fell beasts of the North filled them with great fear, as the Naugrim declared to King Thingol in Menegroth. Therefore Denethor, the son of Lenw, hearing rumour of the might of Thingol and his majesty, and of the peace of his realm, gathered such host of his scattered people as he could, and led them over the mountains into Beleriand. There they were welcomed by Thingol, as kin long lost that return, and they dwelt in Ossiriand, the Land of Seven Rivers. Of the long years of peace that followed after the coming of Denethor there is little tale. In those days, it is said, Daeron the Minstrel, chief loremaster of the kingdom of Thingol, devised his Runes; and the Naugrim that came to Thingol learned them, and were well-pleased with the device, esteeming Daeron's skill higher than did the Sindar, his own people. By the Naugrim the Cirth were taken east over the mountains and passed into the knowledge of many peoples; but they were little used by the Sindar for the keeping of records, until the days of the War, and much that was held in memory perished in the ruins of Doriath. But of bliss and glad life there is little to be said, before it ends; as works fair and wonderful, while still they endure for eyes to see, are their own record, and only when they are in peril or broken for ever do they pass into song. In Beleriand in those days the Elves walked, and the rivers flowed, and the stars shone, and the night-flowers gave forth their scents; and the beauty of Melian was as the noon, and the beauty of Lthien was as the dawn in spring. In Beleriand King Thingol upon his throne was as the lords of the Maiar, whose power is at rest, whose joy is as an air that they breathe in all their days, whose thought flows in a tide untroubled from the heights to the deeps. In Beleriand still at times rode Orom the great, passing like a wind over the mountains, and the sound of his horn came down the leagues of the starlight, and the Elves feared him for the splendour of his countenance and the great noise of the onrush of Nahar; but when the Valarma echoed in the hills, they knew well that all evil things were fled far away. But it came to pass at last that the end of bliss was at hand, and the noontide of Valinor was drawing to its twilight. For as has been told and as is known to all, being written in lore and sung in many songs, Melkor slew the Trees of the Valar with the aid of Ungoliant, and escaped, and came back to Middle-earth. Far to the north befell the strife of Morgoth and Ungoliant; but the great cry of Morgoth echoed through Beleriand, and all its people shrank for fear; for though they knew not what it foreboded, they heard then the herald of death. Soon afterwards Ungoliant fled from the north


and asked her to come in and sleep with me, so she came into bed, and lay down beside me. She did not take off her dressing gown, for she said she would only stay a while and then go back to her own bed. As she lay there in my arms, and I in hers the flapping and buffeting came to the window again. She was startled and a little frightened, and cried out, "What is that?" I tried to pacify her, and at last succeeded, and she lay quiet. But I could hear her poor dear heart still beating terribly. After a while there was the howl again out in the shrubbery, and shortly after there was a crash at the window, and a lot of broken glass was hurled on the floor. The window blind blew back with the wind that rushed in, and in the aperture of the broken panes there was the head of a great, gaunt gray wolf. Mother cried out in a fright, and struggled up into a sitting posture, and clutched wildly at anything that would help her. Amongst other things, she clutched the wreath of flowers that Dr. Van Helsing insisted on my wearing round my neck, and tore it away from me. For a second or two she sat up, pointing at the wolf, and there was a strange and horrible gurgling in her throat. Then she fell over, as if struck with lightning, and her head hit my forehead and made me dizzy for a moment or two. The room and all round seemed to spin round. I kept my eyes fixed on the window, but the wolf drew his head back, and a whole myriad of little specks seems to come blowing in through the broken window, and wheeling and circling round like the pillar of dust that travellers describe when there is a simoon in the desert. I tried to stir, but there was some spell upon me, and dear Mother's poor body, which seemed to grow cold already, for her dear heart had ceased to beat, weighed me down, and I remembered no more for a while. The time did not seem long, but very, very awful, till I recovered consciousness again. Somewhere near, a passing bell was tolling. The dogs all round the neighborhood were howling, and in our shrubbery, seemingly just outside, a nightingale was singing. I was dazed and stupid with pain and terror and weakness, but the sound of the nightingale seemed like the voice of my dead mother come back to comfort me. The sounds seemed to have awakened the maids, too, for I could hear their bare feet pattering outside my door. I called to them, and they came in, and when they saw what had happened, and what it was that lay over me on the bed, they screamed out. The wind rushed in through the broken window, and the door slammed to. They lifted off the body of my dear mother, and laid her, covered up with a sheet, on


down over the water and away out over that lovely blue all day; and then at night to fly back to one's nest? Oh, I can just imagine myself doing it. What big house is that just ahead, please?" "That's the White Sands Hotel. Mr. Kirke runs it, but the season hasn't begun yet. There are heaps of Americans come there for the summer. They think this shore is just about right." "I was afraid it might be Mrs. Spencer's place," said Anne mournfully. "I don't want to get there. Somehow, it will seem like the end of everything." 6. Marilla Makes Up Her Mind Get there they did, however, in due season. Mrs. Spencer lived in a big yellow house at White Sands Cove, and she came to the door with surprise and welcome mingled on her benevolent face. "Dear, dear," she exclaimed, "you're the last folks I was looking for today, but I'm real glad to see you. You'll put your horse in? And how are you, Anne?" "I'm as well as can be expected, thank you," said Anne smilelessly. A blight seemed to have descended on her. "I suppose we'll stay a little while to rest the mare," said Marilla, "but I promised Matthew I'd be home early. The fact is, Mrs. Spencer, there's been a queer mistake somewhere, and I've come over to see where it is. We send word, Matthew and I, for you to bring us a boy from the asylum. We told your brother Robert to tell you we wanted a boy ten or eleven years old." "Marilla Cuthbert, you don't say so!" said Mrs. Spencer in distress. "Why, Robert sent word down by his daughter Nancy and she said you wanted a girl-didn't she Flora Jane?" appealing to her daughter who had come out to the steps. "She certainly did, Miss Cuthbert," corroborated Flora Jane earnestly. I'm dreadful sorry," said Mrs. Spencer. "It's too bad; but it certainly wasn't my fault, you see, Miss Cuthbert. I did the best I could and I thought I was following your instructions. Nancy is a terrible flighty thing. I've often had to scold her well for her heedlessness." "It was our own fault," said Marilla resignedly. "We should have come to you ourselves and not left an important message to be passed along by word of mouth in that fashion. Anyhow, the mistake has been made and the only thing to do is to set it right. Can we send the child back to the asylum? I suppose they'll take her back, won't they?" "I suppose so," said Mrs. Spencer thoughtfully, "but I don't think it will be necessary to send her back. Mrs. Peter Blewett was up here yesterday, and she was saying to me how much she wished she'd sent by me for a little girl to help her. Mrs. Peter has a large family, you know, and she finds it hard to get help. Anne will be the very girl for you. I call it positively providential." Marilla did not look as if she


could make grown men weep. Alice had never been able to credit it. And yet now, as Mrs. King stepped quickly toward the debt collector, she understood. It was like watching a demon, a soft-footed sort of devil. Mrs. King sheathed her knife and came at him without a hint of fear. She drove into him, white gloves balled into fists. “Ah—” said the man. He flailed, righting himself, reaching into his pocket. Alice saw the dull gleam of silver, the black eye facing her. A pistol. The park swayed, a gust of wind roaring through the trees. Mrs. King staggered. Calmly, breathing fast, the man centered himself. His arm was steady. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said. He lifted his pistol. “I’ve got the money!” Alice’s voice was strangled. She drew out a fistful of banknotes from her apron, keeping her eyes only on the gun. “Here, here. See? You can count it. Take what I owe.” Slowly, he came to her. He smelled ripe, as if he needed to bathe, but his overcoat still carried the faintest whiff of gardenias. “Show me.” He kept the pistol on Mrs. King and Alice unfolded banknotes with shaking hands. He sniffed, held out his hand. Folded it all away in the lining of his coat. “This was a bad business,” he said, staring her in the eye. “You’re lucky.” He swiveled the pistol away. Tipped a finger to Mrs. King. “Good day to you.” Alice didn’t watch him trudging away through the trees. She felt no relief. She closed her eyes. The plane trees were whispering, worrying, overhead. She heard Mrs. King’s voice, tight, and from a distance. “Alice,” she said. “Are you safe?” “Dinah,” she said. “I’ve been in trouble.” * * * At last, Miss de Vries got out of bed. It was a sound that did it. An echo of something, crystalline and pure, at the outermost edges of her consciousness. A cry. She ran a hand across the rippled surface of her sheets, instincts stirring. When she rolled the bedroom doors back, the air around her felt as if it had been hollowed out, immeasurably expanded. The lights were burning, same as always, in the passage. But she saw the wrongness at once. The floor: glossy black paint, obsidian smooth. It made her dizzy. Someone had taken up her splendid carpets. They’d left only the bare, stained boards underneath. She touched the floor with a toe. Cold. Movement below. Footsteps, hundreds of them, unmistakable. But no voices. She stepped out into the passage. 38 3:00 a.m. Winnie surveyed the courtyard. It was still filled with water, the abandoned rafts bobbing worriedly on the surface of the Nile. The garden was alive with activity, and she could hear a racket building in the mews: coaches and wheelbarrows and pony traps and boys with panniers over their shoulders. Cart after cart after cart was rattling away from Park Lane, out of sight of Hyde Park, taking the side streets and mews lanes and alleys of Mayfair. Enormous motors stood at


could hear men calling to one another. There sounded to be more than two men this time. Then the men left the inlet and went up the low cliff towards the ruined castle. Julian crept behind the rocks and peeped to see what the men were doing. He felt certain they were pulling away the slabs of stone that had been piled on top of the entrance to prevent Dick and Anne going down to rescue the others. "George! Come on!" called Julian in a low tone. "I think the men have gone down the steps into the dungeons now. We must go and try to put those big stones back. Quick!" George, Julian and Anne ran softly and swiftly to the old courtyard of the castle. They saw that the stones had been pulled away from the entrance to the dungeons. The men had disappeared. They had plainly gone down the steps. The three children did their best to tug at the heavy stones to drag them back. But their strength was not the same as that of the men, and they could not manage to get any very big stones across. They put three smaller ones, and Julian hoped the men would find them too difficult to move from below. "If only Dick has managed to bolt them into that room!" he said to the others. "Gome on, back to the well now. Dick will have to come up there, because he won't be able to get out of the entrance." They all went to the well. Dick had removed the old wooden cover, and it was lying on the ground. The children leaned over the hole of the well and waited anxiously. What was Dick doing? They could hear nothing from the well and they longed to know what was happening. There was plenty happening down below! The two men, and another, had gone down into the dungeons, expecting, of course, to find Julian, George and the dog still locked up in the store-room with the ingots. They passed the well-shaft not guessing that an excited small boy was hidden there, ready to slip out of the opening as soon as they had passed. Dick heard them pass. He slipped out of the well-opening and followed behind quietly, his feet making no sound. He could see the beams made by the men's powerful torches, and with his heart thumping loudly he crept along the smelly old passages, between great caves, until the men turned into the wide passage where the storecave lay. "Here it is," Dick heard one of the men say, as he flashed his torch on to the great door. "The gold's in there- so are the kids!" The man unbolted the door at top and bottom. Dick was glad that he had slipped along to bolt the door, for if he hadn't done that before the men had come they would have known that Julian and George had escaped, and would have been on their guard. The man opened the door and stepped inside. The second


two over for food I never bother. Life wouldn't be worth living if I worried over the future as well as the present. When things are at their worst I find something always happens." Soon Philip grew in the habit of going in to tea with her every day, and so that his visits might not embarrass her he took in a cake or a pound of butter or some tea. They started to call one another by their Christian names. Feminine sympathy was new to him, and he delighted in someone who gave a willing ear to all his troubles. The hours went quickly. He did not hide his admiration for her. She was a delightful companion. He could not help comparing her with Mildred; and he contrasted with the one's obstinate stupidity, which refused interest to everything she did not know, the other's quick appreciation and ready intelligence. His heart sank when he thought that he might have been tied for life to such a woman as Mildred. One evening he told Norah the whole story of his love. It was not one to give him much reason for self-esteem, and it was very pleasant to receive such charming sympathy. "I think you're well out of it," she said, when he had finished. She had a funny way at times of holding her head on one side like an Aberdeen puppy. She was sitting in an upright chair, sewing, for she had no time to do nothing, and Philip had made himself comfortable at her feet. "I can't tell you how heartily thankful I am it's all over," he sighed. "Poor thing, you must have had a rotten time," she murmured, and by way of showing her sympathy put her hand on his shoulder. He took it and kissed it, but she withdrew it quickly. "Why did you do that?" she asked, with a blush. "Have you any objection?" She looked at him for a moment with twinkling eyes, and she smiled. "No," she said. He got up on his knees and faced her. She looked into his eyes steadily, and her large mouth trembled with a smile. "Well?" she said. "You know, you are a ripper. I'm so grateful to you for being nice to me. I like you so much." "Don't be idiotic," she said. Philip took hold of her elbows and drew her towards him. She made no resistance, but bent forward a little, and he kissed her red lips. "Why did you do that?" she asked again. "Because it's comfortable." She did not answer, but a tender look came into her eyes, and she passed her hand softly over his hair. "You know, it's awfully silly of you to behave like this. We were such good friends. It would be so jolly to leave it at that." "If you really want to appeal to my better nature," replied Philip, "you'll do well not to stroke my cheek while you're doing it." She gave a little chuckle, but she did not stop. "It's very wrong of me,


passed on to him,” Mr. Fleming says smoothly enough that it takes Nick a moment to realize it’s a refusal. “Don’t worry about it.” He starts to get to his feet. “I’ll see him when he gets back.” “Mr. Russo. Drink your coffee.” Mr. Fleming’s voice is mild, and in it Nick can hear echoes of Andy. But there’s an edge in the older man’s voice. Something that speaks of decades of hard decisions and disappointment. “My son called me at five o’clock yesterday morning asking for the first flight to Washington. I doubt he even knew what hotel he’d be staying at.” Now Nick is alarmed. “Someone met him at the airport, didn’t they? Andy’s plenty smart, you know that, but if he’s left to navigate a strange city on his own, I don’t like to think of what kind of hotel he’d find himself in.” Mr. Fleming stares at him. “A driver picked him up at the airport, Mr. Russo.” “Good,” Nick says, relieved. He isn’t going to ask where this driver took Andy. Andy will either get in touch with him or he won’t. And even if he doesn’t, they can talk when Andy gets home. He just needs time or space, hence the last-minute trip to Washington. Nick understands that. He gets to his feet. “Thanks for the coffee, Mr. Fleming. And it was nice talking to you.” “Likewise, Mr. Russo. I’m glad you stopped by.” Dimly, Nick notices that Mr. Fleming doesn’t get to his feet when Nick leaves, which is odd because he seems like the sort of man to stick by his manners even when obliquely accusing someone of having caused his son to flee the city before dawn. * * * When Andy’s around, he and Nick either go out to lunch or sit together in the Chronicle cafeteria, usually joined by whatever junior reporters are having lunch at the same time. But without Andy, Nick feels like it’s his first day at a new school, despite the fact that he’s been working here for four years and Andy’s only been here for one of them. The day before, he had lunch by himself at the Automat, but today he bites the bullet and goes to the cafeteria. He gets a chicken salad sandwich (which makes him miss Andy, because he is ridiculous) and finds an empty table, thinking he’ll scarf down his food and go back to work. But no sooner has he sat than Mark Bailey comes over and pulls out a chair across from him. “Thought you might want some company,” he remarks. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Nick asks, too defensive. “Just that you’re wandering around like a lost dog without Fleming.” Nick almost hisses at him to be quiet, but he hasn’t really said anything too pointed. The fact is that Nick is kind of moping around and Bailey isn’t the first person to notice. Everyone in the newsroom is giving him a wide berth, and Nick would be embarrassed if his brain weren’t busy with about half a


needed an agenda when she visited us, never needed them to do anything or be anything other than themselves. When I was at my most anxious, fretting about one or both of my kids, Mom would always tell me to relax, take a deep breath, stop worrying. The girls are going to be okay. It was no empty, unthinking reassurance she offered; she believed it, every time. I couldn’t understand her certainty, and sometimes, I admit, resented it—she was a parent, too, and as anxious as I was. Didn’t she understand that it was impossible for me to let go of my fears, lay down my burdens? Now I would give almost anything to hear her tell me not to worry again. In my dream the other night, as I talked with her about my daughter, I could feel her hand pressing down on mine, the warmth of her fingers, the grain of the wooden table at which we sat. I could hear her voice, as clear as it was in life. You can tell me all about it, she said. And then you’ll figure out how to help her, like you always do. When I woke, it occurred to me that perhaps my mind is trying to mother me, now that my mother is gone. 25 At around eight by ten, my office is the smallest of our small bedrooms, squished between the master bedroom and my older daughter’s room. I claimed it as my work space when we moved into this, the first residence of my adult life that has felt semipermanent. I pushed an old table up against the room’s only window, pleased to find that during the day, at least, there is no need for a lamp. We painted the walls a soft blue green that reminds me of sea glass, and I hung up original art and carefully arranged the bookshelves. I hadn’t had a dedicated writing space all to myself, with a door I could close, since I took over the spare bedroom in my childhood home. For our first two years in the house, the study was my primary work space, the backdrop for all my video meetings, the place where I went to brainstorm and to write. Then we got a dog, and I pretty much stopped working there altogether. For years, whenever one of our children asked us if we could get a puppy, Dan or I would offer up a vague response: Maybe someday, when you’re old enough to help. Several friends who also had autistic children had gotten them therapy dogs—mostly Labradors or goldendoodles—and we had thought about doing the same. Both of us had grown up with dogs and cats and were generally pro-pets, but we also knew how much extra work it would mean. Then came the pandemic. Sometime between my mother’s funeral in the spring and back-to-school that never quite happened in the fall, maybe gave way to yes and someday became as soon as possible. Saying yes to the dog was very much about saying yes to


you were too wrapped up in their own pain to see it.’ We hugged tightly, right by the bannister where Shane had fallen. I began to cry. I didn’t just cry, I sobbed in her arms. She held me and shushed away the bad memories, rocking me from side to side. The wooden staircase creaked like the bough of a tree beside us and I could hear a soft rustling. ‘It sounds like this old house is trying to tell us something,’ she said in a playful voice, as though she were telling a fairy tale to a child. ‘It does, doesn’t it?’ I smiled, wiping my eyes with my sleeves. ‘I think that too sometimes. Maybe next time you can stay for longer?’ ‘I’d like that,’ she said, then turned to step down on to the pavement. She turned and waved again and called up to me. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting Madame Bowden too!’ I waved and then registered the strangeness of what she had just said. She had already met Madame Bowden. Chapter Forty-Eight HENRY ‘Are you aware that you have a great big bloody tree root growing out of your ceiling?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And the branch sticking out of the gable?’ ‘That too.’ ‘Oh good. Not just me then.’ I’d decided to visit 12 Ha'penny Lane by my old entrance, the basement window, but found a very large branch growing out through one of the broken panes. We decided I should probably come through the front door instead. I held the folder with Opaline’s papers aloft, theatrically making it clear that I had a proper reason for visiting. ‘The lady of the residence is out having her hair set,’ Martha said and I was relieved to hear it. She could be a bit overpowering, even if she was technically rooting for me. ‘I think it’s trying to tell me something,’ she said, plucking one of the leaves from the branches that formed an arc over her bed. She seemed bizarrely unfazed by it. ‘Yes, I think it is trying to tell you something very important about the unsound foundations of the house. You really need to have this looked at.’ She batted my concerns aside and put on the kettle for tea. I moved in for a closer look at the tree. ‘Did you do this?’ ‘What?’ ‘What you seek is seeking you.’ It was carved on to the bark of the tree. She stepped behind me and leaned over my shoulder. ‘No?’ I turned around to see her face. She looked different, somehow. As though the shadows she carried inside of her had been replaced by an iridescent light. She looked happy. Despite the tree. Or perhaps because of it. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Nothing. You look well, that’s all.’ She smiled and tilted her head to the side. It felt like a moment where one of us should say something, but neither of us could even begin putting our feelings into words. ‘Tea?’ I nodded. She brought two mugs over to the small table and grabbed


defined as staying in my current apartment and ordering takeout every other day instead of every day—I could survive the next ten, even fifteen years on my earnings from The Last Front alone. The hardcover of The Last Front has gone back for its eleventh printing. The paperback edition just came out, which has generated a nice sales bump—paperbacks are cheaper, so they sell a bit better. I truly don’t need the money. I could walk away from all of this and be perfectly fine. But, my God, I want to be back in the spotlight. You enjoy this delightful waterfall of attention when your book is the latest breakout success. You dominate the cultural conversation. You possess the literary equivalent of the hot hand. Everyone wants to interview you. Everyone wants you to blurb their book, or host their launch event. Everything you say matters. If you utter a hot take about the writing process, about other books, or even about life itself, people take your word as gospel. If you recommend a book on social media, people actually drive out that day to go buy it. But your time in the spotlight never lasts. I’ve seen people who were massive bestsellers not even six years ago, sitting alone and forlorn at neglected signing tables while lines stretched around the corner for their younger, hotter peers. It’s hard to reach such a pinnacle of literary prominence that you remain a household name for years, decades past your latest release. Only a handful of Nobel Prize winners can get away with that. The rest of us have to keep racing along the hamster wheel of relevance. I’ve just learned from Twitter that my mentee, Emmy Cho, has signed with Athena’s former literary agent, Jared, a hotshot shark known for six- and seven-figure deals. As her mentor I’m happy for her, but I also feel a spike of anxiety every time Emmy shares her good news. I’m afraid she’ll catch up to me, that her inevitable book deal will involve an advance bigger than mine, that she’ll sell film rights to a production company that will actually sell it to a studio, that her fame will then overshoot mine, and that the next time we see each other at some literary event she will merely greet me with a cool, superior nod. The only way to get ahead, of course, is to dazzle the world with my next project. But I’ve no clue what that might be. BRETT CALLS ONE MORNING, OSTENSIBLY TO CATCH UP. WE TRADE pleasantries for a while, and then he asks, “So, how are things going in writing land?” I know what he’s really asking. Everyone’s clamoring for my next pitch, and it’s not only because publishing has such a short attention span. What he’s thinking, and what Daniella is thinking, is that if I can put out a follow-up to The Last Front soon, something clearly not plagiarized or so intimately linked to Athena, but that still retains the ineffable Juniper Song spark, then we can dispel the


up to 15% of all Parkinson’s. Hereditary Parkinson’s continues to be rare. The majority of Parkinson’s cases are “idiopathic.” Idiopathic means there is no known cause. I suppose now is as good a time as any to let you know that I have an older brother, James. He lives in Putney, so it’s just Dad and me here in Croydon. My mum spends most of her time in Ghana, running a hostel that my grandfather left to her and my uncle when he died. She’ll come back home for a year, then return to Ghana for a year, rinse and repeat. It wasn’t always a yearlong thing, she used to only go for a couple of months at a time, but excuses would sprout up like inconspicuous mushrooms: “It’s so expensive and long a flight, it doesn’t make economic sense to stay here for such a short time” or “British weather doesn’t agree with my arthritis” or “My brother is no good; he’s not business-minded like me.” A year after Grandad passed, I overheard talk of upheaving us all to Accra, but Mum said no. “My degree from Ghana helped me not one bit here and Maddie is an A-plus student. That cannot go to waste. She will do better than us if here, and so you, their father, must stay.” Thus her yo-yo traveling began. My brother James pretty much left when Mum did. She was the iron fist of the household and Dad didn’t know what to do with us when she was gone, so he did very little. James also didn’t know what to do with himself, so he spent most evenings and weekends at various friends’ houses. I barely saw him. He went to a different school from me and then straight to somebody else’s house; he had decided early on that his friends were his family. Mum hated that; she’d shout on the landline, punctuated by the automated voice reminding us how much we had left on our blue calling card. “Stay home, James! Stop eating at other people’s houses when your father has put food in the fridge. Their parents will think you have no mother!” James, at fifteen, would shout back, “I don’t!” I’d lie to friends and tell them Mum was only gone for a month or two, three tops, because I knew they wouldn’t get it. They’d ask, “What about you?” But I was fine. I was raised to be independent, to wash my own clothes, to shop for food and cook my own meals, to do my homework on time, to iron my uniform and assemble my school lunch. I didn’t need to be looked after. I was proud to be so trusted—I didn’t know any better. Then they’d ask, “What about your dad?” And he was fine too because my parents aren’t the same as yours and their marriage isn’t conventional. They do things their own way. I thought back then that it worked. I ignored James when he said it didn’t. * * * Dad’s sitting in his armchair by


front of us and stamped his feet in his impatience. "If he isn't out in a quarter of an hour the path will be covered. In half an hour we won't be able to see our hands in front of us." "Shall we move farther back upon higher ground?" "Yes, I think it would be as well." So as the fog-bank flowed onward we fell back before it until we were half a mile from the house, and still that dense white sea, with the moon silvering its upper edge, swept slowly and inexorably on. "We are going too far," said Holmes. "We dare not take the chance of his being overtaken before he can reach us. At all costs we must hold our ground where we are." He dropped on his knees and clapped his ear to the ground. "Thank God, I think that I hear him coming." A sound of quick steps broke the silence of the moor. Crouch- ing among the stones we stared intently at the silver-tipped bank in front of us. The steps grew louder, and through the fog, as through a curtain, there stepped the man whom we were await- ing. He looked round him in surprise as he emerged into the clear, starlit night. Then he came swiftly along the path, passed close to where we lay, and went on up the long slope behind us. As he walked he glanced continually over either shoulder, like a man who is ill at ease. "Hist!" cried Holmes, and I heard the sharp click of a cock- ing pistol. "Look out! It's coming!" There was a thin, crisp, continuous patter from somewhere in the heart of that crawling bank. The cloud was within fifty yards of where we lay, and we glared at it, all three, uncertain what horror was about to break from the heart of it. I was at Holmes's elbow, and I glanced for an instant at his face. It was pale and exultant, his eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. But sud- denly they started forward in a rigid, fixed stare, and his lips parted in amazement. At the same instant Lestrade gave a yell of terror and threw himself face downward upon the ground. I sprang to my feet, my inert hand grasping my pistol, my mind paralyzed by the dreadful shape which had sprung out upon us from the shadows of the fog. A hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen. Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering flame. Never in the delirious dream of a disordered brain could anything more savage, more appalling, more hellish be conceived than that dark form and savage face which broke upon us out of the wall of fog. With long bounds the huge black creatwe was leaping down the track, following hard upon the footsteps of our friend. So paralyzed were we by the apparition that we


actor. “I warned you we were getting his hopes up,” she said. “Last night he phoned, and he spent thirty minutes telling me about Ewers.” “Hmm,” Tristán said distractedly. He was trying to pick a tie and regarded the choices he’d laid on the bed with skepticism. “What about the little sorcerer boy?” “Ewers had to leave Germany in 1941, after Hitler passed a law kicking out practitioners of ‘secret doctrines.’ ” “What exactly is a secret doctrine?” he asked, his interest stoked for a second. “Anything to do with magnetic healers, astrologists, faith healers, all that stuff. But occultism was fine for military applications, so some people were able to escape punishment by working for the Nazis. And even though Ewers sometimes said he had left Germany before the end of the war, he also said he practiced radiesthesia to save his neck.” “You’ve lost me,” Tristán admitted. “Swinging pendulums around to locate Allied ships and sink them.” “That could be useful background for your story.” “Maybe it would be, if I could believe it and confirm it. Urueta has several different background stories for Ewers: he left in 1941; no, he stayed; no, he wasn’t working for the Navy and maybe he’d been conscripted by them.” Montserrat shook her head. “Besides, that’s not the point. Abel’s talking magic and counting the days until the spell begins to work,” she said, pointing up at the ceiling, presumably at Abel’s apartment. “You enjoy chatting with him!” “Seven days since we dubbed the film and seven days of calls. He’s even calling me at my job. He phones more than once. Yesterday he called three times. This is serious.” Tristán sighed and tried to maneuver her out of the bedroom, but Montserrat stood her ground. She practically hissed at him. So she was going to be in that kind of mood today. “What are you going to do about this?” “We didn’t promise him results.” “No, but that’s what he wants. He’s asked twice if I did the dubbing correctly. He even wants me to screen the nitrate print again, and he keeps calling me. You told me you’d phone him.” “I’ve been busy.” “He’s drinking too much. Double whiskey hour is turning into double whiskey evening.” “Oh, Abel downs a drink or two, but it’s no big deal.” “I guess you’re not one to judge.” Tristán frowned, prickled by the implication. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Montserrat met his eyes. “Talk with Abel.” “I’ll have a chat with him.” “When?” “I don’t know, tonight or tomorrow. Sometime next week,” he said, his irritation mounting. He hated it when people pressured him, most of all Montserrat, because she was aware that he hated it. He also hated reminders, he hated veiled threats, and he hated the way she was pursing her lips at him. “He called at eleven p.m. last night.” “I need to finish getting ready. Can I have my suits?” “The bill wasn’t paid, and I had to cover it myself. Let me find the receipt,” she muttered, as she tried


hair, brushing it until it shines, and inserting my best gold and jade pins to hold and decorate the upswept bun. The red paint on my lips and pink powder on my cheeks stand out even brighter and, I hope, alluringly, above my snow-white gown made of silk as thin and translucent as a cicada’s wing. My mother-in-law would never offer a compliment, but on this day she can’t complain about how I look. “Do you think it will be better for you to be at the front gate, attend the banquet, or be in your bedchamber when my son arrives?” she asks. There is only one correct response. “Though I long to see my husband and every minute apart has been a sword in my heart, I’ll remain in my room. I hope his desires will bring him to me quickly.” Lady Kuo nods her approval. Then, “While my duty is to oversee the banquet for our guests, please be confident that I’ll watch to make sure my son neither eats nor drinks too much. I want him active in the bedchamber.” I bow my head in deference, although it’s hard to imagine what control she might have over my husband in this regard. She raps her knuckles again to dismiss me and then rises to address the room. “We don’t often receive guests in the inner chambers. I expect everyone to be hospitable.” After a pause, she adds, “I realize tomorrow is the day Doctor Wong and Young Midwife pay their monthly call. Their work is too important to cancel. I’ll make sure you each have an opportunity to see them, but please remember that our men are making connections that can build the Yang family’s wealth and reputation. We must do all we can to help by showing these traveling women”—those last words come out of her mouth as though she’s speaking of ghouls—“that we live by the values Confucius and the emperor have set forth.” Not long after she leaves, I tell my daughters to keep working on their embroidery and then retire to my room. Listening to the distant sounds of arrival and greeting, and later the hum from the welcome banquet being held in the second courtyard, I keep returning to my wedding night and the anticipation I felt. The evening crawls toward midnight, but I remain still, so movement won’t smear my makeup or push a single hair out of place. My gown drapes across my lap to the floor. I adjust the fabric so that the toes of my shoes peek out from the puddled silk as an enticement. I am like this—as sublime as a figurine of the Goddess of Mercy in meditation—when Maoren enters. My appearance has the desired effect. “Tonight we will make a son,” my husband says, pulling me into his arms. * * * The next morning, the visitors are already settled in the inner chambers when I enter. Everyone is in attendance, which means that Doctor Wong and Meiling have yet to arrive. My mother-in-law motions for me


“I don’t know—I’ve never known. It’s... She was...” “What?” “She was always friends with them. With the girls in the house.” “Friends?” “Yes, friends.” Winnie reached for Mrs. King. “You remember what it was like up there, in the schoolroom, before Madam came out. Just the tutors, and the governesses, and the dance mistress. Mr. de Vries let her make friends below stairs.” She closed her eyes again. “I thought it was such a kindness,” she whispered. “Friends?” said Mrs. Bone. Winnie nodded, voice strained. “It seemed...natural. That a girl would want to make friends with other girls. To learn about their lives. Understand where they came from. Share a little schooling.” “Earn them an afternoon off,” said Mrs. King quietly. “And those girls took liberties. Grew cheeky. Felt they were favored. I always chalked it up to a lapse in discipline. The master allowing indulgences, just to favor Miss de Vries.” Mrs. Bone dragged her gaze back from the house. “Clever, really. A neat way to put the girls at ease. I daresay he needed them to be comfortable upstairs.” Mrs. Bone felt a shudder pass through her. “Does Miss de Vries know?” Winnie simply shook her head. “It’s like I said. You can’t...you can’t tell. It’s not spoken of.” “Who was the man, then? The man in the gray coat.” “I never found out.” “Never asked, you mean.” “He would have been a gentleman of means,” said Mrs. King. “He would have paid well for the visit.” “Danny didn’t need more money.” “Money isn’t everything,” said Mrs. King. “It isn’t influence.” Mrs. Bone knew that. She understood patronage. A corkscrew chain of favors. Tastes, pleasures, likes, fancies. Powders, perfumes, poppies. And in the night, behind rich drapes, with oil lamps: girls. Dancing girls, chorus girls, waifs and strays. You had to know where to find them, how to train them, how to get rid of them. Mrs. Bone didn’t just avoid that business. She took in plenty of those girls, over the years. All those Janes. She suddenly addressed Mrs. King. “No one ever came for you, did they?” Winnie straightened, her eyes fierce. “Never. I shared a room with her the whole time. I wouldn’t have let them. I looked after you.” There was something heated, something desperate, in the way she said it. Mrs. King said, voice grave. “And you, Winnie? You were all right?” Winnie’s eyes flickered back and forth. “Yes,” she said, quickly. “Yes, I was fine.” “What about our fine lady duchess?” said Mrs. Bone, quietly. “Hephzibah?” said Mrs. King. Her eyes widened at that, shocked. It was rare to ever see that look upon her face. Winnie opened her mouth, shut it again. Shook her head. Mrs. Bone crossed her arms. “That’s clear enough to me.” Mrs. King said soberly, “And me.” They looked at one another. “Something needs to be done about this,” said Mrs. Bone. “Something needs to be done?” Winnie’s voice went up a notch. “You think I haven’t tried? I went to Shepherd. I went to the master.” “What happened?”


Mock Turtle: `nine the next, and so on.' `What a curious plan!' exclaimed Alice. `That's the reason they're called lessons,' the Gryphon remarked: `because they lessen from day to day.' This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. `Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?' `Of course it was,' said the Mock Turtle. `And how did you manage on the twelfth?' Alice went on eagerly. `That's enough about lessons,' the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: `tell her something about the games now.' CHAPTER X The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. `Same as if he had a bone in his throat,' said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- `You may not have lived much under the sea--' (`I haven't,' said Alice)--`and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--' (Alice began to say `I once tasted--' but checked herself hastily, and said `No, never') `--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!' `No, indeed,' said Alice. `What sort of a dance is it?' `Why,' said the Gryphon, `you first form into a line along the sea-shore--' `Two lines!' cried the Mock Turtle. `Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--' `THAT generally takes some time,' interrupted the Gryphon. `--you advance twice--' `Each with a lobster as a partner!' cried the Gryphon. `Of course,' the Mock Turtle said: `advance twice, set to partners--' `--change lobsters, and retire in same order,' continued the Gryphon. `Then, you know,' the Mock Turtle went on, `you throw the--' `The lobsters!' shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air. `--as far out to sea as you can--' `Swim after them!' screamed the Gryphon. `Turn a somersault in the sea!' cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about. `Back to land again, and that's all the first figure,' said the Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly and quietly, and looked at Alice. `It must be a very pretty dance,' said Alice timidly. `Would you like to see a little of it?' said the Mock Turtle. `Very much indeed,' said Alice. `Come, let's try the first figure!' said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon. `We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?' `Oh, YOU sing,' said the Gryphon. `I've forgotten the words.' So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this,


not about to let her grandfather know that. She set her jaw firmly and let go of his hand. 68 "Up ahead is the Salle des Etats," her grandfather said as they approached the Louvre's most famous room. Despite her grandfather's obvious excitement, Sophie wanted to go home. She had seen pictures of the Mona Lisa in books and didn't like it at all. She couldn't understand why everyone made such a fuss. "C'est ennuyeux," Sophie grumbled. "Boring," he corrected. "French at school. English at home." "Le Louvre, c'est pas chez moi!" she challenged. He gave her a tired laugh. "Right you are. Then let's speak English just for fun." Sophie pouted and kept walking. As they entered the Salle des Etats, her eyes scanned the narrow room and settled on the obvious spot of honor-the center of the right-hand wall, where a lone portrait hung behind a protective Plexiglas wall. Her grandfather paused in the doorway and motioned toward the painting. "Go ahead, Sophie. Not many people get a chance to visit her alone." Swallowing her apprehension, Sophie moved slowly across the room. After everything she'd heard about the Mona Lisa, she felt as if she were approaching royalty. Arriving in front of the protective Plexiglas, Sophie held her breath and looked up, taking it in all at once. Sophie was not sure what she had expected to feel, but it most certainly was not this. No jolt of amazement. No instant of wonder. The famous face looked as it did in books. She stood in silence for what felt like forever, waiting for something to happen. "So what do you think?" her grandfather whispered, arriving behind her. "Beautiful, yes?" "She's too little." Saunire smiled. "You're little and you're beautiful." I am not beautiful, she thought. Sophie hated her red hair and freckles, and she was bigger than all the boys in her class. She looked back at the Mona Lisa and shook her head. "She's even worse than in the books. Her face is... brumeux." "Foggy," her grandfather tutored. "Foggy," Sophie repeated, knowing the conversation would not continue until she repeated her new vocabulary word. "That's called the sfumato style of painting," he told her, "and it's very hard to do. Leonardo da Vinci was better at it than anyone." Sophie still didn't like the painting. "She looks like she knows something... like when kids at school have a secret." Her grandfather laughed. "That's part of why she is so famous. People like to guess why she is smiling." "Do you know why she's smiling?" "Maybe." Her grandfather winked. "Someday I'll tell you all about it." Sophie stamped her foot. "I told you I don't like secrets!" "Princess," he smiled. "Life is filled with secrets. You can't learn them all at once." "I'm going back up," Sophie declared, her voice hollow in the stairwell. "To the Mona Lisa?" Langdon recoiled. "Now?" Sophie considered the risk. "I'm not a murder suspect. I'll take my chances. I need to understand what my grandfather was trying to tell me." "What about the embassy?"


“and now she thinks the doctor molested her?” “She doesn’t think that.” “No, but she feels it.” It was the closest they’d come to mentioning Gabriel since Peter had asked her months ago whether anything more had happened with him. He looked spent. Maud felt a surge of resolve. She put her hand on his knee. “Come to bed?” she said. In their room, they stripped off each other’s clothes, and she climbed on top of him. Peter didn’t open his eyes, and eventually she closed her eyes too. Neither of them made a sound. Finally, Peter came with a sigh. With a quick kiss on her shoulder, he turned toward his nightstand. Maud lay next to him until he fell asleep, then got up and went to the kitchen. She took an ice cube from the freezer and held it to her cheek until it melted. The ice burned, but it felt good to withstand the pain. 17 Once again, she and Peter went through the house, gathering scissors, knives, and razors and putting them sharp-side down in an empty oatmeal tin that they locked in Peter’s desk drawer. The fidget basket returned to Ella’s room, full of plastic tangles and tins of putty to keep her hands busy. Every day that week when Ella got in the car after school, Maud asked her if she’d self-harmed, and then she’d ask again every night before Ella went to sleep. Finally, Ella said the question was triggering. “It’s like asking an alcoholic if they’d wanted a drink today. Just ask me in therapy instead.” Maud was back to watching for signs, inspecting Ella’s exposed skin—arms, neck, ankles—worrying whenever she left the room. She tried to sleep next to Peter, then went down the hall to check on Ella several times during the night. Friday, she realized that she hadn’t told Alice about not coming Wednesday to hike, but then how would she have told her when Alice didn’t have a phone? Two more appointments with Rita staggered by. Both times when Maud came into the office at the end, Ella’s eyes were red and her voice stuffy. “Anything you’d like to discuss?” Rita said to Maud. “Did you do it again?” Maud asked Ella. “No.” Louise was still thrown by the relapse. Maud caught her watching Ella with her lower lip sucked in. Maud bought two boxes of sugar cubes, and they spent an afternoon building a Taj Mahal because, Louise said, a new Sphinx would never be the same. That night, Annette dropped off CBD gummies meant to help Maud sleep, but they didn’t work any better than the melatonin she’d tried. Lights off, the house creaked around her as she wandered from room to room, looked in on Ella, went outside to the deck, and, shivering, sought the glow of the city in the fog. The following Wednesday, she drove to Esperanza. She was still sleeping poorly, bolting awake several times during the night, and she felt so fuzzy-headed and loose-limbed that she couldn’t imagine going on a hike. But


house. I learned that someone else missed his girlfriend, no, really missed her, really, and no, he wasn’t seeing anyone else, he loved her, why was she being like that, stop being like that, didn’t she know he missed her? We’re granted so few superpowers in life. This was one of mine. I could walk the halls knowing things none of those Barton Hall boys would voluntarily tell me. I knew Jorge Cardenas didn’t let himself drink when he was sad, because that was how alcoholism started, and he didn’t want to be like his father. It would be convenient if I’d picked up that phone one day and heard something useful, something incriminating. Heard someone threatening Thalia, for instance. Or heard something about you. But it was simply part of a broader habit: I collected information about my peers the way some people hoard newspapers. I hoped this would help me become more like them, less like myself—less poor, less clueless, less provincial, less vulnerable. Every summer, I’d bring home the yearbook and mark each student’s photo with a special code of colored checkmarks: whether I knew them, considered them a friend, had a crush. Sometimes, in the depths of summer isolation, I’d look up people’s families in the school directory to learn their parents’ first names, with the sole purpose of lifting me, for a minute, out of a bedroom I hated in a house that wasn’t my own in a town where I didn’t know anyone anymore. This doesn’t make me special, and I knew that then, too. I’m only saying it by way of explanation: I cared about details. Not because they were something I could control, but because they were something I could own. And there was so little that was mine. 3 Fran and Anne had invited me for a late dinner, so I put on the snow boots I’d purchased for the trip and headed across South Bridge to Lower Campus. It was nine degrees out, the snow hard enough to walk across without sinking. I wondered if I’d pass people I knew, but I seemed to be the only living thing outdoors. When I’d been back before, it was to limited parts of campus. I hadn’t crossed the bridges, entered academic buildings. The dimensions seemed off now; my memory, and my frequent Granby dreams, had moved things inch by inch. The statue of Samuel Granby had somehow moved ten feet uphill, for instance. I passed close, touched his foot with my glove for old times’ sake. That fall, right after I’d accepted the invitation to teach, I woke thinking about the main street through town, the one with all the businesses, but couldn’t remember its name, so I googled Granby School map. What I found, beyond the answer (Crown Street!), were detailed maps of campus as it was in March of 1995, maps people had marked with dotted lines representing their theories, the routes they’d charted through the woods. I knew Thalia’s murder had caught and held the public’s attention, but I hadn’t understood


appreciate; (n, v) accept, assure, profess, promise. palatable, nice, flattering, delicious, honor; (adj) adoring, worshipping, ANTONYMS: (v) negate, veto, kind, complimentary, amicable worshiping; (adv) adoringly. nullify, refute, repress acutely: (adv) sharply, keenly, ANTONYMS: (v) detest, despise, affirmed: (adj) acknowledged, severely, astutely, piercingly, shrilly, condemn, loathe, disrespect, abhor, avowed, guaranteed cleverly; (adj, adv) intensely, scorn affirming: (adj) predicative, extremely, gravely, critically. adorn: (v) deck, dress, embellish, predicant, assertory; (n) ANTONYMS: (adv) chronically, ornament, beautify, enrich, grace, confirmation mildly, slightly, faintly, vaguely, trim, garnish, gild, blazon. afflicted: (adj) miserable, distressed, unexceptionally ANTONYMS: (v) mar, disfigure, stricken, pitiful, sorrowful, ill, acuteness: (n) acuity, sharpness, deform, deface, damage, hurt woeful, dejected, sorry; (v) afflict, acumen, discrimination, gravity, adorned: (adj) decorated, ornate, displeased insight, sensitivity, perspicacity, bedecked, decked out, fancy, affliction: (n, v) adversity; (n) penetration, keenness, intensity. garnished, ornamented, decked, distress, regret, martyrdom, ANTONYMS: (n) faintness, beautiful, inscribed, festooned torment, curse, trial, bane, insignificance, dullness adornment: (n) jewelry, misadventure, sorrow, agony. adaptation: (n) adjustment, embellishment, decoration, ANTONYMS: (n) gift, godsend, acclimatization, alteration, version, garnishment, accessory, trim, frill, solace, blessing reworking, acclimation, fitness, passementerie, trimming, garnish, afflictions: (n) buffeting modification, conversion, adaption, flower aforesaid: (adj) aforenamed, said, immunization. ANTONYMS: (n) advancement: (n, v) advance; (n) foregoing, above-mentioned, same, Nathaniel Hawthorne 257 preceding, former, foresaid disinclination, apathy, tardiness, uphill, above ground; (prep) upon; afresh: (adv) again, newly, over delay (adj) eminent, lofty again, new, once again, freshly, once alas: (adv) unluckily, regrettably, amazed: (adj) astounded, astonished, more, often; (adj) the other day, just sadly, unhappily, sorry to say; (n) stunned, dumbfounded, now, only yesterday oh; (int) lackaday. ANTONYM: flabbergasted, shocked, staggered, agitated: (adj) upset, excited, (adv) luckily bewildered, surprised, nervous, restive, tumultuous, alchemist: (n) alchemister, thunderstruck, aghast distressed, tense, jumpy, intellectual, intellect, philosopher, amen: (adj) right, correct; (n) Amon; overwrought, anxious, alarmed. alchymy, chemic (adv) positively, yes ANTONYMS: (adj) calm, lethargic, alchemy: (n) pseudoscience, alchymy, amenable: (adj) accountable, tranquil, relaxed, assured, cool, still interpersonal chemistry, alchemist, yielding, answerable, tractable, agitation: (n) disturbance, alchemistic, magic, sorcery, submissive, responsible, compliant, excitement, tumult, stirring, alchemistry obedient, acquiescent, accessible, convulsion, stir, commotion, alertness: (n) watchfulness, agility, pliable. ANTONYMS: (adj) emotion, unrest, shake, turmoil. alacrity, nimbleness, liveliness, obstinate, stubborn, disobedient, ANTONYMS: (n) serenity, calm, jealousy, wariness, attention, uncooperative, irresponsible, equanimity, rest, peace, deterrent quickness, intelligence, nonconforming, disagreeable, agonised: (adj) painful consciousness. ANTONYMS: (n) unanswerable, unaccountable, agreeable: (adj) accordant, nice, dream, drowsiness, inattentiveness, intractable, unamenable sweet, consistent, suitable, amusing, slowness, unconsciousness amidst: (adv, prep) among; (adv) enjoyable, affable; (adj, v) pleasant, alien: (n) foreigner, outsider; (adj) amongst; (prep) between, midst, desirable; (adj, n) acceptable. strange, extrinsic, remote, exotic, into ANTONYMS: (adj) disagreeable, extraneous, unfamiliar; (n, v) amiss: (adj, adv) wrong; (adj) bad, discordant, unpleasant, nasty, alienate; (adj, n) unknown; (v) haywire, faulty, astray, guilty; (adv) unwilling, resistant, aggressive, estrange. ANTONYMS: (adj) badly, poorly, awry, wrongly, adrift. repugnant, averse, stubborn, familiar, akin, ordinary; (adj, n) ANTONYMS: (adj, adv) right; (adv) unacceptable native; (n) citizen, local perfectly, properly, suitably, aided: (adj) power, favored alienation: (n) estrangement, appropriately, correctly, well; (adj) aiding: (adj) healthy, subventitious, abalienation, disaffection, dislike, okay, correct, good subsidiary, serviceable, auxiliary, separation, transfer, breach,


apartment and said goodbye to the safe house, hoping my own security situation was improving. Aside from getting accosted by a guy at an Ikea (whose repeated attempts to get in my face spiced up an otherwise boring day for Dennis), it was uneventful. The building was quiet and modern. A guard sat in the lobby. After I moved in, I got a notification that I had received a package, which was strange. I hadn’t given the address out to friends or family yet. Downstairs in the mail room, I fetched the shipment. Inside a grimy box, someone had sent me cheaply made winter clothing. No note. No return address. The package was followed by several more, including a glove, a knitted cap, and other assorted items. The packages were all dated the same. November 14, 2020, the day we’d toured apartments during the first “Stop the Steal” rally. I should have taken Dennis’s advice and stayed home that day. Someone had clearly followed me to the new address, despite painstaking efforts to keep it under wraps. Within days of move-in, the place didn’t feel like a sanctuary. It was just another target. Nevertheless, I decided to stop carrying my handgun for a while, for mental health reasons. I had started going to therapy again and was on a low-dose antidepressant. I locked the pistol in a metal gun safe and gave Hannah the key. Dennis didn’t ask why I stopped carrying. But one evening as I prepared to head in for the night, he stopped me to offer up a self-defense alternative. “Sir, I have a small gift for you,” he said, digging in his backpack, pushing aside extra magazines of ammo and a trauma kit. He handed me a small box. “What’s this?” I asked. “Open it.” Inside was a gray ballpoint pen with a cap. “My favorite weapon,” he replied. He could tell I was confused. “It’s made out of carbon fiber.” “So it’s an indestructible ballpoint pen?” I replied, not catching on. Dennis removed the pen from the box and pulled off the cap to reveal it wasn’t a pen at all but a shiv, sharpened to a fine point. The shaft was hollowed out, like a soda straw with a knife at the end. “If a bad guy comes your way, you plunge the sharp part into his neck, chest, or wherever,” he explained, “while keeping your thumb over the end of the straw.” He made a stabbing motion in the air. “The attacker has got two options: A, he can hold still, keep this inside him, and stay alive until help arrives. Or B, he can throw you off and bleed out,” he said, lifting his thumb off the end of the shaft to demonstrate. “Dennis, I don’t know what to say,” I remarked. “What a graphic gift.” “Don’t mention it,” he responded. “Just keep ‘Little Dennis’ with you, especially when I’m gone.” * * * The morning of January 6, 2021, I woke up with only one in-person meeting on my calendar: “TSCM Sweep.” 2


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

fists looked like it swam with gold, trails of soft sun-glow following the path of his skin. Another dagger glinted silver as the scarred man pulled it from his belt, breaking her concentration on all that odd gold. Bastian didn’t seem to notice it, and she opened her mouth to warn him, but a slam of stars exploded in her temple before she could. The scarred man had knocked the hilt into her head. Lore hit her knees, bones aching against the bite of cobblestone. Then—something cold and sharp on her neck, and a boot between her shoulder blades, holding her down. Time slowed. Her ears rang, making everything crystal clear and muffled at once. Lore had been in plenty of situations where the loss of life or limb was a possible outcome, but she’d never been held at knifepoint, never been in a place where the possibility of help was next to none. The sharp edge of the knife almost vibrated with Mortem, her fingers tingling in time. But she still couldn’t grasp it. Lore’s eyes met Bastian’s. She didn’t know what kind of look she gave him, whether it was pleading or defiant. He’d asked why she was here, what his father wanted; those were the answers that mattered, and he had them. The questions about her, about her magic—those were mere curiosity, and curiosity wasn’t reason enough to save her, not when there was a perfectly plausible excuse for her death holding a dagger to her neck. Bastian could let her die and leave her here. He could kill her without even touching her. “More expensive than just your losses, now,” the scarred man rasped, digging his knee further into Lore’s back. “You’ll pay double for making a fuss. Think how much belladonna I can buy with that, eh?” Lore watched the calculations spin behind Bastian’s eyes. Watched him weigh and measure. Then the prince reached into his pocket. The movement took his concentration away from the fight, and the smaller man landed a punch to his stomach. At the moment Bastian bowed forward, hunched over his middle, he thrust out his hand, the thick gold of a signet ring gleaming in the dark. “If you please,” Bastian said, somehow managing to barely sound winded. “Unhand my friend.” The smaller man looked at the ring. Paled. “Milo. Let the lady up.” But the scarred one—Milo—paid no heed. “Don’t care who he is. He owes, and my stash is nearly done for.” The dagger bit in, just enough to sting, and Lore pulled in a ragged breath. Bastian straightened, stalked across the alley. His hand fisted in Milo’s hair and wrenched the man’s neck backward, pointing his blade at the vulnerable artery. They made a deranged chain of threats, Bastian’s knife at Milo’s throat, Milo’s at Lore’s. “I’m the Sun Prince of Auverraine, Apollius’s chosen heir,” Bastian hissed. “And you will unhand the lady.” A pause. Then Milo’s bulk was gone; Bastian shoved his shoulder, forcing him to his knees beside his smaller friend. Lore dragged in a deep breath


roof." "I don't believe it," said Josie flatly. "I don't believe anybody could walk a ridgepole. YOU couldn't, anyhow." "Couldn't I?" cried Anne rashly. "Then I dare you to do it," said Josie defiantly. "I dare you to climb up there and walk the ridgepole of Mr. Barry's kitchen roof." Anne turned pale, but there was clearly only one thing to be done. She walked toward the house, where a ladder was leaning against the kitchen roof. All the fifth-class girls said, "Oh!" partly in excitement, partly in dismay. "Don't you do it, Anne," entreated Diana. "You'll fall off and be killed. Never mind Josie Pye. It isn't fair to dare anybody to do anything so dangerous." "I must do it. My honor is at stake," said Anne solemnly. "I shall walk that ridgepole, Diana, or perish in the attempt. If I am killed you are to have my pearl bead ring." Anne climbed the ladder amid breathless silence, gained the ridgepole, balanced herself uprightly on that precarious footing, and started to walk along it, dizzily conscious that she was uncomfortably high up in the world and that walking ridgepoles was not a thing in which your imagination helped you out much. Nevertheless, she managed to take several steps before the catastrophe came. Then she swayed, lost her balance, stumbled, staggered, and fell, sliding down over the sun-baked roof and crashing off it through the tangle of Virginia creeper beneathall before the dismayed circle below could give a simultaneous, terrified shriek. If Anne had tumbled off the roof on the side up which she had ascended Diana would probably have fallen heir to the pearl bead ring then and there. Fortunately she fell on the other side, where the roof extended down over the porch so nearly to the ground that a fall therefrom was a much less serious thing. Nevertheless, when Diana and the other girls had rushed frantically around the house-except Ruby Gillis, who remained as if rooted to the ground and went into hysterics-they found Anne lying all white and limp among the wreck and ruin of the Virginia creeper. "Anne, are you killed?" shrieked Diana, throwing herself on her knees beside her friend. "Oh, Anne, dear Anne, speak just one word to me and tell me if you're killed." To the immense relief of all the girls, and especially of Josie Pye, who, in spite of lack of imagination, had been seized with horrible visions of a future branded as the girl who was the cause of Anne Shirley's early and tragic death, Anne sat dizzily up and answered uncertainly: "No, Diana, I am not killed, but I think I am rendered unconscious." "Where?" sobbed Carrie Sloane. "Oh, where, Anne?" Before Anne could answer Mrs. Barry appeared on the scene. At sight of her Anne tried to scramble to her feet, but sank back again with a sharp little cry of pain. "What's the matter? Where have you hurt yourself?" demanded Mrs. Barry. "My ankle," gasped Anne. "Oh, Diana, please find your father and ask him to take


a little of it?' said the Mock Turtle. `Very much indeed,' said Alice. `Come, let's try the first figure!' said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon. `We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?' `Oh, YOU sing,' said the Gryphon. `I've forgotten the words.' So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly and sadly:-- `"Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail. "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance? "You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance-- Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance. `"What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"' `Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch,' said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: `and I do so like that curious song about the whiting!' `Oh, as to the whiting,' said the Mock Turtle, `they--you've seen them, of course?' `Yes,' said Alice, `I've often seen them at dinn--' she checked herself hastily. `I don't know where Dinn may be,' said the Mock Turtle, `but if you've seen them so often, of course you know what they're like.' `I believe so,' Alice replied thoughtfully. `They have their tails in their mouths--and they're all over crumbs.' `You're wrong about the crumbs,' said the Mock Turtle: `crumbs would all wash off in the sea. But they HAVE their tails in their mouths; and the reason is--' here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his eyes.--`Tell her about the reason and all that,' he said to the Gryphon. `The reason is,' said the Gryphon, `that they WOULD go with the lobsters to the dance. So they got thrown out to sea. So they had to fall a long way. So they got their tails fast in their mouths. So they couldn't get them out again. That's all.' `Thank you,' said Alice, `it's very interesting. I never


of the Secret Service concerned with the Soviet Union) was so keen on his plan for the destruction of Le Chiffre, and it was basically his own plan, that he took the memorandum himself and went up to the top floor of the gloomy building overlooking Regent's Park and through the green baize door and along the corridor to the end room. He walked belligerently up to M's Chief of Staff, a young sapper who had earned his spurs as one of the secretariat to the Chiefs of Staff committee after having been wounded during a sabotage operation in 1944, and had kept his sense of humour in spite of both experiences. 'Now look here, Bill. I want to sell something to the Chief. Is this a good moment?' 'What do you think, Penny?' The Chief of Staff turned to M's private secretary who shared the room with him. Miss Moneypenny would have been desirable but for eyes which were cool and direct and quizzical. 'Should be all right. He won a bit of a victory at the FO this morning and he's not got anyone for the next half an hour.' She smiled encouragingly at Head of S whom she liked for himself and for the importance of his section. 'Well, here's the dope, Bill.' He handed over the black folder with the red star which stood for Top Secret. 'And for God's sake look enthusiastic when you give it him. And tell him I'll wait here and read a good code-book while he's considering it. He may want some more details, and anyway I want to see you two don't pester him with anything else until he's finished.' 'All right, sir.' The Chief of Staff pressed a switch leant towards the intercom on his desk. 'Yes?' asked a quiet, flat voice. 'Head of S has an urgent docket for you, sir.' There was a pause. 'Bring it in,' said a voice. The Chief of Staff released the switch and stood up. 'Thanks, Bill. I'll be next door,' said Head of S. The Chief of Staff crossed his office and went through the double doors leading into M's room. In a moment he came out and over the entrance a small blue light burned the warning that M was not to be disturbed. * Later, a triumphant Head of S said to his Number Two: 'We nearly cooked ourselves with that last paragraph. He said it was subversion and blackmail. He got pretty sharp about it. Anyway, he approves. Says the idea's crazy, but worth trying if the Treasury will play and he thinks they will. He's going to tell them it's a better gamble than the money we're putting into deserting Russian colonels who turn double after a few months' "asylum" here. And he's longing to get at Le Chiffre, and anyway he's got the right man and wants to try him out on the job.' 'Who is it?' asked Number Two. 'One of the Double O's - I guess 007. He's tough and M thinks there may be trouble


a rescue dog named Bonnie who would always be happier to see me than him, which he’d defend by saying, “She sees me every day. Of course she seems more excited to see you when you’re here.” We split our time between Seattle and LA before we decided to rent out Finn’s Los Feliz house and move in together this year, a quaint two-bedroom only a ten-minute drive from Noemie. Stella sold The Poisoned Pen in a two-book deal shortly after I finished it, in large part thanks to the relationships I’d built through ghostwriting. The sequel is coming out next year, so I’ve been immersed in writing and working a part-time job at a bookstore near our apartment. Finn’s wrapping production on a Hanukkah-themed romantic comedy, the first one for a network known mainly for Christmas movies. Plus, he’s often traveling for stakeholder meetings for his nonprofit, Healthy Minds, which already has a dozen therapists on staff. Our lives are busier than they’ve ever been, and I can’t imagine them any other way. My parents are deeply amused by the whole thing, including the fact that their daughter is in a relationship with someone they’ve watched on TV. My dad called him Hux for a full three months after I introduced him and still has the occasional slip. “I still can’t believe you haven’t let us read it yet,” my mom says after wrapping me in a hug. “We’ve read all the others!” “Yes, but this one is different. Just to be safe, I think you should skip chapters three, eleven, fourteen, the last few pages of eighteen, and half of twenty.” I consider this as I sign their copy. “And definitely twenty-two and twenty-four. Actually, maybe I should just hold on to this and redact some of those parts?” “Those are all the good parts,” Noemie stage-whispers, and I mime smacking her with the book. Just when I think I’ve signed everything and all my friends and family have moved the party over to the bar, one last person approaches my table. “Who should I make it out to?” I ask, the words still sounding strange but starting to feel more familiar. “Your fiancé,” Finn says as he slides the book forward. Another word I haven’t gotten used to, and I love the way it sounds in his voice. I glance down at the ring on my finger, warmth blooming in my chest. The engagement: a quiet, perfect moment between us a few months ago before we put his house up for rent. Glasses of wine, soft jazz playing from his sound system, Bonnie dozing in my lap. “Not being married to you feels like a complete waste of time,” he said, toying with a strand of my hair. “I think we should fix that.” Now he watches me swipe my pen over the title page, nothing but the purest admiration in his eyes. “My signature is a mess,” I declare. The two C’s aren’t uniform, and it looks a little like I’m practicing cursive on one of those gridded


you a message: Get in your car and drive. Change your last name, too. Don’t look back. 21 I tried to distract myself with a movie, but since the Calvin Inn wi-fi was too fatigued to continue the day, I was beholden to the offerings on my room’s bulky Panasonic. Here was Bus Stop, a movie I hated. Bus Stop is what happens when no women were involved in the writing process. We get, for instance, a woman who, when Marilyn Monroe sidles up to her on the bus and says she’s been kidnapped, replies: “It wouldn’t be so bad if you were in love with him.” I turned the TV off and checked email. Someone I didn’t know had sent a clip from a Boston station—part of an interview with Brad Keith, Thalia’s half brother. He’d gone gray in a thick-haired, dignified way. He wore a powder blue sweater. Last I knew, Brad Keith was a commodities trader. “But in the interest of justice—” the reporter across from him said. “Justice was served. He got his day in court, he got it again on appeal. I understand the right to a fair trial, but three trials? Four? Five? Where does it end? You can’t just keep rolling the dice till you get what you want.” The reporter didn’t point out the difference between a hearing and a trial. She said, “There’s been new evidence. We know now th—” “Nothing’s new. We have her old roommate with some baloney about dots. We have blood evidence that just moves the assault a few feet to the left. Omar Evans ruined all our lives, not just Thalia’s. And every time we get dragged back, he destroys us again. We’ve been through enough.” “Your sister Vanessa disagrees.” He shook his head, resigned. “She was so young when this happened.” Below the video link, the email read: Look what you’re doing you unconscionable bitch. 22 Geoff had ordered pizza for dinner, and we ate at the little table in his room. Geoff, who used to accept dares to mix chocolate milk, hot sauce, ranch dressing, and orange juice in a dining hall cup and drink it down, had ended up with sophisticated taste. He’d managed to order a very specific herb pizza via Grubhub from Hanover and get it delivered still hot, along with a bottle of excellent Syrah from a completely different place. We were planning to go through the hoarded Granby junk he’d brought for Britt and Alder. But first, carbs and cheese and wine. I decided to let myself eat as much as I wanted. He said something I didn’t get about the Calvin Inn being the place where you got whatever you deserved, and then had to explain that it was a joke about Calvinism. “Oh, one of those,” I said. “I love a good Calvinism joke.” He asked if I thought Carlotta was going to make it, and the cheese turned gluey in my throat. Alder joined us at nine. I’d decided to give up on staying away from him—what difference


bit of morning, the freckles on his sculpted shoulders visible in the streaks of light. My train of thought is disappearing around a corner, leaving me alone with a half-naked Wyn Connor, when he says, “Just to be clear, you’re always welcome to touch me.” I become acutely aware of every place the cool silk sheets skim my legs. I shake the blankets out. “What an extremely generous offer.” “Not generous at all,” he says. “I’m voracious for physical touch. Can’t get enough.” “So I’ve gathered,” I say. “If I ever meet someone in need of casual physical touch, I’ll give them your business card.” The corner of his mouth tugs downward. “Remember what you told me about Sabrina?” “No, what?” “That she exaggerates,” he says. “So does Parth.” I pitch myself higher on my elbow. “So which were the exaggerations, Wyn? The hot TA who left her phone number on your last essay of the term? The flight attendant who bought all your drinks? The identical triplet Russian acrobats?” “The triplets,” he says, “were literally just some girls I met in a bar and talked to for thirty minutes. And for the record, they were gymnasts, not acrobats, and they were very nice.” “One can’t help but notice you didn’t protest about the TA and the flight attendant.” He sits up against the wall. The man cannot stay in one position for longer than forty or so seconds. “How about we discuss your romantic history?” “What about it?” I say. “Sabrina said you were dating another American while you were in London.” “Hudson,” I supply. “You never bring him up,” Wyn says. I don’t bring him up because he and I agreed our relationship was temporary, right from the start. We knew when we went home, we’d be too busy, too focused, for each other. Focus was the second biggest thing Hudson and I had in common. The first was a love of the same chip shop in London. Not the stuff of romantic legend, but it worked out okay, and no one got hurt. “I’m an open book,” I say. “What do you want to know?” Wyn’s teeth scrape over his bottom lip. “Is he a genius like you?” “I’m not a genius,” I say. “Fine,” Wyn says, “is he brilliant like you? Is he going to be a surgeon?” Brilliant. The word fizzes through me. “He wants to be a thoracic surgeon,” I say. “He goes to Harvard.” Wyn scoffs. “Tickle in your throat?” I say. “What’s he look like?” Wyn asks. As I consider, his grin twitches. “Can’t remember?” “Dark hair, blue eyes,” I say. “Like you,” he says. “Identical.” I sit up too. “Side by side, you couldn’t tell us apart.” Wyn’s eyes slink down me, then climb back to my face. “You’re a very lucky woman.” “The luckiest,” I say. “Once, when I was sick, he went to class as me.” “Can I see a picture?” Wyn asks. “Seriously?” “I’m curious,” he says. I lean over the bed and feel around for my phone on the


Santa’s Grotto in here, no trouble at all. I look at Maurice, his legs bandaged quite professionally by Zoegar. They haven’t bothered to restrain him in the leather high-back love seat because he can barely stay upright without holding on to the arms. “I suggest you start with sorry. ‘I am sorry I came to your office to kill you, Cal. It was personal and I understand you’re upset.’ I mean, I don’t imagine it gets said a lot in this situation. You could try an actual apology. They’re free.” Nothing. “Mr. Nugent, do people generally apologise at this point?” “You shock me, Mr. Sounder, with the implication that I would know such a thing. This experience is quite entirely new to me.” I look at him. He does the salamander smile again. Zoegar rolls his eyes. Apparently this is too fey even for him. I tell Doublewide I’m sorry I asked. He beams. “You are forgiven!” “You see, Maurice? That’s how it goes. You want to try it?” Maurice isn’t looking at me. He’s looking at Doublewide. Titans always think other Titans are in charge. They’re also almost always right about that, even when the appearance is against it. “Who are you?” “Lyman Nugent,” Doublewide says. “Beggar king. Big fan of your uncle, though perhaps that’s the wrong word. Let us say I admire his…reach.” He flexes one mantis arm, reaching two metres to lift an apple out of the fruit bowl and take a bite. He’s dainty with it, but half the fruit disappears into his mouth. Maurice watches him. They say that Stefan Tonfamecasca’s arm reaches anywhere in the world, but they haven’t met Lyman Nugent. Figure Maurice is right now thinking about that. Finally he looks at me and says “I’m sorry.” “Traditionally, there should be a ‘for.’ What are you sorry for?” “I am sorry I came to your office and tried to kill you.” “That is what you were doing?” “Yes.” I look at Doublewide. “That sound about right to you?” “I thought it palpably sincere. Shall we eat?” “By all means.” Maurice stares. “Why, yes, Mr. Tonfamecasca, you too. You are fallen among civilised thieves today. It is to everyone’s advantage that we resolve this matter without unpleasantness, yes?” “Sure.” Zoegar opens a door, and the same big woman who drove the truck comes in with a tray of barbecue and a syringe. Maurice looks warily at the last. “It’s a nausea shot,” she says primly. “So you don’t throw up my fine food. There’s anti-tetanus and a painkiller in there too, but don’t get the idea you can walk on those legs just because they stop hurting quite so much. You put weight on those, especially that knee? You’re going to experience all kinds of bad things. Now, hold still.” He does, hissing as the needle goes in, and then leaning back. The woman smiles. “All better. For a given value, I know. Lyman, he needs some time on my table soon, so nothing bad happens at the joint.” “Understood, Priscilla. Quite understood, and


lips. He was determined to put the case baldly, without vain recrimination or excuse. "Madame Olenska--" he said; but at the name his wife raised her hand as if to silence him. As she did so the gaslight struck on the gold of her wedding-ring, "Oh, why should we talk about Ellen tonight?" she asked, with a slight pout of impatience. "Because I ought to have spoken before." Her face remained calm. "Is it really worth while, dear? I know I've been unfair to her at times--perhaps we all have. You've understood her, no doubt, better than we did: you've always been kind to her. But what does it matter, now it's all over?" Archer looked at her blankly. Could it be possible that the sense of unreality in which he felt himself imprisoned had communicated itself to his wife? "All over--what do you mean?" he asked in an indistinct stammer. May still looked at him with transparent eyes. "Why-- since she's going back to Europe so soon; since Granny approves and understands, and has arranged to make her independent of her husband--" She broke off, and Archer, grasping the corner of the mantelpiece in one convulsed hand, and steadying himself against it, made a vain effort to extend the same control to his reeling thoughts. "I supposed," he heard his wife's even voice go on, "that you had been kept at the office this evening about the business arrangements. It was settled this morning, I believe." She lowered her eyes under his unseeing stare, and another fugitive flush passed over her face. He understood that his own eyes must be unbearable, and turning away, rested his elbows on the mantel- shelf and covered his face. Something drummed and clanged furiously in his ears; he could not tell if it were the blood in his veins, or the tick of the clock on the mantel. May sat without moving or speaking while the clock slowly measured out five minutes. A lump of coal fell forward in the grate, and hearing her rise to push it back, Archer at length turned and faced her. "It's impossible," he exclaimed. "Impossible--?" "How do you know--what you've just told me?" "I saw Ellen yesterday--I told you I'd seen her at Granny's." "It wasn't then that she told you?" "No; I had a note from her this afternoon.--Do you want to see it?" He could not find his voice, and she went out of the room, and came back almost immediately. "I thought you knew," she said simply. She laid a sheet of paper on the table, and Archer put out his hand and took it up. The letter contained only a few lines. "May dear, I have at last made Granny understand that my visit to her could be no more than a visit; and she has been as kind and generous as ever. She sees now that if I return to Europe I must live by myself, or rather with poor Aunt Medora, who is coming with me. I am hurrying back to Washington to


can fix it. I did once before.” “You can’t this time,” Anton said gently. “It’s hundreds of bodies. Lore— even for you, channeling that much Mortem would be nearly impossible.” “You have to let me try!” She didn’t want to cry here, not in front of them, but she was so angry and overwhelmed and crying was always hardest to fight off when she was overwhelmed, thinking of the catacombs beneath them, full of screaming corpses who’d been people, just people— “So this is why you led us down there.” Bastian’s voice, calm and cold and cutting through her panic. His gaze was squared on Gabe. “This is why you came back and helped us. So that Lore would raise the dead, and there’d be no way to undo it.” Gabe didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The look on his face proved the accusation true. Bastian sat back, casual as if the chair and chains were a gilded throne. “Why are we supposed to believe you aren’t working with my father, again? After you just made us start up his undead army?” “Because August doesn’t control the army,” Anton said. “And if we’re successful, he never will.” “August wouldn’t be able to control it, anyway,” she said. “He can’t channel Mortem.” “Not yet,” Anton murmured. In the distance, bells began to toll. First Day. Somewhere, sunrise prayers were beginning. Gabe stood still as a statue in his place by the door, face stony, revealing nothing. Lore closed her eyes, turned her head. She didn’t want to look at him, but her eyes kept sliding his way, consistently drawn back into his gravity. “And what, exactly, made you both decide you couldn’t let this happen?” Bastian asked. “My father has been a tyrant for years. He’s sucked this country dry, let nobles—let you—grow richer while everyone outside the Citadel walls has less and less every year. So you only care when his mind turns to war? When it becomes something that might affect you?” “August cares nothing for Apollius.” Bellegarde’s expression wasn’t quite a sneer, but it was close. “He would attempt to change his role in history. To take a place that is not his, to try and avoid his own destiny. The Priest Exalted’s vision was clear. August cannot go to war with Kirythea. It would undermine everything.” It wasn’t an answer, not really, but it gave closure just the same. This wasn’t about protecting Auverraine. This was about power, and about using religion to secure it. Bastian’s sneer was much more obvious than Bellegarde’s. “None of this changes the fact that I don’t have any magic. I’m not the chosen.” “It clings to you like ink on paper.” There was a note of reverence in Anton’s voice; he looked at his nephew with a peaceful expression, as if the sight of him soothed some ache in his heart. “Whether you believe it or not, Bastian, you are the one we’ve been waiting for. The one Apollius has blessed. I’m sorry I didn’t realize it from the beginning.” Bastian


all this had actually happened. Of course it was not real; no such black, easterly day as this had yet begun to be; Judge Pyncheon had not talked with, her. Clifford had not laughed, pointed, beckoned her away with him; but she had merely been afflicted--as lonely sleepers often are--with a great deal of unreasonable misery, in a morning dream! "Now--now--I shall certainly awake!" thought Hepzibah, as she went to and fro, making her little preparations. "I can bear it no longer I must wake up now!" But it came not, that awakening moment! It came not, even when, just before they left the house, Clifford stole to the parlor-door, and made a parting obeisance to the sole occupant of the room. "What an absurd figure the old fellow cuts now!" whispered he to Hepzibah. "Just when he fancied he had me completely under his thumb! Come, come; make haste! or he will start up, like Giant Despair in pursuit of Christian and Hopeful, and catch us yet!" As they passed into the street, Clifford directed Hepzibah's attention to something on one of the posts of the front door. It was merely the initials of his own name, which, with somewhat of his characteristic grace about the forms of the letters, he had cut there when a boy. The brother and sister departed, and left Judge Pyncheon sitting in the old home of his forefathers, all by himself; so heavy and lumpish that we can liken him to nothing better than a defunct nightmare, which had perished in the midst of its wickedness, and left its flabby corpse on the breast of the tormented one, to be gotten rid of as it might! XVII The Flight of Two Owls SUMMER as it was, the east wind set poor Hepzibah's few remaining teeth chattering in her head, as she and Clifford faced it, on their way up Pyncheon Street, and towards the centre of the town. Not merely was it the shiver which this pitiless blast brought to her frame (although her feet and hands, especially, had never seemed so death-a-cold as now), but there was a moral sensation, mingling itself with the physical chill, and causing her to shake more in spirit than in body. The world's broad, bleak atmosphere was all so comfortless! Such, indeed, is the impression which it makes on every new adventurer, even if he plunge into it while the warmest tide of life is bubbling through his veins. What, then, must it have been to Hepzibah and Clifford,--so time-stricken as they were, yet so like children in their inexperience,--as they left the doorstep, and passed from beneath the wide shelter of the Pyncheon Elm! They were wandering all abroad, on precisely such a pilgrimage as a child often meditates, to the world's end, with perhaps a sixpence and a biscuit in his pocket. In Hepzibah's mind, there was the wretched consciousness of being adrift. She had lost the faculty of self-guidance; but, in view of the difficulties around her, felt it hardly worth an effort to regain


I beat him when he sneezes; For he can thoroughly enjoy The pepper when he pleases!' CHORUS. `Wow! wow! wow!' `Here! you may nurse it a bit, if you like!' the Duchess said to Alice, flinging the baby at her as she spoke. `I must go and get ready to play croquet with the Queen,' and she hurried out of the room. The cook threw a frying-pan after her as she went out, but it just missed her. Alice caught the baby with some difficulty, as it was a queer- shaped little creature, and held out its arms and legs in all directions, `just like a star-fish,' thought Alice. The poor little thing was snorting like a steam-engine when she caught it, and kept doubling itself up and straightening itself out again, so that altogether, for the first minute or two, it was as much as she could do to hold it. As soon as she had made out the proper way of nursing it, (which was to twist it up into a sort of knot, and then keep tight hold of its right ear and left foot, so as to prevent its undoing itself,) she carried it out into the open air. `IF I don't take this child away with me,' thought Alice, `they're sure to kill it in a day or two: wouldn't it be murder to leave it behind?' She said the last words out loud, and the little thing grunted in reply (it had left off sneezing by this time). `Don't grunt,' said Alice; `that's not at all a proper way of expressing yourself.' The baby grunted again, and Alice looked very anxiously into its face to see what was the matter with it. There could be no doubt that it had a VERY turn-up nose, much more like a snout than a real nose; also its eyes were getting extremely small for a baby: altogether Alice did not like the look of the thing at all. `But perhaps it was only sobbing,' she thought, and looked into its eyes again, to see if there were any tears. No, there were no tears. `If you're going to turn into a pig, my dear,' said Alice, seriously, `I'll have nothing more to do with you. Mind now!' The poor little thing sobbed again (or grunted, it was impossible to say which), and they went on for some while in silence. Alice was just beginning to think to herself, `Now, what am I to do with this creature when I get it home?' when it grunted again, so violently, that she looked down into its face in some alarm. This time there could be NO mistake about it: it was neither more nor less than a pig, and she felt that it would be quite absurd for her to carry it further. So she set the little creature down, and felt quite relieved to see it trot away quietly into the wood. `If it had grown up,' she said to herself, `it would have made a dreadfully ugly child: but


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

tar, or the odours of his own person among which he had made many curious comparisons and experiments. He found in the end that the only odour against which his sense of smell revolted was a certain stale fishy stink like that of long-standing urine; and whenever it was possible he subjected himself to this unpleasant odour. To mortify the taste he practised strict habits at table, observed to the letter all the fasts of the church and sought by distraction to divert his mind from the savours of different foods. But it was to the mortification of touch he brought the most assiduous ingenuity of inventiveness. He never consciously changed his position in bed, sat in the most uncomfortable positions, suffered patiently every itch and pain, kept away from the fire, remained on his knees all through the mass except at the gospels, left part of his neck and face undried so that air might sting them and, whenever he was not saying his beads, carried his arms stiffly at his sides like a runner and never in his pockets or clasped behind him. He had no temptations to sin mortally. It surprised him however to find that at the end of his course of intricate piety and self-restraint he was so easily at the mercy of childish and unworthy imperfections. His prayers and fasts availed him little for the suppression of anger at hearing his mother sneeze or at being disturbed in his devotions. It needed an immense effort of his will to master the impulse which urged him to give outlet to such irritation. Images of the outbursts of trivial anger which he had often noted among his masters, their twitching mouths, close-shut lips and flushed cheeks, recurred to his memory, discouraging him, for all his practice of humility, by the comparison. To merge his life in the common tide of other lives was harder for him than any fasting or prayer and it was his constant failure to do this to his own satisfaction which caused in his soul at last a sensation of spiritual dryness together with a growth of doubts and scruples. His soul traversed a period of desolation in which the sacraments themselves seemed to have turned into dried-up sources. His confession became a channel for the escape of scrupulous and unrepented imperfections. His actual reception of the eucharist did not bring him the same dissolving moments of virginal self-surrender as did those spiritual communions made by him sometimes at the close of some visit to the Blessed Sacrament. The book which he used for these visits was an old neglected book written by saint Alphonsus Liguori, with fading characters and sere foxpapered leaves. A faded world of fervent love and virginal responses seemed to be evoked for his soul by the reading of its pages in which the imagery of the canticles was interwoven with the communicant's prayers. An inaudible voice seemed to caress the soul, telling her names and glories, bidding her arise as for espousal and come away, bidding her look forth,