Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

joy bubble. “We’re shooting it as we go.” She groans playfully, but her friend in a UCSD sweatshirt pushes on. “I love your books and legit lost it when I saw you were doing this. I’ve read Base Paired four times.” Before I can say anything, she quickly adds, “Can we ask you something? I know you’re super busy.” “Was it the pajamas or the armload of canned rosé that gave away my hectic schedule? Go for it.” She laughs, turning her phone to face me, and points at the screen. “Do you know if this is Connor Prince’s Instagram?” * * * Connor comes up repeatedly that day: in the afternoon when my mom drags me along to H Mart and a woman recognizes me in the frozen food aisle, praising me for a moment before asking whether Connor has starred in anything else, and again in the evening, when another parent completely loses her mind in front of me and Jess at Juno’s ballet recital. Both times I find myself wanting to text him to gloat about how smart I am. I resist. I do check his Instagram, though. By Monday morning, his follower count has ballooned from his mom, Nat, Ash, and some random dude, to twenty-two thousand. I’d bet my entire canned rosé collection that it hasn’t even occurred to him to look. After hair and makeup on Monday, I am led into an industrial kitchen at the Hilton Bayfront hotel. We do the bad news first: As predicted, Arjun and Tex have been eliminated by the voting audience. But then, the remaining six—Dax, Isaac, Evan, Jude, Colby, and Nick—are called out one by one, dressed casually and wearing wide smiles as matching accessories. Isaac gives me a little wink, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning back. Lanelle introduces this week’s plan: I get to choose which Heroes I want for each of the scheduled activities, including preparing a gourmet meal for my bed-resting sister, planting trees in Balboa Park, taking a craft cocktail class, going deep-sea fishing, pampering with mani-pedis, and a beach cruiser ride around Coronado. Viewers will see the dates compiled sequentially, of course—although the six dates will take place over the next three days, with confessionals and loved-one interviews scheduled for recording on Wednesday. First up, of course, is the meal prep date. I am given ten minutes to firm up a plan before the cameras will roll again, showing me “thinking it over” before spontaneously giving my choices. Of course, there’s the schoolyard pick vibe—whoever I choose first is the one viewers will assume I am most eager to spend time with—but I also have to be strategic about the best way to get to know each of them outside of their natural elements. I choose Colby, the Navy SEAL, to cook with. In part because I like the idea of watching his forearms flex while he chops vegetables for the lunch we’re making for Alice, but also because at our date last week he told me


ancient structure, built of heavy stones, and has not been repaired for a large number of years. The closed gates are of heavy old oak and iron, all eaten with rust. "The estate is called Carfax, no doubt a corruption of the old Quatre Face, as the house is four sided, agreeing with the cardinal points of the compass. It contains in all some twenty acres, quite surrounded by the solid stone wall above mentioned. There are many trees on it, which make it in places gloomy, and there is a deep, dark-looking pond or small lake, evidently fed by some springs, as the water is clear and flows away in a fair-sized stream. The house is very large and of all periods back, I should say, to mediaeval times, for one part is of stone immensely thick, with only a few windows high up and heavily barred with iron. It looks like part of a keep, and is close to an old chapel or church. I could not enter it, as I had not the key of the door leading to it from the house, but I have taken with my Kodak views of it from various points. The house had been added to, but in a very straggling way, and I can only guess at the amount of ground it covers, which must be very great. There are but few houses close at hand, one being a very large house only recently added to and formed into a private lunatic asylum. It is not, however, visible from the grounds." When I had finished, he said, "I am glad that it is old and big. I myself am of an old family, and to live in a new house would kill me. A house cannot be made habitable in a day, and after all, how few days go to make up a century. I rejoice also that there is a chapel of old times. We Transylvanian nobles love not to think that our bones may lie amongst the common dead. I seek not gaiety nor mirth, not the bright voluptuousness of much sunshine and sparkling waters which please the young and gay. I am no longer young, and my heart, through weary years of mourning over the dead, is attuned to mirth. Moreover, the walls of my castle are broken. The shadows are many, and the wind breathes cold through the broken battlements and casements. I love the shade and the shadow, and would be alone with my thoughts when I may." Somehow his words and his look did not seem to accord, or else it was that his cast of face made his smile look malignant and saturnine. Presently, with an excuse, he left me, asking me to pull my papers together. He was some little time away, and I began to look at some of the books around me. One was an atlas, which I found opened naturally to England, as if that map had been much used. On looking at it I found in certain places little rings


She nodded towards a little drinks caddy by the fireplace and I poured us two healthy measures of amber liquid. ‘So, why have you returned?’ ‘Hang on, how do you know who I am?’ ‘Oh please, let’s not delude ourselves. She told me about you. The scholar chasing after a lost bookshop. I wasn’t sure what she saw in you, but now that I can see you in person,’ she said, adjusting her spectacles, ‘I suppose I can see a certain boyish charm. Is that what attracted your fiancée, Mr Field?’ God, she really had told her everything. ‘Do men like you ever realise the hurt you cause, flitting in and out of people’s lives? No, I suppose not. That would require some sort of intellect.’ It appeared that no response was required from me. I was simply to bear witness to my own character assassination by a woman I had just met – and the worst part was that she was terrifyingly accurate in her summation. Except for one thing. ‘I love her.’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘Sorry?’ ‘What is it you love about Martha? Is it how she makes you feel about yourself? Does she boost your’—she let her eyes fall here—‘flaccid ego? Is that it? Do you get some kind of pleasure out of having two women on the go? I know your type, Mr Field and let me tell you, my Martha is worth ten of you.’ ‘No, you see, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell her. The night we kissed I knew I had to end things with Isabelle. But I owed her more than a phone call. I had to go back to London straightaway and explain.’ I felt ridiculous explaining myself to a complete stranger. But I could see how much she cared for Martha and that gave us common ground. ‘I’ve been trying to call Martha ever since but she must have disconnected her number. My sister just had a baby and that delayed my return here, but I got back as soon as I could.’ She seemed to be considering what I had said and it seemed like an age before she spoke again. ‘Much has transpired since you last saw her. I’m not sure if she’ll want to see you.’ ‘Please, Madame Bowden. You’re right. I’ve never known or understood what it really means to love or be loved. I’m not going to blame my past, but we all have one and it follows us around like a prison, always keeping us from the person we truly wish to be. Martha is the bravest person I’ve ever met and she’s inspired what little bravery I have inside to listen to my heart for once. I don’t just love her for how she makes me feel, I love her because when she came into my life it was like the lights came on. Everything suddenly had meaning and I think, I hope, it was the same for her. We all have crap parts and good parts inside, but when you meet someone


or the key was too small, but at any rate it would not open any of them. However, on the second time round, she came upon a low curtain she had not noticed before, and behind it was a little door about fifteen inches high: she tried the little golden key in the lock, and to her great delight it fitted! Alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage, not much larger than a rat-hole: she knelt down and looked along the passage into the loveliest garden you ever saw. How she longed to get out of that dark hall, and wander about among those beds of bright flowers and those cool fountains, but she could not even get her head though the doorway; `and even if my head would go through,' thought poor Alice, `it would be of very little use without my shoulders. Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if I only know how to begin.' For, you see, so many out-of-the-way things had happened lately, that Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible. There seemed to be no use in waiting by the little door, so she went back to the table, half hoping she might find another key on it, or at any rate a book of rules for shutting people up like telescopes: this time she found a little bottle on it, (`which certainly was not here before,' said Alice,) and round the neck of the bottle was a paper label, with the words `DRINK ME' beautifully printed on it in large letters. It was all very well to say `Drink me,' but the wise little Alice was not going to do THAT in a hurry. `No, I'll look first,' she said, `and see whether it's marked "poison" or not'; for she had read several nice little histories about children who had got burnt, and eaten up by wild beasts and other unpleasant things, all because they WOULD not remember the simple rules their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot poker will burn you if you hold it too long; and that if you cut your finger VERY deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had never forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked `poison,' it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later. However, this bottle was NOT marked `poison,' so Alice ventured to taste it, and finding it very nice, (it had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavour of cherry-tart, custard, pine-apple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast,) she very soon finished it off. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * `What a curious feeling!' said Alice; `I must be shutting up like a telescope.' And so it was indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her face brightened up at the thought that she was now the


and shut it behind us, and no one knew any one was inside and we called it our garden and pretended that--that we were missel thrushes and it was our nest, and if we played there almost every day and dug and planted seeds and made it all come alive--" "Is it dead?" he interrupted her. "It soon will be if no one cares for it," she went on. "The bulbs will live but the roses--" He stopped her again as excited as she was herself. "What are bulbs?" he put in quickly. "They are daffodils and lilies and snowdrops. They are working in the earth now--pushing up pale green points because the spring is coming." "Is the spring coming?" he said. "What is it like? You don't see it in rooms if you are ill." "It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine, and things pushing up and working under the earth," said Mary. "If the garden was a secret and we could get into it we could watch the things grow bigger every day, and see how many roses are alive. Don't you. see? Oh, don't you see how much nicer it would be if it was a secret?" He dropped back on his pillow and lay there with an odd expression on his face. "I never had a secret," he said, "except that one about not living to grow up. They don't know I know that, so it is a sort of secret. But I like this kind better." "If you won't make them take you to the garden," pleaded Mary, "perhaps--I feel almost sure I can find out how to get in sometime. And then--if the doctor wants you to go out in your chair, and if you can always do what you want to do, perhaps--perhaps we might find some boy who would push you, and we could go alone and it would always be a secret garden." "I should--like--that," he said very slowly, his eyes looking dreamy. "I should like that. I should not mind fresh air in a secret garden." Mary began to recover her breath and feel safer because the idea of keeping the secret seemed to please him. She felt almost sure that if she kept on talking and could make him see the garden in his mind as she had seen it he would like it so much that he could not bear to think that everybody might tramp in to it when they chose. "I'll tell you what I think it would be like, if we could go into it," she said. "It has been shut up so long things have grown into a tangle perhaps." He lay quite still and listened while she went on talking about the roses which might have clambered from tree to tree and hung down--about the many birds which might have built their nests there because it was so safe. And then she told him about the robin and Ben Weatherstaff, and there was so much to tell


if conscious there could be no gratification in lavishing such marks of affection on him. On the before-named occasion he came into the house to announce his in- tention of doing nothing, while I was assisting Miss Cathy to arrange her dress. She had not reckoned on his taking it into his head to be idle, and imagining she would have the whole place to herself, she managed, by some means, to inform Mr. Edgar of her brother's absence, and was then preparing to receive him. "Cathy, are you busy this afternoon?" asked Heath- cliff. "Are you going anywhere?" "No; it is raining," she answered. "Why have you that silk frock on, then?" he said. "Nobody coming here, I hope?" "Not that I know of," stammered miss; "but you should be in the field now, Heathcliff. It is an hour past dinner-time. I thought you were gone." "Hindley does not often free us from his accursed presence," observed the boy. "I'll not work any more to-day; I'll stay with you." "Oh, but Joseph will tell," she suggested. "You'd bet- ter go." "Joseph is loading lime on the further side of Pen- iston Crag; it will take him till dark, and he'll never know." So saying, he lounged to the fire and sat down. Cath- erine reflected an instant with knitted brows; she found it needful to smooth the way for an intrusion. "Isabella and Edgar Linton talked of calling this afternoon," she said, at the conclusion of a minute's silence. "As it rains, I hardly expect them; but they may come, and if they do you run the risk of being scolded for no good." "Order Ellen to say you are engaged, Cathy," he per- sisted. "Don't turn me out for those pitiful, silly friends of yours! I'm on the point, sometimes, of complaining that they---but I'll not." "That they what?" cried Catherine, gazing at him with a troubled countenance.---"Oh, Nelly!" she added petulantly, jerking her head away from my hands, "you've combed my hair quite out of curl. That's enough; let me alone.---What are you on the point of complaining about, Heathcliff?" "Nothing---only look at the almanac on that wall." He pointed to a framed sheet hanging near the window, and continued, "The crosses are for the evenings you have spent with the Lintons, the dots for those spent with me. Do you see? I've marked every day." "Yes; very foolish---as if I took notice!" replied Catherine, in a peevish tone. "And where is the sense of that?" "To show that I do take notice," said Heathcliff. "And should I always be sitting with you?" she de- manded, growing more irritated. "What good do I get? What do you talk about? You might be dumb, or a baby, for anything you say to amuse me, or for any- thing you do either." "You never told me before that I talked too little, or that you disliked my company, Cathy," exclaimed Heathcliff in much agitation. "It's no company at all, when people know nothing, and say nothing," she muttered. Her companion rose


had thought well of what I was going to say. "Don't commit yourself," said Mr. Jaggers, "and don't commit any one. You understand - any one. Don't tell me anything: I don't want to know anything; I am not curious." Of course I saw that he knew the man was come. "I merely want, Mr. Jaggers," said I, "to assure myself that what I have been told, is true. I have no hope of its being untrue, but at least I may verify it." Mr. Jaggers nodded. "But did you say 'told' or 'informed'?" he asked me, with his head on one side, and not looking at me, but looking in a listening way at the floor. "Told would seem to imply verbal communication. You can't have verbal communication with a man in New South Wales, you know." "I will say, informed, Mr. Jaggers." "Good." "I have been informed by a person named Abel Magwitch, that he is the benefactor so long unknown to me." "That is the man," said Mr. Jaggers," - in New South Wales." "And only he?" said I. "And only he," said Mr. Jaggers. "I am not so unreasonable, sir, as to think you at all responsible for my mistakes and wrong conclusions; but I always supposed it was Miss Havisham." "As you say, Pip," returned Mr. Jaggers, turning his eyes upon me coolly, and taking a bite at his forefinger, "I am not at all responsible for that." "And yet it looked so like it, sir," I pleaded with a downcast heart. "Not a particle of evidence, Pip," said Mr. Jaggers, shaking his head and gathering up his skirts. "Take nothing on its looks; take everything on evidence. There's no better rule." "I have no more to say," said I, with a sigh, after standing silent for a little while. "I have verified my information, and there's an end." "And Magwitch - in New South Wales - having at last disclosed himself," said Mr. Jaggers, "you will comprehend, Pip, how rigidly throughout my communication with you, I have always adhered to the strict line of fact. There has never been the least departure from the strict line of fact. You are quite aware of that?" "Quite, sir." "I communicated to Magwitch - in New South Wales - when he first wrote to me - from New South Wales - the caution that he must not expect me ever to deviate from the strict line of fact. I also communicated to him another caution. He appeared to me to have obscurely hinted in his letter at some distant idea he had of seeing you in England here. I cautioned him that I must hear no more of that; that he was not at all likely to obtain a pardon; that he was expatriated for the term of his natural life; and that his presenting himself in this country would be an act of felony, rendering him liable to the extreme penalty of the law. I gave Magwitch that caution," said Mr. Jaggers, looking hard at me; "I wrote


the direction of the Daroqol, who must have filed out of the wine cellar at the sound of the gunshot, and I either mouthed or screamed “Come on!” to Brianna and Dexter, whose traumatized faces were angled toward mine. Genial said something that was too muffled by my tinnitus to understand, but he was smiling perversely, like he’d just won a colossal game of king of the hill. We were out the door and he was behind us, still saying muffled things, the Daroqol brandishing their AK-47s, and because I couldn’t hear and could barely see I had no idea the UNA were upon us until they were, shooting at those of the Daroqol who weren’t flanking us. I climbed into the Jeep, Brianna after me, Dexter after her, his sneakers nearly falling off in his haste, and we watched as the Daroqol and UNA fell to the ground behind us. Genial was still grinning, clearly proud of himself, still talking as he hoisted himself into the Jeep, talking and talking until his eyes unfocused and he fell from the Jeep’s door and blood began to pool around his head on the ground. The driver reached back to shut the door and we sped across the lawn, away from the house. I turned to look out the side window: three UNA soldiers were upon Genial—what used to be Genial—and his body was twitching as they loaded it with bullets. There was a liquid pop in my ears and I could hear Brianna crying next to me. Dexter was looking at me like I’d betrayed him. “What the fuck was that?” he asked, sounding distant. “A coup,” I replied. “A coup that went very badly.” ELEVEN IT SEEMS NOW LIKE EVERYTHING I’ve done in my life I’ve done because of love, a useless, gutting love that left me devoured from the inside. The failed coup, Genial’s death, Brianna and Dexter’s terror: I felt these things pressing in on me from all sides. But what felt the worst was the thought of the money we’d lost and what that would mean for Orson. It didn’t seem to matter to Karl that I’d left him in Urmau in the middle of a coup. He was back in New York within days, texting me that he wanted me, that I needed to stop playing with him. I told him I would when he dropped the short. He told me that was impossible, that he had too much evidence against us. He sent me pictures of his trunk-like cock, which I deleted. His desire was thick, dizzying, distracting. But it wasn’t enough. Orson was still in his and Emily’s bedroom in the Enner house, claiming that he would spend the next two months in isolation in order to achieve his next “awakening.” Many NuLifers were doing the same thing, dispatching one unworthy member of each Enner house to do the cleaning and get the groceries while the rest tried to think in step with Orson, to predict what he would do next. I went up to the


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

the same shape, but then he noticed that she was crying; smiling, but crying at the same time. The tall, thin, black-haired man standing next to her put his arm around her. He wore glasses, and his hair was very untidy. It stuck up at the back, just as Harry's did. Harry was so close to the mirror now that his nose was nearly touching that of his reflection. "Mom?" he whispered. "Dad?" They just looked at him, smiling. And slowly, Harry looked into the faces of the other people in the mirror, and saw other pairs of green eyes like his, other noses like his, even a little old man who looked as though he had Harry's knobbly knees -- Harry was looking at his family, for the first time in his life. The Potters smiled and waved at Harry and he stared hungrily back at them, his hands pressed flat against the glass as though he was hoping to fall right through it and reach them. He had a powerful kind of ache inside him, half joy, half terrible sadness. How long he stood there, he didn't know. The reflections did not fade and he looked and looked until a distant noise brought him back to his senses. He couldn't stay here, he had to find his way back to bed. He tore his eyes away from his mother's face, whispered, "I'll come back," and hurried from the room. *** "You could have woken me up," said Ron, crossly. "You can come tonight, I'm going back. I want to show you the mirror." "I'd like to see your mom and dad," Ron said eagerly. "And I want to see all your family, all the Weasleys, you'll be able to show me your other brothers and everyone." "You can see them any old time," said Ron. "Just come round my house this summer. Anyway, maybe it only shows dead people. Shame about not finding Flamel, though. Have some bacon or something, why aren't you eating anything?" Harry couldn't eat. He had seen his parents and would be seeing them again tonight. He had almost forgotten about Flamel. It didn't seem very important anymore. Who cared what the three headed dog was guarding? What did it matter if Snape stole it, really? "Are you all right?" said Ron. "You look odd." *** What Harry feared most was that he might not be able to find the mirror room again. With Ron covered in the cloak, too, they had to walk much more slowly the next night. They tried retracing Harry's route from the library, wandering around the dark passageways for nearly an hour. "I'm freezing," said Ron. "Let's forget it and go back." "No!" Harry hissed. "I know it's here somewhere." They passed the ghost of a tall witch gliding in the opposite direction, but saw no one else, just as Ron started moaning that his feet were dead with cold, Harry spotted the suit of armor. "It's here -- just here -- yes!" They pushed the door open. Harry dropped the


odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is is clearly a man to be reckoned with. Hence a phrase which has passed into hitch hiking slang, as in "Hey, you sass that hoopy Ford Prefect? There's a frood who really knows where his towel is." (Sass: know, be aware of, meet, have sex with; hoopy: really together guy; frood: really amazingly together guy.) Nestling quietly on top of the towel in Ford Prefect's satchel, the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic began to wink more quickly. Miles above the surface of the planet the huge yellow somethings began to fan out. At Jodrell Bank, someone decided it was time for a nice relaxing cup of tea. "You got a towel with you?" said Ford Prefect suddenly to Arthur. Arthur, struggling through his third pint, looked round at him. "Why? What, no ... should I have?" He had given up being surprised, there didn't seem to be any point any longer. Ford clicked his tongue in irritation. "Drink up," he urged. At that moment the dull sound of a rumbling crash from outside filtered through the low murmur of the pub, through the sound of the jukebox, through the sound of the man next to Ford hiccupping over the whisky Ford had eventually bought him. Arthur choked on his beer, leapt to his feet. "What's that?" he yelped. "Don't worry," said Ford, "they haven't started yet." "Thank God for that," said Arthur and relaxed. "It's probably just your house being knocked down," said Ford, drowning his last pint. "What?" shouted Arthur. Suddenly Ford's spell was broken. Arthur looked wildly around him and ran to the window. "My God they are! They're knocking my house down. What the hell am I doing in the pub, Ford?" "It hardly makes any difference at this stage," said Ford, "let them have their fun." "Fun?" yelped Arthur. "Fun!" He quickly checked out of the window again that they were talking about the same thing. "Damn their fun!" he hooted and ran out of the pub furiously waving a nearly empty beer glass. He made no friends at all in the pub that lunchtime. "Stop, you vandals! You home wreckers!" bawled Arthur. "You half crazed Visigoths, stop will you!" Ford would have to go after him. Turning quickly to the barman he asked for four packets of peanuts. "There you are sir," said the barman, slapping the packets on the bar, "twenty-eight pence if you'd be so kind." Ford was very kind - he gave the barman another five-pound note and told him to keep the change. The barman looked at it and then looked at Ford. He suddenly shivered: he experienced a momentary sensation that he didn't understand because no one on Earth had ever experienced it before. In moments of great stress, every life form that exists gives out a tiny sublimal signal. This signal simply communicates an exact and almost pathetic sense of how far that being is from the place of his birth. On Earth it is never possible to be further than sixteen thousand miles


have stupidly suspected. This is about him and me. And the possibility of something that goes far beyond the both of us. “Elsie,” he mouths when he comes. He seems to retreat into himself, to dig deep into his head to deal with the shocking pleasure of it and avoid losing his mind, and all I need to do is hold him tight to remind him that yes. I’m here. With him. I’m here. It’s downright terrifying, what this could be. What I want it to be. It makes me tear up, and then it makes me sob, and then it makes me clutch at Jack for dear life, the splotch of his semen sticking to his shirt and my stomach, pooling in my belly button. To his credit, he doesn’t ask me what’s wrong. He doesn’t beg for explanations. He just holds me close, both arms wrapped around me, even when my tears morph into giggles, like I’m some crazy, unstable girl who doesn’t know what to be or what to feel. Wait. That’s exactly who I am. I laugh. Then I laugh some more. Then I cannot stop. The movie is over, “15 Step” by Radiohead bafflingly plays during the black-and-white end credits, and I’m laughing again. “You’re ruining the moment.” His lips curve into my throat, winded like he just finished an Olympic race. “I’m so sorry. I just—” “What?” “Just wondering if you still think it’s ‘too soon.’ ” He slaps my butt. I yelp and then keep on laughing. “Yes.” He maneuvers back and angles my head so that I’m looking at him. “It’s really soon. But the only person who can slow us down is you, so . . .” “So what?” He pushes a strand of sweaty hair behind my ear. His eyes are worried, and warm, and empty of everything that’s not us. “Be gentle with me, Elsie. That’s all I ask.” 20 FA L L I N G B O D I E S From: SandraShuberton@gmail.com Re: Thermodynamics Essay Doctor Hannaway, ma’am, it’s been 23 hours, have you graded my essay yet? Saturday’s a daze. I shuffle around my room gingerly, full of distant stares and hands stopping midaction, like I cannot remember what I opened my closet for, how to squeeze the tube to get the right amount of toothpaste. It’s a first. I sense that some paradigmatic shift has happened within me, but I cannot justify it. Jack and I did a bunch of things that high schoolers today would barely consider a quarter of first base—so what? I try to cognitively reframe last night as two adults having casual fun, but my head is full of aggressive, intrusive, embarrassing thoughts that make it hard to concentrate on grading. As though the sheer nature of grading didn’t do it on its own. “When did you get back last night?” Cece asks when I emerge in the kitchen. As usual, she’s engaged in a mix of activities: teaching Hedgie an obstacle course, listening to an audiobook on the women of the Plantagenets,


basket, perching on the saddle. Her foot found the pedal and Felix was beside her again, grasping the handlebars. ‘Just give me one chance, Minnie. Love between two such as we must be watered like a precious flower…’ ‘I don’t think so,’ Minnie began, launching herself and the bicycle forwards. She stood hard on the pedals and made for the road, hearing Felix’s sharp breath behind her, panting. He was in hot pursuit. ‘Minnie, Minnie…’ She could hear him running. She called over her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Felix.’ ‘One… more… chance…’ Then she was away, cycling down High Street towards Magdalen College. She glanced back to where he was running, his face red as he seemed to recede into the distance. She passed the ancient buildings of Magdalen, cycling on towards St Hilda’s, and she felt something in her heart cry out: the stone walls, the big square windows and the high gables, the spires and the tall tower, it was all as familiar as her own skin. Over the years, she had become a part of the fabric, the tradition: she’d loved strolling round the beautiful gardens, a book in her hand. The cloisters, the chapel and medieval bell tower had been beloved companions. She’d had a boyfriend or two from Magdalen, conveniently just down the road from St Hilda’s – women were not allowed to be students there in those days, but she’d visited the grounds many times. Oxford had held her in its safe hands, quenched her thirst for knowledge and offered her even more. She’d spent years researching; she’d joined in with the choral singing; she’d gazed at roaming deer in the park; she had fallen in love countless times sitting on the banks of the Thames. Oxford had moulded her into the person she was now, a respected authority on classics who had lectured for thirty years at St Hilda’s, whose life was framed by the dreaming spires, whose knowledge unfolded like the pages of books. She was no longer skinny Minnie Moore, she was a confident adult, maturing and improving with each changing season. Felix was far behind her now. Minnie had always had this effect on men; they fell in love with her easily. Poor Felix was a friend of a friend she’d accompanied to the theatre, to a party. She hadn’t intended to have a relationship with him, let alone break his heart. But she knew the reason, it was always the same: the more she distanced herself, the more men pursued her. There was no space for a significant other in her life. She preferred the company of a good book. It fulfilled her thirst for knowledge and it never interrupted her concentration. Minnie pushed her feet on the pedals; the Doc Martens boots felt heavy now. She wanted to put them up on a comfortable bar stool and drink half a pint of best. The Slug and Lettuce was in the other direction, and she’d promised herself lunch. Minnie never broke promises that she made to herself. She’d turn around and head


particular, but allowed the magnificence of their colour, the beauty of their lines, to work upon his soul. His imagination was busy with Sally. It would be pleasant to take her away from that London in which she seemed an unusual figure, like a cornflower in a shop among orchids and azaleas; he had learned in the Kentish hop-field that she did not belong to the town; and he was sure that she would blossom under the soft skies of Dorset to a rarer beauty. She came in, and he got up to meet her. She was in black, with white cuffs at her wrists and a lawn collar round her neck. They shook hands. "Have you been waiting long?" "No. Ten minutes. Are you hungry?" "Not very." "Let's sit here for a bit, shall we?" "If you like." They sat quietly, side by side, without speaking. Philip enjoyed having her near him. He was warmed by her radiant health. A glow of life seemed like an aureole to shine about her. "Well, how have you been?" he said at last, with a little smile. "Oh, it's all right. It was a false alarm." "Was it?" "Aren't you glad?" An extraordinary sensation filled him. He had felt certain that Sally's suspicion was well-founded; it had never occurred to him for an instant that there was a possibility of error. All his plans were suddenly overthrown, and the existence, so elaborately pictured, was no more than a dream which would never be realised. He was free once more. Free! He need give up none of his projects, and life still was in his hands for him to do what he liked with. He felt no exhilaration, but only dismay. His heart sank. The future stretched out before him in desolate emptiness. It was as though he had sailed for many years over a great waste of waters, with peril and privation, and at last had come upon a fair haven, but as he was about to enter, some contrary wind had arisen and drove him out again into the open sea; and because he had let his mind dwell on these soft meads and pleasant woods of the land, the vast deserts of the ocean filled him with anguish. He could not confront again the loneliness and the tempest. Sally looked at him with her clear eyes. "Aren't you glad?" she asked again. "I thought you'd be as pleased as Punch." He met her gaze haggardly. "I'm not sure," he muttered. "You are funny. Most men would." He realised that he had deceived himself; it was no self-sacrifice that had driven him to think of marrying, but the desire for a wife and a home and love; and now that it all seemed to slip through his fingers he was seized with despair. He wanted all that more than anything in the world. What did he care for Spain and its cities, Cordova, Toledo, Leon; what to him were the pagodas of Burmah and the lagoons of South Sea Islands? America was here


on an enormous executive desk of finest ultramahagony topped with rich ultrared leather. The dark carpeting was discreetly sumptuous, exotic pot plants and tastefully engraved prints of the principal computer programmers and their families were deployed liberally about the room, and stately windows looked out upon a tree-lined public square. On the day of the Great On-Turning two soberly dressed programmers with brief cases arrived and were shown discreetly into the office. They were aware that this day they would represent their entire race in its greatest moment, but they conducted themselves calmly and quietly as they seated themselves deferentially before the desk, opened their brief cases and took out their leather-bound notebooks. Their names were Lunkwill and Fook. For a few moments they sat in respectful silence, then, after exchanging a quiet glance with Fook, Lunkwill leaned forward and touched a small black panel. The subtlest of hums indicated that the massive computer was now in total active mode. After a pause it spoke to them in a voice rich resonant and deep. It said: "What is this great task for which I, Deep Thought, the second greatest computer in the Universe of Time and Space have been called into existence?" Lunkwill and Fook glanced at each other in surprise. "Your task, O Computer ..." began Fook. "No, wait a minute, this isn't right," said Lunkwill, worried. "We distinctly designed this computer to be the greatest one ever and we're not making do with second best. Deep Thought," he addressed the computer, "are you not as we designed you to be, the greatest most powerful computer in all time?" "I described myself as the second greatest," intoned Deep Thought, "and such I am." Another worried look passed between the two programmers. Lunkwill cleared his throat. "There must be some mistake," he said, "are you not a greatest computer than the Milliard Gargantubrain which can count all the atoms in a star in a millisecond?" "The Milliard Gargantubrain?" said Deep Thought with unconcealed contempt. "A mere abacus - mention it not." "And are you not," said Fook leaning anxiously forward, "a greater analyst than the Googleplex Star Thinker in the Seventh Galaxy of Light and Ingenuity which can calculate the trajectory of every single dust particle throughout a five-week Dangrabad Beta sand blizzard?" "A five-week sand blizzard?" said Deep Thought haughtily. "You ask this of me who have contemplated the very vectors of the atoms in the Big Bang itself? Molest me not with this pocket calculator stuff." The two programmers sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment. Then Lunkwill leaned forward again. "But are you not," he said, "a more fiendish disputant than the Great Hyperlobic Omni-Cognate Neutron Wrangler of Ciceronicus 12, the Magic and Indefatigable?" "The Great Hyperlobic Omni-Cognate Neutron Wrangler," said Deep Thought thoroughly rolling the r's, "could talk all four legs off an Arcturan MegaDonkey - but only I could persuade it to go for a walk afterwards." "Then what," asked Fook, "is the problem?" "There is no problem," said Deep Thought with magnificent ringing tones. "I am


was mainly concerned with my own condition, but I remember how familiar their conversation was. Miss Chen said to the doctor, ‘You know me. Have you helped me become full with child?’ ” “That could mean anything. Maybe he gave her a formula—” “Maybe, but there’s something else, and I suspect it’s related.” I hesitate, nervous to voice what I’ve come to believe. I take a breath and let the words rush out. “The night Miss Chen had her baby, Spinster Aunt came to see me. I could tell she was upset, but she wouldn’t say what was wrong.” “So?” “Even back then, I thought she saw or heard something when Miss Chen was in labor. Maybe Spinster Aunt was killed to keep her from telling me, from telling anyone.” Meiling gives me a doubtful look. “Her death was an accident.” “But what if it wasn’t?” Before she can ask, I volunteer, “No, I don’t have proof she was murdered. But something happened in the labor room that disturbed Spinster Aunt enough that she wouldn’t confide in me. I think it also caused her to enter the courtyard at night alone, which is not something she would have ordinarily done. Perhaps she went to meet someone.” I pause. Again, I worry I’m going too fast. “There’s a witness to what happened during Manzi’s birth.” Meiling nods slowly as understanding comes to her. “My mother was in the room to catch Miss Chen’s baby.” She stands. “Wait here. I’ll get her.” A few minutes later, Meiling and her mother return. I don’t know what Meiling told her, but the midwife regards me warily. I take her measure too. After all these years, Midwife Shi finally looks like a granny. She’s rounder, and gray threads through her hair. It takes much prodding and cajoling, but eventually Midwife Shi confesses what she knows. When she’s done, we sit in silence for several minutes. Finally, Meiling takes a breath. “If all this is true—” “It is,” her mother says. “Then why didn’t Doctor Wong try to end Yunxian’s second and third pregnancies?” “Daughter, you’re a midwife. You know the answer. Many children don’t live to seven years. What need of a plan for the future could there be until Manzi reached that age? Better yet, until he was eight years old?” “By that time,” I cut in, “I had three daughters. They offered no threat. And who knows? What may have started out as an unlikely seed of an idea took years to grow. Maybe Doctor Wong thought fate would intervene and bring me a son the fourth time I was full with child. In the end, you were the victim.” Several emotions wash over Meiling’s features as she considers all this. At last, she asks, her voice tremulous, “What should we do?” “If we act,” I answer, “there could be repercussions for my husband’s family. And for the two of you.” “I’m afraid,” my friend admits, “but can we in good conscience do nothing?” Midwife Shi and I remain silent as Meiling rises. She crosses


burn, and I don’t know if I can move without being heard. Somehow if I’m discovered, the embarrassment will definitely be mine to bear. I take another step and the landing creaks, but they don’t stop. I take the opportunity to run to my room and close the door behind me. Great. I need to use the toilet. Chapter Thirteen I’m nervously tapping my foot on Tuesday when, during our catch-up, I ask Kris, “How was last week’s Creative?” “It was all right.” She shoves her hair back with a headband. “It was shit, actually.” “What happened?” “I think we’re all in a bit of a creative funk,” she says. “We don’t have any fresh ideas and all the new stuff we keep losing.” “Ideas?” I repeat. “So the team can come up with ideas instead of waiting for agents to bring us their titles?” “It’s something Penny started when we were really struggling,” Kris answers. “Instead of continuously trying to outbid other publishers, we’d focus on food writers already on our list and come up with exciting things for them to write about. For example, getting Carmen to write about her stay in Italy was Penny’s idea.” Wow. Carmen Loremo’s Sardinia is one of OTP’s bestsellers. “I didn’t know that was an option.” I write down: What do we want and which of our writers can do it? “It’s a good idea.” “It’s a good idea when we have good ideas,” Kris says. “It’s not easy getting a book about foreign cuisine from our list of writers who are … well, limited in foreign experience.” In other words, homogenous in culture. I nod. “Of course.” “It only worked for Carmen because her husband is from Sardinia so they travel there a lot. We’ll think of something.” She closes her notebook. “Did you manage to get that list of titles up on MDX?” “Yes, but, actually, I’ve had an idea about something.” I pitch her my practiced paragraph on Cooking Combos, a book focused on classic and unique pairings, what you can do with them and why. It would discuss the science behind the flavor combination, as text-heavy, informative cookbooks are popular now, and how to cook classic or unexpected dishes with what you’ve got at home. Kris listens patiently and at the end says she’ll think about it but well done me for bringing ideas to the table already. I smile at this and, after, print out a list of our authors going back a decade. Like Kris hinted, we have a lot of white, middle-aged men writing about pies, potatoes, and bread. The majority of our female authors specialize in comfort cooking and family meals. I try not to pull a face. On the train ride home, I think about that list. We need something different, a quiet, undiscussed cuisine; we need recipes we wouldn’t have thought to try or even search for, but no one on our list seems qualified. I get home and, whilst my pasta boils, I google the rest of OTP’s food writers. On one man’s


end of things,” Corinne tacked on without missing a beat. Two women hustled out from the kitchen and started forking salad onto one of the smaller plates in each setting. Corinne said something to one of them, then redirected her attention to Ingram. “My daughter has a head for numbers, and I’m sure that will be a major advantage for Zelnick Cellar. As far as the production side, her company title will likely run along the lines of official taste tester.” Natalie had just forked up a bite of salad, but paused while everyone chuckled at Corinne’s jest, though she noticed that August didn’t laugh. At all. “It’s true. I know how to stay in my lane. Especially if it’s the checkout lane at the wine store.” More laughs. But none from August. “Zelnick Cellar might give Vos some stiff competition in a few years.” Corinne raised an eyebrow at August. “Wouldn’t that be something?” “It sure would,” Ingram agreed. “I’m sure a small business loan would go a long way toward making that future a reality.” Corinne gave Natalie a meaningful look. “Yes,” Natalie said to Ingram. “It would.” When August said nothing, she squeezed his hand under the table, and he nodded once without meeting her eyes. What was going on with him? He knew this dinner was important. Well, if he wasn’t going to make it count, she would show up for the both of them. “It’s not so far-fetched, actually. I’ve never seen anyone so dedicated to teaching himself the art of winemaking with so few tools at his disposal. August came to St. Helena with a dream and a serious work ethic, while so many just show up with millions of Silicon Valley dollars and state-of-the-art equipment, and they never truly understand the finer transformations that take place within the grape. But August continues to try and fail and try again—and eventually he’s going to get it. I know he is. And when he does, it’s going to be amazing, because he’s doing it by hand. By the sweat of his brow. It’s going to mean something more than money.” She’d gotten so lost in her speech, she didn’t realize Ingram had lowered his glass to the table and was regarding her seriously. Minus the smirk for once. “We should all be so lucky to have someone believe in us the way you believe in your husband, Ms. Vos.” “Mrs. Cates,” she corrected with a flustered smile. And there was no way not to be flustered when August was using his grip on her hand to pull her closer, all but physically dragging her into his lap. “Stop it,” she whispered. “No.” His voice had thickened. “People sit on other people’s laps at barbecues.” “I told you, this isn’t a barbecue,” she whispered back, laughter in her voice. “Barbecues don’t have salad plates.” “I don’t acknowledge salads. I see nothing.” Outright giggling now, Natalie slapped at his tugging hand and August finally settled for having their chairs pressed together, their outer thighs flush. Finished with their impromptu


besetting sin. He loved to play Chinese lottery. Also, in his gambling, he had one besetting weakness--faith in a system; and this made his damnation certain. For to play a system requires money, while the wages of a gardener's helper do not lap over the needs of a wife and numerous progeny. The Judge was at a meeting of the Raisin Growers' Association, and the boys were busy organizing an athletic club, on the memorable night of Manuel's treachery. No one saw him and Buck go off through the orchard on what Buck imagined was merely a stroll. And with the exception of a solitary man, no one saw them arrive at the little flag station known as College Park. This man talked with Manuel, and money chinked between them. "You might wrap up the goods before you deliver 'm," the stranger said gruffly, and Manuel doubled a piece of stout rope around Buck's neck under the collar. "Twist it, an' you'll choke 'm plentee," said Manuel, and the stranger grunted a ready affirmative. Buck had accepted the rope with quiet dignity. To be sure, it was an unwonted performance: but he had learned to trust in men he knew, and to give them credit for a wisdom that outreached his own. But when the ends of the rope were placed in the stranger's hands, he growled menacingly. He had merely intimated his displeasure, in his pride believing that to intimate was to command. But to his surprise the rope tightened around his neck, shutting off his breath. In quick rage he sprang at the man, who met him halfway, grappled him close by the throat, and with a deft twist threw him over on his back. Then the rope tightened mercilessly, while Buck struggled in a fury, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his great chest panting futilely. Never in all his life had he been so vilely treated, and never in all his life had he been so angry. But his strength ebbed, his eyes glazed, and he knew nothing when the train was flagged and the two men threw him into the baggage car. The next he knew, he was dimly aware that his tongue was hurting and that he was being jolted along in some kind of a conveyance. The hoarse shriek of a locomotive whistling a crossing told him where he was. He had travelled too often with the Judge not to know the sensation of riding in a baggage car. He opened his eyes, and into them came the unbridled anger of a kidnapped king. The man sprang for his throat, but Buck was too quick for him. His jaws closed on the hand, nor did they relax till his senses were choked out of him once more. "Yep, has fits," the man said, hiding his mangled hand from the baggageman, who had been attracted by the sounds of struggle. "I'm takin' 'm up for the boss to 'Frisco. A crack dog-doctor there thinks that he can cure 'm." Concerning that night's ride, the


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

The sunlight turned everything to silver and pearl. I wore the green dress Wendell had made; he had sent it to me that morning with a note saying that he’d decided it was inappropriate for a wedding, and so why didn’t I wear it today? There had been other things in the note, of course, and I had torn it to shreds and tossed it down the mountainside after I’d finished reading. The dress was perfect, every inch of it, covering me in emerald green drapery that flowed like the boughs of a weeping willow, the bodice embellished with crushed pearls that made a whispery sound when I moved. And with it was a matching veil which I wore pushed back from my face. My hair had been swept up by my servants and woven with jewels, but several pieces were already falling into my eyes, proving once again that even magic is not enough to keep me neat. The pearls lining the veil brushed against my forehead, cold and hard. A faerie woman as tall and slender as evening shadow placed a cage at the king’s feet. He motioned to a servant, who opened the cage door, and out sprang a white raven. “An albino!” the king exclaimed, leaning forward onto his hand, his elbows on his knees. He had a childlike manner about him in such moments that made me wonder at Wendell’s description of him—older than the mountains. But I never wondered for long. These moments were only flashes, the drops of sunlight winnowed through the deepest and darkest woods. He settled back in his throne, growing far too still again, his magic enveloping us all like wind. He is more magic than person, that is the truth of it. Is this what happens to all the Folk as they age, their power hollowing them out like the fissures in an ancient glacier? Many of the gifts were for me. There were jewels and gowns and furs and paintings—done on ice canvases that made everything bleed together far more than watercolours—and a strange, empty box with a base of some sort of pale velvet that the faerie claimed would sprout white roses with diamonds in them if left outside at midday, and blue roses with rubies if left outside at midnight. There were other nonsensical presents along these lines, including a saddle of shapeless grey leather that would allow me to ride the mountain fog, though no explanation was given as to why I should wish to do this. The only presents I truly appreciated came in the form of ice cream, which the Hidden Ones are obsessed with and cover with sea salt and nectar from their winter flowers. The king turned to beam at me lovingly every few moments, and I forced a smile in return while my hands, hidden in my sleeves, clenched into fists. The brief clarity I had felt during Wendell’s visit was gone, and my thoughts were foggy. I always felt worse in the king’s presence, by which I mean that it was


kotma and made to work every morning clearing the government compound and fetching wood for the white Commissioner and the court messengers. Some of these prisoners were men of title who should be above such mean occupation. They were grieved by the indignity and mourned for their neglected farms. As they cut grass in the morning the younger men sang in time with the strokes of their machetes: "Kotma of the ashy buttocks, He is fit to be a slave. The white man has no sense, He is fit to be a slave." The court messengers did not like to be called Ashy-Buttocks, and they beat the men. But the song spread in Umuofia. Okonkwo's head was bowed in sadness as Obierika told him these things. "Perhaps I have been away too long," Okonkwo said, almost to himself. "But I cannot understand these things you tell me. What is it that has happened to our people? Why have they lost the power to fight?" "Have you not heard how the white man wiped out Abame?" asked Obierika. "I have heard," said Okonkwo. "But I have also heard that Abame people were weak and foolish. Why did they not fight back? Had they no guns and machetes? We would be cowards to compare ourselves with the men of Abame. Their fathers had never dared to stand before our ancestors. We must fight these men and drive them from the land." "It is already too late," said Obierika sadly. "Our own men and our sons have joined the ranks of the stranger. They have joined his religion and they help to uphold his government. If we should try to drive out the white men in Umuofia we should find it easy. There are only two of them. But what of our own people who are following their way and have been given power? They would go to Umuru and bring the soldiers, and we would be like Abame." He paused for a long time and then said: "I told you on my last visit to Mbanta how they hanged Aneto." "What has happened to that piece of land in dispute?" asked Okonkwo. "The white man's court has decided that it should belong to Nnama's family, who had given much money to the white man's messengers and interpreter." "Does the white man understand our custom about land?" "How can he when he does not even speak our tongue? But he says that our customs are bad, and our own brothers who have taken up his religion also say that our customs are bad. How do you think we can fight when our own brothers have turned against us? The white man is very clever. He came quietly and peaceably with his religion. We were amused at his foolishness and allowed him to stay. Now he has won our brothers, and our clan can no longer act like one. He has put a knife on the things that held us together and we have fallen apart." "How did they get hold of Ancto to hang him?"


I stop. I give up and climb back down to the stream thinking, He must have moved on. Somewhere farther down. 247 My foot has just broken the surface of the water when I hear a voice. “You here to finish me off, sweetheart?” I whip around. It’s come from the left, so I can’t pick it up very well. And the voice was hoarse and weak. Still, it must have been Peeta. Who else in the arena would call me swee- theart? My eyes peruse the bank, but there’s nothing. Just mud, the plants, the base of the rocks. “Peeta?” I whisper. “Where are you?” There’s no answer. Could I just have imagined it? No, I’m certain it was real and very close at hand, too. “Peeta?” I creep along the bank. “Well, don’t step on me.” I jump back. His voice was right under my feet. Still there’s nothing. Then his eyes open, unmistakably blue in the brown mud and green leaves. I gasp and am rewarded with a hint of white teeth as he laughs. It’s the final word in camouflage. Forget chucking weights around. Peeta should have gone into his private session with the Gamemakers and painted himself into a tree. Or a boulder. Or a muddy bank full of weeds. “Close your eyes again,” I order. He does, and his mouth, too, and completely disappears. Most of what I judge to be his body is actually under a layer of mud and plants. His face and arms are so artfully disguised as to be invisible. I kneel beside him. “I guess all those hours decorating cakes paid off.” Peeta smiles. “Yes, frosting. The final defense of the dying.” 248 “You’re not going to die,” I tell him firmly. “Says who?” His voice is so ragged. “Says me. We’re on the same team now, you know,” I tell him. His eyes open. “So, I heard. Nice of you to find what’s left of me.” I pull out my water bottle and give him a drink. “Did Cato cut you?” I ask. “Left leg. Up high,” he answers. “Let’s get you in the stream, wash you off so I can see what kind of wounds you’ve got,” I say. “Lean down a minute first,” he says. “Need to tell you some- thing.” I lean over and put my good ear to his lips, which tickle as he whispers. “Remember, we’re madly in love, so it’s all right to kiss me anytime you feel like it.” I jerk my head back but end up laughing. “Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.” At least, he’s still able to joke around. But when I start to help him to the stream, all the levity disappears. It’s only two feet away, how hard can it be? Very hard when I real- ize he’s unable to move an inch on his own. He’s so weak that the best he can do is not to resist. I try to drag him, but despite the fact that I know he’s doing all he can to keep


that she could not breathe, but it still hurt, and she could feel the terrible strength in him. “I warned you. One way or another,” he said. He was silver and black-blue smoke, he was ash that was reshaped into sinews. He was real. But he shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t. They had not finished the spell. Yet he flickered into existence before her wide eyes. She stepped backward. “How?” she asked. “You gave me a voice. You drew my runes. You even joined the audience in watching me,” he said, his mouth curling in glee, ash and smoke somehow able to smile. “You made me real.” She shook her head. “Say it now, say I’m alive, and you’ll follow me into the night.” “You can’t—” “No, you can’t. Those are my runes, this is my magic, this is my power. Give in. Say it.” “You’re choking—” She tried to shove him away, but his grip on her throat grew more vicious. She squeezed her eyes shut. He released his hold on her, instead sliding his hands down her shoulders and holding her in place like that. “Better?” he asked, almost innocently. She coughed and opened her eyes, shocked to see he was indeed alive. No, not quite. For a moment he looked to be flesh and blood, nostrils flaring, and then he flickered. The edges of him were smudged one second, crisp the next. He was still a half-thing, existing between spaces. Oh, but he was more real than she’d ever seen him before. She could almost taste the power of the sorcerer, trace the edges of the magic holding him in place. She was afraid she’d inhaled some of this power, of Ewers, that it would settle in her lungs like the smoke of tobacco. “I’m already there,” he said and pressed a finger against the hollow of her throat. “Make me live.” She was tired and he was right. It was as José López had explained. All she and Tristán had done was essentially cause an explosion and they’d been exposed to a radioactive element, to poison, because of it. This magic she commanded wasn’t hers. It was his. Bits of Ewers, his runes and his spells, channeled and making their way around them. It was heady, this well of strength, it made her head spin. “Will me to life. Say it. Say I live.” “Words are ritual, gestures are spells,” she muttered, dazed. “Yes.” Her pulse drummed madly. They’d done exactly what he wanted anyway. Drawn his runes, played his game. She had not given in to fear but still she’d bent to his will. One way or another, as he’d promised. Dancing to his tune, following the steps he traced… “Momo!” “Complete my ritual.” A thought cleaved her mind. His runes, his ritual. He’d stolen bits of knowledge, remade it, remixed it, took from here and there. He’d painted a canvas, but he had not invented colors. Even now, even this spell they were completing was not how the original ritual would have gone. It was not the


just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!' (`I only wish it was,' the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) `That would be grand, certainly,' said Alice thoughtfully: `but then--I shouldn't be hungry for it, you know.' `Not at first, perhaps,' said the Hatter: `but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked.' `Is that the way YOU manage?' Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. `Not I!' he replied. `We quarrelled last March--just before HE went mad, you know--' (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) `--it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing "Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at!" You know the song, perhaps?' `I've heard something like it,' said Alice. `It goes on, you know,' the Hatter continued, `in this way:-- "Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle--"' Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep `Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle--' and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. `Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse,' said the Hatter, `when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, "He's murdering the time! Off with his head!"' `How dreadfully savage!' exclaimed Alice. `And ever since that,' the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, `he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now.' A bright idea came into Alice's head. `Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?' she asked. `Yes, that's it,' said the Hatter with a sigh: `it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles.' `Then you keep moving round, I suppose?' said Alice. `Exactly so,' said the Hatter: `as the things get used up.' `But what happens when you come to the beginning again?' Alice ventured to ask. `Suppose we change the subject,' the March Hare interrupted, yawning. `I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story.' `I'm afraid I don't know one,' said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. `Then the Dormouse shall!' they both cried. `Wake up, Dormouse!' And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. `I wasn't asleep,' he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: `I heard every word you fellows were saying.' `Tell us a story!' said the March Hare. `Yes, please do!' pleaded Alice. `And be quick about it,' added the Hatter, `or you'll be asleep again before it's done.' `Once upon a time there were three little sisters,' the Dormouse began in a great hurry; `and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--' `What did they live on?' said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. `They lived on treacle,' said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute


to look back at his pursuers. There was little to be made out, in the mist and darkness; but the loud shouting of men vibrated through the air, and the barking of the neighbouring dogs, roused by the sound of the alarm bell, resounded in every direction. 'Stop, you white-livered hound!' cried the robber, shouting after Toby Crackit, who, making the best use of his long legs, was already ahead. 'Stop!' The repetition of the word, brought Toby to a dead stand-still. For he was not quite satisfied that he was beyond the range of pistol-shot; and Sikes was in no mood to be played with. 'Bear a hand with the boy,' cried Sikes, beckoning furiously to his confederate. 'Come back!' Toby made a show of returning; but ventured, in a low voice, broken for want of breath, to intimate considerable reluctance as he came slowly along. 'Quicker!' cried Sikes, laying the boy in a dry ditch at his feet, and drawing a pistol from his pocket. 'Don't play booty with me.' At this moment the noise grew louder. Sikes, again looking round, could discern that the men who had given chase were already climbing the gate of the field in which he stood; and that a couple of dogs were some paces in advance of them. 'It's all up, Bill!' cried Toby; 'drop the kid, and show 'em your heels.' With this parting advice, Mr. Crackit, preferring the chance of being shot by his friend, to the certainty of being taken by his enemies, fairly turned tail, and darted off at full speed. Sikes clenched his teeth; took one look around; threw over the prostrate form of Oliver, the cape in which he had been hurriedly muffled; ran along the front of the hedge, as if to distract the attention of those behind, from the spot where the boy lay; paused, for a second, before another hedge which met it at right angles; and whirling his pistol high into the air, cleared it at a bound, and was gone. 'Ho, ho, there!' cried a tremulous voice in the rear. 'Pincher! Neptune! Come here, come here!' The dogs, who, in common with their masters, seemed to have no particular relish for the sport in which they were engaged, readily answered to the command. Three men, who had by this time advanced some distance into the field, stopped to take counsel together. 'My advice, or, leastways, I should say, my ORDERS, is,' said the fattest man of the party, 'that we 'mediately go home again.' 'I am agreeable to anything which is agreeable to Mr. Giles,' said a shorter man; who was by no means of a slim figure, and who was very pale in the face, and very polite: as frightened men frequently are. 'I shouldn't wish to appear ill-mannered, gentlemen,' said the third, who had called the dogs back, 'Mr. Giles ought to know.' 'Certainly,' replied the shorter man; 'and whatever Mr. Giles says, it isn't our place to contradict him. No, no, I know my sitiwation! Thank my stars, I


120, 122–23 military powers of president as potentially exploited in future by, 217, 218, 225, 226, 227–28 politics as performative in, 154–56 potential weaponization of intelligence agencies in future by, 85–86 potential weaponizing of justice system in future by, 113, 115, 117–20, 124 in silencing and punishing of opposition, 10, 11, 35–38, 41–42, 45, 77, 80, 118–20, 153–54, 155–57, 192–93, 307, 308, 309 as threat to career civil service, 82–83, 84–86 in 2022 midterms, 309 VA as target of, 72–74 “Make Trump Better Plan,” 21, 23 Mar-a-Lago, 71, 186 Marco Island, author’s sojourn on, 202–5, 210 Maria, Hurricane (2017), 126, 127 Maricopa County, Ariz., 38–41 Maricopa County Board of Supervisors, 39, 40, 41 Marine One, 63, 174 Marines, U.S., 30, 64, 268, 282 Marquardt, Kristen, 189 Marshall, John, 123 Marshall Plan, 227 Martini (dog), 312 Matthews, Chris, 15 Mattis, Jim, 6, 29, 52, 53, 60, 61, 72, 96, 142, 143, 163, 196 Atlantic reproach of Trump by, 226 resignation of, 146–47 May, Theresa, 50 McAleenan, Kevin, 184 McCabe, Andrew, 102, 110–12, 123–24 McCain, John, 16, 38, 132, 137, 295 death of, 130–32 McCarthy, Andy, 22 McCarthy, Kevin, 19, 128–29 McCaul, Michael, 22, 24–25, 28, 29 McConnell, Mitch, 101 McCool, Mike, 178 McEnany, Kayleigh, 242, 243 McGinley, Bill, 150 McMaster, H. R., 102 McMullin, Evan, 24, 260, 294, 297 Meadows, Mark, 36, 81 Messages to the World (bin Laden), 263 Mexico, 52, 80, 146, 162–63, 169–70, 171, 173, 181, 188, 217, 226 U.S. Embassy in, 176 Michigan, 173, 244, 257, 258, 259 Middle East, 21, 32, 50, 56–57, 189 Mill, John Stuart, 298–99, 301 Millennium Development Goals, 14 Miller, Stephen, 74, 75, 92, 94, 108, 109, 122, 143, 162, 170–71, 234 unlawful immigration proposals of, 187–88, 190 Mitch (pseud., Secret Service agent), 165–66 Mitnick, John, 118, 247 Mnuchin, Steve, 178–79 Moldova, 224 MoveOn.org, 206 MSNBC, 15, 294 Mueller Report (2019), 214 Mukasey, Michael, 22 Mulvaney, Mick, 20, 162, 173 Murphy, Brian, 85–86, 116 Murray, Bill, 183 Muslims, 20, 21, 22, 29, 91, 92, 188, 206 MyPillow, 171 N Nakasone, Paul, 134 National Geospatial Intelligence Agency, 247 National Journal, 154 National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), 83, 84 National Rifle Association (NRA), 78–79, 80 National Security Agency (NSA), 47, 48, 134 National Security Council (NSC), 52, 54, 75, 80, 85, 116, 133, 219, 224, 226, 264 Trump in attempt to install Christina Bobb at, 185–86 National Weather Service (NWS), 83, 84 Navarro, Peter, 75, 216 NBC News, 138, 199, 276, 284 Netherlands, 190 Neumann, Elizabeth, 51, 52, 53, 55, 69, 100, 184, 243 in public opposition to Trump, 240, 242, 247, 250 New York Post, 288 New York Times, 134, 196, 201, 211, 231, 263, 276, 280 author’s anonymous op-ed in, 3, 4–5, 132–33, 135–40, 144, 164, 196, 197–98, 200–201, 210, 231, 249, 272, 294 Stephens’s “Dear Anonymous” letter in, 147 Nick (DHS military aide), 174 Nielsen, Kirstjen, 49, 50, 51, 53, 55, 61, 67, 68, 69, 95, 99, 102, 103, 105, 126, 127, 128, 129, 131, 136, 138–39, 144–45, 162, 166, 232, 233, 244 in cybersecurity trip to London (2019), 174–76 family separation


“You about to go and show these pretty children a good time? You don’t look like their type, but maybe they like their evenings a little rough sometimes. That about it, honey?” She looks at the woman, who grins. “Oh, yes. I think so.” “No,” I say. “Misunderstanding. I was declining politely, but some offence was taken. I’m not polished like some of your other customers.” “No, I’d say it’s pretty clear all the original edges are still on you,” Vic murmurs, stroking the oiled arm. “Come on, kids. Let me find you someone a little more suitable.” Kids. Suitable. Grandma voice. Thanks, Vic. The guy pushes her away. Vic staggers theatrically into the bar, and a little pyramid of champagne glasses crashes to the floor. The smashing echoes and people stop talking and look. Vic uncoils off the copper top like she’s made of plastic, smiling wide enough to swallow an entire cat. No one in the whole place isn’t looking now. The heroes know it. The woman stretches slightly, pushing her shoulder blades together. Her boyfriend turns his hands in so that his deltoids ripple, and leans in my face. He’s about to speak but Vic gets there first. She pulls a cord mic down from the ceiling and lets out a rebel yell. “LAAAADIIIES AND GENTLEMENNNNN! AND OTHERS MORE INTRIGUINGLY COMPLEX! WELCOME! GOOD EVENING AND WELCOME! I’M VICTOR DEVINE AND THIS IS MY PLACE, AND AS YOU KNOW IT IS THE OOOOONLY PLACE TO FIND. WHAT. YOU. NEED! “With all due respect to Mick—and we all love Mick—I done went and created a place where—whatEVER you like, whatEVER you crave—you can, you can, YOU CAN GET…SATISFACTION!” There’s something happening on the stage level that I’ve never seen before. The tables are sliding apart and an object is rising up out of the floor. An enclosed metal frame four metres by four. Or, no. Not a frame. A cage. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Vic has one hand flung out over her head like a prophet. “Here at Victor’s we like to think we can make anything happen for you, make everyone happy…but dis-agree-ments. Do. Arise. “I love it when something tasty ARISES. Don’t you?” A fat wink, white teeth flashing. She only comes alive in front of the crowd. Vic was never a hooker. She was never a hitman either, whatever you may have heard. She never ran guns out of Lisbon and she never divorced a billionaire. She was a televangelist. It’s not even a secret, yet somehow no one knows but me. “AND TONIGHT…we have something a little special to whet your appetite. Oh YES WE DO.” The cage slides into place, and the door opens with a massive crash. “A DUEL! For the honour of—well now. I wonder. WHICH OF YOU WILL STEP INTO THE CAGE?” The spotlight picks out the heroes and they love it. She jumps on him, wraps her legs around his hips and drives her tongue into his mouth, then bucks off again and raises his hand in hers: “WE DO EVERYTHING…TOGETHER!” Vic


if I still have to get the approval of weird booze snobs rather than buy what I actually want? If I gotta be outside my house and drinking, then I want that drink to be called something like a “Sunset Passion Colada,” not a “Poet’s Lament” or whatever these fancy-ass places name their drinks. If I order a Frozen Favorites™ Bahama Mama, I know it’s gonna taste like orange pineapple juice from the store with a splash of watered-down rum on top; but if I make my way down to the bespoke artisanal modern-day speakeasy (WHAT), and order a “Smirking Priest”? I have no idea what the fuck that drink is gonna taste like. I went to a bachelorette party at a Red Lobster a few years ago and it was a busy Saturday night, so our large, shrieking party had to wait at the bar for a couple of tables to open up, so they could push them together for us to scatter with penis straws and paper crowns. While we waited, I noticed that the bartender looked like a dude I’d grown up with, like a kid-who-was-in-my-kindergarten-class-with-me kind of grown up with, and I walked over to say hi. There were several older women seated at the bar, dressed like they were trying to get fucked that night, and I was instantly smitten. This is what I want for my future. My man was giving these ladies the full Cocktail experience: shaking his tightly pants’ed ass, flipping and twirling a bottle of mango Malibu rum, really emphasizing the ASS when he delivered one of them her Tiki Passion Punch™ as she squealed in delight. I need to remind you that this isn’t a sultry beachside cocktail lounge in Jamaica. I was standing in a too-bright mall bar in Lincolnwood, Illinois. And it was still somehow sexy and glamorous! As the women whispered conspiratorially over their drinks, I went to the other end of the bar and said, “Oh my God, [paste-eating child friend], you are gonna get your dick sucked!!” And he was like, “Sam, I fuck at least three women a week? And you should see my tips!” I resisted making a joke about giving me some tip and mourned a future in which I would not be tits up to a Red Lobster bar, slurping seductively on a Berry Mango Daiquiri, trying to bone a dude who smells like Clamato and is young enough to be my son. The hot bar “What kind of person am I going to be today?” I think to myself as I sidle up to the salad bar at the local Overpriced Fresh Vegetable Emporium, my single seltzer (do I wish it was a Diet Coke? I absolutely do, but they don’t sell that poison here) and modestly sized square of wholesome dark chocolate (revolting!) rolling around my basket. Salad bars offer the opportunity to reinvent yourself in the time it takes to wolf down a bowl of damp lettuce while hunched over the important papers strewn across your desk, or during the


I dare say we took too much to drink, and I know we talked too much. we became particularly hot upon some boorish sneer of Drummle's, to the effect that we were too free with our money. It led to my remarking, with more zeal than discretion, that it came with a bad grace from him, to whom Startop had lent money in my presence but a week or so before. "Well," retorted Drummle; "he'll be paid." "I don't mean to imply that he won't," said I, "but it might make you hold your tongue about us and our money, I should think." "You should think!" retorted Drummle. "Oh Lord!" "I dare say," I went on, meaning to be very severe, "that you wouldn't lend money to any of us, if we wanted it." "You are right," said Drummle. "I wouldn't lend one of you a sixpence. I wouldn't lend anybody a sixpence." "Rather mean to borrow under those circumstances, I should say." "You should say," repeated Drummle. "Oh Lord!" This was so very aggravating - the more especially as I found myself making no way against his surly obtuseness - that I said, disregarding Herbert's efforts to check me: "Come, Mr. Drummle, since we are on the subject, I'll tell you what passed between Herbert here and me, when you borrowed that money." "I don't want to know what passed between Herbert there and you," growled Drummle. And I think he added in a lower growl, that we might both go to the devil and shake ourselves. "I'll tell you, however," said I, "whether you want to know or not. We said that as you put it in your pocket very glad to get it, you seemed to be immensely amused at his being so weak as to lend it." Drummle laughed outright, and sat laughing in our faces, with his hands in his pockets and his round shoulders raised: plainly signifying that it was quite true, and that he despised us, as asses all. Hereupon Startop took him in hand, though with a much better grace than I had shown, and exhorted him to be a little more agreeable. Startop, being a lively bright young fellow, and Drummle being the exact opposite, the latter was always disposed to resent him as a direct personal affront. He now retorted in a coarse lumpish way, and Startop tried to turn the discussion aside with some small pleasantry that made us all laugh. Resenting this little success more than anything, Drummle, without any threat or warning, pulled his hands out of his pockets, dropped his round shoulders, swore, took up a large glass, and would have flung it at his adversary's head, but for our entertainer's dexterously seizing it at the instant when it was raised for that purpose. "Gentlemen," said Mr. Jaggers, deliberately putting down the glass, and hauling out his gold repeater by its massive chain, "I am exceedingly sorry to announce that it's half-past nine." On this hint we all rose to depart. Before we got to the street door,


bedtime having come and gone, I had, before my final retirement, a small interval alone. Much as I liked my companions, this hour was the thing in the day I liked most; and I liked it best of all when, as the light faded--or rather, I should say, the day lingered and the last calls of the last birds sounded, in a flushed sky, from the old trees-- I could take a turn into the grounds and enjoy, almost with a sense of property that amused and flattered me, the beauty and dignity of the place. It was a pleasure at these moments to feel myself tranquil and justified; doubtless, perhaps, also to reflect that by my discretion, my quiet good sense and general high propriety, I was giving pleasure-- if he ever thought of it!--to the person to whose pressure I had responded. What I was doing was what he had earnestly hoped and directly asked of me, and that I COULD, after all, do it proved even a greater joy than I had expected. I daresay I fancied myself, in short, a remarkable young woman and took comfort in the faith that this would more publicly appear. Well, I needed to be remarkable to offer a front to the remarkable things that presently gave their first sign. It was plump, one afternoon, in the middle of my very hour: the children were tucked away, and I had come out for my stroll. One of the thoughts that, as I don't in the least shrink now from noting, used to be with me in these wanderings was that it would be as charming as a charming story suddenly to meet someone. Someone would appear there at the turn of a path and would stand before me and smile and approve. I didn't ask more than that-- I only asked that he should KNOW; and the only way to be sure he knew would be to see it, and the kind light of it, in his handsome face. That was exactly present to me--by which I mean the face was-- when, on the first of these occasions, at the end of a long June day, I stopped short on emerging from one of the plantations and coming into view of the house. What arrested me on the spot-- and with a shock much greater than any vision had allowed for-- was the sense that my imagination had, in a flash, turned real. He did stand there!--but high up, beyond the lawn and at the very top of the tower to which, on that first morning, little Flora had conducted me. This tower was one of a pair--square, incongruous, crenelated structures-- that were distinguished, for some reason, though I could see little difference, as the new and the old. They flanked opposite ends of the house and were probably architectural absurdities, redeemed in a measure indeed by not being wholly disengaged nor of a height too pretentious, dating, in their gingerbread antiquity, from a romantic revival that was already a respectable past. I


this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to her, cried in a half whisper, ``I am glad you are come, for there is such fun here! -- What do you think has happened this morning? -- Mr. Collins has made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him.'' Charlotte had hardly time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty, who came to tell the same news, and no sooner had they entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her family. ``Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,'' she added in a melancholy tone, ``for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me, I am cruelly used, nobody feels for my poor nerves.'' Charlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth. ``Aye, there she comes,'' continued Mrs. Bennet, ``looking as unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided she can have her own way. -- But I tell you what, Miss Lizzy, if you take it into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way, you will never get a husband at all -- and I am sure I do not know who is to maintain you when your father is dead. -- _I_ shall not be able to keep you -- and so I warn you. -- I have done with you from this very day. -- I told you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you again, and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking to undutiful children, -- Not that I have much pleasure indeed in talking to any body. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! -- But it is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied.'' Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that any attempt to reason with or sooth her would only increase the irritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of them till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered with an air more stately than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to the girls, ``Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and let Mr. Collins and me have a little conversation together.'' Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte, detained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after herself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little curiosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending not to hear. In a


more intelligent than man - for precisely the same reasons. Curiously enough, the dolphins had long known of the impending destruction of the planet Earth and had made many attempts to alert mankind of the danger; but most of their communications were misinterpreted as amusing attempts to punch footballs or whistle for tidbits, so they eventually gave up and left the Earth by their own means shortly before the Vogons arrived. The last ever dolphin message was misinterpreted as a surprisingly sophisticated attempt to do a double-backwards- somersault through a hoop whilst whistling the "Star Sprangled Banner", but in fact the message was this: So long and thanks for all the fish. In fact there was only one species on the planet more intelligent than dolphins, and they spent a lot of their time in behavioural research laboratories running round inside wheels and conducting frighteningly elegant and subtle experiments on man. The fact that once again man completely misinterpreted this relationship was entirely according to these creatures' plans. ================================================================= Chapter 24 Silently the aircar coasted through the cold darkness, a single soft glow of light that was utterly alone in the deep Magrathean night. It sped swiftly. Arthur's companion seemed sunk in his own thoughts, and when Arthur tried on a couple of occasions to engage him in conversation again he would simply reply by asking if he was comfortable enough, and then left it at that. Arthur tried to gauge the speed at which they were travelling, but the blackness outside was absolute and he was denied any reference points. The sense of motion was so soft and slight he could almost believe they were hardly moving at all. Then a tiny glow of light appeared in the far distance and within seconds had grown so much in size that Arthur realized it was travelling towards them at a colossal speed, and he tried to make out what sort of craft it might be. He peered at it, but was unable to discern any clear shape, and suddenly gasped in alarm as the aircraft dipped sharply and headed downwards in what seemed certain to be a collision course. Their relative velocity seemed unbelievable, and Arthur had hardly time to draw breath before it was all over. The next thing he was aware of was an insane silver blur that seemed to surround him. He twisted his head sharply round and saw a small black point dwindling rapidly in the distance behind them, and it took him several seconds to realize what had happened. They had plunged into a tunnel in the ground. The colossal speed had been their own relative to the glow of light which was a stationary hole in the ground, the mouth of the tunnel. The insane blur of silver was the circular wall of the tunnel down which they were shooting, apparently at several hundred miles an hour. He closed his eyes in terror. After a length of time which he made no attempt to judge, he sensed a slight subsidence in their speed and some while


coats. I suddenly became very aware of my own thoughts – this constant stream of ridicule. As Martha pointed out, wasn’t I the one who had walked straight into the bookshop on my first night here? Yet I had immediately dismissed it as some kind of drunken mirage. My mind wouldn’t let me believe. Martha suffered no such resistance and I decided that if I could not necessarily believe, I could at least believe in her. ‘The soul of the night turned upside down.’ ‘Sorry?’ ‘That line from the book. It said that you have to trust you will end up exactly where you’re meant to be.’ ‘I feel like I already have,’ I said, but I wasn’t sure if she heard me. No sooner had I spoken the words than I saw a literal light at the end of the tunnel. My heart began to race. Chapter Fifty-Five OPALINE Dublin, 1952 ‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all – I let Emily Dickinson’s poetry book fall on to my lap and spied the stained-glass windows of the shop, the colours of which now painted the image of a bird and an open cage. I made a kind of pact with the universe that if I kept the door to my heart open, one day my little girl would walk through it. In the meantime, I found an occupation that created the illusion of doing something to bring that day ever closer. I began writing a book. A children’s book. A Place Called Lost. I knew there was a strange kind of magic in these walls. Maybe not the kind you’d find in travelling shows or under the big top, but something far subtler than that. I began to switch off the lights, lingering over the task. I had an undefinable sense that something, or someone, was close. Someone I knew. Someone I loved. But I couldn’t trust it. Wouldn’t. Even when I heard the knock on the glass door, I didn’t turn to look. Couldn’t face the disappointment of being wrong. I placed my hands on the desk and let my weight lean against it, squeezing my eyes shut. My heart was disobeying my mind and without consciously making the decision, I turned around. He was there. Josef. The snow falling gently on his head and shoulders. A sigh of relief escaped my lips and I could have sworn the books on the shelves sighed too. The bookshop had let him in when I had first escaped St Agnes’s and needed him the most. Now he had returned, everything felt hopeful again. He stepped closer to the window and I followed. We were separated only by the thinnest pane of glass. My eyes searched his eyes, his lips, his entire frame. Was he real? ‘Are you going to let me in?’ he asked, a lopsided smile on his face. ‘It’s a little cold.’ I burst out laughing and it sounded like


when he lay down, and dreaming with him and beyond him and becoming themselves the stuff of his dreams. So peremptorily did these shades beckon him, that each day mankind and the claims of mankind slipped farther from him. Deep in the forest a call was sounding, and as often as he heard this call, mysteriously thrilling and luring, he felt compelled to turn his back upon the fire and the beaten earth around it, and to plunge into the forest, and on and on, he knew not where or why; nor did he wonder where or why, the call sounding imperiously, deep in the forest. But as often as he gained the soft unbroken earth and the green shade, the love for John Thornton drew him back to the fire again. Thornton alone held him. The rest of mankind was as nothing. Chance travellers might praise or pet him; but he was cold under it all, and from a too demonstrative man he would get up and walk away. When Thornton's partners, Hans and Pete, arrived on the long-expected raft, Buck refused to notice them till he learned they were close to Thornton; after that he tolerated them in a passive sort of way, accepting favors from them as though he favored them by accepting. They were of the same large type as Thornton, living close to the earth, thinking simply and seeing clearly; and ere they swung the raft into the big eddy by the saw- mill at Dawson, they understood Buck and his ways, and did not insist upon an intimacy such as obtained with Skeet and Nig. For Thornton, however, his love seemed to grow and grow. He, alone among men, could put a pack upon Buck's back in the summer travelling. Nothing was too great for Buck to do, when Thornton commanded. One day (they had grub-staked themselves from the proceeds of the raft and left Dawson for the head-waters of the Tanana) the men and dogs were sitting on the crest of a cliff which fell away, straight down, to naked bed-rock three hundred feet below. John Thornton was sitting near the edge, Buck at his shoulder. A thoughtless whim seized Thornton, and he drew the attention of Hans and Pete to the experiment he had in mind. "Jump, Buck!" he commanded, sweeping his arm out and over the chasm. The next instant he was grappling with Buck on the extreme edge, while Hans and Pete were dragging them back into safety. "It's uncanny," Pete said, after it was over and they had caught their speech. Thornton shook his head. "No, it is splendid, and it is terrible, too. Do you know, it sometimes makes me afraid." "I'm not hankering to be the man that lays hands on you while he's around," Pete announced conclusively, nodding his head toward Buck. "Py Jingo!" was Hans's contribution. "Not mineself either." It was at Circle City, ere the year was out, that Pete's apprehensions were realized. "Black" Burton, a man evil-tempered and malicious, had been picking a quarrel with


ever watched. She must have had a warm heart, when she Ioved her father so, to give so much to me. I said her days were divided between us; but the master retired early, and I generally needed nothing after six o'clock; thus the evening was her own. Poor thing! I never considered what she did with herself after tea. And though fre- quently, when she looked in to bid me good-night, I remarked a fresh colour in her cheeks and a pinkness over her slender fingers, instead of fancying the hue borrowed from a cold ride across the moors, I laid it to the charge of a hot fire in the library. CHAPTER XXIV. At the close of three weeks I was able to quit my chamber and move about the house; and on the first occasion of my sitting up in the evening I asked Catherine to read to me, because my eyes were weak. We were in the library, the master having gone to bed. She consented, rather unwillingly, I fancied; and imag- ining my sort of books did not suit her, I bade her please herself in the choice of what she perused. She selected one of her own favourites, and got forward steadily about an hour; then came frequent questions. "Ellen, are not you tired? Hadn't you better lie down now? You'll be sick keeping up so long, Ellen." "No, no, dear; I'm not tired," I returned continually. Perceiving me immovable, she essayed another method of showing her disrelish for her occupation. It changed to yawning and stretching, and--- "Ellen, I'm tired." "Give over, then, and talk," I answered. That was worse. She fretted and sighed, and looked at her watch till eight, and finally went to her room, com- pletely overdone with sleep, judging by her peevish, heavy look, and the constant rubbing she inflicted on her eyes. The following night she seemed more impa- tient still, and on the third from recovering my com- pany she complained of a headache and left me. I thought her conduct odd; and having remained alone a long while, I resolved on going and inquiring whether she were better, and asking her to come and lie on the sofa, instead of upstairs in the dark. No Catherine could I discover upstairs, and none below. The servants af- firmed they had not seen her. I listened at Mr. Edgar's door; all was silence. I returned to her apartment, ex- tinguished my candle, and seated myself in the window. The moon shone bright; a sprinkling of snow cov- ered the ground, and I reflected that she might possibly have taken it into her head to walk about the garden for refreshment. I did detect a figure creeping along the inner fence of the park, but it was not my young mistress. On its merging into the light I recognized one of the grooms. He stood a considerable period, viewing the carriage-road through the grounds, then started off at a brisk pace, as if he had detected something, and re- appeared presently


charming and then utterly winning as the boy in love. And there I am, blushing and confused, made beautiful by Cinna’s hands, desirable by Peeta’s confession, tragic by circumstance, and by all accounts, unforgettable. 136 When the anthem finishes and the screen goes dark, a hush falls on the room. Tomorrow at dawn, we will be roused and prepared for the arena. The actual Games don’t start until ten because so many of the Capitol residents rise late. But Peeta and I must make an early start. There is no telling how far we will travel to the arena that has been prepared for this year’s Games. I know Haymitch and Effie will not be going with us. As soon as they leave here, they’ll be at the Games Headquarters, hopefully madly signing up our sponsors, working out a strat- egy on how and when to deliver the gifts to us. Cinna and Por- tia will travel with us to the very spot from which we will be launched into the arena. Still final good-byes must be said here. Effie takes both of us by the hand and, with actual tears in her eyes, wishes us well. Thanks us for being the best tributes it has ever been her privilege to sponsor. And then, because it’s Effie and she’s apparently required by law to say some- thing awful, she adds “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I finally get promoted to a decent district next year!” Then she kisses us each on the cheek and hurries out, over- come with either the emotional parting or the possible im- provement of her fortunes. Haymitch crosses his arms and looks us both over. “Any final words of advice?” asks Peeta. “When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there. You’re neither of you up to the blood bath at the Cornucopia. Just 137 clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water,” he says. “Got it?” “And after that?” I ask. “Stay alive,” says Haymitch. It’s the same advice he gave us on the train, but he’s not drunk and laughing this time. And we only nod. What else is there to say? When I head to my room, Peeta lingers to talk to Portia. I’m glad. Whatever strange words of parting we exchange can wait until tomorrow. My covers are drawn back, but there is no sign of the redheaded Avox girl. I wish I knew her name. I should have asked it. She could write it down maybe. Or act it out. But perhaps that would only result in punishment for her. I take a shower and scrub the gold paint, the makeup, the scent of beauty from my body. All that remains of the design- team’s efforts are the flames on my nails. I decide to keep them as reminder of who I am to the audience. Katniss, the girl who was on fire. Perhaps it will give me something to hold on to in the days to