had mentioned. He found it in the corner above their feet. All he would need to do is kick it, and the box would open. It would open, and they would be free. They could stand. They could breathe, because the air was growing thick inside. He gripped the pack tighter as he struggled for control. Bile rose in the back of his throat, acidic and hot. And then Hap whispered, “Tell m-me.” “Tell you what?” Vic gasped, shifting against Hap, feeling the slide of metal and skin and wood against his back. His helmet bumped the lid overhead. His thoughts were clouded, like a storm rumbling on the horizon. “Tell m-me about the h-heart.” Vic blinked rapidly as the clouds parted slightly, a thin sliver of sunlight poking through. “What do you mean?” “Y-you’re making a n-new one, right?” “Trying to,” he said, sinking down against Hap again. Hap let go of his sides, raising his arms until they wrapped around the front of Vic’s pack, holding them both in place. Vic was surrounded by him, could hear the gears turning in Hap’s chest, a low, pleasant hum. “H-how d-does it start?” “Wood,” Vic said, voice weak. “It starts with wood.” “Okay. Why w-wood?” “I … don’t know?” “You d-do,” Hap said. “I know you d-do.” Vic grunted when the crate shifted. He turned his face into his own arm, muffling his shout as the crate was lifted off the ground. “Here,” Hap whispered. “I’m h-here. Focus on the s-sound of my v-voice. Let me hear y-yours, Vic. T-tell me about what you’re making.” “Wood,” Vic said as the crate swung slowly, his stomach swooping. “It begins with wood.” “Y-yes. Why?” “It’s easier to mold. To fashion. It’s … old. The art of carving wood. It goes back thousands of years.” He grunted when the crate shook as it was set down. “K-keep going.” And so he did. CHAPTER 20 He startled awake when the crate jerked around them. He gasped loudly, about to shout in warning, but a hand covered his mouth. “Quiet,” a voice warned in his ear. Hap. The crate. The City of Electric Dreams. Vic nodded against Hap’s hand, breathing in the scent of wood just under his nose on one of Hap’s fingers. Vic listened. The sounds of heavy machinery moved around them. He didn’t hear voices, didn’t hear footsteps, or so he thought. He waited, back cramping, legs stiff. Minutes felt like hours. Nothing happened. Eventually, the sounds of machinery faded. And they waited more, the Coachman’s warning ringing in his ears. He was about to tell Hap that they should press the button when movement came from just outside the crate. He froze, sweat dripping down into his eyes. The crate beeped above them as someone—something—tapped against the screen. He felt Hap tense underneath him. The gears of his heart sped up. The crate lid opened, the light outside the crate bright and harsh. “See?” Rambo said, rising up the side of the crate on his hydraulic lift. “I told you this was the


man’s going to have a heart attack.” Or, “Bet you a thousand dollars he’s cheating on his wife.” But guess what kind of anticipation romance novels use? Positively valenced. Romance novels, rom-coms, nontragic love stories—they all run on a blissful sense that we’re moving toward something better. Percentage-wise, the majority of clues writers drop in romance novels don’t give you things to dread. They give you things to look forward to. This, right here—more than anything else—is why people love them. The banter, the kissing, the tropes, even the spice … that’s all just extra. It’s the structure—that “predictable” structure—that does it. Anticipating that you’re heading toward a happy ending lets you relax and look forward to better things ahead. And there’s a name for what you’re feeling when you do that. Hope. Sometimes I see people grasping for a better word than predictable to describe a romance. They’ll say, “It was predictable—but in a good way.” I see what they’re going for. But I’m not sure it needs pointing out that over the course of a love story … people fell in love. I mean: Of course they did! I don’t think it’s possible to write a love story where the leads getting together at the end is a surprise. And even if it were, why would you want to? The anticipation—the blissful, delicious, oxytocin-laden, yearning-infused, building sense of anticipation—is the point. It’s the cocktail of emotions we all came there to feel. I propose we stop using the hopelessly negative word predictable to talk about love stories and start using anticipation. As in: “This love story really created a fantastic feeling of anticipation.” Structurally, thematically, psychologically—love stories create hope and then use it as fuel. Two people meet—and then, over the course of three hundred pages, they move from alone to together. From closed to open. From judgy to understanding. From cruel to compassionate. From needy to fulfilled. From ignored to seen. From misunderstood to appreciated. From lost to found. Predictably. That’s not a mistake. That’s a guarantee of the genre: Things will get better. And you, the reader, get to be there for it. It’s a gift the love story gives you. But no type of story gets more eye rolls than love stories. “They’re so unrealistic,” people say, as they start another zombie apocalypse movie. What is that? Is it self-protection? Self-loathing? Fear of vulnerability? Is it pretending we don’t care so we aren’t disappointed? Is it some sad, unexamined misogyny that we as a culture really, really need to work on? I think love stories are deeply misunderstood—in part, at least, because they don’t work like other stories. Love stories don’t have happy endings because their authors didn’t know any better. They have happy endings because those endings let readers access a rare and precious kind of emotional bliss that you can only get from having something that matters to look forward to. Yes, misery is important. But joy is just as important. The ways we take care of each other matter just as much as the


color palette, and a setting, to doing the prep work and the initial sketches, to rendering the final, full painting … I was going to need every minute I had. The competition. I’d almost forgotten. I was a finalist in the most prestigious portrait competition in the country. I couldn’t blow it. After all those years of failure: just scraping by and working overlapping jobs and questioning my value as a human being, I had to win. Sue had wanted to celebrate yesterday, but now the real work started. This was my shot. Possibly the only one I’d ever have. So no, I wasn’t going to sign up for elective brain surgery right now, thanks very much. “Um,” I said to Dr. Estrera, in a soft voice, like I didn’t want to offend him, “I just don’t have the time for brain surgery.” How bizarre to say those words out loud. And then my desire not to have brain surgery ran into direct conflict with my desire for Lucinda to never know anything about my life—and I hesitated so hard to explain my situation that when it all came out, it was one rapid burst: “I’m a portrait artist, and I’m a finalist in a competition that has a deadline in six weeks, and the first-place prize is ten thousand dollars, and this really is my big break that could change everything for me, and I’m going to need every single second between now and then to create the most kick-ass portrait in the history of time because I really, really need to win this thing.” Had I just said the word ass in front of a brain surgeon? “I understand,” Dr. Estrera said. “But please realize, there is some urgency here. Bleeding—even seepage—in the brain is never a good thing. And while ‘brain surgery’”—he made air quotes with his fingers—“sounds like a big deal, and it is, this procedure is relatively quick. You’d need only two to four days in the hospital. We can even do hair-sparing techniques to avoid shaving your head.” Was he trying to make it sound appealing? I hadn’t even thought about anyone shaving my head. What had started as a simple no was rapidly becoming a “hell, no.” I nodded like I was thinking about it. But what was there to think about? An old New Yorker cartoon of a person scheduling a meeting and saying, “How about never?” came to mind. “I think,” I said then, “that I’d really like to put the surgery off for as long as humanly possible.” Three LUCINDA TRIED TO force me to ride home with her in her Navigator, but I called an Uber instead. No way was I accepting help from her. Or letting her see my apartment, either. Though “apartment” was too generous a term. More of an “efficiency.” Or more accurately, a “shack”—built as the caretaker’s quarters in the 1910s when the building was constructed as a warehouse. Sue’s dad, Mr. Kim, had renovated the building, turning it into hipster industrial condos. But the rooftop shack


one more of those cascading dominoes so necessary for all life within the universe to prevail?” “You’re talking thousands of lives,” Dr. Kline said, her eyes boring into Resnick. “It’s not as if I haven’t pleaded with the council,” Resnick said. “Especially since, to my knowledge, there isn’t any definitive proof any of this has any long-term negative consequences to the contrary.” “So, you all just go along with whatever they say?” “They’ve averted countless catastrophes. There is no question of the good they do. They are not the ones to throw caution to the wind. To let the chips fall where they may when they don’t know all the specific potential outcomes.” “Are we even supposed to be here?” Aubrey asked. “I can answer that,” LaSalle said with a crooked grin and eyeing Resnick. “No flippin’ way.” Pristy noticed more movement in the distance. Dark, slithering, undefined shapes that were beyond creepy, to use LaSalle’s earlier word. “Guess I know why you’ve been such an uptight ass-hat these last few days,” Pristy said. “He came here, conducting an unsanctioned mission, knowing he’ll most probably be executed,” Derrota said. “I’m sorry … None of this must have been easy for you.” “If it means I have to sacrifice myself so thousands of Lincoln crew members can live, then I willingly do that,” Pristy said, looking to the others. Reluctantly, the others nodded, with the exception of the youngest of the group, Aubrey. “I don’t see why we can’t all stay alive. Fuck the Grand Consortium and their stupid directives. And yes, I’ll say that right to their old, wrinkled, scrotum-y faces.” Resnick’s eyes widened as if she’d spouted blasphemy, like some omnipresent God-like presence would suddenly strike her down with a bolt of lightning. The weight of her words continued to hang in the air. Suddenly Pristy’s ChronoLink started to vibrate. Seeing the others now looking at their wrists, apparently, all of their ChronoLinks had started to vibrate. The large watch-like dial was inundated with flowing lines of symbols and indecipherable characters. The encircling bezel was flashing a bright orange. Clearly, someone was trying to tell them something. Pristy heard Resnick’s deep inhalation. His eyes stayed glued to his ChronoLink—reading and then rereading the encrypted message. Chapter 56 “What does it say?” Aubrey said. “I’m no good at reading gobbledygook.” The general looked up, finding Pristy’s eyes. “What?” she said. “Seems we made our proverbial beds, now we have to sleep in them.” “Meaning?” Derrota said. Resnick said, “We are not to destroy the Liquilids’ quantum flux generator, which was always the case. But if we can somehow manage to disrupt the shields surrounding this asteroid, do so subtly enough that our presence will never be detected, we have the go-ahead to proceed.” “Why does that matter?” Dr. Kline asked. Derrota smiled. “It’s so Adams can get a more precise lock on this rock.” “And crash into it,” Aubrey said. Pristy didn’t care about any of that. “And the crew members?” Resnick looked somewhat befuddled. “They said, and I quote … ‘We’re


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

hear the cricket bats but more slowly than before: pick, pock. Wells asked: --What is going to be done to them? --Simon Moonan and Tusker are going to be flogged, Athy said, and the fellows in the higher line got their choice of flogging or being expelled. --And which are they taking? asked the fellow who had spoken first. --All are taking expulsion except Corrigan, Athy answered. He's going to be flogged by Mr Gleeson. --I know why, Cecil Thunder said. He is right and the other fellows are wrong because a flogging wears off after a bit but a fellow that has been expelled from college is known all his life on account of it. Besides Gleeson won't flog him hard. --It's best of his play not to, Fleming said. --I wouldn't like to be Simon Moonan and Tusker Cecil Thunder said. But I don't believe they will be flogged. Perhaps they will be sent up for twice nine. --No, no, said Athy. They'll both get it on the vital spot. Wells rubbed himself and said in a crying voice: --Please, sir, let me off! Athy grinned and turned up the sleeves of his jacket, saying: It can't be helped; It must be done. So down with your breeches And out with your bum. The fellows laughed; but he felt that they were a little afraid. In the silence of the soft grey air he heard the cricket bats from here and from there: pock. That was a sound to hear but if you were hit then you would feel a pain. The pandybat made a sound too but not like that. The fellows said it was made of whalebone and leather with lead inside: and he wondered what was the pain like. There were different kinds of sounds. A long thin cane would have a high whistling sound and he wondered what was that pain like. It made him shivery to think of it and cold: and what Athy said too. But what was there to laugh at in it? It made him shivery: but that was because you always felt like a shiver when you let down your trousers. It was the same in the bath when you undressed yourself. He wondered who had to let them down, the master or the boy himself. O how could they laugh about it that way? He looked at Athy's rolled-up sleeves and knuckly inky hands. He had rolled up his sleeves to show how Mr Gleeson would roll up his sleeves. But Mr Gleeson had round shiny cuffs and clean white wrists and fattish white hands and the nails of them were long and pointed. Perhaps he pared them too like Lady Boyle. But they were terribly long and pointed nails. So long and cruel they were, though the white fattish hands were not cruel but gentle. And though he trembled with cold and fright to think of the cruel long nails and of the high whistling sound of the cane and of the chill you felt at the end of


piece of an ancient exoskeleton, as if indeed Wilhelm Ewers had left a part of himself upon these pages, as though the letter and the book itself were smudged with his fingerprints and his magic. She closed the book and placed it on her desk. She walked back into the living room, her movements slow. There was something almost voyeuristic about this act of reading Ewers’s letter, yet it had been extremely helpful. Wilhelm Ewers, she could now confidently state, had grown up during the time of burgeoning occult movements in Germany. When such esoteric groups were suppressed, he survived and moved to South America, where he perfected a syncretic magic bible that liberally borrowed from other magical systems. He took ideas from Crowley, yes, but also numerous unnamed local warlocks and healers. Ewers had learned from or stolen from a vast number of people before making himself at home in Mexico. The picture of the dead man was acquiring colors and details in her mind, to the point that she could almost picture what Ewers might have said if she’d asked him a question. She supposed that was to be expected, considering that she was interested in doing a story about him for Enigma, but it also made her feel oddly close to him. She didn’t want to admit Ewers was an interesting fellow, but she supposed he’d had a certain flair, and you could still taste that long after his death. Plus the spells, the idea of magic as something that could be imprinted on film, the delicate systematization… The phone rang. She was tired and stared at it as though it were a strange plastic beast, as though she had never seen a phone in her life. She thought it might be Tristán, suddenly remembering he’d promised to phone and had not called her the previous day. It took four rings for her to pick up the receiver and press it against her ear. “At 2:29 I will be dead,” Abel Urueta said. 12 “I didn’t know who to speak to. Tristán is not home and I remembered your number and I have no idea what to do.” Abel sounded agitated, out of breath. Had he been running? “What happened? Where are you?” “I was selling watches at a shop near the Angel.” “Are you still there?” “I’m…yes…I’m at Liverpool and Amberes. Montserrat, I’ll be killed!” “Listen to me, there is a shopping mall nearby, head to the food court. At this time of the day there will be tons of people. You are not going to get killed in front of the frozen yogurt stand. Sit there and wait for me.” “Montserrat, I saw my death. At 2:29, and it’s already 1:30.” Montserrat checked her wristwatch. “I’ll be there as fast as I can. Wait for me at the food court.” “Yes, yes, I will.” He hung up. Montserrat fetched the book she had been reading and stuffed it in her purse. Without its cover, removed so she could peruse its binding, its weight felt different; it was


say no," Idaho had told him once. Hawat said: "You haven't yet told me whether your people can help my wounded." "They are wounded." The same damned answer every time! "We know they're wounded!" Hawat snapped. "That's not the--" "Peace, friend," the Fremen cautioned. "What do your wounded say? Are there those among them who can see the water need of your tribe?" "We haven't talked about water," Hawat said. "We--" "I can understand your reluctance," the Fremen said. "They are your friends, your tribesmen. Do you have water?" "Not enough." The Fremen gestured to Hawat's tunic, the skin exposed beneath it. "You were caught in-sietch, without your suits. You must make a water decision, friend." "Can we hire your help?" The Fremen shrugged. "You have no water." He glanced at the group behind Hawat. "How many of your wounded would you spend?" Hawat fell silent, staring at the man. He could see as a Mentat that their communication was out of phase. Word-sounds were not being linked up here in the normal manner. "I am Thufir Hawat," he said. "I can speak for my Duke. I will make promissory commitment now for your help. I wish a limited form of help, preserving my force long enough only to kill a traitor who thinks herself beyond vengeance." "You wish our siding in a vendetta?" "The vendetta I'll handle myself. I wish to be freed of responsibility for my wounded that I may get about it." The Fremen scowled. "How can you be responsible for your wounded? They are their own responsibility. The water's at issue, Thufir Hawat. Would you have me take that decision away from you?" The man put a hand to a weapon concealed beneath his robe. Hawat tensed, wondering: Is there betrayal here? "What do you fear?" the Fremen demanded. These people and their disconcerting directness! Hawat spoke cautiously. "There's a price on my head." "Ah-h-h-h." The Fremen removed his hand from his weapon. "You think we have the Byzantine corruption. You don't know us. The Harkonnens have not water enough to buy the smallest child among us." But they had the price of Guild passage for more than two thousand fighting ships, Hawat thought. And the size of that price still staggered him. "We both fight Harkonnens," Hawat said. "Should we not share the problems and ways of meeting the battle issue?" "We are sharing," the Fremen said. "I have seen you fight Harkonnens. You are good. There've been times I'd have appreciated your arm beside me." "Say where my arm may help you," Hawat said. "Who knows?" the Fremen asked. "There are Harkonnen forces everywhere. But you still have not made the water decision or put it to your wounded." I must be cautious, Hawat told himself. There's a thing here that's not understood. He said: "Will you show me your way, the Arrakeen way?" "Stranger-thinking," the Fremen said, and there was a sneer in his tone. He pointed to the northwest across the clifftop. "We watched you come across the sand last night." He lowered his


could have just left. I could have found Joe’s floppy hair and hipster glasses and steered him off to feed me that meal he’d promised. But he was lost in the faceless crowd, too—and all attempts to search for him got intercepted by faceless people hugging me, until I wound up making way-too-friendly chitchat with my ex-boyfriend for five solid minutes before realizing who he was. All to say, the situation snowballed. Before I even really saw it coming, I was having a panic attack out behind the utility room. At least I think it was a panic attack. Is it a panic attack when your entire body is utterly hijacked by … panic? And you get dizzy? And you sweat and have the chills at the same time? And your heart pounds and your chest hurts and your hands go cold? And you can’t catch your breath? And you feel like you’re dying? And you collapse to your knees in a dark corner and press your forehead to the concrete to try to make the world stop spinning? Is that a panic attack? ’Cause that was me. And I sure as hell wasn’t celebrating. I have no idea how long I’d been there, trying not to pass out, when I heard a voice say, “Are you having a panic attack?” So of course I said, “No.” “You look like you’re … not okay.” Not okay? That was just insulting. Okay was my whole thing. “I am always okay,” I said, to set the record straight. And then, when the person didn’t accept that and leave, I said, “I’m fine.” Then, my voice muffled against the concrete, I added, “I’m good.” “You don’t look good.” This wasn’t Parker, was it? She never missed a chance for an insult. But no—of course not. It was a man’s voice. One, as usual, I couldn’t recognize. “Identify yourself, please,” I said into the roof. A rustling beside me as whoever it was sat down. “It’s your pal, Joe,” the voice said, closer and softer now. “Hi, Joe.” For a second, knowing it was him made me feel palpably better. But then it occurred to me to wonder if he might be filming this moment for later blackmail, and I felt worse again. “I’m no psychiatrist,” Joe said then, “but I’ve seen a lot of panic attacks. And this kind of looks like that.” “I’m fine,” I insisted. I was always fine—whether I was fine or not. “Okay,” Joe said. “A friend of mine—who clearly had a totally different thing from you—used to find it helpful for me to pat her back in moments that were nothing at all like this.” “I’m not having a panic attack,” I said. “Great,” Joe said. “Neither am I.” “So I don’t need you to pat my back.” “Cool. You don’t need it.” A long pause while he let that settle. “But we could just do it for fun.” “Fine,” I said, too busy dying to fight. And then he really did it. I felt a hand settle between my


tray. The sight of her calms me and I stop trying to escape. I want to ask her a million questions, but I’m afraid any familiarity would cause her harm. Obviously I am being closely monitored. She sets the tray across my thighs and presses something that raises me to a sitting position. While she adjusts my pillows, I risk one question. I say it out loud, as clearly as my rusty voice will allow, so nothing will seem secretive. “Did Peeta make it?” She gives me a nod, and as she slips a spoon into my hand, I feel the pressure of friend- ship. I guess she did not wish me dead after all. And Peeta has made it. Of course, he did. With all their expensive equipment here. Still, I hadn’t been sure until now. As the Avox leaves, the door closes noiselessly after her and I turn hungrily to the tray. A bowl of clear broth, a small serv- ing of applesauce, and a glass of water. This is it? I think grou- chily. Shouldn’t my homecoming dinner be a little more spec- tacular? But I find it’s an effort to finish the spare meal before me. My stomach seems to have shrunk to the size of a chest- nut, and I have to wonder how long I’ve been out because I had no trouble eating a fairly sizable breakfast that last morn- 343 ing in the arena. There’s usually a lag of a few days between the end of the competition and the presentation of the victor so that they can put the starving, wounded, mess of a person back together again. Somewhere, Cinna and Portia will be creating our wardrobes for the public appearances. Haymitch and Effie will be arranging the banquet for our sponsors, re- viewing the questions for our final interviews. Back home, District 12 is probably in chaos as they try and organize the homecoming celebrations for Peeta and me, given that the last one was close to thirty years ago. Home! Prim and my mother! Gale! Even the thought of Prim’s scruffy old cat makes me smile. Soon I will be home! I want to get out of this bed. To see Peeta and Cinna, to find out more about what’s been going on. And why shouldn’t I? I feel fine. But as I start to work my way out of the band, I feel a cold liquid seeping into my vein from one of the tubes and al- most immediately lose consciousness. This happens on and off for an indeterminate amount of time. My waking, eating, and, even though I resist the impulse to try and escape the bed, being knocked out again. I seem to be in a strange, continual twilight. Only a few things register. The redheaded Avox girl has not returned since the feeding, my scars are disappearing, and do I imagine it? Or do I hear a man’s voice yelling? Not in the Capitol accent, but in the rougher cadences of home. And I can’t help having a


saw Pupkin smiling up at me and I wanted to pull him over my hand and disappear into Tickytoo Woods again. But I made my legs keep moving and got back in the cab. “That man looked too old to be a student,” Mom said as I closed the door. Before I could answer, she took Pupkin and held him on her lap. “Hello, you,” she said. “He was the TA,” I told her. She talked to Pupkin and the cab driver for the entire ride to the airport. I don’t know what she told Dad, but neither of them ever said anything to me about Boston and I never told anyone, and it’s like six months of my life never happened at all. Chapter 23 L ouise let the silence last as long as she could out of respect, but then she couldn’t hold it any longer. Mark had been talking for a really long time. “If I don’t go to the bathroom right now,” she said, “I’m going to wet my pants.” She slid out of the booth as she said my pants and sprinted to the bathroom and locked the door. She came back a minute later, feeling a lot better. Sitting under the bright Waffle House lights, Mark looked lost. “Look at me,” he said, leaning forward, his stomach piling up in his lap. “You’re not crazy. This really happened. You got attacked by Mom’s childhood puppet. He is real. I’ve seen what he can do. He is the heart of this thing. But I shot it. Pupkin is really dead this time.” Their eyes met. Louise nodded. “You definitely killed the shit out of Mom’s puppet,” she said. She saw Mark’s eyes crinkle at the corners and she started to crack. “Don’t make this funny,” he said, but it was too late. They both burst out laughing. Not crazy laughter, but real laughter. It felt good. It made Pupkin feel small. It felt like the things that had happened to them were a family story, shared at last. It felt like they were finally finished. I should tell him now, Louise thought. I should tell him about the pond. She opened her mouth and the waitress stopped by their table. “How y’all doing?” she asked. “Oh, we’re great,” Mark said. “We’re really bonding here.” The waitress couldn’t care less. She disappeared before he even finished his sentence. Slowly, they got ahold of themselves. “Everything you’ve seen tonight, I’ve seen it, too,” Mark said, his voice sincere and level. “It’s not you, it’s our family. It’s Pupkin.” Louise didn’t recognize this man sitting across from her. He hadn’t dropped out of BU his first year because he’d partied too hard. He hadn’t come home and moped around like a spoiled brat. He’d gotten bitten by the same thing as her, only worse. He needed to know. But another thought barged into her head, and it made her veins run hot with rage. What did our mom do to us? She had brought Pupkin into their lives. She had


regard to Griffin's ghost, or whatever it was-- that its appearing first to the little boy, at so tender an age, adds a particular touch. But it's not the first occurrence of its charming kind that I know to have involved a child. If the child gives the effect another turn of the screw, what do you say to TWO children--?" "We say, of course," somebody exclaimed, "that they give two turns! Also that we want to hear about them." I can see Douglas there before the fire, to which he had got up to present his back, looking down at his interlocutor with his hands in his pockets. "Nobody but me, till now, has ever heard. It's quite too horrible." This, naturally, was declared by several voices to give the thing the utmost price, and our friend, with quiet art, prepared his triumph by turning his eyes over the rest of us and going on: "It's beyond everything. Nothing at all that I know touches it." "For sheer terror?" I remember asking. He seemed to say it was not so simple as that; to be really at a loss how to qualify it. He passed his hand over his eyes, made a little wincing grimace. "For dreadful--dreadfulness!" "Oh, how delicious!" cried one of the women. He took no notice of her; he looked at me, but as if, instead of me, he saw what he spoke of. "For general uncanny ugliness and horror and pain." "Well then," I said, "just sit right down and begin." He turned round to the fire, gave a kick to a log, watched it an instant. Then as he faced us again: "I can't begin. I shall have to send to town." There was a unanimous groan at this, and much reproach; after which, in his preoccupied way, he explained. "The story's written. It's in a locked drawer-- it has not been out for years. I could write to my man and enclose the key; he could send down the packet as he finds it." It was to me in particular that he appeared to propound this-- appeared almost to appeal for aid not to hesitate. He had broken a thickness of ice, the formation of many a winter; had had his reasons for a long silence. The others resented postponement, but it was just his scruples that charmed me. I adjured him to write by the first post and to agree with us for an early hearing; then I asked him if the experience in question had been his own. To this his answer was prompt. "Oh, thank God, no!" "And is the record yours? You took the thing down?" "Nothing but the impression. I took that HERE"--he tapped his heart. "I've never lost it." "Then your manuscript--?" "Is in old, faded ink, and in the most beautiful hand." He hung fire again. "A woman's. She has been dead these twenty years. She sent me the pages in question before she died." They were all listening now, and of course there was somebody to be


tonic is more theoretical than an actual ingredient. “Of course he did. Always the gentleman.” “No, that’s not it. You’re missing the point. You’re right that Andy’s a gentleman, but what’s more important is that he doesn’t quarrel. I think it must have to do with his parents going at it hammer and tongs.” “He never even gets angry.” “I think he does, but not at people. Anyway, if he’s saying that he’s insulted, that’s the equivalent of anybody else stomping out of the room and slamming the door behind them, maybe throwing a glass or two at the wall.” “But why would he be insulted?” She shrugs. “You know him as well as I do.” “You don’t seem awfully surprised that your ex-fiancé propositioned me.” Emily raises an eyebrow. “If you’re asking whether I ever suspected that he had secret homosexual leanings, the answer is no.” Before Nick can point out that Andy doesn’t have secret homosexual leanings, that he just didn’t want Nick to get arrested, Emily goes on. “But . . . honestly, that’s not the kind of thing that would surprise me in anybody. And Andy has always adored you,” she adds, as if that makes perfect sense. It’s definitely time to change the topic. “Now tell me how you’re doing. How’d your family take the news?” “Other than Jeanne? Awfully. Imagine, they all had their hopes up that I was finally going to do something right, and there I go and blow it all to pieces.” He and Emily are both intimately familiar with how familial disappointment can be both predictable in its consistency and infinite in its variety. He raises his glass to her. “Are you going to tell Andy you came here?” she asks. “Yeah,” he says. “He’s not holding a grudge, Em. I think he wishes he could still be your friend.” “He’s a crazy person. He’s supposed to hate me until his dying breath. So are you, actually.” “I can’t really blame anyone for falling in love with the wrong person, can I?” He blames the gin for loosening his tongue, but saying the words is such a relief. “Have you heard from—” He realizes he doesn’t know the name of the man Emily was involved with in London. He only knows the rough outline of events: Emily’s mother had a heart attack. When Emily went to London to look after her, she fell for her mother’s doctor. They started something that Emily thought was serious, but when Emily suggested that she might stay on in London, the doctor hadn’t been interested. Nick hadn’t asked for the details; in her shoes, he wouldn’t want to pour his heart out, either. “Gerald? No. I wasn’t expecting to, though. It was a fling, evidently, and I’m the only one who didn’t know the score.” She drains her glass. “I hate him.” “I don’t.” She sighs. “I wish I did. Jeanne would push him off a cliff, though, which is gratifying.” “Emily,” he says, aware that he’s whining a little and not caring, “Andy’s future girlfriends


ran to stand next to it. “This is what I was talking about, the air taxi,” he said. “It can carry some real tonnage. As in multiple human beings. But it’s faster and more efficient than a helicopter.” “What would you use it for?” Orson asked. “Well, obviously it would be beneficial in a combat situation, maybe a way for medics to send injured soldiers off the field. But, domestically speaking, it could also be used to disrupt the rideshare industry.” He flicked one of its smaller propellers, letting it spin lazily. “Can you imagine this picking you up in Midtown and flying you all the way to Brooklyn for a fraction of the price of a taxi?” Orson nodded. “How many tons can it hold?” “This one?” Dexter inspected the drone as though the answer lay in its lacquered surface. “A little over a ton, I’d say.” “Mm,” Orson said dispassionately. “That’s a lot.” Dexter ran to the opposite wall, where an overwhelming number of remote controls were hanging by metal hooks. He selected one of the larger ones and showed it to us, his eyebrows raised. He was determined to impress us with drones, which made me both annoyed and a little sad. “A sophisticated remote ground control system right here, one of the better models I’ve designed. It can adjust for velocity, air temperature, even detect a storm front.” He walked between us. “Would you mind backing toward the wall just a bit?” We backed toward the wall and watched as Dexter typed something into his watch face. Then he looked at us brightly and said, “Okay, this is going to blow your minds.” The air taxi’s propellers began to whir, and then it maneuvered itself out of the sea of its fellows with the jerky velocity of a remote-control toy car: backward, to the left, then forward and out onto the tarmac. Dexter flipped a number of switches and pressed a few buttons and the air taxi took flight, shooting several hundred feet up into the heat-thick sky. “It’s going,” Dexter said, then checked his watch face again. “It’s going to run a quick errand. It’s on autopilot. That’s another great feature of this model.” We watched the air taxi disappear over the horizon, and Dexter turned to us with a voilà smile. “Give it ten minutes. It’ll be back,” he said. “Great,” I said. Orson hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans and wandered among the drones. I waited until he was out of earshot and leaned in close to Dexter. “What kind of contracts do you have in the global South?” I asked. “What contracts do I have there?” “Orson doesn’t know it yet, but I want to take NuLife international.” “Shouldn’t he be having this conversation with us?” I shook my head. “No, no. I’m the business guy, he’s the ideas guy. Plus his birthday’s coming up.” “So you want to take NuLife international as a—you want to take it international as a birthday present?” “It’s not just me,” I lied. “The


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

Snape liked hardly any of the students. "But he seemed to really hate me." "Rubbish!" said Hagrid. "Why should he?" Yet Harry couldn't help thinking that Hagrid didn't quite meet his eyes when he said that. "How's yer brother Charlie?" Hagrid asked Ron. "I liked him a lot -- great with animals." Harry wondered if Hagrid had changed the subject on purpose. While Ron told Hagrid all about Charlie's work with dragons, Harry picked up a piece of paper that was lying on the table under the tea cozy. It was a cutting from the Daily Prophet: GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown. Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day. "But we're not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what's good for you," said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon. Harry remembered Ron telling him on the train that someone had tried to rob Gringotts, but Ron hadn't mentioned the date. "Hagrid!" said Harry, "that Gringotts break-in happened on my birthday! It might've been happening while we were there!" There was no doubt about it, Hagrid definitely didn't meet Harry's eyes this time. He grunted and offered him another rock cake. Harry read the story again. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied earlier that same day. Hagrid had emptied vault seven hundred and thirteen, if you could call it emptying, taking out that grubby little package. Had that been what the thieves were looking for? As Harry and Ron walked back to the castle for dinner, their pockets weighed down with rock cakes they'd been too polite to refuse, Harry thought that none of the lessons he'd had so far had given him as much to think about as tea with Hagrid. Had Hagrid collected that package just in time? Where was it now? And did Hagrid know something about Snape that he didn't want to tell Harry? CHAPTER NINE -- THE MIDNIGHT DUEL Harry had never believed he would meet a boy he hated more than Dudley, but that was before he met Draco Malfoy. Still, first-year Gryffindors only had Potions with the Slytherins, so they didn't have to put up with Malfoy much. Or at least, they didn't until they spotted a notice pinned up in the Gryffindor common room that made them all groan. Flying lessons would be starting on Thursday -- and Gryffindor and Slytherin would be learning together. "Typical," said Harry darkly. "Just what I always wanted. To make a fool of myself on a broomstick in front of Malfoy." He had been looking forward to learning to fly more than anything else. "You don't know that you'll make a fool of yourself," said Ron reasonably. "Anyway, I know Malfoy's always going on about how good he is at Quidditch, but I bet that's all talk." Malfoy certainly did talk about flying


Liza was certain, as only a mother could be, that he didn’t have her daughter’s interests at heart. He was a specimen composed entirely of strengths, his flawless armoured torso brazenly naked in the cold, contemptuous of conditions which would kill an ordinary person in seconds. He was vain, she thought, and she recoiled from his beauty which to her eye was a marvel of biological engineering and a manifestation of his innate sense of superiority, an absolute certainty that he’d been born to rule, which he intended to do with the ruthlessness of someone who considers their cruelty to be rational rather than despicable. He might be evolutionarily advanced, but he was a regressive figure – inherently transactional. He wanted Echo to fight on his side. Silent until now, Yotam broke rank, leaving the group and walking towards the species he’d devoted his life in Antarctica to. He wondered whether the allegations against him were true, that Song Fu had always known he’d fall for her creation, that it hadn’t been his intelligence or tenacity which won her over, but his naivety. Infatuation hadn’t been an accident: it had been her intention from their first meeting at the South Pole Station. Masterminding a replacement for people, she’d seeded a brilliant and beautiful parasite inside the dying body of human society, a parasite that would require concealment and protection until it was ready to burst free. Yotam had always imagined that the future would one day belong to this species but that the handover would be a gradual process with many centuries of co-operation and co-existence. But a transition period was of no interest to them: they wanted this continent now and they would take it by any means necessary. Violence came naturally to Eitan. Killing was instinctive and innate. He had no qualms about murdering people or burning down the city that had created him. Yet Yotam loved this creature still. It was a form of madness, this love. Standing directly in front of Eitan, his voice hoarse with emotion and exhaustion, he asked: ‘Was it all a lie?’ ‘Was what a lie?’ ‘The games, the conversations, the movies, the books we shared – did it count for nothing?’ ‘You taught me that I was not like you, that I was not created to be like you, that I did not want to be like you.’ Eitan turned around, knocking down the stone perimeter to the Archive, ripping open the insulated walls protecting the building, desecrating this temple to human knowledge. He emerged, holding the Fugaku supercomputer, his arms capable of immense steadiness and strength. ‘We have no interest in your knowledge. We don’t want your art and your science. Your assumptions and deductions are worthless. We will start from nothing. We will learn this world anew.’ Like a judge bringing down the gavel at the end of his verdict, he smashed the computer against the volcanic rock, shattering the shell, scattering chips and processors, millennia of human learning lost in an instant. Appalled, the president hurried forward, dropping to her


Langdon looked amazed. "And the official will accept?" "Not from anyone, they won't, but these people all know me. I'm not an arms dealer, for heaven's sake. I was knighted." Teabing smiled. "Membership has its privileges." Rmy approached up the aisle now, the Heckler Koch pistol cradled in his hand. "Sir, my agenda?" Teabing glanced at his servant. "I'm going to have you stay onboard with our guest until we return. We can't very well drag him all over London with us." Sophie looked wary. "Leigh, I was serious about the French police finding your plane before we return." Teabing laughed. "Yes, imagine their surprise if they board and find Rmy." Sophie looked surprised by his cavalier attitude. "Leigh, you transported a bound hostage across international borders. This is serious." "So are my lawyers." He scowled toward the monk in the rear of the plane. "That animal broke into my home and almost killed me. That is a fact, and Rmy will corroborate." "But you tied him up and flew him to London!" Langdon said. Teabing held up his right hand and feigned a courtroom oath. "Your honor, forgive an eccentric old knight his foolish prejudice for the British court system. I realize I should have called the French authorities, but I'm a snob and do not trust those laissez-faire French to prosecute properly. This man almost murdered me. Yes, I made a rash decision forcing my manservant to help me bring him to England, but I was under great stress. Mea culpa. Mea culpa." Langdon looked incredulous. "Coming from you, Leigh, that just might fly." "Sir?" the pilot called back. "The tower just radioed. They've got some kind of maintenance problem out near your hangar, and they're asking me to bring the plane directly to the terminal instead." Teabing had been flying to Biggin Hill for over a decade, and this was a first. "Did they mention what the problem is?" 223 "The controller was vague. Something about a gas leak at the pumping station? They asked me to park in front of the terminal and keep everyone onboard until further notice. Safety precaution. We're not supposed to deplane until we get the all clear from airport authorities." Teabing was skeptical. Must be one hell of a gas leak. The pumping station was a good half mile from his hangar. Rmy also looked concerned. "Sir, this sounds highly irregular." Teabing turned to Sophie and Langdon. "My friends, I have an unpleasant suspicion that we are about to be met by a welcoming committee." Langdon gave a bleak sigh. "I guess Fache still thinks I'm his man." "Either that," Sophie said, "or he is too deep into this to admit his error. Teabing was not listening. Regardless of Fache's mind-set, action needed to be taken fast. Don't lose sight of the ultimate goal. The Grail. We're so dose. Below them, the landing gear descended with a clunk. "Leigh," Langdon said, sounding deeply remorseful, "I should turn myself in and sort this out legally. Leave you all out of it." "Oh, heavens, Robert!"


Suddenly the sheet rises, as if the corpse beneath it has attempted to sit up. The white cotton cerement slides away, onto the floor, revealing—nothing. It’s as if the resurrectee vanished in the act of rising. If the sheet hadn’t clearly been covering something, Calaphas might believe a draft and gravity conspired to mimic a ghostly presence. But the sheet hadn’t been lying flat on an empty table; a body had been under it. The second inexplicable development occurs ten seconds later, at a table just a few steps from the first. Apparently, impossibly, under its own power, a sheet draws back from the face and torso of a victim, a woman in her forties who stares with sightless eyes. Her mouth is open in a silent cry. After three seconds, the shroud flows into place, again covering her. It’s as if an invisible man wanted to confirm the nature of the place in which he found himself and, having done so, respectfully covered the deceased. The third inexplicable development begins thirty-seven seconds after the first, when the door to the room eases inward, admitting a narrow blade of light from the corridor. No one enters. After three seconds, the door opens wider. The hallway appears deserted. Perhaps the door wasn’t tightly closed and has swung open of its own weight. No. Now it swings shut and remains closed. Durand Calaphas is not a superstitious man, the furthest thing from it, but it seems to him that a specter opened the door, peered out to be sure no one was in the corridor, and then quickly exited the makeshift morgue. As one who believes this world has no great moment or meaning, that the Earth is little more than a killing ground to be enjoyed by those who have a taste for blood sport, he is not convinced to revisit his philosophy by these ghostly occurrences. Intrigued, he replays the forty-six seconds to exhaustion, straining for an explanation—until he sees a fourth thing that he has repeatedly overlooked. Because of the poor lighting and maybe because this particular camera produces video of a lesser quality than the others, he needs to review the evidence often before he notices three moments in the sequence when faint, pale plumes manifest out of nothing and quickly dissipate. For a few minutes, they mystify him, but just as he is prepared to attribute these manifestations to glitches in the stream of digital video, he remembers that the morgue is chilled to between thirty-four and thirty-six degrees. The plumes must be exhalations of the resurrectee, who somehow remains unseen by the camera. Ghosts do not respire. Neither can there be such a thing as an invisible man. Calaphas’s phone rings. The call is from Hugo Schummer, one of the agents securing research files and overseeing the pathologists who are performing the autopsies. All fifty-four cadavers have been identified. The one project-staff member on the duty roster not yet accounted for is the head of security, Michael Mace. TAKING A BREATHER The clouds thicken into a gray plain


and four media-mail boxes when I went to college. Most of my childhood belongings were still stored in my parents’ garage. I told her she was welcome to donate, sell, or toss anything she liked, though I harbored a hope of one day retrieving my old dollhouse for my then-theoretical children to play with. When a friend asked if I minded that my parents were selling the home I’d grown up in, I scoffed. The last person to live in my childhood bedroom hadn’t even been me, but a friend of mine—my parents, with typical openhandedness, had let her stay with them rent-free for a year and a half after her own parents kicked her out. There were things about the house I’d been fond of: the sprawling, shady backyard that had once contained my rickety old swing set; my room with its blue walls and bursting bookshelves and my cat’s favorite scratching post; the minuscule spare bedroom that I was eventually permitted to turn into a writing space, nearly every square inch filled with our lumpy blue futon and the giant desk I had begged my mother to buy at a yard sale. But I was an adult now, and I couldn’t imagine being so attached to that childhood setting that I would fault my parents for moving. It was their home, not mine, and they had a right to sell it. They sounded upbeat about the change: they’d be closer to their church; they’d be in a quieter neighborhood; they’d have a much lower cost of living. Their house had tripled in value since they bought it in 1980, so they stood to make a nice profit. I was pleased for them, but did not entirely understand their decision. They had talked about relocating for as long as I could remember—first to a bigger city like Portland or Seattle, before they reversed course and said they’d like to live farther out in the country. Now they were finally moving, but not to own a patch of land, or to live in an area with more jobs; instead, they’d paid cash for a manufactured home in good condition in a fifty-five-and-over park fifteen minutes up the road. Why, I wondered, weren’t they purchasing a larger home with the windfall from the sale? Though their new house didn’t have the two-car garage or the back forty, it had higher ceilings and two full bathrooms instead of one, and the common spaces felt more comfortable and open. The first time Dan and I visited my parents after their move, my mother was almost giddy as she gave us a tour and pointed out the guest room we would be sleeping in. I knew how happy she was to see us, but there was something else in her smile, in the warmth in her voice, that took me a moment to recognize: it was pride. I’d never known her to feel that way about our old place, but she clearly liked this one; slightly cluttered and freshly cleaned for our visit, the house was


class="p2">into a four-by-four with blacked windows and dusty seats. We drove to a

different part of the base, then hurried into a Portakabin.

Empty. Not a soul.

144

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

Where is everybody? Bloody hell, was peace declared while I was in the

air?

No, the whole base was out on a mission.

I looked around. Apparently they’d left in the middle of a meal. Tables

were covered with half-empty pizza boxes. I tried to remember what I’d

eaten on the flight. Nothing. I began shoving cold pizza into my mouth.

I took my in-theater test, one last barrier to entry, one last measure to

prove that I knew how to do the job. Shortly after, I climbed into a Chinook

and flew about fifty miles to a much smaller outpost. Forward Operating

Base Dwyer. Long, unwieldy name for what was little more than a

sandcastle made of sandbags.

I was met by a sand-covered soldier who said he’d been ordered to show

me around.

Welcome to Dwyer.

Thanks.

I asked how the place got its name.

One of our lads. K-I-A. Vehicle hit a land mine.

The quick tour revealed Dwyer to be even more spartan than it looked

from the Chinook. No heat, few lights, not much water. There was

plumbing, of a sort, but the pipes were usually clogged or frozen. There was

also a building that purported to be a “shower block,” but I was advised: use

at your peril.

Basically, my tour guide told me, just give up being clean. Focus instead

on staying warm.

It gets that cold here?

He chortled.

Dwyer was home to about fifty soldiers, mostly artillery and Household

Cavalry. I met them in twos and threes. They were all sandy-haired, by

which I mean their hair was matted with sand. Their faces and necks and

eyelashes—also encrusted. They looked like fillets of fish that’d


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

think,” he said. “Can you do it yourself?” “No.” He sounded so certain that I did not think to question him. I tightened the scarf and helped him to his bed, then I ran. I went first to Krystjan’s door, but no one answered my frantic banging, and I was left to assume they were off in some fold hunting their errant sheep. I then ran to the village, and must have looked an utter fright when I clattered through the door of the tavern, for Aud, standing by the counter with her frowning husband, exclaimed, “My God, Emily! Who did this to you?” She grabbed me by the shoulders. I was so astounded that I could only stare at her, which seemed to alarm her even more. Realizing that she was referring to the blood on my hands, I pulled myself together and explained the situation. Aud listened with a stillness that reminded me of the mountains. In Ljoslander, she said, “Ulfar, Thora, Lilja, come with me.” “Já,” Thora said, taking up her cane and drawing herself to her feet. “Eventually.” I don’t remember much of the walk back to the cottage. I recall Aud holding my arm and murmuring, “He’ll be all right, don’t worry. He will.” Then we were at Wendell’s bedside, and the sheets were soaked in blood. His skin was the colour of old ashes, and his eyes were closed, his golden hair flame-bright against the pallor. Ulfar tossed herbs into the water, and Aud washed Wendell’s arm. She sewed up the wound with the same steadiness and was done before Thora stomped up to the door. The old woman laid her hand on Wendell’s forehead and clucked her tongue. “What?” I demanded, overloud. There was a ringing in my ears. “Nothing,” Thora said. “You must have nicked a vein. He’s lost plenty of blood, but that’s no death sentence. He should recover once he gets some food in him.” She gave me a wink. “He’s prettier when he’s asleep, eh? You don’t notice that big mouth of his.” She shuffled into the kitchen and began banging pots and pans. Someone must have summoned Groa, for she appeared shortly after with a basket of meats, vegetables, and cheeses, greeting me with her customary cheerful indifference. The kitchen din intensified, but still Bambleby did not stir. My mind had begun to work again by this point, and I remembered the tale of a prince of the Irish Folk, held captive at the bottom of a lake by a water sprite, and the faerie princess who had liberated him with—with— With a token of the world above. I dashed out the door, even as I mentally cross-referenced the tale with others concerned with faerie potions. Yes—it could work. Nobody even noticed my going, apart from Lilja, who was in the yard making short work of the woodpile. She slung the axe over her broad shoulder and called something after me, but I was already halfway up the mountainside. The forest was silent as I ducked beneath the boughs, holding


to discern anything more. By degrees, however, as some of it cleared away through the open door, an assemblage of heads, as confused as the noises that greeted the ear, might be made out; and as the eye grew more accustomed to the scene, the spectator gradually became aware of the presence of a numerous company, male and female, crowded round a long table: at the upper end of which, sat a chairman with a hammer of office in his hand; while a professional gentleman with a bluish nose, and his face tied up for the benefit of a toothache, presided at a jingling piano in a remote corner. As Fagin stepped softly in, the professional gentleman, running over the keys by way of prelude, occasioned a general cry of order for a song; which having subsided, a young lady proceeded to entertain the company with a ballad in four verses, between each of which the accompanyist played the melody all through, as loud as he could. When this was over, the chairman gave a sentiment, after which, the professional gentleman on the chairman's right and left volunteered a duet, and sang it, with great applause. It was curious to observe some faces which stood out prominently from among the group. There was the chairman himself, (the landlord of the house,) a coarse, rough, heavy built fellow, who, while the songs were proceeding, rolled his eyes hither and thither, and, seeming to give himself up to joviality, had an eye for everything that was done, and an ear for everything that was said--and sharp ones, too. Near him were the singers: receiving, with professional indifference, the compliments of the company, and applying themselves, in turn, to a dozen proffered glasses of spirits and water, tendered by their more boisterous admirers; whose countenances, expressive of almost every vice in almost every grade, irresistibly attracted the attention, by their very repulsiveness. Cunning, ferocity, and drunkeness in all its stages, were there, in their strongest aspect; and women: some with the last lingering tinge of their early freshness almost fading as you looked: others with every mark and stamp of their sex utterly beaten out, and presenting but one loathsome blank of profligacy and crime; some mere girls, others but young women, and none past the prime of life; formed the darkest and saddest portion of this dreary picture. Fagin, troubled by no grave emotions, looked eagerly from face to face while these proceedings were in progress; but apparently without meeting that of which he was in search. Succeeding, at length, in catching the eye of the man who occupied the chair, he beckoned to him slightly, and left the room, as quietly as he had entered it. 'What can I do for you, Mr. Fagin?' inquired the man, as he followed him out to the landing. 'Won't you join us? They'll be delighted, every one of 'em.' The Jew shook his head impatiently, and said in a whisper, 'Is HE here?' 'No,' replied the man. 'And no news of Barney?' inquired Fagin. 'None,' replied


Maud felt smaller and weaker with each step. Maybe she’d gone too far, telling him she didn’t love him. That had been cruel. And he was right that she hadn’t been thinking about Ella and Louise when she asked him to take them back home. She’d been thinking about Gabriel. Inside, Peter took the lead. He told the girls that he’d missed them. “Your mum and I think it would be better for you to go back to Marin with me.” “I’ll cut my time short and come home in two weeks,” Maud said. “No way,” Ella said. She’d been on the couch, under a blanket, and now she stood up, flinging the blanket to the floor. “I’m not going.” “But you’ve missed your friends,” Maud said. She was surprised by the intensity of Ella’s reaction. “What do you know? You don’t know anything about me. I can’t believe you’re doing this.” “We both think this is best,” Peter said. “But what about the camp-out?” Louise said. “We have the camp-out next week, Mum.” Maud had forgotten about the “night under the stars” hosted by the camp. As Louise’s mouth trembled, she scrambled for a solution, not finding one. “I didn’t know you cared so much about it, sweetheart,” she said. “I’ll make it up to you.” “You can’t do this,” Ella yelled. “We already got the plane tickets.” “Unget them.” “We’re supposed to make s’mores and sleep in tents,” Louise wailed. “It’s just a little change in the plan,” Maud said. “No, it isn’t.” Louise laid her face on her knees. Maud stroked her hair. This is what it will be like when you tell them that you’re divorcing, she thought. Only even more brutal. “I’ll take you camping back home,” she said. “We’ll go to the Headlands.” “We don’t have a tent.” “We’ll borrow one from Uncle Kevin.” “You don’t know how to put it up.” “I’ll learn.” As Louise cried, Ella stood by, fierce and silent. Peter looked at Maud as if asking her what to do. “I’m sorry you’re both upset,” he said, then moved into repair mode, telling the girls that he would do half-days at the office for the next two weeks for fun activities like the Exploratorium and Ghirardelli Square. “Pick something, Ella,” he said. “No.” “And when I get back, I’ll take you guys to Big Sur,” Maud said. “What do you think? We can stop to see the elephant seals on the way.” Louise’s face was still on her knees, but her shoulders had stopped shaking. “Can we go to the Santa Cruz Boardwalk too?” she said in a small voice. “Sure.” Maud gathered Louise in a hug, feeling slightly better. She and Peter seemed to be working as a team. Maybe it would be all right. He’d calm down and see her perspective, see that he’d be happier without her too. “I’m going to bed,” Ella said. When Maud started to follow her, Peter shook his head, so she let Ella go. They sat with Louise at the kitchen table, playing Old


habits and cared little for the comforts of life. When I thought of the heavy rains and looked at the gaping roof I understood how strong and immutable must be the purpose which had kept him in that inhospitable abode. Was he our malignant enemy, or was he by chance our guardian angel? I swore that I would not leave the hut until I knew. Outside the sun was sinking low and the west was blazing with scarlet and gold. Its reflection was shot back in ruddy patches by the distant pools which lay amid the great Grimpen Mire. There were the two towers of Baskerville Hall, and there a distant blur of smoke which marked the village of Grimpen. Between the two, behind the hill, was the house of the Stapletons. All was sweet and mellow and peaceful in the golden evening light, and yet as I looked at them my soul shared none of the peace of Nature but quivered at the vagueness and the terror of that interview which every instant was bringing nearer. With tingling nerves but a fixed purpose, I sat in the dark recess of the hut and waited with sombre patience for the coming of its tenant. And then at last I heard him. Far away came the sharp clink of a boot striking upon a stone. Then another and yet another, coming nearer and nearer. I shrank back into the darkest corner and cocked the pistol in my pocket, determined not to discover myself until I had an opportunity of seeing something of the stranger. There was a long pause which showed that he had stopped. Then once more the footsteps approached and a shadow fell across the opening of the hut. "It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson," said a well-known voice. "I really think that you will be more comfortable outside than in." Chapter 12 Death on the Moor For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my ears. Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while a crushing weight of responsibility seemed in an instant to be lifted from my soul. That cold, incisive, ironical voice could belong to but one man in all the world. "Holmes!" I cried -- "Holmes!" "Come out," said he, "and please be careful with the revolver." I stooped under the rude lintel, and there he sat upon a stone outside, his gray eyes dancing with amusement as they fell upon my astonished features. He was thin and worn, but clear and alert, his keen face bronzed by the sun and roughened by the wind. In his tweed suit and cloth cap he looked like any other tourist upon the moor, and he had contrived, with that catlike love of personal cleanliness which was one of his characteristics, that his chin should be as smooth and his linen as perfect as if he were in Baker Street. "I never was more glad to see anyone in my life," said I as I wrung him by the hand. "Or


obliterate the old. He felt tenderness for the mother he’d never known. Emerging from the wreckage of the ship, he looked up at the sea ice which was beginning to close as winter approached and the temperature dropped. Soon all the gaps would freeze over and the last trace of people would be gone. Eitan pushed off from the shipwreck, rising through the ocean at speed towards one of the holes, breaking the surface and climbing up the ice. He surveyed what was once the capital city of ordinary-born people. The ashes from the great fire had been blown away by the winds. His colony of cold creatures had picked over the ice, removing all trace of their buildings and dreams. Reaching the mainland, Eitan climbed Observation Hill, where his family had gathered, along with all the other members of the colony. Today was a special day. After the last of the ships were sunk the first natural birth of a cold person would take place. The eldest female in his colony was due, her thorax swollen with six eggs, three on either side. The armoured exterior retracted, and six children dropped to the ground, born into a loving family, able to climb up onto their mother’s back, the six of them delighting in their first glimpse of this new world. THE SOUTHERN POLE OF INACCESSIBILITY 11 APRIL 2044 THE MOST REMOTE LOCATION IN Antarctica was known by ordinary people as the southern pole of inaccessibility, the point on the continent most distant from the Southern Ocean. Many years ago, there had been a Soviet Union research station here, three thousand seven hundred metres above sea level and one thousand five hundred kilometres from the ocean. It was here that Eitan began to build his new civilization, first clearing away the Soviet structures, returning the ice to its previous pristine state. Using their mastery over ice, the colony created a palace built out of hollow pearl structures, a design like nothing that had ever been seen before, a structure that looked like heaps of crystal caviar with not a straight line to be seen, a palace of curves. Inside the halls, the children worked, already able to study and contribute. Today the colony of cold creatures would watch the sun set for the first time in their lives, the last sunset of the summer. They emerged from their palace to watch as it dipped below the horizon, the sunlight mingling with a freezing mist, until the sky turned black. The truce was over. Winter had arrived. Eitan looked up at the stars, dreaming of the coldness of space. Despite feeling satisfaction at his accomplishments, Eitan could not stop thinking of her – the woman they called Echo, wondering what she was doing and wishing she was by his side. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS It was with great sadness that I learnt the news of Carolyn Reidy, Chief Executive of Simon & Schuster, passing during the writing of this novel. Carolyn was remarkably kind, insightful and supportive during my career, always encouraging and a true champion


close to the small fire he built. They had put several kilometers between them and Avalon Bluff, but Forest was still on edge, as if he expected Dacre’s forces to emerge from the shadows at any moment. Iris had endless questions for him, but the air between them was tense. She held her tongue and accepted the food he handed her—food from Marisol’s kitchen—and she ate it, even though there was a lump in her throat. “Where is Kitt?” she asked. “You said you know more than me. Where can I find him?” “It’s not safe to talk about it here,” Forest said tersely. “You should eat and go to bed. We have a long walk ahead of us tomorrow.” Iris was quiet, but then murmured, “You should have let him come with us.” “This is war, Iris!” Forest cried. “This isn’t a game. This isn’t a novel with a happy ending. I saved you, because you are all I care about and you were all I could manage. Do you understand me?” His words pierced her. She wanted to remain frozen and guarded, but she felt incredibly fragile in that moment. She kept seeing Roman rise from the grass. The way he had looked at her. A sob hitched her breath. She drew her knees to her chest and began to weep, covering her face with her dirty hands. She tried to suck everything back in, to press it down to her marrow where she could handle it in private. But it was like something had broken in her, and things were spilling out. Forest sat across from her, deathly quiet. He didn’t offer her any comfort; he didn’t embrace her. He didn’t speak kind words to her. The things he would have done in the past. But he remained near her, and he bore witness to her grief. And all she could think through her tears was He feels like a stranger to me now. He was paranoid about something. He had Iris up and walking early the next day, and by the slant of the sun, she judged they were traveling east. “We could go to the road,” she suggested. “We could catch a ride with one of the lorries.” She wanted, more than anything, to find Attie and Marisol. To continue her search for Roman. “No.” Forest’s reply was curt. He quickened his pace, glancing behind to make sure Iris was still following him. Twigs cracked beneath his boots. Iris thought the jumpsuit fit him poorly, and she wondered how she hadn’t seen it before. “So we’re going to walk all the way to Oath?” she asked, a bit snidely. “Yes. Until it’s safe to board a train.” They traversed the next few hours in silence, until her brother was ready to make camp. Perhaps Forest would finally explain himself here. She waited for it, but her brother remained quiet, sitting on the other side of the fire from her. She watched the shadows dance over his lean, freckled face. Eventually she could bear it no longer. “Where’s


or a dollar." "No! Is that so?" "Cert'nly -- anybody'll tell you so. Hain't you ever seen one, Huck?" "Not as I remember." "Oh, kings have slathers of them." "Well, I don' know no kings, Tom." "I reckon you don't. But if you was to go to Europe you'd see a raft of 'em hopping around." "Do they hop?" "Hop? -- your granny! No!" "Well, what did you say they did, for?" "Shucks, I only meant you'd see 'em -- not hopping, of course -- what do they want to hop for? -- but I mean you'd just see 'em -- scattered around, you know, in a kind of a general way. Like that old humpbacked Richard." "Richard? What's his other name?" --------------------------------------------------------- -230- "He didn't have any other name. Kings don't have any but a given name." "No?" "But they don't." "Well, if they like it, Tom, all right; but I don't want to be a king and have only just a given name, like a nigger. But say -- where you going to dig first?" "Well, I don't know. S'pose we tackle that old dead-limb tree on the hill t'other side of Still-House branch?" "I'm agreed." So they got a crippled pick and a shovel, and set out on their three-mile tramp. They arrived hot and panting, and threw themselves down in the shade of a neighboring elm to rest and have a smoke. "I like this," said Tom. "So do I." "Say, Huck, if we find a treasure here, what you going to do with your share?" "Well, I'll have pie and a glass of soda every day, and I'll go to every circus that comes along. I bet I'll have a gay time." "Well, ain't you going to save any of it?" "Save it? What for?" "Why, so as to have something to live on, by and by." "Oh, that ain't any use. Pap would come back to thish-yer town some day and get his claws on it --------------------------------------------------------- -231- if I didn't hurry up, and I tell you he'd clean it out pretty quick. What you going to do with yourn, Tom?" "I'm going to buy a new drum, and a sure-'nough sword, and a red necktie and a bull pup, and get married." "Married!" "That's it." "Tom, you -- why, you ain't in your right mind." "Wait -- you'll see." "Well, that's the foolishest thing you could do. Look at pap and my mother. Fight! Why, they used to fight all the time. I remember, mighty well." "That ain't anything. The girl I'm going to marry won't fight." "Tom, I reckon they're all alike. They'll all comb a body. Now you better think 'bout this awhile. I tell you you better. What's the name of the gal?" "It ain't a gal at all -- it's a girl." "It's all the same, I reckon; some says gal, some says girl -- both's right, like enough. Anyway, what's her name, Tom?" "I'll tell you some time -- not now." "All right -- that'll do. Only if you get


it, he did not know which word he was going to say. 'No,' he said finally. 'You did well to tell me,' said O'Brien. 'It is necessary for us to know everything.' He turned himself toward Julia and added in a voice with somewhat more expression in it: 'Do you understand that even if he survives, it may be as a different person? We may be obliged to give him a new identity. His face, his movements, the shape of his hands, the colour of his hair--even his voice file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (95 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:52 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt would be different. And you yourself might have become a different person. Our surgeons can alter people beyond recognition. Sometimes it is necessary. Sometimes we even amputate a limb.' Winston could not help snatching another sidelong glance at Martin's Mongolian face. There were no scars that he could see. Julia had turned a shade paler, so that her freckles were showing, but she faced O'Brien boldly. She murmured something that seemed to be assent. 'Good. Then that is settled.' There was a silver box of cigarettes on the table. With a rather absent-minded air O'Brien pushed them towards the others, took one himself, then stood up and began to pace slowly to and fro, as though he could think better standing. They were very good cigarettes, very thick and well-packed, with an unfamiliar silkiness in the paper. O'Brien looked at his wrist-watch again. 'You had better go back to your Pantry, Martin,' he said. 'I shall switch on in a quarter of an hour. Take a good look at these comrades' faces before you go. You will be seeing them again. I may not.' Exactly as they had done at the front door, the little man's dark eyes flickered over their faces. There was not a trace of friendliness in his manner. He was memorizing their appearance, but he felt no interest in them, or appeared to feel none. It occurred to Winston that a synthetic face was perhaps incapable of changing its expression. Without speaking or giving any kind of salutation, Martin went out, closing the door silently behind him. O'Brien was strolling up and down, one hand in the pocket of his black overalls, the other holding his cigarette. 'You understand,' he said, 'that you will be fighting in the dark. You will always be in the dark. You will receive orders and you will obey them, without knowing why. Later I shall send you a book from which you will learn the true nature of the society we live in, and the strategy by which we shall destroy it. When you have read the book, you will be full members of the Brotherhood. But between the general aims that we are fighting for and the immedi ate tasks of the moment, you will never know anything. I tell you that the Brotherhood exists, but I cannot tell you whether it numbers a hundred members, or ten million. From your personal knowledge you will never be able to say that it numbers even


handwriting. Something Fran hadn’t mentioned: It wasn’t only dots. At the bottom of Monday, February 27, one red dot. Nothing on Tuesday. On Wednesday the first, a blue X in brackets. On Thursday the second, both a blue X and a purple one. One Reddit theorist insisted the marks were times Omar hit her. That she was documenting them in order to report Omar, and he killed her before she could. Someone trolling that poster kept insisting it was about bowling scores, that the Xs were strikes. You’re only proving my point, the original poster wrote. If an X is a strike, maybe that was her association. Today I was struck. I understood why they hadn’t used this in court, not without an explicit key in the back of the book. Still, I would have loved to see the rest of the planner. If the red dots went back a few days, that was obviously her period. If she’d followed my system (could I flatter myself to think so?) that would mean the Xs were sexual contact. Perhaps the parentheses meant a different sex act, or a truncated effort. Maybe the blue X and the purple X meant different people she was sleeping with. One for Robbie, one for you? Or maybe one was for protected sex, one for unprotected. Vanessa hadn’t written back after I’d thanked her for the Dropbox files, but I sent her another email: I absolutely understand if you aren’t interested in additional information at this point, but I can’t help but mention that I think I know how to read the dot and X codes in Thalia’s planner, which I didn’t see until recently. They’re based on something I used to do myself. Please disregard this if it’s too much to deal with. And then I dove back into Reddit. The Xs were times she cut herself. The dots were hang-up calls she’d gotten, and the Xs were threatening letters. Well, we didn’t have phones in our rooms, so that one didn’t work, did it. It was about diet, several people insisted. Times she’d binged and purged. I had the exact same system, someone wrote. That one was possible, I had to admit. Britt entered the classroom first, and I don’t know what look was on my face, but she took a step back, said, “Oh—am—is it too early?” Britt wore a long floral dress with Docs poking out underneath, a long ratty cardigan over that. Like a sweet, ironic girl right out of 1994. I said, “Lord help me, but I think I’ve fallen into this dot conspiracy. Thalia’s planner.” She grinned. She said, “I knew we’d get you hooked.” Just before class started, a text from Yahav. I hadn’t actually expected him to delve into details. I’d imagined that if he replied at all, it would be some kind of “Looks interesting, but these things are difficult” response. But what he wrote was: Been reading up all morning. Give me a call? I have a lot of thoughts. 51 The kids played new material that


and quick thinking and quick acting, he showed himself the superior even of Spitz, of whom Francois had never seen an equal. But it was in giving the law and making his mates live up to it, that Buck excelled. Dave and Sol-leks did not mind the change in leadership. It was none of their business. Their business was to toil, and toil mightily, in the traces. So long as that were not interfered with, they did not care what happened. Billee, the good-natured, could lead for all they cared, so long as he kept order. The rest of the team, however, had grown unruly during the last days of Spitz, and their surprise was great now that Buck proceeded to lick them into shape. Pike, who pulled at Buck's heels, and who never put an ounce more of his weight against the breast-band than he was compelled to do, was swiftly and repeatedly shaken for loafing; and ere the first day was done he was pulling more than ever before in his life. The first night in camp, Joe, the sour one, was punished roundly-- a thing that Spitz had never succeeded in doing. Buck simply smothered him by virtue of superior weight, and cut him up till he ceased snapping and began to whine for mercy. The general tone of the team picked up immediately. It recovered its old-time solidarity, and once more the dogs leaped as one dog in the traces. At the Rink Rapids two native huskies, Teek and Koona, were added; and the celerity with which Buck broke them in took away Francois's breath. "Nevaire such a dog as dat Buck!" he cried. "No, nevaire! Heem worth one t'ousan' dollair, by Gar! Eh? Wot you say, Perrault?" And Perrault nodded. He was ahead of the record then, and gaining day by day. The trail was in excellent condition, well packed and hard, and there was no new-fallen snow with which to contend. It was not too cold. The temperature dropped to fifty below zero and remained there the whole trip. The men rode and ran by turn, and the dogs were kept on the jump, with but infrequent stoppages. The Thirty Mile River was comparatively coated with ice, and they covered in one day going out what had taken them ten days coming in. In one run they made a sixty-mile dash from the foot of Lake Le Barge to the White Horse Rapids. Across Marsh, Tagish, and Bennett (seventy miles of lakes), they flew so fast that the man whose turn it was to run towed behind the sled at the end of a rope. And on the last night of the second week they topped White Pass and dropped down the sea slope with the lights of Skaguay and of the shipping at their feet. It was a record run. Each day for fourteen days they had averaged forty miles. For three days Perrault and Francois threw chests up and down the main street of Skaguay and were deluged with invitations to drink, while the


that?" Eric felt his face. "I'm all rough. Am I bleeding?" The circle of boys shrank away in horror. Johnny, yawning still, burst into noisy tears and was slapped by Bill till he choked on them. The bright morning was full of threats and the circle began to change. It faced out, rather than in, and the spears of sharpened wood were like a fence. Jack called them back to the center. "This'll be a real hunt! Who'll come?" Ralph moved impatiently. "These spears are made of wood. Don't be silly." Jack sneered at him. "Frightened?" "'Course I'm frightened. Who wouldn't be?" He turned to the twins, yearning but hopeless. "I suppose you aren't pulling our legs?" The reply was too emphatic for anyone to doubt them. Piggy took the conch. "Couldn't we--kind of--stay here? Maybe the beast won't come near us." But for the sense of something watching them, Ralph would have shouted at him. "Stay here? And be cramped into this bit of the island, always on the lookout? How should we get our food? And what about the fire?" "Let's be moving," said Jack relentlessly, "we're wasting time." "No we're not. What about the littluns?" "Sucks to the littluns!" "Someone's got to look after them." "Nobody has so far." "There was no need! Now there is. Piggy'll look after them." "That's right. Keep Piggy out of danger." "Have some sense. What can Piggy do with only one eye?" The rest of the boys were looking from Jack to Ralph, curiously. "And another thing. You can't have an ordinary hunt because the beast doesn't leave tracks. If it did you'd have seen them. For all we know, the beast may swing through the trees like what's its name." They nodded. "So we've got to think." Piggy took off his damaged glasses and cleaned the remaining lens. "How about us, Ralph?" "You haven't got the conch. Here." "I mean--how about us? Suppose the beast comes when you're all away. I can't see proper, and if I get scared--" Jack broke in, contemptuously. "You're always scared." "I got the conch--" "Conch! Conch!" shouted Jack. "We don't need the conch any more. We know who ought to say things. What good did Simon do speaking, or Bill, or Walter? It's time some people knew they've got to keep quiet and leave deciding things to the rest of us." Ralph could no longer ignore his speech. The blood was hot in his cheeks. "You haven't got the conch," he said. "Sit down." Jack's face went so white that the freckles showed as clear, brown flecks. He licked his lips and remained standing. "This is a hunter's job." The rest of the boys watched intently. Piggy, finding himself uncomfortably embroiled, slid the conch to Ralph's knees and sat down. The silence grew oppressive and Piggy held his breath. "This is more than a hunter's job," said Ralph at last, "because you can't track the beast. And don't you want to be rescued?" He turned to the assembly. "Don't you all want to be rescued?" He


and ordered them away before they could even take my measurements. 22nd December (?) It occurred to me today as I stood gazing out my window, which made up the entire southern wall of my chamber, that the forest was nearly buried in snow. In places, the drifts covered all but the tips of the trees. “Has there been an avalanche?” I demanded of the small army of florists currently filling my chamber, offering me samples of this bloom or that. The senior florist, a small woman with eyes like black ink and a dress made entirely of ice-glazed petals, frowned down at the trees. “It is winter, Your Highness,” she said. “Yes,” I said through my teeth. “But it seems there is rather more winter than there was before.” She exchanged a nervous look with another florist, a narrow man holding an armful of black and grey roses. “The king has returned,” he said slowly, as if he didn’t understand my question at all and was merely taking a shot in the dark. A little bead of fear slid down my back at that. When I next saw the king —I believe it was at supper, though it’s entirely possible I saw him before then—I raised the question with him. “Yes, it will be a winter the likes of which has never been seen in Ljosland,” he said cheerily, helping himself to more fish. The Folk pulled their fish from a frozen mountain lake and served them raw on a bed of ice or swimming in a sweet, creamy sauce that tasted faintly of apples. Several varieties were spread before us, the smallest ones—vibrantly striped grey and green—retaining their head and bones, which were meant to be eaten together. We were seated in a cavernous banquet hall with walls of black stone and another floor of ice cobbles, this time with leaves and fir boughs prisoned inside, so that you felt as if you were walking atop a forest canopy. The table was crowded with Folk—what seemed like a mixture of courtly and common, though their faces often blended together in the bone-coloured light. I caught a sneer here, a beseeching look there; the minstrels were playing their flutes, and although the king had ordered them not to enchant me, their songs often made my head swim. “But what will become of the mortal villages?” I said. “You can’t bury them in snow!” He touched my hand reassuringly, his beautiful face full of adoration. “The mortals here are used to winter, my dear.” “They are not used to fifty feet of it being deposited on their doorsteps,” I said, fists clenched on my skirts. “It will last only as long as my coronation festivities,” he promised, and that really worried me, for it suggested that he planned to extend the winter until he had finished revelling in his triumph—and anyone who knows a thing about the Folk will easily guess that this would be a substantial period of time. “You must pull back the snows from the mortal world,” I said.


everyone from her shortcomings by embracing exotic recipes she tore out of magazines. Mark and Louise grew up on greasy potatoes moussaka, zucchini pancakes that tasted like baking powder, jet-black chili spiked with chocolate sauce, salads splashed with blueberry vinegar and banana-infused oil instead of Wish-Bone dressing like everybody else. Women talked about their mother’s cooking in the quiet, tragic whispers they reserved for somebody dying of cancer. “Your mother always marched to the beat of her own drummer,” Aunt Honey said. “Right?” Mark continued, not letting go. “I always thought it was cool when she brought sour cream cabbage or tuna curry casserole to Thanksgiving instead of the same old stuff.” Louise looked at him, sticking up for their mom’s cooking, and it struck her how close they must have been. He did theater like her, he lived in Charleston, he’d grown up with her puppets, which Louise had always tried to avoid. She wanted to offer him an olive branch. They shouldn’t be fighting like this. “Hey, Mark,” Louise said, and everyone turned, grateful for the change of subject. “You should organize the service.” “Lulu . . .” Aunt Honey began. “No,” Louise said. “Mark knows what Mom would want better than the rest of us. He should do it. If he thinks they would want to be cremated, then they’ll be cremated. If he has ideas about what Mom would want at the service, then he can plan it.” “It’s happening at the church,” Aunt Honey insisted. Louise stood up. “I’ve had a long day, so I think I’m going to go,” she said, closing the subject. She looked at Mark across the coffee table, and somewhere in his face, behind the bad tattoos, the thinning hair, and the jowls, she saw the little boy she grew up with. “I don’t need your pity chore,” he said, incapable of lowering his guard. “You’ll do it better than I would,” she said. “Good night.” Mark didn’t know how to fight someone who wouldn’t fight back. Louise felt serene. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Cool.” “Stay for supper,” Aunt Honey said, looking genuinely distressed that she was leaving. “People have been dropping off food for two whole days. I’ve got a cheese casserole I can heat up from the Methodists where they laid out little cheese nips on top in the shape of the cross.” “I think I’m just going to call Poppy and go to bed,” Louise said. “I’ll walk you out,” Constance said. They went down the stairs together and across the front yard. Up and down this block of Isle of Palms, rich Yankees and downtown lawyers had built hurricane-proof McMansions and hermetically sealed glass cubes. In the midst of them, Aunt Honey’s old beach house stood out like a haunted mansion. One of the few original Isle of Palms houses left, it was an enormous pile of weather-beaten white boards with tin window awnings, balanced on creosote pilings over a yard that was mostly sand and cockleburs. When she died, Louise thought, someone would just tear it down


has such an imagination as I have and I soon found that out. We had reading and geography and Canadian history and dictation today. Mr. Phillips said my spelling was disgraceful and he held up my slate so that everybody could see it, all marked over. I felt so mortified, Marilla; he might have been politer to a stranger, I think. Ruby Gillis gave me an apple and Sophia Sloane lent me a lovely pink card with `May I see you home?' on it. I'm to give it back to her tomorrow. And Tillie Boulter let me wear her bead ring all the afternoon. Can I have some of those pearl beads off the old pincushion in the garret to make myself a ring? And oh, Marilla, Jane Andrews told me that Minnie MacPherson told her that she heard Prissy Andrews tell Sara Gillis that I had a very pretty nose. Marilla, that is the first compliment I have ever had in my life and you can't imagine what a strange feeling it gave me. Marilla, have I really a pretty nose? I know you'll tell me the truth." "Your nose is well enough," said Marilla shortly. Secretly she thought Anne's nose was a remarkable pretty one; but she had no intention of telling her so. That was three weeks ago and all had gone smoothly so far. And now, this crisp September morning, Anne and Diana were tripping blithely down the Birch Path, two of the happiest little girls in Avonlea. "I guess Gilbert Blythe will be in school today," said Diana. "He's been visiting his cousins over in New Brunswick all summer and he only came home Saturday night. He's AW'FLY handsome, Anne. And he teases the girls something terrible. He just torments our lives out." Diana's voice indicated that she rather liked having her life tormented out than not. "Gilbert Blythe?" said Anne. "Isn't his name that's written up on the porch wall with Julia Bell's and a big `Take Notice' over them?" "Yes," said Diana, tossing her head, "but I'm sure he doesn't like Julia Bell so very much. I've heard him say he studied the multiplication table by her freckles." "Oh, don't speak about freckles to me," implored Anne. "It isn't delicate when I've got so many. But I do think that writing take-notices up on the wall about the boys and girls is the silliest ever. I should just like to see anybody dare to write my name up with a boy's. Not, of course," she hastened to add, "that anybody would." Anne sighed. She didn't want her name written up. But it was a little humiliating to know that there was no danger of it. "Nonsense," said Diana, whose black eyes and glossy tresses had played such havoc with the hearts of Avonlea schoolboys that her name figured on the porch walls in half a dozen take-notices. "It's only meant as a joke. And don't you be too sure your name won't ever be written up. Charlie Sloane is DEAD GONE on you. He told


hospital?” Tripp’s mother asked. Spenser gave the faintest shake of his head. Everyone was staring at Tripp, worried about him. Only Spenser’s mother was standing away from the circle; only she was watching her son. There was worry in her eyes. Or maybe it was fear. She knows what he is. “I’m fine,” Tripp said hoarsely, and Spenser’s lips twitched in a smile that he covered with another sob. Nothing changed after that. But Tripp was careful never to be alone with Spenser again. Even at eight years old, Tripp knew he wasn’t smart or charming or handsome like Spenser. He knew that if he’d pointed his finger that day, told the truth, no one would have believed him. They’d say he’d misunderstood, maybe even that there was something wrong with him to think such a thing. He would be the monster. So maybe something had changed after all, something inside Tripp, because now he saw that Spenser would always win, and worse, he knew why. Spenser would win because everyone liked him better. Even Tripp’s own parents. It was that simple. That understanding sat in his chest, lodged against his heart, a heaviness that stayed with him, long after his lungs had stopped hurting and the cough had gone. It made him fearful, awkward, and it was why, ten years later on a sailboat caught in a minor storm, Tripp was the only one who saw it when Spenser went into the sea. It happened quickly. Spenser liked to sneak up on Tripp, startle him, try to get him to drop something or just give him a sharp jab in the side. So Tripp tried to always stay aware of where Spenser was, and he was watching when Spenser strode across the deck and ducked under the boom. His body was hidden behind the mainsail, only his legs visible, and for a second Tripp couldn’t figure out what he was doing. Everyone else was focused on their own jobs, on getting through the storm. Tripp glanced back at his father, who was taking his turn at the helm now, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Tripp saw Spenser reach down, bending over the railing to grab for a line that had slipped off the deck and was trailing in the water. That wasn’t good —a trailing line could get sucked under the ship, mess with the tiller or the keep—but Spenser should have called for help. Instead he was hanging over the rail, both hands outstretched. Tripp had time to think, One hand for yourself, one hand for the ship, before the wave struck, a gray wash of water, a cat’s paw batting at a toy, and Spenser was gone. Tripp stood frozen for the briefest second. He even opened his mouth to cry out. And then he just … didn’t. He looked around, realized everyone was still absorbed in their own tasks, shouting at each other, tense but enjoying the wind and the wild rain. Without running, without haste, Tripp followed the path Spenser had taken, ducked under the boom,


could not believe I cared so much about whether Dad ever got a headstone. When your mother is dying, you try to avoid unnecessary arguments—a tough assignment, in my case—but one day I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “I didn’t invent the tradition of marking graves, Mom.” Then her cancer returned with a vengeance, and she told me that when the time came, she wanted to be buried next to Dad. She’d been unable to resist a morbid joke. “If you wait long enough, maybe you can get one headstone for both of us!” I spoke with the engraver she had found months ago but never called. An artist of few words, he emailed me photographs of the slabs he had available—unpolished rectangles of blue-gray slate that all looked much the same to my undiscerning eye—and told me to go ahead and pick one. I could see why my mother liked the look of these natural stones: they were rustic, a little rough but somehow lovely, too, and well suited to my dad, who used to love hunting for interesting river rocks and knotty twists of driftwood to bring home and arrange in his garden or hosta bed. After Mom chose her favorite, I passed along some text for the engraving, keeping it simple: Dad’s full name, his birth and death dates, and a line from the Paschal Troparion my mother had asked her friends to sing at his burial, though he had died in midwinter. Standing beside his grave, admiring the newly placed headstone, she told me she had chosen this plot for him because we could see the town high school across the street from where we stood. “There are always people coming and going over there, so I knew he wouldn’t be lonely,” she said, then added with a grin: “And he can hear the football games every Friday!” This was so ridiculous that I had to laugh, which of course was her intention. I liked it when she joked about him, spoke of him in the present tense. Our lives may be linear, finite, but our love for each other is not so easily confined. “Dad would have loved his headstone,” she told me. Again, I agreed. But what mattered most to me was that she liked it, that it was what she wanted for him. That, in the end, she had allowed me to do this one needful thing. 17 My mother’s living room was dark, though it was only 2:00 p.m. Storm clouds had been hanging over the valley since my arrival the night before. As I went to turn on more lights, I heard her say, “This is all happening so fast.” Her friend Paula looked up from her steno pad. Consider me your hands and feet in Oregon, she had told me. For the last two hours, she had been taking notes, creating lists of calls to make, emails to send, banks to visit, forms to have witnessed and notarized. The next day, she would type everything up in a spreadsheet and send it