able to say 'I am.' (When I married your sister, Sir, I said 'I will;' and when I answered your friend, Pip, I said 'I am.') 'Would you tell him, then,' said she, 'that which Estella has come home and would be glad to see him.'" I felt my face fire up as I looked at Joe. I hope one remote cause of its firing, may have been my consciousness that if I had known his errand, I should have given him more encouragement. "Biddy," pursued Joe, "when I got home and asked her fur to write the message to you, a little hung back. Biddy says, "I know he will be very glad to have it by word of mouth, it is holidaytime, you want to see him, go!" I have now concluded, Sir," said Joe, rising from his chair, "and, Pip, I wish you ever well and ever prospering to a greater and a greater heighth." "But you are not going now, Joe?" "Yes I am," said Joe. "But you are coming back to dinner, Joe?" "No I am not," said Joe. Our eyes met, and all the "Sir" melted out of that manly heart as he gave me his hand. "Pip, dear old chap, life is made of ever so many partings welded together, as I may say, and one man's a blacksmith, and one's a whitesmith, and one's a goldsmith, and one's a coppersmith. Diwisions among such must come, and must be met as they come. If there's been any fault at all to-day, it's mine. You and me is not two figures to be together in London; nor yet anywheres else but what is private, and beknown, and understood among friends. It ain't that I am proud, but that I want to be right, as you shall never see me no more in these clothes. I'm wrong in these clothes. I'm wrong out of the forge, the kitchen, or off th' meshes. You won't find half so much fault in me if you think of me in my forge dress, with my hammer in my hand, or even my pipe. You won't find half so much fault in me if, supposing as you should ever wish to see me, you come and put your head in at the forge window and see Joe the blacksmith, there, at the old anvil, in the old burnt apron, sticking to the old work. I'm awful dull, but I hope I've beat out something nigh the rights of this at last. And so GOD bless you, dear old Pip, old chap, GOD bless you!" I had not been mistaken in my fancy that there was a simple dignity in him. The fashion of his dress could no more come in its way when he spoke these words, than it could come in its way in Heaven. He touched me gently on the forehead, and went out. As soon as I could recover myself sufficiently, I hurried out after him and looked for him in the neighbouring streets; but he was gone.


to her, wrapping his arms around her. ‘Of course I don’t. I’m sorry, I just meant…’ She glared at him. ‘What did you mean?’ ‘I’m just helping someone.’ ‘So you say.’ Lin couldn’t stop her words. ‘You’ll help anyone else but you don’t care about me.’ ‘Please don’t say that.’ He looked hurt. ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can. You’re the most important thing in my life.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘I promise you that.’ Lin blinked, staring at her husband through tears. ‘You promise?’ ‘Of course.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘I’m sorry I forgot the date, but I won’t be long. I’ll be quick…’ He kissed her nose. ‘Look, I’ll get going now, and I’ll rush through the job. Is that all right? I mean, if you want, I’ll stay with you and we’ll go to the picnic – I don’t have to help this man with his car…’ ‘No, you go, if you’ve promised,’ Lin huffed. ‘I’ll be back in a jiffy.’ Neil reached for his jacket, the smart one, then he changed his mind. ‘It’s warm outside – I’ll be fine in a shirt.’ He rushed back, kissing her again. ‘I’ll see you by the barge later. Trust me… there’s nothing to worry about.’ He was gone, and Lin put her hands to her face. He’d said it again. A huge sigh shuddered in Lin’s lungs. She collected the two plates of broken eggshell, congealed yolk, the shattered remains. She felt the same as the shell, weak and crumbling. She depended on Neil too much – she should be stronger, like Josie. She took another deep breath – she’d put on her best summer dress and go to the picnic by the barge. She’d be carefree, cheerful and when anyone asked her where her husband was, she’d wave a hand and say breezily, ‘Oh, Neil? He’s off somewhere – doing his own thing. We don’t live in each other’s pockets, you know…’ Pockets…? She glanced at Neil’s jacket hanging on the back of the chair where he’d left it. Lin hesitated – she’d never gone through his pockets – she’d never considered it – until now. After all, they knew everything about each other, they had nothing to hide. Their marriage was based on trust. Before she could think any more, she was by the chair, her hand delving deep into the pockets, bringing out an assortment of things that she deposited on the table. Some silver coins, a squashed piece of tissue, a small pencil – Lin knew he kept it for writing memos when he was working on cars – a key, some fluff and a piece of folded paper, the ends of which were curled. Lin smoothed out the paper and examined it – someone had written on it in biro in neat round handwriting, not Neil’s scrawl. Carole Frost. 1.30. The Sun Inn car park. There was a mobile phone number written underneath. Lin stared at it again and the writing blurred as her eyes filled with tears. Neil


like my food well done.’ ‘Charred!’ Lin was horrified. ‘I’ve ruined your birthday meal.’ Neil took her hand, tugging her towards the kitchen. ‘It’ll be all right – with ketchup.’ ‘It won’t be…’ Lin wailed. They had reached the kitchen and were both staring at the incinerated lasagne. Neil joked, ‘I’ve had worse.’ ‘I promised you a taste of Italy and all you have is a taste of something really disgusting. I’ll have to throw it in the bin.’ ‘It doesn’t matter. Life’s been good to us.’ Neil wrapped an arm around her shoulders. ‘When we were first married, we were poor as church mice – we had burned toast and stew three times a week.’ ‘And my stew was like sludge…’ Lin smiled, remembering. ‘You’d just started working in the garage and we were so poor. I’ll never forget our tenth anniversary – you sold the Frog-Eyed Sprite and bought me this… It was such a nice surprise.’ She held out a finger, showing a small eternity ring. Lin sighed; her fingers had been tapered and elegant then. Now the arthritis had twisted them a little. ‘I thought you’d guessed.’ Neil brought her fingers to his lips. ‘I’ve always been rubbish at keeping secrets.’ ‘You have an honest face.’ Lin pecked his cheek. ‘But what are we going to eat? It’s your birthday and I’ve ruined dinner.’ ‘I have an idea…’ His arms were around her. ‘Let’s go down The Sun, shall we? They’ll have a carvery.’ ‘But it’s your birthday…’ Lin gasped. ‘And I’ll have an evening out with the most wonderful wife in the whole of Oxfordshire.’ ‘I so wish I could cook.’ Neil kissed her nose. ‘Come on, Lindy, let’s live a little. It’s not every day that a man is seventy-four…’ Lin sighed again. ‘Poor Harry was only in his early seventies. And now Josie’s taken herself off on a Caribbean cruise for one – I don’t know how she can do it.’ ‘She’ll be back soon. She’ll tell you all about the fun she had.’ ‘I worry about her,’ Lin said. ‘I worry about everything.’ He stopped her words with a kiss. ‘Don’t worry today – it’s my birthday… Now go and put on something nice – and that perfume that makes me want to chase you around the sofa…’ Neil winked, his face mischievous. ‘Let’s have a nice roast dinner and a sticky toffee pudding.’ ‘Well…’ Lin was unsure. ‘Lindy.’ He stared into her eyes. ‘I’m the luckiest man in the world. I remind myself of that every day. Go on, get yourself ready and I’ll give Dickie Junior a ring and reserve the table near the window.’ Lin remembered the lasagne. ‘What about the spoiled food?’ ‘There’s a vixen with cubs in the field beyond the garden. I’m sure they’d all love a taste of Italy.’ Neil winked. ‘And what they can’t eat, the blue tits will finish.’ ‘If the blackened cheese doesn’t stick their beaks together…’ Lin hesitated, then she grinned. ‘A night out with my handsome husband would be great, though.’ ‘There’s


and if the specimen I enjoyed of their hospitality be of the average kind, their lives must be pretty comfortable. The keeper would not enter on what he called business until the supper was over, and we were all satisfied. Then when the table was cleared, and he had lit his pipe, he said, "Now, Sir, you can go on and arsk me what you want. You'll excoose me refoosin' to talk of perfeshunal subjucts afore meals. I gives the wolves and the jackals and the hyenas in all our section their tea afore I begins to arsk them questions." "How do you mean, ask them questions?" I queried, wishful to get him into a talkative humor. " `Ittin' of them over the `ead with a pole is one way. Scratchin' of their ears in another, when gents as is flush wants a bit of a show-orf to their gals. I don't so much mind the fust, the `ittin of the pole part afore I chucks in their dinner, but I waits till they've `ad their sherry and kawffee, so to speak, afore I tries on with the ear scratchin'. Mind you," he added philosophically, "there's a deal of the same nature in us as in them theer animiles. Here's you a-comin' and arskin' of me questions about my business, and I that grump-like that only for your bloomin' `arf-quid I'd `a' seen you blowed fust `fore I'd answer. Not even when you arsked me sarcastic like if I'd like you to arsk the Superintendent if you might arsk me questions. Without offence did I tell yer to go to `ell?" "You did." "An' when you said you'd report me for usin' obscene language that was `ittin' me over the `ead. But the `arf-quid made that all right. I weren't a-goin' to fight, so I waited for the food, and did with my `owl as the wolves and lions and tigers does. But, lor' love yer `art, now that the old `ooman has stuck a chunk of her tea-cake in me, an' rinsed me out with her bloomin' old teapot, and I've lit hup, you may scratch my ears for all you're worth, and won't even get a growl out of me. Drive along with your questions. I know what yer a-comin' at, that `ere escaped wolf." "Exactly. I want you to give me your view of it. Just tell me how it happened, and when I know the facts I'll get you to say what you consider was the cause of it, and how you think the whole affair will end." "All right, guv'nor. This `ere is about the `ole story. That`ere wolf what we called Bersicker was one of three gray ones that came from Norway to Jamrach's, which we bought off him four years ago. He was a nice well-behaved wolf, that never gave no trouble to talk of. I'm more surprised at `im for wantin' to get out nor any other animile in the place. But, there, you can't trust wolves no more nor women." "Don't you mind


her fits by the time it sounded. Today she had antagonized Jem for nearly two hours with no intention of having a fit, and I felt hopelessly trapped. The alarm clock was the signal for our release; if one day it did not ring, what would we do? "I have a feeling that Jem's reading days are numbered," said Atticus. "Only a week longer, I think," she said, "just to make sure..." Jem rose. "But-" Atticus put out his hand and Jem was silent. On the way home, Jem said he had to do it just for a month and the month was up and it wasn't fair. "Just one more week, son," said Atticus. "No," said Jem. "Yes," said Atticus. The following week found us back at Mrs. Dubose's. The alarm clock had ceased sounding, but Mrs. Dubose would release us with, "That'll do," so late in the afternoon Atticus would be home reading the paper when we returned. Although her fits had passed off, she was in every other way her old self: when Sir Walter Scott became involved in lengthy descriptions of moats and castles, Mrs. Dubose would become bored and pick on us: "Jeremy Finch, I told you you'd live to regret tearing up my camellias. You regret it now, don't you?" Jem would say he certainly did. "Thought you could kill my Snow-on-the-Mountain, did you? Well, Jessie says the top's growing back out. Next time you'll know how to do it right, won't you? You'll pull it up by the roots, won't you?" Jem would say he certainly would. "Don't you mutter at me, boy! You hold up your head and say yes ma'am. Don't guess you feel like holding it up, though, with your father what he is." Jem's chin would come up, and he would gaze at Mrs. Dubose with a face devoid of resentment. Through the weeks he had cultivated an expression of polite and detached interest, which he would present to her in answer to her most blood-curdling inventions. At last the day came. When Mrs. Dubose said, "That'll do," one afternoon, she added, "And that's all. Good-day to you." It was over. We bounded down the sidewalk on a spree of sheer relief, leaping and howling. That spring was a good one: the days grew longer and gave us more playing time. Jem's mind was occupied mostly with the vital statistics of every college football player in the nation. Every night Atticus would read us the sports pages of the newspapers. Alabama might go to the Rose Bowl again this year, judging from its prospects, not one of whose names we could pronounce. Atticus was in the middle of Windy Seaton's column one evening when the telephone rang. He answered it, then went to the hat rack in the hall. "I'm going down to Mrs. Dubose's for a while," he said. "I won't be long." But Atticus stayed away until long past my bedtime. When he returned he was carrying a candy box. Atticus sat down in the livingroom and put the


knife poised, bent close in the dim light to see the face. It was the smuggler, Tuek, a wet stain down his chest. The dead eyes stared with empty darkness. Leto touched the stain--warm. How could this man be dead here? Leto asked himself. Who killed him? The mewling sound was louder here. It came from ahead and down the side passage to the central room where they had installed the main shield generator for the house. Hand on belt switch, kindjal poised, the Duke skirted the body, slipped down the passage and peered around the corner toward the shield generator room. Another grey blob lay stretched on the floor a few paces away, and he saw at once this was the source of the noise. The shape crawled toward him with painful slowness, gasping, mumbling. Leto stilled his sudden constriction of fear, darted down the passage, crouched beside the crawling figure. It was Mapes, the Fremen housekeeper, her hair tumbled around her face, clothing disarrayed. A dull shininess of dark stain spread from her back along her side. He touched her shoulder and she lifted herself on her elbows, head tipped up to peer at him, the eyes black-shadowed emptiness. "S'you," she gasped. "Killed . . . guard . . . sent . . . get . . . Tuek . . . escape . . . m'Lady . . . you . . . you . . . here . . . no . . . " She flopped forward, her head thumping against the stone. Leto felt for pulse at the temples. There was none. He looked at the stain: she'd been stabbed in the back. Who? His mind raced. Did she mean someone had killed a guard? And Tuek--had Jessica sent for him? Why? He started to stand up. A sixth sense warned him. He flashed a hand toward the shield switch--too late. A numbing shock slammed his arm aside. He felt pain there, saw a dart protruding from the sleeve, sensed paralysis spreading from it up his arm. It took an agonizing effort to lift his head and look down the passage. Yueh stood in the open door of the generator room. His face reflected yellow from the light of a single, brighter suspensor above the door. There was stillness from the room behind him--no sound of generators. Yueh! Leto thought. He's sabotaged the house generators! We 're wide open! Yueh began walking toward him, pocketing a dartgun. Leto found he could still speak, gasped: "Yueh! How?" Then the paralysis reached his legs and he slid to the floor with his back propped against the stone wall. Yueh's face carried a look of sadness as he bent over, touched Leto's forehead. The Duke found he could feel the touch, but it was remote . . . dull. "The drug on the dart is selective," Yueh said "You can speak, but I'd advise against it." He glanced down the hall, and again bent over Leto, pulled out the dart, tossed it aside. The sound of the dart clattering


spend the next few weeks at Blackstable. "Yes, that will suit me very well," said Philip. "I suppose it'll do if you go back to Paris in September." Philip did not reply. He had thought much of what Foinet said to him, but he was still so undecided that he did not wish to speak of the future. There would be something fine in giving up art because he was convinced that he could not excel; but unfortunately it would seem so only to himself: to others it would be an admission of defeat, and he did not want to confess that he was beaten. He was an obstinate fellow, and the suspicion that his talent did not lie in one direction made him inclined to force circumstances and aim notwithstanding precisely in that direction. He could not bear that his friends should laugh at him. This might have prevented him from ever taking the definite step of abandoning the study of painting, but the different environment made him on a sudden see things differently. Like many another he discovered that crossing the Channel makes things which had seemed important singularly futile. The life which had been so charming that he could not bear to leave it now seemed inept; he was seized with a distaste for the cafes, the restaurants with their ill-cooked food, the shabby way in which they all lived. He did not care any more what his friends thought about him: Cronshaw with his rhetoric, Mrs. Otter with her respectability, Ruth Chalice with her affectations, Lawson and Clutton with their quarrels; he felt a revulsion from them all. He wrote to Lawson and asked him to send over all his belongings. A week later they arrived. When he unpacked his Canvases he found himself able to examine his work without emotion. He noticed the fact with interest. His uncle was anxious to see his pictures. Though he had so greatly disapproved of Philip's desire to go to Paris, he accepted the situation now with equanimity. He was interested in the life of students and constantly put Philip questions about it. He was in fact a little proud of him because he was a painter, and when people were present made attempts to draw him out. He looked eagerly at the studies of models which Philip showed him. Philip set before him his portrait of Miguel Ajuria. "Why did you paint him?" asked Mr. Carey. "Oh, I wanted a model, and his head interested me." "As you haven't got anything to do here I wonder you don't paint me." "It would bore you to sit." "I think I should like it." "We must see about it." Philip was amused at his uncle's vanity. It was clear that he was dying to have his portrait painted. To get something for nothing was a chance not to be missed. For two or three days he threw out little hints. He reproached Philip for laziness, asked him when he was going to start work, and finally began telling everyone he met that


Ethan had been right. The task was too immense for me to figure out on my own with only the Doe Network profiles to go on. But Liv had known. Liv had found her. I knew what I had to do, but I wasn’t looking forward to it. I got myself cleaned up most of the way to respectable, even remembering to dab concealer over the dark circles under my eyes. My hair was getting shaggy at the back, but I finger-combed it into something resembling order and headed outside, my gait stiff. As I unlocked the car I glanced across the street and paused, faint unease scratching at the back of my mind. There was a black Toyota Camry parked across the street. It had been there yesterday, too. And the day before. It was just a car. Nothing weird. I started up my engine. In the rearview mirror, I watched as a man crossed the parking lot from the small park near the Corner Store, where there were a few benches and picnic tables. All of which had a clear view of the motel. I couldn’t make out much in the mirror. He was white, midthirties, with medium-brown hair cut a bit long and mirrored sunglasses. I’d seen him before, hadn’t I? The last few days, at the diner and the gas station. He’d been hanging around. The image of the boy in the striped shirt popped into my mind again. AJ Stahl. As I pulled out, he started up his car. I watched in the mirror as he turned out of the parking lot—following right behind me. My heart hammered. I reached for my phone, but stopped. Who would I call? What would I say that wouldn’t sound crazy? Then, a minute out from the Barnes house, the Camry slowed and turned, pulling off to a trailhead. I let out a breath, sinking back against the seat. You’re being paranoid, I scolded myself. I kept my eyes on the rearview, but the Camry never reappeared. The gate to the Barnes house was open. When I pulled up in front of the house, there was a casserole sitting on the front porch, covered in foil. It didn’t seem right to step over it, so I picked it up and rang the bell. It took a couple minutes for Marcus Barnes to appear. He was a tall, solid man, but he seemed smaller under the weight of his grief. He looked dully down at the dish in my hands. “You too?” he asked. “It was on the porch,” I said apologetically. Marcus Barnes was an unlikely man to have married Kimiko, to have fathered Liv. The two women were both quicksilver in their own way, and he was solid as the wooden beams of his house, but maybe that was why it all worked. “You might as well bring it in,” he said. He turned and walked inside and I followed, still holding the casserole. Marcus went into the kitchen, which was cluttered with more foil-covered dishes. That probably meant the


jeans and—this is what stabbed Louise through the heart—a red sweater. his mother hadn’t wanted him to be cold “It’s you,” Louise shouted through the rain at Pupkin. “It’s you, Freddie.” Pupkin turned his face from the body of the little boy to Louise, then back to the case. The rain beat down on them like clubs. Black paint dripped from Pupkin’s chin as his features blurred and disappeared. “You have to go now, Pupkin,” Louise said. “It’s time to go home.” Pupkin shivered on the end of Poppy’s arm, a sad, peeling wet thing, looking at his own corpse. “Pupkin no go,” he said. “Pupkin stay and play and play . . .” “There’s no one left,” Louise said. “They’re all gone.” “Pupkin real! Pupkin alive!” he cheered. “No,” Louise said, too exhausted to say more. “Why?!” Pupkin howled. “Because when your body gets hurt very, very badly, it stops working, and you die, and that means you go away forever. And that’s what’s happened to you.” “No . . .” Pupkin whined. “Not fair . . .” “No,” Louise agreed. “Not fair.” The ruined, melting face of Pupkin turned itself to her on the end of Poppy’s arm. “Why?” he asked again, and it was a child’s voice, lost, with no way home. In that moment Louise thought of The Velveteen Rabbit and she knew why she had always hated it. Being loved didn’t mean you were alive. People loved lots of inanimate things: stuffed animals, cars, puppets. Being alive meant something else. “Because you’re real, Pupkin,” Louise said. “And nothing real can last forever. That’s how you know you’re real. Because one day you die.” Rain smashed down on the three of them sitting in the mud. Finally, Pupkin spoke in a voice so small Louise almost didn’t hear him over the rain. “I’m scared,” he said. Louise dragged herself around the trunk and through the cold puddle forming around them, and she sat down behind her daughter and pulled her into her lap, then reached for the soaked and waterlogged Pupkin on the end of her arm. His face had melted to an unrecognizable lump, but she could still see the faint contours of his eye sockets, his mouth, his chin, his upturned nose. Because she was a mother, Louise gripped his sleeve and slid him off her daughter’s arm, then slid him over her own because she couldn’t let a child, any child, face this alone. Pupkin felt cold and wet and heavy, instantly freezing her knuckles to ice, and then she felt his tiny body surge to life, and the rain faded away and the world lurched to one side and spun, and she found herself on her back looking up at the clear night sky streaked with pink glowing clouds. A gentle, warm breeze ruffled the leaves of the Tick Tock Tree overhead, and Louise sat up and looked beside her and saw a little boy sitting on the grass of Tickytoo Woods. He wore blue jeans and a red sweater. On one arm, he


Gascony, stood, in the year 1584, the chateau of Monsieur St. Aubert. From its windows were seen the pastoral landscapes of Guienne and Gascony stretching along the river, gay with luxuriant woods and vine, and plantations of olives. To the south, the view was bounded by the majestic Pyrenees, whose summits, veiled in clouds, or exhibiting awful forms, seen, and lost again, as the partial vapours rolled along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed through the blue tinge of air, and sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy pine, that swept downward to their base. These tremendous precipices were contrasted by the soft green of the pastures and woods that hung upon their skirts; among whose flocks, and herds, and simple cottages, the eye, after having scaled the cliffs above, delighted to repose. To the north, and to the east, the plains of Guienne and Languedoc were lost in the mist of distance; on the west, Gascony was bounded by the waters of Biscay. M. St. Aubert loved to wander, with his wife and daughter, on the margin of the Garonne, and to listen to the music that floated on its waves. He had known life in other forms than those of pastoral simplicity, having mingled in the gay and in the busy scenes of the world; but the flattering portrait of mankind, which his heart had delineated in early youth, his experience had too sorrowfully corrected. Yet, amidst the changing visions of life, his principles remained unshaken, his benevolence unchilled; and he retired from the multitude 'more in PITY than in anger,' to scenes of simple nature, to the pure delights of literature, and to the exercise of domestic virtues. He was a descendant from the younger branch of an illustrious family, and it was designed, that the deficiency of his patrimonial wealth should be supplied either by a splendid alliance in marriage, or by success in the intrigues of public affairs. But St. Aubert had too nice a sense of honour to fulfil the latter hope, and too small a portion of ambition to sacrifice what he called happiness, to the attainment of wealth. After the death of his father he married a very amiable woman, his equal in birth, and not his superior in fortune. The late Monsieur St. Aubert's liberality, or extravagance, had so much involved his affairs, that his son found it necessary to dispose of a part of the family domain, and, some years after his marriage, he sold it to Monsieur Quesnel, the brother of his wife, and retired to a small estate in Gascony, where conjugal felicity, and parental duties, divided his attention with the treasures of knowledge and the illuminations of genius. To this spot he had been attached from his infancy. He had often made excursions to it when a boy, and the impressions of delight given to his mind by the homely kindness of the grey-headed peasant, to whom it was intrusted, and whose fruit and cream never failed, had not been obliterated by succeeding circumstances. The green pastures along which he had


if anything, larger than before, and the edges of them are faintly white. They are like little white dots with red centres. Unless they heal within a day or two, I shall insist on the doctor seeing about them. LETTER, SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON, SOLICITORS WHITBY, TO MESSRS. CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON. 17 August "Dear Sirs,--"Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great Northern Railway. Same are to be delivered at Carfax, near Purfleet, immediately on receipt at goods station King's Cross. The house is at present empty, but enclosed please find keys, all of which are labelled. "You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which form the consignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of the house and marked `A' on rough diagrams enclosed. Your agent will easily recognize the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. The goods leave by the train at 9:30 tonight, and will be due at King's Cross at 4:30 tomorrow afternoon. As our client wishes the delivery made as soon as possible, we shall be obliged by your having teams ready at King's Cross at the time named and forthwith conveying the goods to destination. In order to obviate any delays possible through any routine requirements as to payment in your departments, we enclose cheque herewith for ten pounds, receipt of which please acknowledge. Should the charge be less than this amount, you can return balance, if greater, we shall at once send cheque for difference on hearing from you. You are to leave the keys on coming away in the main hall of the house, where the proprietor may get them on his entering the house by means of his duplicate key. "Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business courtesy in pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition. "We are, dear Sirs, "Faithfully yours, "SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON" LETTER, MESSRS. CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON, TO MESSRS. BILLINGTON & SON, WHITBY. 21 August. "Dear Sirs,--"We beg to acknowledge 10 pounds received and to return cheque of 1 pound, 17s, 9d, amount of overplus, as shown in receipted account herewith. Goods are delivered in exact accordance with instructions, and keys left in parcel in main hall, as directed. "We are, dear Sirs, "Yours respectfully, "Pro CARTER, PATERSON & CO." MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL. 18 August.--I am happy today, and write sitting on the seat in the churchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last night she slept well all night, and did not disturb me once. The roses seem coming back already to her cheeks, though she is still sadly pale and wan-looking. If she were in any way anemic I could understand it, but she is not. She is in gay spirits and full of life and cheerfulness. All the morbid reticence seems to have passed from her, and she has just reminded me, as if I needed any reminding, of that night, and that it was here, on this very seat, I found her asleep. As she


must know that when the second iron is thrown overboard, it thenceforth becomes a dangling, sharp-edged .. <p 289 > terror, skittishly curvetting about both boat and whale, entangling the lines, or cutting them, and making a prodigious sensation in all directions. Nor, in general, is it possible to secure it again until the whale is fairly captured and a corpse. Consider, now, how it must be in the case of four boats all engaging one unusually strong, active, and knowing whale; when owing to these qualities in him, as well as to the thousand concurring accidents of such an audacious enterprise, eight or ten loose second irons may be simultaneously dangling about him. For, of course, each boat is supplied with several harpoons to bend on to the line should the first one be ineffectually darted without recovery. All these particulars are faithfully narrated here, as they will not fail to elucidate several most important, however intricate passages, in scenes hereafter to be painted. .. <p 289 > .. < chapter lxiv 16 STUBB'S SUPPER > Stubb's whale had been killed some distance from the ship. It was a calm; so, forming a tandem of three boats, we commenced the slow business of towing the trophy to the Pequod. And now, as we eighteen men with our thirty-six arms, and one hundred and eighty thumbs and fingers, slowly toiled hour after hour upon that inert, sluggish corpse in the sea; and it seemed hardly to budge at all, except at long intervals; good evidence was hereby furnished of the enormousness of the mass we moved. For, upon the great canal of Hang-Ho, or whatever they call it, in China, four or five laborers on the foot-path will draw a bulky freighted junk at the rate of a mile an hour; but this grand argosy we towed heavily forged along, as if laden with pig-lead in bulk. Darkness came on; but three lights up and down in the Pequod's main-rigging dimly guided our way; till drawing nearer we saw Ahab dropping one of several more lanterns over the .. <p 290 > bulwarks. Vacantly eyeing the heaving whale for a moment, he issued the usual orders for securing it for the night, and then handing his lantern to a seaman, went his way into the cabin, and did not come forward again until morning. Though, in overseeing the pursuit of this whale, Captain Ahab had evinced his customary activity, to call it so; yet now that the creature was dead, some vague dissatisfaction, or impatience, or despair, seemed working in him; as if the sight of that dead body reminded him that Moby Dick was yet to be slain; and though a thousand other whales were brought to his ship, all that would not one jot advance his grand, monomaniac object. Very soon you would have thought from the sound on the Pequod's decks, that all hands were preparing to cast anchor in the deep; for heavy chains are being dragged along the deck, and thrust rattling out of the port-holes. But


there’s a twinkle in those hazel eyes. Does he remember me as the pitiful mess in the garage? If he does, he doesn’t mention it. He orders a beef dip, fries, and a Coke. “Good choice.” “Good advice.” After I submit his order to the kitchen, I attend to my other tables, but his presence is distracting. I find reasons to return to the counter, to busy myself with drinks and condiments, hovering around him. His eyes track me—at least I think they do. I can’t look. I feel fluttery, like a teenager, my lips curled into a small, self-conscious smile. When his order is up, I place it in front of him. “Thanks, Lee.” He’s read my name tag. “You’re welcome…?” I prod. “Jesse,” he says, and he smiles, revealing a dimple in his left cheek. “Nice to meet you. Again.” So, he does remember. “Thanks for the orange. I was pretty sick yesterday.” “I could tell. Feeling better?” “Yeah.” “You look better. I mean, you look great. Not that you looked bad yesterday; you just looked… sick.” We’re flirting. It feels stiff and awkward, like an unused muscle, but I’m still grinning, and my chest feels light. “That orange must have cured me.” “I should be a doctor.” “Lee!” Randy barks. “Table fourteen is waiting for their change.” “Busted,” Jesse says with a conspiratorial wink. I wink back and then hurry to the waiting booth. I force myself to focus on my other customers; losing my job is not an option. Randy monitors me as I move efficiently from booth to booth and back to the kitchen. Jesse is still at the bar, still eating his sandwich, still in my peripheral vision. Watching him is part of my job—refilling his coffee, offering dessert. Noticing the outline of strong shoulders in his thin T-shirt, the curl of his brown hair at the nape of his neck, is not. When he pushes his plate away, I hurry toward him. “Anything else?” I ask. “What time do you finish, Lee?” “Midnight.” “I’ll come back. We can get a drink somewhere.” I should say no. I’m sick, and on medication that should not be mixed with alcohol. And after my shift, I get a free meal that I need to sustain me through the next day. But I’m pulled toward this man like a magnet. He makes me feel like the old me. Like an attractive woman again. “Sounds good,” I say. And I smile. 11 THE PILLOW IS SOFT AGAINST my face, and I snuggle under the blankets. I’m tempted to go back to sleep, but a slip of spring sunshine filters through the blinds, telling me it’s morning, that I should get up. My throat is tender, and my mouth feels parched from mouth breathing. I roll over in search of my water bottle and my back twinges. It’s used to sleeping in a slightly reclined position; I haven’t lain flat in so long. Suddenly, I sit bolt upright, grasping for my bearings. I’m alone in a masculine bedroom sparsely furnished with


But Uncle Quentin was quite different now. It seemed as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. They were rich now- George could go to a good school- and his wife could have the things he had so much wanted her to have- and he would be able to go on with the work he loved without feeling that he was not earning enough to keep his family in comfort. He beamed round at everyone, looking as jolly a person as anyone could wish! George was overjoyed about Tim. She flung her arms round her father's neck and hugged him, a thing she had not done for a long time. He looked astonished but very pleased. "Well, well," he said,"this is all very pleasant. Hallo- is this the police already?" It was. They came up to the door and had a few words with Uncle Quentin. Then one stayed behind to take down the children's story in his note-book and the others went off to get a boat to the island. The men had gone from there! The boat from the fishing-smack had fetched them away!- and now both ship and boat had disappeared! The motor-boat was still there, quite unusable. The inspector looked at it with a grin. "Fierce young lady, isn't she, that Miss Georgina?" he said. "Done this job pretty well- no one could get away in this boat. We'll have to get it towed into harbour." The police brought back with them some of the ingots of gold to show Uncle Quentin. They had sealed up the door of the dungeon so that no one else could get in until the children's uncle was ready to go and fetch the gold. Everything was being done thoroughly and properly- though far too slowly for the children! They had hoped that the men would have been caught and taken to prison- and that the police would bring back the whole of the gold at once! They were all very tired that night and didn't make any fuss at all when their aunt said that they must go to bed early. They undressed and then the boys went to eat their supper in the girls' bedroom. Tim was there, ready to lick up any fallen crumbs. "Well, I must say we've had a wonderful adventure," said Julian, sleepily. "In a way I'm sorry it's ended -though at times I didn't enjoy it very much- especially when you and I, George, were prisoners in that dungeon. That was awful." George was looking very happy as she nibbled her gingerbread biscuits. She grinned at Julian. "And to think I hated the idea of you all coming here to stay!" she said. "I was going to be such a beast to you! I was going to make you wish you were all home again! And now the only thing that makes me sad is the idea of you going away- which you will do, of course, when the holidays end. And then, after having three friends with me, enjoying adventures like


as a goodbye. Tristán took out a bill and handed it to the driver, then rushed to catch up with Montserrat, who was walking at a quick pace despite her slight limp. “Are you nuts or stupid? That driver was listening to every single word we said. I think he recognized me.” “I doubt it.” “I don’t. I have a major part coming up. I can’t have people tying me to anything scandalous.” “Don’t worry, the one who was detained was me, not you.” “Yes, but I just picked you up.” “Where were you the night Abel died? I tried beeping you, I tried phoning, I tried knocking and you were not there,” Montserrat said. Her tone of voice was flat, so he replied in an equally flat voice although he knew this would only incense her. “I was with someone.” “Fucking someone,” Montserrat said, almost biting into the words. Tristán’s masterful plan to meet Yolanda for drinks, so he could hand her the CD—to remain friends, to be adults about this breakup—had morphed into a patchy attempt at trying to give their relationship another chance. They had headed to Cuernavaca in her car for a mini-vacation, booking themselves into a cute little hotel. The first twenty-four hours had been fine, then sometime around dinner the second day Tristán had been distracted and morose. He had taken the trip, and he was trying to mend this relationship, partially because he kept thinking about the terror of loneliness and Karina’s death. Normalcy. That’s what he needed. A shot of normalcy. Yolanda assumed his melancholic mood had something to do with her, and when Tristán assured her that was not the case, she asked what was bothering him so much. Afraid of confessing he was, perhaps, going insane, he’d been evasive and grown more and more irritated. Yolanda lost her temper, they bickered, and in the end Tristán sat at the bus terminal, chain-smoking and waiting to buy a ticket home. It had been a disaster, the last nail in the coffin of his relationship with Yolanda, and he did not need Montserrat giving him a sermon about it. “Yeah, I was fucking someone, if you must know,” he said, his tone cool, but with a bite. “I’m allowed to fuck, unless they’ve established a new morality police I haven’t heard about. Screw you, Montserrat. If you can’t get any it doesn’t mean I’ll go without it.” He didn’t mean to say all of that. The words came tumbling out because of the stress of the last couple of days when he’d been in the panicked position of discovering one of his friends was dead and the other was being held for questioning. Not to mention his catastrophic fight with Yolanda. It was like getting punched three times in the face. “I don’t care if you fuck a man, a woman, or sign up for a threesome with a set of twins, what I care about is the fact I kept trying to get in touch with you and you simply weren’t there. I


He marched straight in, already talking. “...and the windows are facing full west—it’s absolutely scorching in here. I don’t know how you can stand it...” Her voice had no effect on him at all. * * * Lord Ashley sat with his back to the window. A boy, really, thought Miss de Vries, the longer she looked at him. Ugly or handsome, she couldn’t decide. He had a mean face, and his hair ended in a curl that seemed to be slicked to his forehead. He stretched his legs out wide, heels scudding the carpet. Mr. Lockwood managed the conversation, and Miss de Vries had to give him credit: he knew what he was doing. The topics seemed disconnected. Lord Ashley’s stables, his judgment of the railways, the expense of motoring, the vulgarity of Americans. But Lockwood knitted them together neatly, making an occasional jotting in his notebook, smiling throughout. “I agree,” said Miss de Vries at intervals. They’d agreed she would say nothing more. Modesty, moral rectitude, dignity—she radiated these virtues, unrelentingly, unendingly, maintaining perfect posture. “But you can’t care for town in the summer,” Lord Ashley said to Lockwood, but his eyes were on Miss de Vries. “You can’t possibly intend to keep this house.” There was a silence, a stretched-out moment. That was an opening gambit. Miss de Vries put down her cup. “I...” “And you know we don’t like the look of the books. You’re vastly overextended. Has your man told you my view?” Miss de Vries saw Mr. Lockwood’s face go taut. It was the impertinence of it. That the house of de Vries was considered so vulgar, so lowborn, that it was perfectly reasonable to debase it. That you might eschew good manners, cross your legs and slurp your tea, and simply haggle without any hint of compunction. “I don’t have a head for business,” said Miss de Vries, making her voice gentle, “but I know my father left his estate in perfect order.” A little white lie, an entirely fair one. Lockwood said quickly, “We have a most extremely rigorous handle on the household’s affairs.” Lord Ashley shook his head. “But you’re still in gold! You should get out of that, for a start. And the loans are a joke. They should be axed at once.” Miss de Vries sipped her tea. “By the way,” added Lord Ashley—and something twisted in his tone. “What’s all this talk about your old man’s funny business?” Mr. Lockwood went still. “Talk?” said Miss de Vries. She studied her fingers. Mr. Lockwood cleared his throat. “People say all sorts of things.” Lord Ashley was watching her. It was the first time he’d looked straight in her direction. “I’m not necessarily objecting,” he said with a testy laugh. Miss de Vries pushed back her chair. In this house there were all sorts of boxes. Drawers and vessels and canisters and cases beyond counting. They contained all manner of things. Some were left unlocked. Some were soldered with lead, encased in marble, locked up behind bars, buried in the ground. What


concerning other deserving members of her family, whom it was desirable to set on their deserving legs. All this time, her daughter Annie never once spoke, or lifted up her eyes. All this time, Mr. Wickfield had his glance upon her as she sat by his own daughter's side. It appeared to me that he never thought of being observed by anyone; but was so intent upon her, and upon his own thoughts in connexion with her, as to be quite absorbed. He now asked what Mr. Jack Maldon had actually written in reference to himself, and to whom he had written? 'Why, here,' said Mrs. Markleham, taking a letter from the chimney-piece above the Doctor's head, 'the dear fellow says to the Doctor himself - where is it? Oh! - "I am sorry to inform you that my health is suffering severely, and that I fear I may be reduced to the necessity of returning home for a time, as the only hope of restoration." That's pretty plain, poor fellow! His only hope of restoration! But Annie's letter is plainer still. Annie, show me that letter again.' 'Not now, mama,' she pleaded in a low tone. 'My dear, you absolutely are, on some subjects, one of the most ridiculous persons in the world,' returned her mother, 'and perhaps the most unnatural to the claims of your own family. We never should have heard of the letter at all, I believe, unless I had asked for it myself. Do you call that confidence, my love, towards Doctor Strong? I am surprised. You ought to know better.' The letter was reluctantly produced; and as I handed it to the old lady, I saw how the unwilling hand from which I took it, trembled. 'Now let us see,' said Mrs. Markleham, putting her glass to her eye, 'where the passage is. "The remembrance of old times, my dearest Annie" - and so forth - it's not there. "The amiable old Proctor" - who's he? Dear me, Annie, how illegibly your cousin Maldon writes, and how stupid I am! "Doctor," of course. Ah! amiable indeed!' Here she left off, to kiss her fan again, and shake it at the Doctor, who was looking at us in a state of placid satisfaction. 'Now I have found it. "You may not be surprised to hear, Annie," - no, to be sure, knowing that he never was really strong; what did I say just now? - "that I have undergone so much in this distant place, as to have decided to leave it at all hazards; on sick leave, if I can; on total resignation, if that is not to be obtained. What I have endured, and do endure here, is insupportable." And but for the promptitude of that best of creatures,' said Mrs. Markleham, telegraphing the Doctor as before, and refolding the letter, 'it would be insupportable to me to think of.' Mr. Wickfield said not one word, though the old lady looked to him as if for his commentary on this intelligence; but sat severely silent,


building their vocabularies in anticipation of taking PSAT®, SAT®, AP® (Advanced Placement®), 1 GRE®, LSAT®, GMAT® or similar examinations. Webster’s edition of this classic is organized to expose the reader to a maximum number of synonyms and antonyms for difficult and often ambiguous English words that are encountered in other works of literature, conversation, or academic examinations. Extremely rare or idiosyncratic words and expressions are given lower priority in the notes compared to words which are “difficult, and often encountered” in examinations. Rather than supply a single synonym, many are provided for a variety of meanings, allowing readers to better grasp the ambiguity of the English language, and avoid using the notes as a pure crutch. Having the reader decipher a word’s meaning within context serves to improve vocabulary retention and understanding. Each page covers words not already highlighted on previous pages. If a difficult word is not noted on a page, chances are that it has been highlighted on a previous page. A more complete thesaurus is supplied at the end of the book; Synonyms and antonyms are extracted from Webster’s Online Dictionary. Definitions of remaining terms as well as translations can be found at www.websters-online- dictionary.org. Please send suggestions to websters@icongroupbooks.com The Editor Webster’s Online Dictionary www.websters-online-dictionary.org 1 PSAT® is a registered trademark of the College Entrance Examination Board and the National Merit Scholarship Corporation neither of which sponsors or endorses this book; SAT® is a registered trademark of the College Board which neither sponsors nor endorses this book; GRE®, AP® and Advanced Placement® are registered trademarks of the Educational Testing Service which neither sponsors nor endorses this book, GMAT® is a registered trademark of the Graduate Management Admissions Council which is neither affiliated with this book nor endorses this book, LSAT® is a registered trademark of the Law School Admissions Council which neither sponsors nor endorses this product. All rights reserved. Nathaniel Hawthorne 3 EDITOR'S %NOTE Nathaniel Hawthorne was already a man of forty-six, and a tale writer of some twenty-four years' standing, when "The Scarlet Letter" appeared. He was born at Salem, Mass., on July 4th, 1804, son of a sea-captain. He led there a shy and rather sombre life; of few artistic encouragements, yet not wholly uncongenial, his moody, intensely meditative temperament being considered. Its colours and shadows are marvelously reflected in his "Twice-Told Tales" and other short stories, the product of his first literary period. Even his college days at Bowdoin did not quite break through his acquired and inherited reserve; but beneath it all, his faculty of divining men and women was exercised with almost uncanny prescience and subtlety. "The Scarlet Letter," which explains as much of this unique imaginative art, as is to be gathered from reading his highest single achievement, yet needs to be ranged with his other writings, early and late, to have its last effect. In the year that saw it published, he began "The House of the Seven Gables," a later romance or prose-tragedy of the Puritan-American community as he had himself known it - defrauded of art and the


his bones. For that matter, they were all loafing,--Buck, John Thornton, and Skeet and Nig,--waiting for the raft to come that was to carry them down to Dawson. Skeet was a little Irish setter who early made friends with Buck, who, in a dying condition, was unable to resent her first advances. She had the doctor trait which some dogs possess; and as a mother cat washes her kittens, so she washed and cleansed Buck's wounds. Regularly, each morning after he had finished his breakfast, she performed her self- appointed task, till he came to look for her ministrations as much as he did for Thornton's. Nig, equally friendly, though less demonstrative, was a huge black dog, half bloodhound and half deerhound, with eyes that laughed and a boundless good nature. To Buck's surprise these dogs manifested no jealousy toward him. They seemed to share the kindliness and largeness of John Thornton. As Buck grew stronger they enticed him into all sorts of ridiculous games, in which Thornton himself could not forbear to join; and in this fashion Buck romped through his convalescence and into a new existence. Love, genuine passionate love, was his for the first time. This he had never experienced at Judge Miller's down in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley. With the Judge's sons, hunting and tramping, it had been a working partnership; with the Judge's grandsons, a sort of pompous guardianship; and with the Judge himself, a stately and dignified friendship. But love that was feverish and burning, that was adoration, that was madness, it had taken John Thornton to arouse. This man had saved his life, which was something; but, further, he was the ideal master. Other men saw to the welfare of their dogs from a sense of duty and business expediency; he saw to the welfare of his as if they were his own children, because he could not help it. And he saw further. He never forgot a kindly greeting or a cheering word, and to sit down for a long talk with them ("gas" he called it) was as much his delight as theirs. He had a way of taking Buck's head roughly between his hands, and resting his own head upon Buck's, of shaking him back and forth, the while calling him ill names that to Buck were love names. Buck knew no greater joy than that rough embrace and the sound of murmured oaths, and at each jerk back and forth it seemed that his heart would be shaken out of his body so great was its ecstasy. And when, released, he sprang to his feet, his mouth laughing, his eyes eloquent, his throat vibrant with unuttered sound, and in that fashion remained without movement, John Thornton would reverently exclaim, "God! you can all but speak!" Buck had a trick of love expression that was akin to hurt. He would often seize Thornton's hand in his mouth and close so fiercely that the flesh bore the impress of his teeth for some time afterward. And as Buck understood the oaths to


to stay?” He cocks his head to one side, his expression amused. “You are one kinky son of a bitch. Out. I don’t want you to watch me pee. That’s a step too far.” I stand and wave him out of the bathroom. When I emerge from the bathroom, he’s changed into his pajama bottoms. Hmm . . . Christian in PJs. Mesmerized, I gaze at his abdomen, his muscles, his happy trail. It’s distracting. He strides over to me. “Enjoying the view?” he asks wryly. “Always.” “I think you’re slightly drunk, Mrs. Grey.” “I think, for once, I have to agree with you, Mr. Grey.” “Let me help you out of what little there is of this dress. It really should come with a health warning.” He turns me around and undoes the single button at the neck. “You were so mad,” I murmur. “Yes. I was.” “At me?” “No. Not at you.” He kisses my shoulder. “For once.” I smile. Not mad at me. This is progress. “Makes a nice change.” “Yes. It does.” He kisses my other shoulder then tugs my dress down over my backside and onto the floor. He removes my panties at the same time, leaving me naked. Reaching up, he takes my hand. “Step,” he commands, and I step out of the dress, holding his hand for balance. He stands and tosses my dress and panties onto the chair with Mia’s trench coat. “Arms up,” he says softly. He slips his T-shirt over me and pulls it down, covering me up. I am ready for bed. He pulls me into his arms and kisses me, my minty breath mingling with his. 296/551 “As much as I’d love to bury myself in you, Mrs. Grey—you’ve had too much to drink, you’re at nearly eight thousand feet, and you didn’t sleep well last night. Come. Get into bed.” He pulls back the duvet and I climb in. He covers me up and kisses my forehead once more. “Close your eyes. When I come back to bed, I’ll expect you to be asleep.” It’s a threat, a command . . . it’s Christian. “Don’t go,” I plead. “I have some calls to make, Ana.” “It’s Saturday. It’s late. Please.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Ana, if I come to bed with you now, you won’t get any rest. Sleep.” He’s adamant. I close my eyes and his lips brush my forehead once more. “Goodnight, baby,” he breathes. Images of the day flash through my mind . . . Christian hauling me over his shoulder in the plane. His anxiety as to whether or not I’d like the house. Making love this afternoon. The bath. His reaction to my dress. Decking Blond Gi- ant—my palm tingles at the memory. And then Christian putting me to bed. Who would have thought? I grin widely, the word progress running around my brain as I drift. I am too warm. Christian warm. His head is on my shoulder, and he’s breathing softly on my neck while he sleeps, his legs


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As I stood, one of the Namibian soldiers brushed past me, crouched

beside the other lion. A big male. The soldier held up his AK-47, asked one

of his buddies to get a photo. As if he’d made a kill.

I was about to say something, but Billy the Rock beat me to it. He told

the Namibian soldier to get the fuck away from the lions.

Sullen, the soldier slunk away.

I turned now to say something to the doctor. There was a flash. I turned

again, to see where it had come from, which soldier had shot his phone

camera, and heard the men gasp.

I looked back: The lioness was standing before me. Resurrected.

She stumbled forward.

It’s OK, the doctor said. Jt OK.

She fell again, right at my feet.

Goodnight, sweet princess.

I looked left, right. No one was near me. The soldiers had all raced back

to their trucks. The one with the AK-47 was rolling up the window. Even

Billy the Rock had taken a half-step back.

The doctor said, Sorry about that.

Dont be.

We returned to camp. Everyone climbed into their tents, their trucks,

except me.

I returned to my mat by the fire.

You’re joking, they all said. What about the lions? We just saw proof that

there are lions out here, boss.

Pff. Trust me. That lioness isn t going to hurt anybody.

In fact she’s probably watching over us.

86.

B ACK TO AMERICA. With two good mates. January 2016.

My mate Thomas was dating a woman who lived in Los Angeles,

so our first stop was her house. She gave a welcome party, invited a small

group of friends over. Everyone was on the same page about alcohol—in

other words, committed to consuming large amounts in a short


so, there was no time to save himself. There was suddenly a small carpet of glinting steel spikes right under his off-side wing. Then he was on top of it. Bond automatically slammed the brakes full on and braced all his sinews against the wheel to correct the inevitable slew to the left, but he only kept control for a split second. As the rubber was flayed from his off-side wheels and the rims for an instant tore up the tarmac, the heavy car whirled across the road in a tearing dry skid, slammed the left bank with a crash that knocked Bond out of the driving-seat on to the floor, and then, facing back up the road, it reared slowly up, its front wheels spinning and its great headlights searching the sky. For a split second, resting on the petrol tank, it seemed to paw at the heavens like a giant praying-mantis. Then slowly it toppled over backwards and fell with a splintering crash of coachwork and glass. In the deafening silence, the near-side front wheel whispered briefly on and then squeaked to a stop. Le Chiffre and his two men only had to walk a few yards from their ambush. 'Put your guns away and get him out,' he ordered brusquely. 'I'll keep you covered. Be careful of him. I don't want a corpse. And hurry up, it's getting light.' The two men got down on their knees. One of them took out a long knife and cut some of the fabric away from the side of the convertible hood and took hold of Bond's shoulders. He was unconscious and immovable. The other squeezed between the upturned car and the bank and forced his way through the crumpled window-frame. He eased Bond's legs, pinned between the steering-wheel and the fabric roof of the car. Then they inched him out through a hole in the hood. They were sweating and filthy with dust and oil by the time they had him lying in the road. The thin man felt his heart and then slapped his face hard on either side. Bond grunted and moved a hand. The thin man slapped him again. 'That's enough,' said Le Chiffre. 'Tie his arms and put him in the car. Here,' he threw a roll of flex to the man. 'Empty his pockets first and give me his gun. He may have got some other weapons, but we can get them later.' He took the objects the thin man handed him and stuffed them and Bond's Beretta into his wide pockets without examining them. He left the men to it and walked back to the car. His face showed neither pleasure nor excitement. It was the sharp bite of the wire flex into his wrists that brought Bond to himself. He was aching all over as if he had been thrashed with a wooden club, but when he was yanked to his feet and pushed towards the narrow side-road where the engine of the Citron was already running softly, he found that no bones were


with many smiles; 'and hoping you find yourself well, sir!' 'So-so, Mrs. Mann,' replied the beadle. 'A porochial life is not a bed of roses, Mrs. Mann.' 'Ah, that it isn't indeed, Mr. Bumble,' rejoined the lady. And all the infant paupers might have chorussed the rejoinder with great propriety, if they had heard it. 'A porochial life, ma'am,' continued Mr. Bumble, striking the table with his cane, 'is a life of worrit, and vexation, and hardihood; but all public characters, as I may say, must suffer prosecution.' Mrs. Mann, not very well knowing what the beadle meant, raised her hands with a look of sympathy, and sighed. 'Ah! You may well sigh, Mrs. Mann!' said the beadle. Finding she had done right, Mrs. Mann sighed again: evidently to the satisfaction of the public character: who, repressing a complacent smile by looking sternly at his cocked hat, said, 'Mrs. Mann, I am going to London.' 'Lauk, Mr. Bumble!' cried Mrs. Mann, starting back. 'To London, ma'am,' resumed the inflexible beadle, 'by coach. I and two paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and the board has appointed me--me, Mrs. Mann--to dispose to the matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell. And I very much question,' added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, 'whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me.' 'Oh! you mustn't be too hard upon them, sir,' said Mrs. Mann, coaxingly. 'The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble; 'and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they come off rather worse than they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have only themselves to thank.' There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs. Mann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said, 'You're going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them paupers in carts.' 'That's when they're ill, Mrs. Mann,' said the beadle. 'We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold.' 'Oh!' said Mrs. Mann. 'The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap,' said Mr. Bumble. 'They are both in a very low state, and we find it would come two pound cheaper to move 'em than to bury 'em--that is, if we can throw 'em upon another parish, which I think we shall be able to do, if they don't die upon the road to spite us. Ha! ha! ha!' When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered the cocked hat; and he became grave. 'We are forgetting business, ma'am,' said the beadle; 'here is your porochial stipend for the month." Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper, from his pocket-book; and requested a receipt: which Mrs. Mann wrote. 'It's very much blotted, sir,' said the farmer of infants; 'but it's formal enough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am


manufactured, how she was only ever a token. About how my hoax—because let’s frame it as a hoax, not a theft—was really a way to expose the rotten foundations of this entire industry. About how I am the hero, in the end. I start planning my next steps. First, I’ll write a proposal. I can have that done by the end of the day, or perhaps tomorrow morning if I get too tired. But I’ll certainly whip it into shape by the end of the week, and then email it off to Brett, assuming Brett hasn’t fired me. If he has fired me, I’ll ask for a phone call, then pitch this to him in person. He’d be insane to say no. I’ll spend the next eight weeks scribbling down all my thoughts and recollections. I can’t recycle material from my pseudo-autobiography. No—in that project, I was willing to make myself the villain for the sake of entertainment. In this version, I need redemption. I must make them see my side of the story. Athena was the leech, the vampire, the ghost who wouldn’t let me go; Candice her deranged wannabe proxy. I am innocent. My only sin is loving literature too much, and refusing to let Athena’s very prenatal work go to waste. The draft will be messy, but that’s all right—this whole affair is messy. It’s more important to strike while the iron’s hot. Brett and I will clean up the typos as best we can, then put the manuscript on submission. Someone will buy that story. Perhaps it’ll be Eden—I’d be willing to work again with Daniella, provided she comes groveling, stacks of cash in hand. But I’m expecting a choice. The offers will be many. We’ll go to auction. I would not, in fact, be surprised if this project goes for more money than any of my previous works. A year later, I’ll be in bookstores everywhere. The initial press coverage will be skeptical at best, scathing at worst. White lady publishes tell-all! June Hayward writes the memoir none of us wanted, because this psycho just can’t stop. Diana Qiu will blow a gasket. Adele Sparks-Sato will lose her fucking mind. But some reviewer, somewhere, will give the book a closer look. They’ll publish a contrarian review, because editors who want clickbait always solicit contrarian reviews. What if we got it all wrong? And that’s all it takes to sow doubt. The netizens who love to argue for the sake of arguing will look for the holes in Candice’s story. The character assassinations will begin. We’ll all get dragged down in the mud, and when the dust clears, all that will remain is the question: What if Juniper Song was right? And this will become, in time, my story once again. Acknowledgments YELLOWFACE IS, IN LARGE PART, A HORROR STORY ABOUT LONELINESS in a fiercely competitive industry. Compared to June and Athena, I am gratefully supported by the most wonderful friends, family, and publishing team a writer could ask for. Many thanks are in order. Thank you to


shrinking away altogether. `That WAS a narrow escape!' said Alice, a good deal frightened at the sudden change, but very glad to find herself still in existence; `and now for the garden!' and she ran with all speed back to the little door: but, alas! the little door was shut again, and the little golden key was lying on the glass table as before, `and things are worse than ever,' thought the poor child, `for I never was so small as this before, never! And I declare it's too bad, that it is!' As she said these words her foot slipped, and in another moment, splash! she was up to her chin in salt water. He first idea was that she had somehow fallen into the sea, `and in that case I can go back by railway,' she said to herself. (Alice had been to the seaside once in her life, and had come to the general conclusion, that wherever you go to on the English coast you find a number of bathing machines in the sea, some children digging in the sand with wooden spades, then a row of lodging houses, and behind them a railway station.) However, she soon made out that she was in the pool of tears which she had wept when she was nine feet high. `I wish I hadn't cried so much!' said Alice, as she swam about, trying to find her way out. `I shall be punished for it now, I suppose, by being drowned in my own tears! That WILL be a queer thing, to be sure! However, everything is queer to-day.' Just then she heard something splashing about in the pool a little way off, and she swam nearer to make out what it was: at first she thought it must be a walrus or hippopotamus, but then she remembered how small she was now, and she soon made out that it was only a mouse that had slipped in like herself. `Would it be of any use, now,' thought Alice, `to speak to this mouse? Everything is so out-of-the-way down here, that I should think very likely it can talk: at any rate, there's no harm in trying.' So she began: `O Mouse, do you know the way out of this pool? I am very tired of swimming about here, O Mouse!' (Alice thought this must be the right way of speaking to a mouse: she had never done such a thing before, but she remembered having seen in her brother's Latin Grammar, `A mouse--of a mouse--to a mouse--a mouse--O mouse!' The Mouse looked at her rather inquisitively, and seemed to her to wink with one of its little eyes, but it said nothing. `Perhaps it doesn't understand English,' thought Alice; `I daresay it's a French mouse, come over with William the Conqueror.' (For, with all her knowledge of history, Alice had no very clear notion how long ago anything had happened.) So she began again: `Ou est ma chatte?' which was the first sentence in her French lesson-book. The Mouse gave


Noah as the Pope; a sketch by a writer named Tess about talking medications in a bathroom cabinet; a Three Tenors sketch by Joseph; and Catchphrase’s terrible Ridin’ Toward Ya sketch. Neither the dogs’ Google searches sketch I’d co-written with Viv and Henrietta nor my favorite sketch from the table read, the one by Tony about the white politician at the Black church, had made the cut. And the likelihood was that two or three more would be eliminated. There were no guarantees at TNO, but still: I’d never in nine years had three sketches in the same episode. One of the writers, Patrick, said warmly, “Is it sexual harassment to say that I hate you right now?” I and the other writers whose sketches had been picked wandered into a room next to Nigel’s office to speak to the heads of all the departments who would make our words three-dimensional: wardrobe and hair and makeup and production design and special effects. The sets would be built at a warehouse in Brooklyn then transported back to 66, ideally on Friday, to be painted. While talking to a set designer named Buddy, I said, “Yeah, a mix of triangular hunks of cheese and wheels but both are way bigger than life-sized,” and then I said to a woman in wardrobe named Christa, “For Blabbermouth, I’m picturing Noah in something like animal print leggings and a jean jacket so I guess a hair metal vibe?” The rest of the week would be challenging and exhausting and consuming and magnificent, and I thought, as I met with Bob O’Leary to confirm which cast members were in each of my sketches so he could coordinate the whole crazy chessboard of TNO, that what I’d told Noah the night before, what I’d thought a thousand times, was true: Without question, I had the best job in the world. Thursday, 1:08 a.m. I was walking toward the elevators to leave when I heard someone say, “Hey, Sally.” When I turned, Elliot—the head writer, who was married to the multi-platinum-album-selling singer named Nicola—was leaning out of his office. I paused. He said, “Nice lineup on the corkboard.” Because he’d been part of the meeting where the first round of sketches had been selected, I said, “If you’re offering me the opportunity to thank you, I’ll hold off ’til the live show.” I didn’t point out that I’d never know if he’d argued for or against any of mine. “I’ll be shocked if at least one doesn’t make it to air,” Elliot said, which didn’t seem particularly encouraging. He added, “I just wanted to say—not to touch the third rail—I hope—” He paused, and I was reminded that, although he had over time remade himself into a well-groomed, successful cultural arbiter married to a pop star, he was still, fundamentally, an awkward writer. And though I myself was no stranger to awkwardness, I wasn’t going to help him out. “You hope—?” I repeated. “That someday you’ll be able to let bygones be bygones.” If I’d had any acting skills, I’d


was growed in." Yes; the Durbeyfield couple had changed places; the dying one was out of danger, and the indisposed one was dead. The news meant even more than it sounded. Her father's life had a value apart from his personal achievements, or perhaps it would not have had much. It was the last of the three lives for whose duration the house and premises were held under a lease; and it had long been coveted by the tenant-farmer for his regular labourers, who were stinted in cottage accommodation. Moreover, "liviers" were disapproved of in villages almost as much as little freeholders, because of their independence of manner, and when a lease determined it was never renewed. Thus the Durbeyfields, once d'Urbervilles, saw descending upon them the destiny which, no doubt, when they were among the Olympians of the county, they had caused to descend many a time, and severely enough, upon the heads of such landless ones as they themselves were not. So do flux and reflux--the rhythm of change--alternate and persist in everything under the sky. LI At length it was the eve of Old Lady-Day, and the agricultural world was in a fever of mobility such as only occurs at that particular date of the year. It is a day of fulfilment; agreements for outdoor service during the ensuing year, entered into at Candlemas, are to be now carried out. The labourers--or "work-folk", as they used to call themselves immemorially till the other word was introduced from without--who wish to remain no longer in old places are removing to the new farms. These annual migrations from farm to farm were on the increase here. When Tess's mother was a child the majority of the field-folk about Marlott had remained all their lives on one farm, which had been the home also of their fathers and grandfathers; but latterly the desire for yearly removal had risen to a high pitch. With the younger families it was a pleasant excitement which might possibly be an advantage. The Egypt of one family was the Land of Promise to the family who saw it from a distance, till by residence there it became it turn their Egypt also; and so they changed and changed. However, all the mutations so increasingly discernible in village life did not originate entirely in the agricultural unrest. A depopulation was also going on. The village had formerly contained, side by side with the argicultural labourers, an interesting and better-informed class, ranking distinctly above the former--the class to which Tess's father and mother had belonged--and including the carpenter, the smith, the shoemaker, the huckster, together with nondescript workers other than farm-labourers; a set of people who owed a certain stability of aim and conduct to the fact of their being lifeholders like Tess's father, or copyholders, or occasionally, small freeholders. But as the long holdings fell in they were seldom again let to similar tenants, and were mostly pulled down, if not absolutely required by the farmer for his hands. Cottagers who were not directly employed on the land


categories of songs you hate?” “Well, my disclaimer is that music isn’t my area of expertise.” “Noted.” “One category is the kind of song where it’s about a long relationship or marriage, and the lyrics are like ‘Sometimes it was so bad that we almost didn’t make it, but we’ve survived.’ I think those songs are unintentionally funny because they’re supposedly a celebration of the endurance of love or whatever, but the lyrics sound more like ‘Being married to you is hell, but let’s congratulate ourselves for gutting it out.’ ” “Hmm,” he said. “I guess I’ve never thought about that.” “There’s a ton of them,” I said. “ ‘We both were attracted to other people, you drove me crazy, I wanted to kill you. But, baby, after all these years, you’re still the one.’ That actually might be a good sketch. Even though you poisoned my cat, even though you puked on my needlepoint pillow. Have you ever been to a wedding reception where they make all the married couples stand up and then the DJ says, ‘Sit down if you’ve been married less than ten years, less than twenty years, less than thirty years?’ And the last ones standing are some ninety-year-old couple who’s been married since 1950?” “Did you meet my backup singer Jimmy? I’ve only seen that at his wedding. I think it’s not a WASP thing.” “I think you’re right. But there could be a freeze-frame on each couple as they’re applauded, and they do a confessional. So all the other guests are like, ‘This is so touching,’ and the ninety-year-old woman is thinking to herself, ‘For seven decades, the sound of his chewing has made me want to strangle him.’ ” “That would be funny,” Noah said. “Actually.” Our eyes met, and I said, “Thanks, actually.” “The thing is,” he said, “I’m pretty sure I’ve never written that kind of song, partly because I’ve never been married.” “Oh, sorry. ‘Making Love in July’ is the other kind of song I was referring to. It’s in the second category. That kind is always a man singing to a woman and it’s like, ‘Baby, you don’t know how beautiful you are. You’re so perfect, I never thought I’d find this, am I in heaven?’ ” Noah looked both amused and uncertain. “What’s wrong with ‘Baby, you’re so perfect, I never thought I’d find this, am I in heaven?’ ” At an almost subliminal level, I found it gratifying that I’d tricked Noah Brewster into saying to me, while we stood a foot apart, “Baby, you’re so perfect, I never thought I’d find this, am I in heaven?” I said, “I don’t like the You-don’t-know-how-beautiful-you-are part. It makes it seem like the love is predicated either on a lack of awareness on the woman’s part or else on her being insecure. And the woman in the songs is often both a child and a sexy enchantress. So the lyrics might as well be ‘I’m attracted to you because you conform to the standards agreed upon to be desirable at


five miles, or whatever it is, above her ancles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! what could she mean by it? It seems to me to shew an abominable sort of conceited independence, a most country-town indifference to decorum.'' ``It shews an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,'' said Bingley. ``I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,'' observed Miss Bingley in a half whisper, ``that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes.'' ``Not at all,'' he replied; ``they were brightened by the exercise.'' -- A short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again. ``I have an excessive regard for Jane Bennet, she is really a very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it.'' ``I think I have heard you say, that their uncle is an attorney in Meryton.'' ``Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.'' ``That is capital,'' added her sister, and they both laughed heartily. ``If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside,'' cried Bingley, ``it would not make them one jot less agreeable.'' ``But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any consideration in the world,'' replied Darcy. To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of their dear friend's vulgar relations. With a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her room on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee. She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all till late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her asleep, and when it appeared to her rather right than pleasant that she should go down stairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole party at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the excuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay below with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment. ``Do you prefer reading to cards?'' said he; ``that is rather singular.'' ``Miss Eliza Bennet,'' said Miss Bingley, ``despises cards. She is a great reader and has no pleasure in anything else.'' ``I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,'' cried Elizabeth; ``I am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.'' ``In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,'' said Bingley; ``and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well.'' Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her others; all that his library afforded. ``And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I


held in one hand, and a pill-box held in the other, occasionally casting a critical glance at the ivory limbs of the two crippled captains. But, at his superior's introduction of him to Ahab, he .. <p 437 > politely bowed, and straightway went on to do his captain's bidding. It was a shocking bad wound, began the whale-surgeon; and, taking my advice, Captain Boomer here, stood our old Sammy-- Samuel Enderby is the name of my ship, interrupted the one-armed captain, addressing Ahab; go on, boy. Stood our old Sammy off to the northward, to get out of the blazing hot weather there on the Line. But it was no use --I did all I could; sat up with him nights; was very severe with him in the matter of diet-- Oh, very severe! chimed in the patient himself; then suddenly altering his voice, Drinking hot rum toddies with me every night, till he couldn't see to put on the bandages; and sending me to bed, half seas over, about three o'clock in the morning. Oh, ye stars! he sat up with me indeed, and was very severe in my diet. Oh! a great watcher, and very dietetically severe, is Dr. Bunger. (Bunger, you dog, laugh out! why don't ye? You know you're a precious jolly rascal.) But, heave ahead, boy, I'd rather be killed by you than kept alive by any other man. My captain, you must have ere this perceived, respected sir --said the imperturbable godly-looking Bunger, slightly bowing to Ahab -- is apt to be facetious at times; he spins us many clever things of that sort. But I may as well say --en passant, as the French remark --that I myself --that is to say, Jack Bunger, late of the reverend clergy --am a strict total abstinence man; I never drink-- Water! cried the captain; he never drinks it; it's a sort of fits to him; fresh water throws him into the hydrophobia; but go on --go on with the arm story. Yes, I may as well, said the surgeon, coolly. I was about observing, sir, before Captain Boomer's facetious interruption, that spite of my best and severest endeavors, the wound kept getting worse and worse; the truth was, sir, it was as ugly gaping wound as surgeon ever saw; more than two feet and several inches long. I measured it with the lead line. In short, it grew black; I knew what was threatened, and off it came. .. <p 438 > But I had no hand in shipping that ivory arm there; that thing is against all rule --pointing at it with the marlingspike -- that is the captain's work, not mine; he ordered the carpenter to make it; he had that club-hammer there put to the end, to knock some one's brains out with, I suppose, as he tried mine once. He flies into diabolical passions sometimes. Do ye see this dent, sir --removing his hat, and brushing aside his hair, and exposing a bowl-like cavity in his skull, but which bore not the


usual sensation in the mornings. But that day she felt only a faint curiosity, a sort of scientific interest in herself. She touched her hair, that mountainous, chestnut-rich, glowing structure, and felt proud of it. She was here. She had survived—she was surviving—despite everything. How clever I am, she thought. How remarkable. I love being me. This realization meant something. That morning she went for a walk in the park, wearing her rich brown cape and carrying a pink umbrella, and when she came home she went searching for a pencil. It took her ages, and she had to turn out half her closets to find any notepaper. Writing was hard, almost painful, and the letters were nearly illegible. But the words came. What is this? she wondered, staring at what she’d written. A novel? A letter? A confession? A play, she decided. I will write a play. She slept that night as she had not slept in years. It strengthened her immensely. She woke with a splendid appetite and treated herself to an enormous breakfast. She thought about the Paragon. Did she miss it? I’d build a very good theater, she thought. I’d run it splendidly. I’d run it better than anyone. She reached for her pencil and did the sums. * * * Mrs. Bone had had a grueling seven days, totting up the accounts. The figures were eye watering, stupendous, unbelievable. Archie began paying off her debts, handing out wages, spreading the word: Mrs. Bone was back in business. Big business. The other major families looked on in awe. At the end of the week, Mr. Murphy called in at the factory, bringing the keys to the pawnshop. He crept into her parlor, pale faced, on his knees. He kissed her hand. “I don’t forgive you,” Mrs. Bone said, digging her nails into his flesh, and sent him out of the room. Her men dealt with him outside in the yard. On the last day of accounting she did something very important. She made a quiet adjustment to their books, the only little bit of skimming she ever did, and popped a banker’s order in an envelope. She put the envelope in her bag and took the omnibus to Lisson Grove. Mrs. Bone knew how to find people. She did it her usual way, by instinct. Constable first, then the man running the pie shop. Then down the back lanes, where the girls were hanging out laundry. She could hear little voices chanting rhymes. Could smell the drains, a fractionally different scent here, as if the water were harder in this part of town. These people stared at her, an oddity, a curio, but they sent her in the right direction. She located a dark and miserable house at the end of the road. The stairs were set at a worrying slant, as if the foundations were having a joke at the owner’s expense. “Sue?” Mrs. Bone said, banging on the door. There was a long wait. And then a footstep, a creak of the hinges. A face peered


Miss de Vries tapped it with her nail. Alice went to the table, examined her own design. A gown with a waist strapped and laced, a fanciful and cloud-like train, shoulders that were mere skeins of thread, slipping off the skin. Something that would ripple when it moved. Something entirely unsuitable for a lady in mourning. Alice reached for the paper, to hide it. “I really shouldn’t have, Madam.” Miss de Vries placed her fist on the table, holding the page in place. “Shouldn’t have what? Imagined something nice for me to wear?” Alice shook her head. “They’re just scribbles, Madam. Silly drawings.” “My dress is ghastly. It won’t do at all—I see that now.” Miss de Vries stepped back. Up close, at this angle, it was perfectly possible for Alice to inspect Madam’s skin, the tiny freckles and wisps of hair on the back of her neck. It made her gentler, more human. “I want something like this. Could you do it?” “Me?” said Alice, in disbelief. “They can help you down at Bond Street, I’m sure,” said Miss de Vries. “I suppose it’s simply a matter of stitching it all together.” She nodded at the sketch. “You’ve got your pattern, after all.” Alice’s mind started ticking, assessing this for problems, for risks. Simply a matter of stitching it together? A dress like that would be a mountain of work, bigger than anything she’d undertaken before. She had the urge to go and seek Mrs. King’s advice. “I’m not sure there’s time, Madam,” she said. Miss de Vries looked straight at her. “You’ll be rewarded handsomely for your efforts, of course.” That settled the matter. 7 Twenty-two days to go There was a haze on the waterfront, a tissue-paper mist. The Thames smelled of brine and coal smoke. Mrs. Bone’s favorite factory sat between the sugar refinery and the India-rubber warehouse, on a road swamped with mud. Men struggled through it, getting swilled like pig food. Mrs. King wondered why they couldn’t take the other path. People should consider all their options, she thought dryly. There was a villa attached to the factory, with high walls around the perimeter, and blood-colored glass in the windows. A wraithlike porter bolted the door behind her when she entered. She unpeeled her gloves. Better to meet this lot bare-skinned, knuckles out. Mrs. Bone was standing in a dim-lit parlor, shutters drawn, drapes drawn, hands on her hips. “This is my inventions room,” she said, raising a warning finger. “No memorizing anything. I’ve got patents. Don’t even try.” Old-fashioned lamps gave the room a rum-colored glow. There were flecks of paint and varnish everywhere, and rifles holstered to the walls. Guns, in all shapes and sizes. A striking choice in decoration. Mrs. King understood this impulse entirely. Mrs. Bone was just making a point. The women were punctual: a good start. Hephzibah raced in like an emu, feathered and beaded, wig bobbing, eyes everywhere. “Good to see you, Hephz,” said Mrs. King, going to embrace her. “Is that a pudding trolley?” Hephzibah exclaimed, snapping her


Village. My mother and Prim would live there with me. No more fear of hunger. A new kind of freedom. But then . . . what? What would my life be like on a 306 daily basis? Most of it has been consumed with the acquisition of food. Take that away and I’m not really sure who I am, what my identity is. The idea scares me some. I think of Haymitch, with all his money. What did his life become? He lives alone, no wife or children, most of his waking hours drunk. I don’t want to end up like that. “But you won’t be alone,” I whisper to myself. I have my mother and Prim. Well, for the time being. And then . . . I don’t want to think about then, when Prim has grown up, my moth- er passed away. I know I’ll never marry, never risk bringing a child into the world. Because if there’s one thing being a victor doesn’t guarantee, it’s your children’s safety. My kids’ names would go right into the reaping balls with everyone else’s. And I swear I’ll never let that happen. The sun eventually rises, its light slipping through the cracks and illuminating Peeta’s face. Who will he transform in- to if we make it home? This perplexing, good-natured boy who can spin out lies so convincingly the whole of Panem believes him to be hopelessly in love with me, and I’ll admit it, there are moments when he makes me believe it myself? At least, we’ll be friends, I think. Nothing will change the fact that we’ve saved each other’s lives in here. And beyond that, he will al- ways be the boy with the bread. Good friends. Anything beyond that though . . . and I feel Gale’s gray eyes watching me watching Peeta, all the way from District 12. Discomfort causes me to move. I scoot over and shake Pee- ta’s shoulder. His eyes open sleepily and when they focus on me, he pulls me down for a long kiss. 307 “We’re wasting hunting time,” I say when I finally break away. “I wouldn’t call it wasting,” he says giving a big stretch as he sits up. “So do we hunt on empty stomachs to give us an edge?” “Not us,” I say. “We stuff ourselves to give us staying pow- er.” “Count me in,” Peeta says. But I can see he’s surprised when I divide the rest of the stew and rice and hand a heaping plate to him. “All this?” “We’ll earn it back today,” I say, and we both plow into our plates. Even cold, it’s one of the best things I’ve ever tasted. I abandon my fork and scrape up the last dabs of gravy with my finger. “I can feel Effie Trinket shuddering at my manners.” “Hey, Effie, watch this!” says Peeta. He tosses his fork over his shoulder and literally licks his plate clean with his tongue making loud, satisfied sounds. Then he blows a kiss out to her in general and


had eaten half a dozen dinners I gave up the Bar, and announced my intention of becoming a painter. I have always been my own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray. Then--But I don't know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had a strange feeling that Fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows. I knew that if I spoke to Dorian I would become absolutely devoted to him, and that I ought not to speak to him. I grew afraid, and turned to quit the room. It was not conscience that made me do so: it was cowardice. I take no credit to myself for trying to escape." "Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil. Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all." "I don't believe that, Harry. However, whatever was my motive,-- and it may have been pride, for I used to be very proud,--I certainly struggled to the door. There, of course, I stumbled against Lady Brandon. 'You are not going to run away so soon, Mr. Hallward?' she screamed out. You know her shrill horrid voice?" "Yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty," said Lord Henry, pulling the daisy to bits with his long, nervous fingers. "I could not get rid of her. She brought me up to Royalties, and people with Stars and Garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras and hooked noses. She spoke of me as her dearest friend. I had only met her once before, but she took it into her head to lionize me. I believe some picture of mine had made a great success at the time, at least had been chattered about in the penny newspapers, which is the nineteenth-century standard of immortality. Suddenly I found myself face to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely stirred me. We were quite close, almost touching. Our eyes met again. It was mad of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him. Perhaps it was not so mad, after all. It was simply inevitable. We would have spoken to each other without any introduction. I am sure of that. Dorian told me so afterwards. He, too, felt that we were destined to know each other." "And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man? I know she goes in for giving a rapid prcis of all her guests. I remember her bringing me up to a most truculent and red-faced old gentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my ear, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to everybody in the room, something like 'Sir Humpty Dumpty--you know--Afghan frontier--Russian intrigues: very successful man--wife killed by an elephant--quite inconsolable--wants to marry a beautiful American widow--everybody does nowadays--hates Mr. Gladstone--but very much interested in beetles: ask him what he thinks of Schouvaloff.' I simply fled. I like


pleasure to see you again.” It was not a pleasure. It was not a pleasure at all. I didn’t want this man sniffing around my camp. But I knew why he was here. I’d never followed up with him after his last offer. And men like David Price don’t just slink off into the darkness and take your silence as a no. “I was just telling Jillian here how great the camp is looking.” I tried not to smile at the compliment, but I couldn’t help myself. “There’s nothing better than this place when it’s all shined up for summer.” He nodded. “And I was just thinking as I drove in this morning how beautiful and secluded your house would be if we built it on top of the bluff. You could have two acres to yourself. Your own little piece of paradise. You’ve certainly earned that after all the years you’ve invested in this place.” In an instant, I became irrationally angry. And it was irrational. Because here was this man offering me a way out of a potentially dreadful situation—a situation that, without him, could end in bankruptcy, having to ask my niece if I could live with her for a while, and trying to reenter the workforce after an entire career as a camp director. I knew as well as my own last name that I still had to come up with almost $100,000, and I didn’t have a way to do that yet. David’s offer, although a last resort, was my safety net. I needed more time. I pinned on a fake smile. “David, could we maybe revisit your proposal at the end of the summer? I have a full camp of girls, and I’m just not sure how I could muddle my way through knowing I’d sold the place they love most.” He crossed his arms and leaned against Jillian’s desk. “See, June, I’m already putting my guys out quite a bit by giving you this one last summer. We’ve found another piece of land that we could start developing now—with a seller eager to unload it. So I’m sorry to say that, if you want to sell to Price Development, time is of the essence. We’re willing to give you this last summer, but as far as getting those papers signed, I’m afraid to say it’s now or never.” Now or never. Now or never… I wanted to feel supremely confident that we would raise the money, that we would close the gap. But, well, I didn’t. And knowing I had David’s money to fall back on was a huge relief. I opened my mouth. My answer only registered after I heard Jillian’s gasp. Daphne A PLAN Subject: Hard Things To: marystuart@capecarolinapr.com My Dearest Songbird, First, I’m sorry. I know I’ve made your life weird, and I didn’t know if I should even send this email—and it feels so strange without Lanier included on it—but… well, you were there for family camp. So you can probably imagine why I’m only sending my hard things to you