barest of seconds, Natalie leaned her face into his palm and sighed, before shaking her head and stepping back. “Do you think we can avoid fighting for half an hour while we figure out how to put the ‘civil’ in civil ceremony? Because Corinne has been busy—” “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, following her with a wink. “But I’m leaving my shirt off. You’re welcome.” “My God.” She waved her hand frantically. “The stench of you.” “Hard work comes with a price. You’d know that if you ever tried it.” “You mean, like, digging a hole big enough for your grave? Because I’d be willing to try that.” “Bury me with a six-pack of—” August halted mid-stride on his way out of the barn, cold washing down his insides and hardening into ice. Simultaneously, his eyes started to burn and his body snapped to attention, hand whipping to his forehead in a salute. It wasn’t necessary. Not in this setting. He wasn’t even in uniform. But muscle memory performed the action at the sight of his commanding officer walking toward him across the lawn. “Sir.” “At ease, Cates.” His arm dropped. He forced himself to look the man in the eye, even though a hole was being torn straight down his middle. “I didn’t know you were coming.” The barest flash of amusement. “You know I like to have the element of surprise on my side.” August forced a laugh but it came out rusted. Nearly three years had passed since the last time he’d seen his commanding officer, and it had been under the worst circumstances possible. The funeral of his son and August’s best friend, Sam. Though looking Commander Zelnick in the eye was extremely difficult, August didn’t allow his gaze to falter as the man tread closer, his attention drifting out over the vineyard with open curiosity. August became acutely aware of Natalie behind him. Having her present for this reunion was the equivalent of making an incision from throat to belly and letting her see everything on the inside. Totally exposed, utterly vulnerable, nowhere to hide. He turned slightly, meeting Natalie’s interested gaze and holding out his hand to her. He wasn’t sure why. Only that it seemed natural to reassure her that the unexpected appearance of a stranger wasn’t a threat of any kind. Or maybe he needed to feel the warmth of her against his suddenly clammy palm. She didn’t hesitate for a single second before taking his hand and squeezing it. Skirmish forgotten. Interesting how they could flip that switch so quickly. What did that mean? “So this is the place you’ve built for my son.” Commander Zelnick stopped, clasped his hands behind his back. His tone was brisk as ever, but warmth seeped through. “Had a week off and finally decided to come see it for myself.” Christ. He’d almost left it behind two days earlier. Out of necessity, sure, but this man would have arrived and found an abandoned vineyard. If it weren’t for Natalie. He pulled her closer without thinking. “Yes. For Sam.


off from the neighbors by overgrown bamboo. It looked toxic. “They weren’t really yard people,” Louise said apologetically as Mercy walked past her, headed for the hall. “Mark was going to build them a deck once, but he quit before he even started.” “That was Aunt Honey,” Mercy said from the hall. “She told your mom she couldn’t stand anyone changing her sister’s old house and you know how your mom always listened to her. She did y’all a favor, too. That big empty backyard is going to light up some eyes.” Louise followed Mercy into the hall and caught a glimpse of the boardedup attic hatch. She tried to distract Mercy from looking up. “So what steps do we need to take?” she asked. “In your opinion.” Louise knew Mercy loved giving her opinion. “We need to focus on making this house the best house it can be,” Mercy said, peering into Mark’s old bedroom and taking another flash picture. “We need to brighten this space. Allow it to breathe, make it appeal to the senses.” Mercy opened the workroom door. The puppets kept it from opening more than a crack. “There’s a ton of puppets in there,” Louise apologized again. “They have to go,” Mercy said. “You guys grew up around them, so you think they’re normal, but puppets creep people out even more than dolls.” “We’re getting them out today,” Louise promised, following Mercy down the hall. Something directly overhead thumped lightly on the floor once, purposeful and deliberate. Louise’s shoulders twitched and she stopped, waiting to see if it would happen again. “There’s a lot to do here,” Mercy said, “but I see high six digits if we do this right.” maybe something just fell over Louise started down the hall after Mercy, and over her head in the attic whatever it was thumped again, then again, then again, one time for every step she took, staying right over her head, following her down the hall, and she recognized the sound—footsteps. Something in the attic was pacing her. Something small. “People used to move in and renovate,” Mercy continued as Louise stopped walking. Horribly, the tiny footsteps stopped, too. “But these days everyone wants to move into a big white box with marble on the countertops and stainless steel in the kitchen and they’ll pay through the nose. I’ve seen little doo-doo places not even in this neighborhood cover everything with Benjamin Moore off-white, do a gut renovation, and go for almost seven figures.” Louise had to start walking again or it would look weird. She started and the footsteps followed her to join Mercy, who was squatting in front of the wall. “Why is this vent open?” she asked, examining the hole in the wall. “Is there an HVAC problem?” “So stupid,” Louise said, and the silence overhead was worse than the footsteps. “I knocked it off, but we’ll get it replaced. The heating and air work great, though.” “The fluff is the fluff,” Mercy said, standing, her knees cracking. “But motivated buyers want to know the


moment Montserrat thought to refuse her request, but she didn’t think it mattered. The letter, by itself, held no special magic. Neither did Ewers’s book. She knew this instinctively. Montserrat slid the letter across the table. Clarimonde picked it up carefully, smoothing its creases with her ringed fingers. “Where did you find this?” “He hid it in a book.” “Clever boy. He was ever so clever.” Tristán wet his lips and leaned forward. “Listen, you’re telling us we put things in motion. How do we end that motion? How do we go back to the way it was? Because Abel is dead and things are getting weird around us.” “I would not have killed Abel. I made a deal with him. That is Alma’s doing.” “Why would she kill the guy?” “Wilhelm was murdered thirty-two years ago, but Alma still fears him. Now, as to the ‘weirdness’ you’ve experienced, I cannot say exactly what you’ve seen, but Wilhelm loved setting snares and curses. When he didn’t get his way, things could become complicated.” “When his film wasn’t finished everyone had a bout of bad luck,” Montserrat said. “And now that we dubbed that reel he’s not satisfied with that.” “Of course not. The spell needs to be finished. See? I told you that you had all the answers already.” “Except how we set things back the way they were,” Tristán said. “How do we undo this snare?” “There’s only one solution: by finishing what Wilhelm started. Finishing the spell. You must have the silver nitrate print.” “Alma says we should burn anything that belonged to Wilhelm.” “Of course she would say that. The murderous bitch,” Clarimonde said in a slow voice. Each word was the stab of a knife. “You think Alma killed Abel,” Montserrat said. “It’s nothing I could prove, and yet it is the obvious answer.” “You didn’t think to kill her yourself in all these years?” Clarimonde smirked. “Let’s say she’s been off limits.” “What happens if we finish what Ewers started, if we finish the spell?” Tristán asked. But, oh, even before he asked the question Montserrat already knew. It was like Clarimonde had told them: she had the answers. It was in the pages of that book she read, in Ewers’s letter, which now rested on Clarimonde’s lap. She’d been circling around the inevitable answer. “He comes back,” Montserrat said, her words low. Clarimonde looked pleased, like a teacher who is about to award a prized pupil a gold star. She grabbed her sketchbook and her charcoal, turned the page, and began delicately tracing the outline of an apple. “Despite the problems in ’87, I still have certain resources, even if that building is no longer in use. It’s quite a lovely space; we used to meet there, once upon a time. The others remain around the city, at least a fair number of them, and there have been a few new converts. We still meet to share in Wilhelm’s wisdom. The congregation is eager to greet him.” Montserrat saw the look Tristán shot her. He wanted


coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again. -- But their father, though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really glad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The evening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of its animation, and almost all its sense, by the absence of Jane and Elizabeth. They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough bass and human nature; and had some new extracts to admire, and some new observations of thread-bare morality to listen to. Catherine and Lydia had information for them of a different sort. Much had been done and much had been said in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been flogged, and it had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married. __ CHAPTER XIII (13) ``I HOPE my dear,'' said Mr. Bennet to his wife as they were at breakfast the next morning, ``that you have ordered a good dinner to-day, because I have reason to expect an addition to our family party.'' ``Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure, unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in, and I hope _my_ dinners are good enough for her. I do not believe she often sees such at home.'' ``The person of whom I speak, is a gentleman and a stranger.'' Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled. -- ``A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr. Bingley, I am sure. Why Jane -- you never dropt a word of this; you sly thing! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr. Bingley. -- But -- good lord! how unlucky! there is not a bit of fish to be got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell. I must speak to Hill, this moment.'' ``It is _not_ Mr. Bingley,'' said her husband; ``it is a person whom I never saw in the whole course of my life.'' This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being eagerly questioned by his wife and five daughters at once. After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained. ``About a month ago I received this letter, and about a fortnight ago I answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases.'' ``Oh! my dear,'' cried his wife, ``I cannot bear to hear that mentioned. Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing in the world that your estate should be entailed away from your own children; and I am sure if I had been you, I should have tried long ago to do something or other about it.'' Jane and Elizabeth attempted


we went inside. He didn’t try to flee, just kept repeating that he shot his wife. We found her in the master bedroom with what looks like a close-range shotgun wound to the back of her head.” She glances back at the house. “It’s not pretty.” Ethan eyes the man inside the car, who begins to sob. “Did he say what happened?” Officer Blair nods. “Says she was cheating on him. He said he caught her on the phone with her boyfriend before getting his shotgun from the garage and going back to their room and shooting her in the head.” Sloane’s bathroom phone call with Brody is glued to the forefront of his mind when Ethan spots Jonah’s Ford Fusion pull up to the curb. The officer continues. “I ran this address, and there’s no record of SPD responses or domestic violence history. But the neighbors said they’ve heard them screaming at each other before.” Ethan’s phone pings as Jonah steps onto the sidewalk. Ethan checks the screen and sees Sloane has replied. I’m fine. But he’s only slightly relieved as he types a quick response. Where are you? He waits several seconds for her to respond, before sliding his phone into his suit jacket pocket. She has to be with Brody Carr. What the hell were they doing together? Although part of him doesn’t want to know. Ethan assesses the husband in the back of the patrol car. The man’s sobbing has ceased, and he leans his head against the window in silence. He needs to talk to Sloane. Tell her he’s sorry and make her forget about that guy. Before it’s too late. He forces the last thought from his mind and pulls a pair of latex gloves from his pocket as Jonah approaches. “Thanks,” Ethan says to the officer. “We’ll go check out the crime scene inside and be back to take him downtown.” Chapter 16 Sloane sips from her third glass of champagne as she reclines against Brody’s chest, nestled between his legs in his oversized clawfoot tub. In the master bath, they’re surrounded by windows on three sides, and the impending nightfall casts shadows on the evergreen forest just beyond them. The bathroom lights put them on full display to the outside, but they are only at risk of being seen by the deer feeding along the tree line. Brody wraps his arm around Sloane’s waist. “When I bought this place, I always imagined I’d bring my children here one day.” After making love on the boat—twice—they spent the afternoon cruising around several of the San Juan Islands. While she knew she’d have to sleep with Brody, she hadn’t expected to enjoy it as much as she had. And for Brody to be so…likeable. Different than what she expected. Aside from her near drowning, it had been a perfect day. Sloane feels his chest move beneath her head as he sighs. “But Chelsea never wanted them. She hates kids.” Resting her thigh against Brody’s, Sloane recounts the look of Evelyn’s beaming face when she broke the


the empty sidewalk outside Jed’s, the last remnants of the earlier sunset giving the air a purplish glow. Or maybe he really was just having a mental break. Could air taste purple? “But I was kind of counting on winning.” “What happened?” Natalie asked. “I’m not very good at feeling helpless. That’s how I felt hearing that story.” He looked her over, head to toe, barely resisting the urge to reach out and run his hands all over her skin. “You’re okay? You didn’t get burned anywhere?” Her mouth opened and closed, her stance shifting side to side. “No. It was really scary, but beyond the fact that I triple-check my smoke detectors now, I’m fine.” “Good.” A beat passed. “How can you doubt your brother loves you when he ran into a burning shed to save you?” August said it without thinking, raking a still unsteady hand down his face. God, he really needed to thank Julian for what he’d done. He would. Soon as he got back inside. In fact, he was going to ask him to be his best man. “It’s . . . his nature. He always does the right thing.” Natalie’s cheeks were deepening with color. “It gave him a terrible panic attack afterward. He’s had this anxiety since we were kids and I made it worse because I wasn’t paying attention.” “Yeah, Natalie. So inconsiderate of you. Next time, try to predict the fire.” “Wow. Nice. Using logic to make me feel better. That’s low.” Her lips twitched slightly to let him know she was joking and his fucking heart just sort of wrapped itself in a bow for her. “I spent a lot of time thinking he blamed me for his episode after the fire. But he . . . doesn’t. He told me he doesn’t. We’re a lot better now that we’ve spent some time together.” “But?” Her chin lifted. “How do you know there’s a but?” “Nat-tuition.” Lips twitching, she sized him up for a couple of seconds. “We all go it alone in this family. But they . . . were all ready to go it alone long before I was. Now Julian and my mother are getting closer and I’m the independent one. I’m kind of like, hey, remember everyone telling me to get my shit together and go stand on my own two feet? Well, I did. And no one . . . cared or noticed. Now I’m supposed to make this big effort to reconnect? No. I found what I was looking for somewhere else. For a while. And I just want to get it back.” “In New York.” “Yes, hence our impending nuptials.” She seemed jumpy. “Can we go back inside now?” “No.” He took a step in her direction and tilted his head, seeing her through fresh eyes. Still as tough as ever, but wounded. Patch it up. That’s what he wanted to do, but he had no idea how. “They should have noticed. You should always be noticed.” That caught her off guard and she fumbled


He's rapidly re- gaining flesh since he lost his better half." "Who is it, then, Mr. Kenneth?" I repeated impa- tiently. "Hindley Earnshaw--your old friend Hindley," he replied, "and my wicked gossip, though he's been too wild for me this long while. There! I said we should draw water. But cheer up. He died true to his character --drunk as a lord. Poor lad! I'm sorry, too. One can't help missing an old companion, though he had the worst tricks with him that ever man imagined, and has done me many a rascally turn. He's barely twenty-seven, it seems; that's your own age. Who would have thought you were born in one year?" I confess this blow was greater to me than the shock of Mrs. Linton's death. Ancient associations lingered round my heart. I sat down in the porch and wept as for a blood relation, desiring Mr. Kenneth to get an- other servant to introduce him to the master. I could not hinder myself from pondering on the question, "Had he had fair play?" Whatever I did, that idea would bother me. It was so tiresomely pertinacious that I resolved on requesting leave to go to Wuthering Heights and assist in the last duties to the dead. Mr. Linton was extremely reluctant to consent, but I pleaded eloquently for the friendless condition in which he lay, and I said my old master and fos- ter-brother had a claim on my services as strong as his own. Besides, I reminded him that the child Hare- ton was his wife's nephew, and, in the absence of nearer kin, he ought to act as its guardian; and he ought to and must inquire how the property was left, and look over the concerns of his brother-in-law. He was unfit for attending to such matters then, but he bade me speak to his lawyer, and at length permitted me to go. His lawyer had been Earnshaw's also. I called at the vil- lage, and asked him to accompany me. He shook his head, and advised that Heathcliff should be let alone, affirming, if the truth were known, Hareton would be found little else than a beggar. "His father died in debt," he said; "the whole prop- erty is mortgaged, and the sole chance for the natural heir is to allow him an opportunity of creating some interest in the creditor's heart, that he may be inclined to deal leniently towards him." When I reached the Heights, I explained that I had come to see everything carried on decently; and Joseph, who appeared in sufficient distress, expressed satisfac- tion at my presence. Mr. Heathcliff said he did not per- ceive that I was wanted; but I might stay and order the arrangements for the funeral, if I chose. "Correctly," he remarked, "that fool's body should be buried at the cross-roads, without ceremony of any kind. I happened to leave him ten minutes yesterday afternoon, and in that interval he fastened the two doors of the house against me, and he has spent the night in


with the power of a climbing bolt gun. His neck, with the vertebrae on the outside, rose to an impressionistic approximation of a human head, with startling proportions – cheeks like satellite dishes of moon-cratered bone, closer in form to a tribal war mask than a regular face. His lips were strips of pearl. His eyes were polished white billiard balls. With his mouth closed and his eyes shut, his head seemed more like a modernist ceramic statue than a living creature. Nothing exposed to the elements was flesh and fragile; everything soft was inside. Impermeable to frostbite, he could stroll through the fiercest winter storms – a body that could survive even when entirely encased in ice. His bony arms were latched to the side of his torso, stowed securely rather than hanging idle, released with the accompanying sound of distinct clicks. Rather than sinew and flesh, they were as hard as narwhal tusk. It took enormous self-control for Yotam not to step back as these arms stretched out towards him. Fully extended, the javelin-tip hands divided into digits revealing the most delicate of surgical scalpels, less like human fingers and more like precise medical instruments. With great care, for he could disembowel the blubber belly of a walrus with a flick of a finger, he delicately pressed a digit against Yotam’s jacket as though aiming for his heart. It was the first time they’d ever touched. Yotam looked down to see that the scalpel tip had punctured the synthetic outer layer so that a single goose feather came free and floated slowly to the ground. The creature’s pearl lips opened, revealing teeth arranged in dense rows, shark-sharp at the front, molars for grinding at the back with jaws operated by the strongest muscles in the animal kingdom – a variant of the muscle tissue from the jaws of alligators. A nimble tongue lurked inside creating both the most terrifying of mouths and the most eloquent of musical instruments, capable of perfectly imitating thousands of sounds from the trickle of meltwater to heart-breaking human song. It led to the most efficient digestive system in the animal kingdom, one which wasted nothing – a vulture’s stomach, excreting only insoluble nitrogenous compounds, guanine and uric acid, a toxic sticky paste that oozed out like tar and was scrubbed with much difficulty and disgust from the ice chambers by the support staff every couple of weeks. Though bred to be intelligent beyond human comprehension, his feeding habits were primal, refusing to eat anything that wasn’t alive, as if the act of killing was the obligatory first stage of any meal. To Yotam’s eye, he was beautiful. ‘Hello, Yotam.’ ‘Hello, Eitan.’ MCMURDO CITY FINAL STAGE CHAMBERS EITAN’S ENCLOSURE SAME DAY IT HAD NEVER BEEN YOTAM’S intention to name him Eitan, but he’d grown tired of using an anonymous code. Though they’d been given strict instructions to only refer to them by their genetic variant number, he’d wanted to give him a regular name to help with their interaction. He might have been forgiven this lapse


you're diggin', Peter kin be a-makin' of a map of the location so's we kin find it again. You, Tom, and Bill, take a couple more down and fetch up the chest." "Wot are you a-goin' to do?" asked he of the previous altercation. "Just boss?" "Git busy there," growled Snipes. "You didn't think your Cap'n was a-goin' to dig with a shovel, did you?" The men all looked up angrily. None of them liked Snipes, and this disagreeable show of authority since he had murdered King, the real head and ringleader of the mutineers, had only added fuel to the flames of their hatred. "Do you mean to say that you don't intend to take a shovel, and lend a hand with this work? Your shoulder's not hurt so all-fired bad as that," said Tarrant, the sailor who had before spoken. "Not by a damned sight," replied Snipes, fingering the butt of his revolver nervously. "Then, by God," replied Tarrant, "if you won't take a shovel you'll take a pickax." With the words he raised his pick above his head, and, with a mighty blow, he buried the point in Snipes' brain. For a moment the men stood silently looking at the result of their fellow's grim humor. Then one of them spoke. Chapter 17 "Served the skunk jolly well right," he said. One of the others commenced to ply his pick to the ground. The soil was soft and he threw aside the pick and grasped a shovel; then the others joined him. There was no further comment on the killing, but the men worked in a better frame of mind than they had since Snipes had assumed command. When they had a trench of ample size to bury the chest, Tarrant suggested that they enlarge it and inter Snipes' body on top of the chest. "It might 'elp fool any as 'appened to be diggin' 'ereabouts," he explained. The others saw the cunning of the suggestion, and so the trench was lengthened to accommodate the corpse, and in the center a deeper hole was excavated for the box, which was first wrapped in sailcloth and then lowered to its place, which brought its top about a foot below the bottom of the grave. Earth was shovelled in and tramped down about the chest until the bottom of the grave showed level and uniform. Two of the men rolled the rat-faced corpse unceremoniously into the grave, after first stripping it of its weapons and various other articles which the several members of the party coveted for their own. They then filled the grave with earth and tramped upon it until it would hold no more. The balance of the loose earth was thrown far and wide, and a mass of dead undergrowth spread in as natural a manner as possible over the new-made grave to obliterate all signs of the ground having been disturbed. Their work done the sailors returned to the small boat, and pulled off rapidly toward the Arrow. The breeze had increased considerably, and as the smoke


The women were dressed in white gossamer gowns and golden shoes. Their masks were white, and in their hands they carried golden orbs. The men wore long black tunics, and their masks were black. They looked like pieces in a giant chess set. Everyone in the circle rocked back and forth and chanted in reverence to something on the floor before them... something Sophie could not see. The chanting grew steady again. Accelerating. Thundering now. Faster. The participants took a step inward and knelt. In that instant, Sophie could finally see what they all were witnessing. Even as she staggered back in horror, she felt the image searing itself into her memory forever. Overtaken by nausea, Sophie spun, clutching at the stone walls as she clambered back up the stairs. Pulling the door closed, she fled the deserted house, and drove in a tearful stupor back to Paris. That night, with her life shattered by disillusionment and betrayal, she packed her belongings and left her home. On the dining room table, she left a note. 97 I WAS THERE. DON'T TRY TO FIND ME. Beside the note, she laid the old spare key from the chteau's woodshed. "Sophie! Langdon's voice intruded. "Stop! Stop!" Emerging from the memory, Sophie slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt. "What? What happened?!" Langdon pointed down the long street before them. When she saw it, Sophie's blood went cold. A hundred yards ahead, the intersection was blocked by a couple of DCPJ police cars, parked askew, their purpose obvious. They've sealed off Avenue Gabriel! Langdon gave a grim sigh. "I take it the embassy is off-limits this evening?" Down the street, the two DCPJ officers who stood beside their cars were now staring in their direction, apparently curious about the headlights that had halted so abruptly up the street from them. Okay, Sophie, turn around very slowly. Putting the SmartCar in reverse, she performed a composed three-point turn and reversed her direction. As she drove away, she heard the sound of squealing tires behind them. Sirens blared to life. Cursing, Sophie slammed down the accelerator. 98 CHAPTER 33 Sophie's SmartCar tore through the diplomatic quarter, weaving past embassies and consulates, finally racing out a side street and taking a right turn back onto the massive thoroughfare of Champs-Elyses. Langdon sat white-knuckled in the passenger seat, twisted backward, scanning behind them for any signs of the police. He suddenly wished he had not decided to run. You didn't, he reminded himself. Sophie had made the decision for him when she threw the GPS dot out the bathroom window. Now, as they sped away from the embassy, serpentining through sparse traffic on Champs-Elyses, Langdon felt his options deteriorating. Although Sophie seemed to have lost the police, at least for the moment, Langdon doubted their luck would hold for long. Behind the wheel Sophie was fishing in her sweater pocket. She removed a small metal object and held it out for him. "Robert, you'd better have a look at this. This is what my grandfather left me behind Madonna


room. Seeing her at the desk, now in full typewriting mode, makes me break one of the cardinal rules of a Gurlain Home Health Aides employee—no swearing at patients. “What the fuck was that about?” Lenora, exuding the patience of a saint, nods for me to join her. She then types two words. im sorry “You should be. You made me look like a complete liar in front of the detective.” i had to “Why?” it must be a secret “You knowing how to type needs to be a secret?” I say. “From whom?” everyone It would have been nice to know that before I invited Detective Vick up to her room. Now that I do know—and now that I’ve completely blown my chance of him ever believing me about anything—I feel compelled to ask the same questions I think he would have posed. “Did Mary tell you she was leaving?” Lenora taps once on the keyboard. “The last time you saw her, how did she act?” Lenora starts typing, stops to give it some thought, starts over. The result is a strange beast of a word. weirnervous I study the word, which is a pretty accurate summation of my own current state. “Which is it? Weird or nervous?” both, Lenora types. “Had she been acting this way for a while?” Lenora taps the keyboard twice. Yes. “Did Mary ever mention hearing strange noises at night?” She gives the keyboard two more taps. Another yes. I’m hit with a memory of what Jessie told me my first night here. I think she was scared. Hope’s End isn’t a normal house. There’s a darkness here. I can feel it. Mary did. Even though Jessie assured me it was a joke, I’m now starting to think it wasn’t. Not entirely. “Do you know if she ever found out what they were?” I say. Rather than tap, Lenora types out her answer. no “And that’s what made her weird and nervous?” Lenora bangs out two more words. and scared My heart hiccups in my chest. So it is true. Maybe Jessie knew because Mary told her or maybe she just subconsciously suspected something was amiss. Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that something at Hope’s End frightened Mary Milton. “What was she scared of, Lenora?” I watch Lenora’s hand slide over the keyboard in a way similar to the planchette on Jessie’s Ouija board. Eight keys and one press of the space bar later, I see the answer I’d been expecting all along. my sister My sister knew I was in love. Sisters can tell such things. Even ones who never get along, which certainly was the case for the two of us. “Who is it?” she asked on one of those rare occasions we found ourselves in the same room at the same time. Usually we managed to steer clear of each other. But that night we both chose to occupy ourselves in the library. “I have no idea who you’re referring to,” I replied as I sat by the fireplace, reading one


a handle on how far you’ll overreact.” He’s silent for a moment. “Fucking Flynn,” he mutters to himself. “He said I should continue to behave the way I’ve always behaved with you.” “Did he now?” Christian says dryly. Okay. Here goes nothing. “Christian, I know you loved your mom, and you couldn’t save her. It wasn’t your job to do that. But I’m not her.” He freezes again. “Don’t,” he whispers. “No, listen. Please.” I raise my head to stare into gray eyes that are paralyzed with fear. He’s holding his breath. Oh, Christian . . . My heart constricts. “I’m not her. I’m much stronger than she was. I have you, and you’re so much stronger now, and I know you love me. I love you, too,” I whisper. His brow creases as if my words were not what he expected. “Do you still love me?” he asks. “Of course I do. Christian, I will always love you. No matter what you do to me.” Is this the reassurance he wants? He exhales and closes his eyes, placing his arm over his face again, but hug- ging me closer, too. “Don’t hide from me.” Reaching up, I grasp his hand and pull his arm away from his face. “You’ve spent your life hiding. Please don’t, not from me.” He looks at me with incredulity and frowns. “Hiding?” “Yes.” He shifts suddenly, rolling over onto his side and moving me so that I am ly- ing beside him on the bed. He reaches up, smoothes my hair off my face and tucks it behind my ear. 248/551 “You asked me earlier today if I hated you. I didn’t understand why, and now—” He stops, staring down at me as if I’m a complete conundrum. “You still think I hate you?” Now my voice is incredulous. “No.” He shakes his head. “Not now.” He looks relieved. “But I need to know . . . why did you safe word, Ana?” I blanch. What can I tell him? That he frightened me. That I didn’t know if he’d stop. That I begged him—and he didn’t stop. That I didn’t want things to es- calate . . . like—like that one time in here. I shudder as I recall him whipping me with his belt. I swallow. “Because . . . because you were so angry and distant and . . . cold. I didn’t know how far you’d go.” His expression is unreadable. “Were you going to let me come?” My voice is barely a whisper, and I feel a blush steal over my cheeks, but I hold his gaze. “No,” he says eventually. Holy crap. “That’s . . . harsh.” His knuckle gently grazes my cheek. “But effective,” he murmurs. He gazes down at me as if he’s trying to see into my soul, his eyes darkening. After an eternity, he murmurs, “I’m glad you did.” “Really?” I don’t understand. His lips twist in a sad smile. “Yes. I don’t want to hurt you. I got carried away.” He reaches down and kisses


droops like a wet rag on a hook. It sways when she turns to glare at me. “Who are you?” “My name’s Kit.” The time for lying ended in the hallway. Now I have no choice but to tell her the truth. “I work for Lenora Hope.” “Are you her nurse?” “Something like that, yes.” Berniece turns back to the small TV sitting opposite the bed. Wheel of Fortune is on. My mother loved that show. “How’s Lenora doing?” she says. “Fine, all things considered.” She huffs with disappointment. “That’s a damn shame.” “Would it make you happy to know her whole body’s paralyzed except for her left hand?” Berniece Mayhew looks my way again, delight dancing in her eyes. “Is she suffering?” “I don’t think so,” I say. “I’d be happier if she was.” A wooden chair sits just inside the door. I drop onto it and place my medical bag on the floor. “That’s an interesting thing to say about the woman whose generosity keeps you here.” “Is that what you think it is?” Berniece says bitterly. “Generosity?” “The only other thing I can think of is hush money. My best guess is it’s so you wouldn’t tell anyone Lenora Hope was having an affair with your husband. Or is it because you saw something you weren’t supposed to see the night most of the Hope family was murdered?” Berniece Mayhew gives me a squinty-eyed look, as if seeing me for the very first time. “You’re a shrewd one, I’ll give you that. Bold, too. Just waltzing in here and saying something like that.” “It’s true, isn’t it?” “I didn’t say it wasn’t,” Berniece snaps. “Which one do you want to tell me about first?” “I’ve stayed silent since 1929. What makes you think I’m going to start blabbing now?” “Because someone else is dead.” Berniece’s eyes narrow. “Who?” “Lenora’s previous nurse,” I say. “A worker. Just like me. Just like you. I think she was murdered. And I think it has something to do with what happened that night in 1929.” I pause, waiting to see what kind of response I get. My hope is that the mention of Mary will play to her sympathies. If she has any. I’m about to see if Berniece Mayhew is as nasty as Lenora says she is. The old woman turns back to the television, where Vanna White, pert and perky in a sparkly dress, turns letters. But Berniece doesn’t seem to be looking at the TV at all. Her gaze is fixed somewhere else, somewhere distant. A moment in the past only she can see. “Ricardo wasn’t perfect.” Berniece sighs, and contained in that single sound is a lifetime of disappointment. “I knew that when I married him. He had, shall we say, a wandering eye. But he wasn’t mean, even when he drank, which is more than I can say about my father. So I wasn’t surprised when that rich bitch got her hooks into him. She could have had the pick of all those young men working the place.


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

looking out of jaded eyes at the culture of Dublin in the stalls and at the tawdry scene-cloths and human dolls framed by the garish lamps of the stage. A burly policeman sweated behind him and seemed at every moment about to act. The catcalls and hisses and mocking cries ran in rude gusts round the hall from his scattered fellow students. --A libel on Ireland! --Made in Germany. --Blasphemy! --We never sold our faith! --No Irish woman ever did it! --We want no amateur atheists. --We want no budding buddhists. A sudden swift hiss fell from the windows above him and he knew that the electric lamps had been switched on in the reader's room. He turned into the pillared hall, now calmly lit, went up the staircase and passed in through the clicking turnstile. Cranly was sitting over near the dictionaries. A thick book, opened at the frontispiece, lay before him on the wooden rest. He leaned back in his chair, inclining his ear like that of a confessor to the face of the medical student who was reading to him a problem from the chess page of a journal. Stephen sat down at his right and the priest at the other side of the table closed his copy of THE TABLET with an angry snap and stood up. Cranly gazed after him blandly and vaguely. The medical student went on in a softer voice: --Pawn to king's fourth. --We had better go, Dixon, said Stephen in warning. He has gone to complain. Dixon folded the journal and rose with dignity, saying: --Our men retired in good order. --With guns and cattle, added Stephen, pointing to the titlepage of Cranly's book on which was printed DISEASES OF THE OX. As they passed through a lane of the tables Stephen said: --Cranly, I want to speak to you. Cranly did not answer or turn. He laid his book on the counter and passed out, his well-shod feet sounding flatly on the floor. On the staircase he paused and gazing absently at Dixon repeated: --Pawn to king's bloody fourth. --Put it that way if you like, Dixon said. He had a quiet toneless voice and urbane manners and on a finger of his plump clean hand he displayed at moments a signet ring. As they crossed the hall a man of dwarfish stature came towards them. Under the dome of his tiny hat his unshaven face began to smile with pleasure and he was heard to murmur. The eyes were melancholy as those of a monkey. --Good evening, gentlemen, said the stubble-grown monkeyish face. --Warm weather for March, said Cranly. They have the windows open upstairs. Dixon smiled and turned his ring. The blackish, monkey-puckered face pursed its human mouth with gentle pleasure and its voice purred: --Delightful weather for March. Simply delightful. --There are two nice young ladies upstairs, captain, tired of waiting, Dixon said. Cranly smiled and said kindly: --The captain has only one love: sir Walter Scott. Isn't that so, captain? --What are you reading now, captain? Dixon asked.


when it was founded. When I saw Wulf, I knew. A sister is not supposed to cleave too close to her own flesh, after all,’ she said. ‘I thought a boy would not be missed.’ ‘He was. Every day. Every moment,’ Tunuva said quietly. ‘But you know that now.’ ‘I do.’ Tunuva remained on the ground. Her breath was bundled at her breastbone, like something trapped inside an egg that was about to crack. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘after all the trouble to steal Wulf, why allow the Inysh baron to take him?’ ‘My enemies found me. I knew they would kill him, and I was too weak, by then, to keep him truly safe. I gave him to someone who could, but I always hoped to return for him, one day.’ ‘Then why did you not?’ ‘Because I saw that he was happy.’ ‘He would also have been happy with me, as he was before.’ At last, Tunuva rose, her movements slow, and faced the woman she had once called her friend. ‘Why are you here?’ Canthe wore only a fishnet, knotted at her shoulder. Her wet hair trailed to her waist. ‘You know why,’ she said. ‘You are never entering the Priory again.’ ‘The Long-Haired Star grants many gifts to those who know its secrets. Now my sterren is renewed, I can take any form I wish. You will never know if I am there.’ ‘You became Saghul, to trick Hidat. You changed your shape and walked in hers.’ ‘No. That would have taken more than I had. I only cast an enchantment. When Hidat looked at me, she saw and heard Saghul Yedanya. An illusion, not a change – but yes, it was all me. I knew it would drive Siyu away. I knew what that would do to you and Esbar.’ ‘So you not only took my birthson, but almost estranged me from the two people I love most in this world.’ ‘I do not expect your forgiveness, Tunuva. I already know that is too much to ask.’ All was too still, the air as thick as the honey. ‘Did you come here for the fruit,’ Tunuva said, each word a fresh pain, ‘or the jewel?’ ‘The latter.’ Canthe cast her gaze southwest. ‘I know it is here.’ ‘The key no longer is. I sent it far away.’ ‘Tunuva, I have lived for a long time, but my patience is not boundless where that abomination is concerned.’ ‘What is it, that is raises such fear in you?’ ‘That knowledge is not your burden. The duty to right this is mine, no matter how low I must sink.’ Canthe took another step, her bare feet silent on the earth. ‘Tell me where the key is. I can make you.’ ‘You can’t, because I don’t know where it is. And I am not afraid of you, Canthe.’ ‘Why?’ ‘You could have stolen the key while I slept. You could have killed me for it,’ Tunuva said. ‘But you wanted to earn my trust.’ ‘I needed your trust. My sterren was


the path as the moor-gate?" "Yes; they were on the edge of the path on the same side as the moor-gate." "You interest me exceedingly. Another point. Was the wicket- gate closed?" "Closed and padlocked." "How high was it?" "About four feet high." "Then anyone could have got over it?" "Yes." "And what marks did you see by the wicket-gate?" "None in particular." "Good heaven! Did no one examine?" "Yes, I examined, myself." "And found nothing?" "It was all very confused. Sir Charles had evidently stood there for five or ten minutes." "How do you know that?" "Because the ash had twice dropped from his cigar." "Excellent! This is a colleague, Watson, after our own heart. But the marks?" "He had left his own marks all over that small patch of gravel. I could discern no others." Sherlock Holmes struck his hand against his knee with an impatient gesture. "If I had only been there!" he cried. "It is evidently a case of extraordinary interest, and one which presented immense opportu- nities to the scientific expert. That gravel page upon which I might have read so much has been long ere this smudged by the rain and defaced by the clogs of curious peasants. Oh, Dr. Mortimer, Dr. Mortimer, to think that you should not have called me in! You have indeed much to answer for." "I could not call you in, Mr. Holmes, without disclosing these facts to the world, and I have already given my reasons for not wishing to do so. Besides, besides --" "Why do you hesitate?" "There is a realm in which the most acute and most experi- enced of detectives is helpless." "You mean that the thing is supernatural?" "I did not positively say so." "No, but you evidently think it." "Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, there have come to my ears several incidents which are hard to reconcile with the settled order of Nature." "For example?" "I find that before the terrible event occurred several people had seen a creature upon the moor which corresponds with this Baskerville demon, and which could not possibly be any animal known to science. They all agreed that it was a huge creature, luminous, ghastly, and spectral. I have cross-examined these men, one of them a hard-headed countryman, one a farrier, and one a moorland farmer, who all tell the same story of this dreadful apparition, exactly corresponding to the hell-hound of the legend. I assure you that there is a reign of terror in the district, and that it is a hardy man who will cross the moor at night." "And you, a trained man of science, believe it to be super- natural?" "I do not know what to believe." Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "I have hitherto confined my investigations to this world," said he. "In a modest way I have combated evil, but to take on the Father of Evil himself would, perhaps, be too ambitious a task. Yet you must admit that the footmark is material." "The original hound was material enough to tug a man's


were her ideas, didn’t I?” What? “You did, and I know,” Penny says. “I am impressed, but we were drowning in general admin before her, and we can’t afford to split her focus now.” “We should give her the opportunity to do both.” “She’s just lost her father,” Penny says. “Let’s not overwhelm her.” The door closes behind them, but I stay where I am. So it wasn’t Kris “stealing” my ideas, it was Penny refusing to acknowledge they were mine. Why would she do that? Was that person from the internet right? Is it to keep me as an assistant for longer, rather than pay for my promotion and replacement? Should I confront her? You can’t confront your boss and accuse her of stealing. I briefly close my eyes and accept that I don’t have the energy to fight the (wo)man today. My phone buzzes again. Unknown number Hi Maddie! I’m not sure if you remember me but it’s Emma here. I got your number off Jo she thinks I’m asking you for publishing tips so if she asks play along! I don’t know if you and Cam know but it’s Jo’s birthday on Sunday and I want to throw her a surprise party at your place in the garden. Can you both help? xx Emma has been to the house a few times with her boyfriend, Tinka. I remember her from her very short, blond bob and freckle-splattered cheeks. I’m about to type out an excuse to get out of it when I think, maybe this is how I make amends for blaming Dad’s death on Jo. Even though I don’t plan to stay for much longer, I am rather tired of going to work and coming home only to go straight to my room when she’s in the kitchen or in front of the TV. I did apologize but clearly that wasn’t enough. Maybe this action will speak louder than my words. People pleasing? Maybe, but baby steps. I check in with Cam before responding. Maddie Hi Emma, We’d be happy to! X * * * Cam and I spend the whole of Saturday together, driving around town in her car, picking up balloons, snacks, barbecue food, cups, and decorations from various shops. We stopped for lunch and both ordered soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. I give her a very brief synopsis about my return to work, Love Stories, and Ben, but not Alex. I tell her I’ll be moving out soon to live with Nia. She tells me all about teaching summer school classes and her students, who are hilarious but aren’t learning as quickly as they should (she blames the rise of social media) and how she’s been thinking a lot about renting out her room and going traveling. On Sunday, my job is to set up with Cam whilst Emma is out with Jo. We move the big fold-out table into the garden and put on some music as her friends trickle in. We set up snacks and drinks in the kitchen and Olivia, the first


under, to be protected by this river that had always beckoned me back to this place, summer after summer, that had always kept me safe. But I was too buoyant in my life jacket. I’d never heard a sound quite like what came next, a deep, low groan so loud I would have covered my ears if I’d had the presence of mind. I squeezed my eyes shut and had the overwhelming feeling that this was it for me. I was going to die. The horrible noise subsided, and I felt like the waterspout had probably passed. Even still, I was terrified. For what must have been several minutes, I felt frozen in fear, bobbing in the water, too scared to even attempt to swim to shore. Finally, as the panic began to wane, I remembered: Daphne and Mary Stuart! I looked around for my friends, was about to call to them with what I knew would be a shaky yell. But then I heard a voice I knew well say, “You’re okay, Lanie. I’ve got you.” Only one person in the world called me Lanie. I opened my eyes to see Rich McNabb, rain clinging to his eyelashes, dripping down his nose and mouth, and streaming off his coat. “I saw the waterspout from the dock,” he said. “I came as soon as it passed.” He pulled me up by my life jacket as I struggled into his small powerboat, and then he got Mary Stuart and Daphne, who were bobbing a few feet away. None of us said a word as the little Scout with the twenty-five-horsepower engine struggled against the wind and rain to get us to the dock. We helped Rich tie up as he pointed to the shoreline. There it was. Our sailboat. Crushed and battered against the rocks. I exchanged glances with Daphne and Mary Stuart. We didn’t need words. All of our eyes said, That could have been us. June was running down the dock. She wrapped her arms around Daphne and Mary Stuart. I wondered why she hadn’t wrapped her arm around me. That was when I realized that Rich was leading me up the dock. “I’ll get Lanie some dry clothes!” he called to June. Dry clothes. Yes. The floral sundress with the tie straps I had picked out so painstakingly for seeing Rich was soaked, stained with river silt, and clinging to me awkwardly. I hoped Rich didn’t notice as he led me up to his cabin and through the door. He threw his drenched raincoat out on the tiny front porch. I still hadn’t said anything. He stood in front of me, unbuckling the snaps on my life jacket. “You’re okay,” he said. “You don’t need this anymore.” His fingers lingered on the bottom buckle, his face inches from mine. My mouth went dry. Was he going to kiss me? Did he like me the way I liked him? But he only slipped the life jacket off my shoulders and set it on the porch. He grabbed a nearby towel and


stank and got on my nerves. But his foul and annoying ways had, apparently, not precluded Annabel Lily’s interest. She’d been the guest host of The Night Owls three weeks prior, coinciding with the release of her latest film, the fourth in an action franchise in which she played a corrupt FBI agent. She’d delivered the opening monologue while wearing a one-shouldered black satin cocktail dress with a thigh slit, highlighting her slender yet curvy body; her long red hair had been styled into old Hollywood waves. Annabel was beautiful and sweet and charming, and if she didn’t have the best comic timing, she was completely game, which was just as important. In one sketch, she’d been called on to play a woodchuck, which entailed crawling around on all fours and wearing a furry suit and two enormous prosthetic front teeth. In fact, Danny had written this sketch, meaning it was plausible that they’d first been attracted to each other while rehearsing it. The woodchuck part was endearing enough that I might have been able to forgive them both except that theirs was the third such pairing that had occurred at TNO in the last few years, and, as anyone knows who’s ever written a joke—or heard a fairy tale, or read an article in the style section of a newspaper—there’s a rule of three. In this case, it constituted the trend of a romance between a bona fide celebrity and a TNO staffer who’d met on the show. But, crucially, a bona fide female celebrity and a male staffer. The year before, at a wedding I’d attended, an icy blond Oscar-winning British actress named Imogen Wagner had married a cast member named Josh Beekman, best known for his recurring character Backne Guy. And the year before that, the head writer, Elliot Markovitz (five-foot-eight, forty, and my Top-Sider-wearing boss), had married a multi-platinum-album-selling pop singer named Nicola Dornan (five-foot-ten, thirty, and a special envoy for the U.N.). And this, of course, was the essence of my fury: that such couples would never exist with the genders switched, that a gorgeous male celebrity would never fall in love with an ordinary, dorky, unkempt woman. Never. No matter how clever she was. But I also knew, as I lay in bed glaring at the screen of my phone—Danny and Annabel’s debut as a couple had occurred the night before, in the form of making out at the club where Annabel’s twenty-fourth birthday party had been held—that I would write about my fury. Just as I always did, I’d turn my feelings into comedy, and that was how I’d cure myself. CHAPTER 1 April 2018 WEEKLY SCHEDULE FOR THE NIGHT OWLS Monday 1 p.m. pitch meeting with guest host Tuesday 5 p.m. start of all-night writing session Wednesday 12 p.m. deadline for submitted sketches Wednesday 3 p.m. table read of submitted sketches Wednesday 9 p.m. preliminary show lineup posted internally Wednesday night–Saturday morning rehearsals; scripts revised; sets built; special effects designed; hair, makeup, and costumes chosen and created; pre-tapes shot Saturday 1 p.m. run-through of


to view again the humble cottage shaded by cedars, the playful group of mountaineer-children, and the flowery nooks that appeared among the hills. As they descended, they saw at a distance, on the right, one of the grand passes of the Pyrenees into Spain, gleaming with its battlements and towers to the splendour of the setting rays, yellow tops of woods colouring the steeps below, while far above aspired the snowy points of the mountains, still reflecting a rosy hue. St. Aubert began to look out for the little town he had been directed to by the people of Beaujeu, and where he meant to pass the night; but no habitation yet appeared. Of its distance Valancourt could not assist him to judge, for he had never been so far along this chain of Alps before. There was, however, a road to guide them; and there could be little doubt that it was the right one; for, since they had left Beaujeu, there had been no variety of tracks to perplex or mislead. The sun now gave his last light, and St. Aubert bade the muleteer proceed with all possible dispatch. He found, indeed, the lassitude of illness return upon him, after a day of uncommon fatigue, both of body and mind, and he longed for repose. His anxiety was not soothed by observing a numerous train, consisting of men, horses, and loaded mules, winding down the steeps of an opposite mountain, appearing and disappearing at intervals among the woods, so that its numbers could not be judged of. Something bright, like arms, glanced in the setting ray, and the military dress was distinguishable upon the men who were in the van, and on others scattered among the troop that followed. As these wound into the vale, the rear of the party emerged from the woods, and exhibited a band of soldiers. St. Aubert's apprehensions now subsided; he had no doubt that the train before him consisted of smugglers, who, in conveying prohibited goods over the Pyrenees, had been encountered, and conquered by a party of troops. The travellers had lingered so long among the sublimer scenes of these mountains, that they found themselves entirely mistaken in their calculation that they could reach Montigny at sun-set; but, as they wound along the valley, the saw, on a rude Alpine bridge, that united two lofty crags of the glen, a group of mountaineer-children, amusing themselves with dropping pebbles into a torrent below, and watching the stones plunge into the water, that threw up its white spray high in the air as it received them, and returned a sullen sound, which the echoes of the mountains prolonged. Under the bridge was seen a perspective of the valley, with its cataract descending among the rocks, and a cottage on a cliff, overshadowed with pines. It appeared, that they could not be far from some small town. St. Aubert bade the muleteer stop, and then called to the children to enquire if he was near Montigny; but the distance, and the roaring of the waters, would


of emptiness around me. The room was dark, so I could not see Lucy's bed. I stole across and felt for her. The bed was empty. I lit a match and found that she was not in the room. The door was shut, but not locked, as I had left it. I feared to wake her mother, who has been more than usually ill lately, so threw on some clothes and got ready to look for her. As I was leaving the room it struck me that the clothes she wore might give me some clue to her dreaming intention. Dressing-gown would mean house, dress outside. Dressing-gown and dress were both in their places. "Thank God," I said to myself, "she cannot be far, as she is only in her nightdress." I ran downstairs and looked in the sitting room. Not there! Then I looked in all the other rooms of the house, with an ever-growing fear chilling my heart. Finally, I came to the hall door and found it open. It was not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not caught. The people of the house are careful to lock the door every night, so I feared that Lucy must have gone out as she was. There was no time to think of what might happen. A vague over-mastering fear obscured all details. I took a big, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was striking one as I was in the Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I ran along the North Terrace, but could see no sign of the white figure which I expected. At the edge of the West Cliff above the pier I looked across the harbour to the East Cliff, in the hope or fear, I don't know which, of seeing Lucy in our favorite seat. There was a bright full moon, with heavy black, driving clouds, which threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama of light and shade as they sailed across. For a moment or two I could see nothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary's Church and all around it. Then as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of the abbey coming into view, and as the edge of a narrow band of light as sharp as a sword-cut moved along, the church and churchyard became gradually visible. Whatever my expectation was, it was not disappointed, for there, on our favorite seat, the silver light of the moon struck a half-reclining figure, snowy white. The coming of the cloud was too quick for me to see much, for shadow shut down on light almost immediately, but it seemed to me as though something dark stood behind the seat where the white figure shone, and bent over it. What it was, whether man or beast, I could not tell. I did not wait to catch another glance, but flew down the steep steps to the pier and along by the fish-market to the bridge, which was the only way to reach the


wrote: Get together this week? Wednesday? As I let the shower steam the small bathroom and brushed my teeth, my hangover started to clear; and underneath was just nerves. I was nervous not only about teaching but—it took a minute to put my finger on it. It was the feeling I still got when I walked into a suburban shopping mall, despite it being decades since groups of teenagers roved the food courts looking for people to ridicule. I was scared like a dog is scared of the spot where a walnut once fell on his head. Irrationally, viscerally, in a way tied more to memory than possibility. I put on the newest clothes I’d brought: crisp dark jeans, a red sweater, and a gold bangle an online stylist had picked for me that fall. The fall of senior year at Granby, I’d been thrilled to inherit a long, crinkly J.Crew skirt from one of Fran’s sisters. The J.Crew label inside was as good, in my mind, as Armani. I wore it with Birkenstocks and a white T-shirt and hemp jewelry. I had already lost some weight—I’d lose far too much that year—and my hair was newly longer, and I felt, for the first time, that I was passing as somewhat attractive. I’d even toned down the eyeliner, barely. I was crossing the quad when a sophomore, crossing the other way, said to me, her voice squeaky as if talking to a child, “Oh my God, I remember those skirts! Those are from, like, eighth grade!” The skirt was indeed probably two years old. It was one of the newest things I’d ever worn. Apparently it was safer to wear things from Sears and thrift stores—things the kids at Granby had never seen, couldn’t date to some past catalogue, some discount sale. Petra, the journalism teacher, met me outside the guesthouse and presented me with a Granby tote containing a Granby fleece and a water bottle and a copy of the Sentinel. She was strikingly tall with a soft German accent and chicly short hair, a curtain of blond over her left eye. She asked if I’d slept well, if I needed a coffee. I skimmed the paper as we walked: dorm renovations, sandwich delivery options reviewed, an ongoing lawsuit from a former art teacher. We stepped off the slushy road and onto the frozen planks of South Bridge and I tucked the paper away, ducked my head against the wind so the freezing air hit my hat and not my face. The last of my hangover evaporated in the cold. Someone called out behind us and we waited for her to catch up. Good Lord: It was Priscilla Mancio, who was still teaching French. “Bodie Kane,” she said. “Unbelievable. I never would’ve recognized her,” she told Petra, “if they hadn’t run her picture in the magazine.” She was walking her bulldog, a delicious beast she introduced as Brigitte, and whom I squatted to scratch. Petra said, “You’ve changed since eighteen.” I find it hard to tell if people with German accents


lawyer in a violent breaking and entering case. One of his criminal associates hired me to represent him. That’s how he found you, Hazel. He targeted you.” My head feels thick and foggy, and the information isn’t sinking in. I knew Jesse had a shady past. The signs were there in his home, in his tattoos, and the ease with which he suggested my husband’s murder. But to think that he was an entirely different person, someone Benjamin knew and I didn’t, makes me wobbly. I reach behind me, hand scrabbling for the bookshelf to steady myself. Benjamin clocks my obvious distress and smiles. “He used you to get to me, Hazel. To take what I’ve built through my skill and talent because he had none. He was a loser. And a user. And you fell for him.” I open my mouth to deny or apologize or beg forgiveness, but no words will come. There is nothing I can say as my husband continues. He is in litigator mode, making his closing arguments. “Carter Sumner would have moved in with you, married you even, and then… he would have taken it all. You were nothing but a means to an end, Hazel. Disposable. Like garbage.” Do I lie? Beg forgiveness? And then it strikes me. I don’t need to cringe and cower. Because it doesn’t matter what Benjamin does to me now. Soon I will escape. Or I’ll be dead, either by his hand or my own. At least I will be free. I have nothing left to fear. And so I smile. “Well, it was worth a try.” He slaps me across the face—unusual for him—but I can safely assume that he won’t allow me out in public for the next few days. And he is shocked by my insolence. It is entirely brand-new. He’s had me under his control for so long. His voice is a growl. “You devious bitch.” “I used Jesse, too,” I say, a wicked smile on my lips. “To get rid of you. And for sex. Which was incredible, by the way.” I am taunting him, goading him. And it feels so fucking good! His face is red with rage; a vein bulges in his temple. He’s on the verge of losing control. If he murders me—right here, right now—it will all be over. And he will go to jail for it. Even Benjamin Laval can’t get away with killing his wife, in his own home, with his bare hands. “Go to the room.” He shoves me forward and I stumble, but I don’t fall. I glance over my shoulder, another smile. “Whatever turns you on, Chief.” Casually, I head down the stairs. * * * As I lie on the floor, the thin blanket over me, I think about what my husband told me about Jesse—Carter Sumner. He knew who I was when he approached me that day at the gym. Knew I had money, a beautiful house, and that I was under the thumb of a powerful man. Could he sense my desperation? That


the glass will break. His face fills the frame, red and seething, a portrait of rage. “Open the fucking door!” he hollers. I shriek, honk the horn, draw more attention as I struggle with the key. The woman is running the other way, but she is on her phone, calling for help. The police will come but it will be too late by then. If Benjamin gets his hands on me, I am dead. The key slips into the ignition and I turn it, bang the car into gear, stomp on the gas. I fly toward the exit, but Benjamin is running alongside me, hands scrambling for purchase on my car. He thinks he is that strong, that invincible, that he can stop my escape with his bare hands. He grips a windshield wiper, but I accelerate, and it tears off in his hand. I hit the main road, merge onto the highway, and I drive. In my rearview mirror, I see my husband’s silhouette, standing alone beneath the neon sign. I watch his shoulders rise and fall with each heavy breath, his hand moving to the gash on his check. He is watching me drive away, but he is not letting me go. He never will. 63 I FLY ALONG THE HIGHWAY for at least ten, even fifteen minutes before I consider where I’m going. My escape had been pure instinct, complete adrenaline, but now I must strategize to ensure my continued freedom. Because my husband will be strategizing my capture. If the police were called, I know how Benjamin would paint my getaway. He’d say his wife is delusional, suicidal, refusing the help she so desperately needs. She attacked him like a wild animal that was cornered, sick and deranged. I am dangerous—to myself, and to others. They will all come looking for me. Now that my mom has passed, there is nothing tethering me to this city. But where should I go? If I drive north, I will be at the Canadian border in a few hours. I’d be safer in a different country, but Benjamin has my passport; I won’t be allowed in. I could continue driving south, all the way to California, disappear in a big city like San Francisco or L.A. Or I could go east through Idaho and into Montana. It is the less expected route. I have never lived in a rural environment. Benjamin won’t think I can hack it. I take the next exit, crawl through a quiet shopping complex until I find the freeway headed east. The sun is up now. Morning commuters drive toward the city to work, parents take their kids to school, big trucks make their deliveries. No one else on the road is fleeing for their life, for their freedom. I am alone in this tenuous situation, but I can do this. If I keep my wits about me, if I strategize carefully, I can outsmart my husband. Benjamin knows the make and model of my vehicle. He would certainly have noted the license plate number and given


in his renunciation than that? There had been something more. At least he thought so. But who could tell? And this murder,--was it to dog him all his life? Was he never to get rid of the past? Was he really to confess? No. There was only one bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself,--that was evidence. He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? It had given him pleasure once to watch it changing and growing old. Of late he had felt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at night. When he had been away, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes should look upon it. It had brought melancholy across his passions. Its mere memory had marred many moments of joy. It had been like conscience to him. Yes, it had been conscience. He would destroy it. He looked round, and saw the knife that had stabbed Basil Hallward. He had cleaned it many times, till there was no stain left upon it. It was bright, and glistened. As it had killed the painter, so it [100] would kill the painter's work, and all that that meant. It would kill the past, and when that was dead he would be free. He seized it, and stabbed the canvas with it, ripping the thing right up from top to bottom. There was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in its agony that the frightened servants woke, and crept out of their rooms. Two gentlemen, who were passing in the Square below, stopped, and looked up at the great house. They walked on till they met a policeman, and brought him back. The man rang the bell several times, but there was no answer. The house was all dark, except for a light in one of the top windows. After a time, he went away, and stood in the portico of the next house and watched. "Whose house is that, constable?" asked the elder of the two gentlemen. "Mr. Dorian Gray's, sir," answered the policeman. They looked at each other, as they walked away, and sneered. One of them was Sir Henry Ashton's uncle. Inside, in the servants' part of the house, the half-clad domestics were talking in low whispers to each other. Old Mrs. Leaf was crying, and wringing her hands. Francis was as pale as death. After about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the footmen and crept up-stairs. They knocked, but there was no reply. They called out. Everything was still. Finally, after vainly trying to force the door, they got on the roof, and dropped down on to the balcony. The windows yielded easily: the bolts were old. When they entered, they found hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait of their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his exquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in evening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was


proceeded to trip on the rug. She should’ve waited to blow out her candle until she was with Marisol. But she made it into the hallway and nearly collided with Attie. “Where’s Marisol?” Iris asked. “I’m here.” The girls turned to see her ascend the stairs, holding a rushlight. “The downstairs is prepared. Come, to my room, the two of you. You’ll spend the night here with me.” Attie and Iris followed her into a spacious chamber. There was a large canopied bed, a settee, a desk, and a bookshelf. Marisol set down her light and proceeded to shift the heaviest piece of furniture against the door. Attie rushed to help her, and Iris hurried to close the window curtains. It was suddenly very quiet. Iris didn’t know what was worse: the siren, or the silence that came after it. “Make yourselves comfortable on the bed,” Marisol said. “It might be a long night.” The girls sat against the headboard, cross-legged. Attie finally blew out her candle, but Marisol still had her rushlight lit. She opened her wardrobe, and Iris could see her shoving aside dresses and blouses to find a flashlight and small revolver. She loaded the gun and extended the flashlight to Iris. “If the hounds manage to get inside, which they shouldn’t but there’s always a possibility … I want you to shine the light on them so I can see them.” So she can shoot them, Iris realized, but she nodded and studied the flashlight, finding its switch with her thumb. Marisol eased onto the edge of the bed, between the girls and the door, and she blew out her rushlight. The darkness returned. Iris began to count her breaths, to keep them deep and even. To keep her mind distracted. One … two … three … She heard the first hound on her fourteenth inspiration. It howled in the distance, a sound so chilling it made Iris’s jaw clench. But then the sound grew closer, joined by another. And another, until there was no telling how many of them had reached Avalon Bluff. Twenty-four … twenty-five … twenty-six … They were snarling in the street, just below Marisol’s window. The house seemed to shudder; it sounded like one of them was raking its claws on the front door. There was a bang. Iris jumped. Her breaths were frantic now, but she gripped the flashlight like a weapon, prepared for anything. She felt Attie take her other hand, and they held on to each other. And even though she couldn’t see, Iris knew Marisol was directly in front of them, sitting like a statue in the darkness, a gun resting in her lap. The shrieks faded. They returned. The house shook again, as if they were living in a loop. Iris was exhaling her seven hundred and fifty-second breath when the silence returned. But it was just as Marisol had foretold. It ended up being a very long night. {21} Knight Errant or Rogue Are you safe? Are you well? What happened? Please write to me, whenever you


but the arrow ends up taking out a mutt that can only be Thresh. Who else could jump so high? I feel a moment’s relief because we must finally be up above the mutt line and I’m just turning back to face Cato when Peeta’s jerked from my side. I’m sure the pack has got him until his blood splatters my face. Cato stands before me, almost at the lip of the horn, holding Peeta in some kind of headlock, cutting off his air. Peeta’s clawing at Cato’s arm, but weakly, as if confused over whether it’s more important to breathe or try and stem the gush of blood from the gaping hole a mutt left in his calf. I aim one of my last two arrows at Cato’s head, knowing it’ll have no effect on his trunk or limbs, which I can now see are clothed in a skintight, flesh-colored mesh. Some high-grade body armor from the Capitol. Was that what was in his pack at the feast? Body armor to defend against my arrows? Well, they neglected to send a face guard. Cato just laughs. “Shoot me and he goes down with me.” He’s right. If I take him out and he falls to the mutts, Peeta is sure to die with him. We’ve reached a stalemate. I can’t shoot Cato without killing Peeta, too. He can’t kill Peeta with- 330 out guaranteeing an arrow in his brain. We stand like statues, both of us seeking an out. My muscles are strained so tightly, they feel they might snap at any moment. My teeth clenched to the breaking point. The mutts go silent and the only thing I can hear is the blood pounding in my good ear. Peeta’s lips are turning blue. If I don’t do something quick- ly, he’ll die of asphyxiation and then I’ll have lost him and Cato will probably use his body as a weapon against me. In fact, I’m sure this is Cato’s plan because while he’s stopped laughing, his lips are set in a triumphant smile. As if in a last-ditch effort, Peeta raises his fingers, dripping with blood from his leg, up to Cato’s arm. Instead of trying to wrestle his way free, his forefinger veers off and makes a deli- berate X on the back of Cato’s hand. Cato realizes what it means exactly one second after I do. I can tell by the way the smile drops from his lips. But it’s one second too late because, by that time, my arrow is piercing his hand. He cries out and reflexively releases Peeta who slams back against him. For a horrible moment, I think they’re both going over. I dive for- ward just catching hold of Peeta as Cato loses his footing on the blood-slick horn and plummets to the ground. We hear him hit, the air leaving his body on impact, and then the mutts attack him. Peeta and I hold on to each other, waiting for the cannon, waiting for the competition to finish, waiting to be released.


weird? I mean, the components of her face were like puzzle pieces spread out on a table. So yeah. But I didn’t exactly know how to say that. I was just staring at her pieces, trying to Jedi-mind-trick them into clicking into their proper spots, when one of those nurses in the pink scrubs walked in. And I realized that I couldn’t see her face, either. I mean, “couldn’t see her face” is not exactly right. I could tell there was a face there. In theory. It wasn’t just a blank slate. I could zoom in on eyebrows and laugh lines and lips. It was just that the pieces didn’t fit together right. They didn’t make a face. It was a bit like looking at a Picasso painting. I could see it, I guess. I just couldn’t understand it. It reminded me of that game you play as kids where you lie upside down and watch someone talking where their lips are flipped, top to bottom. Everything suddenly looked so funny. And disjointed. And cartoonish. I felt a rising comprehension. Had I been like this all week? As crazy as this sounds, it’s true: It was only once I really started trying to look that I realized I couldn’t see. “Sue?” I said again, blinking, like maybe I could clear things up that way. “You look fantastic,” she said, leaning forward and clasping my hands in hers. “You’d never know they just popped a section of your skull out like the top of a jack-o’-lantern.” Yep. That was Sue, all right. “I expected you to be bald, to be honest,” she went on. “I was prepared to walk in here and say you looked better bald. I had a whole Sinéad O’Connor–themed speech prepared.” I rubbed my eyes and tried to look at her again. But no change. “How did they manage to keep your hair?” Sue asked. I knew the answer to this question. Dr. Estrera had shown me in detail. But it didn’t seem that important right now. “I think I have a problem,” I said then. “I can’t see you.” Sue waved her hand in front of my face, like, Hello? “You can’t see me?” “I can see your hand,” I said. “I just can’t see your face.” Sue leaned forward, like that might help, just as the nurse leaned in and said, “Are you having trouble with your eyes, sweetheart?” “I don’t think it’s my eyes,” I said. “I think it’s my brain.” * * * WITHIN TWO HOURS, I’d done another MRI, and the entire faceless team of Estrera, Thomas-Ramparsad, Montgomery himself, and a whole posse of residents and onlookers had gathered in my room. “The imaging shows some edema around the surgical site,” Dr. Estrera said, talking more to my dad than to me. “What’s edema?” I asked. “Swelling,” Dr. Nicole explained. “Very normal. Nothing to worry about.” “It’s common to have some swelling after a procedure like this,” Dr. Estrera confirmed. Then he turned to me, and as he did, I looked down at the


she gave up reading and hired a naturalist from a local tribe to teach her what he knew. Following him along a trail in the Headlands, she learned that bracken fern could be an umbrella, cattail made strong baskets, the smoke of California bay leaves staved off fleas. Plants as medicine. Plants as food. Plants as survival. And Juana Briones, Maud thought, as the Headlands disappeared in the rearview mirror, found survival in those plants. She made a full, vigorous, loving life on this hard, unforgiving landscape. Beaten by her husband, dismissed not only as a woman but as a woman of color, she had shown a force of character that had thundered through Maud as she sat doing research in a cubicle at Stanford. The document had been transcribed and translated from Spanish, but it nonetheless rang with Juana Briones’s voice: I do not fear to shoulder the conjugal cross that the Lord my Father and my Mother the Holy Church have asked me to bear, being in a state that I have freely chosen. What I truly fear is the loss of my own soul forever, and what is more, I fear the destruction of my unfortunate family due to the scandal and bad example of a man who has forgotten God and his own soul.… Maud had applied to the project at Tennessee Hollow still lacking knowledge, still learning, aware that she was too white and too privileged for the position. But she came with a plan to find the garden, so Maria had taken a chance on her. And that garden mattered, she thought now. The history of the people who watered it and tended it mattered even if the only lines they’d left behind were adobe bricks in the ground. She would order that pomegranate tree tonight. And she’d trust that the rest would follow. Sunday morning, she awoke feeling as if her head were stuffed with cotton. It was the day of the experiment that Ella’s therapist, Rita, had suggested. Maud and Peter were going to take Louise to Stinson Beach for a party hosted by his firm and leave Ella alone in the house for the first time. “Are we sure she’s ready?” Maud asked Peter, who was shaving in the bathroom. “I could stay.” “We have to try it sometime.” He tapped the razor against the sink. “And everyone else has their spouse at these things.” He said “spouse,” but he meant wife. His firm was almost exclusively male, save the administrative assistants. Maud always dreaded these events, but today the dread weighed down her shoulders. To wake Louise, she pulled back her curtains and let the light spill onto the bed. The suncatcher from the camp in the Hudson Valley dangled in the window. When Louise looked at it now, Maud wondered, did she remember days at camp, climbing the ropes course, swimming in the lake? Did she have good memories of that summer? All Maud could see was the suncatcher swinging on the rearview mirror as she drove to the emergency room.


go and draw at the cost of fifty centimes. They had a different model every day, and it was very good practice. "I don't suppose you're good enough yet for that. You'd better wait a bit." "I don't see why I shouldn't try. I haven't got anything else to do." They got up and walked to the studio. Philip could not tell from her manner whether Miss Price wished him to walk with her or preferred to walk alone. He remained from sheer embarrassment, not knowing how to leave her; but she would not talk; she answered his questions in an ungracious manner. A man was standing at the studio door with a large dish into which each person as he went in dropped his half franc. The studio was much fuller than it had been in the morning, and there was not the preponderance of English and Americans; nor were women there in so large a proportion. Philip felt the assemblage was more the sort of thing he had expected. It was very warm, and the air quickly grew fetid. It was an old man who sat this time, with a vast gray beard, and Philip tried to put into practice the little he had learned in the morning; but he made a poor job of it; he realised that he could not draw nearly as well as he thought. He glanced enviously at one or two sketches of men who sat near him, and wondered whether he would ever be able to use the charcoal with that mastery. The hour passed quickly. Not wishing to press himself upon Miss Price he sat down at some distance from her, and at the end, as he passed her on his way out, she asked him brusquely how he had got on. "Not very well," he smiled. "If you'd condescended to come and sit near me I could have given you some hints. I suppose you thought yourself too grand." "No, it wasn't that. I was afraid you'd think me a nuisance." "When I do that I'll tell you sharp enough." Philip saw that in her uncouth way she was offering him help. "Well, tomorrow I'll just force myself upon you." "I don't mind," she answered. Philip went out and wondered what he should do with himself till dinner. He was eager to do something characteristic. _Absinthe!_ of course it was indicated, and so, sauntering towards the station, he seated himself outside a cafe and ordered it. He drank with nausea and satisfaction. He found the taste disgusting, but the moral effect magnificent; he felt every inch an art-student; and since he drank on an empty stomach his spirits presently grew very high. He watched the crowds, and felt all men were his brothers. He was happy. When he reached Gravier's the table at which Clutton sat was full, but as soon as he saw Philip limping along he called out to him. They made room. The dinner was frugal, a plate of soup, a dish of meat, fruit, cheese, and half a


rejoined Mr. Bolter, thoughtfully. 'Oh! yer a cunning old codger!' Mr. Fagin saw, with delight, that this tribute to his powers was no mere compliment, but that he had really impressed his recruit with a sense of his wily genius, which it was most important that he should entertain in the outset of their acquaintance. To strengthen an impression so desirable and useful, he followed up the blow by acquainting him, in some detail, with the magnitude and extent of his operations; blending truth and fiction together, as best served his purpose; and bringing both to bear, with so much art, that Mr. Bolter's respect visibly increased, and became tempered, at the same time, with a degree of wholesome fear, which it was highly desirable to awaken. 'It's this mutual trust we have in each other that consoles me under heavy losses,' said Fagin. 'My best hand was taken from me, yesterday morning.' 'You don't mean to say he died?' cried Mr. Bolter. 'No, no,' replied Fagin, 'not so bad as that. Not quite so bad.' 'What, I suppose he was--' 'Wanted,' interposed Fagin. 'Yes, he was wanted.' 'Very particular?' inquired Mr. Bolter. 'No,' replied Fagin, 'not very. He was charged with attempting to pick a pocket, and they found a silver snuff-box on him,--his own, my dear, his own, for he took snuff himself, and was very fond of it. They remanded him till to-day, for they thought they knew the owner. Ah! he was worth fifty boxes, and I'd give the price of as many to have him back. You should have known the Dodger, my dear; you should have known the Dodger.' 'Well, but I shall know him, I hope; don't yer think so?' said Mr. Bolter. 'I'm doubtful about it,' replied Fagin, with a sigh. 'If they don't get any fresh evidence, it'll only be a summary conviction, and we shall have him back again after six weeks or so; but, if they do, it's a case of lagging. They know what a clever lad he is; he'll be a lifer. They'll make the Artful nothing less than a lifer.' 'What do you mean by lagging and a lifer?' demanded Mr. Bolter. 'What's the good of talking in that way to me; why don't yer speak so as I can understand yer?' Fagin was about to translate these mysterious expressions into the vulgar tongue; and, being interpreted, Mr. Bolter would have been informed that they represented that combination of words, 'transportation for life,' when the dialogue was cut short by the entry of Master Bates, with his hands in his breeches-pockets, and his face twisted into a look of semi-comical woe. 'It's all up, Fagin,' said Charley, when he and his new companion had been made known to each other. 'What do you mean?' 'They've found the gentleman as owns the box; two or three more's a coming to 'dentify him; and the Artful's booked for a passage out,' replied Master Bates. 'I must have a full suit of mourning, Fagin, and a hatband, to wisit him in,


from it in a panic. Straight away he raced, with Dolly, panting and frothing, one leap behind; nor could she gain on him, so great was his terror, nor could he leave her, so great was her madness. He plunged through the wooded breast of the island, flew down to the lower end, crossed a back channel filled with rough ice to another island, gained a third island, curved back to the main river, and in desperation started to cross it. And all the time, though he did not look, he could hear her snarling just one leap behind. Francois called to him a quarter of a mile away and he doubled back, still one leap ahead, gasping painfully for air and putting all his faith in that Francois would save him. The dog-driver held the axe poised in his hand, and as Buck shot past him the axe crashed down upon mad Dolly's head. Buck staggered over against the sled, exhausted, sobbing for breath, helpless. This was Spitz's opportunity. He sprang upon Buck, and twice his teeth sank into his unresisting foe and ripped and tore the flesh to the bone. Then Francois's lash descended, and Buck had the satisfaction of watching Spitz receive the worst whipping as yet administered to any of the teams. "One devil, dat Spitz," remarked Perrault. "Some dam day heem keel dat Buck." "Dat Buck two devils," was Francois's rejoinder. "All de tam I watch dat Buck I know for sure. Lissen: some dam fine day heem get mad lak hell an' den heem chew dat Spitz all up an) spit heem out on de snow. Sure. I know." From then on it was war between them. Spitz, as lead-dog and acknowledged master of the team, felt his supremacy threatened by this strange Southland dog. And strange Buck was to him, for of the many Southland dogs he had known, not one had shown up worthily in camp and on trail. They were all too soft, dying under the toil, the frost, and starvation. Buck was the exception. He alone endured and prospered, matching the husky in strength, savagery, and cunning. Then he was a masterful dog, and what made him dangerous was the fact that the club of the man in the red sweater had knocked all blind pluck and rashness out of his desire for mastery. He was preeminently cunning, and could bide his time with a patience that was nothing less than primitive. It was inevitable that the clash for leadership should come. Buck wanted it. He wanted it because it was his nature, because he had been gripped tight by that nameless, incomprehensible pride of the trail and trace--that pride which holds dogs in the toil to the last gasp, which lures them to die joyfully in the harness, and breaks their hearts if they are cut out of the harness. This was the pride of Dave as wheel-dog, of Sol-leks as he pulled with all his strength; the pride that laid hold of them at break of camp, transforming them from


prefer to communicate with you alone." I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into my chair. "It is both, or none," said he. "You may say before this gentleman anything which you may say to me." The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. "Then I must begin," said he, "by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of that time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not too much to say that it is of such weight it may have an influence upon European history." "I promise," said Holmes. "And I." "You will excuse this mask," continued our strange visitor. "The august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I may confess at once that the title by which I have just called myself is not exactly my own." "I was aware of it," said Holmes drily. "The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia." "I was also aware of that," murmured Holmes, settling himself down in his armchair and closing his eyes. Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid, lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic client. "If your Majesty would condescend to state your case," he remarked, "I should be better able to advise you." The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. "You are right," he cried; "I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal it?" "Why, indeed?" murmured Holmes. "Your Majesty had not spoken before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia." "But you can understand," said our strange visitor, sitting down once more and passing his hand over his high white forehead, "you can understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to an agent without putting myself in his power. I have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting you." "Then, pray consult," said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more. "The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the wellknown adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you." "Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor," murmured Holmes without opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of docketing all paragraphs


asshole,” Turner said. “That’s the oath. Let’s get on with it.” Dawes wiped her hands on her jeans and took up her position beside the whiteboard, where she’d drawn a rough plan of Sterling. She pointed to the entrance, to the first station of the Gauntlet. “We’ll arrive at eleven sharp to get settled. Stay in the Linonia Room. We’ll be using a very basic shrouding glamour to keep ourselves hidden when the library closes.” “What are we going to tell Lauren?” Mercy whispered as Dawes described where in Linonia they should hide and which part of the room would be glamoured. “She’s going to be furious if we leave the party early.” Alex wasn’t sure. It would have to be something so dull Lauren wouldn’t want to come along. “There is very little guidance to work from,” Dawes continued. “But it would be wise to fast for at least six hours before. Do not consume any meat or dairy.” “Only vegans go to hell?” Tripp said with a laugh. Dawes looked at him with her stern, studious eyes. “You’re going to want empty bowels.” That shut him up fast. Dawes gestured to Mercy. “Our sentinel will be stationed in the courtyard. The four pilgrims will walk the Gauntlet together starting at one o’clock exactly.” “How are we protecting Mercy?” Alex asked. Mercy held up a small red notebook. “I’ve got my death words.” “You’ll want to commit them to memory,” said Dawes. Mercy grinned. “Quid tibi, mors, faciam quae nulli parcere nosti?” “You speak Latin?” Tripp asked disbelievingly. Mercy’s smile faded, and she cast Tripp a look of pure contempt. “When I have to. Death words work better in dead languages, okay?” Alex was surprised at the edge in Mercy’s voice, but Tripp just shrugged. “If you say so.” “What does it mean?” asked Turner. “What am I going to do with you, Death, who spares no one?” quoted Mercy. “It’s funny, right? Like Death is a bad party guest.” “I’m all for Latin,” said Alex, “but death words aren’t going to help against a demon.” “I have something in mind for that,” said Dawes. “Salt armor,” Mercy said. Dawes beamed at her. “Exactly.” Alex was embarrassed to feel a pang of jealousy at that proud look, another unpleasant reminder that she was the interloper here. “What happens when the library closes?” asked Turner. “We walk the stations of the Gauntlet together.” Dawes gestured to the sideboard. “Mercy will set the metronome ticking. The rhythm has to remain uninterrupted until the ritual is complete.” That didn’t make much sense to Alex. “I don’t think they had metronomes in Thonis.” “No,” agreed Dawes. “In times past, a whole group of people would have stood sentinel and kept the beat with drums or other instruments. But we don’t have a group and we don’t know how long we’ll be. We can’t risk Mercy getting fatigued or interrupted.” Tick tick tick. The bomb waiting to go off. “We’ll begin outside at the scribe,” Dawes continued, “and mark the entrance with our mingled blood.” Turner


not be there. I don’t know,’ I said, raking my hand through my hair. ‘I thought it was what I wanted and then I just freaked out.’ The shelves of books around us muffled the outside world. Wisps of blond hair fell about her face and her red cheeks glowed with the turmoil of emotion. She bit her lip and leaned back against a bookshelf, considering her words. ‘Love is scary.’ ‘Someone should write that book.’ She smiled and looked directly into my eyes as though trying to decide something. ‘Are you in love?’ Such a simple question, but coming from her, in this context, I didn’t know what the answer was. Did I know what love was supposed to feel like? Had I ever been in love? There was the initial attraction, then a kind of comfortableness followed by a sense of … what? Unease. Like I knew all along that I had chosen the most sensible path and now resented every step I took upon it. As though I’d signed up for the wrong course in university and with each passing day was feeling more and more trapped. Looking over my shoulder for the life I should have had and never really being present in my own life. She gave up waiting for an answer. ‘I’m starting to think maybe love isn’t supposed to be scary. Maybe I didn’t love Shane at all. I thought I did, but that’s the trap, isn’t it? Fooling yourself into believing that it’s your fault for not doing it right. But if I’d known it wasn’t really love, I would have left sooner.’ She wasn’t talking to me any more, although her words rang true for me. It sounded like a conversation she’d had many times with herself. ‘I thought that’s what love was – sticking by someone, no matter what. Waiting for the person I’d fallen in love with at the start to come back.’ I wanted to reach out to her, hold her, but I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do. ‘How could he hurt you?’ I whispered, seeing the little girl inside of her that just wanted to be loved. Not beaten black and blue. She looked up at me with an expression that was completely unguarded. I didn’t overthink this time and reached out to touch her cheek, brushing the tears away. She let her face be held and I could feel her melting into me. Before I knew it, she was in my arms, her head buried in the space between my shoulder and my chest. We didn’t speak any more words. It felt as though the books were protecting us and I hoped the moment would go on forever, my fingers lost in tangles of her hair as I caressed the back of her neck. ‘Christ,’ I said eventually, unsure if I had spoken aloud or not, until she pulled back and looked up at me. ‘What is it?’ I searched for words that wouldn’t scare her off or make me sound like an