understands it far better than would a seven-year-old of lesser intelligence. This strange encounter is a challenge, a test. There’s something he is meant to do, something that will determine whether he’ll become a superhero or a supervillain. He has known for a while that he is going to be a super something. He doesn’t care which it is, just as long as it’s a lot more exciting than growing up in a funeral home. The paralyzed man’s angry expression fades into puzzlement. He rolls his eyes, taking in as much of the cold-holding chamber as he can from his position. “Give you what?” Durand asks. Puzzlement sinks into bewilderment. “I . . . how . . . where?” Taking a step toward the gurney, Durand says, “Give you what? Tell me. Tell me what you want.” The fluorescent light is a bleaching radiance. The respected guest is as white as the shroud had been when Durand first entered the room, and the shroud grows whiter by the minute. The walls are alabastrine, as though this frigid chamber is built of snow, an Inuit construct. The floor could be no whiter if it were paved with bone. Durand’s remaining fear evaporates like a scrap of dry ice, and he is filled with the conviction that there’s an action he can take to ensure he’ll become the super something that he dreams of being. He must get it done before whiteness fills the chamber to such an extent that it is as blinding as pitch-blackness. The blue eyes are beacons in the ghastly face, the only color in the seamless eggshell that is forming around Durand, a blue that draws him toward the gurney and the burden on it. “Give you what?” he asks again, and then repeats the question in a more demanding voice, “Give you what, old man?” “Help,” the old man says. “Help me. I can’t move. I’m afraid.” As pitiful as he sounds, there is nonetheless an air of deception about him. He looks sly, as if he’s not the old man he once was, but only a body in which something demonic has clothed itself. A wild assurance buoys Durand, a vicious courage, the belief that he can do anything he wishes here and be rewarded for it. The gurney has a hydraulic feature, and at the moment it is not lowered as far as it will go. He powers it down six or eight inches, until it will descend no farther. “Help me,” the old man repeats. The blue that was ferocious is now a weak, robin’s-egg blue that inspires contempt. “Help me.” Looking down on the old man, feeling taller and stronger than he’d been just a minute earlier, Durand says, “Help you what? What do you want? Are you so stupid you don’t know what you want?” He likes how he sounds when he says that in the tone of voice he often wants to use with his parents but dares not. “Stupid geezer can’t even say what he wants.” “Call,” the old fart says.


out, we lost more and more of the nearer woods and hills, and dropped lower and lower between the muddy banks, but the tide was yet with us when we were off Gravesend. As our charge was wrapped in his cloak, I purposely passed within a boat or two's length of the floating Custom House, and so out to catch the stream, alongside of two emigrant ships, and under the bows of a large transport with troops on the forecastle looking down at us. And soon the tide began to slacken, and the craft lying at anchor to swing, and presently they had all swung round, and the ships that were taking advantage of the new tide to get up to the Pool, began to crowd upon us in a fleet, and we kept under the shore, as much out of the strength of the tide now as we could, standing carefully off from low shallows and mudbanks. Our oarsmen were so fresh, by dint of having occasionally let her drive with the tide for a minute or two, that a quarter of an hour's rest proved full as much as they wanted. We got ashore among some slippery stones while we ate and drank what we had with us, and looked about. It was like my own marsh country, flat and monotonous, and with a dim horizon; while the winding river turned and turned, and the great floating buoys upon it turned and turned, and everything else seemed stranded and still. For, now, the last of the fleet of ships was round the last low point we had headed; and the last green barge, straw-laden, with a brown sail, had followed; and some ballast-lighters, shaped like a child's first rude imitation of a boat, lay low in the mud; and a little squat shoal-lighthouse on open piles, stood crippled in the mud on stilts and crutches; and slimy stakes stuck out of the mud, and slimy stones stuck out of the mud, and red landmarks and tidemarks stuck out of the mud, and an old landing-stage and an old roofless building slipped into the mud, and all about us was stagnation and mud. We pushed off again, and made what way we could. It was much harder work now, but Herbert and Startop persevered, and rowed, and rowed, and rowed, until the sun went down. By that time the river had lifted us a little, so that we could see above the bank. There was the red sun, on the low level of the shore, in a purple haze, fast deepening into black; and there was the solitary flat marsh; and far away there were the rising grounds, between which and us there seemed to be no life, save here and there in the foreground a melancholy gull. As the night was fast falling, and as the moon, being past the full, would not rise early, we held a little council: a short one, for clearly our course was to lie by at the first lonely tavern we could find. So,


over her shoulder. His breath smelled very faintly of beer. He had a terrifyingly muscular forearm. “We need him out of there,” he said. Hephzibah scanned the insurance contract in her mind. No gags, no blindfolds. But there was nothing about scaring people... “Death!” she cried, throwing open the sliding doors. “Destruction! Doom!” Lockwood started nearly out of his skin, lurching backward. Hephzibah strode across the bare floorboards, sequins scattering as she went. “Good Lord,” Lockwood said, face reddening in annoyance. He had a nasty bruise on his top lip. “We will deliver you to your doom!” she cried. The men got it: they were sharp lads. They formed a tight circle, leering at Lockwood, their thighs greased and hairy underneath their tunics. “Doom!” they grunted. “Really, Your Grace,” Lockwood said, “the entertainments should stay downstairs.” “Come with us!” boomed Hephzibah. “To my den of—” she considered this “—of terror!” “Terror!” echoed the men. They were still in a ring around him, and began dragging him lockstep toward the door. “Good gracious,” exclaimed Lockwood. “Your Grace, I...” He found himself being pulled bodily from the room. “Would you...would you get out...of...my way.” “He goes of his own volition,” said Hephzibah loudly, as if the insurers were crawling around in the rafters. Lockwood was borne out of the room, leaving the bureau drawers wide open. It seemed he hadn’t discovered what he was looking for. * * * Sliding down the drainpipe, Jane-two found a pair of gentlemen locked in intimate conversation in the shrubbery. They were real guests, costumed, and they were both wearing perfectly enormous ruffs, which seemed to have become unusually tangled. “Excuse me,” said Jane-two, rummaging in the undergrowth, searching for her extendable pole. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” said one of the men, straightening his doublet and hose. “Sneaky is as sneaky does,” said Jane-two severely. “And your codpiece is showing.” She grabbed hold of the fire-eater on the way back inside. He was on their team, naturally. She’d drilled him herself. “Keep the crowd on that side of the garden,” she told him. “Anyone comes near me, you blow your torch at them.” The fire-eater had wonderful eyes, crystalline blue, and a honeyed way with words. He inspected her bloomers. “Sweet Moira, my treasure, my angel! A word from you, and I die!” “Don’t die,” said Jane-two. “Just blow.” * * * Jane-one heard the screams from the garden below, and peeped out of the window. There was a roar, a great lick of fire, and she saw the crowd scattering across the garden. Come on, she thought, hearing another loud knock at the door. And there, looming out of the dark, was the extendable pole. “You lot, down the drainpipe,” she said. “Down the what?” “And you two—” she picked the quickest, most dexterous pair “—start passing me books.” She was up on the windowsill in a heartbeat. She sensed Jane-two far beneath her, steady as a rock, holding the pole upright. She swung onto it, clenching her thighs. “Down you go,” she


his education as an engineer (and his lighthouse designs were much praised). At the age of 18 he dropped the name Balfour and changed his middle name from Lewis to Louis (but re- taining the original pronunciation); from this time on he began styling himself "RLS". He turned to the law because of poor health, but he never practiced. He ended as a tribal leader (called by his tribe Tusitala) and plantation owner in Samoa, all this in addition to his literary ca- reer. Contents Stevenson's novels of adventure, romance, and horror are of con- siderable psychological depth and have continued in popularity long after his death, both as books and as films. Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 18. Narrative continued by the doctor: end of the first day’s fighting Contents 19. 20. Narrative resumed by jim hawkins: the garrison in the stockade Silver’s embassy 21. The attack To the hesitating purchaser. Part 5. Part 1. My Sea Adventure The Old Buccaneer 22. How my sea adventure began 1. The old sea-dog at the admiral benbow 23. The ebb-tide runs 2. Black dog appears and disappears 24. The cruise of the coracle 3. The black spot 25. I strike the jolly roger 4. The sea-chest 26. Israel hands 5. The last of the blind man 27. “Pieces of eight” 6. The captain’s papers Part 6. Part 2. Captain Silver The Sea Cook 28. In the enemy’s camp 7. I go to bristol 29. The black spot again 8. At the sign of the spy-glass 30. On parole 9. Powder and arms 31. The treasure-hunt—flint’s pointer 10. The voyage 32. The treasure-hunt—the voice among the trees 11. What i heard in the apple barrel 33. The fall of a chieftain 12. Council of war 34. And last Part 3. My Shore Adventure 13. How my shore adventure began Click on a number in the chapter list to go to the first page of that 14. The first blow chapter. 15. The man of the island Note: The best way to read this ebook is in Full Screen mode: click View, Full Contents Part 4. The Stockade Screen to set Adobe Acrobat to Full Screen View. This mode allows you to use Page Down to go to the next page, and affords the best reading view. 16. Narrative continued by the doctor: how the ship was abandoned Press Escape to exit the Full Screen View. 17. Narrative continued by the doctor: the jolly-boat’s last trip Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 1 Treasure Island. To S.L.O., an American gentleman To the hesitating purchaser in accordance with whose classic taste If sailor tales to sailor tunes, the following narrative has been designed, it is now, in return for numerous delightful hours, Storm and adventure, heat and cold, and with the kindest wishes, If schooners, islands, and maroons, dedicated And buccaneers, and buried gold, by his affectionate friend, the author. And all the old romance, retold Exactly in the ancient way, Can please, as me they pleased of old, The wiser youngsters of today: —So be it,


ever happened to me, had had, with every circumstance the story of my smallest adventures and of those of my brothers and sisters and of the cat and the dog at home, as well as many particulars of the eccentric nature of my father, of the furniture and arrangement of our house, and of the conversation of the old women of our village. There were things enough, taking one with another, to chatter about, if one went very fast and knew by instinct when to go round. They pulled with an art of their own the strings of my invention and my memory; and nothing else perhaps, when I thought of such occasions afterward, gave me so the suspicion of being watched from under cover. It was in any case over MY life, MY past, and MY friends alone that we could take anything like our ease--a state of affairs that led them sometimes without the least pertinence to break out into sociable reminders. I was invited--with no visible connection--to repeat afresh Goody Gosling's celebrated mot or to confirm the details already supplied as to the cleverness of the vicarage pony. It was partly at such junctures as these and partly at quite different ones that, with the turn my matters had now taken, my predicament, as I have called it, grew most sensible. The fact that the days passed for me without another encounter ought, it would have appeared, to have done something toward soothing my nerves. Since the light brush, that second night on the upper landing, of the presence of a woman at the foot of the stair, I had seen nothing, whether in or out of the house, that one had better not have seen. There was many a corner round which I expected to come upon Quint, and many a situation that, in a merely sinister way, would have favored the appearance of Miss Jessel. The summer had turned, the summer had gone; the autumn had dropped upon Bly and had blown out half our lights. The place, with its gray sky and withered garlands, its bared spaces and scattered dead leaves, was like a theater after the performance-- all strewn with crumpled playbills. There were exactly states of the air, conditions of sound and of stillness, unspeakable impressions of the KIND of ministering moment, that brought back to me, long enough to catch it, the feeling of the medium in which, that June evening out of doors, I had had my first sight of Quint, and in which, too, at those other instants, I had, after seeing him through the window, looked for him in vain in the circle of shrubbery. I recognized the signs, the portents--I recognized the moment, the spot. But they remained unaccompanied and empty, and I continued unmolested; if unmolested one could call a young woman whose sensibility had, in the most extraordinary fashion, not declined but deepened. I had said in my talk with Mrs. Grose on that horrid scene of Flora's by the lake--and had perplexed her by so saying--that


maid to wait on me," said Meg, as Jo bound up her foot with arnica and brushed her hair. "I don't believe fine young ladies enjoy themselves a bit more than we do, in spite of our burned hair, old gowns, one glove apiece and tight slippers that sprain our ankles when we are silly enough to wear them," And I think Jo was quite right. -------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Chapter" I.4 Burdens "Oh, dear, how hard it does seem to take up our packs and go on," sighed Meg the morning after the party, for now the holidays were over, the week of merrymaking did not fit her for going on easily with the task she never liked. "I wish it was Christmas or New Year's all the time. Wouldn't it be fun?" answered Jo, yawning dismally. "We shouldn't enjoy ourselves half so much as we do now. But it does seem so nice to have little suppers and bouquets, and go to parties, and drive home, and read and rest,and not work. It's like other people, you know, and I always envy girls who do such things, I'm so fond of luxury," said Meg, trying to decide which of two shabby gowns was the least shabby. "Well, we can't have it, so don't let us grumble but shoulder our bundles and trudge along as cheerfully as Marmee does. I'm sure Aunt March is a regular Old Man of the Sea to me, but I suppose when I've learned to carry her without complaining, she will tumble off, or get so light that I shan't mind her." This idea tickled Jo's fancy and put her in good spirits, but Meg didn't brighten, for her burden, consisting of four spoiled children, seemed heavier than ever. She had not heart enough even to make herself pretty as usual by putting on a blue neck ribbon and dressing her hair in the most becoming way. "Where's the use of looking nice, when no one sees me but those cross midgets, and no one cares whether I'm pretty or not?" she muttered, shutting her drawer with a jerk. "I shall have to toil and moil all my days, with only little bits of fun now and then, and get old and ugly and sour, because I'm poor and can't enjoy my life as other girls do. It's a shame!" So Meg went down, wearing an injured look, and wasn't at all agreeable at breakfast time. Everyone seemed rather out of sorts and inclined to croak. Beth had a headache and lay on the sofa, trying to comfort herself with the cat and three kittens. Amy was fretting because her lessons were not learned, and she couldn't find her rubbers. Jo would whistle and make a great racket getting ready. Mrs. March was very busy trying to finish a letter, which must go at once, and Hannah had the grumps, for being up late didn't suit her. "There never was such a cross family!" cried Jo, losing her temper when she had upset an inkstand, broken both boot


guts splashed across these hallowed grounds.” My blood runs cold. Something had been digging at me. I felt it when I pulled that dead owl down from the roof and again when I saw those owl figures carved into the trees. “You haven’t put it together?” the man asks. “How did you come to be at this place, Charity? What was the thing that brought a lonely girl, whose own family couldn’t care less if she lives or dies, here?” I’d gotten this job because Mr. Lamont hired me, but it wasn’t him who tipped me off about the job that first summer. It was someone else. Someone who couldn’t wait to get me out of the house. “Rob.” The man in the mask is smiling. I know it. “Do you know what you can obtain by sacrificing your own family?” the man asks, as if I should have an answer. “It’s a very special sort of thing.” Rob brought me the ad. Rob insisted I follow up on it. It was Rob who acted surprised every time I showed back up at home when the season was over. And it was in Rob’s notebook that I found that sketch of an owl identical to the ones carved into the trees in the forest, and it was his taxidermic birds of prey, his owls, that watched me as I slept. “He wanted me to die out here?” I ask in disbelief. “He—he knew about what you were doing?” The man laughs. “A rumor led him to us. He thought he could curry favor by sending you here to die. Think of it as an act of goodwill, promises of what he was willing to do for us.” A hissing sound erupts from under the mask, like he’s blowing air out from between his teeth in disgust. “Unfortunately for him, he isn’t the type of person I’d ever bring into the fold of our sacred Order.” He laughs again, but it is an arrogant, boastful sort of sound. “We have used this power to chart paths for presidents, dictators, the wealthy, the elite. You have no idea the influence we once held.” He tips his head back and sighs. “Your mother’s pathetic excuse for a boyfriend was not worthy of benefiting from our rituals, Charity.” He levels his head. “But I am.” The man crouches low to the ground, then springs forward and is suddenly standing directly in front of me. He towers over me, and the pale flesh of his chest heaves as a guttural growl erupts from his throat. He reaches for Bezi, and I instinctively grab his arm. He turns his attention to me, and his hand is around my neck before I can move. Bezi’s screams fill my ears as the man lifts me straight off the ground and throws me across the path and into the side of the boathouse. I strike the side of the building with such force that the air is violently expelled from my lungs in one painful exhalation. My vision goes black. I


or edge." He looked up at the skylight, on which the rain was drumming. Seeing the direction of his father's stare, Paul thought of the wet skies out there -- a thing never to be seen on Arrakis from all accounts -- and this thought of skies put him in mind of the space beyond. "Are the Guild ships really big?" he asked. The Duke looked at him. "This will be your first time off planet," he said. "Yes, they're big. We'll be riding a Heighliner because it's a long trip. A Heighliner is truly big. Its hold will tuck all our frigates and transports into a little corner -- we'll be just a small part of the ship's manifest." "And we won't be able to leave our frigates?" "That's part of the price you pay for Guild Security. There could be Harkonnen ships right alongside us and we'd have nothing to fear from them. The Harkonnens know better than to endanger their shipping privileges." "I'm going to watch our screens and try to see a Guildsman." "You won't. Not even their agents ever see a Guildsman. The Guild's as jealous of its privacy as it is of its monopoly. Don't do anything to endanger our shipping privileges, Paul." "Do you think they hide because they've mutated and don't look . . . human anymore?" "Who knows?" The Duke shrugged. "It's a mystery we're not likely to solve. We've more immediate problems -- among them: you." "Me?" "Your mother wanted me to be the one to tell you, Son. You see, you may have Mentat capabilities." Paul stared at his father, unable to speak for a moment, then: "A Mentat? Me? But I . . . " "Hawat agrees, Son. It's true." "But I thought Mentat training had to start during infancy and the subject couldn't be told because it might inhibit the early . . . " He broke off, all his past circumstances coming to focus in one flashing computation. "I see," he said. "A day comes," the Duke said, "when the potential Mentat must learn what's being done. It may no longer be done to him. The Mentat has to share in the choice of whether to continue or abandon the training. Some can continue; some are incapable of it. Only the potential Mentat can tell this for sure about himself." Paul rubbed his chin. All the special training from Hawat and his mother -- the mnemonics, the focusing of awareness, the muscle control and sharpening of sensitivities, the study of languages and nuances of voices -- all of it clicked into a new kind of understanding in his mind. "You'll be the Duke someday, Son," his father said. "A Mentat Duke would be formidable indeed. Can you decide now . . . or do you need more time?" There was no hesitation in his answer. "I'll go on with the training." "Formidable indeed," the Duke murmured, and Paul saw the proud smile on his father's face. The smile shocked Paul: it had a skull look on the Duke's


The Truth is right before your eyes, Robert. He knew not from where the epiphany came. The Grail is not mocking you, she is calling out to a worthy soul. Now, bowing down like a subject several yards in front of Leigh Teabing, Langdon lowered the cryptex to within inches of the stone floor. "Yes, Robert," Teabing whispered, aiming the gun at him. "Set it down." Langdon's eyes moved heavenward, up into the gaping void of the CHAPTER House cupola. Crouching lower, Langdon lowered his gaze to Teabing's gun, aimed directly at him. "I'm sorry, Leigh." In one fluid motion, Langdon leapt up, swinging his arm skyward, launching the cryptex straight up toward the dome above. Leigh Teabing did not feel his finger pull the trigger, but the Medusa discharged with a thundering crash. Langdon's crouched form was now vertical, almost airborne, and the bullet exploded in the floor near Langdon's feet. Half of Teabing's brain attempted to adjust his aim and fire again in rage, but the more powerful half dragged his eyes upward into the cupola. The keystone! Time seemed to freeze, morphing into a slow-motion dream as Teabing's entire world became the airborne keystone. He watched it rise to the apex of its climb... hovering for a moment in the void... and then tumbling downward, end over end, back toward the stone floor. All of Teabing's hopes and dreams were plummeting toward earth. It cannot strike the floor! I can reach it! Teabing's body reacted on instinct. He released the gun and heaved himself forward, dropping his crutches as he reached out with his soft, manicured hands. Stretching his arms and fingers, he snatched the keystone from midair. Falling forward with the keystone victoriously clutched in his hand, Teabing knew he was falling too fast. With nothing to break his fall, his outstretched arms hit first, and the cryptex collided hard with the floor. There was a sickening crunch of glass within. For a full second, Teabing did not breathe. Lying there outstretched on the cold floor, staring the length of his outstretched arms at the marble cylinder in his bare palms, he implored the glass vial inside to hold. Then the acrid tang of vinegar cut the air, and Teabing felt the cool liquid flowing out through the dials onto his palm. Wild panic gripped him. NO! The vinegar was streaming now, and Teabing pictured the papyrus dissolving within. Robert, you fool! The secret is lost! Teabing felt himself sobbing uncontrollably. The Grail is gone. Everything destroyed. Shuddering in disbelief over Langdon's actions, Teabing tried to force the cylinder apart, longing to catch a fleeting glimpse of history before it dissolved forever. To his shock, as he pulled the ends of the keystone, the cylinder separated. 284 He gasped and peered inside. It was empty except for shards of wet glass. No dissolving papyrus. Teabing rolled over and looked up at Langdon. Sophie stood beside him, aiming the gun down at Teabing. Bewildered, Teabing looked back at the keystone and saw it. The dials were no longer at


Marcus said. “No.” Kimiko stood behind him. Her gray hair had been wrenched back in a bun for the funeral, its flyaway strands unnaturally tamed. She looked not at me, but at her husband. “It has gone on long enough.” “Nothing good can come of this,” Marcus said, and though he was still looking at the knife, he was speaking to both of us. “Leave it alone. Let her rest.” “Our daughter is dead,” Kimiko said. “Naomi is still alive, and she deserves to know what happened.” I had hoped that I was wrong. That I had spun some dark fairy tale out of paranoia and grief. That hope crumpled in the face of Kimiko’s weary expression, the defeat in her voice. Marcus folded his hand around the knife, as if it could make it vanish. “It wasn’t her fault,” he said. A sob ripped free of me. My knees went weak; I stumbled. Marcus stepped forward quickly and caught me, steadying me, but I thrashed away from him. “Don’t touch me!” I shouted, slapping at his hands. “Don’t fucking touch me!” “Naomi, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he said. “We didn’t— We never—” “We need to go inside,” Kimiko said, coming up behind him. Her lips were pressed in a thin, hard line. She seemed scabbed over with sorrow. “We will tell you everything, but we need to go inside.” I allowed myself to be gently herded through the door, moving in a haze. In moments I was on the couch, a huge marmalade cat bumping his head against my elbow. I sank my fingers into his fur and he kneaded my thigh with enthusiasm. Kimiko set a cup of tea in front of me. Marcus stood hovering by the mantel, the knife in his hands, turning it over and over. Kimiko took a seat in the chair opposite me, perching on the edge. “You must understand that we did what we felt was best for our daughter,” Kimiko said. “We had to protect her. Telling the truth would not have helped anyone. It would not have helped her get the treatment that she needed, it would have destroyed her.” Liv had attacked me. This was the truth, then: an iron nail swallowed whole, the taste of blood and ruin. My throat worked as if to reject it, but it was lodged deep within me. It couldn’t be true. She wouldn’t have hurt me. Not Liv. She was too kind, too gentle. This couldn’t be right. “We had no idea that Olivia was suffering such strong delusions. She had become convinced that Persephone required a major sacrifice, or something horrible would happen to everyone she loved,” Marcus said. “That game you were playing just fed into her illness until it overtook her. She thought she was saving you. Saving everyone.” “You knew about Persephone?” I asked. “Did you know that Liv was trying to find out who she was?” “What do you mean, who she was? She was part of your game,” Kimiko said. “The Goddess Game.” They didn’t know about


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. pid_prh_6.0_143818110_c0_r0 Contents Cover Also by Riley Sager Title Page Copyright Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-One Chapter Forty-Two Chapter Forty-Three Chapter Forty-Four Acknowledgments About the Author _143818110_ To my family We’re at the typewriter again, Lenora in her wheelchair and me standing beside her as I place her left hand atop the keys. A fresh page sits in the carriage, replacing the one from last night. Now faceup on the desk, it serves as a partial transcript of our conversation. i want to tell you everything things ive never told anyone else yes about that night because i trust you But I don’t trust Lenora. Not entirely. She’s capable of so little yet accused of so much, and I remain torn between wanting to protect her and the urge to suspect her. But if she wants to tell me what happened, I’m willing to listen. Even though I suspect most of it will be lies. Or, worse, the complete, terrifying truth. The fingers of Lenora’s left hand drum against the keys. She’s eager to begin. I take a deep breath, nod, and help her type the first sentence. The thing I remember most The thing I remember most--the thing I still have nightmares about--is when it was all but over. I remember the roar of the wind as I stepped onto the terrace. It blew off the ocean in howling gusts that scraped over the cliff before slamming directly into me. Rocked onto my heels, I felt like I was being shoved by an invisible, immovable crowd back toward the mansion. The last place I wanted to be. With a grunt, I regained my footing and started to make my way across the terrace, which was slick from rainfall. It was pouring, the raindrops so cold that each one felt like a needle prick. Very quickly I found myself snapped out of the daze I’d been in. Suddenly alert, I began to notice things. My nightgown, stained red. My hands, warm and sticky with blood. The knife, still in my grip. It, too, had been bloody but was now quickly being cleaned by the cold rain. I kept pushing through the wind that pushed back, gasping at each sharp drop of rain. In front of me was the ocean, whipped into a frenzy by the storm, its waves smashing against the cliff base fifty feet


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

Kim,” I say. “And she gave me homework.” I pull a little Moleskine notebook from my purse and wave it limply. For years, these colorful journals were my constant companions. I took one everywhere I went, writing book plots, snippets of funny conversations, images that would pop into my head at random times. I called them my idea notebooks and used to scribble things down twenty, thirty, forty times a day. These scribbles were my deep well of ideas. For a few months after my romance brain came to a screeching halt in front of a thousand fresh college grads, I continued carrying one around in hopes inspiration would strike. But eventually, seeing it there in my purse stressed me out, so I left them in my home office, collecting dust with my laptop and desktop. “Kim told me I need to start carrying notebooks again,” I tell Jess. “That I’m ready for the gentle pressure of having one with me, and even writing a single sentence or drawing a doodle in it will help.” She takes a second to absorb this. The phrase even writing a single sentence hangs between us. “I knew you’d been in a slump,” she says, “but I don’t think I realized how bad it was.” “Well, it doesn’t happen all at once. For a while, I wrote, but it wasn’t very good. And then I started to worry it was actually pretty terrible, and that made me think I’d lost my spark. And then thinking I’d lost my spark made me think maybe it was because I’d stopped believing in love.” Her frown deepens, and I press on. “It isn’t like I woke up one day and thought, Wow, love is a lie.” I stab the olive in my drink, then use the toothpick to point in her direction. “Obviously you’re proof that it’s not. But at what point do I acknowledge that maybe my love life isn’t going to be what I think it is?” “Fizz—” “I think I might have aged out of the majors.” “What? That is—” She blinks, her argument dying on her tongue. “Well, that is actually a very good metaphor.” “It’s the classic chicken-and-egg dilemma: Has the writer’s block killed my romance boner, or has losing my romance boner killed my actual boner?” “There are a lot of boners in this situation.” “If only! And once you’re single for so long, you aren’t even sure whether you’re suitable for a relationship anymore.” “It’s not like you’ve wanted to be in one,” she reminds me. “I don’t know who Felicity Chen is if she’s not treating dating like it’s an extreme sport.” I point at her again, energized. “Exactly! That’s another fear I have! What if I’ve depleted the local resources?” “Local… resources?” “I joke that I’ve dated every single man in San Diego County—and inadvertently some of the married ones—but I don’t really think it’s that far off from the truth.” Jess scoffs into her wine. “Come on.” “Remember Leon? The guy I met when he spilled a huge tray


forgiveness by me. "Forgiveness!" said Linton. "I have nothing to for- give her, Ellen. You may call at Wuthering Heights this afternoon, if you like, and say that I am not angry, but I'm sorry to have lost her---especially as I can never think she'll be happy. It is out of the question my going to see her, however; we are eternally divided, and should she really wish to oblige me, let her persuade the villain she has married to leave the country." "And you won't write her a little note, sir?" I asked imploringly. "No," he answered; "it is needless. My communica- tion with Heathcliff's family shall be as sparing as his with mine. It shall not exist." Mr. Edgar's coldness depressed me exceedingly, and all the way from the Grange I puzzled my brains how to put more heart into what he said, when I repeated it, and how to soften his refusal of even a few lines to con- sole Isabella. I dare say she had been on the watch for me since morning. I saw her looking through the lattice as I came up the garden causeway, and I nodded to her; but she drew back as if afraid of being observed. I en- tered without knocking. There never was such a dreary, dismal scene as the formerly cheerful house presented. I must confess that if I had been in the young lady's place I would, at least, have swept the hearth and wiped the tables with a duster. But she already partook of the pervading spirit of neglect which encompassed her. Her pretty face was wan and listless, her hair uncurled --some locks hanging lankly down, and some care- lessly twisted round her head. Probably she had not touched her dress since yester evening. Hindley was not there. Mr. Heathcliff sat at a table, turning over some papers in his pocket-book; but he rose when I appeared, asked me how I did, quite friendly, and of- fered me a chair. He was the only thing there that seemed decent, and I thought he never looked better. So much had circumstances altered their positions that he would certainly have struck a stranger as a born and bred gentleman, and his wife as a thorough little slat- tern! She came forward eagerly to greet me, and held out one hand to take the expected letter. I shook my head. She wouldn't understand the hint, but followed me to a sideboard where I went to lay my bonnet, and importuned me in a whisper to give her directly what I had brought. Heathcliff guessed the meaning of her manoeuvres, and said,-- "If you have got anything for Isabella---as no doubt you have, Nelly--give it to her. You needn't make a secret of it. We have no secrets between us." "Oh, I have nothing," I replied, thinking it best to speak the truth at once. "My master bade me tell his sister that she must not expect either a letter or a visit from him at present. He sends his love,


of the mug briefly rattles against her teeth. She says, “When John goes to private school, I drive him to and from Saint Anthony’s, keep him close. But it isn’t right to make him a prisoner. He goes out to play ball with friends, goes anywhere, I worry Aleem will take him. But I didn’t think about lawyers.” “In the end, I doubt Aleem will be patient enough to use the law. You’re right to worry he’ll snatch John.” “I’m up and down and up ever since you first came here.” “If he did go to court, you know how long the law will take to settle the situation in your favor?” “Too long. And if Aleem grabs John, he’ll deny it. Aleem will hide him away, pretend he knows nothing.” “And you? What happens to you?” She meets his eyes. She sees kindness in them. Or it’s what she wants to see. Since the death of her mom and dad, there has been too little kindness in her life. “Aleem won’t give me a chance to get John back. He’ll make it so I’m said to be an addict when they find me stone dead of an overdose. I know I’ve got to get away from him, but . . .” Michael’s voice softens to a sympathetic whisper. “It’s hard to leave a life that’s working.” “It was working. I don’t know about now.” “I understand more than you think I do, Nina. You’re thinking Aleem wants your boy, and I want your boy, and is it one and the same thing.” “Is it?” “He wants to make the boy into a gangbanger. I want to see him reach his full potential. And I want him always with you.” “It’s so Twilight Zone. It’s a big damn thing to do this.” “Huge,” he agrees. “But I keep going back to how you told me the truth about where the money comes from. You didn’t make it clean and neat.” “I never lie. Not since I died. Before sometimes, not since.” “Are you my bridge? My bridge over troubled water?” “I will be if you’ll let me.” “Because of Shelby Shrewsberry.” “Yes. And because of your son.” “I wish Shelby had told me how he felt. He seemed like . . . like such a good man.” “He was the closest I’ve known to a saint. Not just my best friend . . . maybe my only one.” “Good men haven’t often crossed my path.” “Take this new path. Maybe that’ll make all the difference.” THE BOY The sky is overcast and the morning light bleak, but following Nina’s decision, the kitchen is filled with a spirit of quiet hope, as though what has begun here is the sanctification of a world gone wrong, which might in fact be the case if Michael’s intentions can be fulfilled. She puts the duffel bag full of money in the pantry and gives him an opaque plastic bag with a drawstring closure, which she uses for groceries. He stashes the two guns in the sack,


from my face, browsing the web for mentions of myself and my books just to feel an echo of that thrill from the time I was a literary darling. I read old press releases about myself: the Publishers Weekly profile calling me “incisive and sensitive,” the New Yorker blurb calling me “publishing’s most exciting new talent.” I read and reread the most glowing reviews of The Last Front and Mother Witch on Goodreads, trying to remind myself that there was a time when people truly loved my work. Whenever that starts to feel stale—usually when the clock creeps toward midnight—I venture into reading the negative shit. In the past, whenever I trawled Goodreads, I would filter out everything but the five-star reviews, which I would skim over and over again whenever I needed a little ego boost. But now I go straight for the vitriol. It’s like pressing a bleeding sore repeatedly, trying to see how far you can go with your tolerance for pain, because if you know the limits of it, you gain some sense of control over it. The one-star reviews contain everything you’d expect: If I stole a novel, I’d steal something better than this LOL! Just here to say, fuck June Hayward. Haven’t read this book, but giving this one star because the writer is a plagiarizing, racist thief. Took off three stars for the Annie Waters scene alone. I lie there for hours every night, awash in every cruel thing the internet has ever said about me. It’s cathartic, in a perverse way. I like to concentrate all the negativity, to take it all in at once. I take comfort in the fact that it could literally not get any worse than this. I’ve entertained, occasionally, the question of what literary redemption might look like. What if I begged my haters for forgiveness? What if, instead of holding the line, I admitted everything and made an attempt at reparations? Diana Qiu has an article up on Medium titled “June Hayward Must Make Amends, and Here’s How.” The twelve-item laundry list includes things like: “Provide public proof she’s taken a training course in racial sensitivity,” “Donate the entirety of her earnings from The Last Front and Mother Witch to a charity selected by an objective committee of Asian American writers,” and “Post her tax returns from the last three years to confirm how much she profited from Athena Liu’s work.” Tax returns. Is she fucking serious? Who does Diana think she is? I can stand to be a pariah. But to bend, to throw away all my savings, to kowtow to the Twitterati and prostrate myself before the taunting, smug crowd—I would rather die. One night, I see a surprisingly thoughtful take amidst the kiddie pool of filth. It’s a review of The Last Front published two months ago, so verbose that it’s nearly a full-length article. Drama aside, I find the question of authorship so interesting, reads the penultimate paragraph. Unless Hayward releases a detailed and honest statement, we’ll never quite know the truth behind its


of teachings. I hope you and your people feel no anger at our violence. It seemed . . . necessary. You were about to . . . make a mistake." "To save one from a mistake is a gift of paradise," Stilgar said. He touched his lips with his left hand, lifted the weapon from Paul's waist with the other, tossed it to a companion. "You will have your own maula pistol, lad, when you've earned it." Paul started to speak, hesitated, remembering his mother's teaching: "Beginnings are such delicate times. " "My son has what weapons he needs," Jessica said. She stared at Stilgar, forcing him to think of how Paul had acquired the pistol. Stilgar glanced at the man Paul had subdued--Jamis. The man stood at one side, head lowered, breathing heavily. "You are a difficult woman," Stilgar said. He held out his left hand to a companion, snapped his fingers. "Kushti bakka te." More Chakobsa, Jessica thought. The companion pressed two squares of gauze into Stilgar's hand. Stilgar ran them through his fingers, fixed one around Jessica's neck beneath her hood, fitted the other around Paul's neck in the same way. "Now you wear the kerchief of the bakka," he said. "If we become separated, you will be recognized as belonging to Stilgar's sietch. We will talk of weapons another time." He moved out through his band now, inspecting them, giving Paul's Fremkit pack to one of his men to carry. Bakka, Jessica thought, recognizing the religious term: bakka--the weeper. She sensed how the symbolism of the kerchiefs united this band. Why should weeping unite them? she asked herself. Stilgar came to the young girl who had embarrassed Paul, said: "Chani, take the child-man under your wing. Keep him out of trouble." Chani touched Paul's arm. "Come along, child-man." Paul hid the anger in his voice, said: "My name is Paul. It were well you--" "We'll give you a name, manling," Stilgar said, "in the time of the mihna, at the test of aql." The test of reason, Jessica translated. The sudden need of Paul's ascendancy overrode all other consideration, and she barked, "My son's been tested with the gom jabbar!" In the stillness that followed, she knew she had struck to the heart of them. "There's much we don't know of each other," Stilgar said. "But we tarry overlong. Day-sun mustn't find us in the open." He crossed to the man Paul had struck down, said, "Jamis, can you travel?" A grunt answered him. "Surprised me, he did. 'Twas an accident. I can travel." "No accident," Stilgar said. "I'll hold you responsible with Chani for the lad's safety, Jamis. These people have my countenance." Jessica stared at the man, Jamis. His was the voice that had argued with Stilgar from the rocks. His was the voice with death in it. And Stilgar had seen fit to reinforce his order with this Jamis. Stilgar flicked a testing glance across the group, motioned two men out. "Larus and Farrukh, you are to hide our tracks. See that we leave no


details to the part of the story that bled. She collected true narratives like seashells, polished them off, and presented them, sharp and gleaming, to horrified and entranced readers. That museum visit was disturbing, but it didn’t surprise me. I’d seen Athena steal before. She probably didn’t even think of it as theft. The way she described it, this process wasn’t exploitative, but something mythical and profound. “I try to make sense of the chaos,” she told the New Yorker once. “I think the way we learn about history in classrooms is so antiseptic. It makes those struggles feel so far away, like they could never happen to us, like we would never make the same decisions that the people in those textbooks did. I want to bring those bloody histories to the fore. I want to make the reader confront how close to the present those histories still are.” Elegantly put. Noble, even. When you phrase it like that, it’s not exploitation, it’s a service. But tell me, really, what more right did Athena have to tell those stories than anyone else did? She never lived in China for more than a few months at a time. She was never in a war zone. She grew up attending private schools in England paid for by her parents’ tech jobs, summered on Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard, and spent her adult life between New Haven, NYC, and DC. She doesn’t even speak Chinese fluently—she’s admitted in interviews that she “spoke only English at home in an attempt to better assimilate.” Athena would go on Twitter and talk about the importance of Asian American representation, about how the model minority myth was false because Asians were overrepresented at both the low and high ends of the income spectrum, how Asian women continued to be fetishized and made victims of hate crimes, and how Asians were silently suffering because they did not exist as a voting category to white American politicians. And then she’d go home to that Dupont Circle apartment and settle down to write on a thousand-dollar antique typewriter while sipping a bottle of expensive Riesling her publisher had sent her for earning out her advance. Athena never personally experienced suffering. She just got rich from it. She wrote an award-winning short story based on what she saw at that exhibit, titled “Whispers along the Yalu.” And she wasn’t even Korean. Nine THE CAMBRIDGE EVENT SPARKS A MINOR TWITTER DISCOURSE, featuring all the usual suspects—lots of threads covering what happened with various degrees of outrage, lots of people weighing in with their own opinions, most of them using it as a chance to grandstand and show off profound thoughts that are only tangentially related to what was actually said. A couple of people agree with the question asker—I learn that she’s a sophomore at MIT named Lily Wu, and that she’s written a whole angry thread about the encounter in which she calls me, among other things, an oblivious White woman with no real ties to the community and a disingenuous, self-interested faux


God 33 with the silk sleeveholders was dazzling enough for the world. He whistled, mopped his face and walked like he knew where he was going. He was a seal-brown color but he acted like Mr. Washburn or somebody like that to Janie. Where would such a man be coming from and where was he going? He didn’t look her way nor no other way except straight ahead, so Janie ran to the pump and jerked the handle hard while she pumped. It made a loud noise and also made her heavy hair fall down. So he stopped and looked hard, and then he asked her for a cool drink of water. Janie pumped it off until she got a good look at the man. He talked friendly while he drank. Joe Starks was the name, yeah Joe Starks from in and through Georgy. Been workin’ for white folks all his life. Saved up some money—round three hundred dollars, yes indeed, right here in his pocket. Kept hearin’ ’bout them buildin’ a new state down heah in Floridy and sort of wanted to come. But he was makin’ money where he was. But when he heard all about ’em makin’ a town all outa colored folks, he knowed dat was de place he wanted to be. He had always wanted to be a big voice, but de white folks had all de sayso where he come from and everywhere else, exceptin’ dis place dat colored folks was buildin’ theirselves. Dat was right too. De man dat built things oughta boss it. Let colored folks build things too if dey wants to crow over somethin’. He was glad he had his money all saved up. He meant to git dere whilst de town wuz yet a baby. He meant to buy in big. It had always been his wish and desire to be a big voice and he had to live nearly thirty years to find a chance. Where was Janie’s papa and mama? 34 Zora Neale Hurston “Dey dead, Ah reckon. Ah wouldn’t know ’bout ’em ’cause mah Grandma raised me. She dead too.” “She dead too! Well, who’s lookin’ after a lil girl-chile lak you?” “Ah’m married.” “You married? You ain’t hardly old enough to be weaned. Ah betcha you still craves sugar-tits, doncher?” “Yeah, and Ah makes and sucks ’em when de notion strikes me. Drinks sweeten’ water too.” “Ah loves dat mahself. Never specks to get too old to enjoy syrup sweeten’ water when it’s cools and nice.” “Us got plenty syrup in de barn. Ribbon-cane syrup. If you so desires—” “Where yo’ husband at, Mis’ er-er.” “Mah name is Janie Mae Killicks since Ah got married. Useter be name Janie Mae Crawford. Mah husband is gone tuh buy a mule fuh me tuh plow. He left me cuttin’ up seed p’taters.” “You behind a plow! You ain’t got no mo’ business wid uh plow than uh hog is got wid uh holiday! You ain’t got no business cuttin’ up no seed p’taters neither. A pretty doll- baby lak


and left. Bond heard the Peugeot start up and soon the noise of its exhaust had disappeared in the direction of the road to Royale. When the patron came back to his table, Bond explained that Madame had unfortunately a slight touch of sunstroke. After the patron had expressed his regret and enlarged on the dangers of going out of doors in almost any weather, Bond casually asked about the other customer. 'He reminds me of a friend who also lost an eye. They wear similar black patches.' The patron answered that the man was a stranger. He had been pleased with his lunch and had said that he would be passing that way again in a day or two and would take another meal at the auberge. Apparently he was Swiss, which could also be seen from his accent. He was a traveller in watches. It was shocking to have only one eye. The strain of keeping that patch in place all day long. He supposed one got used to it. 'It is indeed very sad,' said Bond. 'You also have been unlucky,' he gestured to the proprietor's empty sleeve. 'I myself was very fortunate.' For a time they talked about the war. Then Bond rose. 'By the way,' he said, 'Madame had an early telephone call which I must remember to pay for. Paris. An Elyse number I think,' he added, remembering that that was Mathis's exchange. 'Thank you, monsieur, but the matter is regulated. I was speaking to Royale this morning and the exchange mentioned that one of my guests had put through a call to Paris and that there had been no answer. They wanted to know if Madame would like the call kept in. I'm afraid the matter escaped my mind. Perhaps Monsieur would mention it to Madame. But, let me see, it was an Invalides number the exchange referred to.' CHAPTER 26 - 'SLEEP WELL, MY DARLING' The next two days were much the same. On the fourth day of their stay Vesper went off early to Royale. A taxi came and fetched her and brought her back. She said she needed some medicine. That night she made a special effort to be gay. She drank a lot and when they went upstairs, she led him into her bedroom and made passionate love to him. Bond's body responded, but afterwards she cried bitterly into her pillow and Bond went to his room in grim despair. He could hardly sleep and in the early hours he heard her door open softly. Some small sounds came from downstairs. He was sure she was in the telephone booth. Very soon he beard her door softly close and he guessed that again there had been no reply from Paris. This was Saturday. On Sunday the man with the black patch was back again. Bond knew it directly he looked up from his lunch and saw her face. He had told her all that the patron had told him, withholding only the man's statement that he might be back. He had


the fucking phone! I love it, of course, but I am a monster. Is it appropriate to text someone saying, “hey idk if this is u but hi im ur sister”? I could spin out and ask a hundred more completely plausible questions like these. The longer I stalled, the more I psyched myself out. What if this was a joke? The internet is weird, man. People do fucked-up shit like this all the time, and I’m not so arrogant that I’d think it could never happen to me or that I’m so smart I’d be able to sniff out a scam. But I’m trying to be less fucking cynical all the time. I decided I would call, just to see. I told people I was gonna call, so they’d hold me accountable and follow up. I even sat on a couch next to my friend Megan and spent an hour working out a plan for what to say when I did call, like two girls hanging out after school plotting what to say when they prank call the house of the boy they think is cute. It became bigger than a catch-up phone call; suddenly, in my mind, it was going to be a referendum on my entire life and my choices. I kept inventing more and more reasons he wouldn’t like me or ways in which I wouldn’t live up to his expectations. Imagine me practicing my opening argument: “Hello, one of my dad’s other children! How have you been for the last twenty-five years but also your whole life, because I don’t really know anything about you? First of all, please don’t read my books or literally anything I have ever written anywhere at any point in my life. Now that that’s out of the way, what shows do you watch?” One Sunday, I was at home watching the Kansas City game and doing the crossword on my phone when the screen lit up with a call from a number I didn’t recognize. I jumped like I’d been caught doing something naughty, which is how I always feel when the phone rings while it’s in my hand. “Can they see me right now????” This is me hiding from the ringing phone in my hand. I answered it because it seemed like bad manners to ignore someone on a Sunday afternoon—maybe it was God calling!—in favor of a puzzle I was never going to correctly solve, and was surprised, delighted, elated even when the smooth baritone on the other end of the line said, “Is this Samantha? Hey, baby, this is your brother.” how to look cool in front of teens? Do not try to engage or bond with them over anything young people like. I have a TikTok account, and its sole purpose is for watching TikToks that other people send me; I will never be participating in a single challenge or posting a video of myself of any kind. I know to leave that to the experts: beautiful high schoolers with no screen-time restrictions. I did download the


not dating someone better-looking?” “You just admitted that you liked me at first because you could tell I didn’t think you were smart. What’s that Groucho Marx line about not wanting to belong to any club that would have you as a member?” He turned his head so he was gazing out the windshield again. “There’s a picture of the cast and crew of TNO taken every year on the main stage, right? I’m sure I’ve seen it online or in a magazine. And if I was looking at that, would I pick you out from everyone else and say, ‘That’s the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen’? If I’m being honest, no. But human beings aren’t static images. We’re dynamic and kinetic, and it’s like I said before—right away, I wanted to talk to you, and every time I’ve talked to you since I’ve always wanted to keep talking to you.” That I didn’t feel completely uninsulted by his admission that I wasn’t the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen meant—what? That I’d nursed some private hope that he thought I was? Either because he had unusual taste or because I’d been holding on to the belief that, as with many a romantic comedy heroine, I was far more beautiful than I realized? At the same time, I didn’t feel the impulse to cling to the insult as I might have when I was younger; I appreciated his candor. I said, “Do you know what sapiosexual means?” “No.” “It means being attracted to someone’s brain.” “I am attracted to your brain,” he said. “But I’m also attracted to the rest of you.” We both were quiet for a few seconds, then he said, “When you told me that thing about swearing off dating at TNO because Elliot rejected you, a part of me was like, Thank God for that. Even though your decision seems over the top, if you hadn’t made it, you’d probably be married to another writer. But now I wonder if it’s a cautionary tale about how you want to stew in your aloneness. Because, sure, I’m discreet when I’m dating someone new in order to avoid media drama, but I’m not the one who’s into secret hookups as a way of life.” “Why would I want to stew in my aloneness?” “Because you’re scared.” “What am I scared of?” “Getting hurt. Knowing another person really well and another person knowing you really well. Feelings you can’t make fun of. Interactions that go on for long enough that they maybe turn a little awkward or a little tedious instead of ending after ten minutes with a zinger.” “If you’re referring to TNO sketches, they’re more like five minutes. Ten minutes is an eternity on TV.” He looked at me then said, “Okay, Sally,” and turned on the ignition. “I love you, too,” I blurted out. “Do you?” His brow was furrowed. “The truth is that I can’t believe you exist. I’ve never known anyone with the combination of qualities you have. You’re so deeply nice and so humble


harm to none. The girl's head went high. "There could be but one suitable reply to your assertion, Mr. Clayton," she said icily, "and I regret that I am not a man, that I might make it." She turned quickly and entered the cabin. Clayton was an Englishman, so the girl had passed quite out of sight before he deduced what reply a man would have made. "Upon my word," he said ruefully, "she called me a liar. And I fancy I jolly well deserved it," he added thoughtfully. "Clayton, my boy, I know you are tired out and unstrung, but that's no reason why you should make an ass of yourself. You'd better go to bed." But before he did so he called gently to Jane upon the opposite side of the sailcloth partition, for he wished to apologize, but he might as well have addressed the Sphinx. Then he wrote upon a piece of paper and shoved it beneath the partition. Jane saw the little note and ignored it, for she was very angry and hurt and mortified, but--she was a woman, and so eventually she picked it up and read it. MY DEAR MISS PORTER: I had no reason to insinuate what I did. My only excuse is that my nerves must be unstrung--which is no excuse at all. Please try and think that I did not say it. I am very sorry. I would not have hurt YOU, above all others in the world. Say that you forgive me. WM. CECIL CLAYTON. "He did think it or he never would have said it," reasoned the girl, "but it cannot be true--oh, I know it is not true!" One sentence in the letter frightened her: "I would not have hurt YOU above all others in the world." Chapter 23 126 A week ago that sentence would have filled her with delight, now it depressed her. She wished she had never met Clayton. She was sorry that she had ever seen the forest god. No, she was glad. And there was that other note she had found in the grass before the cabin the day after her return from the jungle, the love note signed by Tarzan of the Apes. Who could be this new suitor? If he were another of the wild denizens of this terrible forest what might he not do to claim her? "Esmeralda! Wake up," she cried. "You make me so irritable, sleeping there peacefully when you know perfectly well that the world is filled with sorrow." "Gaberelle!" screamed Esmeralda, sitting up. "What is it now? A hipponocerous? Where is he, Miss Jane?" "Nonsense, Esmeralda, there is nothing. Go back to sleep. You are bad enough asleep, but you are infinitely worse awake." "Yes honey, but what's the matter with you, precious? You acts sort of disgranulated this evening." "Oh, Esmeralda, I'm just plain ugly to-night," said the girl. "Don't pay any attention to me--that's a dear." "Yes, honey; now you go right to sleep. Your nerves are all on edge. What with all these ripotamuses


to me. We would still belong to each other, but we would come to know one another differently in separation, in parting after parting. I didn’t know what it would mean to leave, wouldn’t begin to grasp it until my last night in my little blue childhood bedroom, a few months later, when I found I couldn’t sleep for terror and wonder. I had spent most of my life in a small house in a small town, a Korean adoptee who knew I was loved but often felt as though I were living a life meant for someone else. Though dreams of escape had long held me in thrall, I missed my parents when I spent any considerable length of time away from them, and my mom was the person I most wanted to talk to at the end of the day. I’m sure plenty of people who knew me were surprised that such a homebody only child had set her sights on a life three thousand miles away. It would be years before I would understand that she was the one, all along, who had been preparing me to go. Who wanted me to have the choice. I think of those late-afternoon talks with her now that I have my own children, knowing that the days of both of them falling asleep in their rooms down the hall from mine are dwindling; that a time will come when something trivial or life changing will happen to them—they will be hurt, or caught by surprise, or find that they are happier than they have ever been—and I will not be the first person they tell. That might be why I sometimes let them stay up past bedtime chatting with me or getting silly with each other, why even the brightest moments on the best of days can crack my heart wide open. But then sometimes I think, well, no matter where they go, no matter how far apart we are, maybe I will always be someone they think to call, someone they want to talk to, because my mother is far beyond my sight, beyond the reach of my voice, and not a day goes by when I don’t think of something I wish I could tell her. 2 My mother could barely carry a tune, but she loved music, and she loved watching me sing. At choral concerts, musicals, voice recitals, I would seek and find her in the crowd, sitting somewhere toward the center of the room with her eyes fixed on me. Even if I sang with a hundred others, she would insist that she could pick out my voice. The trick is to look at you while you sing. As long as I can see you, I can hear you. The only performance she ever missed was the fall choir concert of my freshman year of high school, because she was at home recovering from a single mastectomy. She was diagnosed with breast cancer a few weeks before she turned forty-four. I remember my parents’ shock, which I


on his seat, "Let her speak," he commanded. "I want to hear what she says." "Thank you, Your Grace." Sansa smiled, a shy secret smile, just for him. He was listening. She knew he would. "Treason is a noxious weed," Pycelle declared solemnly. "It must be torn up, root and stem and seed, lest new traitors sprout from every roadside." "Do you deny your father's crime?" Lord Baelish asked. "No, my lords." Sansa knew better than that. "I know he must be punished. All I ask is mercy. I know my lord father must regret what he did. He was King Robert's friend and he loved him, you all know he loved him. He never wanted to be Hand until the king asked him. They must have lied to him. Lord Renly or Lord Stannis or . . . or somebody, they must have lied, otherwise . . ." King Joffrey leaned forward, hands grasping the arms of the throne. Broken sword points fanned out between his fingers. "He said I wasn't the king. Why did he say that?" "His leg was broken," Sansa replied eagerly. "It hurt ever so much, Maester Pycelle was giving him milk of the poppy, and they say that milk of the poppy fills your head with clouds. Otherwise he would never have said it." Varys said, "A child's-faith . . . such sweet innocence . . . and yet, they say wisdom oft comes from the mouths of babes." "Treason is treason," Pycelle replied at once. Joffrey rocked restlessly on the throne. "Mother?" Cersei Lannister considered Sansa thoughtfully. "If Lord Eddard were to confess his crime," she said at last, "we would know he had repented his folly." Joffrey pushed himself to his feet. Please, Sansa thought, please, please, be the king I know you are, good and kind and noble, please. "Do you have any more to say?" he asked her. "Only . . . that as you love me, you do me this kindness, my prince," Sansa said. King Joffrey looked her up and down. "Your sweet words have moved me," he said gallantly, nodding, as if to say all would be well. "I shall do as you ask . . . but first your father has to confess. He has to confess and say that I'm the king, or there will be no mercy for him." "He will," Sansa said, heart soaring. "Oh, I know he will." EDDARD The straw on the floor stank of urine. There was no window, no bed, not even a slop bucket. He remembered walls of pale red stone festooned with patches of nitre, a grey door of splintered wood, four inches thick and studded with iron. He had seen them, briefly, a quick glimpse as they shoved him inside. Once the door had slammed shut, he had seen no more. The dark was absolute. He had as well been blind. Or dead. Buried with his king. "Ah, Robert," he murmured as his groping hand touched a cold stone wall, his leg throbbing with every motion. He remembered


and sympathy for flowers is almost exclusively a woman's trait. Men, if endowed with it by nature, soon lose, forget, and learn to despise it, in their contact with coarser things than flowers. Clifford, too, had long forgotten it; but found it again now, as he slowly revived from the chill torpor of his life. It is wonderful how many pleasant incidents continually came to pass in that secluded garden-spot when once Phoebe had set herself to look for them. She had seen or heard a bee there, on the first day of her acquaintance with the place. And often, --almost continually, indeed,--since then, the bees kept coming thither, Heaven knows why, or by what pertinacious desire, for far-fetched sweets, when, no doubt, there were broad clover-fields, and all kinds of garden growth, much nearer home than this. Thither the bees came, however, and plunged into the squash-blossoms, as if there were no other squash-vines within a long day's flight, or as if the soil of Hepzibah's garden gave its productions just the very quality which these laborious little wizards wanted, in order to impart the Hymettus odor to their whole hive of New England honey. When Clifford heard their sunny, buzzing murmur, in the heart of the great yellow blossoms, he looked about him with a joyful sense of warmth, and blue sky, and green grass, and of God's free air in the whole height from earth to heaven. After all, there need be no question why the bees came to that one green nook in the dusty town. God sent them thither to gladden our poor Clifford. They brought the rich summer with them, in requital of a little honey. When the bean-vines began to flower on the poles, there was one particular variety which bore a vivid scarlet blossom. The daguerreotypist had found these beans in a garret, over one of the seven gables, treasured up in an old chest of drawers by some horticultural Pyncheon of days gone by, who doubtless meant to sow them the next summer, but was himself first sown in Death's garden-ground. By way of testing whether there were still a living germ in such ancient seeds, Holgrave had planted some of them; and the result of his experiment was a splendid row of bean-vines, clambering, early, to the full height of the poles, and arraying them, from top to bottom, in a spiral profusion of red blossoms. And, ever since the unfolding of the first bud, a multitude of humming-birds had been attracted thither. At times, it seemed as if for every one of the hundred blossoms there was one of these tiniest fowls of the air,--a thumb's bigness of burnished plumage, hovering and vibrating about the bean-poles. It was with indescribable interest, and even more than childish delight, that Clifford watched the humming-birds. He used to thrust his head softly out of the arbor to see them the better; all the while, too, motioning Phoebe to be quiet, and snatching glimpses of the smile upon her face, so as to heap his


not have any magic for you to eat. Whatever you are smelling is from this room.” I glanced at the door. A few more steps. Fighting in an enclosed home with a tree plunging through the middle was not a recipe for success. “Nonsense. Your magic is ripe. Fragrant.” He inhaled deeply. “Much better than anything these pitiful fools ever possessed.” I was being goaded. Fully aware of this, I let my temper flare anyway. “For a hungry man, you seem to have energy for quite the abundance of stupidity.” His features vanished for a second, as though his face had blinked from existence. When they returned, he wore a sneer. “I glutted myself on Jasad as it burned. Nothing compares to the flavor of magic used in desperation. I sated myself on the ruins of the kingdom, and no one bothered to stop me.” He took another step toward me. “I fed on the Jasad Heir’s magic before it left her cooling body. Hers was bitter, left behind a terrible taste. Like Niphran herself.” My hold on the axe wavered. “Y-you killed her?” “Me? Darling, my kind could not even enter Jasad until the fortress collapsed. Poor Niphran was already slain in her lonely little tower when I arrived.” “Be quiet!” I shouted. The door pressed against my back, yet I could not make my legs carry me away. “You will not malign the Jasad Heir in this village.” “But this is Dar al Mansi, isn’t it?” he purred. “And who was more forgotten than Niphran?” My cuffs were burning vises, magic pulsing to the tune of my rage. His nostrils flared, reptilian gaze widening. “Oh,” he murmured, and licked his lips. I had had my fill of his chattering. The axe caught him in the stomach, slicing a thick gash across his belly. It should have emptied his innards onto the floor. He didn’t even flinch. “I would have liked to feed on the Malik and Malika. Even Niphran’s little bastard daughter. Instead, I had to settle for the likes of these.” He waved at the destroyed home. “Such a shame, that the weakest kingdom retained magic the longest.” My magic roared, and my arms moved with preternatural speed in cleaving the axe into his throat. I yanked it from the clench of sinew and muscle. The man’s features melted as his body began to warp. Hairy, elongated bovine legs replaced human ones, and six long, curved spider limbs erupted from his stretching torso. Three heads burst from his expanding neck, then joined together with a head at the top and two at the bottom. “Dulhath.” The one creature even Hanim had not dared summon. I dodged the pointed tips of its many spider legs and brought my foot down on the nearest tip. It cracked, and the dulhath’s shriek pierced my ears. I hacked the limb swooping from the right. Another leg swiped my feet out from under me. The world spun, and I knocked my head against the tree. Blinding pain exploded in my temple as a pile


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 it makes rather a handsome pig, I think.' And she


“Thought so, since you’re not lying facedown on Monica’s”—he glances at the rug beneath my feet, and his nose scrunches—“dead Dalmatian?” “I think it’s cowhide?” “Ah. That explains the skulls on the wall.” “They really . . .” I clear my throat. “Tie the whole room together?” “You think she killed them herself?” “Why? Afraid you’re next?” “Of course. Monica’s terrifying.” I laugh. There’s nothing Jack can do to make me look unhirable now. We’re just two friendly archenemies chatting at a party. No one’s paying attention to us, which feels oddly nice. Isolating but restful. Because Jack expects nothing from me. “Are you and Andrea dating?” I ask, because I can and I’m curious. “No.” He seems surprised. “Why?” I shrug. “I see you together a lot.” That’s who he was chatting with while Volkov soapboxed about competitive duck herding. “We’re friends, we collaborate, we’re the only two faculty members under thirty-five.” He takes a sip of his beer. “I don’t date much.” Right. That’s what Greg said, too. What bugs me is—I’m positive that Andrea, an otherwise brilliant woman, thinks Jack’s a nice guy. And that Michi thinks he’s a good mentor, judging by how comfortable she feels interacting with him via meltdowns. About anyone else, these would be green flags, but I know better. “So,” I say, “your nematics experiments are going poorly?” “Indeed. How did you know? Oh, right. You were there when Volkov announced my repeated failures to obtain decent results to a three-hundredperson auditorium.” The self-deprecating smile is back, and so is the dimple. I don’t want to laugh again, but . . . it’s hard. I’ve had a long day. “I kind of liked it. In fact, I think I had an orgasm when it happened.” “I bet.” His eyes darken around the blue wedge. “On a scale from taking a CrossFit class to writing parody articles as a form of activism, how mad are you that someone suggested you use a model of mine?” “What’s a CrossFit, and why would I be mad? My lab discussed the application of your model in our meeting today.” I lean back to search his eyes. “What?” “Michi bragged to everyone that you guys are friends. She followed you on Twitter, I think.” “I don’t have Twitter.” “I did tell her you probably aren’t @SmexyElsie69—” “Wait, are you serious? Are you really going to apply my model?” “Of course.” “But it’s a purely theoretical model.” He shrugs. “We’ve been stuck for months. And it’s brilliant. And like I told you multiple times, I’ve always incorporated theoretical models and collaborated with—” “Stop.” I turn to face him directly and get half-wedged under his arm. We look like we’re about to embrace. In a Game of Thrones, stab-you-while-Ihug-you way. “Listen, I . . . Stop this, please. I don’t know what you want from me. I’ve been adjuncting for a year, and it sucks so much—so, so much. I just want a job in a good department to continue with my research.” “You deserve it,” he says quietly. I feel


Noldor and the Sindar after the ending of the First Age. 50, 60-2, 64, 118, 306, 310, 315, 321, 324, 331, 345, 349, 355, 362 Tol Galen 'The Green Isle' in the river Adurant in Ossiriand, where Beren and Lthien dwelt after their return. 147, 229, 290 Tol-in-Gaurhoth 'Isle of Werewolves', name of Tol Sirion after its capture by Sauron. 188, 208, 210 Tol Morwen Island in the sea after the drowning of Beleriand on which stood the memorial stone of Trin, Nienor, and Morwen. 284 Tol Sirion Island in the river in the Pass of Sirion on which Finrod built the tower of Minas Tirith; after its capture by Sauron named Tol-in-Gaurhoth. 133, 142, 188 Tulkas A Vala, the 'greatest in strength and deeds of prowess', who came last to Arda; also called Astaldo. 18, 22, 29-31, 47, 51, 52, 70-1, 77-80, 85-7 Tumhalad Valley in the land between the rivers Ginglith and Narog, where the host of Nargothrond was defeated. 261 Tumladen 'The Wide Valley', the hidden vale in the Encircling Mountains in the midst of which stood the city of Gondolin. (Tumladen was afterwards the name of a valley in Gondor: The Return of the King V 1). 135, 149, 160, 191, 221, 296, 301 Tumunzahar See Nogrod. 104 Tna The green hill in the Calacirya on which Tirion, the city of the Elves, was built. 62, 65-7, 75, 79, 91, 96, 100,117, 135, 149, 307, 324, 344 Tuor Son of Huor and Ran, fostered by the Grey-elves of Mithrim; entered Gondolin bearing the message of Ulmo; wedded Idril Turgon's daughter, and with her and their son Erendil escaped from the destruction of the City; in his ship Errm set sail into the West. 177, 242, 294-304, 308 Turambar 'Master of Doom', the last name taken by Trin, during his days in the Forest of Brethil. 266, 270-80, 284 Turgon Called the Wise; the second son of Fingolfin; dwelt at Vinyamar in Nevrast before he departed in secret to Gondolin, which he ruled until his death in the sack of the city; father of Idril the mother of Erendil 64, 93, 100-2, 133, 135, 140-1, 149-51,155-7, 160, 163-5, 186, 191-3, 221, 231-2, 234-7, 240, 247, 281-2, 294-300, 302, 308, 315 Tr Haretha The burial-mound of the Lady Haleth in the Forest of Brethil (see Haudh-en-Arwen). 176 Trin Son of Hrin and Morwen; chief subject of the lay named Narn i Hn Hrin from which Chapter XXI was derived. For his other names see Neithan, Gorthol, Agarwaen, Mormegil, Wildman of the Woods, Turambar. 177, 178, 205, 242-66, 271, 274-80, 284 Twilight Meres See Aelin-uial. Two Kindreds Elves and Men. 307-8, 319, 366 Two Trees of Valinor 33-4, 45-6, 53-4, 58, 61-2, 65, 71-2, 78, 83-4, 86, 109, 111-6, 119, 151, 288, 296, 302, 336-7 Uinen A Maia, the Lady of the Seas, spouse of Oss. 24, 36, 60, 98 lairi See Ring-wraiths. Uldor Called the Accursed; son of Ulfang the Black; slain by Maglor in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. 189, 232, 235-7, 311 Ulfang Called the Black; a chieftain of the


them, but making the shots of the mattress party tremendously helpful for establishing a timeline of the night. Or, more specifically—and a dozen online theories sprang from this, I already knew—Jimmy had only the date stamp on during the show, but somehow, by the first party shots, had toggled the timestamp on as well. A little too convenient, some people’s thinking went. Others argued that a drunk kid taking photos in the woods, in the slush and cold, had probably just messed up the switch. I found myself leaving the Free Omar site and looking on Reddit for threads about the roll of film. (If you care, Mr. Bloch: Fifty miles away, Omar was only then being allowed his second dose of ibuprofen. They finally changed his soaked gauze. It was too early for any signs of infection. He had not yet developed a fever.) There were so many Reddit threads. I found, among other things, a theory that Thalia had been murdered at the mattresses by all nineteen kids, a satanic sacrifice. Another poster noted that Tim Busse’s eyes were buggy and bloodshot. That kid is coked out of his mind, NotYoPaulie82 wrote. Capable of anything. But that was just how Tim looked. There was a long thread just about the splatter of mud up the back of Robbie’s ski sweatshirt, some people insisting it was blood. So you’re saying, reads a reply with hundreds of upvotes, that he not only killed Thalia and threw her in the pool in the TEN MINUTES between the musical and the party, but he did it BEHIND HIS OWN BACK? Ginger Rogers has nothing on this guy. This was all based on the second party photo, a candid, poorly composed group shot. Most threads were obsessed with the timing and order of the pictures. The first photo from the mattresses, stamped 9:58 p.m., is of the ground, a blurred coat, some legs. After the mud splatter one, a 10:02 shot shows Robbie with his arms around Beth and Dorian, tongue out, a mad devil grin. In that one Robbie has his hat on, but in others you can see his hair shaved up the sides, long and floppy on top, parted in the middle. (“The penis cut,” Fran had called it. But in 1995 it was on trend.) The show had ended by 8:45 at the absolute earliest. Let’s say fifteen minutes for the Camelot kids to shed their costumes; for Mike, at least, to wash the makeup off. A few minutes to gather friends who hadn’t been in the audience, for Beth to stuff a backpack with bottles from under her bed, for others to grab flashlights, cigarettes, lighters. Everything procured from the girls’ dorms, because the boys’ dorms were down on Lower Campus. The boys stood outside waiting for the girls. They headed the 1.4 miles from the theater up the Nordic trail to the mattresses no faster than Mike could hobble—about a half-hour trek. Then the first photos around ten p.m., party already in full swing. That’s where the Reddit responder


like pretty frocks- and I love my dolls- and you can't do that if you're a boy." "Pooh! Fancy bothering about pretty frocks," said George, in a scornful voice. "And dolls! Well, you are a baby, that's all I can say." Anne felt offended. "You're not very polite," she said. "You won't find that my brothers take much notice of you if you act as if you knew everything. They're real boys, not pretend boys, like you." "Well, if they're going to be nasty to me I shan't take any notice of them," said George, jumping out of bed. "I didn't want any of you to come, anyway. Interfering with my life here! I'm quite happy on my own. Now I've got to put up with a silly girl who likes frocks and dolls, and two stupid boy-cousins!" Anne felt that they had made a very bad beginning. She said no more, but got dressed herself too. She put on her grey jeans and a red jersey. George put on jeans too, and a boy's jersey. Just as they were ready the boys hammered on their door. "Aren't you ready? Is Georgina there? Cousin Georgina, come out and see us." George flung open the door and marched out with her head high. She took no notice of the two surprised boys at all. She stalked downstairs. The other three children looked at one another. "She won't answer if you call her Georgina," explained Anne. "She's awfully queer, I think. She says she didn't want us to come because we'll interfere with her. She laughed at me, and was rather rude." Julian put his arm round Anne, who looked a bit doleful. "Cheer up!" he said. "You've got us to stick up for you. Come on down to breakfast." They were all hungry. The smell of bacon and eggs was very good. They ran down the stairs and said good-morning to their aunt. She was just bringing the breakfast to the table. Their uncle was sitting at the head, reading his paper. He nodded at the children. They sat down without a word, wondering if they were allowed to speak at meals. They always were at home, but their Uncle Quentin looked rather fierce. George was there, buttering a piece of toast. She scowled at the three children. "Don't look like that, George," said her mother. "I hope you've made friends already. It will be fun for you to play together. You must take your cousins to see the bay this morning and show them the best places to bathe." "I'm going fishing," said George. Her father looked up at once. "You are not," he said. "You are going to show a few good manners for a change, and take your cousins to the bay. Do you hear me?" "Yes," said George, with a scowl exactly like her father's. "Oh, we can go to the bay by ourselves all right, if George is going fishing," said Anne, at once, thinking that it would be nice not to have George if she was in


pet of the family. As young readers like to know `how people look', we will take this moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable room,though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain, for a good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses, chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a pleasant atmosphere of home peace pervaded it. Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft brown hair, a sweet mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt, for she never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce, funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty, but it was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders had Jo, big hands and feet, a fly-away look to her clothes, and the uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a woman and didn't like it. Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone called her, was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression which was seldom disturbed. Her father called her `Little Miss Tranquility', and the name suited her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy world of her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved. Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own opinion at least. A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow hair curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters of the four sisters were we will leave to be found out. The clock struck six and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good effect upon the girls, for Mother was coming, and everyone brightened to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, Amy got out of the easy chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired she was as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the blaze. "They are quite worn out. Marmee must have a new pair." "I thought I'd get her some with my dollar," said Beth. "No, I shall!" cried Amy. "I'm the oldest," began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided, "I'm the man of the family now Papa is away, and I shall provide the slippers, for he told me to take special care of Mother


about Finn Walsh, cinnamon roll nerd of my dreams. This is absolutely devastating.” “It’s been killing me, not telling anyone.” “And you still wanted to work on this book? It’s been okay? Because as much as I’ve missed you, I’ve been really, really happy that you’re doing this.” I chew on my straw, wondering what that means specifically. “We agreed we weren’t going to talk about it, that it was firmly in the past. But then I wound up telling him what that night was like for me, and it evolved into this joke that maybe wasn’t a joke at all, about me helping him improve his technique in bed. And, well . . .” “You’re giving Finnegan Walsh sex tips?” Noemie nearly falls off her sunbed. “I’ve never been happier or more shocked to be related to you.” “And I’ve never been thirstier in my entire life. It’s like the more we’re together, the more I want to be with him. It’s a terrible, horny paradox. Is this the stupidest thing I’ve ever done?” “Aside from the questionable ethics of the two of you working together . . . I don’t know. I’d never judge you, except when you were going through your JNCO jeans phase.” “And I deserved that.” Her voice turns gentle, none of that frantic energy from a few minutes ago. “You’re being safe, right?” she asks, and I nod. “I’m sorry, I’m never recovering from this.” “You’re going to have to, because I need advice.” I give the dregs of my piña colada a poke with my straw, summoning all my courage again. I didn’t realize how badly I needed this. “A couple nights ago, he told me he had a crush on me. While high on cold meds. And he doesn’t seem to remember saying it, so I don’t know if that means I should just forget about it, too? Because I seem physiologically incapable of doing that.” Noemie’s quiet for a few moments. “Do you have feelings for him?” There’s no judgment there, only a gentle curiosity. I think back to that first night in Seattle. How I hadn’t had that kind of immediate spark with someone . . . well, ever. “It almost doesn’t matter,” I say quietly, “because it’s not like this can go anywhere in the long term. He doesn’t date outside the industry, and the book has to be our first priority.” Plus, the sting from Wyatt’s rejection is still a little too fresh. Even if it’s a relief that I haven’t thought about him in a while—at least, not in the lying-awake-at-night kind of way—I don’t know if my heart is ready to go through that again. “I’m going to say something, and I don’t want you to get mad about it.” She examines a sunburn blooming on her forearm. “I’m sure I could say the same thing about myself, but I think sometimes you avoid taking risks.” I expected her to give me some kind of encouragement, like But you’re kind of in the industry, or press me for


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

hair who wrote devout verses, the squat peasant form of the professor of economics, the tall form of the young professor of mental science discussing on the landing a case of conscience with his class like a giraffe cropping high leafage among a herd of antelopes, the grave troubled prefect of the sodality, the plump round-headed professor of Italian with his rogue's eyes. They came ambling and stumbling, tumbling and capering, kilting their gowns for leap frog, holding one another back, shaken with deep false laughter, smacking one another behind and laughing at their rude malice, calling to one another by familiar nicknames, protesting with sudden dignity at some rough usage, whispering two and two behind their hands. The professor had gone to the glass cases on the side wall, from a shelf of which he took down a set of coils, blew away the dust from many points and, bearing it carefully to the table, held a finger on it while he proceeded with his lecture. He explained that the wires in modern coils were of a compound called platinoid lately discovered by F. W. Martino. He spoke clearly the initials and surname of the discoverer. Moynihan whispered from behind: --Good old Fresh Water Martin! --Ask him, Stephen whispered back with weary humour, if he wants a subject for electrocution. He can have me. Moynihan, seeing the professor bend over the coils, rose in his bench and, clacking noiselessly the fingers of his right hand, began to call with the voice of a slobbering urchin. --Please teacher! This boy is after saying a bad word, teacher. --Platinoid, the professor said solemnly, is preferred to German silver because it has a lower coefficient of resistance by changes of temperature. The platinoid wire is insulated and the covering of silk that insulates it is wound on the ebonite bobbins just where my finger is. If it were wound single an extra current would be induced in the coils. The bobbins are saturated in hot paraffin wax... A sharp Ulster voice said from the bench below Stephen: --Are we likely to be asked questions on applied science? The professor began to juggle gravely with the terms pure science and applied science. A heavy-built student, wearing gold spectacles, stared with some wonder at the questioner. Moynihan murmured from behind in his natural voice: --Isn't MacAlister a devil for his pound of flesh? Stephen looked coldly on the oblong skull beneath him overgrown with tangled twine-coloured hair. The voice, the accent, the mind of the questioner offended him and he allowed the offence to carry him towards wilful unkindness, bidding his mind think that the student's father would have done better had he sent his son to Belfast to study and have saved something on the train fare by so doing. The oblong skull beneath did not turn to meet this shaft of thought and yet the shaft came back to its bowstring; for he saw in a moment the student's whey-pale face. --That thought is not mine, he said to himself quickly. It came from


if he finds the pocketbook which I have dropped he is to send it by registered post to Baker Street." "Yes, sir." "And ask at the station office if there is a message for me." The boy returned with a telegram, which Holmes handed to me. It ran: Wire received. Coming down with unsigned warrant. Arrive five-forty. Lestrade. "That is in answer to mine of this morning. He is the best of the professionals, I think, and we may need his assistance. Now, Watson, I think that we cannot employ our time better than by calling upon your acquaintance, Mrs. Laura Lyons." His plan of campaign was beginning to be evident. He would use the baronet in order to convince the Stapletons that we were really gone, while we should actually return at the instant when we were likely to be needed. That telegram from London, if mentioned by Sir Henry to the Stapletons, must remove the last suspicions from their minds. Already I seemed to see our nets drawing closer around that leanjawed pike. Mrs. Laura Lyons was in her office, and Sherlock Holmes opened his interview with a frankness and directness which considerably amazed her. "I am investigating the circumstances which attended the death of the late Sir Charles Baskerville," said he. "My friend here, Dr. Watson, has informed me of what you have communi- cated, and also of what you have withheld in connection with that matter." "What have I withheld?" she asked defiantly. "You have confessed that you asked Sir Charles to be at the gate at ten o'clock. We know that that was the place and hour of his death. You have withheld what the connection is between these events." "There is no connection." "In that case the coincidence must indeed be an extraordinary one. But I think that we shall succeed in establishing a connec- tion, after all. I wish to be perfectly frank with you, Mrs. Lyons. We regard this case as one of murder, and the evidence may implicate not only your friend Mr. Stapleton but his wife as well." The lady sprang from her chair. "His wife!" she cried. "The fact is no longer a secret. The person who has passed for his sister is really his wife." Mrs. Lyons had resumed her seat. Her hands were grasping the arms of her chair, and I saw that the pink nails had turned white with the pressure of her grip. "His wife!" she said again. "His wife! He is not a married man." Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "Prove it to me! Prove it to me! And if you can do so --!" The fierce flash of her eyes said more than any words. "I have come prepared to do so," said Holmes, drawing several papers from his pocket. "Here is a photograph of the couple taken in York four years ago. It is indorsed 'Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur,' but you will have no difficulty in recognizing him, and her also, if you know her by sight. Here are three written descriptions by trustworthy