understand. We need drastic action.” “You know what happened last time we drew too much attention to this place,” the short man says. “Some kid tried to re-create the ritual and failed miserably. The backlash almost ended our Order. It is the reason we find ourselves in the predicament we are in today. The Grand Owl will not allow something like that to happen again. He will keep this quiet, and he will not take any unnecessary chances.” “He’ll have to find a way to get this land back under his control.” “A mistake we also have that kid to thank for,” grumbles the gray-haired man. “Jesus. Our Order on the brink, the land and the power it holds that has always been ours, all lost because an outsider wanted what we had.” He huffs. “I’d kill him if I could.” “It’s been more than fifty years,” says Alex. “He’s an old man now.” “Still,” the gray-haired man says. “I’d still like to do it.” They both nod, and I stare down at Bezi, who is listening with her hand pressed against her mouth. I crouch and press my mouth to her ear. “They know who killed all those people back in ’71.” Bezi nods her head, and I turn to peer back inside. My elbow knocks against the wood siding under the window. “What was that?” the man called Alex asks. I curse under my breath. A few seconds go by, and when I peer back through the window, Alex is staring me dead in the face. My heart nearly stops, and I barely have time to grab Bezi and yank her up before both men are barreling out of the cabin. “Run!” I scream as we cut through the towering pine trees and stumble onto the path that leads toward the showers. Footfalls pound the ground behind me. Halfway down the path, a chorus of screams echoes through the camp. Despite the terror coursing through me, I stop. Bezi runs into me, nearly knocking me over. The men behind us also stop, raising their gaze to the surrounding woods. “What the hell is that?” the gray-haired man asks. Agonized screams ring through the camp. They echo in the dark, and it takes me a moment to realize Kyle must have cued up the sound effects. The hidden speakers cycle through screams and menacing footsteps. The sounds seem to be coming from every direction. Bezi takes my hand and pulls me toward the showers, and we’re mounting the front steps before the men give chase again. We slam the door shut and wedge a trash can under the handle. With a loud bang, the men collide with the door. The can scrapes across the ground, and the gray-haired man slips his arm through the crack in the door and attempts to move it. I reach in my pocket and pull out the half-empty can of bear spray. I angle it toward the opening in the door and empty the canister directly into the faces of the two men. They immediately start


last night, was only discovered late in the morning under a furze bush at the Shooter's Hill side of Hampstead Heath, which is perhaps, less frequented than the other parts. It has the same tiny wound in the throat as has been noticed in other cases. It was terribly weak, and looked quite emaciated. It too, when partially restored, had the common story to tell of being lured away by the "bloofer lady". CHAPTER 14 MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL 23 September.--Jonathan is better after a bad night. I am so glad that he has plenty of work to do, for that keeps his mind off the terrible things, and oh, I am rejoiced that he is not now weighed down with the responsibility of his new position. I knew he would be true to himself, and now how proud I am to see my Jonathan rising to the height of his advancement and keeping pace in all ways with the duties that come upon him. He will be away all day till late, for he said he could not lunch at home. My household work is done, so I shall take his foreign journal, and lock myself up in my room and read it. 24 September.--I hadn't the heart to write last night, that terrible record of Jonathan's upset me so. Poor dear! How he must have suffered, whether it be true or only imagination. I wonder if there is any truth in it at all. Did he get his brain fever, and then write all those terrible things, or had he some cause for it all? I suppose I shall never know, for I dare not open the subject to him. And yet that man we saw yesterday! He seemed quite certain of him, poor fellow! I suppose it was the funeral upset him and sent his mind back on some train of thought. He believes it all himself. I remember how on our wedding day he said "Unless some solemn duty come upon me to go back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake, mad or sane. . ." There seems to be through it all some thread of continuity. That fearful Count was coming to London. If it should be, and he came to London, with its teeming millions. . .There may be a solemn duty, and if it come we must not shrink from it. I shall be prepared. I shall get my typewriter this very hour and begin transcribing. Then we shall be ready for other eyes if required. And if it be wanted, then, perhaps, if I am ready, poor Jonathan may not be upset, for I can speak for him and never let him be troubled or worried with it at all. If ever Jonathan quite gets over the nervousness he may want to tell me of it all, and I can ask him questions and find out things, and see how I may comfort him. LETTER, VAN HELSING TO MRS. HARKER 24 September (Confidence) "Dear Madam, "I pray you to pardon my writing, in that


PRIVATE CARR'S SLEEVE) Not that I wish it for you. But I say: Let my country die for me. Up to the present it has done so. I didn't want it to die. Damn death. Long live life! EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (LEVITATES OVER HEAPS OF SLAIN, IN THE GARB AND WITH THE HALO OF JOKING JESUS, A WHITE JUJUBE IN HIS PHOSPHORESCENT FACE) My methods are new and are causing surprise. To make the blind see I throw dust in their eyes. STEPHEN: Kings and unicorns! (HE FILLS BACK A PACE) Come somewhere and we'll ... What was that girl saying? ... PRIVATE COMPTON: Eh, Harry, give him a kick in the knackers. Stick one into Jerry. BLOOM: (TO THE PRIVATES, SOFTLY) He doesn't know what he's saying. Taken a little more than is good for him. Absinthe. Greeneyed monster. I know him. He's a gentleman, a poet. It's all right. STEPHEN: (NODS, SMILING AND LAUGHING) Gentleman, patriot, scholar and judge of impostors. PRIVATE CARR: I don't give a bugger who he is. PRIVATE COMPTON: We don't give a bugger who he is. STEPHEN: I seem to annoy them. Green rag to a bull. (KEVIN EGAN OF PARIS IN BLACK SPANISH TASSELLED SHIRT AND PEEP-O'-DAY BOY'S HAT SIGNS TO STEPHEN.) KEVIN EGAN: H'lo! BONJOUR! The VIEILLE OGRESSE with the DENTS JAUNES. (PATRICE EGAN PEEPS FROM BEHIND, HIS RABBITFACE NIBBLING A QUINCE LEAF.) PATRICE: SOCIALISTE! DON EMILE PATRIZIO FRANZ RUPERT POPE HENNESSY: (IN MEDIEVAL HAUBERK, TWO WILD GEESE VOLANT ON HIS HELM, WITH NOBLE INDIGNATION POINTS A MAILED HAND AGAINST THE PRIVATES) Werf those eykes to footboden, big grand porcos of johnyellows todos covered of gravy! BLOOM: (TO STEPHEN) Come home. You'll get into trouble. STEPHEN: (SWAYING) I don't avoid it. He provokes my intelligence. BIDDY THE CLAP: One immediately observes that he is of patrician lineage. THE VIRAGO: Green above the red, says he. Wolfe Tone. THE BAWD: The red's as good as the green. And better. Up the soldiers! Up King Edward! A ROUGH: (LAUGHS) Ay! Hands up to De Wet. THE CITIZEN: (WITH A HUGE EMERALD MUFFLER AND SHILLELAGH, CALLS) May the God above Send down a dove With teeth as sharp as razors To slit the throats Of the English dogs That hanged our Irish leaders. THE CROPPY BOY: (THE ROPENOOSE ROUND HIS NECK, GRIPES IN HIS ISSUING BOWELS WITH BOTH HANDS) I bear no hate to a living thing, But I love my country beyond the king. RUMBOLD, DEMON BARBER: (ACCOMPANIED BY TWO BLACKMASKED ASSISTANTS, ADVANCES WITH GLADSTONE BAG WHICH HE OPENS) Ladies and gents, cleaver purchased by Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg. Knife with which Voisin dismembered the wife of a compatriot and hid remains in a sheet in the cellar, the unfortunate female's throat being cut from ear to ear. Phial containing arsenic retrieved from body of Miss Barron which sent Seddon to the gallows. (HE JERKS THE ROPE. THE ASSISTANTS LEAP AT THE VICTIM'S LEGS AND DRAG HIM DOWNWARD, GRUNTING THE CROPPY BOY'S TONGUE PROTRUDES VIOLENTLY.) THE CROPPY BOY: Horhot ho hray hor hother's hest.


doctor, laying Oliver gently down again. 'It was all done for the--for the best, sir,' answered Giles. 'I am sure I thought it was the boy, or I wouldn't have meddled with him. I am not of an inhuman disposition, sir.' 'Thought it was what boy?' inquired the senior officer. 'The housebreaker's boy, sir!' replied Giles. 'They--they certainly had a boy.' 'Well? Do you think so now?' inquired Blathers. 'Think what, now?' replied Giles, looking vacantly at his questioner. 'Think it's the same boy, Stupid-head?' rejoined Blathers, impatiently. 'I don't know; I really don't know,' said Giles, with a rueful countenance. 'I couldn't swear to him.' 'What do you think?' asked Mr. Blathers. 'I don't know what to think,' replied poor Giles. 'I don't think it is the boy; indeed, I'm almost certain that it isn't. You know it can't be.' 'Has this man been a-drinking, sir?' inquired Blathers, turning to the doctor. 'What a precious muddle-headed chap you are!' said Duff, addressing Mr. Giles, with supreme contempt. Mr. Losberne had been feeling the patient's pulse during this short dialogue; but he now rose from the chair by the bedside, and remarked, that if the officers had any doubts upon the subject, they would perhaps like to step into the next room, and have Brittles before them. Acting upon this suggestion, they adjourned to a neighbouring apartment, where Mr. Brittles, being called in, involved himself and his respected superior in such a wonderful maze of fresh contradictions and impossibilities, as tended to throw no particular light on anything, but the fact of his own strong mystification; except, indeed, his declarations that he shouldn't know the real boy, if he were put before him that instant; that he had only taken Oliver to be he, because Mr. Giles had said he was; and that Mr. Giles had, five minutes previously, admitted in the kitchen, that he begain to be very much afraid he had been a little too hasty. Among other ingenious surmises, the question was then raised, whether Mr. Giles had really hit anybody; and upon examination of the fellow pistol to that which he had fired, it turned out to have no more destructive loading than gunpowder and brown paper: a discovery which made a considerable impression on everybody but the doctor, who had drawn the ball about ten minutes before. Upon no one, however, did it make a greater impression than on Mr. Giles himself; who, after labouring, for some hours, under the fear of having mortally wounded a fellow-creature, eagerly caught at this new idea, and favoured it to the utmost. Finally, the officers, without troubling themselves very much about Oliver, left the Chertsey constable in the house, and took up their rest for that night in the town; promising to return the next morning. With the next morning, there came a rumour, that two men and a boy were in the cage at Kingston, who had been apprehended over night under suspicious circumstances; and to Kingston Messrs. Blathers and Duff journeyed accordingly. The suspicious circumstances, however, resolving themselves,


County in his time." "Dead shot..." echoed Jem. "That's what I said, Jem Finch. Guess you'll change your tune now. The very idea, didn't you know his nickname was Ol' One-Shot when he was a boy? Why, down at the Landing when he was coming up, if he shot fifteen times and hit fourteen doves he'd complain about wasting ammunition." "He never said anything about that," Jem muttered. "Never said anything about it, did he?" "No ma'am." "Wonder why he never goes huntin' now," I said. "Maybe I can tell you," said Miss Maudie. "If your father's anything, he's civilized in his heart. Marksmanship's a gift of God, a talent- oh, you have to practice to make it perfect, but shootin's different from playing the piano or the like. I think maybe he put his gun down when he realized that God had given him an unfair advantage over most living things. I guess he decided he wouldn't shoot till he had to, and he had to today." "Looks like he'd be proud of it," I said. "People in their right minds never take pride in their talents," said Miss Maudie. We saw Zeebo drive up. He took a pitchfork from the back of the garbage truck and gingerly lifted Tim Johnson. He pitched the dog onto the truck, then poured something from a gallon jug on and around the spot where Tim fell. "Don't yawl come over here for a while," he called. When we went home I told Jem we'd really have something to talk about at school on Monday. Jem turned on me. "Don't say anything about it, Scout," he said. "What? I certainly am. Ain't everybody's daddy the deadest shot in Maycomb County." Jem said, "I reckon if he'd wanted us to know it, he'da told us. If he was proud of it, he'da told us." "Maybe it just slipped his mind," I said. "Naw, Scout, it's something you wouldn't understand. Atticus is real old, but I wouldn't care if he couldn't do anything- I wouldn't care if he couldn't do a blessed thing." Jem picked up a rock and threw it jubilantly at the carhouse. Running after it, he called back: "Atticus is a gentleman, just like me!" 11 When we were small, Jem and I confined our activities to the southern neighborhood, but when I was well into the second grade at school and tormenting Boo Radley became passe, the business section of Maycomb drew us frequently up the street past the real property of Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose. It was impossible to go to town without passing her house unless we wished to walk a mile out of the way. Previous minor encounters with her left me with no desire for more, but Jem said I had to grow up some time. Mrs. Dubose lived alone except for a Negro girl in constant attendance, two doors up the street from us in a house with steep front steps and a dog-trot hall. She was very old; she spent most of each day in bed and


wean us from the earth had visited her, and its dimming influence quenched her dearest smiles. "When I reflect, my dear cousin," said she, "on the miserable death of Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works as they before appeared to me. Before, I looked upon the accounts of vice and injustice that I read in books or heard from others as tales of ancient days or imaginary evils; at least they were remote and more familiar to reason than to the imagination; but now misery has come home, and men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other's blood. Yet I am certainly unjust. Everybody believed that poor girl to be guilty; and if she could have committed the crime for which she suffered, assuredly she would have been the most depraved of human creatures. For the sake of a few jewels, to have murdered the son of her benefactor and friend, a child whom she had nursed from its birth, and appeared to love as if it had been her own! I could not consent to the death of any human being, but certainly I should have thought such a creature unfit to remain in the society of men. But she was innocent. I know, I feel she was innocent; you are of the same opinion, and that confirms me. Alas! Victor, when falsehood can look so like the truth, who can assure themselves of certain happiness? I feel as if I were walking on the edge of a precipice, towards which thousands are crowding and endeavouring to plunge me into the abyss. William and Justine were assassinated, and the murderer escapes; he walks about the world free, and perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned to suffer on the scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places with such a wretch." I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony. I, not in deed, but in effect, was the true murderer. Elizabeth read my anguish in my countenance, and kindly taking my hand, said, "My dearest friend, you must calm yourself. These events have affected me, God knows how deeply; but I am not so wretched as you are. There is an expression of despair, and sometimes of revenge, in your countenance that makes me tremble. Dear Victor, banish these dark passions. Remember the friends around you, who centre all their hopes in you. Have we lost the power of rendering you happy? Ah! While we love, while we are true to each other, here in this land of peace and beauty, your native country, we may reap every tranquil blessing--what can disturb our peace?" And could not such words from her whom I fondly prized before every other gift of fortune suffice to chase away the fiend that lurked in my heart? Even as she spoke I drew near to her, as if in terror, lest at that very moment the destroyer had been near to rob me of her. Thus not the tenderness of friendship, nor the beauty of


ends of the line trucked along as fast as they could, all while maintaining the illusion of soldierlike rigidity. Marion breathed a sigh of relief when all the dancers managed to keep their rotating line perfectly straight without any wobbles and her helmet stayed put during the long fall, which felt like it took ages. As they headed offstage Marion glanced over to the section where she knew her sister was seated. The expression on Judy’s face matched that of the young girl to her left—wide-eyed and smiling—and her hands were clasped together as if in prayer. She had fallen under the spell of the Christmas Spectacular just as Marion had hoped she would. The seat to Judy’s right was empty, and next to that was a man in a trench coat. Marion wouldn’t have noticed him except that he reached down and lifted something bulky into his lap that gave off a brief flash of reflected light. In the wings, Marion did a quick costume change for the nativity scene, pleased that Judy seemed to be letting down her guard. Their conversation on the roof had been eye-opening but also wonderful in its honesty. Maybe now they could enter a new stage in their relationship. It couldn’t have been easy for Judy, growing up in a house with two large personalities when her own was more subdued, and Marion was glad she’d confided in her about the terrible incident with the math kid. Now they could move on from their messy teenaged years and grow together into women. That was what their mother would have wanted, to be sure. One of the camels tried to eat the hay during the nativity scene, and a sheep erupted in a series of baas, but it worked well enough. Marion glanced into the audience again as the lights went down, thrilled to see Judy still staring happily up at the stage. Both seats to her right were now empty; the man had probably headed to the men’s lounge for a smoke. The Rockettes entered for the final number, dressed in green-and-red sequined leotards. A riser lifted them slowly up into the air as they kicked and pranced, every movement of their limbs tight and sharp, exactly the way Russell had choreographed. Marion’s kicks were perfectly eye height, her smile unforced. For the first time she wasn’t faking it or worried about getting something wrong. She knew these moves in her bones, and the controlled freedom and pure joy of standing in a long line of dancers doing exactly the same thing sent a zing through her body. This was her best show yet, perfectly timed for impressing one of the most important people in her life. The audience clapped and cheered wildly in response. But then a strange thundering—like a firecracker but deeper and much louder—erupted out of nowhere, almost bursting her eardrums. In her confusion, she wondered if the fake cannon they used for the Wooden Soldiers number had been replaced with a real one and a stagehand had accidentally set it off


went to the window; it was indeed the carriage, and he returned to his seat without speaking. The moment was now come when they must part. St. Aubert told Valancourt, that he hoped he would never pass La Vallee without favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt, eagerly thanking him, assured him that he never would; as he said which he looked timidly at Emily, who tried to smile away the seriousness of her spirits. They passed a few minutes in interesting conversation, and St. Aubert then led the way to the carriage, Emily and Valancourt following in silence. The latter lingered at the door several minutes after they were seated, and none of the party seemed to have courage enough to say--Farewell. At length, St. Aubert pronounced the melancholy word, which Emily passed to Valancourt, who returned it, with a dejected smile, and the carriage drove on. The travellers remained, for some time, in a state of tranquil pensiveness, which is not unpleasing. St. Aubert interrupted it by observing, 'This is a very promising young man; it is many years since I have been so much pleased with any person, on so short an acquaintance. He brings back to my memory the days of my youth, when every scene was new and delightful!' St. Aubert sighed, and sunk again into a reverie; and, as Emily looked back upon the road they had passed, Valancourt was seen, at the door of the little inn, following them with his eyes. Her perceived her, and waved his hand; and she returned the adieu, till the winding road shut her from his sight. 'I remember when I was about his age,' resumed St. Aubert, 'and I thought, and felt exactly as he does. The world was opening upon me then, now--it is closing.' 'My dear sir, do not think so gloomily,' said Emily in a trembling voice, 'I hope you have many, many years to live--for your own sake-- for MY sake.' 'Ah, my Emily!' replied St. Aubert, 'for thy sake! Well- I hope it is so.' He wiped away a tear, that was stealing down his cheek, threw a smile upon his countenance, and said in a cheering voice, 'there is something in the ardour and ingenuousness of youth, which is particularly pleasing to the contemplation of an old man, if his feelings have not been entirely corroded by the world. It is cheering and reviving, like the view of spring to a sick person; his mind catches somewhat of the spirit of the season, and his eyes are lighted up with a transient sunshine. Valancourt is this spring to me.' Emily, who pressed her father's hand affectionately, had never before listened with so much pleasure to the praises he bestowed; no, not even when he had bestowed them on herself. They travelled on, among vineyards, woods, and pastures, delighted with the romantic beauty of the landscape, which was bounded, on one side, by the grandeur of the Pyrenees, and, on the other, by the ocean; and, soon after noon, they reached the town


a shirt (color: evergreen) to prove to us that the shirt has the 4 percent spandex it claims to on the label. She explains the difference between pima cotton and the garbage regular cotton you’re used to with the help of a high-tech CGI graphic presentation in which an empty white T-shirt (with boobs) morphs into two disparate piles of cotton that then morph into two different types of woven fibers. Jackie says, in her very compelling British accent, that the way this cotton is knit makes it “extra durable and buttery, luxuriously soft.” Hmm, I’m sorry, but if I heard her describe a literal piece of human stool in this way, in this accent, I would buy it. Glamorous Jackie goes on to call this top “an essential piece that forms the basis of your wardrobe…. These easy pieces that you throw on when you’re running out the door automatically look pulled together and polished and are the answer to everything you need.” And you know what? I believe her! My life simply does not require ever “running out the door” or “looking pulled together”—AND YET. I want a shirt that makes me feel like that. I want to make a plan, lie down in the dark with the sound machine blasting until one minute before I need to leave, then run around in a panic looking for my wallet and keys before snatching one of these shirts out of the dryer, where it’s been sitting for three days, and tossing it on so I can look GREAT. Imagine my stupid-ass friends when I walk into a restaurant that doesn’t seat incomplete parties late after fucking up the reservation, and instead of scorn and revulsion they embrace me like, “Wow! That semifitted, not-too-clingy top with a gorgeous side vent that follows the lines of your body with so much added wearing ease looks amazing on you! Not to mention, it gives you so much aging-neck coverage!!!” *Adds to cart* WHAT IT COST ME: Five Easy Payments of $7.64 The pandemic hit and the first thing to collapse—before our collective sanity and physical virility came tumbling down in rapid succession shortly afterward—was my shitty internet. We had whatever country-ass internet you get when you choose to put an enormous satellite dish in the middle of your overgrown backyard, and that shit was not going to support three people trying to conduct very important jobs and online classes and one loser who has a blog. One day a cable salesman knocked on the door, and we were still in the beginning Contagion-style stages of quarantine, when you’d threaten to kill anyone who stood at your door for longer than ten seconds. I stood behind the closed door and shouted, “WHAT DO YOU WANT, SIR?” while looking for something to hit this salesman on the head with if it came to that. The only items we kept next to our front door were mittens and hats, so what was I gonna do, snuggle him to death? He said he was selling “lightning-fast internet,” which


toward the ceiling. "No reply yet, m'Lord." Paul sighed, resting against the back of his chair. Presently, he said: "Bring me a captive Sardaukar. We must send a message to our Emperor, It's time to discuss terms." "Yes, m'Lord." Gurney turned away, dropped a hand signal to one of the Fedaykin who took up close-guard position beside Paul. "Gurney," Paul whispered. "Since we've been rejoined I've yet to hear you produce the proper quotation for the event." He turned, saw Gurney swallow, saw the sudden grim hardening of the man's jaw. "As you wish, m'Lord," Gurney said. He cleared his throat, rasped: " 'And the victory that day was turned into mourning unto all the people: for the people heard say that day how the king was grieved for his son.' " Paul closed his eyes, forcing grief out of his mind, letting it wait as he had once waited to mourn his father. Now, he gave his thoughts over to this day's accumulated discoveries -- the mixed futures and the hidden presence of Alia within his awareness. Of all the uses of time-vision, this was the strangest. "I have breasted the future to place my words where only you can hear them," Alia had said. "Even you cannot do that, my brother. I find it an interesting play. And . . . oh, yes -- I've killed our grandfather, the demented old Baron. He had very little pain." Silence. His time sense had seen her withdrawal. "Muad'Dib." Paul opened his eyes to see Stilgar's black-bearded visage above him, the dark eyes glaring with battle light. "You've found the body of the old Baron," Paul said. A hush of the person settled over Stilgar. "How could you know?" he whispered. "We just found the body in that great pile of metal the Emperor built." Paul ignored the question, seeing Gurney return accompanied by two Fremen who supported a captive Sardaukar. "Here's one of them, m'Lord," Gurney said. He signed to the guard to hold the captive five paces in front of Paul. The Sardaukar's eyes, Paul noted, carried a glazed expression of shock. A blue bruise stretched from the bridge of his nose to the corner of his mouth. He was of the blond, chisel-featured caste, the look that seemed synonymous with rank among the Sardaukar, yet there were no insignia on his torn uniform except the gold buttons with the Imperial crest and the tattered braid of his trousers. "I think this one's an officer, m'Lord," Gurney said. Paul nodded, said: "I am the Duke Paul Atreides. Do you understand that, man?" The Sardaukar stared at him unmoving. "Speak up," Paul said, "or your Emperor may die." The man blinked, swallowed. "Who am I?" Paul demanded. "You are the Duke Paul Atreides," the man husked. He seemed too submissive to Paul, but then the Sardaukar had never been prepared for such happenings as this day. They'd never known anything but victory which, Paul realized, could be a weakness in itself. He put that thought aside for later consideration in his own


Eldar and reverence for the Valar; and as the Shadow grew they aided the Faithful as they could. But for long they did not declare themselves openly, and sought rather to amend the hearts of the lords of the Sceptre with wiser counsels. There was a lady Inzilbth, renowned for her beauty, and her mother was Lindri, sister of Erendur, the Lord of Andni in the days of Ar-Sakalthr father of Ar-Gimilzr. Gimilzr took her to wife, though this was little to her liking, for she was in heart one of the Faithful, being taught by her mother; but the kings and their sons were grown proud and not to be gainsaid in their wishes. No love was there between Ar-Gimilzr and his queen, or between their sons. Inziladn, the elder, was like his mother in mind as in body; but Gimilkhd, the younger, went with his father, unless he were yet prouder and more wilful. To him Ar-Gimilzr would have yielded the sceptre rather than to the elder son, if the laws had allowed. But when Inziladn acceded to the sceptre, he took again a title in the Elven-tongue as of old, calling himself Tar-Palantir, for he was far-sighted both in eye and in mind, and even those that hated him feared his words as those of a true-seer. He gave peace for a while to the Faithful; and he went once more at due seasons to the Hallow of Eru upon the Meneltarma, which Ar-Gimilzr had forsaken. The White Tree he tended again with honour; and he prophesied, saying that when the Tree perished, then also would the line of the Kings come to its end. But his repentance was too late to appease the anger of the Valar with the insolence of his fathers, of which the greater part of his people did not repent. And Gimilkhd was strong and ungentle, and he took the leadership of those that had been called the King's Men and opposed the will of his brother as openly as he dared, and yet more in secret. Thus the days of Tar-Palantir became darkened with grief; and he would spend much of his time in the west, and there ascended often the ancient tower of King Minastir upon the hill of Oromet nigh to Andni, whence he gazed westward in yearning, hoping to see, maybe, some sail upon the sea. But no ship came ever again from the West to Nmenor, and Avalln was veiled in cloud. Now Gimilkhd died two years before his two hundredth year (which was accounted an early death for one of Elros' line even in its waning), but this brought no peace to the King. For Pharazn son of Gimilkhd had become a man yet more restless and eager for wealth and power than his father. He had fared often abroad, as a leader in the wars that the Nmenreans made then in the coastlands of Middle-earth, seeking to extend their dominion over Men; and thus he had won great renown as a captain both by land and by


hug you, are you going to pass out?” Nick brings a hand up to cover his eyes. “You’re the worst.” “It’s against all the rules for you to be the worried one, Nick. Come here.” Andy steps closer and puts his arms around Nick’s neck. Nick lets his hands settle on Andy’s back, their chests flush together. He breathes in the unfamiliar scent of Andy’s hair. He must have used different shampoo at the hotel. Nick wants to put him in the shower and scrub him down, and just the thought of that scenario is more than his mind can handle. Or, well, more than his dick can handle, because it’s hard and pressing into Andy’s stomach. “Sorry,” Nick says. “Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up.” Andy turns his head, pressing his face into Nick’s neck, and Nick can feel his breath, warm on his skin. “I want this. Do you?” “Jesus Christ.” “That’s not an answer.” “Yes.” “You always smell so good.” As Andy speaks, his lips brush against Nick’s throat, and Nick wants to groan. Andy’s mouth is moving now, up and over, toward Nick’s mouth. When he finally slides his lips over Nick’s, Nick involuntarily grips Andy’s shirt. “Hi, Nick,” Andy says, and Nick can feel the smile against his mouth. “Hi yourself,” Nick mumbles, and he pulls Andy closer. He feels the wiry muscles of Andy’s arms tighten around him at the same time Nick opens his mouth, just a little. Andy’s hands go up to cradle Nick’s face, cool against the flaming heat of Nick’s cheeks. They’re pressed together now, chest to chest, no space between them, but Nick wants more, so he backs Andy up against the wall and presses him there. “Oh shit,” Andy gasps. He’s hard now, too (Thank God, thank God, whispers the part of his brain that still needs reassurances), and Nick lets out a groan at the feel of him. “Stop?” “God no, don’t stop.” Andy twists them around so it’s Nick’s back against the wall, which is not a position he’s ever spent much time in, but with Andy it’s fine. Andy can shove him into however many walls he pleases. “You want this,” Nick says, his lips moving against Andy’s. “You really do.” Andy pulls back, just enough to give Nick a severely unimpressed look. “I told you.” “I know, I know. You know what—” Here, Nick swears that he means to say You know what you want, but what comes out is “You know what gets your dick hard.” “Nick,” Andy says, half laughing, but with this shuddering little rasp in his voice that makes Nick glad he has the wall to prop him up. Andy moves one hand so it’s braced on the wall beside Nick’s head and the other goes to Nick’s throat. He presses a kiss to the divot of Nick’s collarbone. “You have no idea,” Andy murmurs. Nick isn’t thinking clearly enough to understand what Andy’s talking about, so he dips his head for another kiss. He bites Andy’s lower lip and


hallway and stopped. “You didn’t do anything to the shower, did you?” “What could someone do to a shower?” she asked innocently, sitting back down at her laptop. “I’m going back to work.” Eyes narrowed into slits, August turned again and, a second later, closed the bathroom door. Natalie bit down hard on her lower lip, listening to him open cabinets and slowly pull back the shower curtain, as if wary of a snake jumping out. She even heard him uncapping the shampoo bottle and taking a big sniff of the contents, which she had to admit was pretty wise. Just too predictable. Calmly, she stood up from the table, opened the drawer containing the plastic wrap, tore off a long piece, and attached it across the hallway entrance. She squinted an eye to judge August’s exact height and left the plastic there, waiting. That was when she heard the shower start, the pelting spray interrupted by his large frame. And the resounding “What the fuck?” that carried though the house, sending the cat skidding from one dark hole to another. Ready to explode from excitement, Natalie sat down at the table and pretended to type, but kept one eye on the hallway. Sure enough, August burst out of the bathroom a moment later, towel wrapped haphazardly around his hips, blinded by the chicken bouillon cube she’d hidden in the shower nozzle. And just like a dream, he walked straight into the plastic wrap, the film clinging to his slimy features until he tore it off. “Something wrong, honey?” she asked with mock concern. “You’re . . .” he sputtered, turning in the direction of her voice while searching the immediate area for something he could use to wipe his face. “You’re a criminal.” Natalie gasped. “That’s no way to speak to your bride.” “Fine. You’re a criminal bride. Coming to CBS this fall.” All right, that deserved a paper towel. When was the last time she’d laughed this hard? Or didn’t feel like the uncertainty of the future was hanging above her head like a hundred-pound sack of fish guts? “Here,” she said a little breathlessly, standing up and handing August the paper towel roll he kept on the counter. “I think you’ve had enough. For now.” “You, on the other hand . . .” He swiped at his face hastily, cleaning his eyes off enough to pin her with a predatory look. “Haven’t even begun to feel the wrath.” “Oooh, look at me. I’m shaking.” “You should be.” There had to be something terribly wrong with Natalie that she’d never been more attracted to anyone in her life—and he was currently wearing chicken-flavored slime and his mouth probably tasted like mint hell. Yet if he kissed her in that moment, she would have been moaning for him to take her to chicken town in a heartbeat. Gulping through the humiliation of that, she swiped the screwdriver off the counter where she’d left it, handing it over. “For the showerhead.” She shrugged. “I don’t think they make a tool big enough


causing irritation.” Rambo’s arms drooped as he slowed. “I don’t get it.” “That is fine,” Nurse Ratched told him. “It is high-brow intellectual humor. It is not for everyone. I will try again. I just flew in from a considerable distance, and boy, are my process servers exhausted—” “Stop,” Vic snapped. “Now.” She did. He closed his eyes, trying to regain control. His head hurt. He wasn’t angry, not exactly, and even if he was, he didn’t know who to direct it toward. He internalized it. He breathed in and out, in and out. His heart rate slowed. The sweat began to cool on his skin. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, opening his eyes again. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” “It is fine,” she said. “Do not worry about it.” He shook his head. “It’s not fine. You were just … being you. Thank you.” “You are welcome, Victor.” “Are we fighting?” Rambo asked quietly. “No,” Vic said. “We’re okay.” Rambo flashed his sensors in relief. “Good. I don’t like it when we fight.” Nurse Ratched rolled back over to the table, the tarp now covering the android, though it didn’t do much to conceal the fact that a body was hidden underneath. “We should not stay in here much longer tonight. It will only make Gio ask more questions.” Vic nodded. “Tomorrow, then. We can start tomorrow.” They found Dad in the ground house sitting in his chair, hands folded and resting on his stomach. The dying gasps of sunlight filtered weakly through the far window. Dad chuckled as Rambo raised his arms up, asking to be lifted. He bent over, pulling Rambo up and onto his lap. Rambo settled, tucking his arms in at his sides. “Eventful day?” he asked. “Yes,” Nurse Ratched said. “Unexpectedly so.” Vic looked down at the floor. “I wasn’t … doing what she said.” “He was not,” Nurse Ratched agreed. “It was a tasteless joke, and I apologize.” Dad nodded slowly. “It’s all right, you know. If you were. Your space is your space. You can do whatever you wish—” “Dad!” He shrugged. “I’m just saying. You’re not a child anymore. And being asexual doesn’t mean you still won’t have questions about—” Vic groaned. “Can we not? Please?” “Okay,” Dad said. “I won’t bring it up again. I know these things make you uncomfortable.” “Many things make Victor uncomfortable,” Nurse Ratched said. “It is fascinating. There is no one like him in all the world.” “No,” Dad said quietly. “I don’t believe there is.” He smiled as he looked Vic up and down. The smile faded when he saw Vic’s bandaged hand. “What happened?” Vic looked down. He’d forgotten. His mind froze, unable to think of a believable excuse. “Lab accident,” Nurse Ratched said. “Minor. Cut his palm on a carving knife. I administered first aid. It did not require stitching. It will not leave a scar.” Dad stared at Vic for a beat too long. “That right?” “Yeah,” Vic muttered. “Just slipped, is all.” “You go to the Scrap Yards today?” Vic scratched


how to put the ‘civil’ in civil ceremony? Because Corinne has been busy—” “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, following her with a wink. “But I’m leaving my shirt off. You’re welcome.” “My God.” She waved her hand frantically. “The stench of you.” “Hard work comes with a price. You’d know that if you ever tried it.” “You mean, like, digging a hole big enough for your grave? Because I’d be willing to try that.” “Bury me with a six-pack of—” August halted mid-stride on his way out of the barn, cold washing down his insides and hardening into ice. Simultaneously, his eyes started to burn and his body snapped to attention, hand whipping to his forehead in a salute. It wasn’t necessary. Not in this setting. He wasn’t even in uniform. But muscle memory performed the action at the sight of his commanding officer walking toward him across the lawn. “Sir.” “At ease, Cates.” His arm dropped. He forced himself to look the man in the eye, even though a hole was being torn straight down his middle. “I didn’t know you were coming.” The barest flash of amusement. “You know I like to have the element of surprise on my side.” August forced a laugh but it came out rusted. Nearly three years had passed since the last time he’d seen his commanding officer, and it had been under the worst circumstances possible. The funeral of his son and August’s best friend, Sam. Though looking Commander Zelnick in the eye was extremely difficult, August didn’t allow his gaze to falter as the man tread closer, his attention drifting out over the vineyard with open curiosity. August became acutely aware of Natalie behind him. Having her present for this reunion was the equivalent of making an incision from throat to belly and letting her see everything on the inside. Totally exposed, utterly vulnerable, nowhere to hide. He turned slightly, meeting Natalie’s interested gaze and holding out his hand to her. He wasn’t sure why. Only that it seemed natural to reassure her that the unexpected appearance of a stranger wasn’t a threat of any kind. Or maybe he needed to feel the warmth of her against his suddenly clammy palm. She didn’t hesitate for a single second before taking his hand and squeezing it. Skirmish forgotten. Interesting how they could flip that switch so quickly. What did that mean? “So this is the place you’ve built for my son.” Commander Zelnick stopped, clasped his hands behind his back. His tone was brisk as ever, but warmth seeped through. “Had a week off and finally decided to come see it for myself.” Christ. He’d almost left it behind two days earlier. Out of necessity, sure, but this man would have arrived and found an abandoned vineyard. If it weren’t for Natalie. He pulled her closer without thinking. “Yes. For Sam. It’s a work in progress,” he managed around the object in his throat. “Sir, I would like you to meet Natalie Vos. My fiancée.” Perpetuating the phony relationship to his CO didn’t exactly feel


labor. “This wasn’t your fault. It was mine.” “You mustn’t blame yourself—” She shakes her head vehemently. “You have it all wrong,” she blurts. “I was taking a formula made by Doctor Wong. What I took was meant for you. My selfishness protected you.” My body draws up, confused. “What do you mean? Doctor Wong prescribed nothing for me.” “But he did.” I wait, feeling that if I press her, she’ll retreat back into silence. But once she begins to speak again, I wish beyond all wishing that I couldn’t hear the words. “Lady Kuo asked Doctor Wong to make his best formula to protect you and your baby in the final stage of pregnancy,” she stammers. “She gave me no such thing.” “Because she probably knew you wouldn’t take it.” Another long silence. Then, “She gave the herbs to Poppy.” “Poppy?” “She was to make the formula and give it to you when you entered your seventh month. I stole the ingredients and made them into a brew for me instead.” Meiling drops her head so I can’t see her eyes. “So many sayings cover my greed and envy. The sight of treasure provides the motive… A plan is born when a man is desperate… But none is more apt than Carelessness in putting things away teaches others to steal. I knew where the ingredients were, and I took them. I wanted a baby so badly, but I lost the one thing I wanted as punishment for stealing what was meant for you.” Her confession doesn’t make the waters any clearer. “Why would you take something meant for me, Meiling? Why?” “I thought if it was good enough for you, then why shouldn’t I take it?” She begins to weep. “Remember when my mother said that a Metal Snake can have an envious streak? I paid a price for my envy. My baby died.” I shake my head. “Something’s wrong here. Doctor Wong and I may have different ideas about Blood-warming and Blood-cooling during pregnancy—and his prescription could have counteracted what I gave you—but that wouldn’t have resulted in a miscarriage. Do you still have any of the ingredients? I want to see what he used.” With effort, Meiling rises from the bed, goes to one of her bags, digs through the contents, and returns with a silk pouch tied with woven cord. I open it and pour the contents on the quilt. As my fingers go from item to item, my heart feels as though it’s dropping to the pit of my stomach. “Well?” Meiling asks. “Ox knee is often used to expel old monthly moon water or clear the child palace of lingering blood after birth,” I answer, my throat tightening around my words. “But it can also be used on wives thought too sickly to carry a baby to term. Expelling the embryo gives the woman a chance to live.” Meiling draws a hand across her mouth as she takes this in. I can hardly get the next words out. “And here are peach kernels.” “Yes. So?” “They’re


years Okonkwo had been in exile. The church had come and led many astray. Not only the low-born and the outcast but sometimes a worthy man had joined it. Such a man was Ogbuefi Ugonna, who had taken two titles, and who like a madman had cut the anklet of his titles and cast it away to join the Christians. The white missionary was very proud of him and he was one of the first men in Umuofia to receive the sacrament of Holy Communion, or Holy Feast as it was called in Ibo. Ogbuefi Ugonna had thought of the Feast in terms of eating and drinking, only more holy than the village variety. He had therefore put his drinking-horn into his goatskin bag for the occasion. But apart from the church, the white men had also brought a government. They had built a court where the District Commissioner judged cases in ignorance. He had court messengers who brought men to him for trial. Many of these messengers came from Umuru on the bank of the Great River, where the white men first came many years before and where they had built the centre of their religion and trade and government. These court messengers were greatly hated in Umuofia because they were foreigners and also arrogant and high-handed. They were called kotma, and because of their ash-coloured shorts they earned the additional name of Ashy Buttocks. They guarded the prison, which was full of men who had offended against the white man's law. Some of these prisoners had thrown away their twins and some had molested the Christians. They were beaten in the prison by the kotma and made to work every morning clearing the government compound and fetching wood for the white Commissioner and the court messengers. Some of these prisoners were men of title who should be above such mean occupation. They were grieved by the indignity and mourned for their neglected farms. As they cut grass in the morning the younger men sang in time with the strokes of their machetes: "Kotma of the ashy buttocks, He is fit to be a slave. The white man has no sense, He is fit to be a slave." The court messengers did not like to be called Ashy-Buttocks, and they beat the men. But the song spread in Umuofia. Okonkwo's head was bowed in sadness as Obierika told him these things. "Perhaps I have been away too long," Okonkwo said, almost to himself. "But I cannot understand these things you tell me. What is it that has happened to our people? Why have they lost the power to fight?" "Have you not heard how the white man wiped out Abame?" asked Obierika. "I have heard," said Okonkwo. "But I have also heard that Abame people were weak and foolish. Why did they not fight back? Had they no guns and machetes? We would be cowards to compare ourselves with the men of Abame. Their fathers had never dared to stand before our ancestors. We must fight these men and drive them


social awareness. You know when I’m winding you up.” She punches me in the arm. Well, punch is a strong word, but the point is, her fist meets my bicep. Then she props herself up on one elbow and leans over me, and I realize she’s going to punch my other arm too. She’s going to help me feel balanced, the way she used to. One of her braids brushes my neck. Something weird and tight and up and down happens in my chest. Her eyes meet mine. They’re so dark I can see myself and I look winded. “Um,” she whispers. “Is not a word,” I whisper back. Her hesitation dissolves into a reluctant tilt of the lips and she does it. She punches my other arm to even out the sensations. Then she lies back down beside me, and I try not to have feelings and monumentally fail. Celine used to do anything I asked her to do. We’re lying here like different coins, but for years of my life we were two sides of the same. She had my back and I had hers. “I…” I clear my throat, fumbling for words. “I don’t usually…need that anymore.” Her eyes shift away from mine to stare up at the ceiling. “Sorry,” she says lightly, as if it doesn’t matter, which means it does. She’s embarrassed. “No, I—” liked it. The words get tangled at the back of my throat, and then Sophie speaks to me, and the moment is gone. “Brad, what about you?” “What?” Her, Aurora, and Raj are all sitting up, looking at me expectantly. I sit up too. We all do. The too-soft, too-close feeling dissolves and this time, when she moves, Celine doesn’t touch me again. “What do you want the scholarship for?” Sophie asks, nudging my shoulder with hers. “Oh. Er…law.” Or rather, for solo housing while I study law. Aurora seems interested. “Really? What field?” Is that the sort of thing you’re meant to know at seventeen? I haven’t really thought about it. I bet Celine knows. I plaster on my best and brightest smile and hold up a hand. “Whoa, hold on a second—I want to know about you. What do you want it for?” Aurora’s nose turns red. “Oh, um,” she says, “I want to go to art school. So does Raj.” “Graphic design,” he says, “and marketing. Aurora’s doing fine art.” “If I get in,” she mutters. “Of course you’ll get in,” Sophie says firmly. “You’re very talented—” Aurora blinks. “But you haven’t seen any of my—” “And you’re a BEP Explorer. Done deal.” Have I mentioned how much I like Sophie? “What about you?” I ask her. She smiles almost shyly and adjusts the scarf covering her hair. “Oh, well, I want to study politics and international relations. Not sure what I’ll do with it yet, but…” It’s a good degree, I think. Stable job opportunities. “The world is at a crossroads,” she says. “Nation-states can’t effectively combat global problems, but climate change and waning resources are some of the


Chine again. Miss de Vries hadn’t sent for her all day. Alice hounded the other servants with inquiries: had Madam given word as to when she next wanted to be fitted? Had she left any message, any instructions for Alice at all? She needed some assurance that she was still doing well, that she was excelling, that she was safe. The weaselly-looking errand boy was lugging a bucket of coal in for the range. “Whatchoo asking so many questions for?” he said, staring at Alice without compunction. Alice rounded on him. “Bugger off, little rat,” she said, showing her teeth. His eyes widened, startled, and he scuttled off across the yard, his ragged coat flapping in the breeze. Alice had startled herself. She put her hands to her crucifix. By any measure it was too late for Miss de Vries to still be eating her dinner. Evidently, she was preoccupied, absorbed in business. Alice lingered in the front hall, trying to invent excuses to enter the dining room. William, the head footman, came out and spotted her. “You’d better make yourself scarce before Shepherd sees you,” he said, eyes narrowing. And then, voice gentle: “What’s got you in a twist?” “Nothing,” she said, anguished. “Hmm,” he said, turning his gaze away from her. “Do I sense a tragedy?” She blushed at that and scurried outside, crossing the garden, then the yard. Mr. Doggett and his boys were playing Racing Demon outside the mews house, flicking cigarette ash behind the ornamental urns. They didn’t notice Alice, or else she supposed they didn’t care to acknowledge her presence, taking her to be a plain and stupid girl, with no purpose in this house, nothing at all to recommend her. The dress was calling silently to her, summoning her back. She wanted to avoid it. She needed a break. She marched to the mews door, as if she had an errand to run, as if she were on a mission of great import. As the clocks chimed the quarter hour she stepped out through the mews door into the lane. She froze. Two men, wearing rich, silk-lined overcoats, were standing under the streetlamp. The air smelled of gardenias. She recognized the scent, and then their faces, at once. They came to the gate. The taller of the two lifted his hat, tilted it toward her, perfectly courteous. He had a smile on his face that Alice knew by instinct, that she would have known even if she were a babe in arms. Danger, danger, danger. The debt collectors had found her, after all. Perhaps they didn’t think she was going to run. Or if she did, they didn’t care. They continued to smile at her, eyes steady, as if to say, We’ll track you anyway. They had one message, and they handed it over on a piece of paper. She opened it once she was inside the house, in the kitchen passage, back to the wall. Breathing hard, she made out the words under the flickering lamplight: One week. 15 Twelve days to go It


want to order a pizza?” Amused by his joke, Durand laughs, but the geezer doesn’t even smile. He says, “Don’t.” This is a test, a challenge, and if Durand passes it, he will be something super, not right away but later, something amazing. He moves around to the head of the gurney. The old fart rolls his head side to side, tries to tip it back to see what’s happening, but he can’t. He says, “No.” Durand says, “Oh, yes. I know what you really are,” because he sees now what he’s got to do to prove he’s special, to show that nothing scares him. He must prove himself to the secret masters of the universe, who work in mysterious ways. The overhead fluorescent panels bleach the elderly man still whiter, and Durand cups his right hand under the respected guest’s stubbled chin, forcing the mouth shut. The man lacks the strength to resist. With his left hand, Durand pinches the nostrils tight. The quadriplegic can move nothing other than his head; he rolls it side to side, and for a minute he is vigorous in defense of his life, but he is not able to break his assailant’s grip. The rightness of the boy’s intention is confirmed for him when, as the light grows and the room blurs into a smooth sphere of whiteness, his pajamas seem to become a richer shade of yellow, shifting from saffron to lemon, and the hands that are instruments of suffocation flush with the color of life that a booming heart delivers. The man’s resistance grows feeble. The boy’s pajamas are now the yellow of an egg yolk, and his flesh is yet more darkly bronzed with urgent life, the blood vessels in his hands swollen to match his excitement, fingernails as pink as if they have been painted. When the geezer finishes dying, the blue of his eyes is a bleak frost, but Durand has become more vivid and colorful even than he has been in his most feverish night dreams of superpowers and violent adventures. His clamping hand relaxes, and his pinching fingers open. The blinding whiteness relents. Details of the cold-holding room return. He has passed the test. The challenge has been met. He’s afraid of nothing. Nothing. Not even of a man returned from the dead—or of some demon possessing a corpse. Having proved he is special, he will eventually have the super future of which he dreams. He needs only to be patient and grow into his greatness. Patience is another test he must pass. He arranges the shroud as it was when he came here. After turning off the lights and stepping into the hall and closing the door, he switches on the penlight. He makes his way back to his room. In bed, in the post-Halloween dark, as he flirts with sleep yet resists surrendering to it, the events in the basement rerun in his mind until he is trembling in remembered ecstasy. In time, he knows beyond doubt that the old man was not mistakenly declared dead


admits. “As it stands, the copyright issue is quite easily contained. Athena’s next of kin—that would be her mother, Patricia Liu—has expressed no desire to sue for damages, and as long as we take out or rewrite the opening paragraph of Mother Witch, there’s no problem with the bulk of the work . . .” I feel a glimmer of hope. Mrs. Liu’s decision not to sue is news to me—here I thought I’d be on the hook for thousands of dollars in payments. “So we’re all right, then?” “Well.” Daniella clears her throat. “There remains a problem of perception. We need to be clear on what our story is. That’s what we’re trying to do here: get all the facts straight, so we’re all on the same page. So if June could repeat, for clarity, precisely her account of how she wrote The Last Front and Mother Witch . . .” “The Last Front is entirely my original work, inspired by my conversations with Athena.” My voice keeps steady. I’m still terrified, but I feel like I’m on more solid footing, now that I know I’m not getting dropped by my publisher. They’re trying to help me. I just have to give them the right spin, and we can make this work. “And Mother Witch takes the first paragraph from one of Athena’s unpublished drafts, but otherwise it is entirely original to me as well. I write my own stuff, you guys. I promise.” A brief pause. Daniella glances at Todd, her left eyebrow arched high. “All right, then,” Todd says. “We’ll want this in writing, of course, but if that’s all you did, then . . . this is fairly containable.” “So can we make this go away?” Brett asks. Todd hesitates. “That’s really a question for publicity . . .” “Maybe I could put out a statement,” I say. “Or do, like, an interview. Clear everything up. Most of this is all misunderstandings—maybe if I just . . .” “I think what’s best for you right now is to focus on your next work,” Daniella says crisply. “Eden will put out a statement on your behalf. We’ll send it over for your approval this afternoon.” Emily chips in. “We all feel that in the meantime, it’s best that you, personally, stay off social media. But if you wanted to announce a new project, something you’re currently working on . . .” She trails off. I get the idea. Shut up, stay out of the spotlight, and prove you’re capable of writing your own books. Preferably something that has nothing to do with Athena fucking Liu. “What are you working on now?” Daniella prods. “Brett, I know it’s not under contract with us, but we do have the first look, so if there’s anything you can share with us . . .” “I’m working on it,” I say hoarsely. “Obviously this whole thing has been very distressing, so I’ve been distracted . . .” “But she’ll have something new soon,” Brett jumps in. “I’ll be in touch when she does.


to free herself, but she’s small in stature and weak from all she’s been through. From outside the room come cries of distress—the shrill tones from the eunuchs easily distinguishable from those of the midwives and wet nurses. Meiling’s legs give out, and she sags in the guards’ arms. The burlier of the two men motions to me and Miss Zhao. “You’re coming too.” I can barely breathe, my fear is so great. Miss Zhao and I support each other as we’re herded outside to two waiting palanquins instead of the usual carriage. Lin Ta stands with his hands hidden in his sleeves, his eyes averted. Meiling is pushed into the first palanquin. I’m about to follow her when one of the guards grabs my arm and holds me back. I don’t dare try to shake myself loose, but I won’t be separated from Meiling. “Lin Ta,” I say with a deep bow. “Please…” He releases a hand from his sleeve and wordlessly waves away the guard. Before he can change his mind, I climb in next to Meiling, who’s slumped against a corner of the palanquin. My body pulses, alive with an energy I’ve never experienced before, but Meiling is barely conscious. By now I’m quite familiar with the journey that leads to the Great Within. This time we go in a different direction. “Where are they taking us?” Meiling’s voice is as insubstantial as a blossom left on a stone under the summer sun. I shake my head. The ride is extremely rough, with bumps and lurches, as if the bearers have intended to add to our suffering. When the palanquin lands with a hard thump, Meiling is nearly thrown from the seat. The door swings open, and a pair of hands reaches in and yanks her out. When I exit, I see we’re in a courtyard before the entrance to a hall unknown to me. Miss Zhao descends from her palanquin and joins me as we follow the guards dragging Meiling. The back of her sleeping gown is blotted with fresh blood. She’s too feeble to walk on her own, and the bare tops of her feet drag along the paving stones with her soles facing skyward. None of the men even bothers to glimpse at this profound nakedness, which tells me just how grave the situation is. We enter the hall. Men in formal robes stand lined against the walls. In front of us on a raised platform are two thrones, one of which is occupied. The emperor… Miss Zhao and I are pushed forward. When the man holding my shoulder lets go, I drop to the ground—Miss Zhao beside me—in total submission. “I have striven to make the palace a place of good thought and proper acts.” The emperor’s voice is not at all what I might have imagined, if I’d ever given a moment’s thought to it. He sounds like a regular man—like my husband or my grandfather—only the words he forms with his ordinary voice make my body shiver. “I have but one wife. Empress


inhabitants, which consisted of five persons, whose gaunt and scraggy limbs gave tokens of their miserable fare. Vegetables and bread, when they indulged in such luxuries, and even fresh water, was to be procured from the mainland, which was about five miles distant. On the whole island there were but three miserable huts, and one of these was vacant when I arrived. This I hired. It contained but two rooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness of the most miserable penury. The thatch had fallen in, the walls were unplastered, and the door was off its hinges. I ordered it to be repaired, bought some furniture, and took possession, an incident which would doubtless have occasioned some surprise had not all the senses of the cottagers been benumbed by want and squalid poverty. As it was, I lived ungazed at and unmolested, hardly thanked for the pittance of food and clothes which I gave, so much does suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations of men. In this retreat I devoted the morning to labour; but in the evening, when the weather permitted, I walked on the stony beach of the sea to listen to the waves as they roared and dashed at my feet. It was a monotonous yet ever-changing scene. I thought of Switzerland; it was far different from this desolate and appalling landscape. Its hills are covered with vines, and its cottages are scattered thickly in the plains. Its fair lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky, and when troubled by the winds, their tumult is but as the play of a lively infant when compared to the roarings of the giant ocean. In this manner I distributed my occupations when I first arrived, but as I proceeded in my labour, it became every day more horrible and irksome to me. Sometimes I could not prevail on myself to enter my laboratory for several days, and at other times I toiled day and night in order to complete my work. It was, indeed, a filthy process in which I was engaged. During my first experiment, a kind of enthusiastic frenzy had blinded me to the horror of my employment; my mind was intently fixed on the consummation of my labour, and my eyes were shut to the horror of my proceedings. But now I went to it in cold blood, and my heart often sickened at the work of my hands. Thus situated, employed in the most detestable occupation, immersed in a solitude where nothing could for an instant call my attention from the actual scene in which I was engaged, my spirits became unequal; I grew restless and nervous. Every moment I feared to meet my persecutor. Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground, fearing to raise them lest they should encounter the object which I so much dreaded to behold. I feared to wander from the sight of my fellow creatures lest when alone he should come to claim his companion. In the mean time I worked on, and my labour was already considerably advanced.


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

creak as it sat up. The dead body opened his eyes, and Lore couldn’t help but meet them, no matter how awful—her gaze was drawn there, even as terror set deep in her bones, even as the power that made this possible kept her eyes opaque and her veins inky, looking just as dead as he did. The child’s eyes were wholly black—no white, no iris. Darkened veins stood out around them, like the veins around her own, like the scars around Gabe’s eye patch. The child opened an empty, yawning mouth. And though his lips didn’t move, he began to whisper. CHAPTER THIRTEEN To reach for power beyond what has been given to you is the greatest sin. —The Book of Mortal Law, Tract 78 At first, the whispering was just a soft susurrus, the bare suggestion of language without any detail filled in. The sound reminded Lore of flies buzzing, of suffocating dirt, the soft fall of flesh rotted from bone. But after a moment, words conjured themselves from the shapeless noise. Just one phrase, over and over and stopping abruptly, stuck in a replicating loop. The words started slurred, then grew sharper edges, became crisp as an elocution exercise despite the stillness of dead tongue, dead lips. “They’ve awakened,” the unmoving corpse whispered. “They’ve awakened they’ve awakened they’ve awakened—” The King’s face was pale. He looked surprised, almost, surprised and nervous, like he hadn’t entirely expected this to work. His head swung to his twin. “Does that mean—” Anton held up a hand, and his brother closed his mouth, swallowing the end of his sentence. The Priest Exalted’s gaze flickered from the corpse to Lore’s face, calculating. Lore stared into the not-dead child’s black eyes, the gape of that unmoving, whispering mouth. “Stop,” she rasped. “Please stop.” The body fell back, eyes still open, limbs slack. She snapped her hands closed, just like she’d done with Horse, just like she’d done with Cedric, breaking the threads of Mortem that bound her to the corpse. Then Lore bolted. August’s voice chased her out the door, echoing in all that stone, but Lore paid the King no mind. She tripped over her hem, hit her knees, skinning them beneath her skirt. A heaving breath in and another out, trying her best to keep the bile in her throat from surging. The white, necrotic skin on her fingers slowly leached back to living warmth, the gray of her veins fading with each breath. Her heart lurched in her chest, beating so hard it almost hurt. “Get up, girl.” Anton’s voice was as cold as the stone against her palms. Lore rubbed the back of her wrist over her mouth, deliberately taking her time before she straightened and glared up at the Priest Exalted. The sun through the skylight blazed his gray hair into a halo, obscured his features. “Ready for round two?” Lore nearly spat it. As humanity suffused her again, chasing out death, so did a righteous anger she couldn’t totally explain—the thought of that child, of how she’d disturbed his


her the chance to refuse, practically dragging her to safety. Now she sat on the floor of his living room, having washed in his shower, wearing his girlfriend’s warm clothes while hers dried. On the short table in front of her sat a gorgeous tea set, steaming its sweet aroma in the room. Koshary shai from Sumi, he had said as he prepared it. I added a few mint leaves. On the countertop, his knife sliced back and forth rhythmically. He was making her dinner. Edei Rhuna, her fated thread, was making her dinner. “Do you eat spicy food?” he asked over his shoulder. “I eat everything,” Io replied. She didn’t like everything, but she ate it all the same. Knees tucked under her chin, fingers running through her wet hair, Io watched him chop and mix and grind things into the pan. He was favoring his right side. “How is your shoulder?” “It’s fine. Hurts, but I can take it.” The statement pretty much summed up their lives, didn’t it? A hundred different things tumbled to the tip of her tongue. You told Nico to watch after me. You came running to the Docks. You had a hunch, but it’s not a hunch. We have a fate-thread, she could say. That’s what you felt earlier. But how obnoxious would it be to confess that, in the home he shared with his girlfriend, wearing her woolen kaftan? She already felt rotten that this thread existed, that it still existed even though she had known for years that the right thing to do was cut it. Instead, she said, “I’m so sorry. It was my fault.” “Did you aim the gun and pull the trigger?” He leaned against the counter and raised his eyebrows at her. “Then it’s not your fault.” Io almost sighed in awe. Gods, he was beautiful. Dark eyebrows, cheekbones that could slice your palm open, the shadow of stubble on his cheeks. He wore a soft shirt a little too loose around the neckline and no shoes. Seeing him in his socks felt intimate. Heat gathered in her cheeks. For several minutes, neither of them spoke. Io studied his apartment: the multicolored rugs, the low table and plush pillows, the beaded curtain leading to what she assumed was their bedroom. The whole place was Sumazi in style, which was surprising. Imported furniture and fabrics were costly. They must have saved up for months to decorate it. It was worth it, though, a small pocket of home away from home. On a shelf across from her, more than a dozen little bees were laid in a neat formation based on size. Some were made of glass, some of clay or stone. Most were painted in bright colors, but a couple were wooden carvings weathered by age. From the stove, Edei followed her eyeline and explained, “When I was young, I thought honeybees were mythical creatures. Ra’s maidens, carrying good fortune and growth, like lore says. Honeybees in Sumi are nearly extinct. I saw one in real life my first spring


a gentle smile. “Do.” “I had some papers,” she said. “Expenses. The menus for the ball.” She paused. “Letters.” Shepherd had watched her do it. He’d been with her, in her housekeeper’s room. He’d watched her throw them on the fire. And with them, folded with the order bills and receipts and notes for the ball, were the letters to Mother. The letters she never sent. The ones saying sorry, sending love, things impossible to say in person. Had the packet felt heavier than before? Even fractionally? Had someone put another letter in beside them, tucked away? She’d burned it all. She remembered the ribbon dissolving, turning to ash. “What do you mean? What letters?” said Winnie, puzzled. Mrs. King did something she’d never done before. She leaned forward, arms rigid at her side, and laid her head on Winnie’s shoulder. She felt as if she could not sit up straight any longer. “Dinah,” said Winnie, as if frightened for her. “Oh, Dinah.” The night loomed vast and black around them. Three days later The lawyers were emerging from an office in the City, near Middle Temple. Mrs. King had gone with William to keep them under observation. Offers had started coming in overnight. Mrs. Bone’s spies reported that there had been several bids made to take over the de Vries empire. All the major magnates were naming hideously low sums, promising to mop up the de Vries family debts—sweeping the Kimberley mines under their control, divesting the gold holdings and the North American territories, selling off the shipping positions. It would ruin everything that Mr. de Vries had left behind. It would leave hardly anything to inherit. Mrs. King sounded the order silently in her head: Find the letter. Madam didn’t arrive; she didn’t object. Nobody knew where she’d gone. Some said the country, some said to jail. The house on Park Lane was swarming with detectives, men in trench coats with any number of questions, examining the locks and windows, trying to fathom the biggest burglary they’d ever seen in their lives. One or two were there on more sensitive business. Looking for the kitchen maids, to ask the most delicate questions. But most of the servants had scattered, giving up any hope of getting their wages. “You were right,” William said. “About getting out.” Mrs. King tilted her hat. “Now you tell me.” He sighed. “I’ve been pigheaded.” She remembered the moment he’d offered her that ring. Cut grass, the park, the stink of the house lingering on them as she told him: “No.” It should have happened at night. By the river, in their secret corners of the city. “So have I,” she said. A crowd of gentlemen came hurtling past, papers under their arms. Mrs. King lowered the brim of her hat. He put his hand out to her. She stood there, and looked at him, and then she took it. She squeezed his fingers. Not an answer, but something. “When?” he said. He meant, When will we see each other again? There was an enormous motor


of movement, a clue, anything. “What would you say is your greatest inspiration?” Athena asks suddenly. Inspiration? What game is this? But I know the right answers. I know what will lure her out. “It’s you,” I shout. “You know that. It’s obviously you.” Athena bursts into a peal of laughter. “So I guess my question is, why?” There’s something off about her voice. I’ve only just noticed. It’s not the voice you use with your friends. It’s pitchy and artificial, like she’s putting on a performance. It’s the voice you hear from celebrities on game shows, right before they have to describe their first sexual encounter or eat a boiled monkey brain. Is she okay? Is she being held hostage? Does someone have a gun to her head? She asks again, in precisely the same intonation, prefacing her question with the same tinkling laughter. “So I guess my question is, why?” “There’s no reason why,” I yell. “I took your pages, I read them, and I thought they were so brilliant—and I’ve always envied you, Athena, I just wanted to know what it was like, and I didn’t even think about it, it just happened—” “You didn’t think you were stealing my work?” Now her voice echoes from somewhere above me. It’s strangely garbled this time, like she’s speaking underwater. It doesn’t sound at all like her. “You didn’t think it was a crime?” “Of course it was. I know that now. It was wrong—” More tinkling laughter. That same question as before, voiced in an identical manner. “So I guess my question is, why?” “Because it’s not fair,” I shout, frustrated. She’s made her point. She doesn’t have to keep toying with me. “You know what kind of stories people want to hear. No one cares about my stories. I wanted what you have—had—but I didn’t mean to hurt you. I would never have hurt you, I just thought—” Her voice rises in pitch again, turns girlie and twee. “I’m a lucky girl, aren’t I?” “I thought you were the luckiest person I’d ever met,” I say miserably. “You had everything.” “So you’re sorry?” Garbled, distorted, once again. “Are you sorry, June?” “I’m sorry.” My words feel so small, so tinny against the howling wind. My throat aches from holding back sobs. I don’t care about maintaining the line anymore. I just want this to be over. “Fuck, Athena—I’m so sorry. I wish every day I could take it back. I’ll do anything to make it right—I’ll tell your mom, I’ll tell my publisher, I’ll donate everything, every cent—just tell me you’re all right. Athena, please. I can’t do this anymore.” A long pause. When she at last responds, her voice has changed once again. It’s lost its pitchy, artificial timbre. It sounds human, and yet completely unlike her. “That’s a confession?” “I confess,” I gasp. “I’m sorry, Athena. I’m so sorry, please—come talk to me.” “I see.” A pause. I hear footsteps again, and this time they match the direction of her voice. She’s standing right behind me. “Thank


too long. She rushed to the stairs, and she half ran, half tripped down them, trembling so violently that she barely made it out the lobby doors before she vomited into a potted plant on the marble steps. Straightening, Iris wiped her mouth and began to walk to Station Nine, which wasn’t far from her home. It’s not her, she told herself over and over, with each step that drew her closer. It’s not her. But Iris hadn’t seen her mother in over twenty-four hours. She hadn’t been sprawled on the sofa that morning, like she had been the dawn before. Iris had assumed she was in her bedroom with the door closed. She should have checked, to make sure. Because now this doubt was piercing her. When Iris reached the station, she paused, as if not entering would keep the truth from happening. She must have stood on the front stairs for a while, because the shadows were long at her feet and she was shivering when an officer approached her. “Miss? Miss, you can’t stand on the stairs like this. You need to move.” “I’m here to identify a body,” she rasped. “Very well. Follow me, please.” The station corridors were a blur of cream-colored walls and crooked hardwood floors. The air was astringent and the light harsh when they made it to an examination room. Iris came to an abrupt halt. The coroner was standing with a clipboard, dressed in white clothes and a leather apron. Beside him was a metal table, and on the table was a body. Aster looked like she was sleeping, save for the crooked way she rested beneath a sheet and the gash on her face. Iris stepped forward, as if taking her mother’s hand would make her stir. She would feel her daughter’s touch, and it would pull her back from whatever chasm that wanted her, from whatever nightmare they were trapped within. “Miss?” the coroner was saying, and his nasal voice reverberated through her. “Can you identify this woman? Miss, can you hear me?” Iris’s hand froze in the air. Stars began to dance at the edges of her sight as she stared at her mother. Dead and pale and in a place so far away, Iris would never be able to reach her. “Yes,” she whispered before she collapsed, into the embrace of darkness. {11} The Vast Divide It was dark and cold and long past midnight when Iris walked home from the station, carrying a box of her mother’s belongings. A mist spun in the air, turning lamplight into pools of gold. But Iris could hardly feel the chill. She could hardly feel the cobblestones beneath her feet. Her hair and clothes were beaded with moisture by the time she stepped into her flat. Of course, it was full of quiet shadows. She should be used to it by now. And yet she still peered into the darkness for a glimpse of her mother —the spark of her cigarette and the slant of her smile. Iris strained against the roar


38 39 then I could see them pause, and hear speeches passed in a lower key, as if they were surprised to find the door open. But the pause was brief, for the blind man again issued his commands. His voice sounded louder and higher, as if he were afire with eagerness and rage. “In, in, in!” he shouted, and cursed them for their delay. Four or five of them obeyed at once, two remaining on the road with the formidable beggar. There was a pause, then a cry of surprise, and then a voice shouting from the house, “Bill’s dead.” Chapter 5. But the blind man swore at them again for their delay. The Last of the Blind Man. “Search him, some of you shirking lubbers, and the rest of you aloft and get the chest,” he cried. MY curiosity, in a sense, was stronger than my fear, for I I could hear their feet rattling up our old stairs, so that the could not remain where I was, but crept back to the bank house must have shook with it. Promptly afterwards, fresh again, whence, sheltering my head behind a bush of broom, I sounds of astonishment arose; the window of the captain’s might command the road before our door. I was scarcely in room was thrown open with a slam and a jingle of broken position ere my enemies began to arrive, seven or eight of glass, and a man leaned out into the moonlight, head and them, running hard, their feet beating out of time along the shoulders, and addressed the blind beggar on the road below road and the man with the lantern some paces in front. Three him. men ran together, hand in hand; and I made out, even through “Pew,” he cried, “they’ve been before us. Someone’s turned the mist, that the middle man of this trio was the blind beg- the chest out alow and aloft.” gar. The next moment his voice showed me that I was right. “Is it there?” roared Pew. “The money’s there.” Contents “Down with the door!” he cried. “Aye, aye, sir!” answered two or three; and a rush was made The blind man cursed the money. upon the Admiral Benbow, the lantern-bearer following; and “Flint’s fist, I mean,” he cried. Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 40 41 “We don’t see it here nohow,” returned the man. “There’s Dirk again,” said one. “Twice! We’ll have to “Here, you below there, is it on Bill?” cried the blind man budge, mates.” again. “Budge, you skulk!” cried Pew. “Dirk was a fool and a At that another fellow, probably him who had remained coward from the first—you wouldn’t mind him. They must below to search the captain’s body, came to the door of the be close by; they can’t be far; you have your hands on it. Scat- inn. “Bill’s been overhauled a’ready,” said he; “nothin’ left.” ter and look for them, dogs! Oh, shiver my soul,” he cried, “if “It’s these people of the inn—it’s that boy. I wish I had


fuck you everywhere, Elsie.” He licks the hollow of my throat. “Between today and the day we die, I’m going to fuck you everywhere.” I nod. Let him know that he can. There is a tight, liquid pool blooming inside my stomach, twitches of pleasure making their way down my limbs, surging up my spine. I reach for Jack again, pull him to me for the kisses I want, but it doesn’t work. We’re too raw, too new at this, too desperate to catch every drop of this. Our lips press together, then they pause, forgotten by both of us. “Can you come like this?” he asks, his breath a hot wash against my ear. I’m drifting away. I’ll never hear his voice and not think of this. Of the deep, rough bite of it sinking inside my brain. Of the whispered Yes and This way and Perfect and— “Elsie.” His body trembles around mine. On the verge of tipping over. “Can you come this way?” “I don’t know. I—maybe?” I’m close, I think. About to snap. It’s phenomenal, the way he hits everywhere inside me at once, a masterpiece of biology that something could work so gloriously, and I just need a little more —just a little more— “Shit.” His thrusts quicken, he buries his face in my throat, and I think he’s getting close. I think he didn’t expect it. He doesn’t want to come, not yet, but this might be fully out of his control. And it’s what I want. To see him lost in something. “You’re good. This is good,” I urge him, and the word is such a paltry substitute when what I mean is This is the best thing I’ve ever felt and Thank you and Whatever you want, really, whatever you want, just take it. “Fuck,” he says again, and I see it in his face, the second it’s all over for him. His hand closes around my hip, holding me to him while he presses as far as he can go, and then I feel his cock jump in quick, jerky movements. “Elsie.” I’m moaning. He’s gasping. His skin slides against mine, sweaty, and my body clamps down on him. His back tenses into a slab, and I hold him while his hips turn erratic, then stop, then— The heat spreading inside me comes to a halt. I watch Jack’s eyes go blank, feel him bite my collarbone like I’m his anchor, like he wants to be reminded that I’m really here. The grunts he lets out come from somewhere deep inside him, somewhere I doubt he himself knows, and I hold him to myself until his orgasm dies down to a few clumsy, involuntary thrusts. I’m still buzzing with thrumming, unsnapped tension. And it should be frustrating—it is frustrating that he came and I didn’t, that there’s heat pushing against the seams of me, simmering from within. But it was good anyway. And after a moment he pulls out, breaths rapid and choppy, and looks down at me. His expression is shaken, a


to a table with a glass tumbler set upon it, half filled with dark liquid. A machine sat in the chair, all metal and wires, though it had the shape of a human. A man stood above it, circling the chair. He wore only an apron, frilly and pink, cinched tightly above his bare bottom. “You’ve had such a rough day, my love,” the man purred, his fingers trailing over the machine’s shoulders with nails painted red. “Let me take care of you. You work so hard to provide for me. I am forever grateful.” “Yes,” the machine said, almost sounding like it was panting. “I need this. My boss at the factory crawled up my ass again. I wish he was dead.” “We could kill him,” the man said, lowering himself onto the machine’s lap, feet flat against the floor, back arched. “Would you like that? Would you like to discuss the plan to murder your boss?” The machine nodded. “Tell me how we’d do it.” The man leaned forward, pressing a kiss against the metal curve of the machine’s jaw. It left behind a sticky imprint of his lips. “That will cost extra.” “Anything,” the machine said. The man reached between them and— “Enough,” Vic said hoarsely. “Stop. I don’t want to see any more.” The door solidified once more. “Is there a problem?” the Doorman asked, arching an eyebrow. “It’s merely fantasy. An outlet for the weary. It isn’t real.” “I don’t care,” Vic said through gritted teeth. “It’s private.” The Doorman shook his head. “I often heard the humans were strange when it came to sex and intimacy. I suggest you keep your thoughts on the subject to yourself here. The Blue Fairy’s work will not be shamed.” “What were they doing?” Rambo whispered to Nurse Ratched. “Playing a game,” Nurse Ratched said. “Nothing to worry your little microchip about.” “But I like games!” The Doorman looked down at him with interest. “You do? We could always use someone like you, if you’d like to stay. Tell me: How strong is your suction?” “Really strong!” Rambo said. “Nope,” Nurse Ratched said, picking Rambo back up and setting him on top of her. “Nope, nope, nope. Rambo stays with us.” Her screen filled with the words BACK OFF, BUB surrounded by flashing red. The Doorman shrugged. “Just a thought. Let us continue.” He led them down the hall that never seemed to end. The paintings continued to move. The sounds from behind the doors rose and fell. Vic felt cold, the sweat drying and causing him to shiver. The helmet dug into his head, and the metal on his arms and legs felt as heavy as it had when they’d first left the forest. He jumped, startled, when a hand brushed against his own. He looked over to see Hap frowning at him. “D-don’t listen to him,” Hap said in a low voice. “I’m h-here. I’ve g-got you.” Vic nodded, grabbing Hap’s hand once more, holding it as tightly as he dared. The Doorman stopped in front of another


his mustache. “I promise to make it as pleasant as possible.” “You old flirt,” Nurse Ratched said in her flat voice. “I know your type.” The Coachman grinned at her. “I bet you do.” He grunted as he tipped her over, her screen facing the ceiling. “Do protect him, won’t you? He’s … precious.” “I know,” Nurse Ratched said. “Coachman?” “Yes, my sweet?” “If we are betrayed, if Bernard attempts to notify anyone of our presence in the city, I will find a way out. I will come for him first. And when I have finished with him, I will find you. There is nowhere in the world you can run. Every day, for the rest of your life, you will have to look over your shoulder. When you least expect it, I will be there. I will stick my drill so far inside you that you will taste it. And then I will turn it on and scramble everything that makes you who you are.” “I wouldn’t expect anything less,” the Coachman said. He pressed his hand against her screen. “If that happens, I will wait for you with open arms.” “Seriously,” Rambo said. “This is really gross.” Hap shoved the Coachman out of the way, setting Rambo on top of Nurse Ratched’s casing. “No t-talking,” he warned them. “Hap?” Rambo asked. “What.” “I love you.” Hap scowled at him. He turned to stalk away, but paused at the last second, face twisting. He turned back around again and bent over Rambo. Vic was stunned when he said, “I t-tolerate your existence.” He took one of Rambo’s pincers in his hand and moved it up and down. “Whoa,” Rambo whispered as Hap let go. “Nurse Ratched, did you hear that? He loves me too!” “Th-that’s not what I said.” “It is. And you can’t take it back!” “I am going to die in this box,” Nurse Ratched said. Bernard stepped forward, extending an arm toward the screen. He tapped it once more, and the crate walls rose around Nurse Ratched and Rambo. The last Vic saw of them was Rambo waving frantically. “Goodbye,” Vic said quietly as the lid closed over them. Bernard motioned toward another crate set farther back. “This one is yours.” “And it’ll allow for air to move freely through it?” the Coachman asked. Bernard frowned. “Yes. As discussed. It’s meant for transporting florae and faunae.” He looked at Vic and Hap before his head spun toward the Coachman. “Why is that necessary? Are they transporting something alive?” “What?” the Coachman said, sounding outraged. “I take umbrage with your tone, sir. I would never allow something so—” “You look familiar,” Bernard said to Hap. “Have we met before?” Hap lowered his head, his hood falling around his face. “N-no.” “Hmm,” Bernard said. “Coachman, this better not come back on me.” “Of course it won’t,” the Coachman said. “There is nothing to come back on you. I don’t know what’s going through that circle you call a head, but I am an upstanding citizen. Everything I do is aboveboard,


think. I believe in something, anyway. But in all honesty, the idea of the myriad hells makes more sense to me than the Shining Realm does. I think that whatever comes after this, it’s of our own making. Whatever we sowed in life is what we reap in death, good or bad.” “The worst part of the myriad hells would be the loneliness,” Gabe said quietly. “Being trapped in the world your own sins made, and utterly alone. I understand your point, but I can’t believe that someone who lived piously would be alone in death. And it wouldn’t make sense for anyone else to be caught up in the place your own actions made.” She trailed her hand along a bank of stone geraniums. “I don’t know. But if Mortem feels empty—lonely—doesn’t it make sense that death would be, too?” They lapsed into silence. Voices called in the distance, courtiers at play in the inner walls of the Citadel, sowing things they must eventually reap. “I don’t think how Mortem feels and how death feels are the same,” Gabe said finally, almost to himself. “One is twisted magic leaking from the body of a dead goddess, and one is something that awaits us all. The first comes from the second, but they aren’t the same.” “Why is Her magic called twisted?” If it weren’t that they were alone, that the hushed stone garden felt like a place removed from reality, Lore wouldn’t have spoken. But as it was, the words came tumbling from her mouth nearly dripping venom. “She and Apollius were equals. Her magic might’ve been dark and night and death, but it wasn’t twisted, not any more than His was, or any of the elemental minor gods you like to forget existed. It was just different.” Gabe made a hmm sound, brows drawn thoughtfully down. “Do you know the Law of Opposites?” A Tract teaching, a simple one that children were taught soon after learning to walk. Well, children that weren’t Lore. Still, she knew of the law and gave him a curt nod. “If something is good, then its opposite must be evil.” Gabe shook his head. “I don’t believe that.” “You don’t believe in something from the Tracts? You’re rapidly careening toward a vacation on the Burnt Isles.” It was his turn to knock into her shoulder. “I believe the Tracts are up for interpretation,” he said. “And in this, I feel like our interpretation has to be wrong. Opposites are not always in opposition; the day and night are equals. One isn’t good and the other bad.” He paused, mouth pursed. “But one does illuminate things, while the other obscures. And that has to mean something, too, I think.” Lore didn’t respond. She crossed her arms, stared at her feet as they walked over the cobblestones. “I don’t think Nyxara is evil,” Gabe continued. It sounded like he had to push it through his teeth, though, like calling the Buried Goddess Her actual name was a difficult task. “She made a mistake by trying to kill


they carefully scraped away the cinders; and also in waiting for the passing of trucks which travelled over a certain route and were known to carry cattle feed, and which, when they jolted over the bad patches in the road, sometimes spilt a few fragments of oil-cake. When his father disappeared, his mother did not show any surprise or any violent grief, but a sudden change came over her. She seemed to have become completely spiritless. It was evident even to Winston that she was waiting for something that she knew must happen. She did everything that was needed--cooked, washed, mended, made the bed, swept the floor, dusted the mantelpiece--always very slowly and with a curious lack of superfluous motion, like an artist's lay-figure moving of its own accord. Her large shapely body seemed to relapse naturally into stillness. For hours at a time she would sit almost immobile on the bed, nursing his young sister, a tiny, ailing, very silent child of two or three, with a face made simian by thinness. Very occasionally she would take Winston in her arms and press him against her for a long time without saying anything. He was aware, in spite of his youthfulness and selfishness, that this was somehow connected with the never-mentioned thing that was about to happen. He remembered the room where they lived, a dark, close-smelling room that seemed half filled by a bed with a white counterpane. There was a gas ring in the fender, and a shelf where food was kept, and on the landing outside there was a brown earthenware sink, common to several rooms. He remembered his mother's statuesque body bending over the gas ring to stir at something in a saucepan. Above all he remembered his continuous hunger, and the fierce sordid battles at mealtimes. He would ask his mother naggingly, over and over again, why there was not more food, he would shout and storm at her (he even remembered the tones of his voice, which was beginning to break prematurely and sometimes boomed in a peculiar way), or he would attempt a snivelling note of pathos in his efforts to get more than his share. His mother was quite ready to give him more than his share. She took it for granted that he, 'the boy', should have the biggest portion; but however much she gave him he invariably demanded more. At every meal she would beseech him not to be selfish and to remember that his little sister was sick and also needed food, but it was no use. He would cry out with rage when she stopped ladling, he would try to wrench the saucepan and spoon out of her hands, he would grab bits from his sister's plate. He knew that he was starving the other two, but he could not help it; he even felt that he had a right to do it. The clamorous hunger in his belly seemed to justify him. Between meals, if his mother did not stand guard, he was constantly pilfering at the wretched


have not eyes to see nor ears to hear withal; for the heathen in the far islands of the sea; and closed with a supplication that the words he was about to speak might find grace and favor, and be as seed sown in fertile ground, yielding in time a grateful harvest of good. Amen. There was a rustling of dresses, and the standing congregation sat down. The boy whose history this book relates did not enjoy the prayer, he only endured it -- if he even did that much. He was restive all through it; he kept tally of the details of the prayer, unconsciously -- for he was not listening, but he knew the ground of old, and the clergyman's regular route over it -- and when a little trifle of new matter was interlarded, his ear detected it and his whole nature resented it; he considered additions unfair, and scoundrelly. In the midst of the prayer a fly had lit on the back of the pew in front of him and tortured his spirit by calmly rubbing its hands together, embracing its head with its arms, and polishing it so vigorously that it seemed to almost part company with the body, and the slender thread of a neck was exposed to view; scraping its wings with its hind legs and smoothing them to its body as if they had been coat-tails; going through its whole toilet as tranquilly as if it knew it was perfectly safe. As indeed it was; for as sorely as Tom's hands --------------------------------------------------------- -62- itched to grab for it they did not dare -- he believed his soul would be instantly destroyed if he did such a thing while the prayer was going on. But with the closing sentence his hand began to curve and steal forward; and the instant the "Amen" was out the fly was a prisoner of war. His aunt detected the act and made him let it go. The minister gave out his text and droned along monotonously through an argument that was so prosy that many a head by and by began to nod -- and yet it was an argument that dealt in limitless fire and brimstone and thinned the predestined elect down to a company so small as to be hardly worth the saving. Tom counted the pages of the sermon; after church he always knew how many pages there had been, but he seldom knew anything else about the discourse. However, this time he was really interested for a little while. The minister made a grand and moving picture of the assembling together of the world's hosts at the millennium when the lion and the lamb should lie down together and a little child should lead them. But the pathos, the lesson, the moral of the great spectacle were lost upon the boy; he only thought of the conspicuousness of the principal character before the on-looking nations; his face lit with the thought, and he said to himself that he wished he could be that child, if