“Fine then,” Sue said. “You’re excused.” Epilogue ONE YEAR AFTER that party, Mr. and Mrs. Kim kicked me out of my hovel. They were making a rooftop garden and needed it for a potting shed. “You’re kicking me out?” I said. But Mr. Kim wasn’t having it. “Go marry Helpful. You’re practically married, anyway.” “Maybe I will,” I said, and then I held up the engagement ring on my finger. I wasn’t spending much time at my place by then, anyway—now that I’d helped Joe refurnish his apartment. I mean, that Viking stove of his was a significant draw. And so, of course, was Joe himself. Oh, and you heard that right. I’m still calling Oliver “Joe.” He just looks like a Joe to me. And we really are getting married. I admit: the idea of Joe’s wanting to be a family with me has taken the pressure off Peanut to defy all laws of nature and live for another twenty years. It’s also taken the pressure off Lucinda to be anything other than her limited self. She still defends Parker. But sometimes I can see her side. What mother could possibly go against her own child? Parker got transferred to Amsterdam for two years, anyway. So for now I have my father and Lucinda to myself, and we have dinner together from time to time. Turns out it’s easier to be less mad at people when other parts of your life are happy. Sometimes Joe and I try to place bets on Parker’s destiny. Will she always be evil, or will she grow out of it? He’s a bit more optimistic than I am, but he defers to my expertise. She might grow out of it, though. Who knows? People can definitely change. I sure did. And if Parker does, I’ll cheer for her. I’ll also lose a hundred dollars on that bet. But happily. * * * IT’S SO STRANGE to me now, looking back on that upside-down time in my life, how many good things came out of it. If you’d asked me at the time, I’d have told you everything was ruined forever. But of course the fact it was all so hard is part of what made things better. It forced me into therapy for a while, for one. It forced me to rethink what making art meant in my life. It forced me to reevaluate some ideas that I’d never questioned about who we all are and what it all means. Because things were so overwhelming, I had no choice but to accept some help. And then I found out that letting people help you isn’t so bad. It’s definitely the kind of thing you can get used to. I mean, a woman who didn’t believe in help somehow wound up madly in love with a compulsive helper. Isn’t it lucky when we’re drawn to people who can teach us things we need to learn? Like how to let other people make us tea, for example. Or run to the store when it’s late. Or walk


tear through the line and embed themselves in my brain. “Help me!” she sobs. “Help . . . me . . .” The line suddenly goes dead as the signal drops and a message flashes across the screen—“call failed.” I stare at the phone in my hand like I’m not even holding it, like this isn’t real. “Oh my god,” Bezi says in a whisper, her eyes brimming with tears. “She’s out there.” “And something—something is happening.” A knot claws its way up my throat. Her screams and sobs stick in my head. “We—we gotta go get her. Now.” I grab the extra flashlights we keep in the lodge closet and toss one to Javier, one to Kyle, one to Bezi. I turn mine on and off to make sure it works, then unlock the front door of the lodge. The early-evening sun slants through the trees, casting a hazy orange glow all around. The pine trees sway in the wind, and Mirror Lake watches silently. “Do we even know where to go?” Javier asks. “Porter said Ms. Keane’s house was no more than two miles past mile marker sixty-eight,” I say. “I know how to get out to that road, but I don’t know if it’s the same way Porter went. He knows the trail system better than me, but I think we should stick to the main road so we don’t get lost.” “Should we drive?” Bezi asks. “We can take my car.” “We have to take the trail until we get to the main road,” I say. “The car won’t work back there.” Bezi takes a deep, wavering breath as she looks up at the sky. “We’re going to be out there in the dark.” I grasp her hand. “Tasha is out there.” I try to push away the sounds of her terrified screams and the thoughts of what might have caused her to sound that way. “We stay together. We move fast. No side trips. We go to the last place we know Tasha was headed; then we regroup and decide what to do from there. Agreed?” Bezi, Kyle, and even Javier nod. The path that twists around behind the supply shed isn’t maintained as well as the other paths that snake through Camp Mirror Lake. It’s overgrown with spider grass, and the gravel is heaped in uneven treads. Mr. Lamont mentioned that it used to extend all the way to Route 710 but that access was abandoned for the main entrance years ago. The trees press in on us from either side of the trail, and the darkness descends like a shade being drawn across the sky. Kyle clicks on his flashlight. I save the battery on mine, figuring we’ll need it for the walk back. The trail continues through the trees, and while a tall gate bars our path, I can see that it continues into a thickly wooded area. A rusted chain is looped through the gate, and it’s secured with a large, equally rusted padlock. I yank on it, and bits of orange metal


she first looked me in the eyes, I registered a brief flash of shock. Then she looked away, consulting a clipboard. “What are we working with, Ezra?” she said, making some inscrutable notes. She was tall and long-necked, supposedly one of the best at what she did in New York. I knew the exact measurements of my malady by heart. “Twenty/one-twenty, farsighted, astigmatism in both eyes. Range of vision between one and ten feet.” She nodded. “So without the glasses you can’t see anything closer than a foot?” “Or farther than ten,” I said, annoyed at having to repeat myself. “I have bifocals integrated into the lenses for the close-up stuff.” “Mm,” she said, pitiless. “You’ve had vision like this all your life?” Vision like this. “Yeah.” “No accidents? No degenerative diseases?” I found myself longing for the careful phrasing past ophthalmologists had employed with me. It’s not so bad and We can get you seeing the chalkboard again. I used to hate the condescension, but it was better than this. “None,” I grunted. She looked me in the eyes again and I fought the desire to look away. “It might be that your vision is getting progressively worse, Ezra,” she said. “You’ve got a slight squint right now.” I relaxed my eyes only for Dr. Mengetsu’s features to blur at their edges. “I can actually see pretty well right now.” “Okay,” she said, as though I had told her I could shapeshift. “Let’s get you over to the Phoropter and we can take a look.” I pressed my eyes into the owlish machine and listened to the progressive clicks as Dr. Mengetsu adjusted its lenses to accommodate my vision. I read T Q R S. I read S I F. I read L Z. I read the E, the friendliest letter on the chart. “Is this better or worse?” she asked, adjusting the strength of a prism in my left eye. “Better,” I said. “Is this better or worse?” A new pair of convex lenses clicked over both eyes. “Better,” I said. Dr. Mengetsu made an absent mhm noise. I was giving the wrong answers. I kept looking at the E and listened to her making notes on her clipboard. Then we continued the process: better, worse, better, worse, worse, better. She lifted the Phoropter up and took a step back. I put my glasses on and she snapped into focus. “You’re at twenty/one-fifty,” she said. “Your vision is getting progressively worse.” I felt dizzy. “Why?” I knew it was the wrong question. “There are a lot of reasons.” She flipped the lights back on and I blinked, accustomed to the darkness. “This has been happening all your life, hasn’t it?” I shrugged uneasily. “You have weak eyes, Ezra. It makes sense that as you age, your astigmatism would worsen. It happens to a lot of people, but in your case, it’s magnified by the hyperopia.” “Can you stop it?” “I can’t, but you can.” She smiled for the first time since we’d met. “Have you considered a screen reader? Mobility


so I guess you have to take it with a pinch of salt or whatever …’ ‘Just tell me.’ She pulled her leg back out of the window and stood beside me once again. ‘One of her friends, who was probably very drunk at the time, claims that she saw the bookshop. Not only saw it, but walked inside.’ I said nothing. I couldn’t risk opening my mouth to speak. ‘It was back in the sixties, so, you know … hallucinogenic drugs and stuff. But I figured you’d want to know. Anyway, I really have to go.’ With that, she slipped back inside and shut the window behind her. I stayed on the patch of ground where the bookshop should have been and walked slowly around in circles until my legs stopped feeling like jelly. I wanted to tell her, but just as she had said, it sounded ridiculous. My first night in Ireland, following a few too many G&Ts on the Ryanair flight, I took a taxi straight to Ha'penny Lane. I was fully expecting to find a bookshop, and that is exactly what I found. Even the taxi driver must have seen it. I think. I remember getting out of the car, handing him the money and walking up to the door. The lights were on inside and there was a golden glow from within, dispersed through the stained-glass windows. It was warm and comfortable inside, with that distinct bookshop smell of old musty covers and something spicy, like cinnamon. The walls were lined with shelves full of colourful book covers and I felt the tips of my fingers itching to touch them. But I wanted to speak to the owner first – show them the letter I had found and see if they could shed any light on its contents. I heard the bell ringing over the door and as I turned to see who had walked in behind me, I found myself outside on the pavement again. Just like that. I hadn’t moved my feet and yet there I was. I turned back to where the shop had been and found nothing but the darkness of night, as though it had swallowed the shop whole. For some reason I patted myself down, maybe to see if I was still there when the shop I was just standing in so clearly wasn’t. I did that ridiculous thing where you turn around and around on the spot, like a dog chasing its tail, in case the thing you lost is right behind you. But how could anyone lose a bookshop? The only logical explanation was that I had been very, very drunk. That is what I kept telling myself. A drunken haze, and the shop was a mirage. But I had been drunk many times before that and never conjured up a building, let alone walked into one. Now I had a corroborator. Someone else had seen the shop. The question now was: what had caused it to disappear and how could I get it back? Chapter Nineteen OPALINE Dublin,


— one year a pack of hideous reptiles destroyed it, another a Gamemakers’ flood washed it away — those are usually the years that tri- butes from other districts have won. That the Careers have been better red growing up is actually to their disadvantage, because they don’t know how to be hungry. Not the way Rue and I do. 206 But I’m too exhausted to begin any detailed plan tonight. My wounds recovering, my mind still a bit foggy from the ve- nom, and the warmth of Rue at my side, her head cradled on my shoulder, have given me a sense of security. I realize, for the first time, how very lonely I’ve been in the arena. How comforting the presence of another human being can be. I give in to my drowsiness, resolving that tomorrow the tables will turn. Tomorrow, it’s the Careers who will have to watch their backs. The boom of the cannon jolts me awake. The sky’s streaked with light, the birds already chattering. Rue perches in a branch across from me, her hands cupping something. We wait, listening for more shots, but there aren’t any. “Who do you think that was?” I can’t help thinking of Peeta. “I don’t know. It could have been any of the others,” says Rue. “I guess we’ll know tonight.” “Who’s left again?” I ask. “The boy from District One. Both tributes from Two. The boy from Three. Thresh and me. And you and Peeta,” says Rue. “That’s eight. Wait, and the boy from Ten, the one with the bad leg. He makes nine.” There’s someone else, but neither of us can remember who it is. “I wonder how that last one died,” says Rue. “No telling. But it’s good for us. A death should hold the crowd for a bit. Maybe we’ll have time to do something before the Gamemakers decide things have been moving too slowly,” I say. “What’s in your hands?” 207 “Breakfast,” says Rue. She holds them out revealing two big eggs. “What kind are those?” I ask. “Not sure. There’s a marshy area over that way. Some kind of waterbird,” she says. It’d be nice to cook them, but neither of us wants to risk a fire. My guess is the tribute who died today was a victim of the Careers, which means they’ve recovered enough to be back in the Games. We each suck out the insides of an egg, eat a rabbit leg and some berries. It’s a good breakfast anywhere. “Ready to do it?” I say, pulling on my pack. “Do what?” says Rue, but by the way she bounces up, you can tell she’s up for whatever I propose. “Today we take out the Careers’ food,” I say. “Really? How?” You can see the glint of excitement in her eyes. In this way, she’s exactly the opposite of Prim for whom adventures are an ordeal. “No idea. Come on, we’ll figure out a plan while we hunt,” I say. We don’t get much hunting done though because I’m too busy getting


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

must be done to you. Now what sort of business would you like to engage in? Would you like to re-engage in copying for some one?” “No; I would prefer not to make any change.” “Would you like a clerkship in a dry-goods store?” “There is too much confinement about that. No, I would not like a clerkship; but I am not particular.” “Too much confinement,” I cried, “why you keep yourself confined all the time!” “I would prefer not to take a clerkship,” he rejoined, as if to settle that little item at once. “How would a bar-tender’s business suit you? There is no trying of the eyesight in that.” “I would not like it at all; though, as I said before, I am not particular.” His unwonted wordiness inspirited me. I returned to the charge. “Well then, would you like to travel through the country collecting bills for the merchants? That would improve your health.” “No, I would prefer to be doing something else.” “How then would going as a companion to Europe, to entertain some young gentleman with your conversation,—how would that suit you?” “Not at all. It does not strike me that there is any thing definite about that. I like to be stationary. But I am not particular.” “Stationary you shall be then,” I cried, now losing all patience, and for the first time in all my exasperating connection with him fairly flying into a passion. “If you do not go away from these premises before night, I shall feel bound—indeed I am bound—to—to—to quit the premises myself!” I rather absurdly concluded, knowing not with what possible threat to try to frighten his immobility into compliance. Despairing of all further efforts, I was precipitately leaving him, when a final thought occurred to me—one which had not been wholly unindulged before. “Bartleby,” said I, in the kindest tone I could assume under such exciting circumstances, “will you go home with me now—not to my office, but my dwelling—and remain there till we can conclude upon some convenient arrangement for you at our leisure? Come, let us start now, right away.” “No: at present I would prefer not to make any change at all.” I answered nothing; but effectually dodging every one by the suddenness and rapidity of my flight, rushed from the building, ran up Wall-street towards Broadway, and jumping into the first omnibus was soon removed from pursuit. As soon as tranquility returned I distinctly perceived that I had now done all that I possibly could, both in respect to the demands of the landlord and his tenants, and with regard to my own desire and sense of duty, to benefit Bartleby, and shield him from rude persecution. I now strove to be entirely care-free and quiescent; and my conscience justified me in the attempt; though indeed it was not so successful as I could have wished. So fearful was I of being again hunted out by the incensed landlord and his exasperated tenants, that, surrendering my business to Nippers, for a few days I drove about


windpipe as I lose myself to a coughing fit. In my rush to reach for my glass of water, I knock it over, sending ice cubes skidding across the table. Cold water floods Finn’s plate, turning his falafel into a sad, soggy mess. If this is how Finn and I are going to deal with our past, we’re going to be banned from every restaurant on this tour. A server swings by somewhere in the middle of my fiftieth apology, promising Finn she’ll have a new plate as soon as possible, even as he assures her that it’s fine and I contemplate launching myself into the sun. When I finally regain my composure, it occurs to me that I have a chance to shut this conversation down again. Let it all go. Instead, I make a thoughtless, fatal mistake. A silver bullet straight to my jugular. “Mind-blowing,” I repeat. “That really blew your mind?” Finn’s eyebrows push together in confusion. “It didn’t blow yours?” “We’ve got to stop saying the word ‘blow.’ ” “I’m serious, Chandler,” he says, that seriousness painted all over his face. Thirty seconds ago, he didn’t want to talk about it, but now his interest is piqued. “Is that—is that why you left? I wondered about that all day, even after I met with you and Joe for lunch.” His voice is level. Quiet but concerned. Then he brings a hand to his throat and swallows hard. “If I did something to offend you, or god forbid, hurt you—” “You didn’t hurt me,” I say quickly, cutting him off. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I stare down at my plate. I wanted only to clear the air between us. I didn’t want the actual truth. “I—I’m sorry I left without saying anything. I’d never done that before, as you know, and I just didn’t know how to navigate it, I guess.” Now this conversation is treading dangerously close to the truth, and while I haven’t had much experience with actors, I have a feeling telling one that he’s not very good in bed might spark a reaction I’m not entirely ready for. At the very least, it’s enough to get me booted from this assignment. Blacklisted from publishing. The server returns with a new wrap, extra tzatziki. Finn barely glances at it, instead flicking his eyes around the restaurant to make sure no one’s paying attention to us. Then he asks in this low, uncertain voice, “So was it . . . not good for you?” A dozen lies wait on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t pick a single one. My silence gives me away. “Holy shit.” He leans back in the booth, running a hand down his face, along the reddish stubble that’s just started to reappear. “It was that bad?” “No, no, no,” I rush to say. The restaurant isn’t busy, and yet I’m suddenly certain everyone in here knows what we’re talking about. A neon sign declaring This Mere Mortal slept With a Beloved Actor and Had the


there rose from the stillness of the jungle the awful cry of the challenging ape, and Sheeta turned, crashing into the underbrush. Clayton came to his feet with a start. His blood ran cold. Never in all his life had so fearful a sound smote upon his ears. He was no coward; but if ever man felt the icy fingers of fear upon his heart, William Cecil Clayton, eldest son of Lord Greystoke of England, did that day in the fastness of the African jungle. The noise of some great body crashing through the underbrush so close beside him, and the sound of that bloodcurdling shriek from above, tested Clayton's courage to the limit; but he could not know that it was to that very voice he owed his life, nor that the creature who hurled it forth was his own cousin--the real Lord Greystoke. The afternoon was drawing to a close, and Clayton, disheartened and discouraged, was in a terrible quandary as to the proper course to pursue; whether to keep on in search of Professor Porter, at the almost certain risk of his own death in the jungle by night, or to return to the cabin where he might at least serve to protect Jane from the perils which confronted her on all sides. He did not wish to return to camp without her father; still more, he shrank from the thought of leaving her alone and unprotected in the hands of the mutineers of the Arrow, or to the hundred unknown dangers of the jungle. Possibly, too, he thought, the professor and Philander might have returned to camp. Yes, that was more than likely. At least he would return and see, before he continued what seemed to be a most fruitless quest. And so he started, stumbling back through the thick and matted underbrush in the direction that he thought the cabin lay. To Tarzan's surprise the young man was heading further into the jungle in the general direction of Mbonga's village, and the shrewd young ape-man was convinced that he was lost. To Tarzan this was scarcely incomprehensible; his judgment told him that no man would venture toward the village of the cruel blacks armed only with a spear which, from the awkward way in which he carried it, was evidently an unaccustomed weapon to this white man. Nor was he following the trail of the old men. That, they had crossed and left long since, though it had been fresh and plain before Tarzan's eyes. Tarzan was perplexed. The fierce jungle would make easy prey of this unprotected stranger in a very short time if he were not guided quickly to the beach. Yes, there was Numa, the lion, even now, stalking the white man a dozen paces to the right. Chapter 14 Clayton heard the great body paralleling his course, and now there rose upon the evening air the beast's thunderous roar. The man stopped with upraised spear and faced the brush from which issued the awful sound. The shadows were deepening, darkness was settling in.


Vic snapped his hand back as the chest compartment closed with a low hiss. He stepped back, bumping into Nurse Ratched and Rambo’s broom. One of the android’s wooden fingers twitched, pulling back and scraping against the table. “It’s alive,” Rambo whispered fervently. “It’s alive.” The wooden hand curled into a fist before releasing, followed by a fullbody tremor that rolled through the android, causing his heels to skitter along the surface of the table. Vic rushed forward, worried the android would roll right off the table. He reached for the android, but before he could wrap his hands around any part of him, the tremors ceased. And then the android blinked slowly. Nurse Ratched said, “It appears his eyes are working. Success.” The android turned his head to look at them, mouth open, no sound coming out. He sat up, a great mechanical groan coming from deep within him. He turned on the table, his feet settling down on the floor. He raised his hand in front of him, turning it back and forth, staring at the wood encasing the bones of metal and the wiring underneath. “Wh-wh-wh … what. Wh-what. Have you. D-done. To me?” It was the same voice from the Scrap Yards, deep and guttural. Pointed and sharp. Angry, borderline furious, or so Vic thought. Vic’s own mind was short-circuiting. Here was what he’d worked for. Here was what he’d hoped for. Here, at last. A face, alive. Just like his father’s. Just like his own. And he couldn’t bring himself to look at it for long, glancing at the machine, then away, back, and then away again. Nurse Ratched rolled forward. “We healed you,” she said, words appearing on her screen that read YOU’RE ALIVE! CONGRATULATIONS! “You were found in a pile of rubble. We put you back together again.” The android dropped his hands. His face twisted into a dark scowl. “T-ttogether.” “Yes,” Nurse Ratched said. “You will find that certain parts needed to be replaced. I am going to run a diagnostic check. Please follow along with my instructions. Raise your right hand.” The android said, “My … m-my chest. What have you d-done t-to my chest? It b-b-burns.” His hand shook as he rubbed the skin above the heart. “We had to replace your power source,” Nurse Ratched said. “Your old one was dead. Can you tell us your make and model? Your designation? You still have not raised your right hand as I instructed. How disappointing. You need to listen to your mother. That is me. I am your mother.” The android grimaced, baring his square teeth. “I … wh-who are you. Who are y-you? Who are you?” He tried to stand. His metal right leg held his weight, but the wooden left buckled. He stumbled forward. “Ahh!” Rambo cried. “He’s attacking! I’m brave. I’m so brave!” He rolled forward, banging the broom against the android’s knees. “Die, murderous revenge machine, die!” “S-s-stop that,” the android growled. He tried to swat at the broom, but his center of gravity was off, and he


their good fortune but her own evil chi who denied her any? At last Ezinma was born, and although ailing she seemed determined to live. At first Ekwefi accepted her, as she had accepted others--with listless resignation. But when she lived on to her fourth, fifth and sixth years, love returned once more to her mother, and, with love, anxiety. She determined to nurse her child to health, and she put all her being into it. She was rewarded by occasional spells of health during which Ezinma bubbled with energy like fresh palm-wine. At such times she seemed beyond danger. But all of a sudden she would go down again. Everybody knew she was an ogbanje. These sudden bouts of sickness and health were typical of her kind. But she had lived so long that perhaps she had decided to stay. Some of them did become tired of their evil rounds of birth and death, or took pity on their mothers, and stayed. Ekwefi believed deep inside her that Ezinma had come to stay. She believed because it was that faith alone that gave her own life any kind of meaning. And this faith had been strengthened when a year or so ago a medicine man had dug up Ezinma's iyi-uwa. Everyone knew then that she would live because her bond with the world of ogbanje had been broken. Ekwefi was reassured. But such was her anxiety for her daughter that she could not rid herself completely of her fear. And although she believed that the iyi-uwa which had been dug up was genuine, she could not ignore the fact that some really evil children sometimes misled people into digging up a specious one. But Ezinma's iyi-uwa had looked real enough. It was a smooth pebble wrapped in a dirty rag. The man who dug it up was the same Okagbue who was famous in all the clan for his knowledge in these matters. Ezinma had not wanted to cooperate with him at first. But that was only to be expected. No ogbanje would yield her secrets easily, and most of them never did because they died too young - before they could be asked questions. "Where did you bury your iyi-uwa?" Okagbue had asked Ezinma. She was nine then and was just recovering from a serious illness. "What is iyi-uwa?" she asked in return. "You know what it is. You buried it in the ground somewhere so that you can die and return again to torment your mother." Ezinma looked at her mother, whose eyes, sad and pleading, were fixed on her. "Answer the question at once," roared Okonkwo, who stood beside her. All the family were there and some of the neighbours too. "Leave her to me," the medicine man told Okonkwo in a cool, confident voice. He turned again to Ezinma. "Where did you bury your iyi-uwa?" "Where they bury children," she replied, and the quiet spectators murmured to themselves. "Come along then and show me the spot," said the medicine man. The crowd set out with Ezinma leading


"Miss Ingram ought to be clement, for she has it in her power to inflict a chastisement beyond mortal endurance."     "Ha! explain!" commanded the lady.     "Pardon me, madam; no need of explanation; your own fine sense must inform you that one of your frowns would be a sufficient substitute for capital punishment."     "Sing!" said she, and again touching the piano she commenced an accompaniment in spirited style.     "Now is my time to slip away," thought I; but the tones that then severed the air arrested me. Mrs. Fairfax had said Mr. Rochester possessed a fine voice; he did a mellow, powerful bass, into which he threw his own feeling, his own force; finding a way through the ear to the heart, and there waking sensation strangely. I waited till the last deep and full vibration had expired till the tide of talk, checked an instant, had resumed its flow; I then quitted my sheltered corner and made my exit by the sidedoor, which was fortunately near. Thence a narrow passage led into the hall; in crossing it, I perceived my sandal was loose; I stopped to tie it, kneeling down for that purpose on the mat at the foot of the staircase. I heard the dining-room door unclose; a gentleman came out; rising hastily, I stood face to face with him it was Mr. Rochester.     "How do you do?" he asked.     "I am very well, sir."     "Why did you not come and speak to me in the room?" I thought I might have retorted the question on him who put it; but I would not take that freedom. I answered: "I did not wish to disturb you, as you seemed engaged, sir."     "What have you been doing during my absence?"     "Nothing particular; teaching Adle as usual."     "And getting a good deal paler than you were as I saw at first sight. What is the matter?"     "Nothing at all, sir."     "Did you take any cold that night you half drowned me?"     "Not the least."     "Return to the drawing-room; you are deserting too early."     "I am tired, sir."     He looked at me for a minute.     "And a little depressed," he said. "What about? Tell me."     "Nothing nothing, sir. I am not depressed."     "But I affirm that you are; so much depressed that a few more words would bring tears to your eyes indeed, they are there now, shining and swimming; and a bead has slipped from the lash and fallen on to the flag. If I had time, and was not in mortal dread of some prating prig of a servant passing, I would


which is more closely related to Henry James’s The Portrait of a Lady and Jean Toomer’s Cane than to Langston Hughes’s and Richard Wright’s proletarian literature, so popular in the Depression. The charting of Janie Crawford’s fulfillment as an autonomous imagination, Their Eyes is a lyrical novel that correlates the need of her first two husbands for ownership of progressively larger physical space (and the gaudy accoutrements of upward mobility) with the suppression of self- awareness in their wife. Only with her third and last lover, a roustabout called Tea Cake whose unstructured frolics center around and about the Florida swamps, does Janie at last bloom, as does the large pear tree that stands beside her grandmother’s tiny log cabin. She saw a dust bearing bee sink into the sanctum of a bloom; the thousand sister calyxes arch to meet the love embrace and the ecstatic shiver of the tree from root to tiniest branch creaming in every blossom and frothing with delight. So this was a marriage! To plot Janie’s journey from object to subject, the narrative of the novel shifts from third to a blend of first and third person (known as “free indirect discourse”), signifying this awareness of self in Janie. Their Eyes is a bold feminist novel, the first to be explicitly so in the Afro-American tradition. Yet in its concern with the project of finding a voice, with language as an instrument of injury and salvation, of selfhood and empowerment, it suggests many of the themes that inspirit Hurston’s oeuvre as a whole. II. One of the most moving passages in American literature is Zora Neale Hurston’s account of her last encounter with her dying mother, found in a chapter entitled “Wandering” in her autobiography, Dust Tracks on a Road (1942): As I crowded in, they lifted up the bed and turned it around so that Mama’s eyes would face east. I thought that she looked to me as the head of the bed reversed. Her mouth was slightly open, but her breathing took up so much of her strength that she could not talk. But she looked at me, or so I felt, to speak for her. She depended on me for a voice. We can begin to understand the rhetorical distance that separated Hurston from her contemporaries if we compare this passage with a similar scene published just three years later in Black Boy by Richard Wright, Hurston’s dominant black male contemporary and rival: “Once, in the night, my mother called me to her bed and told me that she could not endure the pain, and she wanted to die. I held her hand and begged her to be quiet. That night I ceased to react to my mother; my feelings were frozen.” If Hurston represents her final moments with her mother in terms of the search for voice, then Wright attributes to a similar experience a certain “somberness of spirit that I was never to lose,” which “grew into a symbol in my mind, gathering to itself…the poverty, the ignorance, the helplessness….” Few authors


Gabriel. There’s no need to go excavating ancient history.” Though Alie’s blush was the color of the cherry jam in Lore’s pastry, there was a still a hopeful light in her eyes. Lore recognized it. A torch long held. And it made her think of Gabe’s bare chest and how it’d felt pressed warm against her back a week ago and Bleeding God nothing could be simple, could it? “Poor Bastian.” Brigitte shook her head, face solemn, though the words were teasing. “Went to all this trouble, let Alie use his suite and everything, just for her to ask about Gabriel.” “You know it’s not like that with Bastian,” Alie said. “He’s like a brother.” “Unfortunate, honestly,” Brigitte countered. “I mean, I don’t think being an Arceneaux Queen would be a grand time, but he is unconscionably handsome.” “Unconscionably handsome, yes,” Dani said, “but he’d make an awful husband, if you wanted anything like loyalty. Bastian has someone new in that huge bed three times a week.” “Sounds like fun to me,” Brigitte said with a wicked grin. “It’s really just the queendom that doesn’t suit.” She picked out another macaron. “Don’t tell my father I said that, though. He has half a mind to try and get us betrothed before the end of the season.” Now Lore’s face was nearing the color of Alienor’s. “Gods, betrothals.” Dani rubbed at her temple, as if the very thought sparked a headache. “I don’t want to think about them.” There was genuine exhaustion in Dani’s voice. Alie and Brigitte shared a quick, sympathetic look. “Has your family come around at all, Dani?” Alie asked tentatively. “To the idea of you and Luc?” “Of course not.” Dani sat back with a sigh, crossing her arms and staring at her tea. Her eyes flicked up to Lore, then away. “He’s a commoner. It doesn’t matter that he’s the son of a well-regarded shipbuilder; they only care about lineage.” “And Hugo didn’t put in a good word for you?” “No,” Dani said miserably. “I did what we talked about—I made Hugo take me on a night Luc was fighting, acted like we’d never met. Luc won the match, of course, and Hugo won a pile of money on the bet—Luc did, too. But when I brought up that I might want to marry a well-off commoner… it didn’t go well.” Her mouth twisted. “In the words of my dear brother, it’d be like throwing money into the ocean.” Lore stayed quiet. She wondered if Luc was someone she might know if she saw him. “But we’re thinking of a new plan,” Dani said quietly, hopefully. “Luc and I. Amelia is the oldest; she’s the daughter who will need to marry for status.” “Maybe she can have a crack at Bastian,” Brigitte said. Dani rolled her eyes. “You sound just like her. She’s convinced she would make an excellent queen, but my parents are playing it safe. They’re currently in negotiations with Viscount Demonde. Amelia is less than thrilled.” “Gods, I bet.” Bri scowled. “If I had my


you tuh act wid me lak you is right now. You got me in de go-long.” At the newel post Janie whirled around and for the space Their Eyes Were Watching God 125 of a thought she was lit up like a transfiguration. Her next thought brought her crashing down. He’s just saying anything for the time being, feeling he’s got me so I’ll b’lieve him. The next thought buried her under tons of cold futility. He’s trading on being younger than me. Getting ready to laugh at me for an old fool. But oh, what wouldn’t I give to be twelve years younger so I could b’lieve him! “Aw, Tea Cake, you just say dat tuhnight because de fish and corn bread tasted sort of good. Tomorrow yo’ mind would change.” “Naw, it wouldn’t neither. Ah know better.” “Anyhow from what you told me when we wuz back dere in de kitchen Ah’m nearly twelve years older than you.” “Ah done thought all about dat and tried tuh struggle aginst it, but it don’t do me no good. De thought uh mah youngness don’t satisfy me lak yo’ presence do.” “It makes uh whole heap uh difference wid most folks, Tea Cake.” “Things lak dat got uh whole lot tuh do wid convenience, but it ain’t got nothin’ tuh do wid love.” “Well, Ah love tuh find out whut you think after sun-up tomorrow. Dis is jus’ yo’ night thought.” “You got yo’ ideas and Ah got mine. Ah got uh dollar dat says you’se wrong. But Ah reckon you don’t bet money, neither.” “Ah never have done it so fur. But as de old folks always say, Ah’m born but Ah ain’t dead. No tellin’ whut Ah’m liable tuh do yet.” 126 Zora Neale Hurston He got up suddenly and took his hat. “Good night, Mis’ Janie. Look lak we done run our conversation from grass roots tuh pine trees. G’bye.” He almost ran out of the door. Janie hung over the newel post thinking so long that she all but went to sleep there. However, before she went to bed she took a good look at her mouth, eyes and hair. All next day in the house and store she thought resisting thoughts about Tea Cake. She even ridiculed him in her mind and was a little ashamed of the association. But every hour or two the battle had to be fought all over again. She couldn’t make him look just like any other man to her. He looked like the love thoughts of women. He could be a bee to a blossom—a pear tree blossom in the spring. He seemed to be crushing scent out of the world with his foot- steps. Crushing aromatic herbs with every step he took. Spices hung about him. He was a glance from God. So he didn’t come that night and she laid in bed and pre- tended to think scornfully of him. “Bet he’s hangin’ round some jook or ’nother. Glad Ah treated him cold. Whut do Ah want wid some


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

had his eyes fixed on Harry and was muttering nonstop under his breath. "He's doing something -- jinxing the broom," said Hermione. "What should we do?" "Leave it to me." Before Ron could say another word, Hermione had disappeared. Ron turned the binoculars back on Harry. His broom was vibrating so hard, it was almost impossible for him to hang on much longer. The whole crowd was on its feet, watching, terrified, as the Weasleys flew up to try and pull Harry safely onto one of their brooms, but it was no good -- every time they got near him, the broom would jump higher still. They dropped lower and circled beneath him, obviously hoping to catch him if he fell. Marcus Flint seized the Quaffle and scored five times without anyone noticing. "Come on, Hermione," Ron muttered desperately. Hermione had fought her way across to the stand where Snape stood, and was now racing along the row behind him; she didn't even stop to say sorry as she knocked Professor Quirrell headfirst into the row in front. Reaching Snape, she crouched down, pulled out her wand, and whispered a few, well-chosen words. Bright blue flames shot from her wand onto the hem of Snape's robes. It took perhaps thirty seconds for Snape to realize that he was on fire. A sudden yelp told her she had done her job. Scooping the fire off him into a little jar in her pocket, she scrambled back along the row -- Snape would never know what had happened. It was enough. Up in the air, Harry was suddenly able to clamber back on to his broom. "Neville, you can look!" Ron said. Neville had been sobbing into Hagrid's jacket for the last five minutes. Harry was speeding toward the ground when the crowd saw him clap his hand to his mouth as though he was about to be sick -- he hit the field on all fours -- coughed -- and something gold fell into his hand. "I've got the Snitch!" he shouted, waving it above his head, and the game ended in complete confusion. "He didn't catch it, he nearly swallowed it," Flint was still howling twenty minutes later, but it made no difference -- Harry hadn't broken any rules and Lee Jordan was still happily shouting the results -- Gryffindor had won by one hundred and seventy points to sixty. Harry heard none of this, though. He was being made a cup of strong tea back in Hagrid's hut, with Ron and Hermione. "It was Snape," Ron was explaining, "Hermione and I saw him. He was cursing your broomstick, muttering, he wouldn't take his eyes off you." "Rubbish," said Hagrid, who hadn't heard a word of what had gone on next to him in the stands. "Why would Snape do somethin' like that?" Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another, wondering what to tell him. Harry decided on the truth. "I found out something about him," he told Hagrid. "He tried to get past that three-headed dog on Halloween. It bit


was to be thankful for. At any rate, not the state of society; society, if it could be said to exist, was rather a spectacle on which to call down Biblical imprecations-- and in fact, every one knew what the Reverend Dr. Ashmore meant when he chose a text from Jeremiah (chap. ii., verse 25) for his Thanksgiving sermon. Dr. Ashmore, the new Rector of St. Matthew's, had been chosen because he was very "advanced": his sermons were considered bold in thought and novel in language. When he fulminated against fashionable society he always spoke of its "trend"; and to Mrs. Archer it was terrifying and yet fascinating to feel herself part of a community that was trending. "There's no doubt that Dr. Ashmore is right: there IS a marked trend," she said, as if it were something visible and measurable, like a crack in a house. "It was odd, though, to preach about it on Thanksgiving," Miss Jackson opined; and her hostess drily rejoined: "Oh, he means us to give thanks for what's left." Archer had been wont to smile at these annual vaticinations of his mother's; but this year even he was obliged to acknowledge, as he listened to an enumeration of the changes, that the "trend" was visible. "The extravagance in dress--" Miss Jackson began. "Sillerton took me to the first night of the Opera, and I can only tell you that Jane Merry's dress was the only one I recognised from last year; and even that had had the front panel changed. Yet I know she got it out from Worth only two years ago, because my seamstress always goes in to make over her Paris dresses before she wears them." "Ah, Jane Merry is one of US," said Mrs. Archer sighing, as if it were not such an enviable thing to be in an age when ladies were beginning to flaunt abroad their Paris dresses as soon as they were out of the Custom House, instead of letting them mellow under lock and key, in the manner of Mrs. Archer's contemporaries. "Yes; she's one of the few. In my youth," Miss Jackson rejoined, "it was considered vulgar to dress in the newest fashions; and Amy Sillerton has always told me that in Boston the rule was to put away one's Paris dresses for two years. Old Mrs. Baxter Pennilow, who did everything handsomely, used to import twelve a year, two velvet, two satin, two silk, and the other six of poplin and the finest cashmere. It was a standing order, and as she was ill for two years before she died they found forty-eight Worth dresses that had never been taken out of tissue paper; and when the girls left off their mourning they were able to wear the first lot at the Symphony concerts without looking in advance of the fashion." "Ah, well, Boston is more conservative than New York; but I always think it's a safe rule for a lady to lay aside her French dresses for one season," Mrs. Archer conceded. "It was Beaufort


to come back. Presently the white, broken stumps, the split sticks and the tangle of the thicket refocused. There was a kind of heavy feeling in his body where he had watched his own pulse. Silence again. Yet not entirely so. They were whispering out there; and suddenly the branches were shaken furiously at two places on his right. The pointed end of a stick appeared. In panic, Ralph thrust his own stick through the crack and struck with all his might. "Aaa-ah!" His spear twisted a little in his hands and then he withdrew it again. "Ooh-ooh--" Someone was moaning outside and a babble of voices rose. A fierce argument was going on and the wounded savage kept groaning. Then when there was silence, a single voice spoke and Ralph decided that it was not Jack's. "See? I told you--he's dangerous." The wounded savage moaned again. What else? What next? Ralph fastened his hands round the chewed spear and his hair fell. Someone was muttering, only a few yards away toward the Castle Rock. He heard a savage say "No!" in a shocked voice; and then there was suppressed laughter. He squatted back on his heels and showed his teeth at the wall of branches. He raise his spear, snarled a little, and waited. Once more the invisible group sniggered. He heard a curious trickling sound and then a louder crepitation as if someone were unwrapping great sheets of cellophane. A stick snapped and he stifled a cough. Smoke was seeping through the branches in white and yellow wisps, the patch of blue sky overhead turned to the color of a storm cloud, and then the smoke billowed round him. Someone laughed excitedly, and a voice shouted. "Smoke!" He wormed his way through the thicket toward the forest, keeping as far as possible beneath the smoke. Presently he saw open space, and the green leaves of the edge of the thicket. A smallish savage was standing between him and the rest of the forest, a savage striped red and white, and carrying a spear. He was coughing and smearing the paint about his eyes with the back of his hand as he tried to see through the increasing smoke. Ralph launched himself like a cat; stabbed, snarling, with the spear, and the savage doubled up. There was a shout from beyond the thicket and then Ralph was running with the swiftness of fear through the undergrowth. He came to a pig-run, followed it for perhaps a hundred yards, and then swerved off. Behind him the ululation swept across the island once more and a single voice shouted three times. He guessed that was the signal to advance and sped away again, till his chest was like fire. Then he flung himself down under a bush and waited for a moment till his breathing steadied. He passed his tongue tentatively over his teeth and lips and heard far off the ululation of the pursuers. There were many things he could do. He could climb a tree; but that was putting all his


wedding vows. “I promise to love you unconditionally, to support you in your goals and dreams, to honor and respect you, to laugh with you and cry with you, to share my hopes and dreams with you, and bring you solace in times of need.” I pause, will- ing him to talk to me. He watches me, his lips parted, but says nothing. “And to cherish you for as long as we both shall live.” I sigh. “Oh, Ana,” he whispers and moves again, breaking our precious contact so that we’re lying side by side. He strokes my face with the back of his knuckles. “I solemnly vow that I will safeguard and hold dear and deep in my heart our union and you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse . “I promise to love you faithfully, forsaking all others, through the good times and the bad, in sickness or in health, regardless of where life takes us. I will protect you, trust you, and respect you. I will share your joys and sorrows and comfort you in times of need. I promise to cherish you and uphold your hopes and dreams and keep you safe at my side. All that is mine is now yours. I give you my hand, my heart, and my love from this moment on for as long as we both shall live.” Tears spring to my eyes. His face softens as he gazes at me. “Don’t cry,” he murmurs, his thumb catching and dispatching a stray tear. “Why won’t you talk to me? Please, Christian.” He closes his eyes as if in pain. “I vowed I would bring you solace in times of need. Please don’t make me break my vows.” He sighs and opens his eyes, his expression bleak. “It’s arson,” he says simply, and he looks suddenly so young and vulnerable. Oh fuck. 77/551 “And my biggest worry is that they are after me. And if they are after me—” He stops, unable to continue. “. . . They might get me,” I whisper. He blanches, and I know that I have fi- nally uncovered the root of his anxiety. I caress his face. “Thank you,” I murmur. He frowns. “What for?” “For telling me.” He shakes his head and a ghost of a smile touches his lips. “You can be very persuasive, Mrs. Grey.” “And you can brood and internalize all your feelings and worry yourself to death. You’ll probably die of a heart attack before you’re forty, and I want you around far longer than that.” “Mrs. Grey, you’ll be the death of me. The sight of you on the Jet Ski—I nearly had a coronary.” He flops back on the bed and puts his hand over his eyes, and I feel him shudder. “Christian, it’s a Jet Ski. Even kids ride Jet Skis. Can you imagine what you’ll be like when we visit your place in Aspen and I go skiing for the first time?” He gasps and turns to face me, and I want to laugh at the horror on his


Twelve? Still hanging on?” she asks. Well, as long as we’re talking I’m alive. “He’s out there now. Hunting Cato,” I snarl at her. Then I scream at the top of my lungs. “Peeta!” Clove jams her fist into my windpipe, very effectively cut- ting off my voice. But her head’s whipping from side to side, 280 and I know for a moment she’s at least considering I’m telling the truth. Since no Peeta appears to save me, she turns back to me. “Liar,” she says with a grin. “He’s nearly dead. Cato knows where he cut him. You’ve probably got him strapped up in some tree while you try to keep his heart going. What’s in the pretty little backpack? That medicine for Lover Boy? Too bad he’ll never get it.” Clove opens her jacket. It’s lined with an impressive array of knives. She carefully selects an almost dainty-looking num- ber with a cruel, curved blade. “I promised Cato if he let me have you, I’d give the audience a good show.” I’m struggling now in an effort to unseat her, but it’s no use. She’s too heavy and her lock on me too tight. “Forget it, District Twelve. We’re going to kill you. Just like we did your pathetic little ally . . . what was her name? The one who hopped around in the trees? Rue? Well, first Rue, then you, and then I think we’ll just let nature take care of Lover Boy. How does that sound?” Clove asks. “Now, where to start?” She carelessly wipes away the blood from my wound with her jacket sleeve. For a moment, she surveys my face, tilting it from side to side as if it’s a block of wood and she’s deciding exactly what pattern to carve on it. I attempt to bite her hand, but she grabs the hair on the top of my head, forcing me back to the ground. “I think . . .” she almost purrs. “I think we’ll start with your mouth.” I clamp my teeth together as she teasingly traces the outline of my lips with the tip of the blade. 281 I won’t close my eyes. The comment about Rue has filled me with fury, enough fury I think to die with some dignity. As my last act of defiance, I will stare her down as long as I can see, which will probably not be an extended period of time, but I will stare her down, I will not cry out. I will die, in my own small way, undefeated. “Yes, I don’t think you’ll have much use for your lips any- more. Want to blow Lover Boy one last kiss?” she asks, I work up a mouthful of blood and saliva and spit it in her face. She flushes with rage. “All right then. Let’s get started.” I brace myself for the agony that’s sure to follow. But as I feel the tip open the first cut at my lip, some great form yanks Clove from my body and then she’s screaming.


comfort. She hesitates, knowing it will hurt her baby, yet she gives in to her selfish craving. The drug, however, makes her even weaker, and the snow soon completely numbs her. Molly's love for her child is the one thing that fights against her drug addiction. But is she a good mother? Her child is ragged and hungry, a burden that she clutches automatically. She ultimately chooses the opium over her child's welfare, and under the influence of the drug she stops caring about what happens to the baby. On the other hand, there is a tender bond between them. The little girl sleeps peacefully, and when she tumbles awake she cries "mammy" and struggles to climb back into her mother's arms. The scene shifts to the child's viewpoint. Easily distracted, she sees a bright light and runs after it. She can't see what it is--she seems nearsighted, like Silas Marner. NOTE: PARALLELS A few chapters ago, Dunstan Cass was attracted by a bright light shining from Silas' cottage. In this parallel scene, the baby also is drawn by the firelight into Silas' home. Silas was out on a simple errand before. This time, he's left the door open because he has fallen into one of his mysterious fits. Ironically, he was looking out the door, hoping his gold would come back to him, just as the golden-haired child is heading toward the cottage. The little girl toddles straight into Silas' cottage and falls asleep by the fire. Eliot now backtracks slightly to show why Silas' door was open. Pathetically, he believed the villagers' superstition about his gold returning to him on New Year's Eve, and he was looking for his treasure. Why does he have a fit just then? Some readers think it's chance; others think it's a sign of a mystical power running his life. When Silas comes out of his fit, he turns toward the fireplace. Two logs have fallen apart and he pushes them together. (What could this symbolize?) His nearsighted eyes notice a gleam of gold on the hearth. He thinks at first that it's his money, and his heart pounds. Then the gold starts to move, to come alive (he used to imagine his gold was alive). He touches it. It is not cold and hard, but soft and warm. When Silas' gold disappeared, he tried to find a logical explanation. Now, however, he's ready to accept a magical explanation for the appearance of the child. He wonders if she is his little sister, come to him in a dream. This memory stirs long-dead emotions in him, and symbolically he also stirs the fire brighter. More memories rush into his mind. Remnants of his old religious feelings revive, and he senses "some Power presiding over his life." This child may be something new in his life, but his feelings for her grow out of his past. When the little girl wakes, Silas is forced into action. He picks her up and instinctively hushes her cries. (Notice that she still cries "mammy"--it's a natural reflex.) Taking care


Mrs. Norris turned her lamplike eyes on them, but didn't do anything. They didn't meet anyone else until they reached the staircase up to the third floor. Peeves was bobbing halfway up, loosening the carpet so that people would trip. "Who's there?" he said suddenly as they climbed toward him. He narrowed his wicked black eyes. "Know you're there, even if I can't see you. Are you ghoulie or ghostie or wee student beastie?" He rose up in the air and floated there, squinting at them. "Should call Filch, I should, if something's a-creeping around unseen." Harry had a sudden idea. "Peeves," he said, in a hoarse whisper, "the Bloody Baron has his own reasons for being invisible." Peeves almost fell out of the air in shock. He caught himself in time and hovered about a foot off the stairs. "So sorry, your bloodiness, Mr. Baron, Sir," he said greasily. "My mistake, my mistake -- I didn't see you -- of course I didn't, you're invisible -- forgive old Peevsie his little joke, sir." "I have business here, Peeves," croaked Harry. "Stay away from this place tonight." "I will, sir, I most certainly will," said Peeves, rising up in the air again. "Hope your business goes well, Baron, I'll not bother you." And he scooted off "Brilliant, Harry!" whispered Ron. A few seconds later, they were there, outside the third-floor corridor -- and the door was already ajar. "Well, there you are," Harry said quietly, "Snape's already got past Fluffy." Seeing the open door somehow seemed to impress upon all three of them what was facing them. Underneath the cloak, Harry turned to the other two. "If you want to go back, I won't blame you," he said. "You can take the cloak, I won't need it now." "Don't be stupid," said Ron. "We're coming," said Hermione. Harry pushed the door open. As the door creaked, low, rumbling growls met their ears. All three of the dog's noses sniffed madly in their direction, even though it couldn't see them. "What's that at its feet?" Hermione whispered. "Looks like a harp," said Ron. "Snape must have left it there." "It must wake up the moment you stop playing," said Harry. "Well, here goes..." He put Hagrid's flute to his lips and blew. It wasn't really a tune, but from the first note the beast's eyes began to droop. Harry hardly drew breath. Slowly, the dog's growls ceased -- it tottered on its paws and fell to its knees, then it slumped to the ground, fast asleep. "Keep playing," Ron warned Harry as they slipped out of the cloak and crept toward the trapdoor. They could feel the dog's hot, smelly breath as they approached the giant heads. "I think we'll be able to pull the door open," said Ron, peering over the dog's back. "Want to go first, Hermione?" "No, I don't!" "All right." Ron gritted his teeth and stepped carefully over the dog's legs. He bent and pulled the ring of the trapdoor, which swung up and open. "What can you see?"


First, career spies should rank the most dangerous terrorist hot spots. Second, State Department envoys should assess which of those places were cooperating with the United States to combat the threat (and which weren’t). And third, DHS should recommend temporary screening measures or travel limitations from “high risk” locations—not based on religion, not based on politics, just based on threat assessments. John Kelly approved the way forward. We’d call the White House’s bluff and get them a small tailored list, knowing it wouldn’t be the one Trump wanted. Secretary Kelly put me and Gene Hamilton in charge of monitoring the process, since one of us handled counterterrorism and the other handled immigration. Gene was a friendly guy whose office was next to mine, and while we disagreed on immigration policy, we agreed generally that the White House needed to stay out of this. But through the thin drywall separating us, I could hear the phone calls to Gene from Stephen Miller. There were a lot of countries Trump didn’t like—Somalia, Haiti, El Salvador. Were they on the draft list? Miller wanted to know. The president would be “upset” if the process didn’t produce the correct results. Although Gene and I had our differences, I was heartened to hear him push back on the demands. If we cherry-picked countries Trump wanted to block, the courts would surely strike down the plan. We were aided in elbowing out political meddling by an analyst named Olivia Troye. When I met the seasoned intelligence officer, I was told she was one of the best in the entire department—hardworking, apolitical, by-the-book. Olivia exceeded the description. Over several months, she ran aggressive interference, blocking attempts by political minions at the White House to tip the scales on certain countries, while making sure the outcome of the process was driven solely by the analysis of intelligence personnel and diplomats. Secretary Kelly was gone by the time the plan was finalized, and Elaine Duke had taken his place. Career officials presented her with a plan to lift travel restrictions on countries that were cooperating with the United States, to add new ones (including Venezuela and North Korea, both of which refused to help America catch terrorists), and, most important, to end blanket travel bans in favor of narrower, country-specific restrictions. While imperfect, it was better than allowing Trump to personally block travel from whatever country he disliked on a given day. Very late one night, Olivia and I huddled in the SCIF looking over the updated country chart her team had developed. Short of getting Trump to rescind his executive order, this was probably the best we could do. She confessed that when we’d first met she was worried I was “one of the MAGA ones.” Now, she said half-jokingly, we’d probably both get fired for defying Trump. Olivia wanted to know if Acting Secretary Duke would stick to her guns and defend the weakening of the travel ban. I told her I wasn’t worried at all. “Trust the experts.” That was Elaine’s maxim. She may not have been a


too much attention to the wares sold at the market, but what she had seen were candles, powders, sprays, soaps, and incense, all packaged with silly labels that promised money, love, or fortune. She had not come across an assortment of feathers and nails like this; it didn’t look like any of the amarres Araceli might buy. “Why don’t we talk to Abel?” Montserrat asked, as she began stuffing the contents back inside the envelope. “And ask him what, if he’s signed up for the hex-a-lot club of the month?” “Don’t be a dick. We need to hand him his mail anyway.” “Great. We can hire an exorcist after that.” “Yeah, I’m sure there’re a few in the Yellow Pages.” “You think I was drunk and made this all up, don’t you?” Tristán stared at her, and Montserrat stared back until finally she let out a sigh and shook her head. “I don’t know what you saw, and maybe this funny envelope is a coincidence. But in the unlikely event that it’s not, I’m guessing you can’t afford to move to a hotel permanently, so we need to figure out what’s going on.” “Promise you don’t think I made it up.” “I don’t think you did.” “And swear you think I’m clean.” Montserrat wished she could reply with an enthusiastic yes, but all she was able to do was press her lips together and slowly nod. Tristán had been a very active addict, to put it mildly, and his behavior during the lowest days of that addiction had been erratic; there had been moments when he said he could feel bugs under his skin, and one time when he saw flashing lights. He’d kicked the habit, but there had been one relapse a few years ago. “Okay, look, come with me,” Tristán said, grabbing Montserrat by the arm and pulling her with him. They stood next to the bathroom’s doorway and looked inside. Folded towels were stacked on a shelf, and there was a wicker hamper for the dirty laundry and a fluffy bathroom mat by the sliding shower door. “What?” Montserrat asked, unable to discern an oddity. If anything, Tristán could be accused of being a little too neat. “When I left my house the taps were closed. But look now.” Montserrat starred at the thin trickle of water going down the sink’s drain. “You probably left the tap open when you left.” “I did not. Someone was in this apartment.” Montserrat stepped into the bathroom, taking one more look around, then reached for the tap and closed it. She glanced at the mirror and saw Tristán’s troubled face reflected there. “I’m not lying, Momo,” he said. “I know,” she said, turning around and clutching his hand between hers. 10 “Have a drink,” Urueta told them, his hands flying toward the bottle and the glass. But Tristán shook his head. “You need to tell us what this is about,” he said, brandishing the envelope, which the director had simply tossed aside on one of the couches and Tristán had snatched up


them the combination.” “We’ll start with a right bevel.” All eyes were on Emily’s reflection in the mirror. “Step one, stretch the leg out, hold three and four. Five, stretch six, hold seven and eight. Repeat this twice. Now, left kick for four, right for four, kick right, kick left, inside ronds de jambe. Four kicks to the diagonal, four to the front, four left diagonal.” “Your head snaps when you switch feet,” added Russell. Emily wrapped up the sequence. “Four piano kicks, looking across, cross over, piano and over, four times, and you’re done. For that section.” Not touching another dancer was much harder than Marion expected. They were so close to each other. She held her torso stiff to support the movement, but her strut kicks were always too high. To her relief, she noticed several of the other new dancers struggling as well. She wanted this job. She wanted to do well and please Russell, to be part of this legendary team. She certainly wasn’t lonely, for the first time in ages. The dancers who were already Rockettes, like Bunny, went out of their way to help the new girls, and by the final run-through Marion had relaxed enough to enjoy it, especially at the end, when they pulled pretend guns out of holsters and gave a tip of a hat to the girl on either side. Prop guns and cowboy hats would be added in the afternoon rehearsal. Maybe then she’d earn another nod from Russell. “Don’t worry, everyone has a tough time the first go-round,” said Bunny as they gathered up their things. “Come with me to the dressing room while we get ready for the show. You should stay and watch it. What do you say?” It wasn’t as if Marion had anywhere else to be. * * * In the dressing room, she sat in the empty seat next to Bunny’s station as Bunny pulled on her costume: a one-shouldered striped bodysuit with a big red corsage. A matching top hat also sported a corsage, and the final touches included gold dance shoes and long gloves that reached above the elbows. In it, she was all legs and glamour. “You look marvelous,” Marion said. Bunny searched around her messy dressing room table for the right lipstick. “I know today was probably overwhelming, but you’ll see, we’re only a small part of the show. There’s the corps de ballet—their dressing rooms and entrance are on the other side of the building, so we rarely cross paths. They even have their own rehearsal hall. But they’re all quite lovely and nice when we do run into each other. There’s also a choral ensemble, a glee club, sometimes they add in a magician or a comedian. It’s a team effort, and each show goes by really fast, once you know the number.” “All that, and then there’s a movie?” “Crazy, right? But folks eat it right up.” “I don’t think Russell liked my dancing much.” “You stand out, no question.” “I’m not trying to.” “You’ll get it, I


him into camp. I took the axe and smashed in the door. I beat it and hacked it considerable a-doing it. I fetched the pig in, and took him back nearly to the table and hacked into his throat with the axe, and laid him down on the ground to bleed; I say ground because it was ground -- hard packed, and no boards. Well, next I took an old sack and put a lot of big rocks in it -- all I could drag -- and I started it from the pig, and dragged it to the door and through the woods down to the river and dumped it in, and down it sunk, out of sight. You could easy see that something had been dragged over the ground. I did wish Tom Sawyer was there; I knowed he would take an interest in this kind of business, and throw in the fancy touches. Nobody could spread himself like Tom Sawyer in such a thing as that. Well, last I pulled out some of my hair, and blooded the axe good, and stuck it on the back side, and slung the axe in the corner. Then I took up the pig and held him to my breast with my jacket (so he couldn't drip) till I got a good piece below the house and then dumped him into the river. Now I thought of some- thing else. So I went and got the bag of meal and my old saw out of the canoe, and fetched them to the house. I took the bag to where it used to stand, and ripped a hole in the bottom of it with the saw, for there warn't no knives and forks on the place -- pap done everything with his clasp-knife about the cooking. Then I carried the sack about a hundred yards across the grass and through the willows east of the house, to a shallow lake that was five mile wide and full of rushes -- and ducks too, you might say, in the season. There was a slough or a creek leading out of it on the other side that went miles away, I don't know where, but it didn't go to the river. The meal sifted out and made a little track all the way to the lake. I dropped pap's whetstone there too, so as to look like it had been done by accident. Then I tied up the rip in the meal sack with a string, so it wouldn't leak no more, and took it and my saw to the canoe again. It was about dark now; so I dropped the canoe down the river under some willows that hung over the bank, and waited for the moon to rise. I made fast to a willow; then I took a bite to eat, and by and by laid down in the canoe to smoke a pipe and lay out a plan. I says to myself, they'll follow the track of that sack- ful of rocks to the


up at Creedmoor? And you’re his doctor? Now, that would be a strange twist.” Peter stiffened slightly. “Right, in fact, there’s been a development there.” “What kind?” “Like you, I was offered a new job today.” “Really?” She could easily picture him working with the police, advising them on cases. In an exhilarating rush, she imagined them taking the city by storm together, meeting up over dinner in his loft at the end of the day to exchange stories. She remembered the way he’d gently stroked her hair when she was lying in his bed, and a shiver of desire ran through her. “It’s with the FBI,” Peter said. “They want me to start up a new department that studies cases like the Big Apple Bomber and come up with criminal profiles. We’d handle cases across the country, not only in New York.” “That is incredible, Peter. Congratulations. It sounds like we may have found jobs that are the perfect fit.” She lifted her glass and he did the same and they clinked them gently together. “If you ever need an assistant, you know where to find me. I’m sure I can run downtown from Times Square to advise you, when called for.” Peter took a sip of his wine and put down his glass. “Actually, it’s in Virginia. Where the FBI headquarters are.” “Virginia?” “Yes.” She couldn’t hide her disappointment. “You’ll be moving there?” “It’s an opportunity that’s too good to pass up.” The room blurred. He was moving all the way to Virginia. She’d never see him again. That explained his reaction to her kiss tonight. This was a breakup dinner. After breaking up with Nathaniel, she was now on the receiving end. “They sure reached out fast,” she finally said. “I mean, we only solved the case one day ago.” But the news had traveled far and wide, with a big headline in the New York Times this morning. It was no surprise he’d been snapped up. “Apparently Captain Somers gave me a glowing recommendation when they called him this morning.” “As he should.” Visions of creating a life together evaporated. Had she imagined their connection all this time? No. The way he’d looked at her last night—hungrily came to mind—was completely different from his countenance now. What had happened to change things? Peter was the first man who’d taken the time to get to know her, who wasn’t either cowed or overexcited by the way she looked. She couldn’t lose him now. The roast duck suddenly tasted dry. She wouldn’t be able to swallow another bite. “Oh. Well, maybe we could see each other when we’re both free. I mean, I’d have times that I’m not working, in between jobs. I could come to visit then.” “Mounting a Broadway show has to be a huge undertaking. Who knows what the future holds, right? Besides, you have someone waiting for you back home, right? The guy with the flashy car?” Was that a touch of jealousy in Peter’s question? Or was he relieved that it appeared she was already


mother and by running in and out and going to parties as she had done in frocks "full of lace." But she was not there any more. "You needn't expect to see him, because ten to one you won't," said Mrs. Medlock. "And you mustn't expect that there will be people to talk to you. You'll have to play about and look after yourself. You'll be told what rooms you can go into and what rooms you're to keep out of. There's gardens enough. But when you're in the house don't go wandering and poking about. Mr. Craven won't have it." "I shall not want to go poking about," said sour little Mary and just as suddenly as she had begun to be rather sorry for Mr. Archibald Craven she began to cease to be sorry and to think he was unpleasant enough to deserve all that had happened to him. And she turned her face toward the streaming panes of the window of the railway carriage and gazed out at the gray rain-storm which looked as if it would go on forever and ever. She watched it so long and steadily that the grayness grew heavier and heavier before her eyes and she fell asleep. CHAPTER III ACROSS THE MOOR She slept a long time, and when she awakened Mrs. Medlock had bought a lunchbasket at one of the stations and they had some chicken and cold beef and bread and butter and some hot tea. The rain seemed to be streaming down more heavily than ever and everybody in the station wore wet and glistening waterproofs. The guard lighted the lamps in the carriage, and Mrs. Medlock cheered up very much over her tea and chicken and beef. She ate a great deal and afterward fell asleep herself, and Mary sat and stared at her and watched her fine bonnet slip on one side until she herself fell asleep once more in the corner of the carriage, lulled by the splashing of the rain against the windows. It was quite dark when she awakened again. The train had stopped at a station and Mrs. Medlock was shaking her. "You have had a sleep!" she said. "It's time to open your eyes! We're at Thwaite Station and we've got a long drive before us." Mary stood up and tried to keep her eyes open while Mrs. Medlock collected her parcels. The little girl did not offer to help her, because in India native servants always picked up or carried things and it seemed quite proper that other people should wait on one. The station was a small one and nobody but themselves seemed to be getting out of the train. The station-master spoke to Mrs. Medlock in a rough, good-natured way, pronouncing his words in a queer broad fashion which Mary found out afterward was Yorkshire. "I see tha's got back," he said. "An' tha's browt th' young 'un with thee." "Aye, that's her," answered Mrs. Medlock, speaking with a Yorkshire accent herself and jerking her head over her shoulder toward


him for “personal and private reasons.” The sequel to his first book remains under contract, but it’s unclear whether that will ever see the light of day, assuming Geoff is still trying to finish it. Who really knows what happened? Twitter makes unqualified yet eager judges of us all. Depending on who you talk to, Geoff is either a manipulative, abusive, gaslighting, insecure leech, or a victim himself. Athena came out pretty clean, but mostly because no one could believe that dating the beautiful and talented Athena Liu was as awful as Geoff made it sound, and because it’s always easier to make the cishet white guy the punching bag. As far as I know, Athena and Geoff hadn’t spoken for months. So what on earth is he targeting me for? After some more sleuthing, I’m certain he’s the one behind all this. His account has faithfully retweeted everything that the @AthenaLiusGhost account has ever tweeted. Sometimes he adds his own quote tweets: Can’t believe no one is talking about this. Eden, and Juniper Song, should be ashamed. Before that, the only thing he’s tweeted was from over a month ago: Does anyone get weird looks when they ask for “real spicy, not just white people spicy” at Indian restaurants? (This got three likes, and the following response from one RichardBurns08: Me too. Been with my Thai wife for three years now, and they still think this gaijin can’t handle it. Love to prove them wrong!) The timing is too convenient. I have to act fast. Geoff is an idiot, but he’s an unstable, unpredictable idiot. Best to nip this in the bud. I think I can hold my own against him, but I’d like to know exactly what he has up his sleeve. I still have Geoff’s number from back when Athena invited us and several others on a writers’ retreat by the Potomac. The retreat never happened; we started bickering about the cost of the cabins, and whether it was heteronormative and regressive to insist on gender-separated cabins or if the people who weren’t in relationships would have to awkwardly share, and then suddenly everyone had scheduling errors and had to cancel at the last minute. But I meticulously saved everyone’s contact information, if only to differentiate from all the 202 and 401 area codes. I send Geoff a screenshot of @AthenaLiusGhost’s first tweet, and then add: I know. He’s one of those assholes who leaves read receipts on. He sees it right away. He doesn’t answer. My heart’s pounding so hard I can feel it in my boobs. I type: Tomorrow, outside Coco’s in Tyson’s Corner, 3:30. Only chance. Show up or I’ll tell everyone it’s you. Then I turn off my phone, hurl it across my bed, and scream. I SHOW UP EARLY TO COCO’S COFFEE. I GET AN ICED LATTE, BUT I ONLY allow myself tiny sips; I don’t want to have to pee in the middle of this. It’s unseasonably hot, so I have the outdoor seating area to myself. I pick a two-seater table near


Andy’s taken over the kiss, that he’s pressing Nick back against the couch cushions. Nick can feel the hard length of him against his stomach and groans. Andy gasps. “This feel okay?” Nick asks. “Yeah. Feels good.” “Me too. Why did you think you’d be bad at this?” “I said I’d be bad at sex. This isn’t sex.” “If you touched my dick, it would be in about three seconds.” Andy laughs, but then his expression sobers. “Is that what you want me to do?” On the one hand, yes, definitely, Nick wants that very much. On the other, Andy looks . . . not exactly skittish, but not confident, either. He looks exactly the way he does when he realizes he’s forgotten his keys or lost another handkerchief. Andy has always been shy, downright prudish, when it comes to talking about sex, so Nick doesn’t think that his hesitancy has to do with Nick being a man, but rather with Andy being Andy. “We can take it slow,” Nick says. “We have time, right? I’m not going anywhere.” He’ll just beat off in the shower four times a day, no problem. “Yeah,” Andy says, and bends down for another kiss. Chapter Fourteen Nick is getting nothing done. Nobody’s at their best on Monday mornings, but Nick has never needed to be at his best to do what needs to get done. Maybe his focus has gone to the birds because he knows that outside it’s a beautiful spring day. Or maybe it’s because he only ate half his breakfast. Or maybe it’s because Andy’s lingering looks from across the table were why he hadn’t bothered finishing his eggs in the first place. They’d gone to sleep in their separate beds, a paper-thin wall between them. Then they’d woken up and gone through their usual morning routine in which Andy bumps into things and funnels coffee down his throat and Nick looks on and pretends not to be utterly, dementedly fond. Except—now he doesn’t have to pretend. He will anyway, because he has some dignity, but now at least he can look his fill. When Andy came out of the shower with only a towel around his waist, Nick let himself notice the droplets of water that had collected at the center of his chest, the scattering of dark freckles over his shoulders. He could notice, and he could keep on noticing. And now it’s all he can think about. He’s pretty sure he spends the half hour from ten to ten thirty sitting blankly at his desk and doing nothing but remembering how Andy bit Nick’s lip the previous night. It’s only the ringing of the phone that jolts him out of his reverie. “Mr. Russo?” says the girl at the switchboard. “Phone call from a Mr. Hollenbeck.” Nick frowns, unable to remember which story involves anyone called Hollenbeck. “Thanks. You can put it through.” “Nick Russo here,” he says after hearing the click. “Dave Hollenbeck here from the Journal-American.” Nick sucks in a breath. Dave Hollenbeck is the Journal’s managing


same season? That Athena Liu already exists, so you’re redundant? This industry is built on silencing us, stomping us into the ground, and hurling money at white people to produce racist stereotypes of us. “You’re right, though. Every so often someone in this industry develops a conscience and gives a nonwhite creator a chance, and then the whole carnival rallies around their book like it’s the only diverse work ever to exist. I’ve been on the other side. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve been in the room when we pick our one spicy book of the season, when we decide who’s educated and articulate and attractive but marginalized enough to make good on our marketing budget. It’s sick, you know. But I suppose it’s nice to be the token. If the rules are broken, you might as well ride the diversity elevator all the way to the top. Wasn’t that your logic?” “Candice . . .” “Can you imagine how they’ll fawn over this?” She spreads her hands in the air like she’s tracing out a rainbow. “Yellowface. By Candice Lee.” “Candice, I beg you. Don’t do this.” “If I don’t go public, will you?” I open my mouth, then close it. I can’t answer that. She knows I can’t answer that. “Candice, please. Athena wouldn’t have wanted this—” “Who cares about Athena?” Candice barks out a laugh. “Fuck Athena. We all hated that bitch. This is for me.” There’s nothing I can say to that. It all boils down to self-interest. Manipulating the story; gaining the upper hand. Doing whatever it takes. If publishing is rigged, you might as well make sure it’s rigged in your favor. I get it. I’ve done it, too; it’s just playing the game. It’s how you survive in this industry. If I were in Candice’s shoes right now, if I had the same kind of narrative gold she’s carrying in her backpack, of course I’d do the same. “Well, I think I have what I came for.” She drops the last camera into her backpack, zips it up, and tosses it over her shoulder. “If I were you, I’d get off social media when you get home. Save yourself the agony.” Something sharpens in my chest then. The same feeling I’d always had watching Athena succeed; the vinegar-sour conviction that this wasn’t fair. Now Candice is sauntering in front of me, flaunting her spoils, and I can already see how the industry will receive her manuscript. They’ll fucking go wild for her, because the narrative is simply so perfect: brilliant Asian artist exposes white fraud, wins big for social justice, sticks it to the man. Ever since The Last Front came out, I have been victim to people like Candice and Diana and Adele: people who think that, just because they’re “oppressed” and “marginalized,” they can do or say whatever they want. That the world should put them on a pedestal and shower them with opportunities. That reverse racism is okay. That they can bully, harass, and humiliate people like me, just because I’m white,


also called the High Faroth. 134, 145, 203 Taur-im-Duinath 'The Forest between Rivers', name of the wild country south of the Andram between Sirion and Gelion. 147, 184 Taur-nu-Fuin Later name of Dorthonion: 'the Forest under Night'. Cf. Deldwath. 186, 206, 212, 215-6, 221, 223, 245, 253-6 Tauron 'The Forester' (translated in the Valaquenta 'Lord of Forests'), a name of Orom among the Sindar. Cf. Aldaron. 22 Teiglin A tributary of Sirion, rising in Ered Wethrin and bounding the Forest of Brethil on the south; see also Crossings of Teiglin. 142, 145, 176, 190, 245, 251, 261, 265, 271, 273,279, 284 Telchar The most renowned of the smiths of Nogrod, the maker of Angrist and (according to Aragorn in The Two Towers III 6) of Narsil. 107, 215 Telemnar Twenty-sixth King of Gondor. 368 Teleri The third and greatest of the three hosts of the Eldar on the westward journey from Cuivinen, led by Elw (Thingol) and Olw. Their own name for themselves was Lindar the Singers; the name Teleri the Last-comers, the Hindmost, was given to them by those before them on the march. Many of the Teleri did not leave Middle-earth; the Sindar and the Nandor were Telerin Elves in origin. 36, 54-7, 60-4, 71, 79-80, 83, 96-8, 101, 107, 111,117, 159-60, 164, 306-9, 310, 315, 354 Telperion The elder of the Two Trees of Valinor. 34, 47, 62, 82, 114-5, 247, 324, 361-2. Called the White Tree 62 Telumendil Name of a constellation. 48 Thalion 'Steadfast, Strong'; see Hrin. Thalos The second of the tributaries of Gelion in Ossiriand. 147, 167 Thangorodrim 'Mountains of Tyranny', reared by Morgoth above Angband; broken down in the Great Battle at the end of the First Age. 90, 109, 125-8, 136,139-40, 180-3, 215, 221, 232, 234, 240, 254, 312, 320, 353-4, 364 Thargelion 'The Land beyond Gelion', between Mount Rerir and the river Ascar, where Caranthir dwelt; called also Dor Caranthir and Talath Rhunen. 148, 158, 171, 174, 184 Thingol 'Grey-cloak', 'Grey-mantle' (in Quenya Sindacollo, Singollo), the name by which Elw, leader with his brother Olw of the host of the Teleri from Cuivinen and afterwards King of Doriath, was known in Beleriand; also called the Hidden King. See Elw. 58, 103-10, 125, 130-1, 134, 145, 151-5, 157, 172, 176-7, 182, 190, 199-204, 208-9, 217, 222-7, 229-30, 243-7, 260, 267,269,280, 285-92, 297, 315 Thorondor 'King of Eagles'. Cf. The Return of the King VI 4: 'Old Thorondor, who built his eyries in the inaccessible peaks of the Encircling Mountains when Middle-earth was young'. See Crissaegrim. 129, 149, 186, 191, 221, 281, 297, 301, 312 Thousand Caves See Menegroth. Thranduil Sindarin Elf, King of the Silvan Elves in the north of Greenwood the Great (Mirkwood); father of Legolas, who was of the Fellowship of the Ring. 371 ThurIngwthil 'Woman of Secret Shadow', the messenger of Sauron from Tol-in-Gaurhoth who took the form of a great bat, and in whose shape Lthien entered Angband. 216 Tilion A Maia, steersman of the Moon. 114-7 Tintall 'The Kindler', a name of Varda as maker of the Stars.


Jesus' marriage to Magdalene." "No, no," Teabing said, going to a nearby table of books. "As I said earlier, the marriage of Jesus and Mary Magdalene is part of the historical record." He began pawing through his book collection. "Moreover, Jesus as a married man makes infinitely more sense than our standard biblical view of Jesus as a bachelor." "Why?" Sophie asked. "Because Jesus was a Jew," Langdon said, taking over while Teabing searched for his book, "and the social decorum during that time virtually forbid a Jewish man to be unmarried. According to Jewish custom, celibacy was condemned, and the obligation for a Jewish father was to find a suitable wife for his son. If Jesus were not married, at least one of the Bible's gospels would have mentioned it and offered some explanation for His unnatural state of bachelorhood." Teabing located a huge book and pulled it toward him across the table. The leatherbound edition was poster-sized, like a huge atlas. The cover read: The Gnostic Gospels. Teabing heaved it open, and Langdon and Sophie joined him. Sophie could see it contained photographs of what appeared to be magnified passages of ancient documents-tattered papyrus with handwritten text. She did not recognize the ancient language, but the facing pages bore typed translations. "These are photocopies of the Nag Hammadi and Dead Sea scrolls, which I mentioned earlier," Teabing said. "The earliest Christian records. Troublingly, they do not match up with the gospels in the Bible." Flipping toward the middle of the book, Teabing pointed to a passage. "The Gospel of Philip is always a good place to start." Sophie read the passage: And the companion of the Saviour is Mary Magdalene. Christ loved her more than all the disciples and used to kiss her often on her mouth. The rest of the disciples were offended by it and expressed disapproval. They said to him, "Why do you love her more than all of us?" The words surprised Sophie, and yet they hardly seemed conclusive. "It says nothing of marriage." "Au contraire." Teabing smiled, pointing to the first line. "As any Aramaic scholar will tell you, the word companion, in those days, literally meant spouse." Langdon concurred with a nod. Sophie read the first line again. And the companion of the Saviour is Mary Magdalene. Teabing flipped through the book and pointed out several other passages that, to Sophie's surprise, clearly suggested Magdalene and Jesus had a romantic relationship. As she read the passages, Sophie recalled an angry priest who had banged on her grandfather's door when she was a schoolgirl. "Is this the home of Jacques Saunire?" the priest had demanded, glaring down at young Sophie when she pulled open the door. "I want to talk to him about this editorial he wrote." The priest held up a newspaper. Sophie summoned her grandfather, and the two men disappeared into his study and closed the door. My grandfather wrote something in the paper? Sophie immediately ran to the kitchen and flipped through that morning's paper. She found her grandfather's name 166 on


Arthur Gelb’s City Room, and Richard Kluger’s The Paper. Acknowledgments I’m always grateful for the support and encouragement of my agent, Deidre Knight, but perhaps never more so than when I told her that, oops, I wrote a whole book set in the fifties and could she make sure it found a home? I’m so grateful that Elle Keck and Tessa Woodward at Avon believed in the potential for this kind of story in this kind of setting. My wonderful and talented editor, Sylvan Creekmore, came aboard when an early draft of this book was already a fait accompli and proceeded to adopt it like it was her own stray orphan baby animal; her incisive comments helped shape it into something so much more. I am so very grateful for the support and expertise of everyone at Avon who helped make this book a reality and get it into readers’ hands. My family has had to hear more about newspapers and pre-Stonewall gay rights than they ever wanted to know, and to them I can only apologize. My parents fielded dozens of questions about life in New York City in the 1950s, in particular life among Italian Americans in the outer boroughs. Many thanks to the people of the Discord, for their moral support, answers to inane questions, and pet pictures. As ever, Marikka took an early look at this book and performed the invaluable service of confirming that it was not, in fact, terrible. About the Author CAT SEBASTIAN writes queer historical romances. Before writing, Cat was a lawyer and a teacher and did a variety of other jobs she liked much less than she enjoys writing happy endings for queer people. She was born in New Jersey and lived in New York and Arizona before settling down in a swampy part of the South. When she isn’t writing, she’s probably reading, having one-sided conversations with her dog, or doing the crossword puzzle. Cat is the author of many series, including the Turners, Seducing the Sedgwicks, the Regency Impostors, and the London Highwaymen. Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com. Praise for Cat Sebastian The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes “If romance is designed to lay bare the innermost workings of a person’s heart, then it’s ruthless to put Marian and Rob . . . in a romance. . . . I couldn’t love them more.” —Olivia Waite, New York Times Book Review “With a pair of intoxicatingly audacious leads . . . readers will root for the success of every bad idea, including their unlikely romance. . . . [S]tunningly successful.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review) “From its brilliantly crafted opening . . . to its blissfully romantic conclusion, everything about Sebastian’s latest exceedingly sensual, superbly nuanced Georgian-set historical romance is perfectly on point.” —Booklist (starred review) “If you’re not already a fan of historical romance, you will be when you’re done reading The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes.” —BookPage The Queer Principles of Kit Webb “[This] book does not so much tear down class boundaries as dynamite the


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

lack of improvement. Throughout, she remained cheerfully oblivious, alternately hacking away at the wood and responding perfunctorily to his comments while she wiped sweat from her pretty brow. At one point, I laughed so hard that Bambleby turned and scowled at me through the window. I had heard, through Thora, that Lilja was quite happily committed to a girl from a neighbouring village, but I saw no need to disclose this information to Wendell. It was his own fault, anyhow, for assuming that every woman who walked the earth would be enraptured by his charms. I spent the day with my books and my notes. Bambleby flitted in and out, contributing absolutely nothing to scholarship, though he did shake out the rugs after exclaiming over their begrimed state and hang some useless woollen tapestry he had purchased from Groa. The effect of his simple ministrations upon the place has been almost alarming; it is virtually cosy. I have never lived somewhere warranting such an adjective, and I am not sure how to feel about it. And anyway, what is the point of decorating a place one is only temporarily inhabiting? When I posed the question to Bambleby, he replied with characteristic solipsism that if I had to ask, I would never understand the answer. “Come down to the tavern,” he said after dark had fallen. “No, thank you,” I said, glancing up from the dryadology journal I was jotting notes from—I was working on the bibliography for my encyclopaedia. “I’d like an early night.” “You don’t have to stay long. You’d rather sit here with your nose in a book?” “Vastly,” I said, and he shook his head at me, not in disgust but utter bemusement. “Very well, you strange creature,” he said, and to my astonishment he took off his cloak and settled himself in the other chair. “You don’t have to stay. I’m perfectly content by myself.” “Yes, I’ve noticed.” I shrugged. I didn’t mind him staying; I am in fact used to having him around, not only here but at Cambridge, where he is always poking his nose into my office. He took up that blasted sewing kit of his and attended to his cloak, tucking one leg boyishly beneath him and leaning into the chair. I am largely incapable of making conversation of a personal nature. I rarely have the inclination, fortunately, but I have had occasion to resent the lack of this particular human skill, as I did then. How many scholars have had the opportunity to question a ruler of the courtly fae? Not one, or none who lived to tell of it. And yet I could not make myself ask. I suspect that, if I could have convinced myself that my interest was of a purely intellectual nature, I could have managed it. But it was not. This was Bambleby, after all—my only friend. (God.) “Em,” he said without looking up from his work, after I had snuck yet another glance in his direction, “either you are plotting how best to have me murdered and


saying to myself, I'm not happy, I'm not happy." "I am." Mildred's mouth beamed. "And proud of it." "I'm going to do something," said Montag. "I don't even know what yet, but I'm going to do something big." "I'm tired of listening to this junk," said Mildred, turning from him to the announcer again Montag touched the volume control in the wall and the announcer was speechless. "Millie?" He paused. "This is your house as well as mine. I feel it's only fair that I tell you something now. I should have told you before, but I wasn't even admitting it to myself. I have something I want you to see, something I've put away and hid during the past year, now and again, once in a while, I didn't know why, but I did it and I never told you." He took hold of a straight?backed chair and moved it slowly and steadily into the hall near the front door and climbed up on it and stood for a moment like a statue on a pedestal, his wife standing under him, waiting. Then he reached up and pulled back the grille of the air?conditioning system and reached far back inside to the right and moved still another sliding sheet of metal and took out a book. Without looking at it he dropped it to the floor. He put his hand back up and took out two books and moved his hand down and dropped the two books to the floor. He kept moving his hand and dropping books, small ones, fairly large ones, yellow, red, green ones. When he was done he looked down upon some twenty books lying at his wife's feet. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't really think. But now it looks as if we're in this together." Mildred backed away as if she were suddenly confronted by a pack of mice that had come up out of the floor. He could hear her breathing rapidly and her face was paled out and her eyes were fastened wide. She said his name over, twice, three times. Then moaning, she ran forward, seized a book and ran toward the kitchen incinerator. He caught her, shrieking. He held her and she tried to fight away from him, scratching. "No, Millie, no! Wait! Stop it, will you? You don't know . . . stop it!" He slapped her face, he grabbed her again and shook her. She said his name and began to cry. "Millie! "' he said. "Listen. Give me a second, will you? We can't do anything. We can't burn these. I want to look at them, at least look at them once. Then if what the Captain says is true, we'll burn them together, believe me, we'll burn them together. You must help me." He looked down into her face and took hold of her chin and held her firmly. He was looking not only at her, but for himself and what he must do, in her face. "Whether we like this or not, we're in it. I've