in the shape of any disagreeable consciousness.--Miss Taylor married. It was Miss Taylor's loss which first brought grief. It was on the wedding-day of this beloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful thought of any continuance. The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father and herself were left to dine together, with no prospect of a third to cheer a long evening. Her father composed himself to sleep after dinner, as usual, and she had then only to sit and think of what she had lost. The event had every promise of happiness for her friend. Mr. Weston was a man of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age, and pleasant manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering with what self-denying, generous friendship she had always wished and promoted the match; but it was a black morning's work for her. The want of Miss Taylor would be felt every hour of every day. She recalled her past kindness--the kindness, the affection of sixteen years--how she had taught and how she had played with her from five years old--how she had devoted all her powers to attach and amuse her in health--and how nursed her through the various illnesses of childhood. A large debt of gratitude was owing here; but the intercourse of the last seven years, the equal footing and perfect unreserve which had soon followed Isabella's marriage, on their being left to each other, was yet a dearer, tenderer recollection. She had been a friend and companion such as few possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing all the ways of the family, interested in all its concerns, and peculiarly interested in herself, in every pleasure, every scheme of hers--one to whom she could speak every thought as it arose, and who had such an affection for her as could never find fault. How was she to bear the change?--It was true that her friend was going only half a mile from them; but Emma was aware that great must be the difference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a Miss Taylor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural and domestic, she was now in great danger of suffering from intellectual solitude. She dearly loved her father, but he was no companion for her. He could not meet her in conversation, rational or playful. The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse had not married early) was much increased by his constitution and habits; for having been a valetudinarian all his life, without activity of mind or body, he was a much older man in ways than in years; and though everywhere beloved for the friendliness of his heart and his amiable temper, his talents could not have recommended him at any time. Her sister, though comparatively but little removed by matrimony, being settled in London, only sixteen miles off, was much beyond her daily reach; and many a long October and November evening must be struggled through at Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next visit from Isabella and


archery. Instead, Mary Stuart handed me this month’s Sea & Sky. I looked down and gasped. The teaser said, “SAVING SUMMER CAMP WITH LEMONADE & LOVE.” And on the cover was a picture of Melanie and me, in our starched Holly Springs uniforms, arms around each other, grinning. I put my finger to it, as if I could touch her again, as if this story could bring her back to life. My eyes filled with tears. “I hope it’s okay that I sent them that picture,” Daphne said. “Mom kept it in her nightstand, and it seemed appropriate.” She kept it in her drawer. She had saved our picture. Sometimes I worried that Melanie hadn’t loved me as much as I had loved her, that my love hadn’t been enough to save her. But this was proof that she cherished our sisterhood just like I did. I nodded, overcome with emotion, and flipped to the article. I started reading aloud. “Two hundred forty-three Holly Springs campers from North Carolina to California, Maine to Texas, and everywhere in between hosted fundraising lemonade stands in their hometowns to help save their ailing all-girls summer camp that has been a staple in North Carolina for more than seventy-six years.” “What? How?” Mary Stuart smiled. “Well, to be honest, I didn’t think it was going to happen. But Amelia Saxton, the editor of Sea and Sky, switched out a monthly home feature for this spread literally the day the magazine went to press.” “She was always one of my favorite campers.” I smiled. “I need to write her a note.” As if that would be thank-you enough. I held the magazine to my chest for a moment. I pulled it away and flipped to the next page, which featured a photo of a letter from Daphne to Melanie that began, Mom, this is the best summer of my life. As I continued to skim, my eyes zeroed in on a number. I gasped. “What? They raised $56,842? From lemonade stands?” “That’s a lot of lemonade, Aunt June,” Henry said. There was even a little blurb at the bottom of the article instructing people on how they could donate. I threw my arms around Mary Stuart with about as much force as Henry had just thrown his arms around me. “There are no words to adequately thank you for this.” This article might not save our camp and the lemonade money might not get us to our goal, but it reminded me that what I had done all those years ago meant something to all these people supporting us, and for now, for today, that was enough. I hugged Daphne too. Just then, thunder boomed through the sky. “Oh, gosh,” I said. “I have to make sure everyone is out of the water!” I ran through the pouring rain, down to the river, barely even noticing how drenched I was because I was floating on air. I thought of the message Jillian had left on my desk earlier from David Price of Price Development asking if I’d


in, just because their government was convinced domino theory was true. My God.” And the whole thing would start again as we moved on to the next. Here we could read the last known letter from nineteen-year-old draftee Ricky Barnes, who’d asked his friend to bring his dog tags back to his mother when he caught diphtheria along the Yalu River. Athena could not stop talking. At first I thought that maybe she was incredibly sensitive, that she couldn’t hear about someone else’s suffering without experiencing it acutely as her own. Fucking saint. But as we moved through the exhibit, I noticed she was scribbling things into a Moleskine. This was all research for some writing project. “Just awful,” she whispered. “His widow was only seventeen—only a girl still. And she was pregnant already with his daughter, who would never know her father’s face.” And on and on. We inched down the exhibit while Athena examined every placard and cutout, announcing every so often what it was that made this particular story so very tragic. At last I couldn’t take the sound of her voice anymore, so I wandered off to get a closer look at the uniform displays. I couldn’t find Athena when I exited the exhibit, and for a moment I thought she’d ditched me before I saw her sitting on a bench next to an old man in a wheelchair, jotting things into her notebook while he talked at her boobs. “And do you remember how that felt?” she asked him. “Can you describe it for me? Everything you can remember?” Jesus Christ, I thought. She’s a vampire. Athena had a magpie’s eye for suffering. This skill united all her best-received works. She could see through the grime and sludge of facts and details to the part of the story that bled. She collected true narratives like seashells, polished them off, and presented them, sharp and gleaming, to horrified and entranced readers. That museum visit was disturbing, but it didn’t surprise me. I’d seen Athena steal before. She probably didn’t even think of it as theft. The way she described it, this process wasn’t exploitative, but something mythical and profound. “I try to make sense of the chaos,” she told the New Yorker once. “I think the way we learn about history in classrooms is so antiseptic. It makes those struggles feel so far away, like they could never happen to us, like we would never make the same decisions that the people in those textbooks did. I want to bring those bloody histories to the fore. I want to make the reader confront how close to the present those histories still are.” Elegantly put. Noble, even. When you phrase it like that, it’s not exploitation, it’s a service. But tell me, really, what more right did Athena have to tell those stories than anyone else did? She never lived in China for more than a few months at a time. She was never in a war zone. She grew up attending private schools in England paid for by


that lugger, and Contents south of the black crag with the face on it. more, I dare say, not far off, are, one and all, through thick The arms are easy found, in the sand-hill, N. and thin, bound that they’ll get that money. We must none Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 54 55 of us go alone till we get to sea. Jim and I shall stick together in the meanwhile; you’ll take Joyce and Hunter when you ride to Bristol, and from first to last, not one of us must breathe a word of what we’ve found.” “Livesey,” returned the squire, “you are always in the right of it. I’ll be as silent as the grave.” Part 2. The Sea-cook Chapter 7. I Go to Bristol. IT was longer than the squire imagined ere we were ready for the sea, and none of our first plans—not even Dr. Livesey’s, of keeping me beside him—could be carried out as we in- tended. The doctor had to go to London for a physician to take charge of his practice; the squire was hard at work at Bristol; and I lived on at the hall under the charge of old Redruth, the gamekeeper, almost a prisoner, but full of sea- dreams and the most charming anticipations of strange is- lands and adventures. I brooded by the hour together over the map, all the details of which I well remembered. Sitting Contents by the fire in the housekeeper’s room, I approached that is- land in my fancy from every possible direction; I explored every acre of its surface; I climbed a thousand times to that Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 56 57 tall hill they call the Spy-glass, and from the top enjoyed the pretty rum go if squire ain’t to talk for Dr. Livesey, I should most wonderful and changing prospects. Sometimes the isle think.” was thick with savages, with whom we fought, sometimes full At that I gave up all attempts at commentary and read of dangerous animals that hunted us, but in all my fancies straight on: nothing occurred to me so strange and tragic as our actual Blandly himself found the HISPANIOLA, and by the adventures. most admirable management got her for the merest trifle. So the weeks passed on, till one fine day there came a let- There is a class of men in Bristol monstrously prejudiced ter addressed to Dr. Livesey, with this addition, “To be opened, against Blandly. They go the length of declaring that this in the case of his absence, by Tom Redruth or young Hawkins.” honest creature would do anything for money, that the Obeying this order, we found, or rather I found—for the HISPANIOLA belonged to him, and that he sold it me ab- gamekeeper was a poor hand at reading anything but print— surdly high—the most transparent calumnies. None of them the following important news: dare, however, to deny the merits of the ship. So far there was Old Anchor Inn, Bristol, March 1, 17— not a hitch. The workpeople, to be


"Oh yes," said Arthur, "I thought that some of the metaphysical imagery was really particularly effective." Ford continued to stare at him, slowly organizing his thoughts around this totally new concept. Were they really going to be able to bareface their way out of this? "Yes, do continue ..." invited the Vogon. "Oh ... and er ... interesting rhythmic devices too," continued Arthur, "which seemed to counterpoint the ... er ... er ..." He floundered. Ford leaped to his rescue, hazarding "counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying metaphor of the ... er ..." He floundered too, but Arthur was ready again. "... humanity of the ..." "Vogonity," Ford hissed at him. "Ah yes, Vogonity (sorry) of the poet's compassionate soul," Arthur felt he was on a home stretch now, "which contrives through the medium of the verse structure to sublimate this, transcend that, and come to terms with the fundamental dichotomies of the other," (he was reaching a triumphant crescendo ...) "and one is left with a profound and vivid insight into ... into ... er ..." (... which suddenly gave out on him.) Ford leaped in with the coup de gr@ce: "Into whatever it was the poem was about!" he yelled. Out of the corner of his mouth: "Well done, Arthur, that was very good." The Vogon perused them. For a moment his embittered racial soul had been touched, but he thought no - too little too late. His voice took on the quality of a cat snagging brushed nylon. "So what you're saying is that I write poetry because underneath my mean callous heartless exterior I really just want to be loved," he said. He paused. "Is that right?" Ford laughed a nervous laugh. "Well I mean yes," he said, "don't we all, deep down, you know ... er ..." The Vogon stood up. "No, well you're completely wrong," he said, "I just write poetry to throw my mean callous heartless exterior into sharp relief. I'm going to throw you off the ship anyway. Guard! Take the prisoners to number three airlock and throw them out!" "What?" shouted Ford. A huge young Vogon guard stepped forward and yanked them out of their straps with his huge blubbery arms. "You can't throw us into space," yelled Ford, "we're trying to write a book." "Resistance is useless!" shouted the Vogon guard back at him. It was the first phrase he'd learnt when he joined the Vogon Guard Corps. The captain watched with detached amusement and then turned away. Arthur stared round him wildly. "I don't want to die now!" he yelled. "I've still got a headache! I don't want to go to heaven with a headache, I'd be all cross and wouldn't enjoy it!" The guard grasped them both firmly round the neck, and bowing deferentially towards his captain's back, hoiked them both protesting out of the bridge. A steel door closed and the captain was on his own again. He hummed quietly and mused to himself, lightly fingering his notebook of verses. "Hmmmm," he said, "counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying


But Mr. Shepherd leaned forward, worried, eyes on the clock. Hephzibah saw the saliva on his lips. “Madam...” “Yes,” said Miss de Vries briefly, and moved on. Hephzibah followed. She had no choice. Oh, God, she thought. Oh, God. * * * Winnie should have known something was about to go wrong. Everything had been too simple. From her vantage point, patrolling the terrace, she had watched Hephzibah’s people herding the crowd, shifting them eastward then westward, keeping them entirely distracted as ropes began rippling down the eastern side of the house. The plan had been immaculate; everything was progressing without a hitch. She’d begun to feel her heart thump with surety, with unshakable confidence. But suddenly one of the waiters snapped his fingers. “Get those beasts out of their boxes.” Slowly, the French doors at the top of the terrace opened. Winnie saw movement, a crowd emerging from inside the house. And she felt something change in the atmosphere, a thrill passing through the company assembled in the garden below. Miss de Vries was at the front of the party issuing down the terrace steps, and she’d removed her headdress. It made her look small, like a jet-painted icon. Next to her walked a woman of no very remarkable height, maybe in her late thirties, maybe forty, with a bright blue sash across her shoulder. She was being steered along a sort of tidal line of people, catching them like driftwood: guests, hangers-on, people crumpling into curtseys as she passed them. She looked almost like... Princess Victoria, said a voice in Winnie’s head. She almost laughed in disbelief. They had spoken of a letter. An invitation sent to the royal household. But it was a fairy story, a tale spun by Hephzibah. They’d filtered Miss de Vries’s post, checked it every hour. No card ever left Park Lane for the palace. Hephzibah had rehearsed what she’d say to Miss de Vries, when she finally scampered out of the house: the princess had a royal headache, she was royally indisposed, terribly sorry, what a shame... And yet they’d missed something. A letter had gone. Unmistakably, undoubtedly, it had. For here stood a princess of the United Kingdom, in all her state and glory, decked almost carelessly with diamonds, surrounded by courtiers, palace officials, equerries, men in dark overcoats who looked unmistakably like detectives. Clearly, news of this spectacular, unparalleled ball had spread like wildfire; it had billowed out of their control. Where’s Hephzibah? she wondered, growing cold. She should have been controlling this crowd. “All right, love, watch out behind you.” A hand pulled her aside. Winnie smelled something hot and pungent on the air, the whiff of matted fur. Heard the heavy clop of hooves. The decking shuddered. In any other circumstances she might have laughed. But now she felt only panic. Mr. Sanger’s camels came plodding out to greet Cleopatra and the princess. Applause rose up around them. She saw Miss de Vries leaning in to say something to the princess, something humble, something reverent. She saw Lord Ashley beside


he it was; 'but get up and come on, or I'll kick yer, and so I give yer notice.' As Noah's red nose grew redder with anger, and as he crossed the road while speaking, as if fully prepared to put his threat into execution, the woman rose without any further remark, and trudged onward by his side. 'Where do you mean to stop for the night, Noah?' she asked, after they had walked a few hundred yards. 'How should I know?' replied Noah, whose temper had been considerably impaired by walking. 'Near, I hope,' said Charlotte. 'No, not near,' replied Mr. Claypole. 'There! Not near; so don't think it.' 'Why not?' 'When I tell yer that I don't mean to do a thing, that's enough, without any why or because either,' replied Mr. Claypole with dignity. 'Well, you needn't be so cross,' said his companion. 'A pretty thing it would be, wouldn't it to go and stop at the very first public-house outside the town, so that Sowerberry, if he come up after us, might poke in his old nose, and have us taken back in a cart with handcuffs on,' said Mr. Claypole in a jeering tone. 'No! I shall go and lose myself among the narrowest streets I can find, and not stop till we come to the very out-of-the-wayest house I can set eyes on. 'Cod, yer may thanks yer stars I've got a head; for if we hadn't gone, at first, the wrong road a purpose, and come back across country, yer'd have been locked up hard and fast a week ago, my lady. And serve yer right for being a fool.' 'I know I ain't as cunning as you are,' replied Charlotte; 'but don't put all the blame on me, and say I should have been locked up. You would have been if I had been, any way.' 'Yer took the money from the till, yer know yer did,' said Mr. Claypole. 'I took it for you, Noah, dear,' rejoined Charlotte. 'Did I keep it?' asked Mr. Claypole. 'No; you trusted in me, and let me carry it like a dear, and so you are,' said the lady, chucking him under the chin, and drawing her arm through his. This was indeed the case; but as it was not Mr. Claypole's habit to repose a blind and foolish confidence in anybody, it should be observed, in justice to that gentleman, that he had trusted Charlotte to this extent, in order that, if they were pursued, the money might be found on her: which would leave him an opportunity of asserting his innocence of any theft, and would greatly facilitate his chances of escape. Of course, he entered at this juncture, into no explanation of his motives, and they walked on very lovingly together. In pursuance of this cautious plan, Mr. Claypole went on, without halting, until he arrived at the Angel at Islington, where he wisely judged, from the crowd of passengers and numbers of vehicles, that London began in earnest. Just pausing to observe which


and every look and action had shewn how deeply she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet, heart-felt satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her daughter--who proved even too joyous to talk as usual, had been a gratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene. They were both so truly respectable in their happiness, so disinterested in every sensation; thought so much of Jane; so much of every body, and so little of themselves, that every kindly feeling was at work for them. Miss Fairfax's recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to invite her to an airing; she had drawn back and declined at first, but, on being pressed had yielded; and, in the course of their drive, Mrs. Weston had, by gentle encouragement, overcome so much of her embarrassment, as to bring her to converse on the important subject. Apologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in their first reception, and the warmest expressions of the gratitude she was always feeling towards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily open the cause; but when these effusions were put by, they had talked a good deal of the present and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs. Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief to her companion, pent up within her own mind as every thing had so long been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the subject. "On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment of so many months," continued Mrs. Weston, "she was energetic. This was one of her expressions. `I will not say, that since I entered into the engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:'-- and the quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my heart." "Poor girl!" said Emma. "She thinks herself wrong, then, for having consented to a private engagement?" "Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to blame herself. `The consequence,' said she, `has been a state of perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the punishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct. Pain is no expiation. I never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me ought not to be.' `Do not imagine, madam,' she continued, `that I was taught wrong. Do not let any reflection fall on the principles or the care of the friends who brought me up. The error has been all my own; and I do assure you that, with all the excuse that present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread making the story known to Colonel Campbell.'" "Poor girl!" said Emma again. "She loves him then excessively, I suppose. It must have been from attachment


was very short and very clear. Such things as could be said for him, were said - how he had taken to industrious habits, and had thriven lawfully and reputably. But, nothing could unsay the fact that he had returned, and was there in presence of the Judge and Jury. It was impossible to try him for that, and do otherwise than find him guilty. At that time, it was the custom (as I learnt from my terrible experience of that Sessions) to devote a concluding day to the passing of Sentences, and to make a finishing effect with the Sentence of Death. But for the indelible picture that my remembrance now holds before me, I could scarcely believe, even as I write these words, that I saw two-and-thirty men and women put before the Judge to receive that sentence together. Foremost among the two-and-thirty, was he; seated, that he might get breath enough to keep life in him. The whole scene starts out again in the vivid colours of the moment, down to the drops of April rain on the windows of the court, glittering in the rays of April sun. Penned in the dock, as I again stood outside it at the corner with his hand in mine, were the two-and-thirty men and women; some defiant, some stricken with terror, some sobbing and weeping, some covering their faces, some staring gloomily about. There had been shrieks from among the women convicts, but they had been stilled, a hush had succeeded. The sheriffs with their great chains and nosegays, other civic gewgaws and monsters, criers, ushers, a great gallery full of people - a large theatrical audience - looked on, as the two-and-thirty and the Judge were solemnly confronted. Then, the Judge addressed them. Among the wretched creatures before him whom he must single out for special address, was one who almost from his infancy had been an offender against the laws; who, after repeated imprisonments and punishments, had been at length sentenced to exile for a term of years; and who, under circumstances of great violence and daring had made his escape and been re-sentenced to exile for life. That miserable man would seem for a time to have become convinced of his errors, when far removed from the scenes of his old offences, and to have lived a peaceable and honest life. But in a fatal moment, yielding to those propensities and passions, the indulgence of which had so long rendered him a scourge to society, he had quitted his haven of rest and repentance, and had come back to the country where he was proscribed. Being here presently denounced, he had for a time succeeded in evading the officers of Justice, but being at length seized while in the act of flight, he had resisted them, and had - he best knew whether by express design, or in the blindness of his hardihood - caused the death of his denouncer, to whom his whole career was known. The appointed punishment for his return to the land that had


Alice said. “She’s calmed down. I’m trying not to blow my stack.” “She was wrong about us,” Maud said. “But she was a little bit right.” For the first time since they’d met, Alice looked sad. “She said you told her not to give up on me. I came here to tell you to take that same advice about your own situation. And to say a proper goodbye.” Maud opened her arms, and Alice stepped into them. Maud felt her body resist and then give. Alice let go first. “You’re such a tease,” Alice said. She tapped Clark on the head. “Goodbye, sweetheart.” “Goodbye,” Maud said. “Make sure you leave the plastic on through the fall. It only takes one seed.” She watched them walk away, Clark lumbering at Alice’s side, back to the road, back to the bus, back to Esperanza, out of her life. The next morning, she called the University of Nevada and asked about the summer institute that Gabriel ran near Death Valley. There were daily sessions in the classroom from ten to noon, the receptionist said, and fieldwork in the afternoon. Professor Crews held office hours before his classes. 22 Driving a rental car out of Las Vegas on Thursday afternoon, Maud felt as if she’d landed on another planet. The land was flatter, balder, more elemental than anything she’d seen, as if all the vegetation had been removed with a blowtorch. Sunlight shot through the windshield. On the straight, uncomplicated road, she veered between fear and excitement. She had no idea how this conversation would go, and she wasn’t sure how she wanted it to end. As the road shucked off the city, it collected smaller towns. The mountains rose taller; tumbleweed tripped over sand. A ghost town slumped by, followed by the skeleton of an abandoned uranium mine. She turned in to Beatty, a town of strung-out, rickety buildings, brightened only by a bubblegum-pink billboard for Heaven’s Ladies Brothel. She passed a sign for Yucca Mountain and an RV camp touting natural hot springs. The University of Nevada’s Death Valley Summer Institute had once been a cattle ranch, its barns converted into classrooms. Around a modern cafeteria that gleamed like a spaceship, students sat against the walls, talking in the shade. Maud blasted her face with the air-conditioning and ran her fingers through her hair, then she stepped out into the heat. Gabriel’s office stood at the end of the complex behind a warped and peeling door. When Maud knocked, she heard him say, “Come on in.” He must have been expecting a student. He winced when he saw her on the threshold. They stood in a silence that she knew she should break but couldn’t. Gabriel looked heavier than she remembered, his jaw shadowed by jowls, more of a weary handsome now. “This is my office hour,” he said finally. “Students come by. If you’re staying, could you shut the door, please?” Once, this would have been a joke to tease her about how she was standing there with her hand still on the


through the old men. How easily they are fooled. How trusting they become when she gives them exactly what they want. Last night, as she lay on the bed sleeplessly, she told Aegisthus that he had to trust her. I trust you, he said, reaching for her, pressing his body against hers. She felt his warmth but it wasn’t enough. She wanted him to tear through her skin, to hold her so tightly that she might break. “Throw him into a cell,” she orders, each word as bright as a knife. “Traitor,” Aegisthus says as the guards drag him away again. She keeps her face expressionless, thinking of a stone before it is carved, until his figure disappears beyond the hearth. Silence looms and the elders stare at her. “Agamemnon will return and find his wife loyal and true,” she says. The elders are wide-eyed, watchful. They suddenly fear this is a game or that she has gone mad. Isn’t this what you wanted? For me to be no more than a watchdog, licking the mighty king’s feet? “Give the news to the people in the citadel,” she says. “Agamemnon is sailing back, and the queen readies to welcome him.” Cadmus nods, and so do a few others. “Tell them also how the city was taken. Tell them that Troy was sacked, temples destroyed, priests killed.” The elders frown. There is no greater offense to the gods than to spit on their holy places. “Remind them that Agamemnon and his men come home as true heroes.” She stops for fear that her malice will show between her honeyed words. Cadmus clears his throat. “War has its necessities, my queen.” She smiles. “Of course. But remind the people of what those necessities are.” He nods quickly and takes his leave. The others follow him closely, perhaps not wishing to be left behind. Light comes into the hall, touching the frescoes. She walks past them, tracing the lines of every figure, every painted blade of grass. It hurts her to see that lies come easily to her now. Once, it was decency, courage, goodness. But that was another lifetime. * * * The next morning feels like the hottest day of the year. Electra and Chrysothemis wait patiently as Clytemnestra stands by the window, staring at the citadel while Aileen does her hair. People are running their errands, cleaning and clearing the streets for their king’s arrival. Some men move carts and chests aside, while others pour water on the cobbles. As the crown is placed gently on her head, she turns to her daughters. “You won’t dine with us tonight,” Clytemnestra says. “You will welcome your father and then disappear.” Electra doesn’t answer. She plays with her rings, precious stones on glittering gold. Clytemnestra looks at her daughter’s arm, clean and smooth, then at her own scars. “Guards will be stationed outside your quarters. Whatever happens, do not come out.” Chrysothemis frowns. “Mother?” Her hair is adorned with little gems plaited into each strand and ribbons. Clytemnestra kisses her forehead, her lips barely


inspecting his water glass, and when the server swings by with another tray of appetizers, he quietly, politely asks for a new one. And I don’t miss the way Ethan watches the whole interaction. “What do you hate more?” Bree’s asking. “ ‘This is more of a comment than a question,’ or ‘I have a two-part question’?” Cooper runs a hand across his salt-and-pepper beard. “I don’t think I do enough of these to get too bothered by any of it.” “More of a comment, definitely.” Juliana takes a sip of wine and blots her red lipstick with a napkin. “That one, they always want to bring up some super specific detail, just to make it seem like they know the show better than anyone else.” Ethan shakes his head. “No, no, no. The two-parters are the worst.” “I don’t mind them,” Finn puts in. “Well of course you don’t,” Ethan says. “You practically live at these things. When was the last time you were on a channel that isn’t exclusively watched by grandparents?” With the exception of Hallie, the rest of them laugh, and even in the dim light, I watch Finn’s cheeks turn pink. The conversation moves on to everyone’s current projects. “I’m working on an indie film right now,” Hallie says from across the table. “I’ve been dying to do something with A24, and it’s been an absolute dream.” “What’s it about?” I ask. “It’s about . . . well, there’s this woman, and she feels sort of directionless in her job and her love life.” Hallie frowns for a moment. “I guess there isn’t really that much emphasis on the plot. It’s mostly just vibes.” Bree laughs. “Oh my god, Hallie hates plot.” “It’s true. Give me interesting characters over explosions any day of the week,” she says. “Boise Med is a great paycheck, but it’s not high art, by any means.” Finn gives me an apologetic look, I’m guessing for all the industry talk. And then beneath the table, his hand lands on my leg. Everything in me tightens up. I expect him to move it after a few seconds, for it to be a gentle pat, a hi, I see you kind of gesture. But he doesn’t. And I find myself inching my leg toward him, just as his thumb starts stroking a slow circle on top of the corduroy fabric. “Have you tried the carrots?” Hallie asks, passing me the plate. I decide not to tell her I’ve calculated the price per carrot and that it’s exorbitant. Instead, I smile and take one, and it does, in fact, turn out to be the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. After another round of drinks, Ethan snaps a finger, points it at me. “I just realized where I’ve seen you before. One of the cons.” “Twin Cities,” I put in. “Supercon.” “Right, right,” he says, eyeing me quizzically. “What do you do for Finn, exactly?” “I’m working on a memoir,” Finn says. “Chandler’s ghostwriting it.” At that, Ethan bursts out laughing, silencing every side conversation at


with Rita again next Thursday,” Peter said, already walking away. “I’ll talk to Ella about you coming.” All day, Maud kept checking her phone for a text. Finally, one appeared. Be there for the first half of the session. The weekend dragged by, followed by two more days of picking Louise up from school, taking her to ice cream, and dropping her at the house. Maud kept texting Ella the same phrases every morning and night. Knowing that she would see her soon alleviated some of the terror. “I think you’d better call Mom,” Annette told her as they ate microwaved chicken pot pie out of paper trays. “I’ve been holding her off, but if you don’t, she’s going to show up here tomorrow.” Later, Maud dialed her parents’ number and asked her mother to get her father on the line as well. “I know Annette told you that I’m staying with her for a while,” she said. “She told me you aren’t eating,” her mother said. “I’m eating. It’s been rough.” “Well, make sure that you do,” her mother said. “Low blood sugar runs on your father’s side of the family.” “Hang in there, kid,” her father said. “You and Peter will work it out.” “I don’t know that we will, Dad.” “I guess the world won’t end if you don’t,” her mother said. After hanging up, Maud sat on the couch with the phone in her hand. She was going to disappoint her parents even more than she already had. She was going to be their divorced daughter. And how strange, how humiliating even, that she cared—some old root system like the prayers that came to her mouth in moments of crisis to a God she didn’t believe existed. Thursday morning, she drank three cups of coffee to clear her head and ate the bowl of instant oatmeal that Annette made her force down. In the waiting room at Lone Pines, her heart palpitated whenever the door opened. Finally, Peter and Ella arrived. Ella barely looked over when Maud stood up. “Rita said to go right in,” Peter said. “I’ll wait here.” Maud followed Ella, wanting to touch the back of her arm, smooth the strand of hair that had come loose from her ponytail, grab on to her and not let her go. Sitting across from Rita’s desk, she knotted her hands and waited. “Ella’s written things down to make it easier for her,” Rita said. Ella took a folded piece of paper from the pocket of her sweatshirt. “I thought Gabriel was my friend,” she read aloud. “But then I started to think that you were telling him stuff about me behind my back. You acted strange with him. All jokey and smiley. And I woke up one night to go to the bathroom and you two were sitting outside. I knew you were probably doing that all the time. Then one day when I was at his place, he was in the shower, and he got a text and I read it. It was from you. About


princess, he used a high falsetto voice that reduced them all to tears of helpless laughter, and his eunuchs were always eerily accurate caricatures of Ser Alliser. Jon took as much pleasure from Pyp's antics as anyone . . . yet that night he turned away and went instead to the end of the bench, where Samwell Tarly sat alone, as far from the others as he could get. He was finishing the last of the pork pie the cooks had served up for supper when Jon sat down across from him. The fat boy's eyes widened at the sight of Ghost. "Is that a wolf?" "A direwolf," Jon said. "His name is Ghost. The direwolf is the sigil of my father's House." "Ours is a striding huntsman," Samwell Tarly said. "Do you like to hunt?" The fat boy shuddered. "I hate it." He looked as though he was going to cry again. "What's wrong now?" Jon asked him. "Why are you always so frightened?" Sam stared at the last of his pork pie and gave a feeble shake of his head, too scared even to talk. A burst of laughter filled the hall. Jon heard Pyp squeaking in a high voice. He stood. "Let's go outside." The round fat face looked up at him, suspicious. "Why? What will we do outside?" "Talk," Jon said. "Have you seen the Wall?" "I'm fat, not blind," Samwell Tarly said. "Of course I saw it, it's seven hundred feet high." Yet he stood up all the same, wrapped a furlined cloak over his shoulders, and followed Jon from the common hall, still wary, as if he suspected some cruel trick was waiting for him in the night. Ghost padded along beside them. "I never thought it would be like this," Sam said as they walked, his words steaming in the A GAML OF THRONFS 235 cold air. Already he was huffing and puffing as he tried to keep up. "All the buildings are falling down, and it's so . . . so . . ." "Cold?" A hard frost was settling over the castle, and Jon could hear the soft crunch of grey weeds beneath his boots. Sam nodded miserably. "I hate the cold," he said. "Last night I woke up in the dark and the fire had gone out and I was certain I was going to freeze to death by morning." "It must have been warmer where you come from." "I never saw snow until last month. We were crossing the barrowlands, me and the men my father sent to see me north, and this white stuff began to fall, like a soft rain. At first I thought it was so beautiful, like feathers drifting from the sky, but it kept on and on, until I was frozen to the bone. The men had crusts of snow in their beards and more on their shoulders, and still it kept coming. I was afraid it would never end." Jon smiled. The Wall loomed before them, glimmering palely in the light of the half moon.


and my stomach drops. “But he handed in these recordings, right? He must be cooperating with the police.” Would Carter reveal our plot to save himself? Send me down for his plan? Of course he would. Fool me once… “The thumb drive was submitted anonymously. Dropped off at a precinct in South Seattle. The duty officer didn’t even see who left it there.” “But it had to be him. Who else would have a copy of these recordings?” “Your boyfriend made these tapes to cover his own ass. If he got caught, he’d implicate your husband. A murder for hire is a much lighter sentence than first-degree murder.” The thought of the two men who had used and abused me going down for their plot to kill me elicits a tiny flicker of joy in my chest. But I know it will not be that simple. “Carter either dropped the thumb drive off and disappeared,” Rachelle continues, “or he gave it to a friend. Had them deliver it if Carter got into trouble.” “Is it enough?” I indicate the laptop with its audio files. “To convict my husband?” “Audio recordings are hard to prove. The police can do spectrographic analysis on the voices, but it’s not always conclusive.” I press a hand to my mouth as my heart plummets. We need more evidence. Or Benjamin and Carter are going to get away with it. “The first wife’s death was accidental,” she says dismissively, “but the police have found another ex-client of Mr. Laval’s who says Benjamin solicited him to kill you last year. For twenty grand.” Christ. Was my husband shopping for a deal? “But the guy is a convicted drug dealer and a car thief. He has a serious credibility problem.” “What else do they have?” My throat is tight, my voice high-pitched. “Investigators are still poring over video footage from your home. But it seems only you were recorded. Benjamin doesn’t show up at all.” “He controlled the cameras.” My voice is bitter. “He didn’t want a record of the way he treated me.” Or his encounter with Carter Sumner. Benjamin knew that his hit man had turned on him, that Carter was planning to attack. He’d turned the cameras off that day, and he had lain in wait. But what about Lee? She had entered my home the same day. “Was there anyone else on the cameras?” I ask. “Like who?” “I don’t know.” I won’t bring my friend into this, not if I don’t have to. “Just… anyone?” “No one except Nate Mattias, the security guard.” It is like Lee was never there. The cameras were off. Her fingerprints were in the house but not on record anywhere. And the police don’t know that I’d never had a friend of my own in my home. To them, Lee never existed. She is safe. “They’re looking into his bank records,” Rachelle continues. “They’re hoping to find the cash withdrawals from his cards or accounts. There’s no transaction if there’s no exchange of funds.” “But we heard it on the


to depend on Wi-Fi for it to be viewed. So now, here in the damned bayou, mosquitoes swarming, he waited, hoping beyond hope that one of the two fishermen would locate something out of the ordinary, something he’d missed. In time. The minutes stretched out. Bentz drummed his fingers on the hood. Finally he asked, “You see anything?” The images had been taken in daylight, the drone riding high over the swamp to video the thick vegetation and dark water. A few cabins dotted the meandering shoreline and pelicans skimmed the water looking for fish that rose occasionally. Alligators and egrets, a deer leaping through the shadows appeared as the drone flew. Piers jutted into the water, a scattering of boats, but mainly reeds and brush, exposed roots, alligator nests, and duckweed between the tall, ghostly cypress. Clive complained, “We’ve been over this. Like, what? Five times.” “Take another look,” Bentz encouraged, his frustration mounting. “You know where we are, right, where we’re parked?” “Sure.” Bobby-Dean was nodding, adjusting his cap. He pointed one finger at the screen. “That’s Old Man Ross’s cabin. I recognize his boat.” Clive grunted his agreement. “Yep. And there”—he nodded at the screen—“that’s Dot Miller’s place. It’s just half a mile off Junebug Lane, right by Sugar Corners.” He’d heard that much before. “And what about this?” Bentz asked, feeling a spike in his adrenaline. “Is this—Cyrus Unger’s bait shop?” Scratching his cheek, Clive squinted. “Sure is.” “Uh-huh.” Bobby was nodding. “Yep.” “And what’s that?” Bentz asked, pointing to a cluster of trees at a bend in the water. Nearly covered by brush, it rose like a hill that shouldn’t be in the flat area around the swamp. “Oh—that?” Clive scowled. “Don’t rightly know,” Bobby-Dean said, and slapped at a mosquito that was buzzing near his face. “What you think, Clive?” “Humph.” Clive’s lips curved down as he shook his head. “Not sure. Ain’t no hills out here. Nuh-uh. But maybe an old barn fallen down. Somethin’ like that.” “It’s falling down all right,” Bobby agreed, studying the screen. “Something pretty big. But doesn’t look like a barn. No barn I ever seen. I don’t know.” But he was thinking, his face pulled together and creased, a hand scratching beard stubble. “Can we get a closer look somehow?” “Sure.” Bentz zoomed in, focusing on the mound of the obviously overgrown rubble and wondering why they hadn’t seen the hillock of overgrown, mossy timbers or whatever before. It had been hidden mostly by the canopy of trees. “Oh, I know,” Bobby said, and snapped his fingers as the light dawned in his mind. “Didn’t recognize it from here up top.” He glanced at Clive. “Ain’t that the ruins of the old monastery?” “The what?” Clive stared at the screen. “What’re you talkin’ about?” “A monastery?” Bentz repeated, and felt a little sizzle of adrenaline at the thought of anything Catholic and religious being here. “There’s a monastery here?” “Nothin’ ever came of it.” Bobby looked at his friend. “Don’t you remember? There was talk of it when we


sign up and see terms and conditions. CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox. For Fig I followed you, Muse! Beneath your spell, Oh, la, la, what glorious loves I dreamed! —ARTHUR RIMBAUD, “Wandering” Is there a good kind of hustler? —MAGGIE NELSON, Bluets PROLOGUE IN PRISON, SMALL THINGS MATTER: a pencil, a banana, a packet of ramen. People studying for their GEDs got pencils; bananas were a rare commodity, meaning you had to be rich or smart if you were mashing one into your oatmeal; and ramen was so warm and filling, gave the eater such a sense of reassurance that people would trade cigarettes for it, or pay you to take their GED exams in exchange for five or six packets. You had to purchase the ramen from the commissary and then it would be “released” to you in the chow hall at the end of the meal. The inmates working in the kitchen would heat it up and give it to you in a little bowl with a plastic spoon, and you’d be allowed to take it back to your cell—or, if you were lucky, the TV room—to eat. Plastic spoons could be snapped in half and given rigid edges, so you had to be proven well-behaved to get to use one outside the chow hall. My cellmate once made a gash in someone’s forearm with the end of a plastic fork. He wasn’t allowed any utensils—instead he ate his food with his hands, which worked, because most of the food was congealed into cakey spheres that were easy to pick up and eat in a matter of bites. Unlike him, I had connections. I was eating macaroni and cheese when everyone else was eating meat loaf, brownies when everyone else was eating Jell-O. Everyone was surprised by how well I fared in prison: it was kind of a joke, the little pretty kid is actually the meanest motherfucker in here. But, really, I wasn’t mean, nor was I particularly pretty. I was just focused on doing what I did best. I’d converted another inmate, Tyrell, to the magic of NuLife, and together we’d become business partners, Synthesizing members of the general population in exchange for loosies, ramen, drugs, shower privileges, protection, and sex. We held weekly informational meetings in the library that we pretended were AA meetings, bribing the COs with low-quality molly and oxy to go get high in the stacks and ignore us. We’d rearrange the demeaning twelve-step circle into rows and Tyrell and I would stand at the front, his lanky form towering over mine. Our first meeting was on a Wednesday night directly after chow, in those restless few hours when people tried to get drunk or pick fights before we had to return to our bunks. “What’s NuLife?” Duke, who’d lost an eye in a botched bank robbery, wanted to know. “NuLife


as desire and curiosity and annoying embarrassment mingle together into one powerful, heady thing. And then—Nick is kissing his way down Andy’s chest, and his mouth, his mouth, Andy will never get enough of it. He tries not to think about exactly what’s happening and instead focus on the sensations, but he can’t stop thinking about Nick’s hands, his fingers, how things can be lovely and strange and good and too intense all at once, and how there’s probably a metaphor in there, but he’s too worked up to think straight. So he pushes up on his elbows to watch what Nick’s doing. Nick catches him watching. “Jesus,” he mutters. “Killing me, Andy.” And then Nick is braced over him, whispering things, talking him through it, slowly, slowly breaching him, tense with the effort of holding back. That’s, maybe, when it starts to feel good, when Andy realizes how much work Nick is putting into being gentle. And that’s what’s always done it for Andy, isn’t it, the fact that Nick is just so good to him. He tries to tell him so, but all that comes out is “so good,” which is also true. And then things really start to get good when Nick stops being so gentle. After that, it’s Andy’s mouth on Nick’s shoulder, his hand on Nick’s back, the steady thrum of desire coiling inside him. “Sweetheart,” Nick rasps. Afterward, Nick’s arms are around him, his face in Andy’s hair, and only then does Andy realize that Nick is unusually silent. When he turns his head, he sees a muscle tensing in Nick’s jaw. “Are you all right?” Andy asks. “Jesus Christ, yes.” “I don’t mean your dick, Nicholas. I mean your brain.” Nick snorts at this. “I’m good.” And he kisses Andy long enough that he forgets he had anything to worry about. * * * Andy wakes to an empty bed and a quiet apartment. He doesn’t hear the shower running or the percolator bubbling. He doesn’t hear off-key humming or the sizzle of eggs in a pan. When he gets out of the shower, there’s still no sign of Nick. He probably went out to get the paper and some bagels, like he does most Sunday mornings. But usually he waits until Andy’s awake. Usually he asks if Andy wants to come, because he knows that Andy’s a giant baby about being alone, but he’s too kind to mention it and instead lets Andy tag along on all his errands like a well-behaved dog. Andy is reminding himself that nobody gets mugged or beaten at ten a.m. on a Sunday when he hears the door open. And, sure enough, Nick comes in with a bag of bagels, a couple of Sunday papers, and a stricken expression. “I thought you’d still be asleep.” “I just woke up,” Andy says, which is an obvious lie because he’s standing there in a towel, dripping wet. “I thought about waking you, but you looked . . .” He breaks off, his face doing something complicated. “No, it’s good. I


'em!" "Why, Tom, it'll take all summer." "Well, what of that? Suppose you find a brass pot with a hundred dollars in it, all rusty and gray, or rotten chest full of di'monds. How's that?" Huck's eyes glowed. "That's bully. Plenty bully enough for me. Just you gimme the hundred dollars and I don't want no di'monds." "All right. But I bet you I ain't going to throw off on di'monds. Some of 'em's worth twenty dollars apiece -- there ain't any, hardly, but's worth six bits or a dollar." "No! Is that so?" "Cert'nly -- anybody'll tell you so. Hain't you ever seen one, Huck?" "Not as I remember." "Oh, kings have slathers of them." "Well, I don' know no kings, Tom." "I reckon you don't. But if you was to go to Europe you'd see a raft of 'em hopping around." "Do they hop?" "Hop? -- your granny! No!" "Well, what did you say they did, for?" "Shucks, I only meant you'd see 'em -- not hopping, of course -- what do they want to hop for? -- but I mean you'd just see 'em -- scattered around, you know, in a kind of a general way. Like that old humpbacked Richard." "Richard? What's his other name?" --------------------------------------------------------- -230- "He didn't have any other name. Kings don't have any but a given name." "No?" "But they don't." "Well, if they like it, Tom, all right; but I don't want to be a king and have only just a given name, like a nigger. But say -- where you going to dig first?" "Well, I don't know. S'pose we tackle that old dead-limb tree on the hill t'other side of Still-House branch?" "I'm agreed." So they got a crippled pick and a shovel, and set out on their three-mile tramp. They arrived hot and panting, and threw themselves down in the shade of a neighboring elm to rest and have a smoke. "I like this," said Tom. "So do I." "Say, Huck, if we find a treasure here, what you going to do with your share?" "Well, I'll have pie and a glass of soda every day, and I'll go to every circus that comes along. I bet I'll have a gay time." "Well, ain't you going to save any of it?" "Save it? What for?" "Why, so as to have something to live on, by and by." "Oh, that ain't any use. Pap would come back to thish-yer town some day and get his claws on it --------------------------------------------------------- -231- if I didn't hurry up, and I tell you he'd clean it out pretty quick. What you going to do with yourn, Tom?" "I'm going to buy a new drum, and a sure-'nough sword, and a red necktie and a bull pup, and get married." "Married!" "That's it." "Tom, you -- why, you ain't in your right mind." "Wait -- you'll see." "Well, that's the foolishest thing you could do. Look at pap and my mother. Fight! Why, they used to fight all the time. I remember, mighty well." "That ain't


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

softest breads. “I’m always much too busy for that sort of thing.” Margret blinked. “Then—then there’s never been anyone you fancied?” “Oh, of course,” I said, much relieved that the subject had shifted from Wendell. “There was Leopold—he and I were together a year. We were studying for our doctorates at Cambridge at the same time. He went away to Tübingen afterwards on a fellowship. He asked me to come along, but obviously it was out of the question.” Lilja waited, as if expecting me to go on. “And—that’s it?” When I looked at her blankly, she seemed embarrassed and said, “That’s it. I see.” Margret was not so tactful. “One? That’s it? I’ve been with more men than that, and I don’t even like them. And you’re—” She squinted, clearly attempting to assess my age—the furrow in her brow boded an unfavourable conclusion. Lilja elbowed her. “I suppose I’m just—” I thought it over. “Choosy.” Lilja smiled. “Choosy. I like that.” Margret leaned back with a snort of laughter. “I wish this one had been a little more choosy before I came along.” Lilja kicked her. “Rude.” “You know what else is rude?” Margret leaned towards me. “Burning down a stranger’s barn on account of a broken heart.” “Erika didn’t burn down your barn!” Lilja said. “It’s still standing.” “Thanks to the rainstorm, not her.” To me, Margret added, “Lilja has a habit of romancing madwomen.” “I do not!” “Either that or you turn them mad, then. I suppose I’ll be locked up in due course. Perhaps after I set the village alight.” Lilja threw a tea towel at her. It had the cadence of an old argument, and I found myself laughing along with them. After tea, Margret again invited me down to the tavern, growing quite insistent, in a good-natured way, when I refused. After glancing at me, Lilja put a hand on her arm. “That’s all right,” she said. “We should be getting home anyway. My mother likes us to help with the supper.” She paused. “Why don’t I come round tomorrow for another lesson? I think with a little more instruction, you’ll be a natural. If you can fit it in among your research?” I assured her that I could—I was surprised by how much I’d enjoyed the experience, as well as their company, particularly as it had not involved the company of a dozen others. She gave me another warm smile, and she and Margret departed. 26th November I spent most of the day poring over my notes and rereading my journal, unable to focus on either the paper or my encyclopaedia, still beset by the certainty that I was missing something. I turned eventually to my books, in particular those collections of ancient faerie stories in various iterations that dryadologists love more than anything to debate—which version should be given primacy; whether similar tales told in differing regions share a primogenitor. Bambleby had absconded again, and I was left to my fretting until past midday, when there came a knock on the door. Expecting Lilja


up and down, but Bastian paid no mind to their warnings. His eyes stayed locked on Lore’s as he reached up, slowly wiped blood from his split lip. Got you, he mouthed. Then Michal’s fist crashed into the side of Bastian’s head. The Sun Prince went down. Silence. Michal looked almost surprised, glancing first at his fist, and then into the crowd, like he was searching for whatever had so distracted his opponent. And he found it. Those familiar blue eyes widened. “Lore?” Michal’s mouth kept working, spitting questions, but they were drowned out in the roar of the crowd. The hay-bale ring broke as people rushed forward to congratulate him, and Michal was borne away by well-wishers, shock still stark on his face. Next to her, Gabe wore nearly the same expression. “Bleeding God and Buried Goddess,” he cursed, whirling from the crowd to face Lore. “Who was—” “An old friend.” Bastian was next to them, sneaking up soundless as a cat. The side of his face was bleeding, but he was smiling, that new knife-smile that made all Lore’s insides cold. He held his shirt, but instead of putting it on, he used it to wipe up the blood. “If you’ll excuse us.” He gripped Lore’s arm tight and hauled her forward, and she had no choice but to follow as the Sun Prince led her into the dark, leaving Gabriel behind, shouting and blocked by the crowd. CHAPTER NINETEEN A secret is a flame, and it cannot burn forever. —Auverrani proverb It only took a moment for Lore to start struggling, pulling against Bastian’s inexorable grip with curses that a duke’s cousin surely wouldn’t know. But that didn’t matter, not anymore. Michal had recognized her, and now Bastian knew who she was. What she was. Lore twisted, trying to haul herself away, but Bastian pulled her on, toward the mouth of another narrow alley as the shouts of the crowd dimmed behind them. No dagger, and she’d be no match for the Sun Prince in strength. Mortem was all she had. And though she wasn’t sure what she could do with it, in the absence of a dead body to raise, there had to be something. Lore held her breath and waited for her vision to go grayscale, for her fingers to turn necrotic and cold. But it didn’t happen. Instead there was a spark. A flash behind her eyes. The baked, heated scent of high-summer air, so close she expected a singeing. It collided with the sense of Mortem, familiar and empty, nothingness so compacted it had presence and mass. The two conflicting energies felt, for a moment, like they might tear her apart. Bastian stopped. His grip on her arm didn’t loosen, but she felt his fingers spasm. Then it was gone, so quickly it could’ve been the start of an aborted panic attack. She could still feel the Mortem surrounding them, but she couldn’t see it, couldn’t channel it. Her vision would not change to the monotone that showed her life and death; the threads would


a peep of starlight, now here, now there. Oftener than any other object, these glimpses illuminate the Judge's face. But here comes more effectual light. Observe that silvery dance upon the upper branches of the pear-tree, and now a little lower, and now on the whole mass of boughs, while, through their shifting intricacies, the moonbeams fall aslant into the room. They play over the Judge's figure and show that he has not stirred throughout the hours of darkness. They follow the shadows, in changeful sport, across his unchanging features. They gleam upon his watch. His grasp conceals the dial-plate,--but we know that the faithful hands have met; for one of the city clocks tells midnight. A man of sturdy understanding, like Judge Pyncheon, cares no more for twelve o'clock at night than for the corresponding hour of noon. However just the parallel drawn, in some of the preceding pages, between his Puritan ancestor and himself, it fails in this point. The Pyncheon of two centuries ago, in common with most of his contemporaries, professed his full belief in spiritual ministrations, although reckoning them chiefly of a malignant character. The Pyncheon of to-night, who sits in yonder arm-chair, believes in no such nonsense. Such, at least, was his creed, some few hours since. His hair will not bristle, therefore, at the stories which--in times when chimney-corners had benches in them, where old people sat poking into the ashes of the past, and raking out traditions like live coals--used to be told about this very room of his ancestral house. In fact, these tales are too absurd to bristle even childhood's hair. What sense, meaning, or moral, for example, such as even ghost-stories should be susceptible of, can be traced in the ridiculous legend, that, at midnight, all the dead Pyncheons are bound to assemble in this parlor? And, pray, for what? Why, to see whether the portrait of their ancestor still keeps its place upon the wall, in compliance with his testamentary directions! Is it worth while to come out of their graves for that? We are tempted to make a little sport with the idea. Ghost-stories are hardly to be treated seriously any longer. The family-party of the defunct Pyncheons, we presume, goes off in this wise. First comes the ancestor himself, in his black cloak, steeple-hat, and trunk-breeches, girt about the waist with a leathern belt, in which hangs his steel-hilted sword; he has a long staff in his hand, such as gentlemen in advanced life used to carry, as much for the dignity of the thing as for the support to be derived from it. He looks up at the portrait; a thing of no substance, gazing at its own painted image! All is safe. The picture is still there. The purpose of his brain has been kept sacred thus long after the man himself has sprouted up in graveyard grass. See! he lifts his ineffectual hand, and tries the frame. All safe! But is that a smile?--is it not, rather a frown of deadly import, that darkens over


you going to tell the developers?” Rich finally asked. “I want to be prepared because once you say yes, I’m going to be bombarded again.” He paused, as if deciding whether to remind me. “Plus, there’s the staffing issue…” “I know, Rich. I know. And I really am sorry.” Rock Springs and Holly Springs shared several executive-level employees. Not only would I lose the camp, but at least two of them would lose their jobs. I wrapped the phone cord around my finger. How would I reacclimate to a world that had moved past corded phones, to a world where decent cell service was always a thing? The developers offered to leave me two acres to build my dream house. But I couldn’t stay, looking out over the water at this place that had stolen my heart and watch it change irreparably, go from rustic cabins to condos or whatever other travesty they’d build here. “Daphne is hosting a bachelorette party here this weekend. I’ll tell the girls then and the developers after that.” “You must be devastated, June. I wish I could help.” Rich cleared his throat. “But I hope the party lifts your spirits. Who’s, um, Daphne having down?” Rich was trying to sound casual, but anyone who knew him would know who he was asking about. I laughed. “Mary Stuart… Lanier…” I paused. “It’s actually Lanier’s bachelorette party,” I said gently. “Oh,” he sputtered. “I had no idea.” He paused. “Well, then, I’m happy for her.” “You sound it.” We both laughed, and the normalcy of the conversation was a balm for my heart, which felt so very battered this morning. “I’m sorry, June. I really am. The relationship between our camps for all these years has been really special, and I hate to lose it.” “Yes,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “But can you imagine if this had gone the other way? If the girls’ camp couldn’t have dances with the boys’ camp anymore, it would have ruined us! The boys will be relieved for another night of no girls allowed.” Rich laughed. “I think the boys will be sorrier than they let on. Some special matches were made at those dances.” As we said our goodbyes, it hit me that he might have been talking about himself and Lanier. And everything inside me ached for him. Rich had dated in the years after he and Lanier broke up, of course. But I had a feeling that his crazy schedule made it impossible for him to really get to know anyone on a deeper level. Even still, he seemed happy. I knew what it was to choose camp over a traditional family. Rich had made the same choice. For almost three decades I had believed it was the right one. But now, staring down the barrel of being alone, my life’s purpose taken from me at fifty years old, I wasn’t so sure. I had imagined growing old here, handing the camp over to a new executive director but staying on to dry the tears of


it out slowly. “But I have to try. And I promise you, that if we succeed, I’ll do everything I can to help you. You hurt. You killed. But you’re more than what the Blue Fairy showed you to be. The same with my father. I’m not scared of him. I’m not scared of you.” “You sh-should be.” “I’ve made my choice.” He squeezed Hap’s arm. “I need you to make yours. You’re not a puppet. Not anymore. Your strings have been cut. You’re free, Hap.” He pushed himself up the wall, limbs heavy. He started toward the bed. He stopped when Hap grabbed his hand. He looked down. Hap said, “You k-kissed me.” Vic flushed. He couldn’t stop it. He’d half hoped Hap had forgotten. “Yeah. Uh. I guess I did.” “Why?” He shrugged awkwardly. He wished Hap would let him go. He didn’t try to pull away. “Because I wanted to. Because I needed to remind you that you aren’t HARP.” “I’m Hap,” he whispered. “Yeah. You’re Hap.” “I f-felt it. I was l-lost in blood. You found me. Again.” Vic turned his hand, thumb brushing against Hap’s. “Something to it, I think. Maybe I was meant to find you. Before and now.” Hap looked away. Vic thought that was the end of the conversation. He was about to leave Hap to it when he changed everything. He said, “C-can … can you d-do it again?” Vic closed his eyes. “Is that what you want?” “I am choosing,” Hap said slowly, each word sounding as if it was punched from his chest. “I am making my own choice. I don’t have strings.” Vic pulled his hand away. Hap didn’t try to stop him. He took a step toward the bed. Stopped, because he had to. He wanted to. It was his choice, and he turned around, sinking to his knees in front of Hap. For his part, Hap gripped his knees tightly even as he tracked Vic’s every movement. Vic said, “Hello.” Hap said, “I—” Vic kissed him. There, in Heaven, in the City of Electric Dreams. It wasn’t like the first time. There wasn’t death and destruction raining down around them, a Blue Fairy looking on behind their mask. It was just the two of them, Vic’s hands in his own lap, Hap’s hands curling into fists. Vic was electrified, the hairs on his arms standing on end. They barely moved, their lips pressed together. Hap tasted of cold steel. Vic pulled away, but only just. He leaned his forehead against Hap’s, their eyes mere inches away. Hap said, “I … like it.” Vic exhaled sharply. “Okay.” “I l-like you.” “You do?” No one had ever said that to him before. “How do you know?” “You’re annoying.” “Gee, thanks. That’s what I want to hear after I—” “You’re h-human.” “Glad you caught on to that—” “But I choose you.” Vic swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Yeah?” “Yes.” Hap didn’t argue when Vic took him by the hand once more, pulling him up. He didn’t speak as Vic


toes.' [later editions continued as follows When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark, And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark, But, when the tide rises and sharks are around, His voice has a timid and tremulous sound.] `That's different from what I used to say when I was a child,' said the Gryphon. `Well, I never heard it before,' said the Mock Turtle; `but it sounds uncommon nonsense.' Alice said nothing; she had sat down with her face in her hands, wondering if anything would EVER happen in a natural way again. `I should like to have it explained,' said the Mock Turtle. `She can't explain it,' said the Gryphon hastily. `Go on with the next verse.' `But about his toes?' the Mock Turtle persisted. `How COULD he turn them out with his nose, you know?' `It's the first position in dancing.' Alice said; but was dreadfully puzzled by the whole thing, and longed to change the subject. `Go on with the next verse,' the Gryphon repeated impatiently: `it begins "I passed by his garden."' Alice did not dare to disobey, though she felt sure it would all come wrong, and she went on in a trembling voice:-- `I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye, How the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie--' [later editions continued as follows The Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat, While the Owl had the dish as its share of the treat. When the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon, Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon: While the Panther received knife and fork with a growl, And concluded the banquet--] `What IS the use of repeating all that stuff,' the Mock Turtle interrupted, `if you don't explain it as you go on? It's by far the most confusing thing I ever heard!' `Yes, I think you'd better leave off,' said the Gryphon: and Alice was only too glad to do so. `Shall we try another figure of the Lobster Quadrille?' the Gryphon went on. `Or would you like the Mock Turtle to sing you a song?' `Oh, a song, please, if the Mock Turtle would be so kind,' Alice replied, so eagerly that the Gryphon said, in a rather offended tone, `Hm! No accounting for tastes! Sing her "Turtle Soup," will you, old fellow?' The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and began, in a voice sometimes choked with sobs, to sing this:-- `Beautiful Soup, so rich and green, Waiting in a hot tureen! Who for such dainties would not stoop? Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup! Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup! Beau--ootiful Soo--oop! Beau--ootiful Soo--oop! Soo--oop of the e--e--evening, Beautiful, beautiful Soup! `Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish, Game, or any other dish? Who would not give all else for two p ennyworth only of beautiful Soup? Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup? Beau--ootiful Soo--oop! Beau--ootiful Soo--oop! Soo--oop of the e--e--evening, Beautiful, beauti--FUL SOUP!' `Chorus again!' cried the Gryphon, and the Mock Turtle had just begun to repeat it, when a


Calloways? Give them a chance to get stronger. Let them get to know you and love you like I do, and they’ll be right happy to help you. They can’t do that if Lady Calloway dies of heartbreak.” Lucy groaned. Leave it to Rebecca to find something even more guilt-inducing. “You’re saying the truth might kill Lady Calloway?” When Rebecca shrugged, Lucy pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes. “I can’t take this pressure, Rebecca. Why couldn’t it have been you who was mistaken for his betrothed?” “Because I wasn’t raised by a gentleman. And you deserve this life, Lucy. Even if it’s just for a few days.” As she folded her arms around herself, Lucy looked around the room that already felt more familiar than her little bedchamber back with the Grangers. How was that possible? “What time is it anyway?” “Nighttime.” Lucy scowled, but she was glad Rebecca was here with her. Without a friend, she might have fallen to pieces hours ago. “How can I possibly go along with this? Pretend I am Mr. Calloway’s intended? I could never act like a lady.” “You spent the last five years turning those horrible Granger girls into respectable ladies,” Rebecca argued. “And your father was a gentleman, even if he was poor. You simply have to be yourself, and the family will love you.” “I don’t want them to love me,” Lucy argued. “I just don’t want them to hate me when they inevitably figure it out. I want them to help me if they can.” And they would never do that if they thought she was a stranger who had lied to them. But if they knew her? Knew she had no intention of causing them harm? Perhaps, given some time, they would trust her enough to protect her. Surely no harm would come to the family from sheltering her. Was she really considering Rebecca’s plan? She was, and she felt awful about it. But a few lies here and there were certainly preferable to being the cause of Lady Calloway dying of heartbreak. And if it would keep her away from Mr. Granger’s obsession with her . . . it could be her only way to keep herself safe from the man. Sighing, Lucy rose to her feet and wrapped her blanket around her shoulders once more. “We are going to visit Mr. Calloway,” she announced. She might as well practice giving Rebecca orders; she would need the help of a lady’s maid if she was going to convince anyone that she belonged there. She hadn’t made any decisions yet, but it would be better to be prepared. “You will come with me to prevent any scandal.” Rebecca’s eyes went wide. “But it is far too late!” “Indeed. Come along.” By the time they found the right room, Lucy’s nerves had risen to an almost unbearable degree. Pretending or no, a man’s sickroom was hardly the sort of place she should be in the middle of the night. But she wanted to gain Mr. Calloway’s opinion of


lonely. Weak and needy,” my husband explains. “You’ll have her under your thumb in no time.” “So, what, do I just walk up to her and ask her out?” Carter queries. “I mean, where would I even meet a woman like Hazel?” “I’ll get you a job at her gym,” Benjamin offers. “I know the owner. And clearly you know a thing or two about working out.” “Thanks.” Carter takes it as a compliment. “Not much else to do inside.” “Hazel will fall for you,” my husband assures him. “You’re strong, good-looking, and you’ll pay attention to her. That’s all she wants. And if you’re dating her, it’ll be easier to get her out on the water.” “You want me to drown her?” Carter sounds oddly pleased with the suggestion. “I’ll provide a boat. And these…” I hear the crinkling of a plastic bag. “I took a couple of her prescription pills. You can crush them up in her drink.” “Two Xanax and two sleeping pills?” The sound of the plastic is louder in Carter’s hand. “Is that enough?” “I don’t want this to look like an intentional overdose. And this is more than enough to make her weak and groggy,” Benjamin assures him. “When she’s starting to nod off, toss her in. The water’s cold.” I hear the smile in his voice. “Hazel will never wake up.” I reach for the wastepaper basket and vomit into it. Lee saved my life that day. I thought she’d disrupted my plan, destroyed my future, but if I had gotten into that boat with Jesse, I’d be dead. I am only alive because of her. Rachelle Graham gets up, retrieves a tissue box from a credenza. “There’s more,” she says. “But maybe that’s enough for today.” “No.” I wipe my mouth with a tissue. “Keep going.” Her lips are pressed together in a grim line as she clicks the trackpad. “Sounds easy enough,” Carter says brightly. “And if you want me to bang your hot wife, that’s a bonus.” There is some more banter about logistics: the boat, the timing, Benjamin’s schedule. I hear the exchange of money happen—the twenty-five thousand in cash. And then the recording stops. “There’s another file,” Rachelle says, but there is a coolness in her tone. When I meet her eyes, they have hardened against me. What has she concluded about my relationship with Carter Sumner? I feel nauseous and jittery, terrified of what I’m about to hear next, but there is no point in delaying it. “Play it,” I say. This time, Carter’s voice emerges from the speakers first. “You were right…” There is a chuckle in his voice. “She’s totally fallen for me. I think she’s in love.” “I’m not surprised,” my husband says, his words dripping disdain. “She thinks we’re running away together,” Carter says. “That we’re going to have a future.” I feel the weight of my lawyer’s eyes on me, but I don’t meet them. She knows I’m a liar now. A cheater. My gaze is locked onto the shiny surface of the table,


or playing somebody’s nameless single-episode love interest? Imagine risking prison time for the chance to play Impotent Guy or Roller-Skating Man for seven onscreen minutes. First of all, thank you, sir, for calling me “miss,” I am forty-three. But also, even a cursory glance at my silly Instagram grid of shitty memes, pictures of my dog’s costumed shame, and books I’ve read a quarter of the way through should have let homeboy know on sight that I am not the person making executive casting decisions on this iconic television program. That daunting task is reserved for my father, Mr. HBO Max. The second message, sent by a woman with a private profile whose tortured, bleached-blond hair in her profile picture looked extremely stressed out, went something like this: “hey u fuckin bitch if u put carrie back with aiden [sic] and ruin my favorite show i’ll fucking kill u.” Um, okay? My kingdom for this murderous threat to become a reality! I would love to die, and I especially would love to die at the hands of this deranged woman over the choices a fictional character I did not invent makes on a show that is not real regarding a man who absolutely does not exist. My funeral would be such a party, because I am a funny and likable person, plus my murder would probably be splashed across the tabloids in a sleazy John Hinckley Jr. kind of way, and people would want to be seen mourning me. Maybe Sarah Jessica Parker would come! The internet is so gross, I wish I never had to look at anything scary or weird or mean on there, but my sincerest wish is that one day it will evolve to the point where none of its more brain-poisoned, terminally online denizens could talk to me without having to first upload their verified state-issued identification so I know exactly who I’m out here dealing with. I’ll do mine! I would love to!!!!! You know why? Because I don’t threaten to murder strangers online, and if the FBI needed to trace a meme I’d reposted of a repost of a repost without proper attribution back to me, that’s cool and I’d happily pay the fine to Sad Kermit for my crimes. I had to deactivate my Twitter for my sanity’s sake because everyone has incurable fucking brain worms, and I saw someone whom I’d previously thought to be a very smart lady criticize a promotional photo from the forthcoming And Just Like That…series I had been working on for months in a tweet that went something like, “this show looks so bad, Miranda has a child, she would never wear white pants” and I felt my fingers start to itch as I attempted to simply scroll past as if I did not see it. I try to conduct myself decently on social media because (1) drama is boring and (2) they make you upload your driver’s license to get verified and I don’t know enough about how IP addresses work to feel comfortable making a burner.


allow anyone in the servants’ quarters to hear any creaking footsteps overhead. Winnie had purchased an enormous number of Turkish carpets, which some of Mrs. Bone’s men delivered at night by vaulting over the walls. The tallest gave Jane-two a wink when he landed at her feet. “You did that rather well,” she said, appraising him. “I do lots of things rather well,” he replied, appraising her right back. “Moira,” gasped Jane-one, staggering under the weight of the carpet rolls. “For pity’s sake.” They were nearly caught the following night, lifting crates up to the attics, ready to be packed up on the night of the ball. Two of the under-footmen were still awake long after lights out. They’d cracked open their window, smoking contraband cigarettes, talking in hushed tones. Jane-two had to make a low whistle, her best impression of an owl. By then at least two dozen of the hired men were already crawling over the roof of the mews house to gain access to the garden and the eastern side of the house. They froze on their haunches, not moving until the footmen blew their lights out and the window juddered closed. But otherwise the servants paid the Janes no mind. Cook had a good deal of violent and offensive opinions, but the Janes knew their rights: they’d been hired on as house-parlormaids—they sat outside her jurisdiction. The under-footmen were either too superior or too gauche to talk to girls. The head footman was very beautiful, but the Janes were never swayed by beauty. The other housemaids smoked, monitored their tea rations, took in the illustrated papers and avoided their chores when they could get away with it. A bevy of new servants came in daily, in expectation of the ball. Waiters, clock winders, glass cleaners, mechanics, a man with a splendid toupee who specialized in topiary. In other words, the Janes blurred entirely into the background. “This is going to be easy,” said Jane-one. “Too easy,” said Jane-two. “And note that down in the log. An assumption made is a day’s delay.” Jane-one rolled her eyes, but she complied. They only encountered Mrs. Bone when they crossed the kitchen. She was always caught in some degrading position, struggling with a mop and bucket, usually on her hands and knees, utterly subjected to the tyranny of Cook. “Cup of tea, girls, I beg you,” she whispered when they found her scrubbing the pantry floor, hands blistering from lime solution, eyes wild and bloodshot. “I’m gasping.” “Sorry, Mrs. Bone,” they said. “We can’t be seen to be fraternizing with you.” Alice Parker was permanently ensconced in Madam’s rooms, sewing all day. “Now, girls,” said Winnie, when she sneaked around for the daily report, “Mrs. King says you have an objection to Alice. Tell me what the matter is. We can’t have discord in our ranks.” “We do not wish to mistrust Alice Parker,” said Jane-two gravely, “but we do.” “But it’s illogical. She’s done nothing wrong.” Jane-one sighed. “She never comes down for dinner. She stays upstairs, mooning over Madam


here,” said Merry, still feeling bated breath. The terror of the dead buccaneer had fallen on round among the bones; “not a copper doit nor a baccy box. their spirits. It don’t look nat’ral to me.” Contents “No, by gum, it don’t,” agreed Silver; “not nat’ral, nor not nice, says you. Great guns! Messmates, but if Flint was Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 266 267 in the brush. Not a man, not a sail, upon the sea; the very largeness of the view increased the sense of solitude. Silver, as he sat, took certain bearings with his compass. “There are three ‘tall trees’” said he, “about in the right line from Skeleton Island. ‘Spy-glass shoulder,’ I take it, means that lower p’int there. It’s child’s play to find the stuff now. I’ve half a mind to dine first.” “I don’t feel sharp,” growled Morgan. “Thinkin’ o’ Flint— I think it were—as done me.” “Ah, well, my son, you praise your stars he’s dead,” said Chapter 32. Silver. The Treasure-hunt—The Voice Among the Trees. “He were an ugly devil,” cried a third pirate with a shud- der; “that blue in the face too!” Partly from the damping influence of this alarm, partly to “That was how the rum took him,” added Merry. “Blue! rest Silver and the sick folk, the whole party sat down as soon Well, I reckon he was blue. That’s a true word.” as they had gained the brow of the ascent. Ever since they had found the skeleton and got upon this The plateau being somewhat tilted towards the west, this train of thought, they had spoken lower and lower, and they spot on which we had paused commanded a wide prospect on had almost got to whispering by now, so that the sound of either hand. Before us, over the tree- tops, we beheld the their talk hardly interrupted the silence of the wood. All of a Cape of the Woods fringed with surf; behind, we not only sudden, out of the middle of the trees in front of us, a thin, looked down upon the anchorage and Skeleton Island, but high, trembling voice struck up the well-known air and words: saw—clear across the spit and the eastern lowlands—a great “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest— Yo-ho-ho, and a field of open sea upon the east. Sheer above us rose the Spy- bottle of rum!” I never have seen men more dreadfully affected than the Contents glass, here dotted with single pines, there black with preci- pices. There was no sound but that of the distant breakers, pirates. The colour went from their six faces like enchant- mounting from all round, and the chirp of countless insects ment; some leaped to their feet, some clawed hold of others; Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 268 269 Morgan grovelled on the ground. “That fixes it!” gasped one. “Let’s go.” “It’s Flint, by ——!” cried Merry. “They was his last words,” moaned Morgan, “his last words The song had stopped as suddenly as it began—broken above board.” off, you would


more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear the first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her disapprobation. ____ In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing it was extreme. She did not fear her father's opposition, but he was going to be made unhappy; and that it should be through her means -- that _she_, his favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be filling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her -- was a wretched reflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when, looking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes he approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while pretending to admire her work said in a whisper, ``Go to your father, he wants you in the library.'' She was gone directly. Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious. ``Lizzy,'' said he, ``what are you doing? Are you out of your senses, to be accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?'' How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been more reasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have spared her from explanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give; but they were now necessary, and she assured him, with some confusion, of her attachment to Mr. Darcy. ``Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to be sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane. But will they make you happy?'' ``Have you any other objection,'' said Elizabeth, ``than your belief of my indifference?'' ``None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but this would be nothing if you really liked him.'' ``I do, I do like him,'' she replied, with tears in her eyes, ``I love him. Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not know what he really is; then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in such terms.'' ``Lizzy,'' said her father, ``I have given him my consent. He is the kind of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse any thing, which he condescended to ask. I now give it to _you_, if you are resolved on having him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know your disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband; unless you looked up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape discredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing _you_ unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are about.'' Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply; and at


and earnest. Láyí was right about Mọ́tárá. Their parents had spoilt the girl rotten and now she was incapable of considering the impact of her actions on other people. How could she think it was justifiable to disrupt their mother’s birthday by making a scene? Ruining a birthday party that for Yèyé represented how far she had travelled, all she had accomplished and survived in her life. How could Mọ́tárá not recognise that this was probably the most important moment in their mother’s life? This orphaned child telling her world, Look at me now. Mọ́tárá existed in a bubble where she did whatever she wanted without consequence. Of course she could not begin to fathom what it would mean for everyone if Wúràọlá left Kúnlé. As they walked through the hospital corridors together, Wúràọlá and Kúnlé ran into several people who knew one of their parents or all four of them. Only one man, a professor who had just returned from a sabbatical in Saudi Arabia, did not already know about their engagement. Kúnlé immediately introduced her to the man as his wife-to-be. “Why don’t you just say fiancée?” Wúràọlá put her key in the lock. Kúnlé shrugged as they entered her tiny flat. “I’m just so excited.” She walked straight into the bedroom. The exhaustion she’d been staving off since noon had begun to set in. Wúràọlá longed to collapse on the bed as soon as she stepped into the room, but she forced herself to take off her clothes. She was in her underwear when Kúnlé brought her a glass of water. “Thank you.” She gave him the empty cup then flopped into her bed. “Could you help me to switch on the fan?” “Of course.” Yes. Of course. No problem. Kúnlé had become so yielding and solicitous since her mother’s birthday. After he switched on the standing fan, he lay beside her and placed a hand on her stomach. He had also become clingy. His hand sought out her body at every opportunity. He caressed her and ran his fingers across her skin, his touch so featherlight, it was almost imperceptible. They had not made love since that day. Though his eyes brimmed with longing, he held himself back, paying penance. She sensed that he was waiting for her to give him permission by initiating lovemaking, but Wúràọlá felt no desire. Had felt none since he slapped her. It was like this each time he’d struck her. Any yearning for him would disappear for days before returning with a force that surprised her. She traced his moustache with a finger. It was so thin it looked like something drawn in with a pencil. “Do you want me to massage your shoulders?” he asked. She rolled over onto her stomach and shut her eyes. He began kneading her flesh. “Do you have some stew?” “No. Why?” “I could boil rice for you or make ẹ̀bà.” He did not want to lose her. Their love gave his life meaning. What they had was special. Neither of them could re-create it with


in; but nothing else was there. 'Well!' he said, looking to his bag, 'having seen you tonight, Mas'r Davy (and that doos me good!), I shall away betimes tomorrow morning. You have seen what I've got heer'; putting his hand on where the little packet lay; 'all that troubles me is, to think that any harm might come to me, afore that money was give back. If I was to die, and it was lost, or stole, or elseways made away with, and it was never know'd by him but what I'd took it, I believe the t'other wureld wouldn't hold me! I believe I must come back!' He rose, and I rose too; we grasped each other by the hand again, before going out. 'I'd go ten thousand mile,' he said, 'I'd go till I dropped dead, to lay that money down afore him. If I do that, and find my Em'ly, I'm content. If I doen't find her, maybe she'll come to hear, sometime, as her loving uncle only ended his search for her when he ended his life; and if I know her, even that will turn her home at last!' As he went out into the rigorous night, I saw the lonely figure flit away before us. I turned him hastily on some pretence, and held him in conversation until it was gone. He spoke of a traveller's house on the Dover Road, where he knew he could find a clean, plain lodging for the night. I went with him over Westminster Bridge, and parted from him on the Surrey shore. Everything seemed, to my imagination, to be hushed in reverence for him, as he resumed his solitary journey through the snow. I returned to the inn yard, and, impressed by my remembrance of the face, looked awfully around for it. It was not there. The snow had covered our late footprints; my new track was the only one to be seen; and even that began to die away (it snowed so fast) as I looked back over my shoulder. CHAPTER 41 DORA'S AUNTS At last, an answer came from the two old ladies. They presented their compliments to Mr. Copperfield, and informed him that they had given his letter their best consideration, 'with a view to the happiness of both parties' - which I thought rather an alarming expression, not only because of the use they had made of it in relation to the family difference before-mentioned, but because I had (and have all my life) observed that conventional phrases are a sort of fireworks, easily let off, and liable to take a great variety of shapes and colours not at all suggested by their original form. The Misses Spenlow added that they begged to forbear expressing, 'through the medium of correspondence', an opinion on the subject of Mr. Copperfield's communication; but that if Mr. Copperfield would do them the favour to call, upon a certain day (accompanied, if he thought proper, by a confidential friend), they would be happy to hold some conversation on the subject.


said Hephzibah severely, “and we forget, all too often, they are first and foremost a family. The first family in the land, bound as tightly in blood and bond as any—” she paused, casting around for the right words “—tradesman and his daughter.” Miss de Vries took this flank attack with a thin smile. “Indeed.” “So her safety is of paramount importance. We have our own policemen at the palace, you understand.” The moment stretched, longer and longer. And then, at last, Miss de Vries said, “They should feel free to look around, if it would help things.” “Thank you,” said Hephzibah, setting her cup down with a clatter. “If a few of your people clear out, give them a few rooms to stay in, then I am sure that would suffice.” Miss de Vries looked uncertain. “You mean...” “On the night of your party. We would want our own men in the house.” Miss de Vries laid down her cup. “Is it likely that the princess will attend, Your Grace?” Hephzibah drew on the strength of all duchesses past and present, the specters of great ladies living and dead. She sat up straight and said, “Miss de Vries. I would no more presume to predict the movements of Her Royal Highness than to divine the direction of the winds. But I am willing to put in a word, if you’re able to oblige me.” Miss de Vries’s gaze narrowed, suspicious. “If I can, Your Grace.” Hephzibah smiled. “It’s quite remarkable, the expenses people incur, ferrying Their Royal Highnesses from one engagement to another. If there’s anything that can be done to ease the burden for us...” Miss de Vries’s face closed, as if she’d disappeared behind a screen. “She’ll hate it,” Mrs. King had said, “being treated like a piggy bank. It’s everything she despises. But she’ll need to see a sign of weakness. She needs to feel she’s in control.” “I am, of course, willing to defray expenses,” Miss de Vries said coldly. “If that is necessary.” “Too kind,” said Hephzibah. “And tell me,” she said, getting to her feet, heart hammering, almost done. “Who else is coming? I’ve been asking and asking, and I can’t for the life of me uncover a single soul who’s accepted.” Two spots of color formed in Miss de Vries’s cheeks, but she maintained her composure. “I shall have someone send you a list directly,” she said. Hephzibah leaned in, as close as she dared. “Leave it to me,” she said. “I’ll rustle up a good crowd for you. Everybody does exactly as I tell them.” She saw it for a second: the extraordinary relief and anger in Miss de Vries’s eyes, the reminder that she had to simply pay her way to the top. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said in a low voice. “Good day to you,” Hephzibah shouted—and she got out of that room at top speed, so she could take a lungful of air, so she could breathe. 19 The day before the ball Sunday dawned hotter than anyone could


or love, without tears. What a glorious creature must he have been in the days of his prosperity, when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin! He seems to feel his own worth and the greatness of his fall. "When younger," said he, "I believed myself destined for some great enterprise. My feelings are profound, but I possessed a coolness of judgment that fitted me for illustrious achievements. This sentiment of the worth of my nature supported me when others would have been oppressed, for I deemed it criminal to throw away in useless grief those talents that might be useful to my fellow creatures. When I reflected on the work I had completed, no less a one than the creation of a sensitive and rational animal, I could not rank myself with the herd of common projectors. But this thought, which supported me in the commencement of my career, now serves only to plunge me lower in the dust. All my speculations and hopes are as nothing, and like the archangel who aspired to omnipotence, I am chained in an eternal hell. My imagination was vivid, yet my powers of analysis and application were intense; by the union of these qualities I conceived the idea and executed the creation of a man. Even now I cannot recollect without passion my reveries while the work was incomplete. I trod heaven in my thoughts, now exulting in my powers, now burning with the idea of their effects. From my infancy I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty ambition; but how am I sunk! Oh! My friend, if you had known me as I once was, you would not recognize me in this state of degradation. Despondency rarely visited my heart; a high destiny seemed to bear me on, until I fell, never, never again to rise." Must I then lose this admirable being? I have longed for a friend; I have sought one who would sympathize with and love me. Behold, on these desert seas I have found such a one, but I fear I have gained him only to know his value and lose him. I would reconcile him to life, but he repulses the idea. "I thank you, Walton," he said, "for your kind intentions towards so miserable a wretch; but when you speak of new ties and fresh affections, think you that any can replace those who are gone? Can any man be to me as Clerval was, or any woman another Elizabeth? Even where the affections are not strongly moved by any superior excellence, the companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our minds which hardly any later friend can obtain. They know our infantine dispositions, which, however they may be afterwards modified, are never eradicated; and they can judge of our actions with more certain conclusions as to the integrity of our motives. A sister or a brother can never, unless indeed such symptoms have been shown early, suspect the other of fraud or false dealing, when another friend, however strongly he