feeling sorry for him. “Ugh, this old brontosaurus thinks this music is still good.” But I get it now, your jam is always gonna sound like your jam, timeless and relevant even if the youths fail to appreciate it. 12. “Let You Down” most romantic lyric, to me: “I’m a puppy for your love” Here I am, wagging my lil fluffy tail, thumping it against the hardwood floor, covered in microscopic bugs, eating my own poop, just desperately trying to get you to kiss me! 13. “Crush” (Radio City version) most romantic lyric, to me: “Lovely lady / Let me drink you, please” This is about eating pussy, right? There’s an earlier lyric in which he says “I am at your feet,” and listen, there are not enough songs about a man getting on the floor and worshipping at his woman’s feet, then working his way up to suck her vaginal fluids dry. That’s so hot. Plus, I love a song about having a crush. I love thinking about crushes. I love the idea that he has a crush on someone but maybe he doesn’t, because there’s a later lyric where he sings, “Crush me, come on, oh yeah,” and he’s definitely talking about her squeezing his head like a juicy plum between her thighs, right? Either way, don’t ever let anyone tell you this dude is not an absolute freak who loves S-E-X. 14. “Belly Belly Nice” most romantic lyric, to me: “You can’t get too much love” I mean, CAN YOU??? My friend Wil Blades, whom I have known forever—literally from back in the days when white kids like him had ill-advised dreadlocks and smoked weed before class and taped Bob Marley posters over their beds—lives in Oakland and plays the Hammond B3 organ, and he’s always touring with cool groups. Dude texts me and is like “GIRL WE’RE OPENING FOR DAVE MATTHEWS BAND AT ALPINE VALLEY THIS SUMMER YOU GOTTA COME.” He told me that if I did, he could get me backstage to meet Dave. Do I want to? No, because I don’t want to humiliate myself. But do I have to? I think I do. Can’t wait to cry on my king while blubbering, “I love you, you’re so romantic!” chub street diet Samantha Irby had the most boring week of all time because she doesn’t live in a culinarily adventurous town, and we told her we wouldn’t publish this if it was just detailed descriptions of every menu item at Olive Garden. Honestly, we aren’t sure why we even asked her to participate in this in the first place, other than that we thought she might have something funny to say about Midwestern casseroles. We reached out to several other writers (you know the ones), but she’s the only one who replied to our email. Damn, she uses a lot of exclamation points. The eagerness to please was palpable. What a huge mistake. [grotesque illustration of Samantha Irby looking pained] Wednesday, February 9 I wake up in a panic at eight thirty because it scares me


likeness of a giant owl. It looms over us. Set in its eye sockets are polished black stones, and the firelight reflected in them gives them a lifelike appearance. Part of me wonders if it’s alive, if this is the figure Ms. Keane spoke of. I picture it opening its pointed beak, grasping me in its taloned claws. A shudder runs through my body, and as I step back to take in the entirety of the massive carving, my foot nearly slips out from under me. I steady myself and point my flashlight at the wooden planks beneath my sneakers. “It’s wet,” I say. “This whole area right here.” I crouch down and touch the damp planks, a watery substance coating my fingers, and as I examine it in the light, I’m almost 100 percent sure it’s blood that somebody has tried to clean up by flooding the area with water. “Look,” Bezi says. She’s got her light pointed at another path that snakes off the opposite side of the outdoor amphitheater. I wipe my hands on my jeans and march toward the path with Bezi at my heel. This pathway is paved and much narrower than the others. The trees and shrubbery that run alongside it are neatly trimmed. Ahead, a large structure unfolds out of the darkness. Bezi and I find ourselves in the shadow of a massive lodge. Three stories high, it looks similar to the Western Lodge but is triple the size, and its entrance is flanked by two massive carved owls. The upper windows are dark and some are boarded up. A tangle of twisted thorny vines snakes its way up the facade of the building. The path leading to the front steps is smooth and even. Lying directly in the center of it is a shoe. I rush forward and snatch it up. It’s covered in mud and the laces are undone, but I recognize it as soon as I wipe it off with the hem of my shirt. It’s a red sneaker with a yellow swoosh on the side. “Porter.” I take a step toward the building, but Bezi grabs my arm and pulls me back. “We cannot go in there,” she says. “Why not?” Bezi shakes her head. “Think about what happened to Tasha. Maybe the person who did that to her is in there. What do you think they’ll do to us? Nah. We gotta get out of here and get some help.” “We don’t have time to go back. We’re here right now.” I glance around. I hold up the shoe. “This is Porter’s. He was here. He might be in there. Maybe Paige too.” Bezi runs her hands over the sides of her face. “I know. I just—” “You’re scared,” I say. “Look at me. I’m scared out of my mind right now, but we gotta get Paige and Porter, and then we’ll get as far away from here as we can. I don’t care if we have to walk out.” Bezi nods. “If we’re going in, let’s not just walk


here,' said I, 'I believe there is one person, here, more likely to discover her than any other in the world. Do you remember - hear what I say, with fortitude - think of your great object! - do you remember Martha?' 'Of our town?' I needed no other answer than his face. 'Do you know that she is in London?' 'I have seen her in the streets,' he answered, with a shiver. 'But you don't know,' said I, 'that Emily was charitable to her, with Ham's help, long before she fled from home. Nor, that, when we met one night, and spoke together in the room yonder, over the way, she listened at the door.' 'Mas'r Davy!' he replied in astonishment. 'That night when it snew so hard?' 'That night. I have never seen her since. I went back, after parting from you, to speak to her, but she was gone. I was unwilling to mention her to you then, and I am now; but she is the person of whom I speak, and with whom I think we should communicate. Do you understand?' 'Too well, sir,' he replied. We had sunk our voices, almost to a whisper, and continued to speak in that tone. 'You say you have seen her. Do you think that you could find her? I could only hope to do so by chance.' 'I think, Mas'r Davy, I know wheer to look.' 'It is dark. Being together, shall we go out now, and try to find her tonight?' He assented, and prepared to accompany me. Without appearing to observe what he was doing, I saw how carefully he adjusted the little room, put a candle ready and the means of lighting it, arranged the bed, and finally took out of a drawer one of her dresses (I remember to have seen her wear it), neatly folded with some other garments, and a bonnet, which he placed upon a chair. He made no allusion to these clothes, neither did I. There they had been waiting for her, many and many a night, no doubt. 'The time was, Mas'r Davy,' he said, as we came downstairs, 'when I thowt this girl, Martha, a'most like the dirt underneath my Em'ly's feet. God forgive me, theer's a difference now!' As we went along, partly to hold him in conversation, and partly to satisfy myself, I asked him about Ham. He said, almost in the same words as formerly, that Ham was just the same, 'wearing away his life with kiender no care nohow for 't; but never murmuring, and liked by all'. I asked him what he thought Ham's state of mind was, in reference to the cause of their misfortunes? Whether he believed it was dangerous? What he supposed, for example, Ham would do, if he and Steerforth ever should encounter? 'I doen't know, sir,' he replied. 'I have thowt of it oftentimes, but I can't awize myself of it, no matters.' I recalled to his remembrance the morning after her departure, when we were all three on the


all interested in our private lives. She was our friend. How so reasonable a creature could live in peril of everlasting torment was incomprehensible. "That ain't right, Miss Maudie. You're the best lady I know." Miss Maudie grinned. "Thank you ma'am. Thing is, foot-washers think women are a sin by definition. They take the Bible literally, you know." "Is that why Mr. Arthur stays in the house, to keep away from women?" "I've no idea." "It doesn't make sense to me. Looks like if Mr. Arthur was hankerin' after heaven he'd come out on the porch at least. Atticus says God's loving folks like you love yourself-" Miss Maudie stopped rocking, and her voice hardened. "You are too young to understand it," she said, "but sometimes the Bible in the hand of one man is worse than a whiskey bottle in the hand of- oh, of your father." I was shocked. "Atticus doesn't drink whiskey," I said. "He never drunk a drop in his life- nome, yes he did. He said he drank some one time and didn't like it." Miss Maudie laughed. "Wasn't talking about your father," she said. "What I meant was, if Atticus Finch drank until he was drunk he wouldn't be as hard as some men are at their best. There are just some kind of men who- who're so busy worrying about the next world they've never learned to live in this one, and you can look down the street and see the results." "Do you think they're true, all those things they say about B- Mr. Arthur?" "What things?" I told her. "That is three-fourths colored folks and one-fourth Stephanie Crawford," said Miss Maudie grimly. "Stephanie Crawford even told me once she woke up in the middle of the night and found him looking in the window at her. I said what did you do, Stephanie, move over in the bed and make room for him? That shut her up a while." I was sure it did. Miss Maudie's voice was enough to shut anybody up. "No, child," she said, "that is a sad house. I remember Arthur Radley when he was a boy. He always spoke nicely to me, no matter what folks said he did. Spoke as nicely as he knew how." "You reckon he's crazy?" Miss Maudie shook her head. "If he's not he should be by now. The things that happen to people we never really know. What happens in houses behind closed doors, what secrets-" "Atticus don't ever do anything to Jem and me in the house that he don't do in the yard," I said, feeling it my duty to defend my parent. "Gracious child, I was raveling a thread, wasn't even thinking about your father, but now that I am I'll say this: Atticus Finch is the same in his house as he is on the public streets. How'd you like some fresh poundcake to take home?" I liked it very much. Next morning when I awakened I found Jem and Dill in the back yard deep in conversation.


thankfully Callum and his table don’t hear her. I’ve read many internet tales of ghosting, but it’s usually after the first date or a couple of days texting, so disappearing after the third date is new. My first thought is: What did she do wrong? Then I shake my head and call myself a bad feminist. “I can’t believe people really don’t call you back after you’ve slept with them,” I say. “Men don’t,” Cam says. “Not even a bedside note?” I ask. Cam laughs at this. “He’s not even that good-looking,” Jo says. “Not to say the good-looking ones are excused, but he’s … so plain!” “Those kind of men always have the most audacity,” Cam remarks. “Are you going to say something?” Jo asks. “No,” Cam replies. “Kirsten wouldn’t thank me for it. She’s talking to someone new now, anyway.” “Where is she finding all these eligible—although questionable—men?” Jo asks. “I have a friend who’s been looking with no luck.” I should probably contribute something meaningful to this conversation; it’s like doing a group presentation and the two alphas dominate, but soon the teacher is going to look my way, say, “You’ve been quiet, Maddie,” and stick me with a question I have no hope of answering. Cam pulls a face. “Online.” “You’re not a fan?” I say, curious. “I don’t know how you could be,” she replies. “With shit algorithms that present you with profiles proudly displaying DTF? It’s hard to get excited.” I nod supportively whilst making a mental note to google “DTF.” I think it means “down to fuck,” but I’d like to make sure. “Cam is a little old-fashioned,” Jo mock-whispers. “I’m less so.” This surprises me as I assumed it would be the other way around. Cam gives the impression that she eats time-wasters alive, whilst Jo looks like she’d expect flowers and a heart-shaped box of chocolates on a first date. “You can afford to be,” Cam says. “You have Sam.” “I don’t have Sam,” Jo corrects. “Who’s Sam?” “Just a guy I’m seeing,” Jo says, running a finger around the rim of her glass. “It’s not serious.” If I ask why, is that intrusive? “They’re just sleeping together,” Cam explains. Jo nods and it’s a very nonchalant, you-get-it nod. But I don’t. “Is he not boyfriend material?” I ask. Jo gets a faraway look in her eye. “Don’t get me wrong—he’s gorgeous. Tall, dark, and handsome.” “Literally,” Cam adds. “He’s six two, Black, and very good-looking.” “He’s also an artist,” Jo continues. “We’re part of this big group of friends from uni so we’ve always hung out and one night about … two months ago? It just happened. Sometimes he comes by the flat, so you’ll meet him eventually.” Jo clasps her hands under her chin and smiles to herself. “He’s great, but we both don’t want anything serious, you know? I’m not ready to be accountable for someone else. And I’ve started messaging this guy from work—Conrad.” “Sam is better,” Cam says and Jo rolls her eyes. “I’ve only met him twice


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


looking for handouts, it became his official nickname for me. I finally had to kill the lynx because he scared off game. I almost regretted it because he wasn’t bad company. But I got a decent price for his pelt. “Look what I shot,” Gale holds up a loaf of bread with an ar- row stuck in it, and I laugh. It’s real bakery bread, not the flat, dense loaves we make from our grain rations. I take it in my hands, pull out the arrow, and hold the puncture in the crust to my nose, inhaling the fragrance that makes my mouth flood with saliva. Fine bread like this is for special occasions. “Mm, still warm,” I say. He must have been at the bakery at the crack of dawn to trade for it. “What did it cost you?” “Just a squirrel. Think the old man was feeling sentimental this morning,” says Gale. “Even wished me luck.” “Well, we all feel a little closer today, don’t we?” I say, not even bothering to roll my eyes. “Prim left us a cheese.” I pull it out. His expression brightens at the treat. “Thank you, Prim. We’ll have a real feast.” Suddenly he falls into a Capitol accent as he mimics Effie Trinket, the maniacally upbeat woman who arrives once a year to read out the names at the leaping. “I al- most forgot! Happy Hunger Games!” He plucks a few black- berries from the bushes around us. “And may the odds —” He tosses a berry in a high arc toward me. 8 I catch it in my mouth and break the delicate skin with my teeth. The sweet tartness explodes across my tongue. “— be ever in your favor!” I finish with equal verve. We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared out of your wits. Besides, the Capitol accent is so affected, almost anything sounds funny in it. I watch as Gale pulls out his knife and slices the bread. He could be my brother. Straight black hair, olive skin, we even have the same gray eyes. But we’re not related, at least not closely. Most of the families who work the mines resemble one another this way. That’s why my mother and Prim, with their light hair and blue eyes, always look out of place. They are. My mother’s parents were part of the small merchant class that caters to officials, Peacekeepers, and the occasional Seam customer. They ran an apothecary shop in the nicer part of District 12. Since almost no one can afford doctors, apothecaries are our healers. My father got to know my mother because on his hunts he would sometimes collect medicinal herbs and sell them to her shop to be brewed into remedies. She must have really loved him to leave her home for the Seam. I try to re- member that when all I can see is the woman who sat by, blank and unreachable, while her children turned to skin and bones. I try to forgive her


Bosun Polk shut down all of her weapons systems. Add to that, we can’t risk hitting our own fighters out there.” “Take a breath; you’re not wrong, Lieutenant. Truth is, our Arrows seem to be holding their own … Actually, they’re doing better than that.” Ryder joined her at the tactical station. “Those are my pilots,” he said, looking proud. “… and you’re right, Cap. They’re doing more than holding their own.” I got to my feet. “Sitrep, Hardy.” Seeing that the three of us had retracted our helmet faceplates, the Marines followed suit. Immediately, I could see the emotional impact of what they had observed. Hardy, with constant interjections from Max and crew, relayed, in detail, what they had found within that lower deck hold. A fiery explosion from the halo display caught everyone’s attention. “We lost another Arrow,” Akari said. “That makes five thus far.” “But we’ve taken out twenty-six of those scorpion-flies,” Ryder said. “What now?” Max said. “May I suggest we amscray out of here?” Wanda said, joining her fellow marines. It was Grip who answered first. “No. There’s serious payback in order here.” Ham and Hock nodded; they seemed to be on the verge of tears, something I had never witnessed from the twins. Wanda saw the conviction on Grip’s face and slowly nodded. “Copy that, big guy. I’m with you.” They fist punched to affirm their mutual commitment. I wanted to tell Grip, to tell each of them, that this wasn’t our mission. That keeping Adams’ crew safe was paramount. That it was time for us to head home; we had our own fight there to return to. Sonya’s projected image appeared above a nearby console. “We’re still pirates, right?” she said in a voice so quiet I barely heard her. She angrily secured several wayward strands of purple hair behind one ear. “I mean, sure, we’re being dragged back into your US Space-Navy bullshit, but we’re still pirates, aren’t we?” she repeated, her words coming out more as pleading than questioning. “I saw what they saw, you know … via helmet cams down there in that hold … It was terrible … horrible.” “We’ll always be pirates,” I said to Sonya, then glanced at the others. “We’re not abandoning Lincoln’s crew. I promise. But for right now, we, I, need to get back to Adams.” No one looked to be buying what I was selling. “You have my word,” I said. Max gave a half nod while Grip shrugged. Wanda said, “Fine. What are our orders?” “Lincoln is slowly coming back online.” I looked to Ryder. “How about the propulsion system?” “Same … drives are slowly coming back online. But remember, this is a big mother of a ship. Nothing happens fast.” “There you go … Nothing we can do here right now. I want everyone back on Adams. Let’s head down to the flight deck.” A quick glance toward Sonya’s projected image told me she wasn’t happy about that, but at least she wasn’t putting up a fight. Chapter 18 Liquilid Empire Star System


when I found myself in the sitting-room once more. My first impression as I opened the door was that a fire had broken out, for the room was so filled with smoke that the light of the lamp upon the table was blurred by it. As I entered, however, my fears were set at rest, for it was the acrid fumes of strong coarse tobacco which took me by the throat and set me coughing. Through the haze I had a vague vision of Holmes in his dressing-gown coiled up in an armchair with his black clay pipe between his lips. Several rolls of paper lay around him. "Caught cold, Watson?" said he. "No, it's this poisonous atmosphere." "I suppose it is pretty thick, now that you mention it." "Thick! It is intolerable." "Open the window, then! You have been at your club all day, I perceive." "My dear Holmes!" "Am I right?" "Certainly, but how?" He laughed at my bewildered expression. "There is a delightful freshness about you, Watson, which makes it a pleasure to exercise any small powers which I possess at your expense. A gentleman goes forth on a showery and miry day. He returns immaculate in the evening with the gloss still on his hat and his boots. He has been a fixture therefore all day. He is not a man with intimate friends. Where, then, could he have been? Is it not obvious?" "Well, it is rather obvious." "The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes. Where do you think that I have been?" "A fixture also." "On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire." "In spirit?" "Exactly. My body has remained in this armchair and has, I regret to observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and an incredible amount of tobacco. After you left I sent down to Stamford's for the Ordnance map of this portion of the moor, and my spirit has hovered over it all day. I flatter myself that I could find my way about." "A large-scale map, I presume?" "Very large." He unrolled one section and held it over his knee. "Here you have the particular district which concerns us. That is Baskerville Hall in the middle." "With a wood round it?" "Exactly. I fancy the yew alley, though not marked under that name, must stretch along this line, with the moor, as you per- ceive, upon the right of it. This small clump of buildings here is the hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend Dr. Mortimer has his headquarters. Within a radius of five miles there are, as you see, only a very few scattered dwellings. Here is Lafter Hall, which was mentioned in the narrative. There is a house indicated here which may be the residence of the naturalist -- Stapleton, if I remember right, was his name. Here are two moorland farm- houses, High Tor and Foulmire. Then fourteen miles away the great convict prison of Princetown. Between and around these scattered points extends the desolate, lifeless moor. This,


behind with the thought of annihilation, when beholding the white depths of the milky way? Or is it, that as in essence whiteness is not so much a color as the visible absence of color, and at the same time the concrete of all colors; is it for these reasons that there is such a dumb blankness, full of meaning, in a wide landscape of snows --a colorless, all-color of atheism from which we shrink? And when we consider that other theory of the natural philosophers, that all other earthly hues --every stately or lovely emblazoning --the sweet tinges of sunset skies and woods; yea, and the gilded velvets of butterflies, and the butterfly cheeks of young girls; all these are but subtile deceits, not actually inherent in substances, but only laid on from without; so that all deified Nature absolutely paints like the harlot, whose allurements cover nothing but the charnel-house within; and when we proceed further, and consider that the mystical cosmetic which produces every one of her hues, the great principle of light, for ever remains white or colorless in itself, and if .. <p 194 > operating without medium upon matter, would touch all objects, even tulips and roses, with its own blank tinge --pondering all this, the palsied universe lies before us a leper; and like wilful travellers in Lapland, who refuse to wear colored and coloring glasses upon their eyes, so the wretched infidel gazes himself blind at the monumental white shroud that wraps all the prospect around him. And of all these things the Albino whale was the symbol. Wonder ye then at the fiery hunt? .. <p 187n. > With reference to the Polar bear, it may possibly be urged by him who would fain go still deeper into this matter, that it is not the whiteness, separately regarded, which heightens the intolerable hideousness of that brute; for, analysed, that heightened hideousness, it might be said, only arises from the circumstance, that the irresponsible ferociousness of the creature stands invested in the fleece of celestial innocence and love; and hence, by bringing together two such opposite emotions in our minds, the Polar bear frightens us with so unnatural a contrast. But even assuming all this to be true; yet, were it not for the whiteness, you would not have that intensified terror. As for the white shark, the white gliding ghostliness of repose in that creature, when beheld in his ordinary moods, strangely tallies with the same quality in the Polar quadruped. This peculiarity is most vividly hit by the French in the name they bestow upon that fish. The Romish mass for the dead begins with Requiem eternam (eternal rest), whence Requiem denominating the mass itself, and any other funereal music. Now, in allusion to the white, silent stillness of death in this shark, and the mild deadliness of his habits, the French call him Requin. I remember the first albatross I ever saw. It was during a prolonged gale, in waters hard upon the Antarctic seas. From my forenoon watch below, I


pout, then remember his threat and think better of it. “Playroom,” he murmurs. Oh—I don’t know if that’s a good idea. “You up for the challenge?” he asks. And because he’s used the word chal- lenge, I can’t say no. “Bring it on,” I murmur, desire and something that I don’t want to name thrum through my body. He carries me through the door, then up the stairs to the second floor. “I think you’ve lost weight,” he mutters disapprovingly. I have? Good. I re- member his comment when we arrived back from our honeymoon, and how much it smarted. Jeez—was that just a week ago? Outside the playroom, he slides me down his body and sets me on my feet, but keeps his arm wrapped around my waist. Briskly he unlocks the door. It always smells the same: polished wood and citrus. It’s actually become a comforting smell. Releasing me, Christian turns me around until I’m facing away from him. He undoes the scarf, and I blink in the soft light. Gently, he pulls the hairpins from my updo, and my braid falls free. He grasps it and tugs gently so I have to step back against him. “I have a plan,” he whispers in my ear, sending delicious shivers down my spine. 236/551 “I thought you might,” I answer. He kisses me beneath my ear. “Oh, Mrs. Grey, I do.” His tone is soft, mesmerizing. He tugs my braid to the side and plants a trail of soft kisses down my throat. “First we have to get you naked.” His voice hums low in his throat and reson- ates through my body. I want this—whatever he has planned. I want to connect the way we know how. He turns me around to face him. I glance down at his jeans, the top button still undone, and I can’t help myself. I brush my index finger around the waistband, avoiding his T-shirt, feeling the hairs of his happy trail tickle my knuckle. He inhales sharply, and I look up to meet his eyes. I stop at the unfastened button. His eyes darken to a deeper gray . . . oh my. “You should keep these on,” I whisper. “I fully intend to, Anastasia.” And he moves, grabbing me with one hand to the back of my neck and the other around my backside. He pulls me against him, then his mouth is on mine, and he’s kissing me like his life depends on it. Whoa! He walks me backward, our tongues entwined, until I feel the wooden cross behind me. He leans into me, the contours of his body pressing into mine. “Let’s get rid of this dress,” he says, peeling my dress up my thighs, my hips, my belly . . . deliciously slowly, the material skimming over my skin, skimming over my breasts. “Lean forward,” he says. I comply, and he pulls my dress over my head and discards it on the floor, leaving me in my sandals, panties, and bra. His eyes blaze as he grasps both my


octopus under a rock, Le Chiffre watched him from the other side of the table. Bond reached out a steady right hand and drew the cards towards him. Would it be the lift of the heart which a nine brings, or an eight brings? He fanned the two cards under the curtain of his hand. The muscles of his jaw rippled as he clenched his teeth. His whole body stiffened in a reflex of self-defence. He had two queens, two red queens. They looked roguishly back at him from the shadows. They were the worst. They were nothing. Zero. Baccarat. "A card," said Bond fighting to keep hopelessness out of his voice. He felt Le Chiffre's eyes boring into his brain. The banker slowly turned his own two cards face up. He had a count of three - a king and a black three. Bond softly exhaled a cloud of tobacco smoke. He still had a chance. Now he was really faced with the moment of truth. Le Chiffre slapped the shoe, slipped out a card, Bond's fate, and slowly turned it face up. It was a nine, a wonderful nine of hearts, the card known in gipsy magic as 'a whisper of love, a whisper of hate', the card that meant almost certain victory for Bond. The croupier slipped it delicately across. To Le Chiffre it meant nothing. Bond might have had a one, in which case he now had ten points, or nothing, or baccarat, as it is called. Or he might have had a two, three, four, or even five. In which case, with the nine, his maximum count would be four. Holding a three and giving nine is one of the moot situations at the game. The odds are so nearly divided between to draw or not to draw. Bond let the banker sweat it out. Since his nine could only be equalled by the banker drawing a six, he would normally have shown his count if it had been a friendly game. Bond's cards lay on the table before him, the two impersonal pale pink-patterned backs and the faced nine of hearts. To Le Chiffre the nine might be telling the truth or many variations of lies. The whole secret lay in the reverse of the two pink backs where the pair of queens kissed the green cloth. The sweat was running down either side of the banker's beaky nose. His thick tongue came out slyly and licked a drop out of the corner of his red gash of a mouth. He looked at Bond's cards, and then at his own, and then back at Bond's. Then his whole body shrugged and he slipped out a card for himself from the lisping shoe. He faced it. The table craned. It was a wonderful card, a five. 'Huit la banque,' said the croupier. As Bond sat silent, Le Chiffre suddenly grinned wolfishly. He must have won. The croupier's spatula reached almost apologetically across the table. There was not a man at the table who did not believe Bond


work with wounded soldiers. J let you have veterans, why cant you let

me have African elephants and rhinos?

I complained to Teej and Mike that I’d finally seen my path, that I'd

finally hit upon the thing that could fill the hole in my heart left by

soldiering, in fact a thing even more sustainable—and Willy was standing in

my way.

They were aghast. Keep fighting, they said. Theres room for both of you

in Africa. Theres need for you both.

So, with their encouragement, I embarked on a four-month fact-finding

trip, to educate myself about the truth of the ivory war. Botswana. Namibia.

Tanzania. South Africa. I went to Kruger National Park, a vast stretch of dry,

barren land the size of Israel. In the war on poachers, Kruger was the

absolute front line. Its rhino populations, both black and white, were

plummeting, due to armies of poachers being incentivized by Chinese and

Vietnamese crime syndicates. One rhino horn fetched enormous sums, so for

every poacher arrested, five more were ready to take their place.

Black rhinos were rarer, thus more valuable. They were also more

dangerous. As browsers, they lived in thick bush, and wading in after them

could be fatal. They didn’t know you were there to help. I’d been charged a

few times, and I was lucky to get away without being gored. (Tip: Always

213

https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t. me/Afghansalarlibrary

know the location of the nearest tree branch, because you might need to

jump onto it.) I had friends who’d not been so lucky.

White rhinos were more docile, and more plentiful, but perhaps wouldn’t

be for long, because of that docility. As grazers, they also lived in open

grassland. Easier to see, easier to shoot.

I went along on countless anti-poaching patrols. Over several days in

Kruger, we always got there too late. I must have seen forty bullet-riddled

rhino carcasses.

Poachers in other parts of South Africa, I learned, didn’t always shoot the

rhinos. Bullets were expensive, and gunshots gave away their position. So

they’d dart a rhino


he thought first of her. "Your sister," he said. "And Jon's boy. What word of them?" "The message said only that they were well, and had returned to the Eyrie," Catelyn said. "I wish they had gone to Riverrun instead. The Eyrie is high and lonely, and it was ever her husband's place, not hers. Lord Jon's memory will haunt each stone. I know my sister. She needs the comfort of family and friends around her." "Your uncle waits in the Vale, does he not? Jon named him Knight of the Gate, I'd heard." Catelyn nodded. "Brynden will do what he can for her, and for the boy. That is some comfort, but still . . ." "Go to her," Ned urged. "Take the children. Fill her halls with noise and shouts and laughter. That boy of hers needs other children about him, and Lysa should not be alone in her grief." "Would that I could," Catelyn said. "The letter had other tidings. The king is riding to Winterfell to seek you out." It took Ned a moment to comprehend her words, but when the A GAME OF THRONES 23 understanding came, the darkness left his eyes. "Robert is coming here?" When she nodded, a smile broke across his face. Catelyn wished she could share his joy. But she had heard the talk in the yards; a direwolf dead in the snow, a broken antler in its throat. Dread coiled within her like a snake, but she forced herself to smile at this man she loved, this man who put no faith in signs. "I knew that would please you," she said. "We should send word to your brother on the Wall." "Yes, of course," he agreed. "Ben will want to be here. I shall tell Maester Luwin to send his swiftest bird." Ned rose and pulled her to her feet. "Damnation, how many years has it been? And he gives us no more notice than this? How many in his party, did the message say?" "I should think a hundred knights, at the least, with all their retainers, and half again as many freeriders. Cersei and the children travel with them." "Robert will keep an easy pace for their sakes," he said. "It is just as well. That will give us more time to prepare." "The queen's brothers are also in the party," she told him. Ned grimaced at that. There was small love between him and the queen's family, Catelyn knew. The Lannisters of Casterly Rock had come late to Robert's cause, when victory was all but certain, and he had never forgiven them. "Well, if the price for Robert's company is an infestation of Lannisters, so be it. It sounds as though Robert is bringing half his court." "Where the king goes, the realm follows," she said. "It will be good to see the children. The youngest was still sucking at the Lannister woman's teat the last time I saw him. He must be, what, five by now?" "Prince Tornmen is seven," she told him. "The same age as


But the next issue is there are too many characters. Do you think anyone serves a purpose here besides you and the choreographer?” “Isn’t it important for the record label execs to be there? To show that these are directives coming from above and the musician—well, me—can’t just shrug them off?” “True. Maybe we should even play that up.” The current first line was from the choreographer, who said, “I want to give you some ideas to jazz up your dance moves onstage.” Above it, I inserted an executive saying Noah, we’ve summoned you here because we at your record label are getting feedback that your live shows lack excitement, and we think some cutting-edge choreography will really enhance the audience’s experience. “It’s ridiculously obvious,” I said, “but, unless there’s a payoff for withholding the premise, you might as well give it as fast as possible.” “What if the guy is like, ‘According to some focus groups…’ ” “Oh, that’s even better,” I said. “How about ‘According to focus groups held with one hundred twelve-to-fifteen-year-old girls residing in four mid-Atlantic states…’ ” He laughed, and I retyped the sentence. We both were quiet, and after a few seconds, I said, “ ‘We’re concerned that the girls sitting up in the nosebleed section aren’t sufficiently receiving your soulful emotions.’ ” “ ‘And this could affect your long-term sales,’ ” Noah added, and I typed both parts. “ ‘So the world-famous choreographer’—we need to give her a silly name—‘is here to offer her expertise.’ Hmm. Lulu von Floppy Bosoms?” Again, he laughed in that light way. “Sure.” “Just FYI, some stuff that reads on the page as only mildly funny is automatically ten times better when the cast is acting it out. Okay, now we can cut everyone other than the record label guys, you, and Lulu. The celebrity entourage clutters up the sketch because they aren’t really what it’s about. So we give everyone else’s dialogue to the execs, but you pick who plays the parts, and their names go in the script, not the characters’ names. Who do you want to be Lulu and who do you want to be the executives?” “Shouldn’t I ask people if they’re interested before assigning them a role? I don’t want to be presumptuous.” I laughed. “You’re the host. Any cast member will be happy to be in your sketch.” “What do you think? For one of the execs, Josh always cracks me up.” “Yeah, he’d be good.” I typed Josh’s name before the first record executive’s dialogue. “And maybe Hakeem is the other? And for the choreographer—” Either Henrietta or Viv would do an excellent job and each was likely to appear in multiple other sketches. Naming a chronically underused cast member, I said, “What about Grace?” “Sure.” “Then from here on out, really the only change I’d make is to put Lulu’s choreography suggestions in order of ridiculousness from least to most. It’s more satisfying if they escalate, so it starts with waving your hands around a lot and ends with the panther idea.”


At first, I’m frozen, but then I catch sight of us on a large television screen and am floored by how breathtaking we look. In the deepening twilight, the firelight illuminates our faces. We seem to be leaving a trail of fire off the flowing capes. Cinna was right about the minimal makeup, we both look more attractive but utterly recognizable. Remember, heads high. Smiles. They’re going to love you! I hear Cinna’s voice in my head. I lift my chin a bit higher, put on my most winning smile, and wave with my free hand. I’m glad now I have Peeta to clutch for balance, he is so steady, solid as a rock. As I gain confidence, I actually blow a few kisses to the crowd. The people of the Capitol are going nuts, showering us with flowers, shouting our names, our first names, which they have bothered to find on the program. The pounding music, the cheers, the admiration work their way into my blood, and I can’t suppress my excitement. Cinna has given me a great advantage. No one will forget me. Not my look, not my name. Katniss. The girl who was on fire. For the first time, I feel a flicker of hope rising up in me. Surely, there must be one sponsor willing to take me on! And with a little extra help, some food, the right weapon, why should I count myself out of the Games? Someone throws me a red rose. I catch it, give it a delicate sniff, and blow a kiss back in the general direction of the giver. A hundred hands reach up to catch my kiss, as if it were a real and tangible thing. 70 “Katniss! Katniss!” I can hear my name being called from all sides. Everyone wants my kisses. It’s not until we enter the City Circle that I realize I must have completely stopped the circulation in Peeta’s hand. That’s how tightly I’ve been holding it. I look down at our linked fingers as I loosen my grasp, but he regains his grip on me. “No, don’t let go of me,” he says. The firelight flickers off his blue eyes. “Please. I might fall out of this thing.” “Okay,” I say. So I keep holding on, but I can’t help feeling strange about the way Cinna has linked us together. It’s not really fair to present us as a team and then lock us into the arena to kill each other. The twelve chariots fill the loop of the City Circle. On the buildings that surround the Circle, every window is packed with the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol. Our horses pull our chariot right up to President Snow’s mansion, and we come to a halt. The music ends with a flourish. The president, a small, thin man with paper-white hair, gives the official welcome from a balcony above us. It is tradi- tional to cut away to the faces of the tributes during the speech. But I can see on the screen that we


them, his absurd net dangling behind him. He gesticulated and almost danced with excitement in front of the lovers. What the scene meant I could not imagine, but it seemed to me that Stapleton was abusing Sir Henry, who offered explanations, which became more angry as the other refused to accept them. The lady stood by in haughty silence. Finally Stapleton turned upon his heel and beckoned in a peremptory way to his sister, who, after an irresolute glance at Sir Henry, walked off by the side of her brother. The naturalist's angry gestures showed that the lady was included in his displea- sure. The baronet stood for a minute looking after them, and then he walked slowly back the way that he had come, his head hanging, the very picture of dejection. What all this meant I could not imagine, but I was deeply ashamed to have witnessed so intimate a scene without my friend's knowledge. I ran down the hill therefore and met the baronet at the bottom. His face was flushed with anger and his brows were wrinkled, like one who is at his wit's ends what to do. "Halloa, Watson! Where have you dropped from?" said he. "You don't mean to say that you came after me in spite of all?" I explained everything to him: how I had found it impossible to remain behind, how I had followed him, and how I had witnessed all that had occurred. For an instant his eyes blazed at me, but my frankness disarmed his anger, and he broke at last into a rather rueful laugh. "You would have thought the middle of that prairie a fairly safe place for a man to be private," said he, "but, by thunder, the whole countryside seems to have been out to see me do my wooing -- and a mighty poor wooing at that! Where had you engaged a seat?" "I was on that hill." "Quite in the back row, eh? But her brother was well up to the front. Did you see him come out on us?" "Yes, I did." "Did he ever strike you as being crazy -- this brother of hers?" "I can't say that he ever did." "I dare say not. I always thought him sane enough until to-day, but you can take it from me that either he or I ought to be in a straitjacket. What's the matter with me, anyhow? You've lived near me for some weeks, Watson. Tell me straight, now! Is there anything that would prevent me from making a good husband to a woman that I loved?" "I should say not." "He can't object to my worldly position, so it must be myself that he has this down on. What has he against me? I never hurt man or woman in my life that I know of. And yet he would not so much as let me touch the tips of her fingers." "Did he say so?" "That, and a deal more. I tell you, Watson, I've only known her these few weeks,


he heard cry and ran, but no sign of man on watch. One more gone. Lord, help us! Mate says we must be past Straits of Dover, as in a moment of fog lifting he saw North Foreland, just as he heard the man cry out. If so we are now off in the North Sea, and only God can guide us in the fog, which seems to move with us, and God seems to have deserted us. 3 August.--At midnight I went to relieve the man at the wheel and when I got to it found no one there. The wind was steady, and as we ran before it there was no yawing. I dared not leave it, so shouted for the mate. After a few seconds, he rushed up on deck in his flannels. He looked wild-eyed and haggard, and I greatly fear his reason has given way. He came close to me and whispered hoarsely, with his mouth to my ear, as though fearing the very air might hear. "It is here. I know it now. On the watch last night I saw It, like a man, tall and thin, and ghastly pale. It was in the bows, and looking out. I crept behind It, and gave it my knife, but the knife went through It, empty as the air." And as he spoke he took the knife and drove it savagely into space. Then he went on, "But It is here, and I'll find It. It is in the hold, perhaps in one of those boxes. I'll unscrew them one by one and see. You work the helm." And with a warning look and his finger on his lip, he went below. There was springing up a choppy wind, and I could not leave the helm. I saw him come out on deck again with a tool chest and lantern, and go down the forward hatchway. He is mad, stark, raving mad, and it's no use my trying to stop him. He can't hurt those big boxes, they are invoiced as clay, and to pull them about is as harmless a thing as he can do. So here I stay and mind the helm, and write these notes. I can only trust in God and wait till the fog clears. Then, if I can't steer to any harbour with the wind that is, I shall cut down sails, and lie by, and signal for help. . . It is nearly all over now. Just as I was beginning to hope that the mate would come out calmer, for I heard him knocking away at something in the hold, and work is good for him, there came up the hatchway a sudden, startled scream, which made my blood run cold, and up on the deck he came as if shot from a gun, a raging madman, with his eyes rolling and his face convulsed with fear. "Save me! Save me!" he cried, and then looked round on the blanket of fog. His horror turned to despair, and in a


ever before, and the unaccustomed tenderness in her eyes filled him with joy. He knew instinctively that it was madness to give himself into her hands; his only chance was to treat her casually and never allow her to see the untamed passions that seethed in his breast; she would only take advantage of his weakness; but he could not be prudent now: he told her all the agony he had endured during the separation from her; he told her of his struggles with himself, how he had tried to get over his passion, thought he had succeeded, and how he found out that it was as strong as ever. He knew that he had never really wanted to get over it. He loved her so much that he did not mind suffering. He bared his heart to her. He showed her proudly all his weakness. Nothing would have pleased him more than to sit on in the cosy, shabby restaurant, but he knew that Mildred wanted entertainment. She was restless and, wherever she was, wanted after a while to go somewhere else. He dared not bore her. "I say, how about going to a music-hall?" he said. He thought rapidly that if she cared for him at all she would say she preferred to stay there. "I was just thinking we ought to be going if we are going," she answered. "Come on then." Philip waited impatiently for the end of the performance. He had made up his mind exactly what to do, and when they got into the cab he passed his arm, as though almost by accident, round her waist. But he drew it back quickly with a little cry. He had pricked himself. She laughed. "There, that comes of putting your arm where it's got no business to be," she said. "I always know when men try and put their arm round my waist. That pin always catches them." "I'll be more careful." He put his arm round again. She made no objection. "I'm so comfortable," he sighed blissfully. "So long as you're happy," she retorted. They drove down St. James' Street into the Park, and Philip quickly kissed her. He was strangely afraid of her, and it required all his courage. She turned her lips to him without speaking. She neither seemed to mind nor to like it. "If you only knew how long I've wanted to do that," he murmured. He tried to kiss her again, but she turned her head away. "Once is enough," she said. On the chance of kissing her a second time he travelled down to Herne Hill with her, and at the end of the road in which she lived he asked her: "Won't you give me another kiss?" She looked at him indifferently and then glanced up the road to see that no one was in sight. "I don't mind." He seized her in his arms and kissed her passionately, but she pushed him away. "Mind my hat, silly. You are clumsy," she said. CHAPTER LXI HE SAW her then


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

is only slightly refracted or reflected or indeed affected in any way. It is almost as invisible as a jet of coal gas or hydrogen is in air. And for precisely the same reason!" "Yes," said Kemp, "that is pretty plain sailing." "And here is another fact you will know to be true. If a sheet of glass is smashed, Kemp, and beaten into a powder, it becomes much more visible while it is in the air; it becomes at last an opaque white powder. This is because the powdering multiplies the surfaces of the glass at which refraction and reflection occur. In the sheet of glass there are only two surfaces; in the powder the light is reflected or refracted by each grain it passes through, and very little gets right through the powder. But if the white powdered glass is put into water, it forthwith vanishes. The powdered glass and water have much the same refractive index; that is, the light undergoes very little refraction or reflection in passing from one to the other. "You make the glass invisible by putting it into a liquid of nearly the same refractive index; a transparent thing becomes invisible if it is put in any medium of almost the same refractive index. And if you will consider only a second, you will see also that the powder of glass might be made to vanish in air, if its refractive index could be made the same as that of air; for then there would be no refraction or reflection as the light passed from glass to air." "Yes, yes," said Kemp. "But a man's not powdered glass!" "No," said Griffin. "He's more transparent!" "Nonsense!" "That from a doctor! How one forgets! Have you already forgotten your physics, in ten years? Just think of all the things that are transparent and seem not to be so. Paper, for instance, is made up of transparent fibres, and it is white and opaque only for the same reason that a powder of glass is white and opaque. Oil white paper, fill up the interstices between the particles with oil so that there is no longer refraction or reflection except at the surfaces, and it becomes as transparent as glass. And not only paper, but cotton fibre, linen fibre, wool fibre, woody fibre, and bone, Kemp, flesh, hair, nails and nerves, Kemp, in fact the whole fabric of a man except the red of his blood and the black pigment of hair, are all made up of transparent, colourless tissue. So little suffices to make us visible one to the other. For the most part the fibres of a living creature are no more opaque than water." "Great Heavens!" cried Kemp. "Of course, of course! I was thinking only last night of the sea larvae and all jelly-fish!" "Now you have me! And all that I knew and had in mind a year after I left London--six years ago. But I kept it to myself. I had to do my work under frightful disadvantages. Oliver, my professor, was


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

like an intruder. For the first time, the smaller woman seemed to notice her. Her smile brightened. “And this is your cousin, right? I didn’t know you had one.” “Third cousin.” Lore offered her hand, reciting the backstory she and Gabriel had come up with in their apartments while he buttoned the back of her dress and tried not to faint at the sight of feminine shoulder blades. “Distant and obscure, social climbing by way of my esteemed relative.” “Alie, meet Eldelore.” Gabe’s mouth twitched as he said the full name, almost a smirk. “Just Lore, if you please.” The wide skirt of her dress gave her cover as Lore slipped her foot over Gabe’s and pressed the heel of her shoe into his toe, just enough to make him jerk. Alienor smiled, taking Lore’s hand and giving her a tiny bow. “Lovely to meet you, Just Lore. And you must call me Alie, all my friends do.” Alienor’s face was open and kind, with no trace of artifice. Lore found herself desperately hoping it was real, though everything about the Citadel called for caution. “Alie,” she repeated. The three of them lapsed into uncomfortable silence. The music stopped, then swelled, going from a lively jig to something even more upbeat. Gabriel frowned. “This music,” he said, twisting his head. “It’s Kirythean.” “Is it?” Alie looked puzzled, but not disturbed. “Well. That’s interesting.” “If by interesting you mean traitorous.” “That seems a bit dramatic.” A new voice, from behind Lore—smooth, courtly, with an upturned edge like it was on the verge of a joke. “I prefer daring to traitorous,” the voice continued. Gabriel’s one visible blue eye was stormy, teeth clenched tight in his jaw. But Alie grinned, waving a glitter-dusted hand. “Speak his name and he appears.” Lore turned. The Sun Prince of Auverraine stood behind her, one brow arched over his domino mask. He’d been handsome from far away, clothed in gleaming white at his Consecration and seen from behind roses in the garden. But up close, wearing all black to match his hair and eyes, he was near to devastating. And the grin he gave her said he knew it. “The return of the Remaut family to the Court of the Citadel is a momentous occasion indeed,” Bastian Arceneaux said, clapping Gabe on the back; Gabe stiffened and didn’t move, a tree refusing to bend to a gale. “My father is very excited to have you here, and suggested most strongly that I make you welcome, though I doubt a masquerade was what he had in mind. Technically, we’re all supposed to be at evening prayers, but since I was just Consecrated, I think the Bleeding God will give me the evening off from piety.” “As if you’ve ever been pious,” Alie scoffed. “You wound me.” Bastian pressed a hand to his chest, then looked back at Gabe. “I must say, I’m thrilled that I beat out Apollius for your attentions this evening. Sorry about the mask, old friend. I wasn’t sure how it would interfere with…” He waved


and brushed his knuckle along the outside of her knee, which turned out to be a big mistake, because Lord God almighty, she was smooth and that kneecap would fit right into his palm. Focus. “Are you nervous because Ingram Meyer is going to be there? Because we’ve got this, Natalie. By the end of the night, he’s going to be so positive that we married for love, he’s going to send us a second wedding gift. Fingers crossed on a chocolate fountain.” She appeared to be on the verge of rolling her eyes, but cut him a sly look instead. “You know, the one from Williams Sonoma doubles as a fondue pot.” He smacked the steering wheel. “Are we positive no one bought us one of those?” “Hallie took our gifts home, and opened and arranged them. Not a single chocolate fountain that doubles as a cheese cauldron, but then again, I wouldn’t put it past Julian’s girlfriend to steal it for herself. She once robbed a cheese shop in broad daylight.” She nodded solemnly at his incredulous eyebrow raise. “How are you so confident we’ll convince Meyer?” Because if that man can’t see I’d die for you, he’s blind. “I’m great at dinner parties. Although in Kansas, we call them barbecues.” Her laughter was kind of dazed. “Dinner with my mother in her formal dining room is far from kicking back with a cold one in someone’s backyard.” “That bad, huh?” His stomach begged him not to ask the next question, but hell, he did it anyway. “Did you ever bring your ex-fiancé home for dinner?” “Morrison? No.” “Fuck yeah.” His fist pump was so involuntary, he almost punched a hole in the roof of the truck. Pull back, tiger. “I mean, I’m glad you didn’t have to go through the whole sticky process of detaching your family from the dude, as well. You know how that goes. You don’t just break up with someone, you break up with their family and friends. Such a mess.” Natalie stared. Any second now, she was going to call him on that fist pump and the bullshit that followed. Instead, she asked, “Do you . . . know how that goes? Have you had serious girlfriends?” Somehow, August got the sense that this was a dangerous topic. “My father used to say that women ask questions they don’t really want answered, and it’s our job to figure out which ones are safe and which ones aren’t. And we will always be wrong.” Natalie scoffed at that, readjusting the pie on her lap. “What are you implying? That I don’t really want to know about your past girlfriends?” “I can relate, princess. I want to hear about this Morrison prick about as much as I want a staple gun pointed at my nuts.” “You asked.” “I live with a woman now. Maybe she’s rubbing off on me.” “Whatever. Just answer the question.” She chuckled. Oh no. That chuckle was deceiving. Trust your gut, son. Or was it his dick? Because his dick said to


someone dipped their post-gym crotch in a bucket of citrus disinfectant. There’s the pitter-patter of a dripping faucet, and my reflection in the full-body mirror is a lie: the slender woman in the sheath dress is too flustered, too livid, too red to be mild Elsie Hannaway of the accommodating ways. I turn around. Jack lingers by the door, as ever studying, appraising, vivisectioning me. I start a mental countdown. Five. Four. When I reach one, I’m going to explain the situation. In a calm, dignified tone. Tell him it’s a misunderstanding. Three. Two. “Congratulations,” he says. Uh? “On your Ph.D.” “W-what?” “A noteworthy accomplishment,” he continues, serious, calm, “given that less than twenty-four hours ago you weren’t even working on one.” I exhale deeply. “Listen, it’s not what you—” “Will you be leaving your post at the library, or are you planning on a dual career? I’d be worried for your schedule, but I hear that theoretical physics often consists of staring into the void and jotting down the occasional mathematical symbol—” “I—no. That’s not what theoretical physics is about and—” I screw my eyes shut. Calm down. Be reasonable. This can be fixed with a simple conversation. “Jack, I’m not a librarian.” His eyes widen in playacted surprise. “No way.” “I am a physicist. I got my Ph.D. about a year ago.” His expression hardens. He steps closer, and I feel like a garden gnome. “And I assume Greg has no idea.” “He does. I—” Wait. No. I never told Greg about my Ph.D.—because it was irrelevant. “Well, okay. He doesn’t know, but that’s only because—” “You’ve been lying to him.” I’m taken aback. “Lying?” “You’re playing a twisted game with my brother, pretending to be someone you’re not. I don’t know why, but if you think I’m going to let you continue—” “What? No. This isn’t . . .” I can’t believe that the conclusion he’s come to is that I’m catfishing Greg. As if. “I care about Greg.” “Is that why you hide things from him?” “I don’t!” “What about when you passed out in my arms and begged me not to tell him?” I wince. “It was not in your arms, just near your arms, and that was—I didn’t want to bother him!” “What about the fact that you didn’t know he was about to go on a trip.” Jack is icily, uncompromisingly furious at the idea of me mistreating his brother. “You don’t seem to care what his job entails. What his problems are. What his life is.” “Neither does the rest of your family!” “True.” He scowls. “But irrelevant.” I almost run a hand down my face before remembering Cece’s Ruin your makeup and I’ll skewer you like a shish kebab. God, I’m going to have to explain to Jack the concept of fake dating. He won’t believe it’s a real thing —men with nice baritones and hints of tattoos and perfectly scruffy fiveo’clock shadows are just not the target demographic of Faux. Jack probably has legions of women standing in line for the opportunity


backpack to the ground, bucking back against the wall, crying so loud you have to clamp your glove over her mouth. She obviously can’t handle this, and so many lives would be collateral damage. Her own, too, though she doesn’t understand that. What life will she have if this gets out? What life will her parents have? There’s you, and Suzanne, and the kids. There’s Granby itself. Granby’s good at hushing things up, but only when everyone involved is determined to stay quiet. Thalia will scream about it, just like she’s screaming now, and it’s not hard for the hand over her mouth to turn to a hand that’s slamming her head back, two times, three times, not hard for your other hand to find her throat. As it turns out, it’s not so much that you’re capable of this, but that you’re capable, having started, of needing it to be over as quickly as possible. Your urgency becomes physical strength, and while you didn’t mean for her to bleed, just meant to knock her out and get her into the pool, your fingers find her neck slick. The blood tells you: This is final and real. The Rubicon crossed. You loved her once. The way you’ve moved on from that love means you can move on from anything. You excel at compartmentalizing. You stick to the rest of your plan, unlocking the back pool door you disarmed this morning, getting her into the extra suit you made sure was here, a large one that’s easy to slide onto her too-thin body. You roll her into the water, hold her head under with your gloved hand—although the blood won’t make sense, won’t fit the simple narrative you wanted. You watch the blood swirl from the wound, fade to pink, dissipate. A sign that everything about this will float away, become lighter in your life until it’s nothing. You arrange her backpack, her clothes, as if laying them out for your own daughter’s school day. When you get home, the print job is done. You stick your clothes in the washer, change into sweatpants and a T-shirt from the dryer, head up with your friend’s screenplay in hand. Suzanne opens her eyes. “I hope the printer didn’t keep you awake,” you say, waving the pages. It’s a particularly loud and crappy printer, and she’s complained before. She asks how the screenplay is. “This thing’s a mess,” you say. “It’s giving me a headache.” You shower, something you often do at night because you prefer to fall asleep with your hair wet like you did as a child. You return to bed, curl yourself around her body, hold her like a buoy. 59 Back at Granby, everything was still—a snow globe no one had shaken in days. No one crossed the quad, no one scuttled from Commons with an Eggo and a coffee. I was the only thing moving, because I was late; I’d texted Alder to tell the class to start without me. I left Fran’s car in the lot behind Quincy and


you really wear something like that to just lie around the house? There’s a scene in which Carrie is sitting on the side of her bed, balancing her laptop on her knees, and her hair is up in this cascading ponytail, and she’s wearing the Robe, and I feel like it’s my duty to tell you that I am writing this book in an orthopedic chair I had to special order on the internet with a crocheted afghan in my lap, and I’m wearing a sweatshirt with a Detroit Coney dog printed on the front and a wear-’n’-tear hole in the elbow. I’m sure there are glamorous writers who sit down to their computers in outfits they’ve zippered and buttoned, with flawless makeup application and enviable hair, but I don’t know any! 7. THE BLUE MINI SHORTS AND OPEN-TOE HEEL SITUATION SHE CHASED A DOG THROUGH THE STREET IN I think there was a peasant blouse involved here, too? I just remember Carrie pounding the pavement, running for real, for real, in little strappy high-heeled sandals with these little shorties on and thinking to myself, “There is no fucking way.” This scene also reminds me of another huge nostalgia point for me while watching this show: life was so much more tricky and interesting before we all had cell phones. If I was writing that scene today, Carrie would run for half a block before coming to her senses and pulling out her phone to call someone with a car to scoop her up, but before we all had pocket computers, she was forced to run through New York City in short pants and high heels for hours in the rain. A nightmare, but she looked adorable as hell. 8. REMEMBER THAT TIME SHE WORE A RAGGEDY ROLLING STONES T-SHIRT? PLUS AN HONORABLE MENTION TO THOSE KNEE-HIGH RAINBOW GOSSIPING SOCKS As a Fat and a Poor, the clothing on this show was not aspirational to me, which is a very freeing margin in which to exist while watching something like Sex and the City. I didn’t ever have to worry about fitting into or being able to afford anything anyone wore at any time, so I could just let the beauty wash over me and soak into my eyeballs without feeling bad that I had no idea Barneys was the name of a store. I’m not even a purse guy, because I have always had the kind of life and needs that require a sturdy tote bag; I’m not saving up for a vintage Fendi baguette! Where would I put my Stephen King novel and super absorbent Always overnights? I need half a dozen lipsticks and an economy-sized bottle of extra-strength Advil on my person at all times! If I leave my house with only a teeny little purse, who’s gonna hold my charging brick and lightweight cardigan for when it might get cold?! That said, anytime Carrie was shown wearing something a normal person with no money could wear, I would be filled with delight, and no, I do not believe


they were at fault.” “I know.” Nick throws his pen onto the desk. That evening, they filed a depressingly basic article stating the bare facts and repeating the police commissioner’s promises to get to the bottom of the missing evidence. “What kind of bullshit is it that they put this statement out at five on a Friday afternoon?” He gets to his feet and begins pacing. The newsroom is relatively quiet, only a handful of reporters on the night desk. Without the usual steady thrum of voices shouting into telephones and the clatter of typewriter keys, it seems deserted, eerily silent. Someone has turned off a few of the overhead fluorescent lights. He can hear the hum of a vacuum cleaner somewhere else on the floor. Nick knows that getting the NYPD’s hackles up is playing with fire. He already worries that any man he talks to is a plainclothes officer waiting for the right moment to arrest him—something that happens to queer men every goddamn day in this city. Nick would be done—fired from the Chronicle, exposed to his family, thirty days in jail. He doesn’t need to paint a target on his back by pissing off the force as a whole. The thing is that Nick hates the cops and he’ll happily play with fire if that’s what it takes to chase down a good lead. If Nick gets burned, it’s not like it’ll matter to anyone but himself. “Twenty cops were working in the office that day,” Nick says. “Twenty cops were working when the items were discovered to be missing,” Andy corrects, because he’s doggedly accurate about news for someone who, at any given moment, has about a fifty percent chance of being able to accurately tell you the date. Nick supposes it’s because he was basically raised in newsrooms, but maybe it’s in his blood. Now when they go out to cover a story together, Nick isn’t babysitting Andy. Andy’s pulling his weight and then some. Other reporters have started to refer to them as a single unit—NickandAndy or RussoandFleming—and Nick has to fight not to smile whenever he hears it. He has to remind himself that this is temporary, that soon Andy is either going upstairs to do whatever publishers do, or he’s going to leave to work somewhere else. He’s not spending the rest of his life covering minor police corruption stories with Nick, and the fact that Nick has any feelings about that whatsoever is a problem. “Right,” Nick agrees. “So we need to know the last time anyone noticed envelopes and guns in the safe, and also who was assigned to the office since then. Who gets assigned to the Property Clerk’s Office, anyway? What did they say?” Andy flips through their notes. “‘Officers assigned to light duty,’” he reads. “Okay. The first thing I want to know is whether that’s a fairy tale. Are these cops really too sick or injured for regular duty, or are they the problem cops that no captain wants to deal with? Usually light-duty officers do desk


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

would call them in your language. They are a kind of faerie fox, black and golden together, which grow larger than horses. My brothers and sisters and I would crowd round the fire to watch him weave nets from brambles and spidersilk. And all the moorbeasts and hag-headed deer would cower at the sight of those nets, though they barely blinked at the whistle of our arrows.” He fell silent, gazing at them with his eyes gone very green. “Well,” I said, predictably at a loss for an answer to this, “I hope they are of use to you. Only keep them away from any garments of mine.” He took my hand, and then, before I knew what he was doing, lifted it to his mouth. I felt the briefest brush of his lips against my skin, and then he had released me and was back to exclaiming over his gifts. I turned and went into the kitchen in an aimless haste, looking for something to do, anything that might distract me from the warmth that had trailed up my arm like an errant summer breeze, and settled for preparing a light repast from the remains of our provisions. After we ate, I watched him play with the mirrors. When he touched them, strange things appeared—for an instant, I saw a green forest reflected back at me, boughs swaying. I blinked and it was gone, but some of its greenness lingered around the edges of the glass, as if a forest still lurked somewhere beyond the frame. “Are those the trees you would see in your kingdom?” I asked. He let out his breath and drew his hand away. “No,” he said quietly. “That was merely a shadow of my world.” I gazed at him a moment longer. His mourning was a tangible thing that hung in the air. I have never loved a place like he has, and felt its absence as I would a friend’s. But for a moment, I wished I had, and felt this as its own loss. A strange surety flowed through me like a swallow of cold water. “Of course.” He turned. “What?” But I was already moving. I fetched the faerie cloak from outside with trembling hands. The fire was high, as Bambleby liked it that way, and the cloak began its steady drip drip drip on the floorboards. I dug around in the pockets, fingers brushing against the edges of things that clanked or rustled. Focus. I drew a breath, plunged my hand inside again, putting every ounce of will and thought into imagining what I needed. And finally, my hand closed on something. I withdrew it. I was holding a doll. It was carved from whalebone and had hair of willow boughs. Its dress was of dirty, undyed wool the colour of snow, the old snow that is left behind in springtime. And yet the doll was clearly Folk, for it changed—just a little—from one moment to another, and in different lights. When I turned it to the firelight, it seemed to wash


people listed in these pages on this topic, but perhaps none were more important or more poignant than the ones I had with Marina Bokelman, folklorist, healer, family friend, and second mother to me. In our last conversation before she decided to leave this life, she spoke at length about Hildegard von Bingen, a Catholic nun born in 1098, who became an abbess, composer, writer, and medical practitioner. In her medical texts, Physica and Causae et Curae, she described herbs and provided recipes that would regulate menses, offer contraception, end unwanted pregnancies, and see a woman through pregnancy and birth. A few comments on medical terms and issues I addressed in the novel: The term child palace dates to the first or second century C.E. and is still used in contemporary Chinese for the uterus. Today we can recognize infant-cord rigidity as tetanus presumed to have been contracted while squatting on straw to give birth or sitting on wet ground during or after labor. (Tetanus is still one of the main causes of death for postpartum women in the third world.) In her book, Tan wrote of her treatment of scrofula lumps and sores in Cases 5, 7, and 16. Today medical professionals would understand these symptoms as mycobacterial cervical lymphadenitis related to tuberculosis. She treated these patients with moxibustion, which was recognized in China as a successful remedy for the condition since ancient times, as well as herbal remedies. Last, I’d like to recommend a fascinating article, “On the Origins of the Midwife” by Sarah Bunney in New Scientist, in which she explains why childbirth is more dangerous for humans than for any other primate. I was also inspired during the creation of this story by Brian E. McKnight’s translation of The Washing Away of Wrongs by Sung Tz’u (Song Ci in pinyin). This is known to be the first book of forensics in the world and is datable to 1247. It precedes similar works in the European Renaissance by nearly four hundred years. (That said, state-ordered forensic records in China date back to the second century C.E.) The Washing Away of Wrongs continued to be used by forensic scientists in China well into the twentieth century. Maybe that’s not all that remarkable. The indicators of death by drowning, hanging, stabbing, or poison have not changed through time. I have followed Sung Tz’u’s practices for inquests, including revealing a naked body for all to see, the accused standing to face the corpse, examining the spot where a victim drowned, and the concept that the family and the accused must have the opportunity to face each other. I’ve always taken great pride in going to every place I write about. I couldn’t do that for this book. (As I write this, China continues to have lockdowns in major cities, and the quarantine period for visitors is three weeks.) However, when I researched Peony in Love, I went to several water towns in the Yangzi delta. I was confident about writing about a water town, but I still felt sad that I wasn’t


it with confidence … with bluster.” “Embedded within the human warships’ EMP discharges, recently discovered and unbeknownst to us, lay a form of electromagnetic radiation known as resonance emissions. This particular frequency holds a unique property: it has the ability to interact with the intricate energy fields that power Liquilid Empire ships, shields, weapon systems, even our micro-nanite technology. “Again, Commander, these energy fields are characterized by specific resonant frequencies that are exclusive to Liquilid technology. As the human warships directed their EMP discharges, their weapons were, I suspect unknowingly, augmented with these resonance emissions. The consequences … Their electromagnetic waves penetrated our energy fields, instigating the unforeseen chain of events.” Remote Operator #2 jumped back into the mix. “The admiral will be most concerned about his red ships, the pride of Liquilid Celestial Forces. He’ll see how these resonance emissions could disrupt the delicate equilibrium of his ships’, his armada’s energy fields, causing nothing less than catastrophic results.” Lu-puk ventured a smile. This was good, no … This was very good. “The admiral will need to know the science; anyone can bark off vague theories, ambiguous suppositions …” Remote Operator #2, momentarily stymied, glanced nervously to Operator #5. Operator #5 took the ball and ran with it. “The electromagnetic radiation interferes with the Liquilid Empire’s intricate energy matrices, triggering failures within power systems and subsystems. As the resonance emissions infiltrate the energy fields of our assets, they create destructive interference patterns. Liquilids’ energy fields oscillate wildly, resonating with the incoming electromagnetic waves and effectively shattering their structural integrity. This disruption would spread throughout Liquilid vessels, cascading from one system to another. The Liquilid Empire, caught off guard by this unforeseen phenomenon, would struggle to regain control of their, our, ships. The destabilization of our energy fields would lead to catastrophic power surges, crippling vital systems, including propulsion, weapons, and shields. With our technology compromised and ships in disarray, our Liquilid forces would be left defenseless against any subsequent human warships’ onslaught.” “Well put, #5 … Well put indeed. This information may be of use to me … We shall see. For now, you shall be rewarded with a ration of a Billet’s hindquarters.” In truth, #5 might have just handed Lu-puk a promotion and a means of getting off this desolate rock post once and for all. A sudden, all-too-familiar tingle flared within his head, an indication that Admiral Plu-tik would soon, all too obtrusively, be entering his mind. Admiral Plu-tik said, “You have failed me for the last time, Commander Lu-puk.” And there he was, the arrogant gas bag, his smug expression in need of a little payback. Ignoring the reprimand, Lu-puk dove right in, “Ah … Admiral, you have contacted me at a very important juncture. If I might speak freely,” Lu-puk said, stealing from #5’s recent phrasing, “You are on the verge of making a mistake of epic proportions. One, I fear your vaunted career would not survive.” “You dare speak to me in such a manner? I will have you torn limb from limb and fed to—”


ten CENTS back, I'd call it squah, en be glad er de chanst." "Well, it's all right anyway, Jim, long as you're going to be rich again some time or other." "Yes; en I's rich now, come to look at it. I owns mysef, en I's wuth eight hund'd dollars. I wisht I had de money, I wouldn' want no mo'." CHAPTER IX. I WANTED to go and look at a place right about the middle of the island that I'd found when I was exploring; so we started and soon got to it, because the island was only three miles long and a quarter of a mile wide. This place was a tolerable long, steep hill or ridge about forty foot high. We had a rough time getting to the top, the sides was so steep and the bushes so thick. We tramped and clumb around all over it, and by and by found a good big cavern in the rock, most up to the top on the side towards Illinois. The cavern was as big as two or three rooms bunched together, and Jim could stand up straight in it. It was cool in there. Jim was for putting our traps in there right away, but I said we didn't want to be climbing up and down there all the time. Jim said if we had the canoe hid in a good place, and had all the traps in the cavern, we could rush there if anybody was to come to the island, and they would never find us without dogs. And, besides, he said them little birds had said it was going to rain, and did I want the things to get wet? So we went back and got the canoe, and paddled up abreast the cavern, and lugged all the traps up there. Then we hunted up a place close by to hide the canoe in, amongst the thick willows. We took some fish off of the lines and set them again, and begun to get ready for dinner. The door of the cavern was big enough to roll a hogshead in, and on one side of the door the floor stuck out a little bit, and was flat and a good place to build a fire on. So we built it there and cooked dinner. We spread the blankets inside for a carpet, and eat our dinner in there. We put all the other things handy at the back of the cavern. Pretty soon it darkened up, and begun to thunder and lighten; so the birds was right about it. Directly it begun to rain, and it rained like all fury, too, and I never see the wind blow so. It was one of these regular summer storms. It would get so dark that it looked all blue-black outside, and lovely; and the rain would thrash along by so thick that the trees off a little ways looked dim and spider- webby; and here would come a blast of wind that would bend the trees down and


any machines Vic had ever seen before. They were squat and uniform, metal boxes on wheels dripping with oil and crusted with flecks of rust. Their arms looked like versions of Rambo’s spindly limbs, though far bigger, their pincers capable of crushing. Each was numbered. Vic saw TLK-97A and TLK-97B and TLK-97D4G. They moved back and forth, unloading crates off floating pallets and stacking them in what looked like a large warehouse. The Coachman turned in his chair, eyeing them all. Nurse Ratched and Rambo looked as they always did. Vic had donned his disguise once more, the vest with the battery, the helmet securely fastened to his head, the strap digging into his chin. The Coachman had given Hap a new coat, one with a hood that covered his head. Hap wasn’t happy about it, but he wore it with minimal complaint. The Coachman said it would help to keep him from getting recognized. “If you’re discovered,” he said, “you can say that you’re transporting the other three to the Benevolent Tower. Just try and avoid that if at all possible. You don’t have the barcode—” Hap held up his hand, palm toward the ceiling. He grunted, fingers twitching. Vic watched in awe as the skin of his palm parted, a little shiny knob poking through. A small light poured from the knob, and a barcode appeared, floating above his hand. The Coachman’s jaw dropped. “How … did you…” Hap glared at him. “I p-p-practiced. If I’m l-like them, then I c-can d-do what they can.” The Coachman recovered. “But you were decommissioned. Tossed away like scrap. Which means they will know that if your barcode gets scanned. For appearance’s sake, it works, but only if you don’t allow them to scan it.” The barcode disappeared as Hap dropped his hand. He glanced at Vic. “What?” Vic shook his head. “You … you’re amazing.” A complicated expression crossed Hap’s face. His lips twitched as his eyebrows rose. “I am?” “You are,” Rambo said. “Hysterically Angry Puppet is the best puppet!” Hap seemed pleased, though he tried to hide it. “I am H-hap. I am amazing.” “Damn right!” Rambo cried. “And I’m Rambo! Prepare yourself, City of Electric Dreams. We’re coming for you, and we’re going to save the day!” “This is going to end badly,” Nurse Ratched said. “I cannot wait.” They stepped out of the house onto the sand. The air was much warmer than it’d been, even in the Land of Toys. Not even a hint of snow. Vic began to sweat almost immediately, the weight of his disguise more noticeable than it’d been even the day before. The metal vest rubbed irritatingly against his chest, and the helmet kept sliding to the side of his head because of the sweat. Nurse Ratched told him to say he had a coolant leak if anyone asked. “Stay back,” the Coachman muttered as they walked toward the working machines. “Let me do the talking. If anyone tries to address you, let Nurse Ratched speak for you. She’s the smartest of all


out o' th' black earth after a bit." "What will they be?" asked Mary. "Crocuses an' snowdrops an' daffydowndillys. Has tha' never seen them?" "No. Everything is hot, and wet, and green after the rains in India," said Mary. "And I think things grow up in a night." "These won't grow up in a night," said Weatherstaff. "Tha'll have to wait for 'em. They'll poke up a bit higher here, an' push out a spike more there, an' uncurl a leaf this day an' another that. You watch 'em." "I am going to," answered Mary. Very soon she heard the soft rustling flight of wings again and she knew at once that the robin had come again. He was very pert and lively, and hopped about so close to her feet, and put his head on one side and looked at her so slyly that she asked Ben Weatherstaff a question. "Do you think he remembers me?" she said. "Remembers thee!" said Weatherstaff indignantly. "He knows every cabbage stump in th' gardens, let alone th' people. He's never seen a little wench here before, an' he's bent on findin' out all about thee. Tha's no need to try to hide anything from him." "Are things stirring down below in the dark in that garden where he lives?" Mary inquired. "What garden?" grunted Weatherstaff, becoming surly again. "The one where the old rose-trees are." She could not help asking, because she wanted so much to know. "Are all the flowers dead, or do some of them come again in the summer? Are there ever any roses?" "Ask him," said Ben Weatherstaff, hunching his shoulders toward the robin. "He's the only one as knows. No one else has seen inside it for ten year'." Ten years was a long time, Mary thought. She had been born ten years ago. She walked away, slowly thinking. She had begun to like the garden just as she had begun to like the robin and Dickon and Martha's mother. She was beginning to like Martha, too. That seemed a good many people to like--when you were not used to liking. She thought of the robin as one of the people. She went to her walk outside the long, ivy-covered wall over which she could see the tree-tops; and the second time she walked up and down the most interesting and exciting thing happened to her, and it was all through Ben Weatherstaff's robin. She heard a chirp and a twitter, and when she looked at the bare flower-bed at her left side there he was hopping about and pretending to peck things out of the earth to persuade her that he had not followed her. But she knew he had followed her and the surprise so filled her with delight that she almost trembled a little. "You do remember me!" she cried out. "You do! You are prettier than anything else in the world!" She chirped, and talked, and coaxed and he hopped, and flirted his tail and twittered. It was as if he were talking. His red


said. ‘Only…’ Fergal took another slurp. ‘Only, I was very grateful after you made the Sunday dinner for me… I really enjoyed myself.’ ‘I enjoyed it too,’ Josie admitted. ‘And the barbecue – I had a nice time there too… apart from the business with Dangerous Dave, and that was really to do with him having drunk too much beer and being protective of Florence.’ ‘The less said about that incident the better,’ Josie agreed. ‘So, I wondered whether you and I might go out somewhere one night, a dinner perhaps, or bring a takeaway on the barge.’ Josie sipped white wine as the sun sparkled through the glass and the drink was crisp and sharp on her tongue. ‘Fergal, I’m not looking for romance.’ ‘Company, Josie, just company.’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Think about it.’ ‘I will.’ There was a cough behind them and Josie glanced over her shoulder. Dangerous Dave was there, arms folded humbly, looking uncomfortable. ‘Dangerous,’ Fergal said by way of a greeting. ‘Josie, Fergal – I’m glad I found you both together…’ Dave began. ‘I wanted to apologise for embarrassing myself at the barbecue.’ ‘Oh, there’s no need…’ Josie said kindly. ‘There is,’ Dave insisted. ‘I was out of order. I drank too much Hooky and I saw your Devlin, Fergal, with my Florence and the red mist came down.’ Fergal frowned deeply. ‘Devlin’s not the father of Florence’s baby, Dangerous – I asked him straight when I got home. He wouldn’t lie to his da.’ ‘I know. Florence told me off too. She knows I’m only being caring – that girl is all I have.’ Josie patted his arm. ‘Won’t you come and join us?’ Dave nodded. ‘I might – but I only came out for a swift half.’ ‘Me too – I was on my way to see Cecily,’ Josie admitted. ‘Then I bumped into Fergal.’ Dave’s brow creased. ‘I’m not sure you should go to see Cecily today, not after what I’ve just been told in the pub.’ ‘Gossip?’ Fergal asked. ‘I usually find it’s best avoided.’ ‘No, it’s something that Dickie and Jimmy overheard in the bar the other day. They were completely bowled over by it. I have to admit, I didn’t believe it at first but – well!’ Dangerous Dave shook his head. ‘Incredible, really, but I suppose in this day and age, anything goes.’ ‘Is Cecily all right?’ Josie was concerned. ‘Why can’t I go and see her?’ ‘Well, the thing is…’ Dave sat down next to her, folding his arms, making himself comfortable. ‘I’d say she won’t want any visitors – she’s too busy with other things…’ ‘What have you heard?’ Josie asked. ‘She has a lover.’ Dave opened wide goggling eyes. ‘That’s daft.’ Fergal reached for his pint. ‘Cecily can do what she likes,’ Josie retorted. ‘She’s her own woman, a free spirit.’ ‘Free spirit is completely right,’ Dave chortled. ‘Carrying on with a young man like that at her age. I still can’t get my head around it.’ ‘Young man? What young man?’ Fergal asked suspiciously. ‘Well,’ Dangerous


the sexton, had come out of the vestry and placed himself with his best man on the chancel step of Grace Church. The signal meant that the brougham bearing the bride and her father was in sight; but there was sure to be a considerable interval of adjustment and consultation in the lobby, where the bridesmaids were already hovering like a cluster of Easter blossoms. During this unavoidable lapse of time the bridegroom, in proof of his eagerness, was expected to expose himself alone to the gaze of the assembled company; and Archer had gone through this formality as resignedly as through all the others which made of a nineteenth century New York wedding a rite that seemed to belong to the dawn of history. Everything was equally easy--or equally painful, as one chose to put it--in the path he was committed to tread, and he had obeyed the flurried injunctions of his best man as piously as other bridegrooms had obeyed his own, in the days when he had guided them through the same labyrinth. So far he was reasonably sure of having fulfilled all his obligations. The bridesmaids' eight bouquets of white lilac and lilies-of-the-valley had been sent in due time, as well as the gold and sapphire sleeve-links of the eight ushers and the best man's cat's-eye scarf-pin; Archer had sat up half the night trying to vary the wording of his thanks for the last batch of presents from men friends and ex-lady-loves; the fees for the Bishop and the Rector were safely in the pocket of his best man; his own luggage was already at Mrs. Manson Mingott's, where the wedding-breakfast was to take place, and so were the travelling clothes into which he was to change; and a private compartment had been engaged in the train that was to carry the young couple to their unknown destination--concealment of the spot in which the bridal night was to be spent being one of the most sacred taboos of the prehistoric ritual. "Got the ring all right?" whispered young van der Luyden Newland, who was inexperienced in the duties of a best man, and awed by the weight of his responsibility. Archer made the gesture which he had seen so many bridegrooms make: with his ungloved right hand he felt in the pocket of his dark grey waistcoat, and assured himself that the little gold circlet (engraved inside: Newland to May, April ---, 187-) was in its place; then, resuming his former attitude, his tall hat and pearl-grey gloves with black stitchings grasped in his left hand, he stood looking at the door of the church. Overhead, Handel's March swelled pompously through the imitation stone vaulting, carrying on its waves the faded drift of the many weddings at which, with cheerful indifference, he had stood on the same chancel step watching other brides float up the nave toward other bridegrooms. "How like a first night at the Opera!" he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump


connected with this guy and he helped me. I had to go on the dark web!” She sounds thrilled, even proud. “We have to send passport-quality photos. It’s not cheap but they’ll be totally legit.” “I don’t have much money,” I say, thinking of the stash in my trunk that never seems to grow. “It’s fine,” she says, handing me a small plastic bag filled with cinnamon-scented oats, nuts, and seeds. “I sold some jewelry. By the time Benjamin notices, I’ll be long gone.” “I’m sorry you had to do that.” “I was glad to get rid of it,” she says, venom in her voice. “They were makeup gifts, all of them. After Benjamin took things too far. After he hurt me. There was always some shiny expensive trinket.” “I’ll pay you back,” I say around a mouthful of sweet granola. It will take time, but I will not welch on any more debts. She waves her hand dismissively. “You saved my life, Lee. You’re still saving my life. It’s the least I can do.” I smile, embarrassed by the compliment but also relieved. I need to save every penny. “Have you ever been to Panama?” It comes out of left field. “No. Why?” “Benjamin will expect me to go to Europe. France, probably, because I speak a little French. Or Italy. Somewhere he’s taken me before. He won’t look for me in Central America.” I swallow the cereal, now a tasteless paste in my mouth. “Why Panama?” “I’ve heard that if you have cash, you can build a life there. No questions asked.” “Sounds like a good place to disappear.” “I think so, too.” My voice is hoarse. “When will you go?” “The passport will take a couple of weeks. And then I need to plan my escape. It’s not going to be easy with the security guard at our front gate. And the cameras.” “Right.” My throat hurts now, raw with emotion. “I’ll miss you,” I mutter. “I’ll miss you, too.” Her smile is sad. “I wish you could come with me.” She’s being flip, of course. We barely know each other. And my presence would surely complicate her getaway. And then there’s Jesse. Our future may be uncertain, but I’m not ready to give up on it yet. “I wish,” I say with a chuckle. “I could use some sunshine.” We move on to the logistics of obtaining our new identities. Hazel tells me about a nearby drugstore where I can get my photo taken. I’m to deliver it to her in the morning; she’ll take care of the rest. I don’t ask her how she’ll do it when she is under constant surveillance. She’s clearly adept at fooling Benjamin. “I’ve got to get back.” Hazel stands. “Stay. Finish the coffee. I’ll pick up the thermos tomorrow.” I thank her, watch her slim form skip across the rocks to the mouth of the trail. She looks lighter than I’ve ever seen her before, more carefree. I realize she’s excited for her future, anticipating a life of freedom and opportunity.


We all have crap parts and good parts inside, but when you meet someone who makes you realise that it’s all okay, you think, what in God’s name did I do to deserve it? All of my life I’ve been searching for hidden treasure, fortunes outside of myself. But Martha, she found them in me. I’m not perfect, by any means, but I know I want to spend the rest of my life making her smile. So I’m damned if I will let her go without a fight.’ She swallowed audibly. I was almost shaking with the conviction I felt in that moment. For the first time, I had heard myself speak the truth straight from my heart and it sounded as clear and bright as a bell. After a pause, she raised her glass and, with a grin, clinked it against mine. ‘You might just do, I suppose.’ ‘Thank you. I know Martha is still married but—’ The look on her face made me stall my glass mid-air. ‘You might want to take a seat.’ Chapter Thirty-Four OPALINE Dublin, 1923 Secrets are all very well and good, but having a fake name, a hidden pregnancy, a forgotten manuscript and forbidden feelings were all making for a very complicated and lonely existence. What compounded my isolation was the constant background fear of Lyndon coming to take everything away from me. It felt as though I were only living a half-life, shrouded in subterfuge. Every time I looked at Emily’s manuscript (which was often!) I ruminated over the unfairness of my situation. The most amazing moment in my life and I realised there wasn’t a soul I could share it with. Perhaps I could trust Mr Hanna, but how could I be sure he wouldn’t let it slip to the wrong person? It was the loneliness I felt at that moment that spurred me to do something rash. I snatched a piece of paper from the drawer and wrote a hurried letter to Sylvia in Paris. I didn’t want to take the usual precaution of sending it through Armand. It felt wonderful and exhilarating to relay my news and I knew she would not tell a soul without my consent. I’m going to be a mother! I wrote before signing off, knowing that this would not be as exciting to her as the Brontë find. I told her to respond immediately, jotting down my phone number. I sealed the envelope and left it on my desk until I found a chance to walk to the postbox. Just knowing the excitement that Sylvia would share in my news gave me the strength to carry on with my day as normal and delay my decision on what action to take. I had a busy afternoon and found myself tiring easier than usual. A group of students stopped by looking for a publication by a pioneering new writer, Virginia Woolf. When I bent down to find a copy of Night and Day on the lower shelf, I felt faint. The atmosphere was heavy and humid, yet