the biggest, ugliest greatsword that Bran had ever seen. All along the benches, his sons and brothers and sworn swords leapt to their feet, grabbing for their steel. Yet Robb only said a quiet word, and in a snarl and the blink of an eye Lord Umber was on his back, his sword spinning on the floor three 506 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN feet away and his hand dripping blood where Grey Wind had bitten off two fingers. "My lord father taught me that it was death to bare steel against your liege lord," Robb said, "but doubtless you only meant to cut my meat." Bran's bowels went to water as the Greatjon struggled to rise, sucking at the red stumps of fingers . . . but then, astonishingly, the huge man laughed. "Your meat," he roared, "is bloody tough. " And somehow after that the Greatjon became Robb's right hand, his staunchest champion, loudly telling all and sundry that the boy lord was a Stark after all, and they'd damn well better bend their knees if they didn't fancy having them chewed off. Yet that very night, his brother came to Bran's bedchamber pale and shaken, after the fires had burned low in the Great Hall. "I thought he was going to kill me," Robb confessed. "Did you see the way he threw down Hal, like he was no bigger than Rickon? Gods, I was so scared. And the Greatjon's not the worst of them, only the loudest. Lord Roose never says a word, he only looks at me, and all I can think of is that room they have in the Dreadfort, where the Boltons hang the skins of their enemies." "That's just one of Old Nan's stories," Bran said. A note of doubt crept into his voice. "Isn't it?" "I don't know." He gave a weary shake of his head. "Lord Cerwyn means to take his daughter south with us. To cook for him, he says. Theon is certain I'll find the girl in my bedroll one night. I wish . . . I wish Father was here . . ." That was the one thing they could agree on, Bran and Rickon and Robb the Lord; they all wished Father was here. But Lord Eddard was a thousand leagues away, a captive in some dungeon, a hunted fugitive running for his life, or even dead. No one seemed to know for certain; every traveler told a different tale, each more terrifying than the last. The heads of Father's guardsmen were rotting on the walls of the Red Keep, impaled on spikes. King Robert was dead at Father's hands. The Baratheons had laid siege to King's Landing. Lord Eddard had fled south with the king's wicked brother Renly. Arya and Sansa had been murdered by the Hound. Mother had killed Tyrion the Imp and hung his body from the walls of Riverrun. Lord Tywin Lannister was marching on the Eyrie, burning and slaughtering as he went. One winesodden taleteller even claimed that Rhaegar Targaryen had returned from the dead and


to him: 'Have you seen her? For Nniel is gone.' And he answered: 'Nniel is gone for ever. The Dragon is dead, and Turambar is dead; and those tidings are good.' The people murmured at these words, saying that he was crazed; but Brandir said: 'Hear me to the end! Nniel the beloved is also dead. She cast herself into Teiglin, desiring life no more; for she learned that she was none other than Nienor daughter of Hrin of Dor-lmin, ere her forgetfulness came upon her, and that Turambar was her brother, Trin son of Hrin. ' But even as he ceased, and the people wept, Trin himself came before them. For when the dragon died, his swoon left him, and he fell into a deep sleep of weariness. But the cold of the night troubled him, and the hilts of Gurthang drove into his side, and he awoke. Then he saw that one had tended his hand, and he wondered much that he was left nonetheless to lie upon the cold ground; and he called, and hearing no answer he went in search of aid, for he was weary and sick. But when the people saw him they drew back in fear, thinking that it was his unquiet spirit; and he said: 'Nay, be glad; for the Dragon is dead, and I live. But wherefore have you scorned my counsel, and come into peril? And where is Nniel? For her I would see. And surely you did not bring her from her home?' Then Brandir told him that it was so, and Nniel was dead. But the wife of Dorlas cried out: 'Nay, lord, he is crazed. For he came here saying that you were dead, and he called it good tidings. But you live.' Then Turambar was wrathful, and believed that all Brandir said or did was done in malice towards himself and Nniel, begrudging their love; and he spoke evilly to Brandir, calling him Club-foot. Then Brandir reported all that he had heard, and named Nniel Nienor daughter of Hrin, and he cried out upon Turambar with the last words of Glaurung, that he was a curse unto his kin and to all that harboured him. Then Turambar fell into a fury, for in those words he heard the feet of his doom overtaking him; and he charged Brandir with leading Nniel to her death, and publishing with delight the lies of Glaurung, if indeed be devised them not himself. Then he cursed Brandir, and slew him; and he fled from the people into the woods. But after a while his madness left him, and he came to Haudh-en-Elleth, and there sat, and pondered all his deeds. And he cried upon Finduilas to bring him counsel; for he knew not whether he would do now more ill to go to Doriath to seek his kin, or to forsake them for ever and seek death in battle. And even as he sat there Mablung with a company of Grey-elves came over the Crossings of Teiglin, and he knew Trin, and


its claws across its face. The golem stumbled, the puppets screamed, and Louise saw Poppy rear back as if something had exploded inside her head, and she sat down hard on her bottom and didn’t move. Louise needed to help her, she needed to go to her, and then she saw Pupkin stirring on the end of Poppy’s arm and she knew what she actually needed to do. With the last strength left in her tortured muscles, Louise forced herself onto her hands and knees and crawled back to her hole. She didn’t have her shovel anymore. She shoved her arms in up to their elbows and hauled out dirt. She scraped it out. She lost a nail. As Spider tore the reeling golem apart, puppet by puppet, Louise pulled one handful of dirt after another out of Freddie’s grave. The first cold raindrop hit the back of her neck like a bullet, but she was too exhausted to care. Scattered drops tapped the ground around her, then started sizzling through the bamboo, pattering against the soft cypress leaves, and as the sound of the screaming puppets died inside her skull, the clouds unleashed a biblical flood. Louise hunched over in the dead backyard, rain spiking out of the sky, stabbing into her back like spears, but she couldn’t stop digging. She sensed something big coming and she threw her head back and looked. Spider trotted toward her in the pouring rain, flickering in and out of existence, head lowered, eyes fixed on Louise. Behind him she saw a scattered pile of puppets, still squirming in the dirt as it turned to mud, some tottering up onto their legs to run, then falling motionless after only a few steps. Beyond them, she saw Poppy sitting on the ground, slumped forward, not moving in the hissing rain. Spider’s breath steamed in the cold as he came closer, and Louise’s scabs gave a nauseating twinge. He looked at her curiously, and then his enormous maw irised open and his long tongue slithered out and around its edges. She looked down and saw the hole filling up with water; her hands felt as stiff and cold and useless as hooks. It wasn’t deep enough. It wasn’t nearly deep enough. She looked up at Spider. “Dig!” she commanded. He cocked his head to one side and began to growl. “Dig, Spider!” Louise repeated. This time she leaned forward at the waist and made herself thrust her hands into the icy water and haul up two fistfuls of mud. The skin on her hands screamed in agony. “Dig!” she commanded and pointed at the hole. “Spider! Dig!” He stepped toward her and she got ready to close her eyes, and then Spider stopped growling and thrust his two enormous front paws into the water at the bottom of the hole and began to dig. His second set of paws joined in, and then an arc of dirt and mud fountained through the air between his back legs, like a chainsaw biting into the ground. The flying soil


at aprés-ski. We’d gone back to my cousin’s chalet, where we were staying,

and Cress was washing her face, brushing her teeth, while I was sitting on

the edge of the bath. We were talking about nothing special, as I recall, but

suddenly she asked about my mother.

Unique. A girlfriend asking about my mother. But it was also the way she

asked. Her tone was just the right blend of curiosity and compassion. The

way she reacted to my answer was just right too. Surprised, concerned, with

no judgment.

Maybe other factors were at play as well. The alchemy of physical

fatigue and Swiss hospitality. The fresh air and alcohol. Maybe it was the

softly falling snow outside the windows, or the culmination of seventeen

years of suppressed grief. Maybe it was maturity. Whatever the reason or

combination of reasons, I answered her, straight-out, and then started to cry.

I remember thinking: Oh, I’m crying.

And saying to her: This is the first time I’ve...

Cressida leaned towards me: What do you mean...first time?

This is the first time I’ve been able to cry about my mum since the burial.

Wiping my eyes, I thanked her. She was the first person to help me across

that barrier, to help me unleash the tears. It was cathartic, it accelerated our

bond, and added an element rare in past relationships: immense gratitude. I

was indebted to Cress, and that was the reason why, when we got home

256

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

from Kazakhstan, I felt so miserable, because at some point during that ski

trip I’d realized that we weren’t a match.

I just knew. Cress, I think, knew as well. There was massive affection,

deep and abiding loyalty—but not love everlasting. She was always clear

about not wanting to take on the stresses of being a royal, and I was never

sure I wanted to ask her to do so, and this unalterable fact, though it had

been lurking in the background for some time, became undeniable on those

Kazakh slopes.

 <p


know. I feel as if you had been inside that garden." She did not know what to say, so she did not say anything. He evidently did not expect an answer and the next moment he gave her a surprise. "I am going to let you look at something," he said. "Do you see that rose-colored silk curtain hanging on the wall over the mantel-piece?" Mary had not noticed it before, but she looked up and saw it. It was a curtain of soft silk hanging over what seemed to be some picture. "Yes," she answered. "There is a cord hanging from it," said Colin. "Go and pull it." Mary got up, much mystified, and found the cord. When she pulled it the silk curtain ran back on rings and when it ran back it uncovered a picture. It was the picture of a girl with a laughing face. She had bright hair tied up with a blue ribbon and her gay, lovely eyes were exactly like Colin's unhappy ones, agate gray and looking twice as big as they really were because of the black lashes all round them. "She is my mother," said Colin complainingly. "I don't see why she died. Sometimes I hate her for doing it." "How queer!" said Mary. "If she had lived I believe I should not have been ill always," he grumbled. "I dare say I should have lived, too. And my father would not have hated to look at me. I dare say I should have had a strong back. Draw the curtain again." Mary did as she was told and returned to her footstool. "She is much prettier than you," she said, "but her eyes are just like yours--at least they are the same shape and color. Why is the curtain drawn over her?" He moved uncomfortably. "I made them do it," he said. "Sometimes I don't like to see her looking at me. She smiles too much when I am ill and miserable. Besides, she is mine and I don't want everyone to see her." There were a few moments of silence and then Mary spoke. "What would Mrs. Medlock do if she found out that I had been here?" she inquired. "She would do as I told her to do," he answered. "And I should tell her that I wanted you to come here and talk to me every day. I am glad you came." "So am I," said Mary. "I will come as often as I can, but"--she hesitated--"I shall have to look every day for the garden door." "Yes, you must," said Colin, "and you can tell me about it afterward." He lay thinking a few minutes, as he had done before, and then he spoke again. "I think you shall be a secret, too," he said. "I will not tell them until they find out. I can always send the nurse out of the room and say that I want to be by myself. Do you know Martha?" "Yes, I know her very well," said Mary. "She waits on


and I’d never forgive myself for jeopardizing a job like that. We’ll go our separate ways when the book is done, anyway. No attachments. No feelings. “Could you make it out to Noemie? That’s N-o-e—” “Nome?” The sound that comes out of my mouth can only be compared to a pterodactyl screech. I leap out of my chair, its legs squealing against the linoleum floor. There she is, the last person in the signing line, grinning back at me. “You made it!” I nearly knock over a stack of Finnegan Walsh headshots in my attempt to hug her. No shock, she looks extremely put together even after a six-hour flight, dark hair in a low ponytail and not a single crease in her linen pants. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you.” When I release her, she’s gazing at Finn with what might as well be heart-eyes. “This is the famous Noemie,” Finn says, and my cousin looks like she might faint. “You told him about me?” she stage-whispers. “Only the embarrassing things.” And I mentioned she was flying in, of course, white-lying that she had some spontaneous time off and wanted some sun. Finn extends a hand. “Pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.” “Icantbelieveyourereal,” she says in one breath. “I was trying to play it cool when I was in line just now, but . . . oh my god. You’re him. I mean, he’s you. And you’re about a hundred times cuter in person. Not that you aren’t cute on TV. I mean—” She inhales, trying to collect herself, a blush tingeing her cheeks. “Wow. This is why I shouldn’t be let out of the house.” Finn laughs. “Thank you. I’m actually quite glad you left the house.” “I’ve been trying to get Chandler to watch The Nocturnals for years,” Noemie continues, straightening her posture to her full height. “When she told me she was meeting you, I nearly died. I’ve always felt that Hollywood never properly recognized you. You should have been getting better roles. More challenging, more interesting roles.” Finn throws a pointed look my way. “It’s so nice to finally be around someone who appreciates my talent.” It’s a testament to said talent that he’s able to say this with a straight face. “Oh please,” I say with a roll of my eyes, waving an arm around the room. “What do you think all of this is?” Finn bites back a grin before he returns his attention to my slowly melting cousin. “Chandler told me you’re really into subscription boxes,” he says, and Noemie bobs her head in a nod. He takes out his phone, swipes through some photos. “I did one of those for cocktails a few years ago. That’s the only reason I have a somewhat decent cart.” “I’ve gotten that one! It’s great.” The two of them start comparing their monthly boxes, chattering away. This whole thing is surreal, my best friend and my . . . whatever Finn is. Collaborator doesn’t sound quite right, and yet neither


he is disturbed." "We'll be as quiet as mice in the house!" said Dick. "Honestly we will. Oh, goody, goody- when are we going, Daddy?" "Next week, if Mother can manage it," said Daddy. Mother nodded her head. "Yes," she said, "There's nothing much to get ready for them- just bathing suits and jerseys and shorts. They all wear the same." "How lovely it will be to wear shorts again," said Anne, dancing round. "I'm tired of wearing school tunics. I want to wear shorts, or a bathing suit, and go bathing and climbing with the boys." "Well, you'll soon be doing it," said Mother, with a laugh. "Remember to put ready any toys or books you want, won't you? Not many, please, because there won't be a great deal of room." "Anne wanted to take all her fifteen dolls with her last year," said Dick, "Do you remember, Anne? Weren't you funny?" "No, I wasn't," said Anne, going red. "I love my dolls, and I just couldn't choose which to take- so I thought I'd take them all. There's nothing funny about that." "And do you remember, the year before, Anne wanted to take the rocking-horse?" said Dick, with a giggle. Mother chimed in. "You know, I remember a little boy called Dick who put aside two golliwogs, one teddy bear, three toy dogs, two toy cats and his old monkey to take down to Polseath one year," she said. Then it was Dick's turn to go red. He changed the subject at once. "Daddy, are we going by train or by car?" he asked. "By car," said Daddy. "We can pile everything into the boot. Well- what about Tuesday?" "That would suit me well," said Mother. "Then we could take the children down, come back, and do our own packing at leisure, and start off for Scotland on the Friday. Yes- we'll arrange for Tuesday." So Tuesday it was. The children counted the days eagerly, and Anne marked one off the calendar each night. The week seemed a very long time in going. But at last Tuesday did come. Dick and Julian, who shared a room, woke up at about the same moment, and stared out of the nearby window. "It's a lovely day, hurrah!" cried Julian, leaping out of bed. "I don't know why, but it always seems very important that it should be sunny on the first day of a holiday. Let's wake Anne." Anne slept in the next room. Julian ran in and shook her. "Wake up! It's Tuesday! And the sun's shining." Anne woke up with a jump and stared at Julian joyfully. "It's come at last!" she said. "I thought it never would. Oh, isn't it an exciting feeling to go away for a holiday!" They started soon after breakfast. Their car was a big one, so it held them all very comfortably. Mother sat in front with Daddy, and the three children sat behind, their feet on two suitcases. In the luggage-place at the back of the car were all kinds of odds and


refrain from insult as much as you are able. Having levelled my palace, don't erect a hovel and complacently admire your own charity in giving me that for a home. lf I imag- ined you really wished me to marry Isabel, I'd cut my throat!" "Oh, the evil is that I am not jealous, is it?" cried Catherine. "Well, I won't repeat my offer of a wife. It is as bad as offering Satan a lost soul. Your bliss lies, like his, in inflicting misery. You prove it. Edgar is re- stored from the ill-temper he gave way to at your com- ing. I begin to be secure and tranquil; and you, restless to know us at peace, appear resolved on exciting a quar- rel. Quarrel with Edgar, if you please, Heathcliff, and deceive his sister. You'll hit on exactly the most effi- cient method of revenging yourself on me." The conversation ceased. Mrs. Linton sat down by the fire, flushed and gloomy. The spirit which served her was growing intractable; she could neither lay nor control it. He stood on the hearth with folded arms, brooding on his evil thoughts; and in this position I left them to seek the master, who was wondering what kept Catherine below so long. "Ellen," said he, when I entered, "have you seen your mistress?" "Yes; she's in the kitchen, sir," I answered. "She's sadly put out by Mr. Heathcliff's behaviour; and, in- deed, I do think it's time to arrange his visits on another footing. There's harm in being too soft, and now it's come to this------" And I related the scene in the court, and, as near as I dared, the whole subsequent dispute. I fancied it could not be very prejudicial to Mrs. Linton, unless she made it so afterwards by assuming the de- fensive for her guest. Edgar Linton had difficulty in hearing me to the close. His first words revealed that he did not clear his wife of blame. "This is insufferable!" he exclaimed. "It is disgrace- ful that she should own him for a friend, and force his company on me! Call me two men out of the hall, Ellen. Catherine shall linger no longer to argue with the low ruffian. I have humoured her enough." He descended, and bidding the servants wait in the passage, went, followed by me, to the kitchen. Its oc- cupants had recommenced their angry discussion. Mrs. Linton, at least, was scolding with renewed vigour. Heathcliff had moved to the window, and hung his head, somewhat cowed by her violent rating apparently. He saw the master first, and made a hasty motion that she should be silent; which she obeyed abruptly, on dis- covering the reason of his intimation. "How is this?" said Linton, addressing her. "What notion of propriety must you have to remain here, after the language which has been held to you by that black- guard? I suppose, because it is his ordinary talk, you think nothing of it. You are habituated to his baseness, and, perhaps, imagine I can get


we could sleep in here instead of one of the regular cabins. Also, it was pretty chilly, so she thought we needed the heat. But the intermittent whir of the unit that kept one side of the cabin infernally hot while the other remained freezing cold turning on and off made it impossible to sleep. Mary Stuart and Lanier had wisely chosen the two beds in the center of the room. I started out in the bed closest to the heater, woke up in a full sweat, moved my sleeping bag to the bed on the other end, and was so freezing I couldn’t possibly fall back asleep. Instead, I lay thinking about my songbird summer. My mother had just married Vincent, who I barely knew, and we were leaving the only home I’d ever known in Cape Carolina to move to New York, where Vincent was from. I remember how excited my mom had seemed, how wild. I didn’t know about drugs yet or what my mother was like when she was on them. How could I have? She had been clean for seven years. Maybe it was Vincent who yanked her off the wagon. Or the marriage. Or the move. But I know now the reason I spent the entire summer—almost three months—at camp when the rest of my friends only spent two weeks was because June had given my mother an ultimatum. She could clean herself up while I was gone or she would keep me. I know that’s not how custody works, exactly. But the threat must have done the trick. And I guess my mother somehow convinced June that she was better by the time I had to go home. I remember sitting in June’s lap, crying, my tears falling into her camp T-shirt that smelled like whatever industrial detergent the laundry service used. “I don’t want to go to New York. I don’t like Vincent. I want to stay here with you.” “I know, baby. But you have to see your mom. And I have to stay here to see the staff off.” It probably took all the strength in her body to drive me to the airport, to drop me off with a gate attendant whose facial expression said This is not in my job description while I wailed. June took me in her arms. “Remember how, when you came to camp, you’d never been on a sailboat?” I nodded, sniffling. “And how by the end of the summer you could take the boat out all on your own?” I nodded, wiping my eyes. She kissed each of my cheeks. “That’s how New York will be. It will be scary at first. But you’ll learn something new every day, and in a few weeks, you’ll be just as good at living in New York as you are at sailing.” I was dubious. “You’re my brave girl,” she whispered. Then she paused. “Do you remember my phone number?” June had quizzed me on her number all summer long and implored me that I was to call


settled, fanatic delirium was in his eyes. So soon as this figure had been first descried, Stubb had exclaimed -- That's he! that's he! the long-togged scaramouch the Town-Ho's company told us of! Stubb here alluded to a strange story told of the Jeroboam, and a certain man among her crew, some time previous when the Pequod spoke the Town-Ho. According to this account and what was subsequently learned, it seemed that the scaramouch in question had gained a wonderful ascendency over almost everybody in the Jeroboam. His story was this: He had been originally nurtured among the crazy society of Neskyeuna Shakers, where he had been a great prophet; in their cracked, secret meetings having several times descended from heaven by the way of a trap-door, announcing the speedy opening of the seventh vial, which he carried in his vest-pocket; but, which, instead of containing gunpowder, was supposed to be charged with laudanum. A strange, apostolic whim having seized him, he had left Neskyeuna for Nantucket, where, with that cunning peculiar to craziness, he assumed a steady, common sense exterior and offered himself as a green-hand candidate for the Jeroboam's whaling voyage. They engaged him; .. <p 313 > but straightway upon the ship's getting out of sight of land, his insanity broke out in a freshet. He announced himself as the archangel Gabriel, and commanded the captain to jump overboard. He published his manifesto, whereby he set himself forth as the deliverer of the isles of the sea and vicar-general of all Oceanica. The unflinching earnestness with which he declared these things; --the dark, daring play of his sleepless, excited imagination, and all the preternatural terrors of real delirium, united to invest this Gabriel in the minds of the majority of the ignorant crew, with an atmosphere of sacredness. Moreover, they were afraid of him. As such a man, however, was not of much practical use in the ship, especially as he refused to work except when he pleased, the incredulous captain would fain have been rid of him; but apprised that that individual's intention was to land him in the first convenient port, the archangel forthwith opened all his seals and vials -- devoting the ship and all hands to unconditional perdition, in case this intention was carried out. So strongly did he work upon his disciples among the crew, that at last in a body they went to the captain and told him if Gabriel was sent from the ship, not a man of them would remain. He was therefore forced to relinquish his plan. Nor would they permit Gabriel to be any way maltreated, say or do what he would; so that it came to pass that Gabriel had the complete freedom of the ship. The consequence of all this was, that the archangel cared little or nothing for the captain and mates; and since the epidemic had broken out, he carried a higher hand than ever; declaring that the plague, as he called it, was at his sole command; nor should it be stayed but according


doubts he turned to the front, and rang. The hour being early the landlady herself opened the door. Clare inquired for Teresa d'Urberville or Durbeyfield. "Mrs d'Urberville?" "Yes." Tess, then, passed as a married woman, and he felt glad, even though she had not adopted his name. "Will you kindly tell her that a relative is anxious to see her?" "It is rather early. What name shall I give, sir?" "Angel." "Mr Angel?" "No; Angel. It is my Christian name. She'll understand." "I'll see if she is awake." He was shown into the front room--the dining-room--and looked out through the spring curtains at the little lawn, and the rhododendrons and other shrubs upon it. Obviously her position was by no means so bad as he had feared, and it crossed his mind that she must somehow have claimed and sold the jewels to attain it. He did not blame her for one moment. Soon his sharpened ear detected footsteps upon the stairs, at which his heart thumped so painfully that he could hardly stand firm. "Dear me! what will she think of me, so altered as I am!" he said to himself; and the door opened. Tess appeared on the threshold--not at all as he had expected to see her--bewilderingly otherwise, indeed. Her great natural beauty was, if not heightened, rendered more obvious by her attire. She was loosely wrapped in a cashmere dressing-gown of gray-white, embroidered in half-mourning tints, and she wore slippers of the same hue. Her neck rose out of a frill of down, and her well-remembered cable of dark-brown hair was partially coiled up in a mass at the back of her head and partly hanging on her shoulder--the evident result of haste. He had held out his arms, but they had fallen again to his side; for she had not come forward, remaining still in the opening of the doorway. Mere yellow skeleton that he was now he felt the contrast between them, and thought his appearance distasteful to her. "Tess!" he said huskily, "can you forgive me for going away? Can't you--come to me? How do you get to be--like this?" "It is too late," said she, her voice sounding hard through the room, her eyes shining unnaturally. "I did not think rightly of you--I did not see you as you were!" he continued to plead. "I have learnt to since, dearest Tessy mine!" "Too late, too late!" she said, waving her hand in the impatience of a person whose tortures cause every instant to seem an hour. "Don't come close to me, Angel! No--you must not. Keep away." "But don't you love me, my dear wife, because I have been so pulled down by illness? You are not so fickle--I am come on purpose for you--my mother and father will welcome you now!" "Yes--O, yes, yes! But I say, I say it is too late." She seemed to feel like a fugitive in a dream, who tries to move away, but cannot. "Don't you know all--don't you know it? Yet how do you come here


was and he was struggling with the gearbox.’ He indicated the oil on his hands. ‘It weighed a ton.’ Lin stared at him. He had oil on his face. He was trembling. She spoke gently. ‘Come on. Let’s get you into a hot bath and make a nice cup of sweet tea, just like the paramedic said.’ ‘Thanks, Lindy.’ Neil allowed her to take his arm, to shepherd him home towards Barn Park. He muttered, ‘I can’t bear to think what might have happened if Dangerous had been on his own. He couldn’t move – and he was in agony all the time.’ ‘Let’s go home.’ Lin was mystified as to why Neil had been in the garage helping Dangerous Dave when he’d said he would take a walk before going to The Sun. She wondered where Carole Frost fitted in. Lin assumed she was the blonde woman that Kenny had referred to. She glanced at Neil, feeling his weight as he leaned against her. She’d get him home, make him tea, look after him. That came first. Later, when he was calm, she’d ask him all the questions that were bubbling inside her head. There had to be a simple answer, one she hadn’t thought of yet. Or perhaps it was the one she feared most: he was in love with someone else. And if that was the case, Lin was ready. 31 Three days later, in the early evening, Florence and Adam helped Dangerous Dave, who was on crutches, into the hospital lift at Tadderly General. No bones were broken and the wound was healing; he was cracking jokes and in good spirits. He’d have to stay at home for a while, but he didn’t mind – Florence was just a few weeks away from her due date, so they could keep each other company in front of the TV. He grinned happily as the automatic doors swung open and they walked towards the car park. A silver Porsche Boxster slowed down in front of them and a pretty nurse slid out, waving as the car sped away. Florence shepherded her father towards Adam’s old banger. Dangerous Dave eased himself into the front seat and Adam helped Florence to wriggle into the back, adjusting her seat belt, making sure she could stretch her legs comfortably. Once they were back home, Adam put the kettle on and rang the takeaway to order a delivery, bringing in a tray of tea before settling down on the sofa next to Florence. Dave closed his eyes, relaxing in the armchair with his bandaged leg sticking out. Adam rested an arm on the back of the sofa behind Florence. ‘Are we all going to the Autumn Festival?’ ‘I’m not going to be much good at the bun throwing,’ Dave said with a laugh and pointed towards Florence. ‘Nor are you, princess.’ Adam glanced at Florence protectively. ‘I thought we could wander down to the village green and enjoy the stalls.’ ‘When is it?’ Florence asked. ‘I’ll go as long as I feel up to it.’


which is Mount Doom. And Sauron gathered to him great strength of his servants out of the east and the south; and among them were not a few of the high race of Nmenor. For in the days of the sojourn of Sauron in that land the hearts of well nigh all its people had been turned towards darkness. Therefore many of those who sailed east in that time and made fortresses and dwellings upon the coasts were already bent to his will, and they served him still gladly in Middle-earth. But because of the power of Gil-galad these renegades, lords both mighty and evil, for the most part took up their abodes in the southlands far away; yet two there were, Herumor and Fuinur, who rose to power among the Haradrim, a great and cruel people that dwelt in the wide lands south of Mordor beyond the mouths of Anduin. When therefore Sauron saw his time he came with great force against the new realm of Gondor, and he took Minas Ithil, and he destroyed the White Tree of Isildur that grew there. But Isildur escaped, and taking with him a seedling of the Tree he went with his wife and his sons by ship down the River, and they sailed from the mouths of Anduin seeking Elendil. Meanwhile Anrion held Osgiliath against the Enemy, and for that time drove him back to the mountains; but Sauron gathered his strength again, and Anrion knew that unless help should come his kingdom would not long stand. Now Elendil and Gil-galad took counsel together, for they perceived that Sauron would grow too strong and would overcome all his enemies one by one, if they did not unite against him. Therefore they made that League which is called the Last Alliance, and they marched east into Middle-earth gathering a great host of Elves and Men; and they halted for a while at Imladris. It is said that the host that was there assembled was fairer and more splendid in arms than any that has since been seen in Middle-earth, and none greater has been mustered since the host of the Valar went against Thangorodrim. From Imladris they crossed the Misty Mountains by many passes and marched down the River Anduin, and so came at last upon the host of Sauron on Dagorlad, the Battle Plain, which lies before the gate of the Black Land. All living things were divided in that day, and some of every kind, even of beasts and birds, were found in either host, save the Elves only. They alone were undivided and followed Gil-galad. Of the Dwarves few fought upon either side; but the kindred of Durin of Moria fought against Sauron. The host of Gil-galad and Elendil had the victory, for the might of the Elves was still great in those days, and the Nmenreans were strong and tall, and terrible in their wrath. Against Aeglos the spear of Gil-galad none could stand; and the sword of Elendil filled Orcs and Men with fear, for it shone with the


hadn’t, so who left the note? The same person who had known where Marcus Barnes kept his gun. The person who had put the gate code in at 4:47 a.m. I thought of Liv, glancing back toward the car before slinging herself easily over the gate. Liv at fifteen, skirting the living room because her father had the gun out to clean it. Liv looking me in the eye. I’ll see you tomorrow. Liv never used the gate code—she just climbed over. But Cass knew the code and she knew where the gun was kept. There hadn’t been a note eight years ago. Not that we’d found, at least. That time, I’d known it was coming. We’d all known, hoping we were wrong and terrified we were right. The meds hadn’t been helping. They were part of the problem—the high dosage that made her hands shake until she couldn’t hold a pencil to draw a straight line. Her notebooks were full of abandoned, sloppy sketches. Her handwriting had been huge and messy, slewing across the page. Nothing like the tiny, precise lettering she usually had. But exactly like the suicide note. The note was from eight years ago. It seemed so unlikely—who would have such a thing? After eight years, carefully preserved? Tucked away in a box of secrets. Cass frowned at me, uncertainty disrupting her careful mask of concern. “Listen, Naomi. I can try to talk Cody down, but I’ve got to know what exactly is going on here,” she said. “As if you don’t know.” “All I know is that I got a panicked call from Cody saying that you knew something and he was going to take care of it, and I should come meet him,” she said. “And you know about Jessi. You know what he did to her.” “Sort of,” she hedged. I could almost see the shift behind her eyes, her lies rebalancing. It was a neat trick. “He told me what happened to Liv.” Her lips parted. Her head cocked slightly, curiously, as she tried to rebalance again. “What happened to Liv,” she repeated softly. Not sure how much I knew. “He killed her so she wouldn’t be able to tell anyone about Persephone. But, Cass, there’s no way he could have known that she was about to tell us. Unless … unless you already knew,” I said. Cass’s lips pressed together. “I knew my dad was fucking Jessi. And I knew what it meant when Cody showed up at our house in the middle of the night, covered in blood and panicking. My dad talked him down. They didn’t know I saw.” “And when we found Persephone…” She drew something out of her pocket, staring down at it. Then she held it out to me. A plastic bag. Inside it was a chipped plastic name tag. CODY. A scrap of fabric still hung from the pin, and a splotch of what looked like dried blood marred one corner. “It was raining. I guess Cody gave her his work jacket,” she said. “Why wouldn’t you


you to see me. She told me I disgraced you both.’ ‘Esbar loves you with her soul, as we all do.’ ‘She loves the Mother more.’ ‘As we all must – but Siyu, I was there when Esbar gave birth to you. You have made her so proud over the years. This mistake is a small part of your life. It does not define it.’ Swallowing, Siyu managed a nod. Tunuva reached into her overskirt and took out the pouch. ‘For you. So you can smell the forest, at least.’ Siyu undid the tie. When she saw the delicate blue petals in the pouch, she drew out the bloom and held it to her cheek, tears running again. She had always loved dayflowers. ‘Thank you.’ She sank against Tunuva. ‘You’re always so good to me, Tuva. Even when I’m a fool.’ Tunuva kissed the top of her head. Even as she did, she remembered that Esbar could never be so tender with Siyu. She and Imsurin did not have that freedom. ‘I would like something in exchange,’ Tunuva said. ‘I would like you to tell me a story.’ ‘What story?’ ‘The one that matters most.’ Tunuva stroked her hair. ‘Come. The way Imin used to tell it to you.’ With a tiny smile, Siyu shifted across the bed, so Tunuva could lean into the bolsters. ‘Will you do the fire?’ Siyu asked her. ‘Of course.’ Siyu wiped her face once more, nestling close. ‘There is a Womb of Fire that roils beneath the world,’ she began. ‘Centuries ago, the molten flame within it rushed together, taking solid form. And that form was terrible indeed.’ With a twist of her fingers and a flick of her wrist, Tunuva conjured a bright flame and tossed it into the stove. It ignited the dry wood and tinder in a rush. Siyu shivered, toes curling. ‘Lava was its milk, and stone its flesh, and iron were its teeth.’ Her eyes collected the flickering light. ‘It drank until even its breath caught fire. This creature was the Nameless One, and in his ever-burning heart blazed one eternal need. The need for chaos.’ Tunuva remembered Balag telling her this story. How she had delighted in the chilling voices he would use, the shadows the men would make on the walls with their fingers. ‘Though the Womb of Fire is deeper and wider than any sea, it was not enough for the Nameless One,’ Siyu said, her voice strengthening. ‘He thirsted for the world above. He swam up through the molten fire and broke the very mantle of the earth, and his terrible form emerged from the Dreadmount. Fire streamed in a river down its slopes, consuming the city of Gulthaga, and smoke blackened the morning sky. Red lightning struck and struck again, and as the sun disappeared, the Nameless One took wing.’ In the stove, the flame burned hotter. ‘He sought the warmer climes to the south,’ Siyu said, ‘and so his dread shadow fell upon Yikala, where the House of Onjenyu ruled over the great domain of


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

being a reproach to me. His clothes were apt to look oily and smell of eating-houses. He wore his pantaloons very loose and baggy in summer. His coats were execrable; his hat not to be handled. But while the hat was a thing of indifference to me, inasmuch as his natural civility and deference, as a dependent Englishman, always led him to doff it the moment he entered the room, yet his coat was another matter. Concerning his coats, I reasoned with him; but with no effect. The truth was, I suppose, that a man of so small an income, could not afford to sport such a lustrous face and a lustrous coat at one and the same time. As Nippers once observed, Turkey’s money went chiefly for red ink. One winter day I presented Turkey with a highly-respectable looking coat of my own, a padded gray coat, of a most comfortable warmth, and which buttoned straight up from the knee to the neck. I thought Turkey would appreciate the favor, and abate his rashness and obstreperousness of afternoons. But no. I verily believe that buttoning himself up in so downy and blanket-like a coat had a pernicious effect upon him; upon the same principle that too much oats are bad for horses. In fact, precisely as a rash, restive horse is said to feel his oats, so Turkey felt his coat. It made him insolent. He was a man whom prosperity harmed. Though concerning the self-indulgent habits of Turkey I had my own private surmises, yet touching Nippers I was well persuaded that whatever might by his faults in other respects, he was, at least, a temperate young man. But indeed, nature herself seemed to have been his vintner, and at his birth charged him so thoroughly with an irritable, brandy-like disposition, that all subsequent potations were needless. When I consider how, amid the stillness of my chambers, Nippers would sometimes impatiently rise from his seat, and stooping over his table, spread his arms wide apart, seize the whole desk, and move it, and jerk it, with a grim, grinding motion on the floor, as if the table were a perverse voluntary agent, intent on thwarting and vexing him; I plainly perceive that for Nippers, brandy and water were altogether superfluous. It was fortunate for me that, owing to its peculiar cause—indigestion—the irritability and consequent nervousness of Nippers, were mainly observable in the morning, while in the afternoon he was comparatively mild. So that Turkey’s paroxysms only coming on about twelve o’clock, I never had to do with their eccentricities at one time. Their fits relieved each other like guards. When Nippers’ was on, Turkey’s was off; and vice versa. This was a good natural arrangement under the circumstances. Ginger Nut, the third on my list, was a lad some twelve years old. His father was a carman, ambitious of seeing his son on the bench instead of a cart, before he died. So he sent him to my office as student at law, errand boy, and cleaner and sweeper, at


up in the midst of them and bellowed four times, "Umuofia kwenu," and on each occasion he faced a different direction and seemed to push the air with a clenched fist. And ten thousand men answered "Yaa!" each time. Then there was perfect silence. Ogbuefi Ezeugo was a powerful orator and was always chosen to speak on such occasions. He moved his hand over his white head and stroked his white beard. He then adjusted his cloth, which was passed under his right arm-pit and tied above his left shoulder. "Umuofia kwenu," he bellowed a fifth time, and the crowd yelled in answer. And then suddenly like one possessed he shot out his left hand and pointed in the direction of Mbaino, and said through gleaming white teeth firmly clenched: "Those sons of wild animals have dared to murder a daughter of Umuofia." He threw his head down and gnashed his teeth, and allowed a murmur of suppressed anger to sweep the crowd. When he began again, the anger on his face was gone, and in its place a sort of smile hovered, more terrible and more sinister than the anger. And in a clear unemotional voice he told Umuofia how their daughter had gone to market at Mbaino and had been killed. That woman, said Ezeugo, was the wife of Ogbuefi Udo, and he pointed to a man who sat near him with a bowed head. The crowd then shouted with anger and thirst for blood. Many others spoke, and at the end it was decided to follow the normal course of action. An ultimatum was immediately dispatched to Mbaino asking them to choose between war - on the one hand, and on the other the offer of a young man and a virgin as compensation. Umuofia was feared by all its neighbours. It was powerful in war and in magic, and its priests and medicine men were feared in all the surrounding country. Its most potent war-medicine was as old as the clan itself. Nobody knew how old. But on one point there was general agreement--the active principle in that medicine had been an old woman with one leg. In fact, the medicine itself was called agadi-nwayi, or old woman. It had its shrine in the centre of Umuofia, in a cleared spot. And if anybody was so foolhardy as to pass by the shrine after dusk he was sure to see the old woman hopping about. And so the neighbouring clans who naturally knew of these things feared Umuofia, and would not go to war against it without first trying a peaceful settlement. And in fairness to Umuofia it should be recorded that it never went to war unless its case was clear and just and was accepted as such by its Oracle - the Oracle of the Hills and the Caves. And there were indeed occasions when the Oracle had forbidden Umuofia to wage a war. If the clan had disobeyed the Oracle they would surely have been beaten, because their dreaded agadi-nwayi would never fight what the


talk about it?’ ‘My partner died last year. He always wanted to go on a Caribbean cruise but we never got round to it so… I’m here by myself.’ Josie understood too well the effort it took to do things by herself nowadays. For a moment, she was lost in thought. David brought the drink to his lips again and said, ‘Alan and I were together for thirty-five years – we lived in Aberystwyth. We always said we’d take this cruise, but we kept putting it off.’ ‘I’m sorry.’ Josie gave David her full attention. ‘So, your ambition is to write a novel?’ ‘It is.’ He smiled and Josie noticed how his eyes shone with tears. ‘I’m going to make my hero a gay Welsh detective by the name of Alan. He’s going to be a handsome, gallant man with spectacles and a sharp intellect, just like my own Alan was.’ He gulped the margarita. ‘Tell me about yourself, why you’re here.’ He grinned. ‘We’re all looking for something.’ ‘I’m as fine as I can be.’ She noticed David inspecting her wedding ring. ‘I promised myself this trip. Tomorrow we’re doing…’ she recalled the brochure, ‘the calypso of Trinidad and the stunning scenery of St Lucia.’ She held up her glass. ‘I promised myself I’d celebrate.’ ‘Oh, I agree.’ David clinked his glass against Josie’s, although his face was sad. ‘It’s just tough by yourself.’ Josie thought he might cry again; she was tempted to stretch out a hand and squeeze his fingers. Instead, she said, ‘Our loved ones would want us to enjoy the rest of our time for their sakes. I’m not a believer in giving up, David, although it would be so easy.’ ‘It would… I’ve been feeling like I don’t want to try any more. I’m too… tired.’ ‘But we won’t give up, will we?’ Josie clutched the stem of her glass. ‘We owe it to them. You write your book, make your hero the best you can based on your beloved Alan and have a glorious time on the cruise, for him, for yourself.’ David nodded. ‘I will try. Thank you, Josie. You really are an inspiration.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m doing my best. It hasn’t always been easy.’ ‘Why?’ David met her eyes. ‘You’ve lost someone special too, have you?’ ‘I have.’ ‘I’m sorry.’ Josie felt the familiar mist of tears cloud her vision and she blinked hard. ‘My husband, Harry. This is our anniversary cruise.’ She drained her glass. ‘He died a year ago. I’m here because he wanted it so much. I won’t let him down. I’m celebrating for us both.’ ‘That’s wonderful.’ David sighed. ‘It’s a lovely thing to do.’ ‘I think so.’ Josie composed her face. ‘And I’m determined to have the best time. I’m thanking him in each moment for the precious years we had together.’ She swallowed. ‘This cruise is mine and Harry’s. It’s just that – there’s only me here.’ ‘Oh, that’s so true,’ David agreed. ‘And I’m here for Alan, the love of my life.’ He was


esteem. We met, after I had brought home little Miles, more intimately than ever on the ground of my stupefaction, my general emotion: so monstrous was I then ready to pronounce it that such a child as had now been revealed to me should be under an interdict. I was a little late on the scene, and I felt, as he stood wistfully looking out for me before the door of the inn at which the coach had put him down, that I had seen him, on the instant, without and within, in the great glow of freshness, the same positive fragrance of purity, in which I had, from the first moment, seen his little sister. He was incredibly beautiful, and Mrs. Grose had put her finger on it: everything but a sort of passion of tenderness for him was swept away by his presence. What I then and there took him to my heart for was something divine that I have never found to the same degree in any child-- his indescribable little air of knowing nothing in the world but love. It would have been impossible to carry a bad name with a greater sweetness of innocence, and by the time I had got back to Bly with him I remained merely bewildered--so far, that is, as I was not outraged-- by the sense of the horrible letter locked up in my room, in a drawer. As soon as I could compass a private word with Mrs. Grose I declared to her that it was grotesque. She promptly understood me. "You mean the cruel charge--?" "It doesn't live an instant. My dear woman, LOOK at him!" She smiled at my pretention to have discovered his charm. "I assure you, miss, I do nothing else! What will you say, then?" she immediately added. "In answer to the letter?" I had made up my mind. "Nothing." "And to his uncle?" I was incisive. "Nothing." "And to the boy himself?" I was wonderful. "Nothing." She gave with her apron a great wipe to her mouth. "Then I'll stand by you. We'll see it out." "We'll see it out!" I ardently echoed, giving her my hand to make it a vow. She held me there a moment, then whisked up her apron again with her detached hand. "Would you mind, miss, if I used the freedom--" "To kiss me? No!" I took the good creature in my arms and, after we had embraced like sisters, felt still more fortified and indignant. This, at all events, was for the time: a time so full that, as I recall the way it went, it reminds me of all the art I now need to make it a little distinct. What I look back at with amazement is the situation I accepted. I had undertaken, with my companion, to see it out, and I was under a charm, apparently, that could smooth away the extent and the far and difficult connections of such an effort. I was lifted aloft on a great wave of infatuation and pity.


the first, for she was full of ambition, and led her to adopt a double character without exactly intending to deceive any one. In the place where she heard Heathcliff termed a "vulgar young ruffian," and "worse than a brute," she took care not to act like him; but at home she had small inclination to practise politeness that would only be laughed at, and restrain an unruly nature when it would bring her neither credit nor praise. Mr. Edgar seldom mustered courage to visit Wuther- ing Heights openly. He had a terror of Earnshaw's repu- tation, and shrank from encountering him; and yet he was always received with our best attempts at civility. The master himself avoided offending him, knowing why he came; and if he could not be gracious, kept out of the way. I rather think his appearance there was dis- tasteful to Catherine. She was not artful, never played the coquette, and had evidently an objection to her two friends meeting at all; for when Heathcliff expressed contempt of Linton in his presence, she could not half coincide as she did in his absence; and when Linton evinced disgust and antipathy to Heathcliff, she dared not treat his sentiments with indifference, as if deprecia- tion of her playmate were of scarcely any consequence to her. I've had many a laugh at her perplexities and untold troubles, which she vainly strove to hide from my mockery. That sounds ill-natured, but she was so proud it became really impossible to pity her distresses, till she should be chastened into more humility. She did bring herself, finally, to confess, and to confide in me. There was not a soul else that she might fashion into an adviser. Mr. Hindley had gone from home one afternoon, and Heathcliff presumed to give himself a holiday on the strength of it. He had reached the age of sixteen then, I think, and without having bad features or being deficient in intellect, he contrived to convey an impres- sion of inward and outward repulsiveness that his pres- ent aspect retains no traces of. In the first place, he had by that time lost the benefit of his early education. Continual hard work, begun soon and concluded late, had extinguished any curiosity he once possessed in pursuit of knowledge, and any love for books or learn- ing. His childhood's sense of superiority instilled into him by the favours of old Mr. Earnshaw was faded away. He struggled long to keep up an equality with Catherine in her studies, and yielded with poignant though silent regret; but he yielded completely, and there was no prevailing on him to take a step in the way of moving upward, when he found he must necessarily sink beneath his former level. Then personal appear- ance sympathized with mental deterioration. He ac- quired a slouching gait and ignoble look; his naturally reserved disposition was exaggerated into an almost idiotic excess of unsociable moroseness, and he took a grim pleasure, apparently, in exciting the aversion rather than the esteem of his few


gonna get away with it. Even if Omar got off, they’re never going after Serenho. I don’t see it.” Yahav said so, too, on the phone. He said, “There’s no case against him.” I said, “But there was no case against Omar, either.” “Yes. Well.” 37 There was a man who got off the hook because he married the only witness very quickly; she couldn’t be forced to testify against her husband. She was the victim’s mother. There was a man who got away with it because the defense made the girl’s best friend, now thirteen, testify that the dead girl had sneaked into R-rated movies. This apparently meant she was mature enough (“sexually active,” they said) at twelve that anyone could have killed her, not just the bus driver who had the nude photos. There was a man they let out on a technicality (a paperwork error) who went free in just enough time to show up, to her family’s horror, at the graveside service of the girlfriend he’d strangled. There was a boy who was not charged with involuntary manslaughter for pushing his father off a restaurant deck—because the system worked for him as it should work for everyone. When they brought him in for questioning, they gave him a blanket and hot chocolate. They understood that he was a child. There was a man who got away with it because five Black, trans women found dead in the same park in one year must have been coincidence, a sign that it was a seedy park. They never even looked for him. In the ’90s there was a case where the state declined to press charges against the family friend whose semen had been found in the mouth and vagina and anus of the murdered eleven-year-old. The state’s attorney didn’t feel there was enough evidence. The girl might have been sitting on a bed where he’d previously masturbated, and eaten some popcorn there, and gotten his semen in her mouth. “This is how we get colds,” the man said. “We touch something, we touch our face. And then a little girl goes to the bathroom, and what does she do? She wipes herself, front to back, like this.” And on live TV, in some marbled court hallway, he squatted low, swiped his hand between the legs of his suit pants. 38 The defense rested after they questioned Robbie, and the state introduced no witnesses of their own. They spent the following day making arguments, the state again saying I had influenced people, this time manipulating Beth. I would have been allowed back into the courtroom for the closing arguments, but Amy didn’t think that would be a good idea; she told me to fly home, and the whole thing ended when I was in the air somewhere over the Rockies. When I landed, I had a voicemail from Amy telling me she thought it had gone very well. Now the judge would take it all “under advisement,” and in one to six months, Amy thought, we’d hear if he’d decided


no bowl of chin-chin in sight. Just tiny jars of curry, pepper and thyme. “Where is the chin-chin?” Rachel kept pounding, her chest heaving with each movement of the pestle high into the air. The noise drowned out Mọ́tárá’s voice. She picked a pair of kitchen shears from the assortment of dirty pans and cutlery in the sink. Its serrated blades were bloody and smelled like fish. Something oily, probably Titus fish. She banged the knife against the insides of the sink until the screech of metal against metal drew Rachel’s attention. Rachel balanced the pestle against a wall, making a whistling sound as she breathed through her mouth. “Where is the chin-chin?” Rachel scratched her head then wiped her hands against her brown dress. “Did Yèyé hide it?” “She’s keeping it for tomorrow. Aunty Wúrà’s husband is coming here after church service.” “He’s not her husband! They’ve not even done their introduction.” Rachel shrugged and began scooping the pounded yam from the mortar. Mọ́tárá went to the gas cooker. She opened all the pots until she found the one with fish in it. It was Titus. She pierced one through with a fork before turning off the burner. Yèyé must have forgotten that it was so close to being done. Mọ́tárá spooned a piece into a saucer, divided it along the bone line and cut off a small piece. It started drizzling outside as she took a bite. She stepped closer to an open window to watch. Yèyé had mentioned that she had invited Kúnlé to dinner, but Mọ́tárá could not remember if Wúràọlá was coming with him. If that happened, they could talk again, and, hopefully, Wúràọlá would come to her senses before the introduction ceremony. Sometimes families discussed and picked wedding dates during the introduction. Once that ceremony was done, Wúràọlá would be as good as married. Wouldn’t all that was left, the bringing of yams and signing of government registers, be mere formality? Mọ́tárá sighed, dug into her pocket for her phone and read the last message she got from Wúràọlá again. You need to drop this, Mọ́tárá, you’re just being rude now. I don’t know what you think you saw but the last thing I’ll say about this is that your perspective was and is all wrong. It clicked as she read all the previous messages. Nothing in Wúràọlá’s messages affirmed what Mọ́tárá had witnessed. She couldn’t show this to anyone as proof. “Ọmọ́tárá, what is wrong with you? You’ve not packed those clothes. You’re just here eating food and pressing phone. What’s all this nonsense now?” Mọ́tárá looked up at her mother, who was standing on the kitchen’s threshold. “I’m so sorry, I—” Yèyé hissed and swept past Mọ́tárá to the back door. Mọ́tárá dropped the saucer onto the countertop and touched her hair. The weave had been installed less than a week ago. She couldn’t go into the rain without a shower cap. When Yèyé came back into the kitchen, her relaxed hair was plastered to her skull, greying and short. She stood in front


onto his lap. “Stop it, Iris,” Roman said, gathering them up as they drifted. As she carelessly crinkled them. “I understand why you’re angry at me, but let me expl—” “How long have you known?” she asked tersely. “When did you know it was me?” Roman paused, his jaw clenched. He continued to gently gather her letters. “I knew from the beginning.” “The beginning?” “From the first letter you sent,” he amended. “You didn’t mention your name, but you talked about your job at the Gazette, the columnist position.” Iris froze in horror, listening to him. He had known all this time? He had known all this time! “I honestly thought it was a prank at first,” he rambled on. “That you were doing it to get in my head. Until I read the other letters—” “Why didn’t you say something to me, Kitt?” “I wanted to. But I was worried you would stop writing.” “So you thought it best to play me for a fool?” His eyes smoldered with offense. “I never once played you for a fool, Iris. Nor did I ever think that of you.” “Were you humoring me, then?” she asked. She hated how her voice trembled. “Was this all some joke to play on the poor low-class girl at work?” She hit a nerve. Roman’s face crumpled, as if she had just struck him. “No. I would never do any of those things to you, and if you think that I would, then you don’t—” “You lied to me, Kitt!” she cried. “I didn’t lie to you. All the things I told you … none of them were lies. None of them, do you hear me?” Iris stared at Roman. He was red-faced and holding her letters to his chest, and she suddenly had to add new layers to him. All the Carver details. She thought of Del, realizing that Roman had been an older brother; he had lost his sister. He had pulled her from the waters after she had drowned on her seventh birthday. He had carried her body home to his parents. A lump rose in her throat. Iris closed her eyes. Roman sighed. “Iris? Will you come here? Sit beside me for a while, and we can talk more.” She needed a moment to herself. To process this snarl of feelings within her. “I need to go, Kitt. Here. Take your letters. I don’t want them.” “What do you mean, you don’t want them? They’re mine.” “Yes! And that’s the other thing you lied to me about!” she said, pointing. “I asked you to send my old letters back. The ones I wrote to Forest. And you said you couldn’t.” “I said I couldn’t, because I didn’t want to,” said Roman. “Did you finish reading my last letter? Although by the looks of it … I don’t think you can even begin to understand what your words mean to me. Even if they were addressed to Forest in the beginning. You were a sister writing to her missing older brother. And I felt


another. Bùsọ́lá shrugged. “Is everything okay at home?” “I hope you always check inside your desks before you sit down in the morning?” “Yes ma. Bàami ńkọ́?” “You check it after all your breaks?” “Yes ma. I check all the time. Bàami ńkọ́? Is he okay?” “Your father is fine. His back is paining him so he can’t go out today, but he’s fine. Why did you ask?” “Why are you here?” “I came to—” Bùsọ́lá’s mother slid her handbag down her arm and dug into it. She fished out a folded piece of paper and gave it to Bùsọ́lá. “I came to give you your teller.” Bùsọ́lá stretched out the piece of paper, pressing out the creases with her index finger. Seven thousand naira paid. More than enough for her to stay in school right now. She threw her arms around her mother and hugged her tight. Only three thousand naira left for the term’s fees to be completed. “Thank you, Mọ̀ọmi, thank you so much.” “No need to cry. Wipe your eyes.” Bùsọ́lá touched her cheeks and found they were wet. She had not known she was crying. “Óyá, where is the accountant’s office?” Mrs. Rufai, who taught business studies and doubled as the school’s accountant, did not have her own office. Instead, she shared a staff room with ten other teachers at the other end of the classroom block. The staff room was the only space in the new school site that had doors and wooden shutters. Both were always wide open, the door held in place with a broken-off concrete block so it would not swing shut. Bùsọ́lá’s mother said hin káàsán to all the teachers they passed by on their way to Mrs. Rufai’s desk. Some answered with words, or grunts, but most of their replies were drowned out by the sound of nearly a dozen hand fans flapping away in vain attempts to drive the heat out of the narrow room. Mrs. Rufai was fanning herself with the ripped-up back cover of a notebook when Bùsọ́lá and her mother stopped in front of her desk. “Good afternoon ma,” Bùsọ́lá said, holding out the bank teller. Mrs. Rufai took the teller and squinted at it for a moment before glancing at Bùsọ́lá’s mother with a slight smile. “This is not the full payment.” “Good afternoon ma. So it’s only three thousand left for Bùsọ́lá?” “Yes.” Mrs. Rufai grabbed a higher education notebook from the edge of her desk and opened it to a tabulated page. “Her father said I should ask about when we need to pay that?” “Uhm.” Mrs. Rufai wrote Bùsọ́lá’s name in the notebook and scribbled 7,000 beside it in brackets. She looked up when she was done and furrowed her brows as though surprised to see they were still there. “My mother said—” “Oh, okay, yes. Let her be coming until the exams start. But if you people have not completed the payment then, she won’t write exams o.” “Okay, thank you ma,” Bùsọ́lá’s mother said, and turned to leave. “Wait, wait o.”


it might very well come from someone who was convinced that the business is supernatural." "What business?" asked Sir Henry sharply. "It seems to me that all you gentlemen know a great deal more than I do about my own affairs." "You shall share our knowledge before you leave this room, Sir Henry. I promise you that," said Sherlock Holmes. "We will confine ourselves for the present with your permission to this very interesting document, which must have been put together and posted yesterday evening. Have you yesterday's Times, Watson?" "It is here in the corner." "Might I trouble you for it -- the inside page, please, with the leading articles?" He glanced swiftly over it, running his eyes up and down the columns. "Capital article this on free trade. Permit me to give you an extract from it. "You may be cajoled into imagining that your own spe- cial trade or your own industry will be encouraged by a protective tariff, but it stands to reason that such legislation must in the long run keep away wealth from the country, diminish the value of our imports, and lower the general conditions of life in this island. "What do you think of that, Watson?" cried Holmes in high glee, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. "Don't you think that is an admirable sentiment?" Dr. Mortimer looked at Holmes with an air of professional interest, and Sir Henry Baskerville turned a pair of puzzled dark eyes upon me. "I don't know much about the tariff and things of that kind," said he, "but it seems to me we've got a bit off the trail so far as that note is concerned." "On the contrary, I think we are particularly hot upon the trail, Sir Henry. Watson here knows more about my methods than you do, but I fear that even he has not quite grasped the significance of this sentence." "No, I confess that I see no connection." "And yet, my dear Watson, there is so very close a connec- tion that the one is extracted out of the other. 'You,' 'your,' 'your,' 'life,' 'reason,' 'value,' 'keep away,' 'from the.' Don't you see now whence these words have been taken?" "By thunder, you're right! Well, if that isn't smart!" cried Sir Henry. "If any possible doubt remained it is settled by the fact that 'keep away' and 'from the' are cut out in one piece." "Well, now -- so it is!" "Really, Mr. Holmes, this exceeds anything which I could have imagined," said Dr. Mortimer, gazing at my friend in amazement. "I could understand anyone saying that the words were from a newspaper; but that you should name which, and add that it came from the leading article, is really one of the most remarkable things which I have ever known. How did you do it?" "I presume, Doctor, that you could tell the skull of a negro from that of an Esquimau?" "Most certainly." "But how?" "Because that is my special hobby. The differences are obvi- ous. The supra-orbital crest, the facial


For the rest of the day and most of the night, I cannot stop crying. I cry while I eat or drink. I cry in the shower, and when I lie down to try to sleep. Even when I am worn out, too hoarse for my sobs to make much of a sound, the tears keep coming, silently drifting down my cheeks. All I can think about is how, at the end, I wasn’t with her. She was the kind of mother who deserved to have her child there when she died. Knowing that I had her steadfast support, that she loved and believed in me no matter what, made me so much braver than I would have been otherwise. It made risks feel smaller; it made it possible for me to trust myself a little more. Like any mother and child, we’d had our conflicts, our weaknesses, our outright failures, but there had never been a serious or lasting rift between us. Her faith in me was a safety net I couldn’t see until it was gone. I don’t know what I’m going to do without her. Without both of them. I never deserved them, I think. They were wrong to love me. But every time I try to hate myself, tell myself that I am a worthless daughter, I swear I can hear her voice in my head. It feels new. Don’t say that, she says. Don’t even think it. * * * We’re nearly two months into the pandemic, but the funeral home representative tells me they’ve never set up a live stream for a funeral and aren’t sure whether they can. We’re looking into it. My mother’s priest has privacy concerns about filming the service, and adds that it was already very difficult to choose who among my mother’s many church friends could attend. Only twenty-five people may be present. An additional person filming, he points out, “will take a place that could have gone to another mourner.” I catch my breath in a painful gasp and let the silence stretch. I don’t want to get angry. I don’t have the energy for it, or for smoothing things over afterward. Mom’s church had been her home, the parish community her family. When she got too sick to work, they took up a collection to help, which my proud mother accepted because she knew it was a gift of love and not charity. I’ll always be grateful to her church for being there for her when I wasn’t, doing what I couldn’t. But I’m her only child. “You have four spots you wouldn’t have if my husband, my kids, and I were able to be there,” I say at last. “Can’t you just think of the person filming as taking my place?” There’s a brief pause. “Of course,” he says, sounding somewhat chastened. “You’re absolutely right. I’m sure we can work something out.” * * * When I’m not talking with the priest, or the funeral home, or the home health-care agency that tells me to please watch for


press their ears to the door. Time was running out. * * * The princess was tired. This seemed to have been ordained by the viscountess or her equerries, and she rose from her seat, attendants collecting cloaks and gloves and furs. To have held the royal presence in this house for nigh on two hours was an extraordinary achievement. The whole enormous party began drifting toward the grand escalier, like day-trippers trudging across a beach, and Miss de Vries accompanied the princess. Conversation was impossible. Her Royal Highness kept a wall around her. I do that, too, thought Miss de Vries. The orchestra fell quiet, the crowd drew back, and there was a burst of riotous applause. The band began playing the national anthem, half a measure too fast, and the princess looked around, temporarily nonplussed. She caught Miss de Vries’s eye. “I congratulate you on your engagement,” she said, over the music. “Thank you, ma’am,” she muttered, bowing her head. The anthem died just as it was getting into full swing, and the princess’s people began shoving the onlookers, beating a path to the door. The princess herself glanced over Miss de Vries’s shoulder. Lord Ashley was fighting his own way down the stairs behind them, hat skewed, plumes bobbing. “You would be better off alone,” the princess said. Her accent was tucked into the recesses of her throat, and she spoke without emotion—as if she didn’t care how her words would be received. It was a breathtakingly offensive thing to say. It silenced Miss de Vries altogether. “Ma’am,” said the viscountess, turban swaying, “this way...” The princess moved on, offering no thanks, no farewell. Evidently, her mind had turned to bed, and the groaning, dusty, glorious heights of Buckingham Palace. There was a flash of diamonds, a firework pop in the garden, a collective flurry of bows and curtseys as the royal presence left Park Lane. Through the crush, Miss de Vries saw the big motor car roll away from the curb. A roar went up in the front hall, men and women peeling off their gloves, letting out enormous sighs of relief, shouting for more champagne. The band began hammering the drums. There was a bang as a flashbulb went out in one of the electroliers, and people screamed in delight. Miss de Vries felt her neighbors crushing her, touching her, all over her. She didn’t budge. Lord Ashley bounded up the front steps, saying in a careless voice to Miss de Vries, “Christ, what a drag that must have been for ma’am. At least you had me here. She wouldn’t have said a word otherwise.” The world grew dark. Miss de Vries could feel her father’s eyes on her back, his portrait looming over her at its usual furious angle. In that moment she loathed Lord Ashley. She urged herself not to let the feeling take root. Anything less than joy would count as failure. There was a gleam of pink satin, a scent of almonds and rose water. Lady Montagu was hurrying past. “Terrible headache, must


had loved Clare. "He was a very splendid lover, no doubt," she said; "but I don't think he is a too fond husband to go away from you so soon." "He had to go--he was obliged to go, to see about the land over there!" pleaded Tess. "He might have tided 'ee over the winter." "Ah--that's owing to an accident--a misunderstanding; and we won't argue it," Tess answered, with tearfulness in her words. "Perhaps there's a good deal to be said for him! He did not go away, like some husbands, without telling me; and I can always find out where he is." After this they continued for some long time in a reverie, as they went on seizing the ears of corn, drawing out the straw, gathering it under their arms, and cutting off the ears with their bill-hooks, nothing sounding in the barn but the swish of the straw and the crunch of the hook. Then Tess suddenly flagged, and sank down upon the heap of wheat-ears at her feet. "I knew you wouldn't be able to stand it!" cried Marian. "It wants harder flesh than yours for this work." Just then the farmer entered. "Oh, that's how you get on when I am away," he said to her. "But it is my own loss," she pleaded. "Not yours." "I want it finished," he said doggedly, as he crossed the barn and went out at the other door. "Don't 'ee mind him, there's a dear," said Marian. "I've worked here before. Now you go and lie down there, and Izz and I will make up your number." "I don't like to let you do that. I'm taller than you, too." However, she was so overcome that she consented to lie down awhile, and reclined on a heap of pull-tails--the refuse after the straight straw had been drawn--thrown up at the further side of the barn. Her succumbing had been as largely owning to agitation at the re-opening the subject of her separation from her husband as to the hard work. She lay in a state of percipience without volition, and the rustle of the straw and the cutting of the ears by the others had the weight of bodily touches. She could hear from her corner, in addition to these noises, the murmur of their voices. She felt certain that they were continuing the subject already broached, but their voices were so low that she could not catch the words. At last Tess grew more and more anxious to know what they were saying, and, persuading herself that she felt better, she got up and resumed work. Then Izz Huett broke down. She had walked more than a dozen miles the previous evening, had gone to bed at midnight, and had risen again at five o'clock. Marian alone, thanks to her bottle of liquor and her stoutness of build, stood the strain upon back and arms without suffering. Tess urged Izz to leave off, agreeing, as she felt better, to finish the day without her, and make equal division of


think she’s a ghost.’ ‘So you’re just reading my thoughts at will now, is it? I don’t know if I like this!’ Martha smiled and assured me her ‘gift’ wasn’t that refined. ‘I read people’s stories, not every single thought. Although sometimes your thoughts are easily readable,’ she said, stepping closer to me in the darkness. We kissed again because, well, any opportunity. A small door at the end of the hall, which resembled something you might find at the front of a gnome’s house, required both of us to contort ourselves in equally undignified fashion in order to gain entry. Your average attic, where Christmas lay in hiding for eleven months of the year, was illuminated by the milky glow of the moon through half-size windows. Dustsheets covered unknowable shapes, and a cheval mirror at the end of the room reflected another young couple entering the room from a similarly tiny door. I recalled a book I had found at the bottom of a bargain bin in a charity shop near Camden. Something about the memories of buildings and how the walls are infused with them. They never forget, what we, as mere mortals, misplace. I hadn’t thought of it since, until now. ‘There’s a note,’ Martha said, picking up an envelope with her name on it. Martha, I have played many different characters in other people’s stories. Your story was my favourite and this chapter shall be your finest yet. In order for something to exist, you must first believe in it. Invite your heart to see what your eyes cannot. Follow your path and bring the scholar, I like having him around. B. ‘Is that her handwriting?’ I asked. ‘Her?’ ‘Yes. Madame Bowden.’ ‘I don’t think Madame Bowden is the person we thought she was.’ ‘What do you mean by that?’ She put the letter down and breathed in deeply, before smiling to herself. ‘You never left at all, did you?’ I waited for a moment and looked around the small attic space. Who was she speaking to? Truth be told, I felt a mixture of things. Glad to be there with Martha/stupid for hoping that something otherworldly would happen/useless because I clearly had no idea what we were doing. I had done all of the research, but Martha seemed to be able to just feel her way, instinctively. It was like that song ‘The Whole of the Moon’. ‘I spoke about wings. You just flew.’ ‘Is that a poem?’ ‘No, it’s a song,’ I said, taking her hand. I could not be in the same room and not be close to her. ‘It’s about the moon and this guy who’s an idiot and a girl who just … knows everything.’ ‘Sounds just like us!’ ‘Exactly. I knew you’d like it.’ She put her arms around my neck and we stood there, shuffling a dance with no music. ‘This isn’t all too weird for you, is it?’ Her words came out muffled as she spoke into the shoulder of my woollen jumper. ‘If it was, I would have said


STAYED IN the hospital for the full four days after surgery, which made me feel like I was getting my money’s worth. I took a lot of naps. I slept partially sitting up on a bolster pillow to help with drainage. I ate a lot of Jell-O and wondered why I’d never appreciated it before. The incisions in my scalp were sore for several days afterward. I had a few headaches and some shooting pains from time to time near the wound. My eyes got swollen enough that Dr. Nicole suggested I avoid the mirror for a while. All normal postsurgical stuff. All in all, I felt back to my usual self surprisingly fast. The doctors were impressed with my resilience, and they chalked it up to my “youth and good health.” I took full credit for both. I even caught myself wondering if I was doing my dad proud. By Sunday, my last day there, I was feeling so good, I felt silly for the way I’d resisted the surgery. In fact, I felt so good so fast, I had to remind myself I was an invalid. I was just getting discharge instructions for the next day—things like no alcohol, no driving for three weeks, no ladder climbing for three months—when a stranger came to visit me. I mean, I’d been surrounded by strangers that whole week—nurses in bubble-gum-pink scrubs coming and going, checking stitches, vitals, surgical tape. Those pink scrubs really gave the whole staff a very uniform vibe. But this stranger wasn’t in scrubs, she was in street clothes. She came right in and pulled up a chair, and I remember wondering if she was maybe a social worker or even a reporter doing some kind of piece on cavernomas. Maybe she’d ask me to star in a documentary. I wondered what people got paid for that. But that’s when she started talking. And as the words accumulated, I started wondering if she really was a stranger after all. “I came the first day,” she said, “but you were so out of it. And then Witt’s grandma got sick, so we had to drive to San Antonio to check on her. But don’t worry, I boarded Peanut at that vet clinic around the corner from your place. Which is probably better, anyway, because Witt’s pretty allergic, and he was being a great sport about it, but his eyes were, like, watering and itching the whole time. And that new clinic is awesome—though I know you like your old place. They’ve been sending me photos from the pup cam, and I think Peanut might have struck up a May-December romance with a Pomeranian.” She paused for a laugh, but I just said, “What?” I mean, why was this person talking about Peanut? Or Witt, for that matter? The stranger leaned in a little. “What about what?” “What about all of it?” We blinked at each other. And that’s when something impossible occurred to me. This total stranger … was talking like she was my best friend, Sue. I cannot describe


"You will get nothing to the purpose from Miss Bates," said Emma. "She will be all delight and gratitude, but she will tell you nothing. She will not even listen to your questions. I see no advantage in consulting Miss Bates." "But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing! I am very fond of hearing Miss Bates talk. And I need not bring the whole family, you know." Here Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing what was proposed, gave it his decided approbation. "Aye, do, Frank.--Go and fetch Miss Bates, and let us end the matter at once. She will enjoy the scheme, I am sure; and I do not know a properer person for shewing us how to do away difficulties. Fetch Miss Bates. We are growing a little too nice. She is a standing lesson of how to be happy. But fetch them both. Invite them both." "Both sir! Can the old lady?" . . . "The old lady! No, the young lady, to be sure. I shall think you a great blockhead, Frank, if you bring the aunt without the niece." "Oh! I beg your pardon, sir. I did not immediately recollect. Undoubtedly if you wish it, I will endeavour to persuade them both." And away he ran. Long before he reappeared, attending the short, neat, brisk-moving aunt, and her elegant niece,--Mrs. Weston, like a sweet-tempered woman and a good wife, had examined the passage again, and found the evils of it much less than she had supposed before-- indeed very trifling; and here ended the difficulties of decision. All the rest, in speculation at least, was perfectly smooth. All the minor arrangements of table and chair, lights and music, tea and supper, made themselves; or were left as mere trifles to be settled at any time between Mrs. Weston and Mrs. Stokes.-- Every body invited, was certainly to come; Frank had already written to Enscombe to propose staying a few days beyond his fortnight, which could not possibly be refused. And a delightful dance it was to be. Most cordially, when Miss Bates arrived, did she agree that it must. As a counsellor she was not wanted; but as an approver, (a much safer character,) she was truly welcome. Her approbation, at once general and minute, warm and incessant, could not but please; and for another half-hour they were all walking to and fro, between the different rooms, some suggesting, some attending, and all in happy enjoyment of the future. The party did not break up without Emma's being positively secured for the two first dances by the hero of the evening, nor without her overhearing Mr. Weston whisper to his wife, "He has asked her, my dear. That's right. I knew he would!" CHAPTER XII One thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the ball completely satisfactory to Emma--its being fixed for a day within the granted term of Frank Churchill's stay in Surry; for, in spite of Mr. Weston's confidence, she could not think it so very impossible that the Churchills might not


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

the place where I had seen stockings and gloves for sale. It was dark, and I had the devil of a hunt after matches, which I found at last in the drawer of the little cash desk. Then I had to get a candle. I had to tear down wrappings and ransack a number of boxes and drawers, but at last I managed to turn out what I sought; the box label called them lambswool pants, and lambswool vests. Then socks, a thick comforter, and then I went to the clothing place and got trousers, a lounge jacket, an overcoat and a slouch hat --a clerical sort of hat with the brim turned down. I began to feel a human being again, and my next thought was food. "Upstairs was a refreshment department, and there I got cold meat. There was coffee still in the urn, and I lit the gas and warmed it up again, and altogether I did not do badly. Afterwards, prowling through the place in search of blankets--I had to put up at last with a heap of down quilts--I came upon a grocery section with a lot of chocolate and candied fruits, more than was good for me indeed--and some white burgundy. And near that was a toy department, and I had a brilliant idea. I found some artificial noses--dummy noses, you know, and I thought of dark spectacles. But Omniums had no optical department. My nose had been a difficulty indeed--I had thought of paint. But the discovery set my mind running on wigs and masks and the like. Finally I went to sleep on a heap of down quilts, very warm and comfortable. "My last thoughts before sleeping were the most agreeable I had had since the change. I was in a state of physical serenity, and that was reflected in my mind. I thought that I should be able to slip out unobserved in the morning with my clothes upon me, muffling my face with a white wrapper I had taken, purchase, with the money I had taken, spectacles and so forth, and so complete my disguise. I lapsed into disorderly dreams of all the fantastic things that had happened during the last few days. I saw the ugly little Jew of a landlord vociferating in his rooms; I saw his two sons marvelling, and the wrinkled old woman's gnarled face as she asked for her cat. I experienced again the strange sensation of seeing the cloth disappear, and so I came round to the windy hillside and the sniffing old clergyman mumbling 'Dust to dust, earth to earth,' and my father's open grave. "'You also,' said a voice, and suddenly I was being forced towards the grave. I struggled, shouted, appealed to the mourners, but they continued stonily following the service; the old clergyman, too, never faltered droning and sniffing through the ritual. I realised I was invisible and inaudible, that overwhelming forces had their grip on me. I struggled in vain, I was forced over the brink, the coffin rang hollow as


In the woods waits the only person with whom I can be myself. Gale. I can feel the muscles in my face relaxing, my pace quickening as I climb the hills to our place, a rock ledge overlooking a valley. A thicket of berry bushes protects it from unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting there brings on a smile. Gale says I never smile except in the woods. 7 “Hey, Catnip,” says Gale. My real name is Katniss, but when I first told him, I had barely whispered it. So he thought I’d said Catnip. Then when this crazy lynx started following me around the woods looking for handouts, it became his official nickname for me. I finally had to kill the lynx because he scared off game. I almost regretted it because he wasn’t bad company. But I got a decent price for his pelt. “Look what I shot,” Gale holds up a loaf of bread with an ar- row stuck in it, and I laugh. It’s real bakery bread, not the flat, dense loaves we make from our grain rations. I take it in my hands, pull out the arrow, and hold the puncture in the crust to my nose, inhaling the fragrance that makes my mouth flood with saliva. Fine bread like this is for special occasions. “Mm, still warm,” I say. He must have been at the bakery at the crack of dawn to trade for it. “What did it cost you?” “Just a squirrel. Think the old man was feeling sentimental this morning,” says Gale. “Even wished me luck.” “Well, we all feel a little closer today, don’t we?” I say, not even bothering to roll my eyes. “Prim left us a cheese.” I pull it out. His expression brightens at the treat. “Thank you, Prim. We’ll have a real feast.” Suddenly he falls into a Capitol accent as he mimics Effie Trinket, the maniacally upbeat woman who arrives once a year to read out the names at the leaping. “I al- most forgot! Happy Hunger Games!” He plucks a few black- berries from the bushes around us. “And may the odds —” He tosses a berry in a high arc toward me. 8 I catch it in my mouth and break the delicate skin with my teeth. The sweet tartness explodes across my tongue. “— be ever in your favor!” I finish with equal verve. We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared out of your wits. Besides, the Capitol accent is so affected, almost anything sounds funny in it. I watch as Gale pulls out his knife and slices the bread. He could be my brother. Straight black hair, olive skin, we even have the same gray eyes. But we’re not related, at least not closely. Most of the families who work the mines resemble one another this way. That’s why my mother and Prim, with their light hair and blue eyes, always look out of place. They are. My mother’s parents were part of the small merchant class


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

the fire, held the deepest of truths—that they were in fact keys to unlocking the secrets of the Folk? “It’s as if—the Folk are drawn to places of great magic. Changelings require the greatest magic of all, to take a faerie child and embed him in the mortal realm so securely he cannot be removed. And your changeling is especially powerful. And so the courtly fae are drawn here, even if they themselves have no connection to him, perhaps without even realizing they are being drawn.” Aud’s brows were knitted together. “A lantern. Yes. But how do we put the light out?” “There’s only one way.” Thora’s voice was hard, but she reached out one weathered hand and rested it on Aud’s shoulder. “It’s what I’ve been saying for years, Aud. You said no, when it was just Mord and Aslaug that creature was hurting. But it’s the whole village now. Which of our children will be taken next, if we do nothing?” “Ari,” Aud said as she let out her breath. “I’m godmother to that child.” “Yes.” Thora’s voice didn’t soften. “And how many other children are you godmother to?” Aud pressed her hand to her eyes. When she took it away, she looked much older, and I saw the kinship between her and Thora there like a reflection out of time. But Aud didn’t acquiesce; instead, she fixed me with a hard look, as if to say, Well? “If we knew his name,” I began unsteadily. “The changeling’s true name. We could use it to banish him.” Thora leaned back in her chair with a dismissive sound. “We know that. You don’t think we tried to trick him into telling us, when he first came here? They guard their names closely.” Aud said nothing, merely kept her eyes on me. “Let me think on it,” I said. “Do nothing for now. Please.” “Don’t think too long,” Thora said, her face dark. “We heard the bells again last night. They’ve never sounded so regularly before. They will take another child, and soon.” 26th November—late I don’t know what to make of this development, which has unnerved me more than any changeling or faerie beast ever could. Perhaps putting my thoughts to pen and paper will help. After my conversation with Aud and Thora, I went back to the cottage. Wendell had still not returned, and after about an hour, I decided to search for him. We nearly ran into each other on the path leading up the mountain; he came strolling out of the twilight with his hands buried in his pockets and his gaze downcast, frowning and lost in thought. Crystals of snow nestled in his golden hair, which was very distracting. I am used to ignoring his good looks, but that hair of his is a difficult matter. I’ve observed that most people are taken in by his smile or his eyes, but for me, it’s that damned hair—one can’t help imagining what it feels like, is the problem. He lifted his eyes when he heard my footfall, and


car began moving down the street. Tristán rolled down the window a little. “She says Ewers himself may not be dead. That a part of him remains.” “I think I saw him, at that building downtown.” Tristán stared at Montserrat. “Why didn’t you say so before?” “You were mocking me, remember? Asking about my German boyfriend and latest crush?” Tristán felt like smacking himself. Yeah, of all the things to say, all the things to needle her with, he’d picked that. It was a low blow. He was aware, although he didn’t like to acknowledge it, that Montserrat had liked him quite a bit back in the day. One afternoon she had even attempted to verbalize this attraction, at which point he had promptly cut her off and turned evasive until she had understood through oblique gestures that this avenue was closed. That had been around the time his braces had come off and he was getting interested looks from the prettier girls in class, and Tristán, greedily delighting in the opportunities his eroding shyness afforded him, had decided Montserrat’s earnest affection was not as enticing as miniskirts and plunging necklines. She’d never made any overtures when they grew up, and they’d buried that episode, but then of course he hadn’t forgotten it. “Well, fuck! I didn’t mean it like that. Sorry,” he said, attempting an apology that would not earn him a tirade from her. She seemed to take it well enough, shrugging. “You saw him, then?” he asked, tentative, a little afraid of the answer. “I didn’t see anything. Not really. But I felt it. I think it’s him.” The semaphore was red at the intersection they were approaching. Two teenagers wearing dirty Santa Claus hats were going from car to car, selling bubble gum. Tristán took out a couple of coins and handed them to the kids. Everything was turning American. The Three Kings were giving way to the fat guy in the red suit. Downtown, buildings were decorated with traditional piñatas but also glowing reindeer. “Why is he following you?” he asked as the lights changed and the car began rolling down the street again. “I don’t know. Why did you see Karina? But it’s happening, and I don’t trust Marisa or her aunt. They’re playing at something.” “Yeah, I know,” Tristán said. “The problem is we’re playing, too, but we don’t know the rules of the game.” Montserrat did not reply. He sank back in his seat and glanced at the city streets. The posadas were starting the day after tomorrow. A time for joy and parties. Meanwhile, they were being chased by dead people. Merry Christmas, 1993. It was going to be a hell of an end to the year. 20 Tristán was still trying to deal with the debacle at his photo shoot and spent a whole day on the phone, talking back and forth with Dorotea and other people. That meant they didn’t head to Clarimonde Bauer’s house until Thursday evening rather than tackling the issue immediately. This suited Montserrat fine because she wanted


gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time to tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the habit of walking; Mary could never spare time; but the remaining five set off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty was too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a desperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same. They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern, when Kitty left them she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the moment for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was high, she immediately said, ``Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding your's. I can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.'' ``I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,'' replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise and emotion, ``that you have ever been informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner was so little to be trusted.'' ``You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again, in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering them.'' ``If you _will_ thank me,'' he replied, ``let it be for yourself alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your _family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of _you_.'' Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause, her companion added, ``You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. _My_ affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.'' Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had