the entire east wall, and there’s one single piece of art: a framed picture of the Large Hadron Collider. The endcap of the Compact Muon Solenoid—a futuristic, mechanical flower. It’s beautiful. I know that Jack did some work at CERN, and maybe he took it himself— “I’ll change the sheets,” he says, brushing past me toward the dresser, and I realize that I’ve been staring. “Oh, don’t. I’m not exactly picky, and . . .” I clear my throat. Whatever, it’s fine. “We can both sleep in here. I mean, the bed is huge.” He’s giving me his back, but I see the moment the words land. The drawer is half-open, and his movements stutter to a stop. Muscles tense under his shirt, then slowly relax. When he turns around, it’s with his usual uneven smile. “Seems like a lot for you,” he says. A bit strained, maybe. There’s no dimple in sight. “A lot?” “Going from running away from me to sleeping in the same bed, in under one hour.” I flush and look at my toes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to run—I just . . . And I’m not, like, coming on to you.” I’d love to sound sharp and indignant, but it’s just not where I’m at. “We’ve established that you don’t need to come on to me, Elsie. Do you want something to sleep in?” “Oh.” I shake my head. “I’m good. I’m wearing leggings, anyway. I figured that if I had to suffer through 2001, I could at least be comfy.” “I thought you loved the movie.” I give him an appalled look. Jack leans against the dresser, arms crossed. “It’s what your friend said,” he explains. “Oh, no. I mean, she thinks I do. She thinks I’m into artsy movies, but I don’t really . . .” Tell her the truth. I think Jack can read my mind. “Does she know how much you like Twilight?” he asks with a small, kind smile. “No way.” I laugh weakly. “If anything, she might suspect I enjoy it ironically.” “Ironically?” “Yeah. You know, when you like something because it’s bad and love making fun of it?” He nods. “Is that why you enjoy Twilight?” “I don’t know.” I sit on the edge of the mattress, gripping the soft comforter. “I don’t believe so, no.” I ponder. “I like simple, straightforward romance stories with dramatic characters and improbably high stakes,” I add, surprising myself a little. I didn’t know this before putting it into words, and I feel like Jack has beaten me to some part of myself. Again. “Also, I like to imagine Alice and Bella ending up together after the movie is over.” “I see.” As ever, he files away. Then he pulls something that looks like sweats and a tee from under his pillow and heads for the door. “If you change your mind or get cold, just look around. You’ll find something to wear.” “Are you giving me permission to rummage around your bedroom? Like you have nothing to hide?” He lifts one eyebrow.


in paperback. By her left, a slim hardcover of Mother Witch. I click to expand the caption. Thought you could get rid of me? Sorry, Junie. I’m still kicking. Glad you had a good writing day! I had a good writing day too—here’s me, flipping through some old works for inspiration. Heard you’re a fan ☺ My dinner crawls up my throat. I run for the bathroom. It’s nearly half an hour of panicked breathing and mental exercises before I’m near calm enough to approach my phone again. I run some searches on Twitter: “Athena Liu Instagram,” “Athena Instagram,” “Athena Insta,” “Ghost Athena,” and all the other possible queries I can think of. No one’s talking about this yet. The post didn’t have any hashtags or tag any other accounts. What’s more, the account, which once had nearly a million followers, now has zero. The person behind this has either blocked or soft-blocked all of Athena’s followers. The only person seeing this post is me. Whoever this is, they’re not trying to go viral—they just want to get my attention. How is this even possible? Don’t social media companies shut down accounts upon the owner’s death? This is so fucking stupid, but I Google “Athena Liu alive” to make sure she hasn’t, like, resurrected thanks to some medical miracle without my knowing. But that search returns nothing useful; the most “relevant” result is an article about how a recent English department event at Yale was dedicated to keeping Athena’s memory alive. Athena is dead, gone, turned to ash. The only person who’s convinced she’s still around is me. I ought to block the account and forget about this. It’s likely just some troll, posting grotesque things to fuck with me. That’s what Brett and Daniella would say. That’s what Rory would say, if I tried to explain why I’m so upset. A troll is the obvious and rational explanation, and I repeat this over and over in my mind as I inhale and exhale into my fist, since the most annoying symptom of anxiety is refusing to believe the obvious and rational explanation. Don’t give it power, I urge myself. Just let it alone. But I can’t. It’s like a splinter digging into my palm; even if it’s tiny, I still can’t rest easy, knowing that it’s under my skin. I don’t sleep a wink that night. I lie with my phone screen inches from my face, staring with aching eyes at Athena’s forceful, mischievous smile. A memory rises unbidden to my mind’s eye, a memory that I’d hoped I’d drowned out or forgotten: Athena in her black boots and green shawl, sitting in the front row of the audience at Politics and Prose, beaming expectantly at me with bright, painted lips. Athena: inexplicably, impossibly alive. It’s late on a Friday night, so I can’t get Brett or my publicity team on the line for another two days. But what good could they do? It’s hardly a problem from a publicity perspective. Aside from me, who cares about this post? And it’s


“More? Such as what?” “Anything.” “Very well. I had a pet snail when I was seven.” “A snail?” Iris nodded. “His name was Morgie. I kept him in a serving dish with a little tray of water and some rocks and a few wilted flowers. I told him all of my secrets.” “And whatever happened to Morgie?” “He slinked away one day when I was at school. I came home to discover him gone, and he was nowhere to be found. I cried for a fortnight.” “I can imagine that was devastating,” Roman said, at which Iris playfully batted him. “Don’t poke fun at me, Kitt.” “I’m not, Iris.” He effortlessly caught her hand in his, and they both came to a halt in the middle of the street. “Tell me more.” “More?” she breathed, and while her hand felt hot as kindling, she didn’t pull away from him. “If I tell you anything else today, you’ll grow tired of me.” “Impossible,” he whispered. She felt that shyness creeping over her again. What was happening right now, and why did it feel like wings were beating in her stomach? “What’s your middle name?” Roman asked suddenly. Iris arched her brow, amused. “You might have to earn that morsel of information.” “Oh, come now. Could you at least give me the initial? It would only be fair.” “I suppose I can’t argue with that,” she said. “My middle name begins with an E.” Roman smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “And whatever could it be? Iris Enchanting Winnow? Iris Ethereal Winnow? Iris Exquisite Winnow?” “My gods, Kitt,” she said, blushing. “Let me save us both from this torture. It’s Elizabeth.” “Iris Elizabeth Winnow,” Roman echoed, and she shivered to hear her name in his mouth. Iris held his stare until the mirth faded from his eyes. He was looking at her the way he had in Zeb’s office. As if he could see all of her, and Iris swallowed, telling her heart to calm, to slow. “I need to say something to you,” Roman said, tracing her knuckles with his thumb. “You mentioned the other day that you think I’m only here to ‘outshine’ you. But that’s the furthest thing from the truth. I broke my engagement, quit my job, and traveled six hundred kilometers into war-torn land to be with you, Iris.” Iris squirmed. This didn’t feel real. The way he was looking at her, holding her hand. This must be a dream on the verge of dashing. “Kitt, I—” “Please, let me finish.” She nodded, but she inwardly braced herself. “I don’t really care to write about the war,” he said. “Of course, I’ll do it because the Inkridden Tribune is paying me to, but I would much rather that your articles live on the front page. I would much rather read what you write. Even if they aren’t letters to me.” He paused, rolling his lips together as if he was uncertain. “That first day you were gone. My first day as columnist. It was horrible. I realized I


similar works in the European Renaissance by nearly four hundred years. (That said, state-ordered forensic records in China date back to the second century C.E.) The Washing Away of Wrongs continued to be used by forensic scientists in China well into the twentieth century. Maybe that’s not all that remarkable. The indicators of death by drowning, hanging, stabbing, or poison have not changed through time. I have followed Sung Tz’u’s practices for inquests, including revealing a naked body for all to see, the accused standing to face the corpse, examining the spot where a victim drowned, and the concept that the family and the accused must have the opportunity to face each other. I’ve always taken great pride in going to every place I write about. I couldn’t do that for this book. (As I write this, China continues to have lockdowns in major cities, and the quarantine period for visitors is three weeks.) However, when I researched Peony in Love, I went to several water towns in the Yangzi delta. I was confident about writing about a water town, but I still felt sad that I wasn’t seeing Wuxi with my own eyes. Serendipity came to the rescue once again. One day when I was looking at Twitter, I saw a post about a Ming dynasty building in Wuxi. I sent a direct message to @TheSilkRoad inquiring what else they might know about Ming dynasty sites that still exist in Wuxi. Within a day, Zhang Li sent me links to forty-three Ming dynasty buildings, gardens, and waterways that have survived in Wuxi, along with photos, history, and, in many cases, videos. Soon enough, I was on a boat floating on Wuxi’s canals—during the day, at night, and in a black-and-white documentary made in the 1950s. You can find many of these links on my website in the section called “Step Inside the World of Lady Tan” at www.LisaSee.com. The garden for which the fictional Garden of Fragrant Delights is named is modeled on two gardens, both of which I’ve visited many times: the Humble Administrator’s Garden in Suzhou and the Garden of Flowing Fragrance at the Huntington Library, Art Museum, and Botanical Gardens in San Marino, California. The Garden of Fragrant Delights compound is very much inspired by the Qiao family compound near the ancient city of Pingyao, which I visited many years ago. The home boasts 313 rooms, six large courtyards, and nineteen smaller courtyards. You might recognize it as the setting for the film Raise the Red Lantern. The marriage bed has been in my family since long before I was born. Generations of See children have played in it. When I was a little girl, the drawers were filled with clothes and shoes so I could play dress-up. My children and their cousins used to watch television in the first antechamber, where a servant once would have slept on the floor. Today, all these years later, I marvel at the beauty of the window paintings, the carved vignettes, and the three separate rooms—all held together without a single


me in this moment, to slow time even further, like he always has, until this becomes my real life, and everything else—the shoebox apartment, the aching back and knees, the sweat pooling under my gown and mask, the nights staring up at a ceiling that has nothing to say to me—is the memory. “HAR!” someone shouts above us. The moment snaps. We both look up. “CATCH!” I don’t see which of them shouts it. All I see is Kimmy and Cleo—now above us as we’re descending the back of the Ferris wheel—leaned out over their lap bar, laughing hysterically, and then something flamingo pink fluttering, flapping, twirling down toward us. It lands squarely in my lap. “Hold on to that, would you?” Kimmy shouts. Cleo doubles over, her shoulders twitching with laughter. Wyn takes hold of the pink thing and lifts it, spreading it out so the hot- pink bra cups jut from his chest. Above us, Cleo and Kimmy are shrieking now. “This,” Wyn says, “is exactly why I hate getting clothes as presents. Nothing ever fits.” “At least it’s your color,” I say. He tuts, laughing, and shakes his head. “Thanks, Kim.” Kimmy hurls herself forward, squawking something through her guffaws, but Cleo yanks her back against the bench. “Excuse me, Wyn.” I pull the tiny bra out of his hands, holding it in front of me. “In which universe does this fit on Kimmy’s boobs?” He gapes, looks up at Cleo and Kimmy, who are still falling all over each other in fits of laughter, then back at me. “Damn,” he says. “Didn’t see that one coming.” “Me neither,” I say. “I always assumed Cleo was die-hard Free the Nipple.” “What’s going on up there?” Parth calls from below us. They’re starting to level out on the loading platform. “We have to act fast,” Wyn says, expecting me to read his mind. I do. “You’ve got better aim than me.” “I’m not even going to politely argue,” he says, and takes the bra. We lean forward, and as Sabrina and Parth are about to dock, Wyn tosses the bra straight onto Sabrina’s head. “WHAT THE—” she screams, her words cut short when Parth pulls the bra off her head and holds it aloft for examination in the neon light, right as they’re drawing to a stop beside the long-suffering Ferris wheel attendant. Even from here, his grumble sounds like “millennials,” which makes Wyn and me burst into laughter so forceful that tears are literally sliding off my chin. “It happened!” I squeal. “We’ve replaced our parents as the drunk-mom- on-vacation generation.” “Excuse you,” he says, “I think you mean the high-dad-on-vacation generation.” Below us, Sabrina climbs out of her seat, head held high and dignified. She hands the bra over to the attendant and, loudly and clearly enough for all of us and everyone in line to hear, says, “Do you have a lost and found? Someone seems to have dropped this on the ride.” “Are we about to get kicked out of Lobster Fest?” I ask Wyn. His


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

tried to edge to the left, to get in front of the glass without Quirrell noticing, but the ropes around his ankles were too tight: he tripped and fell over. Quirrell ignored him. He was still talking to himself. "What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!" And to Harry's horror, a voice answered, and the voice seemed to come from Quirrell himself "Use the boy...Use the boy..." Quirrell rounded on Harry. "Yes -- Potter -- come here." He clapped his hands once, and the ropes binding Harry fell off. Harry got slowly to his feet. "Come here," Quirrell repeated. "Look in the mirror and tell me what you see." Harry walked toward him. I must lie, he thought desperately. I must look and lie about what I see, that's all. Quirrell moved close behind him. Harry breathed in the funny smell that seemed to come from Quirrell's turban. He closed his eyes, stepped in front of the mirror, and opened them again. He saw his reflection, pale and scared-looking at first. But a moment later, the reflection smiled at him. It put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a blood-red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its pocket -- and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy drop into his real pocket. Somehow -- incredibly -- he'd gotten the Stone. "Well?" said Quirrell impatiently. "What do you see?" Harry screwed up his courage. "I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," he invented. "I -- I've won the house cup for Gryffindor." Quirrell cursed again. "Get out of the way," he said. As Harry moved aside, he felt the Sorcerer's Stone against his leg. Dare he make a break for it? But he hadn't walked five paces before a high voice spoke, though Quirrell wasn't moving his lips. "He lies...He lies..." "Potter, come back here!" Quirrell shouted. "Tell me the truth! What did you just see?" The high voice spoke again. "Let me speak to him...face-to-face..." "Master, you are not strong enough!" "I have strength enough...for this..." Harry felt as if Devil's Snare was rooting him to the spot. He couldn't move a muscle. Petrified, he watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap his turban. What was going on? The turban fell away. Quirrell's head looked strangely small without it. Then he turned slowly on the spot. Harry would have screamed, but he couldn't make a sound. Where there should have been a back to Quirrell's head, there was a face, the most terrible face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake. "Harry Potter..." it whispered. Harry tried to take a step backward but his legs wouldn't move. "See what I have become?" the face said. "Mere shadow and vapor...I have form only when I can share another's body...but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds...Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks...you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in


Notwithstanding her youth, she was large and powerful--a splendid, clean-limbed animal, with a round, high forehead, which denoted more intelligence than most of her kind possessed. So, also, she had a great capacity for mother love and mother sorrow. But she was still an ape, a huge, fierce, terrible beast of a species closely allied to the gorilla, yet more intelligent; which, with the strength of their cousin, made her kind the most fearsome of those awe-inspiring progenitors of man. When the tribe saw that Kerchak's rage had ceased they came slowly down from their arboreal retreats and pursued again the various occupations which he had interrupted. The young played and frolicked about among the trees and bushes. Some of the adults lay prone upon the soft mat of dead and decaying vegetation which covered the ground, while others turned over pieces of fallen branches and clods of earth in search of the small bugs and reptiles which formed a part of their food. Others, again, searched the surrounding trees for fruit, nuts, small birds, and eggs. They had passed an hour or so thus when Kerchak called them together, and, with a word of command to Chapter 4 24 them to follow him, set off toward the sea. They traveled for the most part upon the ground, where it was open, following the path of the great elephants whose comings and goings break the only roads through those tangled mazes of bush, vine, creeper, and tree. When they walked it was with a rolling, awkward motion, placing the knuckles of their closed hands upon the ground and swinging their ungainly bodies forward. But when the way was through the lower trees they moved more swiftly, swinging from branch to branch with the agility of their smaller cousins, the monkeys. And all the way Kala carried her little dead baby hugged closely to her breast. It was shortly after noon when they reached a ridge overlooking the beach where below them lay the tiny cottage which was Kerchak's goal. He had seen many of his kind go to their deaths before the loud noise made by the little black stick in the hands of the strange white ape who lived in that wonderful lair, and Kerchak had made up his brute mind to own that death-dealing contrivance, and to explore the interior of the mysterious den. He wanted, very, very much, to feel his teeth sink into the neck of the queer animal that he had learned to hate and fear, and because of this, he came often with his tribe to reconnoiter, waiting for a time when the white ape should be off his guard. Of late they had quit attacking, or even showing themselves; for every time they had done so in the past the little stick had roared out its terrible message of death to some member of the tribe. Today there was no sign of the man about, and from where they watched they could see that the cabin door was open. Slowly, cautiously, and noiselessly they crept


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

of his lines made a sudden flush rise to his painted cheeks. He saw her serious alluring eyes watching him from among the audience and their image at once swept away his scruples, leaving his will compact. Another nature seemed to have been lent him: the infection of the excitement and youth about him entered into and transformed his moody mistrustfulness. For one rare moment he seemed to be clothed in the real apparel of boyhood: and, as he stood in the wings among the other players, he shared the common mirth amid which the drop scene was hauled upwards by two able-bodied priests with violent jerks and all awry. A few moments after he found himself on the stage amid the garish gas and the dim scenery, acting before the innumerable faces of the void. It surprised him to see that the play which he had known at rehearsals for a disjointed lifeless thing had suddenly assumed a life of its own. It seemed now to play itself, he and his fellow actors aiding it with their parts. When the curtain fell on the last scene he heard the void filled with applause and, through a rift in a side scene, saw the simple body before which he had acted magically deformed, the void of faces breaking at all points and falling asunder into busy groups. He left the stage quickly and rid himself of his mummery and passed out through the chapel into the college garden. Now that the play was over his nerves cried for some further adventure. He hurried onwards as if to overtake it. The doors of the theatre were all open and the audience had emptied out. On the lines which he had fancied the moorings of an ark a few lanterns swung in the night breeze, flickering cheerlessly. He mounted the steps from the garden in haste, eager that some prey should not elude him, and forced his way through the crowd in the hall and past the two jesuits who stood watching the exodus and bowing and shaking hands with the visitors. He pushed onward nervously, feigning a still greater haste and faintly conscious of the smiles and stares and nudges which his powdered head left in its wake. When he came out on the steps he saw his family waiting for him at the first lamp. In a glance he noted that every figure of the group was familiar and ran down the steps angrily. --I have to leave a message down in George's Street, he said to his father quickly. I'll be home after you. Without waiting for his father's questions he ran across the road and began to walk at breakneck speed down the hill. He hardly knew where he was walking. Pride and hope and desire like crushed herbs in his heart sent up vapours of maddening incense before the eyes of his mind. He strode down the hill amid the tumult of sudden-risen vapours of wounded pride and fallen hope and baffled desire. They streamed upwards before his anguished


this afternoon. “You feel railroaded?” he whispers. I nod. He closes his eyes and runs his hand through his hair in agitation. “I just want to give you the world, Ana, everything and anything you want. And save you from it, too. Keep you safe. But I also want everyone to know you’re mine. I pan- icked today when I got your e-mail. Why didn’t you tell me about your name?” I flush. He has a point. “I only thought about it while we were on our honeymoon, and well, I didn’t want to burst the bubble, and I forgot about it. I only remembered yesterday even- ing. And then Jack . . . you know, it was distracting. I’m sorry, I should have told you or discussed it with you, but I could never seem to find the right time.” Christian’s intense gaze is unnerving. It’s as if he’s trying to will his way into my skull, but he says nothing. “Why did you panic?” I ask. 165/551 “I just don’t want you to slip through my fingers.” “For heaven’s sake, I’m not going anywhere. When are you going to get that through your incredibly thick skull? I. Love. You.” I wave my hand in the air like he does sometimes to emphasize my point. “More than . . . eyesight, space, or liberty.”1 His eyes widen. “A daughter’s love?” He gives me an ironic smile. “No,” I laugh, despite myself. “It’s the only quote that came to mind.” “Mad King Lear?” “Dear, dear Mad King Lear.” I caress his face, and he leans into my touch, closing his eyes. “Would you change your name to Christian Steele so everyone would know that you belong to me?” Christian’s eyes fly open, and he gazes at me as if I’ve just said the world is flat. He frowns. “Belong to you?” he murmurs, testing the words. “Mine.” “Yours,” he says, repeating the words we spoke in the playroom only yester- day. “Yes, I would. If it meant that much to you.” Oh my. “Does it mean that much to you?” “Yes.” He is unequivocal. “Okay.” I will do this for him. Give him the reassurance he still needs. “I thought you’d already agreed to this.” “Yes I have, but now we’ve discussed it further, I’m happier with my decision.” “Oh,” he mutters, surprised. Then he smiles his beautiful, boyish yes-I-am- really-kinda-young smile, and he takes my breath away. Grabbing me by my waist, he swings me around. I squeal and start to giggle, and I don’t know if he’s just happy or relieved or . . . what? “Mrs. Grey, do you know what this means to me?” “I do now.” He leans down and kisses me, his fingers moving into my hair, holding me in place. “It means seven shades of Sunday,” he murmurs against my lips, and he runs his nose along mine. “You think?” I lean back to gaze at him. 166/551 “Certain promises were made. An offer extended, a deal brokered,” he whis- pers, his eyes sparkling with


"Go and burn your mothers' genitals," said one of the priests. The men were seized and beaten until they streamed with blood. After that nothing happened for a long time between the church and the clan. But stories were already gaining ground that the white man had not only brought a religion but also a government. It was said that they had built a place of judgment in Umuofia to protect the followers of their religion. It was even said that they had hanged one man who killed a missionary. Although such stories were now often told they looked like fairytales in Mbanta and did not as yet affect the relationship between the new church and the clan. There was no question of killing a missionary here, for Mr. Kiaga, despite his madness, was quite harmless. As for his converts, no one could kill them without having to flee from the clan, for in spite of their worthlessness they still belonged to the clan. And so nobody gave serious thought to the stories about the white man's government or the consequences of killing the Christians. If they became more troublesome than they already were they would simply be driven out of the clan. And the little church was at that moment too deeply absorbed in its own troubles to annoy the clan. It all began over the question of admitting outcasts. These outcasts, or osu, seeing that the new religion welcomed twins and such abominations, thought that it was possible that they would also be received. And so one Sunday two of them went into the church. There was an immediate stir, but so great was the work the new religion had done among the converts that they did not immediately leave the church when the outcasts came in. Those who found themselves nearest to them merely moved to another seat. It was a miracle. But it only lasted till the end of the service. The whole church raised a protest and was about to drive these people out, when Mr. Kiaga stopped them and began to explain. "Before God," he said, "there is no slave or free. We are all children of God and we must receive these our brothers." "You do not understand," said one of the converts. "What will the heathen say of us when they hear that we receive osu into our midst? They will laugh." "Let them laugh," said Mr. Kiaga. "God will laugh at them on the judgment day. Why do the nations rage and the peoples imagine a vain thing? He that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh. The Lord shall have them in derision." "You do not understand," the convert maintained. "You are our teacher, and you can teach us the things of the new faith. But this is a matter which we know." And he told him what an osu was. He was a person dedicated to a god, a thing set apart--a taboo for ever, and his children after him. He could neither marry nor be married by the free-born. He was


and never near when not wanted; but his great claim to consideration was his respectability. He had not a pliant face, he had rather a stiff neck, rather a tight smooth head with short hair clinging to it at the sides, a soft way of speaking, with a peculiar habit of whispering the letter S so distinctly, that he seemed to use it oftener than any other man; but every peculiarity that he had he made respectable. If his nose had been upside-down, he would have made that respectable. He surrounded himself with an atmosphere of respectability, and walked secure in it. It would have been next to impossible to suspect him of anything wrong, he was so thoroughly respectable. Nobody could have thought of putting him in a livery, he was so highly respectable. To have imposed any derogatory work upon him, would have been to inflict a wanton insult on the feelings of a most respectable man. And of this, I noticed- the women-servants in the household were so intuitively conscious, that they always did such work themselves, and generally while he read the paper by the pantry fire. Such a self-contained man I never saw. But in that quality, as in every other he possessed, he only seemed to be the more respectable. Even the fact that no one knew his Christian name, seemed to form a part of his respectability. Nothing could be objected against his surname, Littimer, by which he was known. Peter might have been hanged, or Tom transported; but Littimer was perfectly respectable. It was occasioned, I suppose, by the reverend nature of respectability in the abstract, but I felt particularly young in this man's presence. How old he was himself, I could not guess - and that again went to his credit on the same score; for in the calmness of respectability he might have numbered fifty years as well as thirty. Littimer was in my room in the morning before I was up, to bring me that reproachful shaving-water, and to put out my clothes. When I undrew the curtains and looked out of bed, I saw him, in an equable temperature of respectability, unaffected by the east wind of January, and not even breathing frostily, standing my boots right and left in the first dancing position, and blowing specks of dust off my coat as he laid it down like a baby. I gave him good morning, and asked him what o'clock it was. He took out of his pocket the most respectable hunting-watch I ever saw, and preventing the spring with his thumb from opening far, looked in at the face as if he were consulting an oracular oyster, shut it up again, and said, if I pleased, it was half past eight. 'Mr. Steerforth will be glad to hear how you have rested, sir.' 'Thank you,' said I, 'very well indeed. Is Mr. Steerforth quite well?' 'Thank you, sir, Mr. Steerforth is tolerably well.' Another of his characteristics - no use of superlatives. A cool calm medium always. 'Is there


the presidency wasn’t a grift.” As he spoke, there was a confusion of footsteps above us: a fight, maybe, or two people dancing very poorly. “You could say, ‘Oh, that humanizes Bill Clinton,’ ” he said over the stumbling. “But what it really does is make him someone who’s fully cognizant of his power and who uses it to get exactly what he feels he deserves. And then how about that next presidency, right?” I nodded and then remembered he probably couldn’t see me either. “Right.” “That was an explicitly criminal presidency. Iraq, Halliburton, jingoism. And the whole thing about crime is it’s a scarcity versus abundance kind of thing.” There were two types of criminal according to Orson: the fake and the real. The fake criminal is shaped by scarcity, a Jean Valjean–type bread stealer. The real criminal is shaped by abundance, invading foreign countries for their oil, buying penthouses, killing people who threaten their supremacy. “The thing about capitalism,” he said, and I could feel him shifting toward me and away again, “is that it wants to tell lies about scarcity. It assumes that everything is scarce for everyone, and that everyone is scrambling at all times to make things less scarce, and that the most effective scramblers are the ones most deserving of the spoils they earn, or appear to earn. Most deserving of abundance.” I nodded again, relishing the boom of his voice. “But the ones with abundance aren’t the most effective scramblers. The most effective scramblers are the guys hustling to sell vials of crack in a two-block radius of where they were born. They’re sex workers who know how to cheat a dumb client out of an extra twenty dollars. They’re jacking Ferraris and robbing banks and counting cards. These aren’t people you’d expect to find at the top in the way, you know, you’d find Bush Jr. and Clinton. They’re working hard. They’re scrambling more effectively than anyone.” “Exactly,” I intoned. “If you want to spot a real criminal,” he continued on, seemingly without having heard me, “you need to look for the hoarding, the abundance, the dark triad shit. Because otherwise you’ve got these fake-scarcity criminals. And those aren’t criminals—those are the most gifted scramblers.” He sighed as though his speech had exhausted him. “Okay, you can turn it back on.” I clicked the flashlight back on and he was facing the grid again, his hands on his hips. He toggled the switch labeled “Apartment 4C”—ours—and turned to the side, frowning. There was no surging noise as there had been for Apartment 1B. “The other wires,” he muttered to himself, and gestured for the scissors he’d instructed me to bring. I handed them to him and watched as he snipped two sets of wires between our switch and that of the apartment across the hall from us, wrapping the frayed copper edges of one set around the other. Then he toggled our switch again: a surge. “We can make Hot Pockets tonight,” he said, and grinned. * * * What’s he thinking of majoring


church...." That Calpurnia led a modest double life never dawned on me. The idea that she had a separate existence outside our household was a novel one, to say nothing of her having command of two languages. "Cal," I asked, "why do you talk nigger-talk to the- to your folks when you know it's not right?" "Well, in the first place I'm black-" "That doesn't mean you hafta talk that way when you know better," said Jem. Calpurnia tilted her hat and scratched her head, then pressed her hat down carefully over her ears. "It's right hard to say," she said. "Suppose you and Scout talked colored-folks' talk at home it'd be out of place, wouldn't it? Now what if I talked white-folks' talk at church, and with my neighbors? They'd think I was puttin' on airs to beat Moses." "But Cal, you know better," I said. "It's not necessary to tell all you know. It's not ladylike- in the second place, folks don't like to have somebody around knowin' more than they do. It aggravates 'em. You're not gonna change any of them by talkin' right, they've got to want to learn themselves, and when they don't want to learn there's nothing you can do but keep your mouth shut or talk their language." "Cal, can I come to see you sometimes?" She looked down at me. "See me, honey? You see me every day." "Out to your house," I said. "Sometimes after work? Atticus can get me." "Any time you want to," she said. "We'd be glad to have you." We were on the sidewalk by the Radley Place. "Look on the porch yonder," Jem said. I looked over to the Radley Place, expecting to see its phantom occupant sunning himself in the swing. The swing was empty. "I mean our porch," said Jem. I looked down the street. Enarmored, upright, uncompromising, Aunt Alexandra was sitting in a rocking chair exactly as if she had sat there every day of her life. 13 "Put my bag in the front bedroom, Calpurnia," was the first thing Aunt Alexandra said. "Jean Louise, stop scratching your head," was the second thing she said. Calpurnia picked up Aunty's heavy suitcase and opened the door. "I'll take it," said Jem, and took it. I heard the suitcase hit the bedroom floor with a thump. The sound had a dull permanence about it. "Have you come for a visit, Aunty?" I asked. Aunt Alexandra's visits from the Landing were rare, and she traveled in state. She owned a bright green square Buick and a black chauffeur, both kept in an unhealthy state of tidiness, but today they were nowhere to be seen. "Didn't your father tell you?" she asked. Jem and I shook our heads. "Probably he forgot. He's not in yet, is he?" "Nome, he doesn't usually get back till late afternoon," said Jem. "Well, your father and I decided it was time I came to stay with you for a while." "For a while" in Maycomb meant anything from three days to thirty years.


bingo chart went up in the bathroom? If a thirty-three-year-old music teacher takes possession of a teenager’s body, does he take agency from her muscles as well? Does he fray the line between body and mind? Perhaps not entirely. But enough to make an inch, three inches, five inches of difference? She springs, but she hesitates slightly, doesn’t push off with the legs of a ten-year-old but with legs that have been told what they are until she believes it. She knows, in the way you always know, in any bad fall, that the earth is rising for you, and she manages to twist. Not to right herself, but to turn like a barbershop pole so it’s the back of her head that hits the pool rim. And not even the outer rim, but the inner one, the one under a few centimeters of water. Her head leaves no dent; her blood billows through the water in faint pink clouds. She struggles a minute, drifting in and out of consciousness. She can’t pull herself out but she follows the lane line to the shallow end, draping herself on the green and gold rings, nestling them under her chin, slipping under, coming up, slipping under, coming up on the far side, but now something has her hair, something’s pulling her head back and down, and the easiest thing, the only thing, is to sleep. 20 After our interview, Britt had sent me a link to a YouTube video from a man named Dane Rubra. He had a whole channel, in fact, that seemed to be ninety percent about Thalia. At two a.m., suddenly wide awake, I decided I could enter this particular rabbit warren for exactly one hour, after which I’d sleep. Dane Rubra looked, and I’m putting this gently, like he hadn’t seen the sun or eaten a vegetable or gotten laid in a decade. A pastier Norman Bates with stringier hair and doughier cheeks. According to his first video, which I had to scroll to find, he was “between jobs” when he first saw the Dateline special, and he had an epiphany, felt he could contribute. When he said Thalia’s name, oozed over the vowels, I felt the skin on my neck tighten. He was about my age, and I imagined he fancied that if only he and Thalia had crossed paths, he could have saved her, bedded her, won her love. He showed a yearbook photo of Puja Sharma and said, “This one wasn’t as pretty as her friend, and you have to think, that could have been a source of jealousy. Miss Sharma is a real possibility here. Someone we can never question, unfortunately.” I nearly slammed my laptop shut at that one, at the gall, the wrongheadedness, the slime. Puja might have been a hanger-on—might have used Thalia’s kindness as entry into the crowd that spent Feb Week at Mike Stiles’s ski house, that went to the Vineyard on long weekends—but she was devastated by Thalia’s death. Two weeks afterward, Puja took off on foot in the middle


"You can take spears if you want but I shan't. What's the good? I'll have to be led like a dog, anyhow. Yes, laugh. Go on, laugh. There's them on this island as would laugh at anything. And what happened? What's grownups goin' to think? Young Simon was murdered. And there was that other kid what had a mark on his face. Who's seen him since we first come here?" "Piggy! Stop a minute!" "I got the conch. I'm going to that Jack Merridew an' tell him, I am." "You'll get hurt." "What can he do more than he has? I'll tell him what's what. You let me carry the conch, Ralph. I'll show him the one thing he hasn't got." Piggy paused for a moment and peered round at the dim figures. The shape of the old assembly, trodden in the grass, listened to him. "I'm going to him with this conch in my hands. I'm going to hold it out. Look, I'm goin' to say, you're stronger than I am and you haven't got asthma. You can see, I'm goin' to say, and with both eyes. But I don't ask for my glasses back, not as a favor. I don't ask you to be a sport, I'll say, not because you're strong, but because what's right's right. Give me my glasses, I'm going to say--you got to!" Piggy ended, flushed and trembling. He pushed the conch quickly into Ralph's hands as though in a hurry to be rid of it and wiped the tears from his eyes. The green light was gentle about them and the conch lay at Ralph's feet, fragile and white. A single drop of water that had escaped Piggy's fingers now flashed on the delicate curve like a star. At last Ralph sat up straight and drew back his hair. "All right. I mean--you can try if you like. We'll go with you." "He'll be painted," said Sam, timidly. "You know how he'll be--" "--he won't think much of us--" "--if he gets waxy we've had it--" Ralph scowled at Sam. Dimly he remembered something Simon had said to him once, by the rocks. "Don't be silly," he said. And then he added quickly, "Let's go." He held out the conch to Piggy who flushed, this time with pride. "You must carry it." "When we're ready I'll carry it--" Piggy sought in his mind for words to convey his passionate willingness to carry the conch against all odds. "I don't mind. I'll be glad, Ralph, only I'll have to be led." Ralph put the conch back on the shining log. "We better eat and then get ready." They made their way to the devastated fruit trees. Piggy was helped to his food and found some by touch. While they ate, Ralph thought of the afternoon. "We'll be like we were. We'll wash--" Sam gulped down a mouthful and protested. "But we bathe every day!" Ralph looked at the filthy objects before him and sighed. "We ought to comb our hair. Only it's too long." "I've got


ask him. At the moment, everyone else was gushing about art and she and the stranger smiled knowingly. ‘My favourite artist is Lowry. I love the political impact of his paintings.’ The politics lecturer finished her soup. ‘But then I’m from Manchester.’ ‘I’m not from New York, but if you want a political artist, then Basquiat is your man,’ the politics lecturer’s husband insisted. ‘Oh, no.’ The author’s wife pulled a sour face. ‘Basquiat was just a graffiti artist with no skill.’ ‘Do you think so? I like his work…’ Francine began to collect bowls, her face troubled. The man sitting opposite Minnie looked bemused and Minnie copied his expression. ‘American art often leaves me unimpressed,’ the politics lecturer suggested. ‘Jackson Pollock – what is that all about?’ ‘And American playwrights too – I can’t name a good one,’ the author said bluntly. ‘Nor can I…’ his wife agreed. ‘There’s Miller – Tennessee Williams – Kushner—’ Minnie began. ‘Well, I like them all,’ Francine said quickly as she moved from the table and Melvyn began to refill glasses. Minnie watched the man with the cloud of hair as he observed everyone, his eyes bright behind glasses. She leaned forwards – she could sense a storm coming so, as the Szechuan beef arrived with all the trimmings, she said mischievously, ‘I love American plays – I prefer a good Tennessee Williams any day to, say, a mediocre Noel Coward, who was writing around the same time – I like a play I can get my teeth into.’ ‘Oh, I can’t agree.’ The politics lecturer was adamant. ‘Cat on a Hot Tin Roof – horrible! – and Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf – all that shouting.’ ‘And Eugene O’Neill too, those dead-enders who live in a flop house… just, no.’ The author’s wife shuddered. ‘More wine, everyone?’ Melvyn began filling glasses quickly. Francine took over hurriedly. ‘Let’s talk about something else – Minnie, have you read anything interesting lately? Minnie is the most cultured of us all—’ ‘In fact,’ the author cut across Francine, ‘I don’t like American literature. Any of it.’ ‘Indeed,’ the politics lecturer laughed. ‘And American politics – oh, my goodness.’ ‘Ah, we might discuss…’ Melvyn began. Francine interrupted. ‘I hope the beef is good.’ ‘Perfect… you must give me the recipe.’ The author’s wife smiled. ‘Back to America, though – the food – I don’t think I’ve tasted worse.’ The man with the cloud of hair leaned forward. He was openly amused now. Minnie caught his eye and raised both brows. The author laughed. ‘I hate to say it, but nothing good has come out of the USA recently.’ The politics lecturer’s husband guffawed. ‘Not since Marilyn Monroe.’ He was pleased with himself. ‘And I always thought our Diana Dors was a better actress…’ Minnie put down her knife and fork deliberately and gave a loud sigh: it had gone far enough. ‘This music is really good. What is it?’ Melvyn was relieved to change the subject. ‘It’s Buddy Bolden…’ ‘Wasn’t he the father of jazz music?’ Minnie waved


were so many things she couldn’t wrap her head around. So many things she didn’t know. But she knew Alante. She knew the power players. She knew there was only one group of women powerful enough to guarantee passage to the Golden City of Nanzy and inspire the hatred of even the shadiest crook in the Silts. It was time to stop pretending this was just any other case she’d worked. Her gut roiled with dread. She was going to have to visit the Nine. CHAPTER XIV THE HOUSE OF NINE THE HISTORY BOOKS were hazy on the details, but the consensus was that the gods had died long before the old world Collapsed. Little was known about the time before the Collapse, but the remnants of the old world lay everywhere. Spiky metallic structures thousands of years old sticking out of deserts and lakes, paved roads in the middle of lush forests, found objects made of strange materials that might be art or technology or children’s toys. And of course, the texts, written in languages old but recognizable, found on metal plaques and chipped marble. Each historian and scientist seemed to have a different theory about what had brought on the Collapse, but they all agreed on its major turning point: the once singular moon split into three—Pandia, Nemea, and Ersa—causing the sea level to rise globally. Whole nations were swallowed by dark waters, and the few remaining coastal cities faced a tide that sank them half underwater every night. At first, people took refuge at higher altitudes, waiting for the tide to settle. But despite every scientist’s prediction, despite the very laws of nature, the shifting earth and sea never calmed. Instead came a never-ending circle of catastrophes: neo-monsoons and heat storms, chimerini coming out of the waters, leviathans breaking out of the ice farther up north, enormous and extremely hard to kill—and the appearance of other-born, more and more with every generation. A new order rose from the chaos, in the form of other-born. Horae-born who could alter the passage of time, muse-born who could see past and future in the arts, moira-born who could create and sever bonds. With the help of other-born, the Coastal Barrier was constructed, dams were built, icebergs were chased for the fresh water they could provide. Fertile valleys and terraced hills were formed; over-water trams and entire stilt towns were raised from the mud. The leviathans were hunted to extinction, the chimerini dissected and used for parts. Humanity started thriving again, conglomerating in city-nations, reestablishing trade and craft, electing new representatives. But there was always a whisper in the air, a murmur shared when the candles were snuffed out: the Collapse was the gods’ punishment. Humankind might be surviving at the moment, but the gods would always win in the end. * * * “I didn’t take you for a doomsayer,” Edei said, his voice teasing. There was a newfound easiness between them today. They had eaten and washed dishes together, tended to their wounds, and marveled over bees and fairy tales, and


considered an acceptable course of proceeding. I have already said, sir, that I have had my suspicions of Miss Spenlow, in reference to David Copperfield, for some time. I have frequently endeavoured to find decisive corroboration of those suspicions, but without effect. I have therefore forborne to mention them to Miss Spenlow's father'; looking severely at him- 'knowing how little disposition there usually is in such cases, to acknowledge the conscientious discharge of duty.' Mr. Spenlow seemed quite cowed by the gentlemanly sternness of Miss Murdstone's manner, and deprecated her severity with a conciliatory little wave of his hand. 'On my return to Norwood, after the period of absence occasioned by my brother's marriage,' pursued Miss Murdstone in a disdainful voice, 'and on the return of Miss Spenlow from her visit to her friend Miss Mills, I imagined that the manner of Miss Spenlow gave me greater occasion for suspicion than before. Therefore I watched Miss Spenlow closely.' Dear, tender little Dora, so unconscious of this Dragon's eye! 'Still,' resumed Miss Murdstone, 'I found no proof until last night. It appeared to me that Miss Spenlow received too many letters from her friend Miss Mills; but Miss Mills being her friend with her father's full concurrence,' another telling blow at Mr. Spenlow, 'it was not for me to interfere. If I may not be permitted to allude to the natural depravity of the human heart, at least I may - I must - be permitted, so far to refer to misplaced confidence.' Mr. Spenlow apologetically murmured his assent. 'Last evening after tea,' pursued Miss Murdstone, 'I observed the little dog starting, rolling, and growling about the drawing-room, worrying something. I said to Miss Spenlow, "Dora, what is that the dog has in his mouth? It's paper." Miss Spenlow immediately put her hand to her frock, gave a sudden cry, and ran to the dog. I interposed, and said, "Dora, my love, you must permit me." ' Oh Jip, miserable Spaniel, this wretchedness, then, was your work! 'Miss Spenlow endeavoured,' said Miss Murdstone, 'to bribe me with kisses, work-boxes, and small articles of jewellery - that, of course, I pass over. The little dog retreated under the sofa on my approaching him, and was with great difficulty dislodged by the fire-irons. Even when dislodged, he still kept the letter in his mouth; and on my endeavouring to take it from him, at the imminent risk of being bitten, he kept it between his teeth so pertinaciously as to suffer himself to be held suspended in the air by means of the document. At length I obtained possession of it. After perusing it, I taxed Miss Spenlow with having many such letters in her possession; and ultimately obtained from her the packet which is now in David Copperfield's hand.' Here she ceased; and snapping her reticule again, and shutting her mouth, looked as if she might be broken, but could never be bent. 'You have heard Miss Murdstone,' said Mr. Spenlow, turning to me. 'I beg to ask, Mr. Copperfield, if you have anything


of the candle as if the question were as irrelevant, or at any rate as impersonal, as Mrs. Marcet or nine-times-nine. "Oh, but you know," she quite adequately answered, "that you might come back, you dear, and that you HAVE!" And after a little, when she had got into bed, I had, for a long time, by almost sitting on her to hold her hand, to prove that I recognized the pertinence of my return. You may imagine the general complexion, from that moment, of my nights. I repeatedly sat up till I didn't know when; I selected moments when my roommate unmistakably slept, and, stealing out, took noiseless turns in the passage and even pushed as far as to where I had last met Quint. But I never met him there again; and I may as well say at once that I on no other occasion saw him in the house. I just missed, on the staircase, on the other hand, a different adventure. Looking down it from the top I once recognized the presence of a woman seated on one of the lower steps with her back presented to me, her body half-bowed and her head, in an attitude of woe, in her hands. I had been there but an instant, however, when she vanished without looking round at me. I knew, nonetheless, exactly what dreadful face she had to show; and I wondered whether, if instead of being above I had been below, I should have had, for going up, the same nerve I had lately shown Quint. Well, there continued to be plenty of chance for nerve. On the eleventh night after my latest encounter with that gentleman-- they were all numbered now--I had an alarm that perilously skirted it and that indeed, from the particular quality of its unexpectedness, proved quite my sharpest shock. It was precisely the first night during this series that, weary with watching, I had felt that I might again without laxity lay myself down at my old hour. I slept immediately and, as I afterward knew, till about one o'clock; but when I woke it was to sit straight up, as completely roused as if a hand had shook me. I had left a light burning, but it was now out, and I felt an instant certainty that Flora had extinguished it. This brought me to my feet and straight, in the darkness, to her bed, which I found she had left. A glance at the window enlightened me further, and the striking of a match completed the picture. The child had again got up--this time blowing out the taper, and had again, for some purpose of observation or response, squeezed in behind the blind and was peering out into the night. That she now saw-- as she had not, I had satisfied myself, the previous time--was proved to me by the fact that she was disturbed neither by my reillumination nor by the haste I made to get into slippers and into a wrap. Hidden, protected, absorbed, she evidently rested on


Boar in our town. For all that I knew this perfectly well, I still felt as if it were not safe to let the coach-office be out of my sight longer than five minutes at a time; and in this condition of unreason I had performed the first half-hour of a watch of four or five hours, when Wemmick ran against me. "Halloa, Mr. Pip," said he; "how do you do? I should hardly have thought this was your beat." I explained that I was waiting to meet somebody who was coming up by coach, and I inquired after the Castle and the Aged. "Both flourishing thankye," said Wemmick, "and particularly the Aged. He's in wonderful feather. He'll be eighty-two next birthday. I have a notion of firing eighty-two times, if the neighbourhood shouldn't complain, and that cannon of mine should prove equal to the pressure. However, this is not London talk. where do you think I am going to?" "To the office?" said I, for he was tending in that direction. "Next thing to it," returned Wemmick, "I am going to Newgate. We are in a banker's-parcel case just at present, and I have been down the road taking as squint at the scene of action, and thereupon must have a word or two with our client." "Did your client commit the robbery?" I asked. "Bless your soul and body, no," answered Wemmick, very drily. "But he is accused of it. So might you or I be. Either of us might be accused of it, you know." "Only neither of us is," I remarked. "Yah!" said Wemmick, touching me on the breast with his forefinger; "you're a deep one, Mr. Pip! Would you like to have a look at Newgate? Have you time to spare?" I had so much time to spare, that the proposal came as a relief, notwithstanding its irreconcilability with my latent desire to keep my eye on the coach-office. Muttering that I would make the inquiry whether I had time to walk with him, I went into the office, and ascertained from the clerk with the nicest precision and much to the trying of his temper, the earliest moment at which the coach could be expected - which I knew beforehand, quite as well as he. I then rejoined Mr. Wemmick, and affecting to consult my watch and to be surprised by the information I had received, accepted his offer. We were at Newgate in a few minutes, and we passed through the lodge where some fetters were hanging up on the bare walls among the prison rules, into the interior of the jail. At that time, jails were much neglected, and the period of exaggerated reaction consequent on all public wrong-doing - and which is always its heaviest and longest punishment - was still far off. So, felons were not lodged and fed better than soldiers (to say nothing of paupers), and seldom set fire to their prisons with the excusable object of improving the flavour of their soup. It was visiting time when Wemmick took


“Dinah?” “How do you remember which neighborhood I come from?” “You told me.” She frowned. “Ages ago. Years back.” Some understanding crossed his face. “I remember everything when it comes to you,” he said. Mrs. King remembered how it used to be, when she was a house-parlormaid, back when William arrived. Of course the girls went mad for him—half of the men, too, come to that. William knew this, and he handled it gently. He didn’t let it turn his head. He kept himself to himself—he was hard to read, same as she was. The first time their hands touched, they were both buttoned up in their gloves. He’d taken a breath, a deep one, as if steadying himself. They kept it secret, whatever it was between them. They didn’t even call it love for years. It was their thing, theirs alone. On their night walks they skirted Whitechapel, and he pressed her, curious: tell me who you are, tell me where you come from. “Who cares?” she said, laughing. “Let me be a mystery.” She led him down the old street, right past Mr. Parker’s house, in silence. Yellow-gray brick, and a broken lamppost, and a shadowy boy flipping ha’pennies at the end of the lane. She must have gone silent, fretting, remembering Mother. He’d clocked it, yet he didn’t say anything; he didn’t want to cause her pain. I remember everything when it comes to you. Those words made her throat dry. “Don’t repeat that to anyone.” He stared right back. “Which part?” “Any of it.” She closed up her face, turned her back on him. She could feel it: danger, pulsing through the garden. 18 Tilney Street, Mayfair. Mrs. Bone had rented lodgings for them on a side road off Park Lane, in order to maintain the closest possible presence to the de Vries residence. “Can she afford it?” Mrs. King murmured when they first inspected their new lodgings. “Why couldn’t she afford it?” said Winnie. Mrs. King’s expression smoothed out. “No reason.” Now Winnie sat in the parlor with a mountain of fabric, sewing tunics. She frowned, struggling with the machine, which whirred and rattled and threatened to destroy her faith in herself. She wasn’t making nearly enough progress. They needed to dress at least sixty men. She was barely a third of the way through. She called through to the bedroom. “How are you getting on in there, Hephzibah?” Hephzibah’s voice came back, rich and imperious. “Call me Lady Montagu!” Mrs. Bone had sent one of her own gigantic-looking mirrors to Tilney Street, and they’d propped it up at the end of the bed. Winnie peeked around the door. Hephzibah was examining herself, ruffled and rippling, awash with pink silks. A hat triple-barreled with roses floated merrily on her head. “I’m radiant,” she said. “You look like a regular Venus,” said Winnie, with care. Hephzibah eyed her beadily. “Because of the pink?” She sniffed. “Yes, I like that.” Winnie approached carefully. She touched Hephzibah’s neck, checked the buttons on the back of the dress. Studied the photograph


half your life before the Revolution. In 1925, for instance, you were already grown up. Would you say from what you can remember, that life in 1925 was better than it is now, or worse? If you could choose, would you prefer to live then or now?' The old man looked meditatively at the darts board. He finished up his beer, more slowly than before. When he spoke it was with a tolerant philosophical air, as though the beer had mellowed him. 'I know what you expect me to say,' he said. 'You expect me to say as I'd sooner be young again. Most people'd say they'd sooner be young, if you arst' 'em. You got your 'ealth and strength when you're young. When you get to my time of life you ain't never well. I suffer something wicked from my feet, and my bladder's jest terrible. Six and seven times a night it 'as me out of bed. On the other 'and, there's great advantages in being a old man. You ain't got the same worries. No truck with women, and that's a great thing. I ain't 'ad a woman for near on thirty year, if you'd credit it. Nor wanted to, what's more.' Winston sat back against the window-sill. It was no use going on. He was about to buy some more beer when the old man suddenly got up and shuffled rapidly into the stinking urinal at the side of the room. The extra half-litre was already working on him. Winston sat for a minute or two gazing at his empty glass, and hardly noticed when his feet carried him out into the street again. Within twenty years at the most, he reflected, the huge and simple question, 'Was life better before the Revolution than it is now?' would have ceased once and for all to be answerable. But in effect it was unanswerable even now, since the few scattered survivors from the ancient world were incapable of comparing one age with another. They remembered a million useless things, a quarrel with a workmate, a hunt for a lost bicycle pump, the expression on a long-dead sister's face, the swirls of dust on a windy morning seventy years ago: but all the relevant facts were outside the range of their vision. They were like the ant, which can see small objects but not large ones. And when memory failed and written records were falsified--when that happened, the claim of the Party to have improved the conditions of human life had got to be accepted, because there did not exist, and never again could exist, any standard against which it could be tested. At this moment his train of thought stopped abruptly. He halted and looked up. He was in a narrow street, with a few dark little shops, interspersed among dwelling-houses. Immediately above his head there hung three discoloured metal balls which looked as if they had once been gilded. He seemed to know the place. Of course! He was standing outside the junk-shop where he had bought the


a long letter which I considered odd, coming from the pen of a bride just out of the honey- moon. I'll read it, for I keep it yet. Any relic of the dead is precious if they were valued living. DEAR ELLEN, it begins, I came last night to Wuther- ing Heights, and heard for the first time that Catherine has been, and is yet, very ill. I must not write to her, I suppose, and my brother is either too angry or too dis- tressed to answer what I sent him. Still, I must write to somebody, and the only choice left me is you. Inform Edgar that I'd give the world to see his face again---that my heart returned to Thrushcross Grange in twenty-four hours after I left it, and is there at this moment, full of warm feelings for him and Catherine. I can't follow it, though (those words are underlined); they need not expect me; and they may draw what con- clusions they please, taking care, however, to lay noth- ing at the door of my weak will or deficient affection. The remainder of the letter is for yourself alone. I want to ask you two questions; the first is---How did you contrive to preserve the common sympathies of human nature when you resided here? I cannot recog- nize any sentiment which those around share with me. The second question I have great interest in; it is this----Is Mr. Heathcliff a man? If so, is he mad? And if not, is he a devil? I shan't tell my reasons for making this inquiry, but I beseech you to explain, if you can, what I have married---that is, when you call to see me; and you must call, Ellen, very soon. Don't write, but come, and bring me something from Edgar. Now you shall hear how I have been received in my new home, as I am led to imagine the Heights will be. It is to amuse myself that I dwell on such subjects as the lack of external comforts; they never occupy my thoughts, except at the moment when I miss them. I should laugh and dance for joy if I found their absence was the total of my miseries, and the rest was an un- natural dream. The sun set behind the Grange as we turned on to the moors: by that I judged it to be six o'clock; and my companion halted half an hour to inspect the park and the gardens, and probably the place itself, as well as he could; so it was dark when we dismounted in the paved yard of the farmhouse, and your old fellow-serv- ant Joseph issued out to receive us by the light of a dip candle. He did it with a courtesy that redounded to his credit. His first act was to elevate his torch to a level with my face, squint malignantly, project his under lip, and turn away. Then he took the two horses and led them into the stables, reappearing for the purpose of


heard Dill's step in the hall, so Calpurnia left Atticus's uneaten breakfast on the table. Between rabbit-bites Dill told us of Miss Rachel's reaction to last night, which was: if a man like Atticus Finch wants to butt his head against a stone wall it's his head. "I'da got her told," growled Dill, gnawing a chicken leg, "but she didn't look much like tellin' this morning. Said she was up half the night wonderin' where I was, said she'da had the sheriff after me but he was at the hearing." "Dill, you've got to stop goin' off without tellin' her," said Jem. "It just aggravates her." Dill sighed patiently. "I told her till I was blue in the face where I was goin'- she's just seein' too many snakes in the closet. Bet that woman drinks a pint for breakfast every morning- know she drinks two glasses full. Seen her." "Don't talk like that, Dill," said Aunt Alexandra. "It's not becoming to a child. It's- cynical." "I ain't cynical, Miss Alexandra. Tellin' the truth's not cynical, is it?" "The way you tell it, it is." Jem's eyes flashed at her, but he said to Dill, "Let's go. You can take that runner with you." When we went to the front porch, Miss Stephanie Crawford was busy telling it to Miss Maudie Atkinson and Mr. Avery. They looked around at us and went on talking. Jem made a feral noise in his throat. I wished for a weapon. "I hate grown folks lookin' at you," said Dill. "Makes you feel like you've done something." Miss Maudie yelled for Jem Finch to come there. Jem groaned and heaved himself up from the swing. "We'll go with you," Dill said. Miss Stephanie's nose quivered with curiosity. She wanted to know who all gave us permission to go to court- she didn't see us but it was all over town this morning that we were in the Colored balcony. Did Atticus put us up there as a sort of-? Wasn't it right close up there with all those-? Did Scout understand all the-? Didn't it make us mad to see our daddy beat? "Hush, Stephanie." Miss Maudie's diction was deadly. "I've not got all the morning to pass on the porch- Jem Finch, I called to find out if you and your colleagues can eat some cake. Got up at five to make it, so you better say yes. Excuse us, Stephanie. Good morning, Mr. Avery." There was a big cake and two little ones on Miss Maudie's kitchen table. There should have been three little ones. It was not like Miss Maudie to forget Dill, and we must have shown it. But we understood when she cut from the big cake and gave the slice to Jem. As we ate, we sensed that this was Miss Maudie's way of saying that as far as she was concerned, nothing had changed. She sat quietly in a kitchen chair, watching us. Suddenly she spoke: "Don't fret, Jem. Things are never as bad as they seem." Indoors, when


is just bandaged. I must look to this other wound in the arm; she has had her teeth here too, I think."     "She sucked the blood; she said she'd drain my heart," said Mason.     I saw Mr. Rochester shudder; a singularly marked expression of disgust, horror, hatred, warped his countenance almost to distortion; but he only said: "Come, be silent, Richard, and never mind her gibberish; don't repeat it."     "I wish I could forget it," was the answer.     "You will when you are out of the country: when you get back to Spanish Town you may think of her as dead and buried or rather, you need not think of her at all."     "Impossible to forget this night!"     "It is not impossible; have some energy, man. You thought you were as dead as a herring two hours since, and you are all alive and talking now. There! Carter has done with yon or nearly so: I'll make you decent in a trice, Jane;" (he turned to me for the first time since his reentrance), "take this key; go down into my bedroom, and walk straight forward into my dressing-room; open the top drawer of the wardrobe and take out a clean shirt and neck-handkerchief; bring them here; and be nimble."     I went, sought the repository he had mentioned, found the articles named, and returned with them.     "Now," said he, "go to the other side of the bed while I order his toilet; but don't leave the room; you may be wanted again."     I retired as directed.     "Was anybody stirring below when you went down, Jane?" inquired Mr. Rochester, presently.     "No, sir; all was very still."     "We shall get you off cannily, Dick; and it will be better, both for your sake and for that of the poor creature in yonder. I have striven long to avoid exposure, and I should not like it to come at last. Here, Carter, help him on with his waistcoat. Where did you leave your furred cloak? You can't travel a mile without that, I know, in this d cold climate. In your room? Jane, run down to Mr. Mason's room, the one next to mine, and fetch a cloak you will see there."     Again I ran, and again returned, bearing an immense mantle lined and edged with fur.     "Now I've another errand for you," said my untiring master; "you must away to my room again. What a mercy you are shod with velvet, Jane! a clod-hopping messenger would never do at this juncture. You must open the middle drawer of my toilet-table, and take out a little vial and a little glass you will find there quick!"     I flew thither and back, bringing the desired vessels.


and wet and alive. It clamped itself around her hand and squeezed so hard she felt blood pulse in her fingertips. Louise leapt to her feet and whatever it was came with her, a heavy lump clinging to the end of her arm, rippling and alive. It gave a single muscular pulse and slid a few inches up her wrist. Louise drew her hand back and flung her arm forward, hard, and her forearm got lighter and something flew across the room and thudded into the wall and bounced into the streetlight’s splash of light in the middle of the floor. Pupkin. you left me all alone you left me behind you tried to forget about me you left me in the dark Impossibly, without anyone moving him, he bent forward and climbed unsteadily onto his little nubbin legs. The empty sleeve of his puppet hole hung behind him like a tail. He puffed up his chest and turned his face to her and they looked at each other. Pupkin was back. And he hated her. His little plastic face stretched, his chin crumpled and popped as his tiny mouth opened wide, and he hissed at her. Then he surged forward, coming at her, body hunching and releasing fast, faster than the squirrels, leaving the spill of streetlight and entering the shadows, coming for her feet. no no no no no no no no no no She fell back onto her bed and pulled her legs up after her, but Pupkin scrambled up the blankets that hung to the floor. He couldn’t touch her, she’d die if he touched her, she couldn’t let him touch her, her heart trip-hammered against her ribs, she saw the top of his little pointed hood rise over the side of her bed like when she was a little girl, and Louise made a whimper in her throat like a little girl i am not a little girl The thought shot lightning up her spine. She leapt for the open door. She landed hard on one ankle and lurched to her right, almost falling, but she didn’t stop, she heard an angry hiss behind her and heard Pupkin drop to the carpet, and she ran out the door, sweeping up the office chair in one fluid movement behind her and hurling it backward, hoping to crush Pupkin. She heard the chair bang off the wall and clatter to the floor and she raced into the hall with nothing between her and the front door but darkness, passing the closed bathroom door, passing the workroom, seeing light from the patio doors on the carpet, and something sliced into her shins. She went down hard, reaching forward to break her fall, and her palms hit wooden bars, then carpet, and she fell in a tangle of sharp wooden edges. She tried to roll over, but her legs were trapped, then she realized: it was one of the dining room chairs, lying on its side. How had . . . Pupkin had dragged it into the hall. In case she


was full of plans "for his gentleman's coming out strong, and like a gentleman," and urged me to begin speedily upon the pocket-book, which he had left in my possession. He considered the chambers and his own lodging as temporary residences, and advised me to look out at once for a "fashionable crib' near Hyde Park, in which he could have "a shake-down'. When he had made an end of his breakfast, and was wiping his knife on his leg, I said to him, without a word of preface: "After you were gone last night, I told my friend of the struggle that the soldiers found you engaged in on the marshes, when we came up. You remember?" "Remember!" said he. "I think so!" "We want to know something about that man - and about you. It is strange to know no more about either, and particularly you, than I was able to tell last night. Is not this as good a time as another for our knowing more?" "Well!" he said, after consideration. "You're on your oath, you know, Pip's comrade?" "Assuredly," replied Herbert. "As to anything I say, you know," he insisted. "The oath applies to all." "I understand it to do so." "And look'ee here! Wotever I done, is worked out and paid for," he insisted again. "So be it." He took out his black pipe and was going to fill it with negrohead, when, looking at the tangle of tobacco in his hand, he seemed to think it might perplex the thread of his narrative. He put it back again, stuck his pipe in a button-hole of his coat, spread a hand on each knee, and, after turning an angry eye on the fire for a few silent moments, looked round at us and said what follows. Chapter 42 "Dear boy and Pip's comrade. I am not a-going fur to tell you my life, like a song or a story-book. But to give it you short and handy, I'll put it at once into a mouthful of English. In jail and out of jail, in jail and out of jail, in jail and out of jail. There, you got it. That's my life pretty much, down to such times as I got shipped off, arter Pip stood my friend. "I've been done everything to, pretty well - except hanged. I've been locked up, as much as a silver tea-kettle. I've been carted here and carted there, and put out of this town and put out of that town, and stuck in the stocks, and whipped and worried and drove. I've no more notion where I was born, than you have - if so much. I first become aware of myself, down in Essex, a thieving turnips for my living. Summun had run away from me - a man - a tinker - and he'd took the fire with him, and left me wery cold. "I know'd my name to be Magwitch, chrisen'd Abel. How did I know it? Much as I know'd the birds' names in the hedges


Trillian quietly moved his hand before he tapped anything important. Whatever Zaphod's qualities of mind might include - dash, bravado, conceit - he was mechanically inept and could easily blow the ship up with an extravagant gesture. Trillian had come to suspect that the main reason why he had had such a wild and successful life that he never really understood the significance of anything he did. "Zaphod," she said patiently, "they were floating unprotected in open space ... you wouldn't want them to have died would you?" "Well, you know ... no. Not as such, but ..." "Not as such? Not die as such? But?" Trillian cocked her head on one side. "Well, maybe someone else might have picked them up later." "A second later and they would have been dead." "Yeah, so if you'd taken the trouble to think about the problem a bit longer it would have gone away." "You'd been happy to let them die?" "Well, you know, not happy as such, but ..." "Anyway," said Trillian, turning back to the controls, "I didn't pick them up." "What do you mean? Who picked them up then?" "The ship did." "Huh?" "The ship did. All by itself." "Huh?" "Whilst we were in Improbability Drive." "But that's incredible." "No Zaphod. Just very very improbable." "Er, yeah." "Look Zaphod," she said, patting his arm, "don't worry about the aliens. They're just a couple of guys I expect. I'll send the robot down to get them and bring them up here. Hey Marvin!" In the corner, the robot's head swung up sharply, but then wobbled about imperceptibly. It pulled itself up to its feet as if it was about five pounds heavier that it actually was, and made what an outside observer would have thought was a heroic effort to cross the room. It stopped in front of Trillian and seemed to stare through her left shoulder. "I think you ought to know I'm feeling very depressed," it said. Its voice was low and hopeless. "Oh God," muttered Zaphod and slumped into a seat. "Well," said Trillian in a bright compassionate tone, "here's something to occupy you and keep your mind off things." "It won't work," droned Marvin, "I have an exceptionally large mind." "Marvin!" warned Trillian. "Alright," said Marvin, "what do you want me to do?" "Go down to number two entry bay and bring the two aliens up here under surveillance." With a microsecond pause, and a finely calculated micromodulation of pitch and timbre - nothing you could actually take offence at - Marvin managed to convey his utter contempt and horror of all things human. "Just that?" he said. "Yes," said Trillian firmly. "I won't enjoy it," said Marvin. Zaphod leaped out of his seat. "She's not asking you to enjoy it," he shouted, "just do it will you?" "Alright," said Marvin like the tolling of a great cracked bell, "I'll do it." "Good ..." snapped Zaphod, "great ... thank you ..." Marvin turned and lifted his flat-topped triangular red eyes up towards him. "I'm not getting you down


very good on his flute, and his happiest moments were the two or three moons after the harvest when the village musicians brought down their instruments, hung above the fireplace. Unoka would play with them, his face beaming with blessedness and peace. Sometimes another village would ask Unoka's band and their dancing egwugwu to come and stay with them and teach them their tunes. They would go to such hosts for as long as three or four markets, making music and feasting. Unoka loved the good hire and the good fellowship, and he loved this season of the year, when the rains had stopped and the sun rose every morning with dazzling beauty. And it was not too hot either, because the cold and dry harmattan wind was blowing down from the north. Some years the harmattan was very severe and a dense haze hung on the atmosphere. Old men and children would then sit round log fires, warming their bodies. Unoka loved it all, and he loved the first kites that returned with the dry season, and the children who sang songs of welcome to them. He would remember his own childhood, how he had often wandered around looking for a kite sailing leisurely against the blue sky. As soon as he found one he would sing with his whole being, welcoming it back from its long, long journey, and asking it if it had brought home any lengths of cloth. That was years ago, when he was young. Unoka, the grown-up, was a failure. He was poor and his wife and children had barely enough to eat. People laughed at him because he was a loafer, and they swore never to lend him any more money because he never paid back. But Unoka was such a man that he always succeeded in borrowing more, and piling up his debts. One day a neighbour called Okoye came in to see him. He was reclining on a mud bed in his hut playing on the flute. He immediately rose and shook hands with Okoye, who then unrolled the goatskin which he carried under his arm, and sat down. Unoka went into an inner room and soon returned with a small wooden disc containing a kola nut, some alligator pepper and a lump of white chalk. "I have kola," he announced when he sat down, and passed the disc over to his guest. "Thank you. He who brings kola brings life. But I think you ought to break it," replied Okoye, passing back the disc. "No, it is for you, I think," and they argued like this for a few moments before Unoka accepted the honour of breaking the kola. Okoye, meanwhile, took the lump of chalk, drew some lines on the floor, and then painted his big toe. As he broke the kola, Unoka prayed to their ancestors for life and health, and for protection against their enemies. When they had eaten they talked about many things: about the heavy rains which were drowning the yams, about the next ancestral feast and


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

into his hermitage. It was rather weak in me I confess, but his manner on this occasion nettled me. Not only did there seem to lurk in it a certain calm disdain, but his perverseness seemed ungrateful, considering the undeniable good usage and indulgence he had received from me. Again I sat ruminating what I should do. Mortified as I was at his behavior, and resolved as I had been to dismiss him when I entered my offices, nevertheless I strangely felt something superstitious knocking at my heart, and forbidding me to carry out my purpose, and denouncing me for a villain if I dared to breathe one bitter word against this forlornest of mankind. At last, familiarly drawing my chair behind his screen, I sat down and said: “Bartleby, never mind then about revealing your history; but let me entreat you, as a friend, to comply as far as may be with the usages of this office. Say now you will help to examine papers to-morrow or next day: in short, say now that in a day or two you will begin to be a little reasonable:—say so, Bartleby.” “At present I would prefer not to be a little reasonable,” was his mildly cadaverous reply. Just then the folding-doors opened, and Nippers approached. He seemed suffering from an unusually bad night’s rest, induced by severer indigestion then common. He overheard those final words of Bartleby. “Prefer not, eh?” gritted Nippers—”I’d prefer him, if I were you, sir,” addressing me—”I’d prefer him; I’d give him preferences, the stubborn mule! What is it, sir, pray, that he prefers not to do now?” Bartleby moved not a limb. “Mr. Nippers,” said I, “I’d prefer that you would withdraw for the present.” Somehow, of late I had got into the way of involuntarily using this word “prefer” upon all sorts of not exactly suitable occasions. And I trembled to think that my contact with the scrivener had already and seriously affected me in a mental way. And what further and deeper aberration might it not yet produce? This apprehension had not been without efficacy in determining me to summary means. As Nippers, looking very sour and sulky, was departing, Turkey blandly and deferentially approached. “With submission, sir,” said he, “yesterday I was thinking about Bartleby here, and I think that if he would but prefer to take a quart of good ale every day, it would do much towards mending him, and enabling him to assist in examining his papers.” “So you have got the word too,” said I, slightly excited. “With submission, what word, sir,” asked Turkey, respectfully crowding himself into the contracted space behind the screen, and by so doing, making me jostle the scrivener. “What word, sir?” “I would prefer to be left alone here,” said Bartleby, as if offended at being mobbed in his privacy. “That’s the word, Turkey,” said I—”that’s it.” “Oh, prefer? oh yes—queer word. I never use it myself. But, sir, as I was saying, if he would but prefer—” “Turkey,” interrupted I, “you will please withdraw.” “Oh


surprise that mirrors are reputed to have occult uses, seeing as they are coated with silver. Silver nitrate film, therefore, naturally offers an acolyte a perfect medium for sealing spells. Magic rites, shot with silver nitrate film, and shown to an audience, will multiply their potency tenfold. A spell caster must be seen and heard to have a powerful effect. Magic in the dark, in the privacy of a room, does not suffice. Witchcraft cannot be hidden between walls. She slid Ewers’s photograph out of the album and held it up. “Of course you wanted to be seen and heard,” she said. “I think you wanted to be an actor.” She realized how ridiculous she sounded, speaking to a picture of a dead man, especially when this was nothing but an idle conjecture, but the practiced tilt of Ewers’s head indicated many hours spent in front of a mirror. “How’d you do it?” she asked his photo. “How do you make magic real and not just words on paper?” She set the photo down and retrieved Ewers’s letter. The apartment was quiet, but it was not the quiet of the other night. It was merely the usual silence laced with the humming of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the barking of a dog on the floor below. Blocks away, a siren wailed. She took more sips of tea. The warmth of the beverage and the lovely, comforting sight of all her possessions had a soothing effect, and she found herself yawning. She scribbled on a napkin—Ewers, Wilhelm, magic, spell—then crumpled the napkin, smudging the words. The phone rang, and she picked it up. “I told you to call me when you got home,” Tristán said. “I got here five minutes ago.” “You left my apartment over an hour ago.” “I lost track of time,” she said, glancing at the clock on the wall and setting the cup on the coffee table. She rubbed the back of her neck with her free hand. “What are you doing?” “Looking for information,” she said, flipping the pages of the book on her lap and turning to the chapter titled “The Cipher of Fire.” It was conveniently illustrated with the image of a flame within a circle. “Did you find anything interesting?” “Nothing yet. I need to give his book another look, with more care. I skipped through a lot of bits the first time I looked at it. I should give his letter a lengthy reread, too. And the film in the vault…I need to retrieve that.” “Don’t tell me you plan to put it in your freezer?” “No. I want to see that scene we dubbed again. I have a copy of the pages we used for the dubbing. I should check that,” she said, sliding the book aside so she could take another sip of tea. “Why?” “ ‘Give me your hands, dearest brother and sister, for now we call upon the Lords of Air, the Princes in Yellow, to witness our rites,’ ” she recited carefully, setting the cup down. “I’m


He disappeared, several arms reached for me, and I gratefully relinquished my hold on consciousness. ARIN It was her. The name Sylvia had uttered was different from the name that had been given to Arin ten years ago, but he knew. She had tricked him once. It would not happen again. The horse beneath Arin leapt. They sailed over a water trough, scattering a penned herd of sheep. She was weaving, trying to dissipate the traces of her magic. But he could feel it gliding over his skin like the thinnest blade. She would not escape him this time. Arin leaned forward, spurring his horse to dangerous speeds. She would find somewhere noisy to hide. There were plenty of options to choose from. The upper towns of Lukub were celebrating the Alcalah alongside the Ivory Palace. Crowds in red and white were strewn in the streets. Performers twirled on raised platforms, bare feet moving lithely to the beat of the tubluh. Everywhere, chaos. A horse appeared next to his. “Your Highness, I came to help,” Wes said. He was out of breath. “Why are you here?” Alarm locked the muscles in Arin’s body. “Is she—” “No, no. The Champion is alive. Jeru and Ren are with her and the medics. I cannot be of service to anyone there, so I left.” Arin stared at Wes. He could feel the trail of Soraya’s magic fading. If he had any hope of catching her, he needed to move. To cut her off at the alleyway behind the festival and win the game she had started when he was sixteen. If he went after Soraya, Sylvia would die. It was a fact. Her wound was deep. She had likely broken several bones in her fall. Arin needed Sylvia to capture the Mufsids and Urabi. Apprehending Soraya would satisfy his ego, but not his mission. A reasonable voice reminded Arin he could simply torture the necessary information out of Soraya. She had been with the Mufsids for many years; with pain’s incentivizing persuasion, Arin could wring their location out of her. The Urabi’s, too, he suspected. All he had to do was spur his horse forward. “Why shouldn’t I behave as a killer if I’m to suffer the same fate regardless?” Fire danced in her hair. Vaun groaned. Her dark eyes, which should have been lit with the silver and gold of Jasadi magic, brimmed with pain. Pain so severe, Arin suspected she had stopped seeing it for what it was. She would have recast it as anger, as an inborn quality of her character. Incomprehensibly volatile, he had thought. Lack of emotional mastery. She probably thought the same. She was bleeding, right there in front of him, and the fatal wound wasn’t the one either of them could see. “If Sylvia survives, she will return,” he told Wes. His loyal guard’s eyes widened. “Sire, you cannot mean to let her go. You have chased her since—” Arin turned his horse toward the Ivory Palace and snapped the reins. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR I sank through clouds of


him rose a new respect for Frenchmen which remained undimmed ever after. It was quite late when they reached the cabin by the beach. A single shot before they emerged from the jungle had announced to those in camp as well as on the ship that the expedition had been too late--for it had been prearranged that when they came within a mile or two of camp one shot was to be fired to denote failure, or three for success, while two would have indicated that they had found no sign of either D'Arnot or his black captors. So it was a solemn party that awaited their coming, and few words were spoken as the dead and wounded men were tenderly placed in boats and rowed silently toward the cruiser. Clayton, exhausted from his five days of laborious marching through the jungle and from the effects of his two battles with the blacks, turned toward the cabin to seek a mouthful of food and then the comparative ease of his bed of grasses after two nights in the jungle. By the cabin door stood Jane. "The poor lieutenant?" she asked. "Did you find no trace of him?" "We were too late, Miss Porter," he replied sadly. "Tell me. What had happened?" she asked. "I cannot, Miss Porter, it is too horrible." "You do not mean that they had tortured him?" she whispered. "We do not know what they did to him BEFORE they killed him," he answered, his face drawn with fatigue Chapter 22 125 and the sorrow he felt for poor D'Arnot and he emphasized the word before. "BEFORE they killed him! What do you mean? They are not--? They are not--?" She was thinking of what Clayton had said of the forest man's probable relationship to this tribe and she could not frame the awful word. "Yes, Miss Porter, they were--cannibals," he said, almost bitterly, for to him too had suddenly come the thought of the forest man, and the strange, unaccountable jealousy he had felt two days before swept over him once more. And then in sudden brutality that was as unlike Clayton as courteous consideration is unlike an ape, he blurted out: "When your forest god left you he was doubtless hurrying to the feast." He was sorry ere the words were spoken though he did not know how cruelly they had cut the girl. His regret was for his baseless disloyalty to one who had saved the lives of every member of his party, and offered harm to none. The girl's head went high. "There could be but one suitable reply to your assertion, Mr. Clayton," she said icily, "and I regret that I am not a man, that I might make it." She turned quickly and entered the cabin. Clayton was an Englishman, so the girl had passed quite out of sight before he deduced what reply a man would have made. "Upon my word," he said ruefully, "she called me a liar. And I fancy I jolly well deserved it," he added thoughtfully. "Clayton, my


Prince

Albert, forced to remain ramrod straight before china plates and crystal

goblets placed with mathematical precision by staff (who used tape

measures), forced to peck at quails’ eggs and turbot, forced to make idle

chitchat while stuffed into their fanciest kit. Black tie, hard black shoes,

trews. Maybe even kilts.

I thought: What hell, being an adult!

Pa stopped by on his way to dinner. He was running late, but he made a

show of lifting a silver dome—Yum, wish I was having that!—and taking a

long sniff. He was always sniffing things. Food, roses, our hair. He must’ve

been a bloodhound in another life. Maybe he took all those long sniffs

because it was hard to smell anything over his personal scent. Eau Sauvage.

He’d slather the stuff on his cheeks, his neck, his shirt. Flowery, with a hint

of something harsh, like pepper or gunpowder, it was made in Paris. Said so

on the bottle. Which made me think of Mummy.

Yes, Harry, Mummy’ in Paris.

Their divorce had become final exactly one year before. Almost to the

day.

Be good, boys.

We will, Pa.

Dont stay up too late.

He left. His scent remained.

20

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Willy and I finished dinner, watched some more TV, then got up to our

typical pre-bedtime hiinks. We perched on the top step of a side staircase

and eavesdropped on the adults, hoping to hear a naughty word or story. We

ran up and down the long corridors, under the watchful eyes of dozens of

dead stag heads. At some point we bumped into Granny’s piper. Rumpled,

pear-shaped, with wild eyebrows and a tweed kilt, he went wherever Granny

went, because she loved the sound of pipes, as had Victoria, though Albert

supposedly called them a “beastly instrument.” While summering at

Balmoral, Granny asked that the piper play her awake and play her to dinner.

His instrument looked like a drunken octopus, except that its floppy arms

were etched


checked the guy out, found out he was legit, and decided he had no choice but to return the call. Strange picked up on the third ring. “Detective Wyatt Strange.” “Detective Reuben Montoya, New Orleans Police Department. I’m returning your call.” “Oh, yeah . . . Montoya.” The guy had a west Texas accent that didn’t sound anything like Oregon. “Hey, we’re lookin’ for Cruz Montoya, and found out he was related to you.” “That’s right. Why are you looking for Cruz?” “I’d like to ask him a few questions. We’ve got a homicide up here, body found near the Trask River way up in the mountains. Rugged country. Lucia Costa. We think Cruz might be able to help us find out what happened to her.” “He’s a suspect?” May as well cut to the chase. “No suspects, at least not yet. Just a person of interest. Could be Cruz was the last one to see her alive. He might know something that would help us in the investigation. You know where he is? How I might reach him?” Montoya couldn’t lie to the guy, but he wasn’t about to give his brother up. Luckily, he didn’t know where Cruz had landed. He glanced at his great-grandfather’s belt, coiled like a snake and mocking him as he walked a thin line between the truth and lies. “I got a call from him a couple of days ago. Said he was in the Mojave outside Las Vegas, that he was in some kind of trouble—didn’t say what it was—and that he was heading east, probably here, to New Orleans. Nothing more.” “Has he called since?” “No.” “Did you call him back?” “Yeah. No answer. Kept trying. Now the phone number is out of service.” “Can you give me that number?” “Sure.” Montoya didn’t hesitate. He was dealing with the law, for one thing. For another? He was certain Cruz had gotten rid of what was no doubt a burner phone. “Let’s see. Here ya go.” He rattled off the digits and wished to high heaven Cruz would contact him again. “Got it. If you hear from your brother, have him get in contact with me,” Strange said. “ASAP. As I said, this is a homicide case.” “Will do.” “Thanks.” Wyatt Strange ended the connection, which Montoya found odd. He thought the Oregon detective would have a lot more questions for him about Lucia Costa. Montoya had known her most of his life. Her family and his—they’d all grown up together. Then again, Strange probably had all that info. What he wanted was Cruz. “Join the club,” Montoya muttered under his breath. “Join the fuckin’ club.” CHAPTER 24 “We’ll go later,” Kristi promised the dog as she started for the garage. She was already late if she wanted to get to the Newcomers’ Worship Event at the New Faith and Glory Church of Praise near Kenner. Dave followed her to the door and she gave him a pat. “Sorry, bud. Hang in. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” She double-checked the alarm