any child. I cannot give you time or attention. I am too ill, and wretched and distracted; but I wish you to be happy and comfortable. I don't know anything about children, but Mrs. Medlock is to see that you have all you need. I sent for you to-day because Mrs. Sowerby said I ought to see you. Her daughter had talked about you. She thought you needed fresh air and freedom and running about." "She knows all about children," Mary said again in spite of herself. "She ought to," said Mr. Craven. "I thought her rather bold to stop me on the moor, but she said--Mrs. Craven had been kind to her." It seemed hard for him to speak his dead wife's name. "She is a respectable woman. Now I have seen you I think she said sensible things. Play out of doors as much as you like. It's a big place and you may go where you like and amuse yourself as you like. Is there anything you want?" as if a sudden thought had struck him. "Do you want toys, books, dolls?" "Might I," quavered Mary, "might I have a bit of earth?" In her eagerness she did not realize how queer the words would sound and that they were not the ones she had meant to say. Mr. Craven looked quite startled. "Earth!" he repeated. "What do you mean?" "To plant seeds in--to make things grow--to see them come alive," Mary faltered. He gazed at her a moment and then passed his hand quickly over his eyes. "Do you--care about gardens so much," he said slowly. "I didn't know about them in India," said Mary. "I was always ill and tired and it was too hot. I sometimes made littlebeds in the sand and stuck flowers in them. But here it is different." Mr. Craven got up and began to walk slowly across the room. "A bit of earth," he said to himself, and Mary thought that somehow she must have reminded him of something. When he stopped and spoke to her his dark eyes looked almost soft and kind. "You can have as much earth as you want," he said. "You remind me of some one else who loved the earth and things that grow. When you see a bit of earth you want," with something like a smile, "take it, child, and make it come alive." "May I take it from anywhere--if it's not wanted?" "Anywhere," he answered. "There! You must go now, I am tired." He touched the bell to call Mrs. Medlock. "Good-by. I shall be away all summer." Mrs. Medlock came so quickly that Mary thought she must have been waiting in the corridor. "Mrs. Medlock," Mr. Craven said to her, "now I have seen the child I understand what Mrs. Sowerby meant. She must be less delicate before she begins lessons. Give her simple, healthy food. Let her run wild in the garden. Don't look after her too much. She needs liberty and fresh air and romping about. Mrs. Sowerby is to


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

Reference was going on, and the room full of lawyers and witnesses and business was driving fast; some deeply occupied legal gentleman present, seeing Bartleby wholly unemployed, would request him to run round to his (the legal gentleman’s) office and fetch some papers for him. Thereupon, Bartleby would tranquilly decline, and yet remain idle as before. Then the lawyer would give a great stare, and turn to me. And what could I say? At last I was made aware that all through the circle of my professional acquaintance, a whisper of wonder was running round, having reference to the strange creature I kept at my office. This worried me very much. And as the idea came upon me of his possibly turning out a long-lived man, and keep occupying my chambers, and denying my authority; and perplexing my visitors; and scandalizing my professional reputation; and casting a general gloom over the premises; keeping soul and body together to the last upon his savings (for doubtless he spent but half a dime a day), and in the end perhaps outlive me, and claim possession of my office by right of his perpetual occupancy: as all these dark anticipations crowded upon me more and more, and my friends continually intruded their relentless remarks upon the apparition in my room; a great change was wrought in me. I resolved to gather all my faculties together, and for ever rid me of this intolerable incubus. Ere revolving any complicated project, however, adapted to this end, I first simply suggested to Bartleby the propriety of his permanent departure. In a calm and serious tone, I commended the idea to his careful and mature consideration. But having taken three days to meditate upon it, he apprised me that his original determination remained the same in short, that he still preferred to abide with me. What shall I do? I now said to myself, buttoning up my coat to the last button. What shall I do? what ought I to do? what does conscience say I should do with this man, or rather ghost. Rid myself of him, I must; go, he shall. But how? You will not thrust him, the poor, pale, passive mortal,—you will not thrust such a helpless creature out of your door? you will not dishonor yourself by such cruelty? No, I will not, I cannot do that. Rather would I let him live and die here, and then mason up his remains in the wall. What then will you do? For all your coaxing, he will not budge. Bribes he leaves under your own paperweight on your table; in short, it is quite plain that he prefers to cling to you. Then something severe, something unusual must be done. What! surely you will not have him collared by a constable, and commit his innocent pallor to the common jail? And upon what ground could you procure such a thing to be done?—a vagrant, is he? What! he a vagrant, a wanderer, who refuses to budge? It is because he will not be a vagrant,


continued. “But it did reveal a neurovascular issue.” Okay, that didn’t sound good. “A neurovascular issue?” The word neurovascular felt like a foreign language in my mouth. “A lesion,” he explained, “that should be treated.” “A lesion?” I asked, like he’d said something obscene. Dr. Estrera put some images from the MRI up onto a lightboard. He pointed to an area with a tiny dark dot and said, “The scan revealed a cavernoma.” He waited for recognition, like I might know what that was. I did not. So I just waited for him to go on. “It’s a malformed blood vessel in the brain,” he explained next. “You’ve had it all your life. An inherited condition.” I glanced at Lucinda, like that didn’t seem right. But Lucinda lifted her hands and said, “Don’t blame me. I’m just the stepmother.” I looked back at the scan—and that menacing little dot. Could he have gotten my scan mixed up with someone else’s? I mean, I just didn’t feel like a person walking around with a malformed blood vessel in her brain. I frowned at Dr. Estrera. “Are you sure?” “It’s plain as day right here,” he said, pointing at the image. Plain as day? More like a fuzzy blur, but okay. “Cavernomas frequently cause seizures,” he went on. “They can be neurologically silent. You could go your whole life without ever having a problem. But they can also start to leak. So your best option is to get it surgically resected.” “It’s leaking?” I asked. “It is. That’s what brought on the seizure.” “The nonconvulsive seizure,” Lucinda noted, like that made it better. “I thought you said there was no bleed in the brain,” I said. “No significant bleed,” he clarified. Why was I arguing with him? He went on, “We need to go in and resect that blood vessel.” Huh. “By go in,” I said, “do you mean go in … to my brain?” “Exactly,” he said, pleased I was getting it now. I was definitely getting it now. “You’re telling me I need brain surgery?” I looked at Lucinda again. There was no one else to look at. Lucinda leaned toward the doctor like she had a juicy secret. “Her father is a very prominent cardiothoracic surgeon,” she said, as if that might somehow earn me a pass. Then, with all the confidence of a woman whose biggest accomplishment was being married to a very prominent cardiothoracic surgeon, she stated: “Richard Montgomery.” Dr. Estrera took that in like a random pleasantry he was too polite to ignore. “Yes. I’ve met him on several occasions.” He turned back to me. “It’s an elective procedure, in the sense that you can schedule it at your convenience. But I’d recommend sooner rather than later.” “How can brain surgery be an elective procedure?” I asked. Botox was an elective procedure. Tummy tucks. Tonsillectomies. “I’ll have to refer you to scheduling,” Dr. Estrera went on, “but we can probably get it done in the next few weeks.” The next few weeks! Uh, no. That wouldn’t work. I


of a bin of loose Easter candy. I held it up to him. “How much do you think this costs?” He raised his eyebrows delightedly. “I have no idea,” he said. “Yeah, me neither,” I said. “We’re gonna find out.” The cashier was clean-shaven with an emo haircut and black nail polish. I put the single Kiss down in front of him. “Can we buy these individually?” I asked. His name tag read “Steven.” He looked at me dazedly. I had intruded on his private fantasies with an incredibly stupid request. “You want to buy that just on its own?” I looked over at Orson, who was pretending to read a tabloid with Jennifer Aniston’s crying face on it. I looked back at Steven. “Yes.” “It’s forty-three cents,” Steven said. I opened my wallet and made a show of looking through my cash. “Shit,” I said. “Shit, I’m sorry.” I produced a ten. “This is the smallest bill I have.” Steven took the bill, unable to conceal his disgust, and proceeded to count out nine dollars and fifty-seven cents. After he handed me the change, I magically found a single. “Sorry!” I said. “I missed this. Listen, can I get the ten back and I’ll give you all the singles?” Steven began to make a calculation in his head that he clearly lost interest in, because he handed me the ten, which I added to my hand of bills. Then I counted out nine singles and slipped the ten underneath. Steven took the wad from me, looking almost curious now, and began counting what I’d given him. “You gave me the ten back,” he sighed. “Oh, did I?” Orson made a little snorting noise behind the tabloid that I hoped Steven couldn’t hear. “Listen,” I said. “I just gave you nineteen there. How about I give you this extra dollar here and you give me back twenty?” Steven now seemed torn between doing what I said and calling his manager. I continued to make eye contact with him, my face even, my stare maybe a little impatient. After a few seconds of this, Steven took the bills back and gave me the twenty. “Holy shit!” Orson crowed when we were outside again. “What was that?” I unwrapped the Kiss and popped it in my mouth. “I saw it in an old movie,” I said, chewing. “What’re you going to do with your eight dollars?” “I dunno. Maybe take in a moving picture show?” He laughed—loud, resounding—and then made an effort to quiet himself when he realized we weren’t yet out of the strip mall parking lot. “Maybe seduce a nice broad into showing you her ankles?” “I do love me some gams,” I said, and he broke into laughter again. There was nothing in the world like pleasing him. TWO MY MOM WAS PERHAPS MORE ashamed of her parents’ Evangelical faith than she was of their alcoholism. Because of this, she kept all details of her religious past from me until I was ten and she mentioned on the drive home from


had died away into the silence from which it rose. "What can it mean?" I gasped. "It means that it is all over," Holmes answered. "And perhaps, after all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter Dr. Roylott's room." With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the corridor. Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply from within. Then he turned the handle and entered, I at his heels, with the cocked pistol in my hand. It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a dark-lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant beam of light upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar. Beside this table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott clad in a long gray dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding beneath, and his feet thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay the short stock with the long lash which we had noticed during the day. His chin was cocked upward and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful, rigid stare at the corner of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a peculiar yellow band, with brownish speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly round his head. As we entered he made neither sound nor motion. "The band! the speckled band!" whispered Holmes. I took a step forward. In an instant his strange headgear began to move, and there reared itself from among his hair the squat diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent. "It is a swamp adder!" cried Holmes; "the deadliest snake in India. He has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another. Let us thrust this creature back into its den, and we can then remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter and let the county police know what has happened." As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man's lap, and throwing the noose round the reptile's neck he drew it from its horrid perch and, carrying it at arm's length, threw it into the iron safe, which he closed upon it. Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative which has already run to too great a length by telling how we broke the sad news to the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the morning train to the care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow process of official inquiry came to the conclusion that the doctor met his fate while indiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The little which I had yet to learn of the case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled back next day. "I had," said he, "come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is


over barriers he didn’t even know existed inside him. She’d started helping him bring Sam’s dream to life . . . and slowly it was becoming their dream, too. Yeah, it was becoming theirs, and that was more than okay. It was his life now and he desperately wanted to go on living it forever. August dropped down from the doorframe after a few more pull-ups, his brow knitting over the arrival of a second car. Who was that? When he walked out of the barn, the person he needed to see was Natalie—and he did. Briefly. She glanced at him with a strange look on her face as she slipped into the house with a bunch of roses in her arms, shutting the door behind her. What the hell was that? He started after her, stopping short when his CO climbed out of the second car. “Cates.” As always, his spine snapped straight at the sound of his commanding officer’s voice, but his mind didn’t follow. Not this time. Something was up with his wife. Why was his neck tingling like danger was imminent? Commander Zelnick approached with his hands clasped behind his back. “I don’t mean to keep surprising you like this, Cates, but I never know when I’m going to get enough free time to drive up from Coronado.” He nodded at the barn. “I trust things are on their way to improving.” “Yes, sir,” he said automatically—and it was the truth—but a hundred-pound weight had dropped in his stomach and something was prodding the edges of his consciousness. “Sir, would you mind waiting here a moment while I figure out my wife?” He didn’t mean it to sound ridiculous, but his mouth wasn’t connecting with his brain. She’d stopped to buy flowers? For their house? Why did that make him feel like there was a potato sack race happening inside his chest? And why hadn’t she smiled at him? Was something wrong? Yes. Something is wrong. He’d been avoiding thinking about it during their week of bliss, but with the appearance of his commanding officer, the monumental thing he’d been keeping from Natalie jumped up and dug its teeth into his jugular. Every time he thought he had gathered enough courage to tell her about the investment, he recalled the way her father and ex-fiancé had manipulated her with the contents of their bank accounts. Or her trust fund. Not to mention, the investor she’d met with in New York. How she resented their refusal to be straightforward about money. A little longer, he kept thinking. I’ll tell her about the investment once some time has passed since my last fuckup. Really, it had been just over a week since he’d sent her running to the other side of the country. They were so happy. He’d just wanted more things about their marriage in the pro column before he added deceptive about money to the con side. “Of course, go greet your wife,” the CO answered, laughing. “Didn’t recognize her at the flower stand. She looks different. Good


his hair, he groans and raises his eyes to mine. “Ah . . .” “Do you like me touching you?” I whisper. His brow furrows briefly as if he doesn’t understand the question. He stops grinding against me. “Of course I do. I love you touching me, Ana. I’m like a starving man at a banquet when it comes to your touch.” His voice hums with pas- sionate sincerity. Holy cow . . . He kneels between my legs and drags me up to haul off my top. I’m naked beneath. Grabbing the hem of his shirt, he yanks it over his head and tosses it on the floor, then pulls me onto his kneeling lap, his arms clasped just above my behind. “Touch me,” he breathes. Oh my . . . Tentatively I reach up and brush the tips of my fingers through the smattering of chest hair over his sternum, over his burn scars. He inhales sharply and his pupils dilate, but it’s not with fear. It’s a sensual response to my touch. He watches me intently as my fingers float delicately over his skin, first to one nipple and then the other. They pucker beneath my caress. Leaning forward, I plant soft kisses on his chest, and my hands move to his shoulders, feeling the hard, sculp- tured lines of sinew and muscle. Jeez . . . he’s in good shape. “I want you,” he murmurs and it’s a green light to my libido. My fingers move into his hair, pulling his head back so I can claim his mouth, fire licking hot and high in my belly. He groans and pushes me back onto the couch. He sits up and rips off my sweatpants, undoing his fly at the same time. “Home run,” he whispers, and swiftly he fills me. “Ah . . .” I groan and he stills, grabbing my face between his hands. 137/551 “I love you, Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs and very slowly, very gently, he makes love to me until I come apart at the seams, calling his name and wrapping myself around him, never wanting to let him go. I lay sprawled on his chest. We’re on the floor of the TV room. “You know, we completely bypassed third base.” My fingers trace the line of his pectoral muscles. He laughs. “Next time, Mrs. Grey.” He kisses the top of my head. I look up to stare at the television screen where the end credits for The X- Files play. Christian reaches for the remote and switches the sound back on. “You liked that show?” I ask. “When I was a kid.” Oh . . . Christian as a kid . . . kickboxing and X Files and no touching. “You?” he asks. “Before my time.” “You’re so young.” Christian smiles fondly. “I like making out with you, Mrs. Grey.” “Likewise, Mr. Grey.” I kiss his chest, and we lie silently watching as The X- Files finish and the commercials come on. “It’s been a heavenly three weeks. Car chases and fires and


second she had, it felt unutterably right. She told the Janes to burn their uniforms. She wanted them to buy opera coats, and furs, and parasols, and patent-leather boots. She sent one of her men under cover to a department store to buy them a pair of hats. They were shaped like boats and were crammed with white roses. They wore them at the dinner table. “You’re my best girls,” she said, holding them close, feeling teary. “Thanks, Mrs. Bone,” they replied, unmoved. Alice sat between them. They’d edged their chairs aside, making a little room for her. “Thanks,” she said in a whisper. She’d gone pale when Winnie spoke of her own triumphant negotiation with Miss de Vries. “But I took it,” Alice said, voice hoarse. “I took Madam’s money.” The silence was dreadful. Winnie’s expression grew taut. Mrs. King opened her mouth—to protect her sister, to smooth things over. But Jane-two spoke first, eyes solemn. “You did what was necessary for your own preservation,” she said to Alice. “There is honor in that.” Mrs. King touched Winnie’s arm. “Miss de Vries would have reneged on the bargain anyway. She wants to be great. She doesn’t want to be free.” “You don’t know that,” Winnie said. Mrs. King looked grim faced. “I do.” “I’ll pay Madam back,” said Alice, agonized. “I promise.” “Turns out you’ve got some pluck, after all,” said Jane-one to Alice, forking her jelly. “Good for you.” “Pluck?” said Winnie, pulling herself together, pointing to Hephzibah. “Talk about pluck. I’ve never seen such fine acting in my life.” Hephzibah went as pink as her ball gown and threw a shaky smile at Winnie. Mrs. King sat ramrod straight, eating nothing. At last, Mrs. Bone leaned over. “Well? What’s the matter with you?” “Nothing.” “Don’t ‘nothing’ me.” “Something’s missing,” said Mrs. King. “That’s all.” * * * She had been through every item. They came to her for inspection, one by one, carried or hauled or dragged out from under dustcloths. Painstaking, brutal work. The letter wasn’t there. Had it ever been? she wondered. She pictured Mr. de Vries’s watery gaze. It could have been another trick, a lie, sickbed delirium... She sat on an upturned crate in the yard as the sun went down over the factory, and ran her hands through her hair. A small voice said, “All right?” Alice had been watching her, keeping her distance, as if uncertain about Mrs. King’s mood. Mrs. King roused herself. She stood up. Went to her sister, grasped her by the shoulders. “It’s a funny world, this,” she said. “Don’t let it get to you.” Her sister gave it back at her. “Don’t let it get to you.” * * * Mrs. Bone had given each of them a bedroom, armored, bunkered, almost without light. “Lie low,” she’d said. “Don’t move a muscle. I need three days to shift the best stuff. And a week to get rid of the rest.” They obeyed her. Mrs. Bone knew what she was doing. Mrs. King faced the wall, ancient bedsprings creaking


head. "I entreat you." The lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them from the tea-table with an amused smile. [22] "I must go, Basil," he answered. "Very well," said Hallward; and he walked over and laid his cup down on the tray. "It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better lose no time. Good-by, Harry; good-by, Dorian. Come and see me soon. Come to-morrow." "Certainly." "You won't forget?" "No, of course not." "And . . . Harry!" "Yes, Basil?" "Remember what I asked you, when in the garden this morning." "I have forgotten it." "I trust you." "I wish I could trust myself," said Lord Henry, laughing.--"Come, Mr. Gray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place.-- Good-by, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon." As the door closed behind them, Hallward flung himself down on a sofa, and a look of pain came into his face. CHAPTER III [...22] One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious arm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry's house in Curzon Street. It was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled wainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-colored frieze and ceiling of raised plaster-work, and its brick-dust felt carpet strewn with long-fringed silk Persian rugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette by Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of "Les Cent Nouvelles," bound for Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve, and powdered with the gilt daisies that the queen had selected for her device. Some large blue china jars, filled with parrot- tulips, were ranged on the mantel-shelf, and through the small leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-colored light of a summer's day in London. Lord Henry had not come in yet. He was always late on principle, his principle being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the lad was looking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages of an elaborately-illustrated edition of "Manon Lescaut" that he had found in one of the bookcases. The formal monotonous ticking of the Louis Quatorze clock annoyed him. Once or twice he thought of going away. At last he heard a light step outside, and the door opened. "How late you are, Harry!" he murmured. "I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray," said a woman's voice. He glanced quickly round, and rose to his feet. "I beg your pardon. I thought--" "You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife. You must let me introduce myself. I know you quite well by your photographs. I think my husband has got twenty-seven of them." [23] "Not twenty-seven, Lady Henry?" "Well, twenty-six, then. And I saw you with him the other night at the Opera." She laughed nervously, as she spoke, and watched him with her vague forget-me-not eyes. She was a curious woman, whose dresses always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in


spoken in days, like the last words he’d said were to her and in anger. “We’ll leave in twenty minutes.” “Such a man of his word.” His jaw twitched. Gabe laid down the bag and backed out the door, clicking the lock behind him again. Carefully, still feeling some aftereffects from the wine, Lore made her way over and picked up the bag, pulling out a gown. It wasn’t heavy—panels of sheer dark lace made up the skirt, with a simple black bodice that dipped low in the front and back and left her arms bare. No appliques, no embroidery. Just black lace and black silk. “Showtime,” Lore muttered. CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE To hold both darkness and light—to hold everything the world is made of—should be the burden of only one god. All powers will come into My hand, and then the world will know the hour of My return. —The Book of Holy Law, Tract 856 (green text, spoken directly by Apollius to Gerard Arceneaux) Twenty minutes later and ten until eight, Gabe opened the door again, just as Lore was dragging a comb through her hair. “Give me a second,” she said, twisting it into a messy braid and winding it around her head. The bag had held a handful of jet hairpins; she stuck them in the braid to hold it in place and only stabbed her scalp once. He didn’t say anything, didn’t relax his pose. Gabe’s shoulders nearly took up the width of the doorframe, solid and straight. He’d evened out whatever apprehension had made them crooked before. A harsh sound; his throat clearing. “You look…” She looked good, and she knew it. The gown fit perfectly, as if it’d been made for her, and the lack of ornamentation or jewelry suited it just fine. Lore resisted the urge to twirl. She’d done it a couple times before he opened the door, but as satisfying as the swirl of skirts had been, it felt somewhat morbid, what with an impending doom ritual. Instead, she ignored Gabe, nodded at her reflection in the spotted mirror, and approached the door. “Let’s get this over with.” But he didn’t move. Gabe blocked the door, looking down at her with an expression that seemed to hover somewhere between determination and pain. She met his gaze, tried to keep her own expression from saying anything at all. “I’m going to keep you safe,” he murmured. “You can trust that.” “I can’t trust anything,” she said lightly, and there was no waver in it; she wouldn’t give him wavering. Lore nodded to the door. “We’re going to be late.” He stood there a moment longer, looking for words and not finding them. Finally, Gabe turned and offered her his elbow, the same way he’d done when they were newly arrived and dressed like foxgloves, headed to Bastian’s masquerade with no idea what to expect. They walked into the hall. They were silent. In a twist of dark irony, the eclipse ball was taking place in the same atrium that Bastian and Lore had crossed


Before Sabrina can reply to that, I jump in: “Well, I’m so glad you and Kim could still make the trip work. That means a lot.” Cleo’s mouth softens into a smile. “I’m glad too.” She brushes a hand over Sabrina’s elbow. “I mean, how often do two of your best friends get married?” Sabrina grins now too, irritation apparently forgotten. “Well, in this case, at least twice, since we’ll still have to do a big family wedding next year. Plus, if Parth has his way, there will probably be three or four more sprinkled in there somewhere.” “Well, of course,” I say. “You’ve got to make sure it sticks.” From the far end of the shop, I can hear Kimmy barking orders at Wyn and Parth like she’s a musher. Their strategy in this pseudo-game is always to go as fast as possible, which means they end up having to circle the whole store like three times, while Cleo, Sabrina, and I lazily meander, testing fruit and sorting through the impressive imported cheese fridge. There are usually even a couple of Cleo’s favorite nut cheeses. The game’s gotten more elaborate over the years. We are now to the point where Sabrina makes the list, cuts it into tiny one-line strips, folds the strips, puts them in a bowl, and has each of us take turns pulling random grocery items out until both “teams” have an even number. Another reason I know this is not a real game: Sabrina clearly does not give one single shit about winning, and she is always hypercompetitive. “Hold on a sec.” Cleo ducks down the row of fridges and returns with three large coconut waters. She drops two into our cart and pushes the other at me. “You’re green.” Sabrina examines me. “More like chartreuse.” A flash of memory: Parth shoving green drinks with paper umbrellas into our sweaty hands as we danced around the patio. I wince. “Don’t say that word.” Sabrina cackles. “What about puce?” “Puce is more like a dark red,” Cleo puts in helpfully. “Like if one were to puke up red wine?” Sabrina asks. I grab a loose Maine blueberry and throw it at her. At the front of the store, someone is whooping. “We Are the Champions” starts to play over phone speakers. “Wow,” Sabrina says, tossing a couple of blueberries into her mouth. “They win again. Who would’ve thought?” “How is Kimmy even alive,” I ask, “let alone whooping and cheering?” “I don’t know, dude. She’s superhuman,” Cleo says. “Plus, she woke me up to tell me about the body shots, and I took the opportunity to pour three gallons of water into her mouth.” Her brow arches. “Kind of surprised Wyn didn’t think to do that for you. He was totally sober when I went to bed.” I busy myself with another package of blueberries. “Aha!” I spin back. “See that? Mold.” “Every rose has its thorn,” Sabrina says, angling our cart back toward the front of the shop. “Just like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song.”


of the day. Nevertheless, my mind was not pacified; and full of a restless curiosity, at last I returned to the door. Without hindrance I inserted my key, opened it, and entered. Bartleby was not to be seen. I looked round anxiously, peeped behind his screen; but it was very plain that he was gone. Upon more closely examining the place, I surmised that for an indefinite period Bartleby must have ate, dressed, and slept in my office, and that too without plate, mirror, or bed. The cushioned seat of a rickety old sofa in one corner bore the faint impress of a lean, reclining form. Rolled away under his desk, I found a blanket; under the empty grate, a blacking box and brush; on a chair, a tin basin, with soap and a ragged towel; in a newspaper a few crumbs of ginger-nuts and a morsel of cheese. Yes, thought I, it is evident enough that Bartleby has been making his home here, keeping bachelor’s hall all by himself. Immediately then the thought came sweeping across me, What miserable friendlessness and loneliness are here revealed! His poverty is great; but his solitude, how horrible! Think of it. Of a Sunday, Wall-street is deserted as Petra; and every night of every day it is an emptiness. This building too, which of week-days hums with industry and life, at nightfall echoes with sheer vacancy, and all through Sunday is forlorn. And here Bartleby makes his home; sole spectator of a solitude which he has seen all populous—a sort of innocent and transformed Marius brooding among the ruins of Carthage! For the first time in my life a feeling of overpowering stinging melancholy seized me. Before, I had never experienced aught but a not-unpleasing sadness. The bond of a common humanity now drew me irresistibly to gloom. A fraternal melancholy! For both I and Bartleby were sons of Adam. I remembered the bright silks and sparkling faces I had seen that day, in gala trim, swan-like sailing down the Mississippi of Broadway; and I contrasted them with the pallid copyist, and thought to myself, Ah, happiness courts the light, so we deem the world is gay; but misery hides aloof, so we deem that misery there is none. These sad fancyings—chimeras, doubtless, of a sick and silly brain—led on to other and more special thoughts, concerning the eccentricities of Bartleby. Presentiments of strange discoveries hovered round me. The scrivener’s pale form appeared to me laid out, among uncaring strangers, in its shivering winding sheet. Suddenly I was attracted by Bartleby’s closed desk, the key in open sight left in the lock. I mean no mischief, seek the gratification of no heartless curiosity, thought I; besides, the desk is mine, and its contents too, so I will make bold to look within. Every thing was methodically arranged, the papers smoothly placed. The pigeon holes were deep, and removing the files of documents, I groped into their recesses. Presently I felt something there, and dragged it out. It was an old bandanna handkerchief, heavy and knotted.


home together from the club arm in arm, or sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer's day." "Days in summer, Basil, are apt to linger. Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. It is a sad thing to think of, but there is no doubt that Genius lasts longer than Beauty. That accounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate ourselves. In the wild struggle for existence, we want to have something that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and facts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. The thoroughly well informed man,--that is the modern ideal. And the mind of the thoroughly well informed man is a dreadful thing. It is like a bric--brac shop, all monsters and dust, and everything priced above its proper value. I think you will tire first, all the same. Some day you will look at Gray, and he will seem to you to be a little out of drawing, or you won't like his tone of color, or something. You will bitterly reproach him in your own heart, and seriously think that he has behaved very badly to you. The next time he calls, you will be [11] perfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, for it will alter you. The worst of having a romance is that it leaves one so unromantic." "Harry, don't talk like that. As long as I live, the personality of Dorian Gray will dominate me. You can't feel what I feel. You change too often." "Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it. Those who are faithful know only the pleasures of love: it is the faithless who know love's tragedies." And Lord Henry struck a light on a dainty silver case, and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and self-satisfied air, as if he had summed up life in a phrase. There was a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the ivy, and the blue cloud- shadows chased themselves across the grass like swallows. How pleasant it was in the garden! And how delightful other people's emotions were!--much more delightful than their ideas, it seemed to him. One's own soul, and the passions of one's friends,--those were the fascinating things in life. He thought with pleasure of the tedious luncheon that he had missed by staying so long with Basil Hallward. Had he gone to his aunt's, he would have been sure to meet Lord Goodbody there, and the whole conversation would have been about the housing of the poor, and the necessity for model lodging-houses. It was charming to have escaped all that! As he thought


The house was still so extraordinarily big, so white—like a wedding cake, many tiers high. The park was a desert, all baked earth and scrub grass. Dust came in great billowing clouds from Rotten Row. It was desolate, a dreadful place. I’m not equal to this, she thought. “Yes, here,” she said to the driver, and he got out to deliver her card. Her own self vanished. She sank into her silks and ruffles, and became the Duchess of Montagu. * * * The head footman ushered Hephzibah through the hall. Servants paused in their duties and huddled behind pillars. The staircase was still tremendously ugly. She’d forgotten its recesses, those blocks of black and blood-red marble. They looked like gravestones, signposts on the way to hell. How many times had she cleaned the banisters, rubbed them with blacking, cracked her nails on their grooves and whorls? The footman gave Hephzibah a wide and courteous berth. “No more visitors,” he murmured to the under-footmen, and they closed the doors. He was enormously good-looking. Stony faced, dark haired, terrific eyes. He was something to focus on, to occupy the mind. “This way,” he said, extending a gloved finger. “Oh, I can guess the way,” said Hephzibah. She needed to warm up, to test the voice. “People only move in one direction when they build a house like this.” She held out her parasol, and he took it. “Up.” His eyes flashed, a single golden gleam. Amused. Good, Hephzibah told herself, that was a clever line. Well judged. Nice and rude. She wondered, Would a duchess speak to a footman? Perhaps there were no rules for duchesses. She tried to quiet her mind. It was too easy to lose a character, just by listening to all the chatter in one’s head. She eyed the footman’s calf muscles, the hard curve of his arse underneath his tails. Lovely, she said to herself, trying to cheer herself up. She could smell beeswax: there was parquet upstairs. It made her dizzy, the memory of all those tiny pieces of wood. It took hours and hours to polish every block. The saloon doors slid open—slowly, slowly. She spied a small figure on a couch, far away in the center of the room. Great slanting shafts of light came through the windows facing the park. Hephzibah shaded her eyes with her hand. She had tried to cast her mind back to the old days, to remember the child who’d lived in the nursery. A snowball creature, with yellow-gold hair done up in ringlets. More like a pet than a person, a fluffy thing fed and watered by the senior servants. Hephzibah had hardly thought about her, had hardly imagined her living or breathing or existing at all. This woman—straight, thin, upright, alert—was different altogether. “Don’t let her hook you,” Mrs. King had warned her. “Whatever you do.” Hephzibah paused at the threshold. She could leave, right now. Claim another appointment, feign illness, call the whole thing off. Slowly, Miss de Vries rose to her feet. “Your Grace,” she said,


pecking in the ground. A pheasant was strutting close to a hedge, making a throaty squawk. Neil pulled her close to him, kissing her lips, and she felt the warmth of his arms. ‘You know I love you, don’t you, Lindy? There’s nothing for you to worry about.’ She kissed him back, remembering sharply how much she adored her husband. She wasn’t sure how to convey the depth of her feelings, so she said, ‘You too, love.’ But almost instantly her mind bounced back to the fact that he had been away all day, that he’d been late home yet again, and his words came back again – ‘There’s nothing for you to worry about.’ Why would he tell her not to worry, unless the opposite was true? Perhaps he had a secret: he was unwell, or he didn’t love her any more. Or perhaps there was someone else – he was meeting another woman. Lin pulled herself together, reprimanding herself sharply. They would be all right – she was making up things to worry about. But what if there was something wrong? What if she lost him? Lin wrapped an arm around him, clinging tightly. She couldn’t lose him, not after all the years they’d been together, not now. 22 Minnie left Middleton Ferris station behind her and strode past the village green towards Odile’s café. It was a warm June day, and she was still thinking about the matinee she’d seen a week ago. It had been the most vibrant Julius Caesar, sharply political, modern, and the battle at the end had been all explosions and smoke. The direction reminded her of Jensen, vibrant, fresh, intelligent. She’d watched the play, sitting alone and undisturbed, her eyes fixed on the stage, analysing the meaning of every move. It helped her to know him better. At the end, as the exhilarated audience left the theatre, she considered going round the back to the stage door, finding Jensen, sharing a discussion. But it was still too early – she’d wait for the right moment. As Minnie passed the rec, she gazed across the road and saw a familiar figure in the allotments, a hoe in her hand. She called out eagerly, ‘Tina!’ Tina stood up slowly, her pale hair across her face. Minnie rushed across to the small gate that led to the separate patches of soil, weaving past flowers and newly sprouting vegetables to where Tina was standing, wearing overalls and wellington boots. She put a hand to her head. ‘These bloody weeds won’t get the better of me – I’ve been at it since seven this morning.’ Minnie surveyed the neat rows, the bright orange nasturtiums next to newly growing French beans and courgettes. ‘It’s all looking good.’ ‘So it should, the amount of time I spend here.’ Tina wiped soil from her hands. ‘I’m going to Odile’s – come with me. I’m meeting Josie and Lin and Cecily.’ Tina pulled a face. ‘Like this?’ ‘You live minutes away – we can pop to yours and you can change into shoes.


enough that I’m at least able to speak. “I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers.” Everyone stops eating. “You what?” The horror in Effie’s voice confirms my worse suspicions. “I shot an arrow at them. Not exactly at them. In their direc- tion. It’s like Peeta said, I was shooting and they were ignoring me and I just . . . I just lost my head, so I shot an apple out of their stupid roast pig’s mouth!” I say defiantly. “And what did they say?” says Cinna carefully. “Nothing. Or I don’t know. I walked out after that,” I say. “Without being dismissed?” gasps Effie. “I dismissed myself,” I said. I remember how I promised Prim that I really would try to win and I feel like a ton of coal has dropped on me. “Well, that’s that,” says Haymitch. Then he butters a roll. “Do you think they’ll arrest me?” I ask. “Doubt it. Be a pain to replace you at this stage,” says Haymitch. “What about my family?” I say. “Will they punish them?” “Don’t think so. Wouldn’t make much sense. See they’d have to reveal what happened in the Training Center for it to have any worthwhile effect on the population. People would need to know what you did. But they can’t since it’s secret, so it’d be a waste of effort,” says Haymitch. “More likely they’ll make your life hell in the arena.” “Well, they’ve already promised to do that to us any way,” says Peeta. 106 “Very true,” says Haymitch. And I realize the impossible has happened. They have actually cheered me up. Haymitch picks up a pork chop with his fingers, which makes Effie frown, and dunks it in his wine. He rips off a hunk of meat and starts to chuckle. “What were their faces like?” I can feel the edges of my mouth tilting up. “Shocked. Terri- fied. Uh, ridiculous, some of them.” An image pops into my mind. “One man tripped backward into a bowl of punch.” Haymitch guffaws and we all start laughing except Effie, al- though even she is suppressing a smile. “Well, it serves them right. It’s their job to pay attention to you. And just because you come from District Twelve is no excuse to ignore you.” Then her eyes dart around as if she’s said something totally outrageous. “I’m sorry, but that’s what I think,” she says to no one in particular. “I’ll get a very bad score,” I say. “Scores only matter if they’re very good, no one pays much attention to the bad or mediocre ones. For all they know, you could be hiding your talents to get a low score on purpose. People use that strategy,” said Portia. “I hope that’s how people interpret the four I’ll probably get,” says Peeta. “If that. Really, is anything less impressive than watching a person pick up a heavy ball and throw it a couple of yards. One almost landed on my foot.” I grin at him and realize that I’m starving. I cut off a piece


to thwart or antagonize them." "Right you are, Alice. We'll keep in the middle of the road." As they started to straighten up their cabin, Clayton and his wife simultaneously noticed the corner of a piece of paper protruding from beneath the door of their quarters. As Clayton stooped to reach for it he was amazed to see it move further into the room, and then he realized that it was being pushed inward by someone from without. Quickly and silently he stepped toward the door, but, as he reached for the knob to throw it open, his wife's hand fell upon his wrist. "No, John," she whispered. "They do not wish to be seen, and so we cannot afford to see them. Do not forget that we are keeping to the middle of the road." Clayton smiled and dropped his hand to his side. Thus they stood watching the little bit of white paper until it finally remained at rest upon the floor just inside the door. Then Clayton stooped and picked it up. It was a bit of grimy, white paper roughly folded into a ragged square. Opening it they found a crude message printed almost illegibly, and with many evidences of an unaccustomed task. Translated, it was a warning to the Claytons to refrain from reporting the loss of the revolvers, or from repeating what the old sailor had told them--to refrain on pain of death. "I rather imagine we'll be good," said Clayton with a rueful smile. "About all we can do is to sit tight and wait for whatever may come." Chapter 2 The Savage Home Nor did they have long to wait, for the next morning as Clayton was emerging on deck for his accustomed walk before breakfast, a shot rang out, and then another, and another. The sight which met his eyes confirmed his worst fears. Facing the little knot of officers was the entire motley crew of the Fuwalda, and at their head stood Black Michael. Chapter 2 13 At the first volley from the officers the men ran for shelter, and from points of vantage behind masts, wheel-house and cabin they returned the fire of the five men who represented the hated authority of the ship. Two of their number had gone down before the captain's revolver. They lay where they had fallen between the combatants. But then the first mate lunged forward upon his face, and at a cry of command from Black Michael the mutineers charged the remaining four. The crew had been able to muster but six firearms, so most of them were armed with boat hooks, axes, hatchets and crowbars. The captain had emptied his revolver and was reloading as the charge was made. The second mate's gun had jammed, and so there were but two weapons opposed to the mutineers as they bore down upon the officers, who now started to give back before the infuriated rush of their men. Both sides were cursing and swearing in a frightful manner, which, together with the reports of the firearms


If you kept the small rules, you could break the big ones. She even induced Winston to mortgage yet another of his evenings by enrolling himself for the part-time munition work which was done voluntarily by zealous Party members. So, one evening every week, Winston spent four hours of paralysing boredom, screwing together small bits of metal which were probably parts of bomb fuses, in a draughty, ill-lit workshop where the knocking of hammers mingled drearily with the music of the telescreens. file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (71 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt When they met in the church tower the gaps in their fragmentary conversation were filled up. It was a blazing afternoon. The air in the little square chamber above the bells was hot and stagnant, and smelt overpoweringly of pigeon dung. They sat talking for hours on the dusty, twig-littered floor, one or other of them getting up from time to time to cast a glance through the arrowslits and make sure that no one was coming. Julia was twenty-six years old. She lived in a hostel with thirty other girls ('Always in the stink of women! How I hate women!' she said parenthetically), and she worked, as he had guessed, on the novel-writing machines in the Fiction Department. She enjoyed her work, which consisted chiefly in running and servicing a powerful but tricky electric motor. She was 'not clever', but was fond of using her hands and felt at home with machinery. She could describe the whole process of composing a novel, from the general directive issued by the Planning Committee down to the final touching-up by the Rewrite Squad. But she was not interested in the finished product. She 'didn't much care for reading,' she said. Books were just a commodity that had to be produced, like jam or bootlaces. She had no memories of anything before the early sixties and the only person she had ever known who talked frequently of the days before the Revolution was a grandfather who had disappeared when she was eight. At school she had been captain of the hockey team and had won the gymnastics trophy two years running. She had been a troop-leader in the Spies and a branch secretary in the Youth League before joining the Junior Anti-Sex League. She had always borne an excellent character. She had even (an infallible mark of good reputation) been picked out to work in Pornosec, the sub-section of the Fiction Department which turned out cheap pornography for distribution among the proles. It was nicknamed Muck House by the people who worked in it, she remarked. There she had remained for a year, helping to produce booklets in sealed packets with titles like 'Spanking Stories' or 'One Night in a Girls' School', to be bought furtively by proletarian youths who were under the impression that they were buying something illegal. 'What are these books like?' said Winston curiously. 'Oh, ghastly rubbish. They're boring, really. They only have six plots, but they swap them round a bit. Of course I was only on the kaleidoscopes. I


a corkscrew in your pocket at ten thirty in the morning?” “No,” he says, “I’m just happy to see you.” “Hilarious.” His eyes steadily hold mine as he sets the wine bottle into his boot and smacks the whole arrangement against the wall. I yelp. “What are you doing?” He drives the boot against the wall again three more times. On the last hit, the cork leaps up the bottle’s neck a half inch. With another two quick snaps against the wall, the cork pops out entirely. Wyn lifts the open bottle toward me. “I’m concerned that you know how to do that,” I say. “So you don’t want any.” He takes a swig. As the bottle lowers, his eyes dart over his shoulder, toward the alcove under the stairs. Heat swiftly rises from my clavicles to my hairline. Don’t go there. Don’t think about that. I know it’s ill-advised, but a part of me is desperately hoping there’s something to the whole hair-of-the-dog school of treating hangovers when I grab the bottle and take a sip. Nope. My stomach does not want that. I pass it back to him. “Parth taught me that trick,” he says. “I’ve never needed to use it before now.” “Oh, you haven’t found yourself imprisoned with any other jilted lovers in the last five months?” He snorts. “Jilted? Not exactly how I remember it, Harriet.” “Maybe you have amnesia,” I suggest. “My memory’s fine, Dr. Kilpatrick, though I do appreciate the concern.” As if to prove his point, his eyes dart toward the nook under the stairs again. He can’t be seeing someone. He’d never go along with this act if he was. Wyn may be a flirt, but he’s not disloyal. Unless he’s in something brand-new? Not officially exclusive? But if it were brand-new, then would he have already reached comfortable-relationship status? The little so-called clues could just as easily be random bits of information I’m jamming together to tell a story. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t seeing anyone. The bottom line is, I have no idea what’s going on in his life. I’m not supposed to. He takes a few more sips. I guess it doesn’t do the trick for him either, because within minutes, he’s pacing. He rakes his hands through his hair as he walks in circles around the space, sweat brimming along his forehead. “If only you’d brought your coffee-table book.” Wyn looks abruptly back at me, eyes sharply appraising. “Then we’d have something to look at,” I say. His brow arches, tugging on his lip. “What do you have against my coffee- table book, Harriet?” “Nothing.” “Did you suffer some kind of coffee-table-book-related trauma in the last five months?” “That thing cost sixty dollars,” I say. He shakes his head, goes back to pacing. “Is it a gift?” I say. “Why would it be a gift?” he says. Not an answer. “Because you never spend that kind of money on yourself,” I say. The tops of his cheeks flush a little, and I really, really regret asking now. We


at all, Sylvia?” “No, my liege.” I focused on a point past Supreme Rawain’s shoulder. My liege, Hanim repeated in disgust. Rawain shook his head, leaning his scepter against the chair. “Vaida is insisting Murib leave a khawaga at the cliff another day. Murib is bowing to her will. Asinine. Anything crawling over that cliff’s edge will be slain on sight.” A rapping at the door drew a smile from Rawain. “Ah, the last member of our company has arrived.” The door opened, and I glimpsed the identical alarm on Wes and Jeru’s faces seconds before Vaun entered the room. The Nizahl guardsman bowed deeply. “Your Highness. Commander.” A quick glance at Arin confirmed he was as surprised to see his former guardsman here as Wes and Jeru were. “Vaun, sit. You and Sylvia are well acquainted already, yes?” A pronounced limp slowed Vaun’s gait, and he eased himself into a chair between Arin and the Supreme with a wince. “Yes, sire. We are.” The Nizahl guardsman finally looked at me. Instead of the loathing I expected, vindictive glee animated Vaun. This isn’t right, Hanim said. Rawain does not remember the names of guardsmen. He does not invite them to a private supper two kingdoms away. “Sylvia was going to tell us how she finished the first trial,” Rawain said. He peered into his chalice, taking an experimental sip. He grimaced. “I am especially curious to hear how you climbed a rope with poisoned sap clotted on your palm.” Arin’s plate remained untouched. I held his gaze as my cuffs tightened, my magic chasing the emptiness back to its dark corner. Only one possible piece of information could compel Rawain to invite Vaun against Arin’s wishes. Rawain suspected I was a Jasadi. Why else ask such a pointed question about the first trial? Strangely, I found the prospect thrilling. Let him suspect I was his enemy. Let Vaun’s accusation cut a place in his head and carve my name into his skull. I had lived in the maw of discovery almost my entire life, simply waiting for its teeth to close. But now… fear had spent its currency, and a more dangerous power paved the road ahead. I smiled brightly at Supreme Rawain. “I climbed it the same way I would have without poisoned sap, just with more screaming. Sire.” Ah, I had missed Vaun’s furious glare. His reliably terrible presence undid some of the damage I had wrought unto myself after Rawain’s visit. Rawain laughed, causing Arin and Vaun’s heads to whip toward him. “My apologies for a silly question.” He unrolled a grape leaf, evaluating the seasoned rice inside. He tried to rewrap it. “You were in a distressing state when you reached us. My son reduced several medics to tears.” “His Highness has been diligent in preparing me for the Alcalah.” I could play at pleasant if it would prove Vaun a liar. “I would have hated to waste his efforts in the very first trial.” “Yes, he is quite particular about such matters. Too particular, sometimes. But I


even just send someone to take them. One of Mr. Zoegar’s many counterparts in his organisation. He might even go to court. But if, say, a man who functions as a damper on all things Titanic were to vouch for their destruction to Stefan while nonetheless delivering them to me…that would be an optimal outcome.” “That’s not the same thing. You said the Travis. Stealing’s another matter.” “It is the same thing, sir. The Travis and I…we are one, financially speaking. When all the shells are plucked away and the cockle is winkled from the rock. I can even prove it to you, though with that level of knowledge of my affairs would come certain constraints upon you. No, there’s no need for that, Mr. Sounder. You can just drop them discreetly at the front desk. The staff will accommodate you as to timing and matters of…tradecraft.” “You want me to lie to Stefan.” “I offer you the opportunity to defeat him, in this one, small way.” “Why would I want to do that?” “Oh, come now. Everyone who meets him longs to beat him in one way or another. Otherwise we must acknowledge we are outmatched, made secondary in our own world. If we do not defeat the Titan king, what is left to us but obsolescence?” “You think that’s going to persuade me?” “I’m interested to find out. Who are you, Cal Sounder? I told you one story, will you not tell me another? Who are you?” “I’m sure you did your research.” “I did, but you’re an enigma, sir. A nobody, and yet somehow also a pin around which the city turns. Of course you’re only a small businessman, but you are, undeniably, something of a figure in all of this, and I cannot for the life of me see how it comes to be so. You walk with giants. Are you on a mission? Like Peter, a grieving husband nursing a grudge? A son seeking vengeance? Is there some heroic story playing out here that I’m not aware of? Whatever it is, you may not be in the job much longer. I have my spies: Stefan is unhappy with you. He feels you have fumbled in this matter. And perhaps it means more to him than just a liver and some offal.” “What do you want them for?” Doublewide steeples those long fingers. Long enough to go all the way around my head. The leverage on those arms would let him twist it off like the top of a ketchup bottle. “I think what I do with them once I have them is my business, Mr. Sounder.” “If you’re going against Stefan, you’re going to need a lot more than Mr. Zoegar here.” “Oh, not against. Never against. Around, beneath, beside. Orthogonal influence, dimensionalities of control. We are not in collision, for all that we occasionally abrade. But you? Do you think he won’t pin you in a case like a butterfly?” “I can handle Stefan.” The huge chest rocks, and the head lolls from side to side.


toward me, and wraps his arms around me, kissing my neck. “Barefoot and in the kitchen,” he murmurs. “Shouldn’t that be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen?” I smirk. He stills, his whole body tensing against me. “Not yet,” he declares, appre- hension clear in his voice. “No! Not yet!” He relaxes. “On that we can agree, Mrs. Grey.” “You do want kids though, don’t you?” “Sure, yes. Eventually. But I’m not ready to share you yet.” He kisses my neck again. Oh . . . share? “What are you making? Looks good.” He kisses me behind my ear, and I know it’s to distract me. A delicious tingle travels down my spine. “Subs.” I smirk, recovering my sense of humor. He smiles against my neck and nips my earlobe. “My favorite.” I poke him with my elbow. “Mrs. Grey, you wound me.” He clutches his side as if in pain. “Wimp,” I mutter disapprovingly. “Wimp?” he utters in disbelief. He slaps my behind, making me yelp. “Hurry up with my food, wench. And later I’ll show you how wimpy I can be.” He slaps me playfully once more and goes to the fridge. “Would you like a glass of wine?” he asks. “Please.” Christian spreads Gia’s plans out over the breakfast bar. She really has some spec- tacular ideas. “I love her proposal to make the entire downstairs back wall glass, but . . .” “But?” Christian prompts. I sigh. “I don’t want to take all the character out of the house.” “Character?” 132/551 “Yes. What Gia is proposing is quite radical, but . . . well . . . I fell in love with the house as it is . . . warts and all.” Christian’s brow furrows as if this is anathema to him. “I kind of like it the way it is,” I whisper. Is this going to make him mad? He regards me steadily. “I want this house to be the way you want. Whatever you want. It’s yours.” “I want you to like it, too. To be happy in it, too.” “I’ll be happy wherever you are. It’s that simple, Ana.” His gaze holds mine. He is utterly, utterly sincere. I blink at him as my heart expands. Holy cow, he really does love me. “Well”—I swallow, fighting the small knot of emotion that catches in my throat—“I like the glass wall. Maybe we could ask her to incorporate it into the house a little more sympathetically.” Christian grins. “Sure. Whatever you want. What about the plans for upstairs and the basement?” “I’m cool with those.” “Good.” Okay . . . I steel myself to ask the million-dollar question. “Do you want to put in a playroom?” I feel the oh-so-familiar flush creep up my face as I ask. Christian’s eyebrows shoot up. “Do you?” he replies, surprised and amused at once. I shrug. “Um . . . if you want.” He regards me for a moment. “Let’s leave our options open for the moment. After all, this will be a family home.” I’m surprised by


is this: they think that, at best, our vocation amounts to a butchering sort of business; and that when actively engaged therein, we are surrounded by all manner of defilements. Butchers we are, that is true. But butchers, also, and butchers of the bloodiest badge have been all Martial Commanders whom the world invariably delights to honor. And as for the matter of the alleged uncleanliness of our business, ye shall soon be initiated into certain facts hitherto pretty generally unknown, and which, upon the whole, will triumphantly plant the sperm whale-ship at least among the cleanliest things of this tidy earth. But even granting the charge in question to be true; what disordered slippery decks of a whale-ship are comparable to the unspeakable carrion of those battle-fields from which so many soldiers return to drink in all ladies' plaudits? And if the .. <p 107 > idea of peril so much enhances the popular conceit of the soldier's profession; let me assure ye that many a veteran who has freely marched up to a battery, would quickly recoil at the apparition of the sperm whale's vast tail, fanning into eddies the air over his head. For what are the comprehensible terrors of man compared with the interlinked terrors and wonders of God! But, though the world scouts at us whale hunters, yet does it unwittingly pay us the profoundest homage; yea, an all-abounding adoration! for almost all the tapers, lamps, and candles that burn round the globe, burn, as before so many shrines, to our glory! But look at this matter in other lights; weigh it in all sorts of scales; see what we whalemen are, and have been. Why did the Dutch in DeWitt's time have admirals of their whaling fleets? Why did Louis XVI. of France, at his own personal expense, fit out whaling ships from Dunkirk, and politely invite to that town some score or two of families from our own island of Nantucket? Why did Britain between the years and pay to her whalemen in bounties upwards of 1,000,000 pounds? And lastly, how comes it that we whalemen of America now outnumber all the rest of the banded whalemen in the world; sail a navy of upwards of seven hundred vessels; manned by eighteen thousand men; yearly consuming 00824,000,000 of dollars; the ships worth, at the time of sailing, 20,000,000 dollars; and every year importing into our harbors a well reaped harvest of 00847,000,000 dollars. How comes all this, if there be not something puissant in whaling? But this is not the half; look again. I freely assert, that the cosmopolite philosopher cannot, for his life, point out one single peaceful influence, which within the last sixty years has operated more potentially upon the whole broad world, taken in one aggregate, than the high and mighty business of whaling. One way and another, it has begotten events so remarkable in themselves, and so continuously momentous in their sequential issues, that whaling may well be regarded as that Egyptian mother, who bore offspring themselves pregnant from her womb.


moved to New York and spent four years as a coatcheck girl, going to auditions during the day. She never made it on Broadway, but she’d come close. Finally, she heard Chicago had a good theater scene and less competition so she headed out there and met a guy who gave her the biggest part of her life: Mrs. Eric Joyner. Her dad’s family hated her, but that didn’t stop her mom. She had so much energy, she had so much optimism, she had so much love for their dad that she made it work. Even on their wedding day, when not a single member of his family showed up at city hall, when they had to ask the people standing behind them in line to be their witnesses, when they didn’t get a single wedding present, even that day she made it work. Louise saw it in their only wedding picture, her mom in a white miniskirt and go-go boots, their dad’s mustache impossibly thick and shaggy, busting out laughing at something she’d said. It was a cold, gray day outside some municipal building in cold, gray Chicago, and because of her mom they were having the best day of their lives. They moved to Charleston for his career and moved back into their only asset: the house where Nancy had grown up. They’d had casserole and handme-down years, but her mom had sung show tunes, started her puppet ministry, had Louise and Mark, and acted like this had been the plan all along. They hadn’t been able to afford a TV for the first three years of Louise’s life, but it didn’t matter. From the time Louise was three, every night her mom put Pupkin on one hand and turned Louise’s bedroom into his magical home of Tickytoo Woods. She’d weave elaborate bedtime stories about the Tick Tock Tree and the Bone Orchard, his friend Girl Sparrow, who always rescued him at the last minute, and the spooky Inside-Out Man who lived in the trees. When Mark was born, he’d sit with them, too, and even before he understood the words he’d been hypnotized by their mom’s voice, by Pupkin’s tricks, by his sister’s attention. During those bedtime stories, her mom and Pupkin filled the room, and if Louise had been able to tear her eyes away from them, she knew that her bedroom walls would have disappeared, replaced by Tickytoo Woods and Sugar Bats flitting through the trees. At some point after Louise turned five, the stories lost their shine. She embraced brushing her teeth by herself and putting herself to bed. She loved being responsible, she relished her independence, she got addicted to her parents’ praise when they told her what a big girl she was. It felt more real than hearing yet another story about Pupkin getting in trouble and finally finding his way back home again thanks to the hard work of Girl Sparrow. Mark kept listening, though. Mom thought he was fascinated by her elaborate tales of Pupkin’s adventures, but Louise knew he just wanted


surely there was a maid or footman who could accompany them for propriety’s sake—Olivia would be hurt if Lucy suggested that route—but neither could she spend any of William’s money, no matter how rich he was purported to be. She had no right to anything of his, and that included his family. She would have to stand her ground and remain behind, lest something go wrong. “Perhaps I should wait until William—” Her words stopped immediately upon Simon entering the room, and at first she wasn’t sure why she couldn’t look away from him. There was something . . . different . . . about him. She couldn’t quite place it, but it was like he had a sort of determination in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before. She had seen confidence and humor, weariness and uncertainty, but this was a new look for Lord Calloway, and she found she liked it very much. It made him look powerful. Like the sort of man who would never feel belittled by someone who had their own aspirations and dreams because another’s success could never devalue his own. Where had this come from? It hardly mattered, because he looked at Lucy in a way no one had ever looked at her before, like he could see right through her. A large part of her wanted him to see the truth as they stood there gazing at each other. Then everything would be out in the open, and she wouldn’t have to hide anymore. But another part hoped he would see only the good parts of her. The parts that hadn’t lied to him. She wanted him to see her as someone worth knowing. She had never thought much about marriage since the death of her father, and at twenty-two, she was well on her way to becoming a spinster. Besides, no respectable man wanted to marry a penniless governess, and when the truth came to light about her sham engagement to William, she would likely be ruined anyway and never have a single prospect for the rest of her life. Despite girlish fantasies in her youth, she had come to accept that she would forever be alone, so she had rarely looked at a man and wondered whether she found him attractive. There was little point in getting distracted. But Simon? Simon was assuredly attractive, and he had so much to recommend himself. His dark hair and strong jaw had given him that commanding appearance of a baron she’d seen in him a few times, but his eyes were always so soft, with laugh lines at the edges that spoke of easier days, before his father had died. He noticed when she was upset, even when she tried to hide it, and he tried to make things right when he made a misstep . . . or thought he did. And with this new determination in Simon’s eyes, Lucy had to wonder whether she could ever find a man to rival him. She doubted it. It didn’t matter that she had known him


ahead, and high, rocky bluffs on both sides. By and by says I, "Hel-LO, Jim, looky yon- der!" It was a steamboat that had killed herself on a rock. We was drifting straight down for her. The lightning showed her very distinct. She was leaning over, with part of her upper deck above water, and you could see every little chimbly-guy clean and clear, and a chair by the big bell, with an old slouch hat hanging on the back of it, when the flashes come. Well, it being away in the night and stormy, and all so mysterious-like, I felt just the way any other boy would a felt when I see that wreck laying there so mournful and lonesome in the middle of the river. I wanted to get aboard of her and slink around a little, and see what there was there. So I says: "Le's land on her, Jim." But Jim was dead against it at first. He says: "I doan' want to go fool'n 'long er no wrack. We's doin' blame' well, en we better let blame' well alone, as de good book says. Like as not dey's a watchman on dat wrack." "Watchman your grandmother," I says; "there ain't nothing to watch but the texas and the pilot- house; and do you reckon anybody's going to resk his life for a texas and a pilot-house such a night as this, when it's likely to break up and wash off down the river any minute?" Jim couldn't say nothing to that, so he didn't try. "And besides," I says, "we might borrow something worth having out of the captain's stateroom. Seegars, I bet you -- and cost five cents apiece, solid cash. Steamboat captains is always rich, and get sixty dollars a month, and THEY don't care a cent what a thing costs, you know, long as they want it. Stick a candle in your pocket; I can't rest, Jim, till we give her a rummaging. Do you reckon Tom Sawyer would ever go by this thing? Not for pie, he wouldn't. He'd call it an adventure -- that's what he'd call it; and he'd land on that wreck if it was his last act. And wouldn't he throw style into it? -- wouldn't he spread himself, nor nothing? Why, you'd think it was Christopher C'lumbus discovering Kingdom-Come. I wish Tom Sawyer WAS here." Jim he grumbled a little, but give in. He said we mustn't talk any more than we could help, and then talk mighty low. The lightning showed us the wreck again just in time, and we fetched the stabboard derrick, and made fast there. The deck was high out here. We went sneaking down the slope of it to labboard, in the dark, towards the texas, feeling our way slow with our feet, and spreading our hands out to fend off the guys, for it was so dark we couldn't see no sign of them. Pretty soon we struck the forward end of the skylight, and clumb on to it; and the next


old face remained impassive, betraying none of the loathing he felt. "I suspect many things, my Lord," he said. "Yes. Well, I wish to know how Arrakis figures in your suspicions about Salusa Secundus. It is not enough that you say to me the Emperor is in a ferment about some association between Arrakis and his mysterious prison planet. Now, I rushed the warning out to Rabban only because the courier had to leave on that Heighliner. You said there could be no delay. Well and good. But now I will have an explanation." He babbles too much, Hawat thought. He's not like Leto who could tell me a thing with the lift of an eyebrow or the wave of a hand. Nor like the Old Duke who could express an entire sentence in the way he accented a single word. This is a clod! Destroying him will be a service to mankind. "You will not leave here until I've had a full and complete explanation," the Baron said. "You speak too casually of Salusa Secundus," Hawat said. "It's a penal colony," the Baron said. "The worst riff-raff in the galaxy are sent to Salusa Secundus. What else do we need to know?" "That conditions on the prison planet are more oppressive than anywhere else," Hawat said. "You hear that the mortality rate among new prisoners is higher than sixty per cent. You hear that the Emperor practices every form of oppression there. You hear all this and do not ask questions?" "The Emperor doesn't permit the Great Houses to inspect his prison," the Baron growled. "But he hasn't seen into my dungeons, either." "And curiosity about Salusa Secundus is . . . ah . . . " Hawat put a bony finger to his lips. ". . . discouraged." "So he's not proud of some of the things he must do there!" Hawat allowed the faintest of smiles to touch his dark lips. His eyes glinted in the glowtube light as he stared at the Baron. "And you've never wondered where the Emperor gets his Sardaukar?" The Baron pursed his fat lips. This gave his features the look of a pouting baby, and his voice carried a tone of petulance as he said: "Why . . . he recruits . . . that is to say, there are the levies and he enlists from --" "Faaa!" Hawat snapped. "The stories you hear about the exploits of the Sardaukar, they're not rumors, are they? Those are first-hand accounts from the limited number of survivors who've fought against the Sardaukar, eh?" "The Sardaukar are excellent fighting men, no doubt of it," the Baron said. "But I think my own legions --" "A pack of holiday excursionists by comparison!" Hawat snarled. "You think I don't know why the Emperor turned against House Atreides?" "This is not a realm open to your speculation," the Baron warned. Is it possible that even he doesn't know what motivated the Emperor in this? Hawat asked himself. "Any area is open to my speculation if it does what you've


back, giving myself an androgynous look. My blouse looked remarkably well, tucked into the trousers, and I only wished I had a cravat to finish off the look, like the Parisian author, Colette. Perhaps I could also be known purely by my Christian name and conceal my identity. Opaline, however, was not a very common name. ‘Hello, Miss …’ I spotted a book lying on the dusty floor. The Picture of Dorian Gray. ‘Hello, Miss Gray.’ Not bad. Keen to investigate the rare book dealers in Dublin city and see what could be picked up, I set out and walked across the humpbacked Ha'penny Bridge, like the spine of a whale decorated with lamps, to visit Webb’s bookshop on the quays. Sylvia had mentioned the name to me before I left, and the only way I could retain the information was to picture a spider’s web. I took a moment to lean against the iron railing and looked up at the green domes of the cathedral and the Four Courts. My eyes followed the River Liffey as it flowed down towards The Custom House, which had only recently been burned out by the Irish Republican Army. Joyce had neglected to mention that the country was in the middle of a civil war when he suggested I escape here. From the frying pan into the fire, as they say. Wearing a man’s trousers and using a pseudonym, I felt like I was playing the part of an actress. Mr Hanna was one of those rare types who took absolutely no notice of my appearance and instead filled a box with some popular titles to ‘keep me ticking over’, as he put it. At the mere mention of James Joyce, it seemed my good reputation was sealed. I had a quick scan through his Dickens collection, just in case my father’s copy of David Copperfield was among them. It had become a little habit of mine, a way of keeping him close to my heart. It was a rare edition, and I could tell with a glance that it wasn’t there. No matter, I said to myself. I will find it one day. Armed with my new books and a list of distributors I could call on, I arrived back at Ha'penny Lane with renewed purpose. I looked around the shop, at the rich green walls and the little Tiffany lamps shedding their colourful glow on all the treasures that had held their breath, waiting for the doors to reopen after Mr Fitzpatrick’s death. It almost felt like Sleeping Beauty’s room in the tower and I needed to find the spell to waken her. I had insisted on keeping all of Mr Fitzpatrick’s stock, for the shop would have looked bare with only my small bookcase of titles to furnish it, yet I had no idea how these two ideas would merge. I first looked at the window display, which hadn’t changed in all the time the shop had been closed. If I wanted to entice customers inside, I had to use my imagination.


identical smiling people and never create anything of meaning or significance?” he asked. I slammed the closet door shut. “Yes. If those are my two options, I will take the smiling people. Who are not identical, and neither are the photos. They’re happy, so you think they’re beneath me. But you know what? It means a hell of a lot more to a hell of a lot more people than a story in an obscure magazine that doesn’t pay and never even sent you the contributor copies.” That was harsher than I’d intended, but I didn’t back down. I couldn’t. I was running blind through the forest, and the hunter was behind me. I could only go forward. “I didn’t realize you thought so little of my work,” Mitch said stiffly. “Whereas I knew perfectly well how little you thought of mine,” I snarled back. Then I pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead. “I’m sorry. Can we just pretend that I didn’t say any of that?” “You’re under a lot of stress.” Translation: He’d find a time to bring this up when he could be the unambiguous victim. But I let him wrap his arms around me and tuck my head against his chest. I held my hand curled awkwardly, my thumb throbbing, as he made soothing sounds and stroked my hair. “Come on. Let’s drink. It’ll solve all our problems.” I laughed a little, surrendering. I’d have a drink, and we wouldn’t fight, and Stahl would stay dead, and the past would remain the past, and no one would ever have to know the truth. Then I heard it—the faint buzz, buzz, buzz. My phone was ringing in my purse. I maneuvered past Mitch in the narrow hall and got to it on the last ring. Liv—really Liv this time. “Hey,” I said as soon as I picked up, Mitch trailing behind me. “Naomi. I’ve been calling all day,” Liv said, fretful. I could picture her perfectly, folded up in the corner of her couch, wrapping her long black hair around her finger. “Did you hear?” “About Stahl? Yeah. I heard.” “I can’t believe he’s dead.” She sounded far away. “I know. Liv, hang on.” Mitch was standing too casually halfway across the room. I held up a Just one minute finger and slipped back through the hall into the bedroom, shutting the door behind me. “Are you okay?” I asked quietly when the door was shut. If I was a mess, I couldn’t imagine how Liv was holding up. “Have you talked to Cassidy?” “A little. She texted. I haven’t … I wanted to talk to you first,” Liv said carefully. “About Stahl?” I asked. “No. Not exactly.” She took a steadying breath. “I did something.” “Liv, you’re kind of freaking me out,” I told her. “What do you mean, you did something? What did you do?” Her words sank through me, sharp and unforgiving. “I found Persephone.” I hadn’t opened the box in years. Through several moves, assorted boyfriends and girlfriends, and three therapists, the box


to mind. When I got to camp the day after their funeral, it looked eerie, desolate, lonely. I was used to this place being filled with excited girls and young women holding painted welcome signs, hugging, cheering, waving. But now, all of that was gone. A chain hung at the camp entrance with two removable placards attached: NO TRESPASSING. FOR SALE. I knew instantly I would use the money my parents had left me to buy Camp Holly Springs. I unfastened the clasp holding the chain to an eye hook, ignoring the NO TRESPASSING sign. That didn’t apply to me. I drove to the director’s hut, and when I opened the door, Karen Stevenson, the camp’s owner, had her head down on the office desk. She startled when I entered. “June!” She stood to hug me. “Hi, Karen.” I burst into tears, the story of my parents’ death pouring out. It was only when I finished that I realized she was crying too. “I’m so sorry, June. Doubly so. I’m sorry about your parents, and I’m sorry to say that I’ve lost the camp,” she said. “I can’t afford to keep it open anymore, this magical place that so many little girls have come to love.” I nodded. “I want to buy it.” She laughed, wiping her eyes. “No, June. It isn’t profitable anymore. I can’t let you. I’ll probably sell it for the land. Trust me, this is no investment.” “What do you want for it?” It was a little bit more than my inheritance, after taxes. I told her what I could pay, and Karen sent me away. “Sleep on it, June. If you still want it in a month, I’ll agree. I won’t sell it to anyone else.” One month later, we signed the papers. Karen agreed to stay on in a volunteer capacity through my first summer. We visited colleges and sororities, offered nights off, flexible weeks, and community service hours for counselors. It took three years to get Holly Springs back in the black, but we survived. And for twenty-three years after that, we thrived. I still couldn’t understand how my wonderful camp didn’t qualify for so many of the federal funds that businesses received during the pandemic to keep them afloat. But every application was rejected; every answer was no. And so, now, there was only one thing left to do. I sat down at my desk in the director’s office, picked up the heavy black phone that had been on this desk—remarkably—since the camp opened in the late 1940s, and dialed Rock Springs, our brother all-boys camp just down the river. Our finances weren’t tied together, but our fates were. Brothers and sisters and friends attended these two camps. We had events together all summer long. I didn’t expect Rich to answer, but I recognized his voice right away when he did. “Rich, it’s June.” “Oh, hi,” he said. I could hear him brighten, and I wanted to yell, This isn’t a happy call! I sighed. “This isn’t a call I wanted to make, Rich,


enchanted, that he alone could slay the creature – but it was not kindness that moved him. In exchange for his blade, the knight of Inysca had two conditions. First, he would see the people of Lasia convert to his new religion of Six Virtues. And second, when he returned to his own country, he would have Cleolind as his bride.’ Siyu stopped to clear her throat. Tunuva passed her a goblet of walnut milk, which she drank. ‘And what then?’ Tunuva asked her. ‘What did Cleolind say?’ When Siyu lay back down, she rested her head against Tunuva. ‘She told her father to banish the knight,’ Siyu said. ‘Desperate though their city was, she would not see her people on their knees for a foreign king – but when she went to meet her death, the knight followed. And when Cleolind was bound to a stone, and the Nameless One emerged from the foul water to claim his payment, the knight faced him. ‘But Galian Berethnet – that was his name – was a coward and a fool. The fumes and fire overcame him. Cleolind took up his sword. From the acrid shore of Lake Jakpa, deep into the Lasian Basin, she fought the Beast of the Mountain, tracking him to his lair. There, Cleolind was astonished, for in the valley grew a befruited tree, taller than any she had ever seen.’ That image appeared on many walls in the Priory. The tree, its golden oranges, the red beast twined around its trunk. ‘They fought,’ Siyu said, ‘for a day and a night. At last, the Nameless One set Cleolind afire. She cast herself beneath the tree – and though the beast was drawn to it, his fire could not burn anything that lay within the shadow of its branches. ‘As Cleolind began to die, the orange tree yielded its fruit. With the last of her strength, she ate, and all about her, the world brightened. She could hear the earth, feel its heat in her blood, and suddenly, fire was at her command, too. This time, when she confronted the beast, she drove the sword between its scales, and at last, the Nameless One was vanquished.’ Tunuva released her breath. No matter how many times she heard the story, it moved her. ‘Cleolind returned the sword to Galian the Deceiver, so he would never come back for it,’ Siyu said, ‘before she banished him from Lasia.’ Her voice was slowing. ‘She renounced her claim to the throne, and with her loyal handmaidens, she withdrew from the world to guard the orange tree, to stand in wait for the Nameless One, for he shall one day return. And we, who are blessed with the flame, are her children. We remain.’ ‘For how long?’ Tunuva asked. ‘Always.’ Her breathing deepened. Tunuva closed her own eyes, and against her will, she remembered someone else falling asleep against her, long ago. The thought held her in place until Imsurin came and led her away. 7 West The day of her commendation. Glorian Hraustr Berethnet


THE wind, serving us to a desire, now hauled into the “Ah!” says he. “Well, that’s unfort’nate—appears as if kill- west. We could run so much the easier from the north-east ing parties was a waste of time. Howsomever, sperrits don’t corner of the island to the mouth of the North Inlet. Only, as reckon for much, by what I’ve seen. I’ll chance it with the we had no power to anchor and dared not beach her till the sperrits, Jim. And now, you’ve spoke up free, and I’ll take it tide had flowed a good deal farther, time hung on our hands. kind if you’d step down into that there cabin and get me a— The coxswain told me how to lay the ship to; after a good well, a—shiver my timbers! I can’t hit the name on ‘t; well, many trials I succeeded, and we both sat in silence over an- you get me a bottle of wine, Jim—this here brandy’s too strong other meal. for my head.” “Cap’n,” said he at length with that same uncomfortable Now, the coxswain’s hesitation seemed to be unnatural, smile, “here’s my old shipmate, O’Brien; s’pose you was to and as for the notion of his preferring wine to brandy, I en- tirely disbelieved it. The whole story was a pretext. He wanted Contents heave him overboard. I ain’t partic’lar as a rule, and I don’t take no blame for settling his hash, but I don’t reckon him me to leave the deck—so much was plain; but with what pur- ornamental now, do you?” pose I could in no way imagine. His eyes never met mine; Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 208 209 they kept wandering to and fro, up and down, now with a out of a coil of rope, a long knife, or rather a short dirk, look to the sky, now with a flitting glance upon the dead discoloured to the hilt with blood. He looked upon it for a O’Brien. All the time he kept smiling and putting his tongue moment, thrusting forth his under jaw, tried the point upon out in the most guilty, embarrassed manner, so that a child his hand, and then, hastily concealing it in the bosom of his could have told that he was bent on some deception. I was jacket, trundled back again into his old place against the bul- prompt with my answer, however, for I saw where my advan- wark. tage lay and that with a fellow so densely stupid I could easily This was all that I required to know. Israel could move conceal my suspicions to the end. about, he was now armed, and if he had been at so much “Some wine?” I said. “Far better. Will you have white or trouble to get rid of me, it was plain that I was meant to be red?” the victim. What he would do afterwards— whether he would “Well, I reckon it’s about the blessed same to me, ship- try to crawl right across the island from North Inlet to


me!” “D-do me,” Hap said, a sneer on his lips. “D-do m-me. I n-never stop talking.” “Wow,” Rambo said. “That was scarily accurate.” “He’s learning,” Dad said, crouching down before Hap. “It’s only going to continue, and most likely at an exponential rate.” “Why?” Vic asked. Dad sighed. “Because of you, Victor.” Vic felt his stomach sink. “Hap,” Dad said. “Can you show us?” Hap looked at each of them in turn before his gaze rested on Vic, who nodded. He reached down and lifted his shirt above his head, the collar stretching. He folded it carefully before setting it on his lap. The wood on his chest and face gleamed in the cool morning light coming in through the skylights above. “This,” Dad said, pointing at the wood. “Why did you do this?” Nurse Ratched said, “The skin wouldn’t—” “Thank you, Nurse Ratched, but I would like to hear from Victor.” She fell silent. Vic popped his knuckles without thinking. “I…” He cleared his throat. “Some of the tears were too big to close. And we couldn’t grow new skin, so I had to use what I had available.” “And why not use metal?” Vic looked away. “He’s already metal. Almost all of him. Underneath. I thought it would look better if we used wood. It’d make him look more…” He struggled to find the words to describe what he meant, what he was trying to say. The concept was there in his mind, but it was loose and shaky. “Hysterically Angry Puppet,” Hap said. “I came up with that!” Rambo cried. “That,” Vic said, thought it wasn’t quite right. “He’s … I thought it’d look better.” “And you carved it yourself.” “Nurse Ratched helped.” “Thank you, Victor. I have always wanted to be thrown under a bus.” A yellow vehicle appeared on her screen, mowing down a pixelated version of herself over and over again. “Yes. I helped.” “Hap,” Dad said. “Would you please open your chest?” Hap tapped his breastbone. The compartment slid open. The heart looked as it had the night before. It beat. The gears moved. Vic couldn’t stop the sense of pride he felt then, the accomplishment tinged with guilt. “And this?” Dad asked quietly. “Why did you keep this from me?” Vic squirmed, trying to keep his thoughts in order, but they were on the wings of butterflies, floating up around him, just out of reach. “I didn’t…” He took a deep breath and tried again. “I wanted to…” What? He went with something that didn’t feel like a lie. “Because I didn’t know if it would work.” Dad nodded slowly. “Why did you make it?” Why indeed? He said the only thing he could. “I had to know if I could do it like you did. Just in case.” Dad rose from his crouch, and before Vic could move, wrapped him in a hug, holding him close. Vic hooked his chin over Dad’s shoulder. Hap was watching them closely, head tilted slightly, eyes unblinking. “You wonderful boy,” Dad whispered. “You foolish, lovely boy.” He


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

you like the boys that are left?” “I do…” My voice trails off, and the Just not in that way follows in a droopy echo. Juno nods for a few long seconds. “What’re their names?” “Evan and Isaac.” “Do you like one of them more than the other?” Her very normal question makes me sad again. “Isaac, I guess.” “What’s he like?” “Nice,” I say, and look up to the ceiling, thinking. “Attractive.” God, pull it together, Felicity. Isaac is an amazing man and you’re describing him the way you would a new couch. I look at Juno and take a deep breath, trying to infuse some enthusiasm into my words. “He’s a scientist, just like your dad.” “He’s a geneticist, too?” she asks, squinting skeptically. She’s smarter than I am. “No, I think he makes robots or makes sure robots don’t take over the world or something related to the reason I’m nice to my Alexa.” Juno laughs. “That’s not the same thing as genetics, Auntie Fizzy.” I throw a wadded-up napkin at her. She ducks out of the way and the flash of her laughter propels her question out, so sneakily: “Do you think Mr. Prince wants Isaac to win?” I hold on to my smile, leaning closer. Juno is a worthy sparring partner. Pride and unease battle it out in my pulse. “I don’t think Mr. Prince cares who wins as long as the show is successful.” “I think he cares who wins.” She goes for broke: “I think he likes you.” “Yeah?” “Mm-hmm. Like at the concert? I could tell he liked you. He stared at you the whole time.” “That’s because I’m fascinating, Juno. Keep up.” She giggles. “I bet he doesn’t like seeing other boys on dates with you.” I hum, studying her. She doesn’t flinch or shrink at all. “And—okay, you know Aiden R.?” she continues. I nod, because there are, like, four Aidens in her class. “He likes Stevie, and they always sit together at lunch, but today Stevie was assigned to Indonesia for World Cultures Day with Eric, and Aiden was quiet-sad the same way Mr. Prince was tonight.” “Oh yeah? How’s that?” She points to her face. “You know how boys clench their jaw like this?” She does a pretty solid impression. “He was doing that and just, like, ignoring her at lunch. But it wasn’t like Stevie had a choice about who she does World Cultures Day with. It’s assigned.” “Right,” I agree sympathetically. Ugh, this metaphor is pretty great. I redirect: “Who did you get assigned to work with?” “Kyle Pyun,” she says, and gives a vague grimace. “He’s really hyper but at least he gets good grades.” “Totally.” I lean in, grinning. “Is he cute?” Juno looks genuinely disgusted. “Auntie Fizzy, we’re in fifth grade.” “I’m not asking if you’re engaged, Junebug, just whether he’s got potential.” “Mom says boys are dumb until high school.” “Wow, that’s generous.” “So if Isaac wins,” Juno says, doing her own redirection, “does he get money or something?” “In theory he gets me.”


they really think we were going to stay inside drinking while some creepy clown takes our kids into the cold?” “They wanted to get rid of the women and children,” another woman said. “They’re probably smoking cigars in there.” Maud texted Ella again. I’m fine MOM! With a final blast of his horn, the clown waved goodbye, shift finished. Still holding her kite, Louise took over leading the group. The other children followed her down the beach, skirting the clutching fingers of tide toward a cluster of objects that, Maud saw as they all drew nearer, weren’t rocks or washed-up redwood trunks as they had seemed. Three baby sea lions, ribs pushing though their mottled skin, eyes dull, lifted their heads, squirmed, dropped back down to the sand. “They’re starving,” someone said. “Poor things.” In a chorus of alarmed exclamations, the children reeled in their kites. A woman called a ranger on her phone and alerted the fathers, several of whom now materialized on the beach. “Climate change,” a woman said. “They come in too far to find food.” “We need to go back to Ella,” Maud told Louise. “We can’t leave them,” Louise said. She had tears in her eyes. “Can’t we do something? Like carry them back into the water?” “Let’s wait for the experts,” Maud said. She texted Peter, who was still inside, and he replied that he’d take a cab home to Ella. Finally, two rangers arrived. They loaded the sea lions onto stretchers, explaining that they’d release them back into the water when they were strong enough to swim again. As the truck drove away, the children cheered, save Louise, who stayed quiet on the walk to the car. “What if they don’t find their mothers?” she said. “Their mothers will find them,” Maud said, and Louise nodded resolutely, as if trying to convince herself that this was true. Back home, she plopped down next to Ella on the couch to tell her what had happened, giving the story a happy end. But as Maud made dinner with Peter, she couldn’t get the image of the sea lions out of her head. And when she kissed Louise good night, she knew her daughter was haunted by that image too. The way the pups had thrashed and churned in the sand. The way they looked up at the sky as if confused, as if they thought it should be water. 13 In the winter of 2007, Maud had attended a conference in Oxford and sat next to a woman who worked for the National Trust, which administered England’s historic gardens. “Would you ever consider moving?” the woman said. “The odds are slim,” Maud said, “but tell me about it?” Monk’s House, the home of Virginia and Leonard Woolf, had recently been vacated and a gardener was needed to live in the house to manage the grounds, conduct tours, and write about the Woolfs’ passion for gardening. Maud was flattered, but she explained that her husband would never be able to find work in Suffolk, and London was two