AS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST, AND A KEY TO ONE THAT WILL FOLLOW WHEN ITS TIME ARRIVES 'And so you are resolved to be my travelling companion this morning; eh?' said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the breakfast-table. 'Why, you are not in the same mind or intention two half-hours together!' 'You will tell me a different tale one of these days,' said Harry, colouring without any perceptible reason. 'I hope I may have good cause to do so,' replied Mr. Losberne; 'though I confess I don't think I shall. But yesterday morning you had made up your mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your mother, like a dutiful son, to the sea-side. Before noon, you announce that you are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I go, on your road to London. And at night, you urge me, with great mystery, to start before the ladies are


digital map in search of our house. Love wins! my firstborn dog I was talking to a man (first mistake), reminiscing about old shit (that’s a trap, never do it), and he said to me, with the kind of brazenness only handsome people can get away with: “Level with me, baby: Don’t you wish we’d gotten serious back in the day and had a kid?” I damn near choked on my own tongue. Excuse me, sir? What are you asking me? Do I wish that instead of talking about weed strains you and I were instead arguing about summer camp fees and community college applications? What is it about being comfortably ensconced in middle age, deep in the cozy confines of his sweatpants-in-the-middle-of-a-Tuesday years, that makes a man who should be on an aspirin regimen say something like that to a woman who is no longer shedding eggs and endometrial lining? Is it boredom? Regret?? Dementia??? I stared slack-jawed at my phone, wishing it was 1998 and I had a receiver I could slam into its cradle. “Don’t you wish you’d had a kid?” Do I wish I could stand idly by and witness all the things I hate about myself manifested in, and mirrored back to me by, a person it’s against the law for me to kill? I absolutely do not! Imagine, if you will, my child: FAT, which is great, who cares, it’s in his DNA and can’t be helped, but also I would serve themed dinners like “bread night” or “every pizza from the store,” and that’s fine by me, but you know some fucking hater who hates fun would hear about it and report me to child services. SICK. I mean, I’m sick, so I probably could only produce a sickly child? I’m not an epidemiologist, but that just feels true. I don’t think any of my various conditions is even hereditary, but I know in my weakened bones that any offspring I produce would be riddled with maladies. I don’t mind, but I am two-plus years overdue for a mammogram and a full checkup right now, and if you are that lax with a child, I’m pretty sure, once again, you go to jail. CAN’T READ. We’d be a TV house because I love TV and also—have you ever tried to talk to a child? I’ve never met a little kid with good jokes or opinions! And reading to them is like “cat rat bat shat,” and that’s a big snooze. So we would just watch shows all day, and the kid would grow up with no clue what the alphabet even is. So yeah, like I said: jail! UNDISCIPLINED. Though I am an ardent rule follower, I possess zero personal discipline and have no idea how to instill that virtuous quality into another human being. Cut to Future Me and Future Baby eating chips and not doing laundry. Every day. BAD TEETH. I got my shitty teeth from my mother, and my kid would get them from me, and I wouldn’t have enough money for


being extraordinarily useful at home, ought not to operate with her affectionate parents, against her establishment in life - don't you see?' 'Certainly it ought not,' said I. 'I am glad you think so, Copperfield,' rejoined Traddles, 'because, without any imputation on the Reverend Horace, I do think parents, and brothers, and so forth, are sometimes rather selfish in such cases. Well! I also pointed out, that my most earnest desire was, to be useful to the family; and that if I got on in the world, and anything should happen to him - I refer to the Reverend Horace -' 'I understand,' said I. '- Or to Mrs. Crewler - it would be the utmost gratification of my wishes, to be a parent to the girls. He replied in a most admirable manner, exceedingly flattering to my feelings, and undertook to obtain the consent of Mrs. Crewler to this arrangement. They had a dreadful time of it with her. It mounted from her legs into her chest, and then into her head -' 'What mounted?' I asked. 'Her grief,' replied Traddles, with a serious look. 'Her feelings generally. As I mentioned on a former occasion, she is a very superior woman, but has lost the use of her limbs. Whatever occurs to harass her, usually settles in her legs; but on this occasion it mounted to the chest, and then to the head, and, in short, pervaded the whole system in a most alarming manner. However, they brought her through it by unremitting and affectionate attention; and we were married yesterday six weeks. You have no idea what a Monster I felt, Copperfield, when I saw the whole family crying and fainting away in every direction! Mrs. Crewler couldn't see me before we left - couldn't forgive me, then, for depriving her of her child - but she is a good creature, and has done so since. I had a delightful letter from her, only this morning.' 'And in short, my dear friend,' said I, 'you feel as blest as you deserve to feel!' 'Oh! That's your partiality!' laughed Traddles. 'But, indeed, I am in a most enviable state. I work hard, and read Law insatiably. I get up at five every morning, and don't mind it at all. I hide the girls in the daytime, and make merry with them in the evening. And I assure you I am quite sorry that they are going home on Tuesday, which is the day before the first day of Michaelmas Term. But here,' said Traddles, breaking off in his confidence, and speaking aloud, 'ARE the girls! Mr. Copperfield, Miss Crewler - Miss Sarah - Miss Louisa - Margaret and Lucy!' They were a perfect nest of roses; they looked so wholesome and fresh. They were all pretty, and Miss Caroline was very handsome; but there was a loving, cheerful, fireside quality in Sophy's bright looks, which was better than that, and which assured me that my friend had chosen well. We all sat round the fire; while the sharp boy, who I


the attentions of her friends became quite overwhelming. Katy Brown invited her to her next party on the spot. Mary Kingsley insisted on lending her her watch till recess, and Jenny Snow, a satirical young lady, who had basely twitted Amy upon her limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet and offered to furnish answers to certain appalling sums. But Amy had not forgotten Miss Snow's cutting remarks about `some persons whose noses were not too flat to smell other people's limes, and stuck-up people who were not too proud to ask for them', and she instantly crushed `that Snow girl's' hopes by the withering telegram, "You needn't be so polite all of a sudden, for you won't get any." A distinguished personage happened to visit the school that morning, and Amy's beautifully drawn maps received praise, which honor to her foe rankled in the soul of Miss Snow, and caused Miss March to assume the airs of a studious young peacock. But, alas, alas! Pride goes before a fall, and the revengeful Snow turned the tables with disastrous success. No sooner had the guest paid the usual stale compliments and bowed himself out, than Jenny, under pretense of asking an important question, informed Mr. Davis, the teacher, that Amy March had pickled limes in her desk. Now Mr. Davis had declared limes a contraband article, and solemnly vowed to publicly ferrule the first person who was found breaking the law. This much-enduring man had succeeded in banishing chewing gum after a long and stormy war, had made a bonfire of the confiscated novels and newspapers, had suppressed a private post office, had forbidden distortions of the face, nicknames, and caricatures, and done all that one man could do to keep half a hundred rebellious girls in order. Boys are trying enough to human patience, goodness knows, but girls are infinitely more so, especially to nervous gentlemen with tyrannical tempers and no more talent for teaching than Dr. Blimber. Mr. Davis knew any quantity of Greek, Latin, algebra, and ologies of all sorts so he was called a fine teacher, and manners, morals, feelings, and examples were not considered of any particular importance. It was a most unfortunate moment for denouncing Amy, and Jenny knew it. Mr. Davis had evidently taken his coffee too strong that morning, there was an east wind, which always affected his neuralgia, and his pupils had not done him the credit which he felt he deserved. Therefore, to use the expressive, if not elegant, language of a schoolgirl, "He was as nervous as a witch and as cross as a bear". The word `limes' was like fire to powder, his yellow face flushed, and he rapped on his desk with an energy which made Jenny skip to her seat with unusual rapidity. "Young ladies, attention, if you please!" At the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue, black, gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful countenance. "Miss March, come to the desk." Amy rose to comply with outward composure, but a secret


know exactly who stood before him. Forester offered a little bow. “Mr. Nick Forester,” he said as pompously as he could. “I imagine you’ve heard of me.” Simon might have been offended that Granger’s reaction this time around was far stronger than it had been when learning Simon’s identity, if not for his increasing desire for anonymity and a quiet life in the country for the rest of his days. He didn’t care what people thought of him, as long as they never thought him a detriment to his father’s legacy. Nicholas Forester, on the other hand . . . Granger took a step back, turning pale. “F-Forester? The same Forester who captained a navy vessel at Trafalgar?” “The very same.” Forester smirked. That battle had happened a decade ago, and he had never once set foot on a ship, let alone captained one at twenty. No one else seemed to know that though. “Who owns half of Wales?” Granger continued. “You’ve got it.” “Who is closely connected with the royal family?” “Ah, I do love my evening chats with Prinny. Most entertaining.” Granger nearly choked on his next exclamation, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. “You single-handedly saved an entire village from a terrible fire last month!” “Did I? I mean, yes, I did.” Forester met Simon’s questioning glance and shrugged minutely. Apparently that rumor was a new one. “Now that we have that settled,” he said, resting his arm on the doorframe and looming over Granger, “I seem to recall you were searching for a governess.” Still in awe, Granger took a moment to answer. He had apparently forgotten all about Simon and focused entirely on Forester. “I should like to find her and ensure she is safe. The family she was to work for is most anxious.” “As are you, as you have said,” Simon muttered. “Truly. So you have not come across a governess wandering around?” Simon clenched his hands into fists. “Not recently.” “She is not here?” “That is what Lord Calloway said,” Forester threw in. He had lost his humor and was now eyeing Granger with something closer to suspicion. Forester, for all his stories, was always inclined to trust those he came into contact with, so if he was beginning to question Granger’s motives, it had to mean Simon wasn’t acting out of jealousy. There was that thought of jealousy again. But for what? Even if Granger was talking about Lucy, Simon had no reason to be jealous of anything. “She was supposed to arrive at the home of a family friend on Tuesday last,” the man said without even a glance in Simon’s direction. “But she never turned up. She was under the employ of my brother until recently, and I confess I miss having her around. She is a lively little thing, and my life was better for it.” Forester grimaced, clearly feeling the same about Granger as Simon did. “Does the lady return your regard?” “Undoubtedly. If I had but made the depth of my feelings known sooner, she would


with the same words, but when once he omitted to say it in order to see whether she would say it first, she said nothing at all. He murmured in his heart an expression which though frequently applicable to members of the female sex is not often used of them in polite society; but with an unmoved face he ordered his tea. He made up his mind not to speak a word, and left the shop without his usual good-night. He promised himself that he would not go any more, but the next day at tea-time he grew restless. He tried to think of other things, but he had no command over his thoughts. At last he said desperately: "After all there's no reason why I shouldn't go if I want to." The struggle with himself had taken a long time, and it was getting on for seven when he entered the shop. "I thought you weren't coming," the girl said to him, when he sat down. His heart leaped in his bosom and he felt himself reddening. "I was detained. I couldn't come before." "Cutting up people, I suppose?" "Not so bad as that." "You are a stoodent, aren't you?" "Yes." But that seemed to satisfy her curiosity. She went away and, since at that late hour there was nobody else at her tables, she immersed herself in a novelette. This was before the time of the sixpenny reprints. There was a regular supply of inexpensive fiction written to order by poor hacks for the consumption of the illiterate. Philip was elated; she had addressed him of her own accord; he saw the time approaching when his turn would come and he would tell her exactly what he thought of her. It would be a great comfort to express the immensity of his contempt. He looked at her. It was true that her profile was beautiful; it was extraordinary how English girls of that class had so often a perfection of outline which took your breath away, but it was as cold as marble; and the faint green of her delicate skin gave an impression of unhealthiness. All the waitresses were dressed alike, in plain black dresses, with a white apron, cuffs, and a small cap. On a half sheet of paper that he had in his pocket Philip made a sketch of her as she sat leaning over her book (she outlined the words with her lips as she read), and left it on the table when he went away. It was an inspiration, for next day, when he came in, she smiled at him. "I didn't know you could draw," she said. "I was an art-student in Paris for two years." "I showed that drawing you left be'ind you last night to the manageress and she _was_ struck with it. Was it meant to be me?" "It was," said Philip. When she went for his tea, one of the other girls came up to him. "I saw that picture you done of Miss Rogers. It was the very image


to realize that they were meat and mead to a man like Littlefinger. At the foot of the steps was a heavy door of oak and iron. Petyr Baelish lifted the crossbar and gestured Ned through. They stepped out into the ruddy glow of dusk, on a rocky bluff high above the river. "We're outside the castle," Ned said. "You are a hard man to fool, Stark," Littlefinger said with a smirk. "Was it the sun that gave it away, or the sky? Follow me. There are niches cut in the rock. Try not to fall to your death, Catelyn would never understand." With that, he was over the side of the cliff, descending as quick as a monkey. Ned studied the rocky face of the bluff for a moment, then followed more slowly. The niches were there, as Littlefinger had promised, shallow cuts that would be invisible from below, unless you knew just where to look for them. The river was a long, dizzying distance below. Ned kept his face pressed to the rock and tried not to look down any more often than he had to. When at last he reached the bottom, a narrow, muddy trail along the water's edge, Littlefinger was lazing against a rock and eating an apple. He was almost down to the core. "You are growing old and slow, Stark," he said, flipping the apple casually into the rushing water. A GAME, OF THRONLS 175 "No matter, we ride the rest of the way." He had two horses waiting. Ned mounted up and trotted behind him, down the trail and into the city. Finally Baelish drew rein in front of a ramshackle building, three stories, timbered, its windows bright with lamplight in the gathering dusk. The sounds of music and raucous laughter drifted out and floated over the water. Beside the door swung an ornate oil lamp on a heavy chain, with a globe of leaded red glass. Ned Stark dismounted in a fury. "A brothel," he said as he seized Littlefinger by the shoulder and spun him around. "You've brought me all this way to take me to a brothel." "Your wife is inside," Littlefinger said. It was the final insult. "Brandon was too kind to you," Ned said as he slammed the small man back against a wall and shoved his dagger up under the little pointed chin beard. "My lord, no," an urgent voice called out. "He speaks the truth." There were footsteps behind him. Ned spun, knife in hand, as an old white-haired man hurried toward them. He was dressed in brown roughspun, and the soft flesh under his chin wobbled as he ran. "This is no business of yours," Ned began; then, suddenly, the recognition came. He lowered the dagger, astonished. "Ser Rodfik?" Rodrik Cassel nodded. "Your lady awaits you upstairs." Ned was lost. "Catelyn is truly here? This is not some strange jape of Littlefinger's?" He sheathed his blade. "Would that it were, Stark," Littlefinger said. "Follow me, and try to look a shade more lecherous and a shade


shoulders, and evincing as plainly as though by speech that they were fleeing some terrible thing which lay concealed there. Just before dusk Clayton finished his ladder, and, filling a great basin with water from the near-by stream, the two mounted to the comparative safety of their aerial chamber. As it was quite warm, Clayton had left the side curtains thrown back over the roof, and as they sat, like Turks, upon their blankets, Lady Alice, straining her eyes into the darkening shadows of the wood, suddenly reached out and grasped Clayton's arms. "John," she whispered, "look! What is it, a man?" Chapter 3 18 As Clayton turned his eyes in the direction she indicated, he saw silhouetted dimly against the shadows beyond, a great figure standing upright upon the ridge. For a moment it stood as though listening and then turned slowly, and melted into the shadows of the jungle. "What is it, John?" "I do not know, Alice," he answered gravely, "it is too dark to see so far, and it may have been but a shadow cast by the rising moon." "No, John, if it was not a man it was some huge and grotesque mockery of man. Oh, I am afraid." He gathered her in his arms, whispering words of courage and love into her ears. Soon after, he lowered the curtain walls, tying them securely to the trees so that, except for a little opening toward the beach, they were entirely enclosed. As it was now pitch dark within their tiny aerie they lay down upon their blankets to try to gain, through sleep, a brief respite of forgetfulness. Clayton lay facing the opening at the front, a rifle and a brace of revolvers at his hand. Scarcely had they closed their eyes than the terrifying cry of a panther rang out from the jungle behind them. Closer and closer it came until they could hear the great beast directly beneath them. For an hour or more they heard it sniffing and clawing at the trees which supported their platform, but at last it roamed away across the beach, where Clayton could see it clearly in the brilliant moonlight--a great, handsome beast, the largest he had ever seen. During the long hours of darkness they caught but fitful snatches of sleep, for the night noises of a great jungle teeming with myriad animal life kept their overwrought nerves on edge, so that a hundred times they were startled to wakefulness by piercing screams, or the stealthy moving of great bodies beneath them. Chapter 3 Life and Death Morning found them but little, if at all refreshed, though it was with a feeling of intense relief that they saw the day dawn. As soon as they had made their meager breakfast of salt pork, coffee and biscuit, Clayton commenced work upon their house, for he realized that they could hope for no safety and no peace of mind at night until four strong walls effectually barred the jungle life from them. The task was an arduous one and


was a natural blonde.’ A natural liar, I thought. It was hard to tell if her stories were real or mere fabrications of the truth – stories she had picked up along the way and made her own. I looked at the woman in the picture. It was true, she did look like an old Hollywood starlet, but I couldn’t see the resemblance at all. The man was tall, dark and handsome with the look of someone who had captured the moon in his pocket. ‘He was a pilot,’ she said, slathering butter on her croissant. ‘Far too old for me, or at least that’s what my mother told me. But I was hopelessly in love with him. I thought he was so dashing. He was an American, you know, and to a twenty-something Irish girl, well, he was like Clark Gable.’ She lost herself in the past for a moment. ‘He adored this strange little house. But he was a perfectionist, always trying to fix things. You have to understand, old houses have their quirks. Some things are meant to be flawed. Therein lies beauty.’ She was a captivating storyteller. I knew there was a peculiar history within these walls and whatever it was, it must have happened long before Madame Bowden arrived. ‘What happened to your husband, if you don’t mind me asking?’ ‘Plane crash. We were only married a year when his plane went down over Gibraltar.’ ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘Yes, it was a difficult time. That’s when I met Archie.’ ‘Archie?’ ‘My second husband. He was a doctor from Cork.’ ‘I thought you said he was Russian?’ ‘Oh no, that was husband number three.’ ‘But what happened to Archie?’ I realised that this was really none of my business, but I couldn’t help myself. Maybe when you got to her age, minor details like this didn’t matter any more. ‘Archie contracted malaria when he was working in Africa, poor fellow.’ I wondered what had happened to the Russian mathematician – death by numbers? ‘What’s with all of these questions? I hope you’re not planning on bumping me off and getting your hands on my house?’ ‘Honestly, Madame Bowden, if anyone should be worried about getting bumped off, I think it should be me.’ She stared at me for a moment and I was full sure she was going to fire me for insolence, when she let out an enormous laugh. I really needed to hang out with people my own age. I spent that entire day giving the house a deep clean. It was something I always enjoyed doing, not because I was a fan of housework, but because the methodical action of cleaning was the only way I’d ever found to make my thoughts stop. Thoughts like: I had married a bully, I had wasted my life, and now I could add a new one to the list – I had humiliated myself in front of Henry. Why did I care about his opinion so much anyway? Besides, it wasn’t my fault he’d neglected


and Mrs. Merriweather would mount the stage with the state flag. My costume was not much of a problem. Mrs. Crenshaw, the local seamstress, had as much imagination as Mrs. Merriweather. Mrs. Crenshaw took some chicken wire and bent it into the shape of a cured ham. This she covered with brown cloth, and painted it to resemble the original. I could duck under and someone would pull the contraption down over my head. It came almost to my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw thoughtfully left two peepholes for me. She did a fine job. Jem said I looked exactly like a ham with legs. There were several discomforts, though: it was hot, it was a close fit; if my nose itched I couldn't scratch, and once inside I could not get out of it alone. When Halloween came, I assumed that the whole family would be present to watch me perform, but I was disappointed. Atticus said as tactfully as he could that he just didn't think he could stand a pageant tonight, he was all in. He had been in Montgomery for a week and had come home late that afternoon. He thought Jem might escort me if I asked him. Aunt Alexandra said she just had to get to bed early, she'd been decorating the stage all afternoon and was worn out- she stopped short in the middle of her sentence. She closed her mouth, then opened it to say something, but no words came. "'s matter, Aunty?" I asked. "Oh nothing, nothing," she said, "somebody just walked over my grave." She put away from her whatever it was that gave her a pinprick of apprehension, and suggested that I give the family a preview in the livingroom. So Jem squeezed me into my costume, stood at the livingroom door, called out "Po-ork," exactly as Mrs. Merriweather would have done, and I marched in. Atticus and Aunt Alexandra were delighted. I repeated my part for Calpurnia in the kitchen and she said I was wonderful. I wanted to go across the street to show Miss Maudie, but Jem said she'd probably be at the pageant anyway. After that, it didn't matter whether they went or not. Jem said he would take me. Thus began our longest journey together. 28 The weather was unusually warm for the last day of October. We didn't even need jackets. The wind was growing stronger, and Jem said it might be raining before we got home. There was no moon. The street light on the corner cast sharp shadows on the Radley house. I heard Jem laugh softly. "Bet nobody bothers them tonight," he said. Jem was carrying my ham costume, rather awkwardly, as it was hard to hold. I thought it gallant of him to do so. "It is a scary place though, ain't it?" I said. "Boo doesn't mean anybody any harm, but I'm right glad you're along." "You know Atticus wouldn't let you go to the schoolhouse by yourself," Jem said. "Don't see why, it's just around the corner and across the yard."


and turn it off before it makes a peep. Wyn is fast asleep, naked and beautiful in the deep blue of early morning. He would want me to wake him. But I can’t stand for our last moment together to be a goodbye. I want to remember him like this, while he’s still mine and I’m his. I finish packing quietly and tiptoe downstairs. Cleo and Sabrina are already sipping tea and coffee, respectively, in the kitchen. “I told you I could take a cab to the airport,” I whisper, joining them as Sabrina fills a mug for me. “No way,” she says, “are your last few minutes in Knott’s Harbor going to be with a stranger.” “Actually,” I say, “my last few minutes in Knott’s Harbor will be spent with Ray.” “All the more reason to give you a ride. These could be the last minutes of your life, period,” Sabrina says. Cleo spits a mouthful of tea into her mug. “Sabrina.” “Kidding!” she says. “Is Wyn coming?” “I let him sleep,” I say. She and Cleo exchange a look. “I know,” I say, heading them off. “But it’s what I need.” Sabrina slings an arm over my shoulder. “Then that’s what you get, my girl.” We drive to the airport in the Rover, and Sabrina and Cleo insist on parking and walking me inside. We linger by the security gate for a while— we’re way too early for an airport this tiny—but I can’t stand long goodbyes. Every second gets harder. I make it through our tight group hug without crying. I keep my stiff upper lip as we take turns promising we’ll see each other soon. And when Sabrina reminds me that there’s room on her couch in New York anytime. I still don’t know what I’m going to do when I get back to San Francisco, and when I came clean with them about how I’d been feeling at work, they’d both been adamant that they couldn’t tell me what to do either. I need to figure out what I want. As if reading my mind, Cleo touches my elbow and says, “There’s no wrong answer.” One last hug apiece, and then we put our index fingers, with their matching little burn scars from our first trip to the cottage, together in a silent promise. Without another word, I join the two-person security line. I tell myself I won’t look back. But I do. My best friends are crying, which makes me start crying, which makes all three of us start laughing. “Ma’am,” the TSA agent says, waving me forward, and I’m still laugh- crying in the body scanner and as I make my way down the hallway beyond it, looking back every few feet to see them wave from the far end of the airport, until finally the hall curves to the right and I’m forced to give one final wave goodbye and round the corner. By the time I reach my gate, I’ve gotten it together. The seating area is empty. Any reasonable person would’ve shown


love in July. That Monday, we returned to Topanga and called our family and friends to tell them. On Tuesday, Noah’s publicist released a statement announcing our marriage and suggesting that anyone who wanted to help us celebrate could do so by making a donation to a nonprofit working to elect Democratic women. “We need to offset my reentry into the ultimate heteropatriarchal institution,” I’d said, and he’d laughed and replied, “As newlywed wives often tell their husbands.” That, among lots of my former colleagues, both Autumn and Elliot contributed struck me as unnecessarily magnanimous of them. The Internet had opinions about Noah marrying me, and though I’ve inferred that some people saw it as a tragedy for him while others considered it a victory for feminism and/or mousy-looking straight women everywhere (two entities that are not, in fact, interchangeable), I’ve managed to avoid reading the vast majority of the comments. By the time we got married, Noah and I were both, with effort, in the habit of leaving our phones in a drawer in the kitchen overnight. When I awaken in the morning, I sometimes go to that other far bathroom even now, but I always return. Noah is usually asleep when I do, and his unguarded face is startlingly handsome; the truth is that I still can’t believe a hot, smart, kind man loves me back. Often when I climb into bed, he reaches for me, opening his eyes as he does, smiling because he’s glad to see me. There are, presumably, texts and tweets and news articles I’m missing, but in these moments none seem all that urgent. For beloved and funny C ACKNOWLEDGMENTS For facts, anecdotes, and analysis, I’m indebted to many sources. These include the books Live From New York: The Complete, Uncensored History of Saturday Night Live as Told by Its Stars, Writers, and Guests, edited by James Andrew Miller and Tom Shales; A Very Punchable Face by Colin Jost; Gasping for Airtime: Two Years in the Trenches of Saturday Night Live by Jay Mohr; Bossypants by Tina Fey; Yes Please by Amy Poehler; Girl Walks into a Bar…: Comedy Calamities, Dating Disasters, and a Midlife Miracle by Rachel Dratch; I Am the New Black by Tracy Morgan with Anthony Bozza; Hello, Molly! by Molly Shannon with Sean Wilsey; and The Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption, and Pee by Sarah Silverman. I also benefited from reading the New York Times article “Lives of the After-Party” by Paul Brownfield; the New York article “Comedy Isn’t Funny” by Chris Smith; and the New Yorker article “Leslie Jones: Always Funny, Finally Famous” by Andrew Marantz. I listened to the podcasts WTF with Marc Maron; Mike Birbiglia’s Working It Out; Conan O’Brien Needs a Friend; and Fly on the Wall with Dana Carvey and David Spade. And I watched the documentary Saturday Night, directed by James Franco, as well as Saturday Night Live’s YouTube channel and its “Creating Saturday Night Live” videos. Finally, though I hope this is already clear, I was inspired by almost five decades of episodes of


the backboard of a cotton wagon. He had been under the bed for two hours, he thought; he had heard us in the diningroom, and the clink of forks on plates nearly drove him crazy. He thought Jem and I would never go to bed; he had considered emerging and helping me beat Jem, as Jem had grown far taller, but he knew Mr. Finch would break it up soon, so he thought it best to stay where he was. He was worn out, dirty beyond belief, and home. "They must not know you're here," said Jem. "We'd know if they were lookin' for you...." "Think they're still searchin' all the picture shows in Meridian." Dill grinned. "You oughta let your mother know where you are," said Jem. "You oughta let her know you're here...." Dill's eyes flickered at Jem, and Jem looked at the floor. Then he rose and broke the remaining code of our childhood. He went out of the room and down the hall. "Atticus," his voice was distant, "can you come here a minute, sir?" Beneath its sweat-streaked dirt Dill's face went white. I felt sick. Atticus was in the doorway. He came to the middle of the room and stood with his hands in his pockets, looking down at Dill. I finally found my voice: "It's okay, Dill. When he wants you to know somethin', he tells you." Dill looked at me. "I mean it's all right," I said. "You know he wouldn't bother you, you know you ain't scared of Atticus." "I'm not scared..." Dill muttered. "Just hungry, I'll bet." Atticus's voice had its usual pleasant dryness. "Scout, we can do better than a pan of cold corn bread, can't we? You fill this fellow up and when I get back we'll see what we can see." "Mr. Finch, don't tell Aunt Rachel, don't make me go back, please sir! I'll run off again-!" "Whoa, son," said Atticus. "Nobody's about to make you go anywhere but to bed pretty soon. I'm just going over to tell Miss Rachel you're here and ask her if you could spend the night with us- you'd like that, wouldn't you? And for goodness' sake put some of the county back where it belongs, the soil erosion's bad enough as it is." Dill stared at my father's retreating figure. "He's tryin' to be funny," I said. "He means take a bath. See there, I told you he wouldn't bother you." Jem was standing in a corner of the room, looking like the traitor he was. "Dill, I had to tell him," he said. "You can't run three hundred miles off without your mother knowin'." We left him without a word. Dill ate, and ate, and ate. He hadn't eaten since last night. He used all his money for a ticket, boarded the train as he had done many times, coolly chatted with the conductor, to whom Dill was a familiar sight, but he had not the nerve to invoke the rule on small children traveling a distance alone if you've lost


that directly she set eyes on Tess she divined that she was to be the chosen one of somebody who was no common outdoor man; Tess had looked so superior as she walked across the barton on that afternoon of her arrival; that she was of a good family she could have sworn. In point of fact Mrs Crick did remember thinking that Tess was graceful and good-looking as she approached; but the superiority might have been a growth of the imagination aided by subsequent knowledge. Tess was now carried along upon the wings of the hours, without the sense of a will. The word had been given; the number of the day written down. Her naturally bright intelligence had begun to admit the fatalistic convictions common to field-folk and those who associate more extensively with natural phenomena than with their fellow-creatures; and she accordingly drifted into that passive responsiveness to all things her lover suggested, characteristic of the frame of mind. But she wrote anew to her mother, ostensibly to notify the wedding-day; really to again implore her advice. It was a gentleman who had chosen her, which perhaps her mother had not sufficiently considered. A post-nuptial explanation, which might be accepted with a light heart by a rougher man, might not be received with the same feeling by him. But this communication brought no reply from Mrs Durbeyfield. Despite Angel Clare's plausible representation to himself and to Tess of the practical need for their immediate marriage, there was in truth an element of precipitancy in the step, as became apparent at a later date. He loved her dearly, though perhaps rather ideally and fancifully than with the impassioned thoroughness of her feeling for him. He had entertained no notion, when doomed as he had thought to an unintellectual bucolic life, that such charms as he beheld in this idyllic creature would be found behind the scenes. Unsophistication was a thing to talk of; but he had not known how it really struck one until he came here. Yet he was very far from seeing his future track clearly, and it might be a year or two before he would be able to consider himself fairly started in life. The secret lay in the tinge of recklessness imparted to his career and character by the sense that he had been made to miss his true destiny through the prejudices of his family. "Don't you think 'twould have been better for us to wait till you were quite settled in your midland farm?" she once asked timidly. (A midland farm was the idea just then.) "To tell the truth, my Tess, I don't like you to be left anywhere away from my protection and sympathy." The reason was a good one, so far as it went. His influence over her had been so marked that she had caught his manner and habits, his speech and phrases, his likings and his aversions. And to leave her in farmland would be to let her slip back again out of accord with him. He wished


commissionaire?" "Yes." "It is to him that this trophy belongs." "It is his hat." "No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem. And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt, roasting at this moment in front of Peterson's fire. The facts are these: about four o'clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest fellow, was returning from some small jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man's hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose." "Which surely he restored to their owner?" "My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that 'For Mrs. Henry Baker' was printed upon a small card which was tied to the bird's left leg, and it is also true that the initials 'H. B.' are legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it is not easy to restore lost property to any one of them." "What, then, did Peterson do?" "He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning, knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner." "Did he not advertise?" "No." "Then, what clew could you have as to his identity?" "Only as much as we can deduce." "From his hat?" "Precisely." "But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered felt?" "Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself


crackled and was consumed; but men marvelled at the reek that went up from it, so that the land lay under a cloud for seven days, until slowly it passed into the west. Thereafter the fire and smoke went up without ceasing; for the power of Sauron daily increased, and in that temple, with spilling of blood and torment and great wickedness, men made sacrifice to Melkor that he should release them from Death. And most often from among the Faithful they chose their victims; yet never openly on the charge that they would not worship Melkor, the Giver of Freedom, rather was cause sought against them that they hated the King and were his rebels, or that they plotted against their kin, devising lies and poisons. These charges were for the most part false; yet those were bitter days, and hate brings forth hate. But for all this Death did not depart from the land, rather it came sooner and more often, and in many dreadful guises. For whereas aforetime men had grown slowly old, and had laid them down in the end to sleep, when they were weary at last of the world, now madness and sickness assailed them; and yet they were afraid to die and go out into the dark, the realm of the lord that they had taken; and they cursed themselves in their agony. And men took weapons in those days and slew one another for little cause; for they were become quick to anger, and Sauron, or those whom he had bound to himself, went about the land setting man against man, so that the people murmured against the King and the lords, or against any that had aught that they had not; and the men of power took cruel revenge. Nonetheless for long it seemed to the Nmenreans that they prospered, and if they were not increased in happiness, yet they grew more strong, and their rich men ever richer. For with the aid and counsel of Sauron they multiplied then: possessions, and they devised engines, and they built ever greater ships. And they sailed now with power and armoury to Middle-earth, and they came no longer as bringers of gifts, nor even as rulers, but as fierce men of war. And they hunted the men of Middle-earth and took their goods and enslaved them, and many they slew cruelly upon their altars. For they built in their fortresses temples and great tombs in those days; and men feared them, and the memory of the kindly kings of the ancient days faded from the world and was darkened by many a tale of dread. Thus Ar-Pharazn, King of the Land of the Star, grew to the mightiest tyrant that had yet been in the world since the reign of Morgoth, though in truth Sauron ruled all from behind the throne. But the years passed, and the King felt the shadow of death approach, as his days lengthened; and he was filled with fear and wrath. Now came the hour that Sauron had prepared and


something silly. He is unusually grim-faced as he talks into the phone but that’s okay because I’m going to stop him. “No. Noooo. Have to finish the expedition.” I need the scholarship. If I share a bathroom with a Mason-alike, I’ll probably end up killing him. But for some reason I can’t figure out how to explain all that, so instead I choke out, “I’m…going to be a writer.” “Brad,” Holly says, “shut up.” The ambulance arrives I-don’t-know-how-long later. At this point I’m feeling much better (physically) and this is all beyond embarrassing. A nice paramedic prods me in various places before declaring me Still Alive. Celine wrings her hands over me like a war widow and it’s starting to piss me off because every so often my brain tries to say, See, she cares about you! but then I remember she cares about me up to a point. That, while I thought we were closer than ever, she was…done with me? I don’t even know, but it hurts worse than the ache in my ribs. Then someone helps me hobble over to the ambulance and it turns out, nope, I was wrong—everything definitely still hurts. “I should go with him,” Celine’s saying, not like she’s asking but like it’s common sense, really, so Holly and Rebecca better step aside before she makes them. Except for once, her never-ending confidence doesn’t work, because Zion says, “Only one person can go in the ambulance with him—” “Yes,” Celine grits out. “Me.” “And it’s going to be me,” Zion says, “because I’m the responsible adult here.” Celine laughs in his face. “Listen. I’m going with him one way or another. I don’t know what else to tell you.” And I don’t know what she’s playing at, but at this rate she’s going to lose all her BEP matrix points and— Wait. “Can you manage, mate?” the paramedic asks as she helps me into the ambulance. I don’t answer. I’m too busy thinking—Celine wants to leave? With me? Right now? She must have forgotten. “Celine,” I call, loud enough to hurt my own head. I can’t see her; she’s behind me and I’m not looking around because moving my eyes is not a lot of fun right now, but there’s a pause in her argument with our supervisors. “Don’t come with me,” I say. She can’t quit now. She’s almost halfway through this expedition. She has to get the scholarship. If I can’t get it, she has to. I think I tell her that. “Celine,” I repeat when she doesn’t respond, “don’t—” “Okay,” she says, her voice rough. “Fine. Okay.” * * * The last time I stayed at a hospital—the only time, actually—they took my tonsils out. This time, they put bandages all over me, give me medicine, and say I’m under observation. An old nurse with a Glaswegian accent I barely understand tells me I’m a verra lucky boy because I have no broken bones. I would consider cracked ribs broken, but okay, I guess? It’s hard to care too much about details


hilarity. ANTONYMS: (n) boredom, explain, expand ANTONYMS: (v) degrade, ridicule, despair, sadness expressive: (adj) significant, debase, condemn, criticize, exhort: (v) admonish, urge, advise, meaningful, descriptive, mobile, deprecate, desecrate, disparage advocate, caution, expostulate, revelatory, indicative, articulate, exceedingly: (adj, adv) very, highly; press, counsel, entreat, bid, goad. graphic, emphatic, suggestive, vivid. (adv) too, exceptionally, overly, ANTONYMS: (v) prohibit, block, ANTONYMS: (adj) unemotional, 282 The Scarlet Letter undemonstrative, nondescript, cold, profligate, costly, expensive, lavish, familiarity: (adj, n) acquaintance; (n) expressionless, empty, emotionless, immoderate, profuse, undue. intimacy, closeness, experience, inarticulate, innocent, impassive, ANTONYMS: (adj) restrained, casualness, conversancy, reserved frugal, parsimonious, plain, stingy, knowledge, conversance, expressly: (adv) specially, understated, thrifty, reasonable, naturalness, nearness, friendship. particularly, distinctly, specifically, moderate, cautious, tasteful ANTONYMS: (n) unfamiliarity, explicitly, especially, utterly, clearly, extremity: (n) end, member, formality, abnormality, distance, precisely, telly, exactly. boundary, bound, close, appendage, animosity ANTONYMS: (adv) ambiguously, limit, limb, ending, fringe, familiarly: (adv) intimately, usually, conditionally, implicitly, indirectly, conclusion. ANTONYMS: (n) trunk, ordinarily, nearly, frequently, vaguely average, minimum, head, leniency commonly, regularly, informally, exquisite: (adj) beautiful, delicate, faculties: (n) mother wit closely, acquaintedly, excellent, dainty, gorgeous, fade: (adj, v) vanish, drop; (v) conventionally. ANTONYM: (adv) admirable, acute, heavenly, choice, dissolve, decline, evaporate, distantly wonderful; (adj, v) delightful. discolor, droop, die, languish, fancied: (adj) unreal, chimerical, ANTONYMS: (adj) dull, inferior, expire; (n, v) wither. ANTONYMS: fictional, fanciful, fictitious, ugly, subdued, rough, poor, coarse, (v) increase, grow, flourish, enhance, fabricated, preferred, assumed, mild, imperfect, horrible, flawed surge, sharpen, brighten, color, wax, illusory, imagined, ideal exquisitely: (adv) excellently, finely, stay, rally fanciful: (adj) mythical, fantastic, magnificently, perfectly, beautifully, fading: (n) attenuation, bleaching, capricious, unreal, arbitrary, gorgeously, superbly, keenly, discoloration, disappearance, romantic, ideal, chimerical, notional, subtlely; (adj, adv) intensely, evaporation, colour fading, decay; visionary; (adj, v) fancy. exceedingly (adj) disappearing, paling, ANTONYMS: (adj) prosaic, real, extant: (adj) actual, current, present, weakening, decaying. ANTONYMS: realistic, plausible, normal existent, surviving, alive, living, (adj) thriving, increasing, growing fancifully: (adv) fantasticly, available, instant, in existence, that fain: (adj) willing, prepared, ready, fantastically, chimerically, unreally, is. ANTONYMS: (adj) lost, dead, favorable, heart and soul, prone; imaginarily, freakishly, bizarrely, departed, destroyed, gone (adv) gladly, lief, readily, willingly; visionarily, ideally, notionally, extenuation: (n, v) excuse, apology; (v) optative fancily (n) palliation, mitigation, faintly: (adv) dimly, vaguely, fantastically: (adv) wonderfully, diminution, justification, indistinctly, lightly, weakly, hazily, fabulously, tremendously, extenuating circumstances, slightly, softly, shadowily, infirmly, marvelously, extraordinarily, extenuating excuse, easement, palely. ANTONYMS: (adv) clearly, strangely, queerly, magnificently, abatement, alleviation intensely, distinctly, grotesquely, whimsically, exterior: (adj, n) outside, surface, overpoweringly, harshly, peculiarly. ANTONYMS: (adv) outward; (n) appearance, skin, front; considerably, powerfully, strongly, plausibly, abysmally (adj) external, superficial, outlying, brightly, obviously, audibly far-fetched: (adj) improbable, tall, outer, outdoor. ANTONYMS: (adj, faintness: (n) weakness, debility, implausible, foreign, unreasonable n) interior, inside; (adj) inner, indistinctness, languor, fuzziness, far-off: (adj) distant, far, faraway, internal, intrinsic, middle, deep blurriness, fogginess, dullness, outlying, extreme, inaccessible, last, externally: (adv) superficially, ambiguity, lassitude, infirmity. long, obscure, unknown, wide exteriorly, outsidely, outerly, ANTONYMS: (n) acuteness, farthingale: (n) jupe, skirt, pinafore, without, foreignly, extrinsically, strength, harshness, clearness, kilt, hoop, panier, bustle, apron surfacely, extraneously, loudness, clarity fascination: (n) charm, glamor, peripherally, outlyingly. faithfully:


Nick takes the jar and sprinkles a modest quantity on the eggs. “You’ll find out,” he says, beaming angelically. “Set the table, pest.” He carries the pan over to the table and puts it on a folded dish towel. “Oh,” Andy says a few minutes later, reaching for his glass of water, “so that’s what the red pepper flakes do.” “Mm-hmm,” Nick agrees, shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “You have maybe four flakes of pepper on your eggs, so don’t moan about it. It’s good for you.” “Likely story.” But he keeps eating. Steeling himself, Nick nudges Andy under the table with his foot. Andy looks up, curious. Nick fixes him with his best look, exactly what he’d use in a bar or even on the street in the right part of town. Andy goes pink. Even his ears are pink. Nick reaches out to push a loose strand of hair off Andy’s forehead. “What are you doing?” Andy asks. “Uh,” Nick says, because he isn’t prepared with any kind of answer. He was hoping Andy would understand, would meet him halfway. “Right.” Andy sighs. “I don’t think I can eat any more.” He gets up. Well, Nick supposes that settles it. Even if Andy’s attracted to him, he doesn’t want to do anything about it. Nick is mortified, but better to figure this out now than later. It’ll be embarrassing for a few days and they’ll get over it. That’s the important thing, not the heavy lump of disappointment that’s settled in his stomach. Before he can figure out what to do next, what to say to return things to normal, Andy speaks again. “So,” Andy says as he rinses his dish in the sink. “I have news.” “Oh?” He turns to face Nick, his hands gripping the edge of the sink behind him. “I’m going to Washington with Bob Diamond,” he says, naming the Chronicle’s Washington correspondent. “Next weekend there’s going to be a march for school integration. Dr. King is going to speak.” This, Nick guesses, is Andy’s father’s attempt to get Andy experience covering national news. It makes sense. It also means that Andy’s time at the city desk is probably coming to an end. But it’s good news for Andy, and Nick tries to sound like he’s happy about it. “That’s great,” Nick says. “When are you going?” “Tomorrow morning.” Andy is resolutely looking at some spot just beyond Nick’s ear. “Tomorrow?” Nick frowns. “And the march is next weekend?” “This way I can get the lay of the land beforehand.” Probably this means that Andy is going to spend the week shadowing Bob or meeting other reporters. Still, though. He’s leaving tomorrow and hasn’t thought to mention it until now? That isn’t like Andy. He hasn’t even packed. “What time do you need to wake up?” Nick has a sense that all airplanes leave at ungodly hours. Andy looks away. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to talk to my father.” “He didn’t let you know? Or—wait—you didn’t plan on going until now.” That’s


for Purpose stamp at the parent factory. But he is who he is—” I’m nodding, vindicated, my plan rushing out like I’ve secretly been waiting for someone to tell it to. Maybe I have. “Exactly. Exactly! So when he sees me at the ball, he’ll feel what a failure he is. I’m going to achieve everything he ever did,” I tell her, “only better. And he’ll hear all about it. I’ll get the highest grades in my entire school and they’ll put me on BBC News, and he’ll spit out his morning coffee.” It’s true what they say about the power of intentions because every word I speak wraps around me like magic, reinforcing my bones with steel. “I’ll dominate his field and in ten years’ time he won’t be able to move without hearing my name. I hope the shame suffocates him in his sleep. I hope he retires early with exhaustion. I hope he has the audacity to try and claim me as his daughter so I can tell him I have one father and her name is Neneh.” There should, by rights, be a mysterious wind whipping around my bedroom as I lay a dread curse upon my sire. Giselle should be glowing with admiration and adding her own deeply positive affirmations to this moment. Instead, for some reason, she seems…upset? “Cel. Babe. No.” I stop. Blink. I have no idea what I’ve done wrong. “Why do you care? Why do you think about him at all?” She stands up, hands on her hips, sadness on her face. “Do you even want to be a lawyer?” “What?” I squawk. “Of course, I do. Like—” Katharine, I’m going to say. “Like Dad?” Giselle accuses. That’s so ridiculous, I laugh. “Him? No. I don’t want to be anything like him.” Giselle stares down at me. “Then why are you planning your whole life around him?” “I’m not! God. You think you know everything—” She snorts. “More than you.” “Just because you’re, like, five seconds older than me. This is for Mum,” I correct. “Obviously. To prove how…how wonderful she is, and how she didn’t need him, and…and that it was worth it.” Giselle’s brow creases. “What was worth it?” “Staying with us!” My sister doesn’t reply; instead, she studies me with narrow-eyed urgency, like she’s only just noticed I have a third eyebrow and it’s blond. Meanwhile, I’m having a minor internal freak-out because I know when I’m winning an argument. I know when I’m making logically sound points. And all this stuff made perfect sense in my head, but when I say it out loud, it sounds more like the conspiracy theories I analyze. But…but that’s okay because plenty of conspiracy theories are basically true. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to restore balance and order and meaning to a messed-up situation. And there’s nothing wrong with punishing someone who was supposed to love you but couldn’t do it right. Isn’t that basically what law’s about? Crime and punishment? I ignore the little voice in the back of my head saying,