a heart attack mid-lap. Or it was a janitor, or maybe that creepy townie who liked to watch basketball practice. Even when whispers started in the crowd that it was a student—it was Hani Kayyali, it was Michelle McFadden, it was Ronan Murphy—that seemed too dramatic to be true. I said, “They sent us away, and we still didn’t know. By the time I got back to the dorm they’d already put up signs that we had mandatory dorm meetings before dinner and Camelot was canceled. We met in the common room and there were already girls crying, ones who’d figured it out.” Fran had come out of the Hoffnungs’ apartment, which she didn’t do for most dorm meetings. I remember her sitting with me on the coffee table. Her parents came out, too. I knew who it was before the teachers spoke; word had spread through the room, and, of course, Thalia was the only one missing. “Who announced it?” Britt asked. “Miss Vogel. She was young. I don’t think she stayed much longer. She taught physics and coached girls’ skiing.” It occurred to me that Angela Vogel must, as dorm head, have been the one to clear out Thalia’s room, after the police went through it. It would have fallen to Dr. Calahan, as headmistress, to call the Keiths. I couldn’t imagine breaking that news to anyone, ever. It wasn’t like being a surgeon, someone who’d trained for this moment and expected it. And then, my God, two other kids the same year. It was a miracle Dr. Calahan had stuck around another decade, hadn’t run off for some cushy fundraising job at a museum. I said, “They ordered pizza for anyone who didn’t want to go to the dining hall.” Fran and I absconded to my room with our slices, sat cross-legged on my bed. I remember Fran saying she knew it wasn’t the point, it wasn’t the main thing, but it sucked that we’d only had two of four performances and now the show was over. Fran had been playing Mordred, putting on a husky tenor and a swagger. I said, “Jesus, Fran, she was my roommate.” Fran said, “I thought you hated her.” If this hadn’t been my room, I’d have stormed out. Instead I just stared at her, dead in the eye, until she looked mortified and hugged me and I started sobbing on her shoulder. “At that point,” I said, “we still thought it was an accident. That either she’d been swimming drunk at night, or she’d gone over in the morning to exercise and—who knows.” Britt said, “When did it become clear they were investigating the death as a murder?” “Not for a few days. They did an autopsy, which I guess is standard for accidental deaths, and after that the State Police showed up.” Britt referred to her notebook. She said, “So, the State Police came on Tuesday, and the family’s own investigators did, too. That’s three full days after the body was found, and meanwhile the Granby police hadn’t even secured the


house, the great state bed, as I almost felt it, the full, figured draperies, the long glasses in which, for the first time, I could see myself from head to foot, all struck me--like the extraordinary charm of my small charge--as so many things thrown in. It was thrown in as well, from the first moment, that I should get on with Mrs. Grose in a relation over which, on my way, in the coach, I fear I had rather brooded. The only thing indeed that in this early outlook might have made me shrink again was the clear circumstance of her being so glad to see me. I perceived within half an hour that she was so glad--stout, simple, plain, clean, wholesome woman-- as to be positively on her guard against showing it too much. I wondered even then a little why she should wish not to show it, and that, with reflection, with suspicion, might of course have made me uneasy. But it was a comfort that there could be no uneasiness in a connection with anything so beatific as the radiant image of my little girl, the vision of whose angelic beauty had probably more than anything else to do with the restlessness that, before morning, made me several times rise and wander about my room to take in the whole picture and prospect; to watch, from my open window, the faint summer dawn, to look at such portions of the rest of the house as I could catch, and to listen, while, in the fading dusk, the first birds began to twitter, for the possible recurrence of a sound or two, less natural and not without, but within, that I had fancied I heard. There had been a moment when I believed I recognized, faint and far, the cry of a child; there had been another when I found myself just consciously starting as at the passage, before my door, of a light footstep. But these fancies were not marked enough not to be thrown off, and it is only in the light, or the gloom, I should rather say, of other and subsequent matters that they now come back to me. To watch, teach, "form" little Flora would too evidently be the making of a happy and useful life. It had been agreed between us downstairs that after this first occasion I should have her as a matter of course at night, her small white bed being already arranged, to that end, in my room. What I had undertaken was the whole care of her, and she had remained, just this last time, with Mrs. Grose only as an effect of our consideration for my inevitable strangeness and her natural timidity. In spite of this timidity-- which the child herself, in the oddest way in the world, had been perfectly frank and brave about, allowing it, without a sign of uncomfortable consciousness, with the deep, sweet serenity indeed of one of Raphael's holy infants, to be discussed, to be imputed to her, and to determine us-- I


a tiny bit fatter every day--and suppose some morning it should look like one--what should we do!" "Bless us all, I can see tha' has a good bit o' play actin' to do," said Susan Sowerby. "But tha' won't have to keep it up much longer. Mester Craven'll come home." "Do you think he will?" asked Colin. "Why?" Susan Sowerby chuckled softly. "I suppose it 'ud nigh break thy heart if he found out before tha' told him in tha' own way," she said. "Tha's laid awake nights plannin' it." "I couldn't bear any one else to tell him," said Colin. "I think about different ways every day, I think now I just want to run into his room." "That'd be a fine start for him," said Susan Sowerby. "I'd like to see his face, lad. I would that! He mun come back --that he mun." One of the things they talked of was the visit they were to make to her cottage. They planned it all. They were to drive over the moor and lunch out of doors among the heather. They would see all the twelve children and Dickon's garden and would not come back until they were tired. Susan Sowerby got up at last to return to the house and Mrs. Medlock. It was time for Colin to be wheeled back also. But before he got into his chair he stood quite close to Susan and fixed his eyes on her with a kind of bewildered adoration and he suddenly caught hold of the fold of her blue cloak and held it fast. "You are just what I--what I wanted," he said. "I wish you were my mother--as well as Dickon's!" All at once Susan Sowerby bent down and drew him with her warm arms close against the bosom under the blue cloak--as if he had been Dickon's brother. The quick mist swept over her eyes. "Eh! dear lad!" she said. "Thy own mother's in this 'ere very garden, I do believe. She couldna' keep out of it. Thy father mun come back to thee--he mun!" CHAPTER XXVII IN THE GARDEN In each century since the beginning of the world wonderful things have been discovered. In the last century more amazing things were found out than in any century before. In this new century hundreds of things still more astounding will be brought to light. At first people refuse to believe that a strange new thing can be done, then they begin to hope it can be done, then they see it can be done--then it is done and all the world wonders why it was not done centuries ago. One of the new things people began to find out in the last century was that thoughts--just mere thoughts--are as powerful as electric batteries--as good for one as sunlight is, or as bad for one as poison. To let a sad thought or a bad one get into your mind is as dangerous as letting a scarlet fever germ get into your body. If you let it stay there


to the family when the elevator opens on the fourteenth floor. I’m all legs as I stumble into the hall with him, as though the slight press of his finger along my spine was what was holding me up. He stops in front of Room 1412, a lock of hair falling over his brow as he struggles with the key, like his nerves are getting in the way, which endears him to me even more. It strikes me that it could be an act, in which case I’m absolutely falling for it, but in this moment, I can’t bring myself to care. All I want is his skin on mine as we erase the world outside. A sweaty, indulgent night and a polite goodbye the next morning. The door’s barely clicked shut before he has me pinned against it, mouth on my throat. Nothing polite about it. He’s cinnamon sugar and that hint of cologne and something else, something that makes me dizzy when I drag my hands up his back and take a deep breath. My skin is buzzing, burning, alive. It’s not until he backs up to kick off his shoes, fisting a hand in his pocket to toss a conference badge onto a desk, that I get a peek at the room. He’s kept it clean, or maybe the hotel staff already stopped by to tidy up. His suitcase is open on one of those luggage racks, a closet revealing another button-up shirt and blazer. But my mind can focus on this for only a split second before he covers me again, freeing me of my denim jacket, which lands in a dark heap on the floor. I toss the bag of condoms somewhere next to it. Maybe because I’m entirely too eager, I go for his belt buckle first. A laugh slips past his lips as I yank it from his waist with a flourish. Our kisses turn deeper. Harder. He’s solid heat as he runs his hands down the sides of my body, curving over my generous hips and ass. I give it all right back. A thrust against the bulge in his jeans. A hand palming his back pockets. A shove so that I can get him against the door this time, tasting his jaw, neck, throat, fingers working to undo the buttons at his collar. Then he tugs me forward in a motion that propels us back, back, back—until my leg slams into hard, cold metal. The luggage rack. “Shit,” I hiss out, clutching at my calf as I try to regain my balance. He steadies me, eyes going wide, face gorgeously flushed. “You okay?” “Yep. I’m good.” That sting of pain doesn’t stand a chance against my libido. I could be limping and I’d still need him on top of me. “And I should also say . . .” My anxiety intervenes, reminding me I’ve never done this before. “I tested a couple weeks ago, and I’m negative.” “Me, too. Sorry, I should have said something earlier—I don’t know all the etiquette for this.”


have to love them as best we can and help them when they need us. That’s it.” She patted my hand. “Darling, I will see you at three.” Mom was right. I didn’t need to keep secrets and tell lies to protect the people I loved. I didn’t need to try to control them because they could handle their own lives. Daphne could handle her own sobriety. I would always be there to help her because that’s what best friends do. But if she and Huff wanted to be together, I needed to butt out, once and for all. I looked out the door and could see the blue USPS box where our invitation send-off would take place, picturing how sad it would be without my best friend. We would have champagne inside. Prior experience had taught me that drinking on the sidewalk was a bad idea. I thought of Rich. My heart ached for him and all I had lost. And I realized that I had caused that same ache for Huff. “Oh,” Mom said. “And I’m assuming we shouldn’t expect Daphne?” “You know, Mom, Daphne is a better friend than I will ever hope to be, so I don’t know what to expect.” It was my responsibility to apologize. And I’d better figure out how fast or Huff would never forgive me. She blew me a kiss. “Going to have lunch next door with Daddy. Come by if you feel like it.” The man walking in—finally! A customer!—held the door for her. “May I help you find anything?” “Just wanted to surprise my wife with a little something.” How nice, I thought, when a book was a surprise your husband got you, not the news that he had quit his job without telling you—or that honesty wasn’t all that important to him, actually. Although I didn’t have a leg to stand on there. I cringed at the thought of what I had done with Rich in that sailing hut. Again. And I figured that, whatever Bryce had done, it couldn’t be worse than that. Maybe we were just two liars. Maybe we deserved each other. The sailing hut made me think of camp, which made me think of Daphne… and Huff… And, all of a sudden, I knew exactly how—in the words of Huff—to fix it. I rang up my customer and then texted Huff: I have a plan. It better be a damn good one. I smiled. It was a good plan. It totally was. Maybe I was the only person in the world who knew how to break up my brother and my best friend. But, then again, maybe I was also the only one who knew precisely how to put them back together. June THE ENDS OF THE EARTH THE SOUNDS OF LAWN MOWERS outside my door made me practically leap out of bed. Family camp had given me a renewed sense of energy. And, with that extra money in our coffers, it made me believe that maybe we could save it after all. We needed more.


he looked down at her very kindly. "I'm Beth. I love it dearly, and I'll come, if you are quite sure nobody will hear me, and be disturbed," she added, fearing to be rude, and trembling at her own boldness as she spoke. "Not a soul, my dear. The house is empty half the day, so come and drum away as much as you like, and I shall be obliged to you." "How kind you are, sir!" Beth blushed like a rose under the friendly look he wore, but she was not frightened now, and gave the hand a grateful squeeze because she had no words to thank him for the precious gift he had given her. The old gentleman softly stroked the hair off her forehead, and, stooping down, he kissed herr, saying, in a tone few people ever heard . . . "I had a little girl once, with eyes like these. God bless you, my dear! Good day. madam." And away he went, in a great hurry. Beth had a rapture with her mother, and then rushed up to impart the glorious news to her family of invalids, as the girls were not home. How blithely she sang that evening, and how they all laughed at her because she woke Amy in the night by playing the piano on her face in her sleep. Next day, having seen both the old and young gentleman out of the house, Beth, after two or three retreats, fairly got in at the side door, and made her way as noiselessly as any mouse to the drawing room where her idol stood. Quite by accident, of course, some pretty, easy music lay on the piano, and with trembling fingers and frequent stops to listen and look about, Beth at last touched the great instrument, and straightway forgot her fear, herself, and everything else but the unspeakable delight which the music gave her, for it was like the voice of a beloved friend. She stayed till Hannah came to take her home to dinner, but she had no appetite,and could only sit and smile upon everyone in a general state of beatitude. After that, the little brown hood slipped through the hedge nearly every day, and the great drawing room was haunted by a tuneful spirit that came and went unseen. She never knew that Mr. Laurence opened his study door to hear the old-fashioned airs he liked. She never saw Laurie mount guard in the hall to warn the servants away. She never suspected that the exercise books and new songs which she found in the rack were put there for her especial benefit, and when he talked to her about music at home, she only thought how kind he was to tell things that helped her so much. So she enjoyed herself heartily, and found, what isn't always the case, that her granted wish was all she had hoped. Perhaps it was because she was so grateful for this blessing that a greater was given her. At any rate she deserved both.


And sick. My husband is abusive.” “Get a divorce,” I say. “You don’t have to kill yourself.” She laughs darkly. “You don’t get it.” She’s right, I don’t. My relationship history is dismal but anti-climactic. Work has always usurped relationships. In my twenties, I lived with a guy, André, for three years, but the romance petered out, due to neglect and indifference. When we split, it was cordial. He left me the couch. Since then, I’ve had lovers but few real boyfriends. There was never time; they were never a priority. It was easier to have no-strings hookups while I focused on my career. “My husband is a criminal defense lawyer. He’s rich. And he’s powerful.” She takes a swig from the bottle. “And he’s a sadist.” It might be hyperbole—people call their partners horrible names all the time—but her words send a chill through me. Something tells me that her description is literal. That this woman’s husband is turned on by abuse and humiliation. Hers. She gets up suddenly. “I have to go.” I follow her up the trail that spits us out right next to my car. Can I pretend this isn’t mine? That I, too, occupy one of the magnificent homes surrounding us? But when she looks at it, and then over at me, I realize it’s clear. This is my Toyota. This is my home. “Do you need a ride?” I ask lamely. Her eyes roam over the plastic-covered window, the cold toast on the dashboard, my cheap phone in the console. The back seat is filled with clothes—some neatly folded, some tossed haphazardly. And then I see the knife, abandoned on the front seat. It had been on my lap when I scrambled from the vehicle. Has she spotted it? “I just live up the street,” she says, looking away, ashamed for me. “Eight thousand square feet, right on the water. But it’s a prison.” “Better than living like this,” I mutter, eyes on my home on wheels. “No,” she says. “It’s not.” Without another word, she walks away. 6 I NEED MORE SLEEP, BUT I am soaking wet, with seaweed in my hair and green slime on my clothing and skin. The brackish smell of Puget Sound is strong on me, and I need to shower and change. Normally, I can go a couple of days without a proper wash, but I can’t go to the diner like this. Working quickly in the low light, I peel off my wet jeans and struggle into a pair of black tights. They stick to my skin, forcing me to wriggle and jump into them. Yesterday’s T-shirt is atop the pile in the back seat. It smells like grease, and there’s a mustard stain—or is it egg yolk?—down the front, but at least it’s dry. Though my head feels thick and cloudy, I need to focus. Strategy is key to survival for the homeless. There must be a community pool in this area where I can scam a hot shower, but I have no idea where it is. If


said, “All right. Help me in.” The rush and movement of the fabric. Pale flesh. The air was tight here, lamps burning low. Miss de Vries clutched Alice’s shoulder for balance. They were playing drums outside, and the beat matched Alice’s pulse. “Get this buckle, would you?” “Yes, Madam.” She fixed it. Miss de Vries’s breathing had quickened. It must have been the anticipation, the excitement, the promise of the night to come. “Alice,” she said. There was something tight in her tone, as if she were readying herself to ask something, give an order. Now was the moment. Alice’s mouth was dry. She spoke before Miss de Vries could. “Madam,” she said, “there’s something I need to tell you...” 26 Miss de Vries moved fast, chains clinking lightly as she held her headdress in place. Alice hurried after her, watching how the dress moved. It had an armored structure around the waist, and yet it still flowed with a ferocious sort of grace. “I wasn’t sure whether to say anything, Madam. But, knowing how many people will be here tonight, I thought perhaps it was best...” Winnie would have approved of that, she thought, feeling sick. She was following the plan perfectly. But it made her feel as if her rib cage were being squeezed. Her nerves were dancing in her skin. Miss de Vries’s tone was hard. “I’ll be the judge of that.” She was walking so quickly, faster than Alice could have expected, hurtling out of the room and toward the stairs. When Alice had told her, Miss de Vries had clenched her hands, digging her nails into her palms, as if to punish herself. As if she expected treachery in her household, as if she’d been waiting for it all along. She’d hastened to her dressing table, yanking open the drawers, rummaging inside, searching, realizing what was missing. She’d turned to Alice, face pale. “You’re right. It’s gone.” She was angry, but the anger was operating somewhere deeper than Alice had seen before, something right down at the base of the bone. She could hear it in the roughness of Miss de Vries’s voice. “I cannot stand it,” she said. “Being preyed on like this.” Alice said, feeling a prickling in her spine, “I should go and fetch Mr. Shepherd, Madam. Really, I should have gone to him first...” It was the right move to make. “Shepherd is a fool. He won’t fix a thing. These are my personal possessions.” She waved Alice away. “I’m going down to the servants’ hall myself.” They’d counted on this. They needed her downstairs, dragging the household with her, holding everyone there while the attic doors were softly opened, and Mrs. Bone’s men began trickling downstairs. They hastened toward the lift, and Alice looked over Miss de Vries’s shoulder. Stifling a gasp, she spotted the Janes on a pair of stepladders in one of the adjoining bedrooms. The door must have swung open. They were right on their tiptoes, lifting the huge, brocade drapes clean from their rails. “I’d best come down


"The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia." "I was also aware of that," murmured Holmes, settling himself down in his armchair and closing his eyes. Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid, lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic client. "If your Majesty would condescend to state your case," he remarked, "I should be better able to advise you." The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. "You are right," he cried; "I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal it?" "Why, indeed?" murmured Holmes. "Your Majesty had not spoken before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia." "But you can understand," said our strange visitor, sitting down once more and passing his hand over his high white forehead, "you can understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to an agent without putting myself in his power. I have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting you." "Then, pray consult," said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more. "The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the wellknown adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you." "Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor," murmured Holmes without opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish information. In this case I found her biography sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who had written a monograph upon the deep-sea fishes. "Let me see!" said Holmes. "Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto--hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw--yes! Retired from operatic stage--ha! Living in London--quite so! Your Majesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of getting those letters back." "Precisely so. But how--" "Was there a secret marriage?" "None." "No legal papers or certificates?" "None." "Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to prove their authenticity?" "There is the writing." "Pooh, pooh!


were done. The silence that followed was brutal, as those final seconds of that message echoed around in my head: “I think I’m in love with you, by the way.” Then a gasp—and “Shit! Shit! Shit!” Then, of all things: “Best wishes!” Best wishes? Best wishes? That’s how I ended the most humiliating voicemail in human history? Best frigging wishes? But then I had a comforting thought: It was fine. It really was. He’d never listen to it, anyway. Twenty-Nine I WENT TO bed that night feeling at peace with my choices. But I woke up the next day feeling nice and angry. Had I really just called the guy who ghosted me—and thanked him? Thanked him? Where exactly was my self-respect? You don’t thank people who put your heart in a meat grinder. You don’t thank people who abandon you. You don’t thank people who stare at you cold as ice and then turn away when you beg them for help. That was my plan? To absolve him of all responsibility and then pleasantly move on? He had dumped me and left town for no apparent reason without even an explanation—and he’d acted like I was the problem. Not cool. And I thought it was a good idea to leave him a grateful voicemail for that? Yes. Apparently I did. Which made me even angrier. At both of us. Because how was I supposed to get over it if I was consumed with rage? Or maybe getting consumed with rage was part of getting over it … Fine then. No more moping, no more weeping, no more pining for the future I’d lost hold of. It was time to be okay. For real. The anger was very healing—burning through me with a purifying fire. Sue approved. When she returned from her kidnapping elopement a few days later, we gave the Joe debacle one last, long hearty evening of processing, decided it was a lucky near miss for me, made a list of guys Witt could set me up with, and spent the rest of the night brainstorming what the hell, now, I should do with my career. Sue voted for “textile designer” because she thought I had a way with color. But we also considered interior designer, knitting-store owner, and boutique hotelier in the Swiss Alps. The other big news was that Sue’s parents were throwing her an elopement party. “They’re not mad that you got married without them?” “Nope,” Sue said, like that question had been bananas. “They love him. My mom knitted him a sweater with a heart on it.” Apparently, Sue’s mom thought the kidnapping elopement was very romantic. And she thought Witt was a sweet boy and a good provider. And she was a huge fan of Canada. Turned out, Mrs. Kim and Sue had been planning a little welcome-home wedding celebration during Sue’s entire cross-Canada train ride—texting pictures of flower arrangements and table settings back and forth—and her mom already had everything worked out for the Friday night after the newlyweds returned. “Wow,” I said. “Between


faces brought back despair to my heart. I saw an insurmountable barrier placed between me and my fellow men; this barrier was sealed with the blood of William and Justine, and to reflect on the events connected with those names filled my soul with anguish. But in Clerval I saw the image of my former self; he was inquisitive and anxious to gain experience and instruction. The difference of manners which he observed was to him an inexhaustible source of instruction and amusement. He was also pursuing an object he had long had in view. His design was to visit India, in the belief that he had in his knowledge of its various languages, and in the views he had taken of its society, the means of materially assisting the progress of European colonization and trade. In Britain only could he further the execution of his plan. He was forever busy, and the only check to his enjoyments was my sorrowful and dejected mind. I tried to conceal this as much as possible, that I might not debar him from the pleasures natural to one who was entering on a new scene of life, undisturbed by any care or bitter recollection. I often refused to accompany him, alleging another engagement, that I might remain alone. I now also began to collect the materials necessary for my new creation, and this was to me like the torture of single drops of water continually falling on the head. Every thought that was devoted to it was an extreme anguish, and every word that I spoke in allusion to it caused my lips to quiver, and my heart to palpitate. After passing some months in London, we received a letter from a person in Scotland who had formerly been our visitor at Geneva. He mentioned the beauties of his native country and asked us if those were not sufficient allurements to induce us to prolong our journey as far north as Perth, where he resided. Clerval eagerly desired to accept this invitation, and I, although I abhorred society, wished to view again mountains and streams and all the wondrous works with which Nature adorns her chosen dwelling-places. We had arrived in England at the beginning of October, and it was now February. We accordingly determined to commence our journey towards the north at the expiration of another month. In this expedition we did not intend to follow the great road to Edinburgh, but to visit Windsor, Oxford, Matlock, and the Cumberland lakes, resolving to arrive at the completion of this tour about the end of July. I packed up my chemical instruments and the materials I had collected, resolving to finish my labours in some obscure nook in the northern highlands of Scotland. We quitted London on the 27th of March and remained a few days at Windsor, rambling in its beautiful forest. This was a new scene to us mountaineers; the majestic oaks, the quantity of game, and the herds of stately deer were all novelties to us. From thence we proceeded to Oxford.


you; I crept along the shores of the Rhine, among its willow islands and over the summits of its hills. I have dwelt many months in the heaths of England and among the deserts of Scotland. I have endured incalculable fatigue, and cold, and hunger; do you dare destroy my hopes?" "Begone! I do break my promise; never will I create another like yourself, equal in deformity and wickedness." "Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved yourself unworthy of my condescension. Remember that I have power; you believe yourself miserable, but I can make you so wretched that the light of day will be hateful to you. You are my creator, but I am your master; obey!" "The hour of my irresolution is past, and the period of your power is arrived. Your threats cannot move me to do an act of wickedness; but they confirm me in a determination of not creating you a companion in vice. Shall I, in cool blood, set loose upon the earth a daemon whose delight is in death and wretchedness? Begone! I am firm, and your words will only exasperate my rage." The monster saw my determination in my face and gnashed his teeth in the impotence of anger. "Shall each man," cried he, "find a wife for his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone? I had feelings of affection, and they were requited by detestation and scorn. Man! You may hate, but beware! Your hours will pass in dread and misery, and soon the bolt will fall which must ravish from you your happiness forever. Are you to be happy while I grovel in the intensity of my wretchedness? You can blast my other passions, but revenge remains -- revenge, henceforth dearer than light or food! I may die, but first you, my tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on your misery. Beware, for I am fearless and therefore powerful. I will watch with the wiliness of a snake, that I may sting with its venom. Man, you shall repent of the injuries you inflict." "Devil, cease; and do not poison the air with these sounds of malice. I have declared my resolution to you, and I am no coward to bend beneath words. Leave me; I am inexorable." "It is well. I go; but remember, I shall be with you on your wedding-night." I started forward and exclaimed, "Villain! Before you sign my death-warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe." I would have seized him, but he eluded me and quitted the housew ith precipitation. In a few moments I saw him in his boat, which shot across the waters with an arrowy swiftness and was soon lost amidst the waves. All was again silent, but his words rang in my ears. I burned with rage to pursue the murderer of my peace and precipitate him into the ocean. I walked up and down my room hastily and perturbed, while my imagination conjured up a thousand images to torment and sting


emerald green as she zipped up her jacket and tipped her chin up at him. “Well, are you with me?” she asked. “Always,” he said, tossing his cigarette away and grabbing her by the arm with a cool aloofness that disguised his nerves. Then again, he was an actor and could play the part of the tough hero for a bit. 14 They hailed a cab and headed to Montserrat’s building. As soon as Montserrat walked into her apartment, she noticed the red button blinking on the answering machine. She tossed her purse on the couch. The first message was from Samuel. “Hey, Montserrat. I have no shifts for you for the second half of December, but I might have something for you in January. I need to talk to you about the Christmas party. We’re doing a gift exchange. Phone me.” She did not intend to go to the party and waste her time having to pretend she liked whatever idiotic gift the guys had picked. She’d get her bonus and tell Mario and his buddies that she had plans that day. She deleted the message. The next message was from her sister asking her to call her back. “You didn’t tell her I was detained, did you?” Montserrat asked, turning to Tristán. But he shook his head no. Montserrat dialed Araceli. Her sister sounded cheerful when she picked up. In the background she could hear the muffled sound of Christmas music. Great. She had started playing José Feliciano. Things would only get more insufferably cheery from there. Still, she was glad to hear Araceli’s voice after her forty-eight-hour marathon session fielding questions from cops. “Hey, mom’s been calling you. She says you’re not picking up the phone.” “She didn’t leave a message.” “You know she hates machines.” “She called you to tell me that?” “Yup. She wants to know if you’re going to Morelia for Christmas. We could drive together.” Montserrat’s relationship with her mother remained somewhat distant, but she made an effort to visit on her birthday and during Christmas. Araceli was closer to their mom; they talked often on the phone. Montserrat knew she was expected to make an appearance, but she couldn’t promise that, not with the way things were. “I’ve got work,” she lied. “That’s why I haven’t been answering the phone. I’m in the middle of a research project.” “I thought you were having trouble getting hours at Antares. Are they changing their mind?” “Something like that. You should go, though.” “You’ll be alone for the holidays if I drive to Morelia.” “I’ll be with Tristán.” “He doesn’t have a new hot date yet?” Montserrat glanced at Tristán, who had plopped himself on her couch and was glancing at her curiously. “Status unknown.” “Well, if you change your mind let me know. I’ll head out on the seventeenth, to avoid all the traffic. Work is slow and I might as well go there early. If you want me to take a gift for mom I can wrap it for you.” “Sounds good.” “You need to


facing the targets, was pitched a real tent, with benches and garden-seats about it. A number of ladies in summer dresses and gentlemen in grey frock-coats and tall hats stood on the lawn or sat upon the benches; and every now and then a slender girl in starched muslin would step from the tent, bow in hand, and speed her shaft at one of the targets, while the spectators interrupted their talk to watch the result. Newland Archer, standing on the verandah of the house, looked curiously down upon this scene. On each side of the shiny painted steps was a large blue china flower-pot on a bright yellow china stand. A spiky green plant filled each pot, and below the verandah ran a wide border of blue hydrangeas edged with more red geraniums. Behind him, the French windows of the drawing-rooms through which he had passed gave glimpses, between swaying lace curtains, of glassy parquet floors islanded with chintz poufs, dwarf armchairs, and velvet tables covered with trifles in silver. The Newport Archery Club always held its August meeting at the Beauforts'. The sport, which had hitherto known no rival but croquet, was beginning to be discarded in favour of lawn-tennis; but the latter game was still considered too rough and inelegant for social occasions, and as an opportunity to show off pretty dresses and graceful attitudes the bow and arrow held their own. Archer looked down with wonder at the familiar spectacle. It surprised him that life should be going on in the old way when his own reactions to it had so completely changed. It was Newport that had first brought home to him the extent of the change. In New York, during the previous winter, after he and May had settled down in the new greenish-yellow house with the bow-window and the Pompeian vestibule, he had dropped back with relief into the old routine of the office, and the renewal of this daily activity had served as a link with his former self. Then there had been the pleasurable excitement of choosing a showy grey stepper for May's brougham (the Wellands had given the carriage), and the abiding occupation and interest of arranging his new library, which, in spite of family doubts and disapprovals, had been carried out as he had dreamed, with a dark embossed paper, Eastlake book-cases and "sincere" arm-chairs and tables. At the Century he had found Winsett again, and at the Knickerbocker the fashionable young men of his own set; and what with the hours dedicated to the law and those given to dining out or entertaining friends at home, with an occasional evening at the Opera or the play, the life he was living had still seemed a fairly real and inevitable sort of business. But Newport represented the escape from duty into an atmosphere of unmitigated holiday-making. Archer had tried to persuade May to spend the summer on a remote island off the coast of Maine (called, appropriately enough, Mount Desert), where a few hardy Bostonians and Philadelphians were camping in "native"


with a cordial nod from one, and a graceful bow from the other, the two gentlemen took leave. Emma remained very well pleased with this beginning of the acquaintance, and could now engage to think of them all at Randalls any hour of the day, with full confidence in their comfort. CHAPTER VI The next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again. He came with Mrs. Weston, to whom and to Highbury he seemed to take very cordially. He had been sitting with her, it appeared, most companionably at home, till her usual hour of exercise; and on being desired to chuse their walk, immediately fixed on Highbury.--"He did not doubt there being very pleasant walks in every direction, but if left to him, he should always chuse the same. Highbury, that airy, cheerful, happy-looking Highbury, would be his constant attraction."-- Highbury, with Mrs. Weston, stood for Hartfield; and she trusted to its bearing the same construction with him. They walked thither directly. Emma had hardly expected them: for Mr. Weston, who had called in for half a minute, in order to hear that his son was very handsome, knew nothing of their plans; and it was an agreeable surprize to her, therefore, to perceive them walking up to the house together, arm in arm. She was wanting to see him again, and especially to see him in company with Mrs. Weston, upon his behaviour to whom her opinion of him was to depend. If he were deficient there, nothing should make amends for it. But on seeing them together, she became perfectly satisfied. It was not merely in fine words or hyperbolical compliment that he paid his duty; nothing could be more proper or pleasing than his whole manner to her--nothing could more agreeably denote his wish of considering her as a friend and securing her affection. And there was time enough for Emma to form a reasonable judgment, as their visit included all the rest of the morning. They were all three walking about together for an hour or two-- first round the shrubberies of Hartfield, and afterwards in Highbury. He was delighted with every thing; admired Hartfield sufficiently for Mr. Woodhouse's ear; and when their going farther was resolved on, confessed his wish to be made acquainted with the whole village, and found matter of commendation and interest much oftener than Emma could have supposed. Some of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable feelings. He begged to be shewn the house which his father had lived in so long, and which had been the home of his father's father; and on recollecting that an old woman who had nursed him was still living, walked in quest of her cottage from one end of the street to the other; and though in some points of pursuit or observation there was no positive merit, they shewed, altogether, a good-will towards Highbury in general, which must be very like a merit to those he was with. Emma watched and decided, that with such feelings as were now shewn, it could not


and steeple-crowned hats, smiled not unbenignantly at the clamour and rude deportment of these jolly seafaring men; and it excited neither surprise nor animadversion when so reputable a citizen as Thesaurus animadversion: (n) censure, criticism, infinity, bulk, largeness, infiniteness, scruple: (adj, v) hesitate, demur, pause; comment, blame, reflection, infinitude, vastness, grandeur, (n) hesitation, qualm, misgiving, exception, slam, dispraise, grandness. ANTONYM: (n) lightness. distrust, objection; (n, v) mistrust; (v) disapproval, stricture, objection. nautical: (adj) maritime, aquatic, falter, question. attempts: (adj) trying. oceangoing, yachting, naval, marine seafaring: (n) sailing, navigation, bands: (n) cords, stripes. Shells, nautic; (v) seafaring; (n) sea, boating, cabotage, travelling; (adj) buccaneer: (n) pirate, corsair, shipping. marine, naval, maritime, seagoing, freebooter, pillager, sea rover, Viking, probity: (adj, n) integrity, honor, oceangoing, sea. sea robber, looter, despoiler, candor, decency; (n) goodness, starched: (adj) formal, starch, plunderer, spoiler. morality, principle, sincerity, virtue, punctilious, ceremonious, majestic, immensity: (n) greatness, veracity; (adj) faithfulness. solemn, inflexible, prim, stately, enormousness, immenseness, ANTONYM: (n) untrustworthiness. severe, ritual. 226 The Scarlet Letter old Roger Chillingworth, the physician, was seen to enter the market-place in close and familiar talk with the commander of the questionable vessel.% The latter was by far the most showy and gallant figure, so far as apparel went, anywhere to be seen among the multitude. He wore a profusion of ribbons on his garment, and gold lace on his hat, which was also encircled by a gold chain, and surmounted with a feather. There was a sword at his side and a sword-cut on his forehead, which, by the arrangement of his hair, he seemed anxious rather to display than hide. A landsman could hardly have worn this garb and shown this face, and worn and shown them both with such a galliard air, without undergoing stern question before a magistrate, and probably incurring a fine or imprisonment, or perhaps an exhibition in the stocks. As regarded the shipmaster, however, all was looked upon as pertaining to the character, as to a fish his glistening scales. After parting from the physician, the commander of the Bristol ship strolled idly through the market-place; until happening to approach the spot where Hester Prynne was standing, he appeared to recognise, and did not hesitate to address her. As was usually the case wherever Hester stood, a small vacant area- -a sort of magic circle--had formed itself about her, into which, though the people were elbowing one another at a little distance, none ventured or felt disposed to intrude. It was a forcible type of the moral solitude in which the scarlet letter enveloped its fated wearer; partly by her own reserve, and partly by the instinctive, though no longer so unkindly, withdrawal of her fellow-creatures. Now, if never before, it answered a good purpose by enabling Hester and the seaman to speak together without risk of being overheard; and so changed was Hester Prynne's repute before the public, that the matron in town, most eminent for rigid morality, could not have held such intercourse with less result of scandal than herself. "So, mistress," said the mariner, "I must bid


leave a message, wouldn’t they? With one more sweeping glance around the park and noticing a thirty-something woman who was quickly shuttling her toddler away from the crazy woman in the dirty bathrobe, she gave up. There was nothing to do but go back home, retrieve her phone, get in her car, and start searching. Maybe someone had found Dave and had already left a message, or taken the dog to a shelter or a vet’s office. She had to put her faith in the fact that someone would find him. Someone would bring him back. Or . . . what if the dog caught up with the intruder? Her heart turned to ice. What if the intruder was the same person who attacked her, who killed Jay, who had been in her home and left her the cards with the dark rose? “Don’t go there,” she said aloud. “Hey!” a sharp male voice called from behind her. “Is this your dog?” She spun quickly and found a tall man holding a belt as a makeshift leash hooked around Dave’s collar. Her knees nearly buckled in relief. “Dave!” she said as the dog strained at the belt, leaping toward her. “Guess so,” the tall man said, walking closer, Dave’s momentum propelling him forward. “Yes, yes!” she gasped. “Oh, God, thank you!” “No worries.” “But where?” “He came right at me. Worried me for a sec.” He handed her the belt as she threw her arms around Dave’s neck. “At you?” she asked, and a niggle of apprehension skittered up her spine. Who was this guy? “Why?” “Don’t know, but he bolted out of a copse of live oaks and ran like a bat outta hell, straight at me.” “And stopped?” “Yeah. I thought he might be some kind of attack dog, but”—he shrugged, broad shoulders moving beneath a short jacket—“obviously not.” “Obviously.” She straightened and took a good look at the man, in his thirties, she guessed, with jet-black hair that brushed over the collar of his jacket and deep-set eyes that were hidden by reflective sunglasses. His beard shadow was long past the three-day mark. He had an edge to him, a tension beneath disreputable jeans, a faded black T-shirt, and scruffy jacket. No smile in that hard jaw, no spark of humor in his expression. There was a toughness to him, evident in a nose that had been broken at least once and a tiny scar near his left eye. I know you. The thought ran through her head, but she couldn’t place him. “You’re Kristi Bentz.” Not a question. For a moment she thought he might have recognized her—she’d been in the paper often enough and her picture was on the jacket of some of her books—then realized he guessed her identity because her name was etched on Dave’s collar. “Right. And you’re—?” “Doesn’t matter.” The barest hint of a smile, just a fleeting slash of white in his dark jaw. “Just a guy who found your dog.” She couldn’t tell because of the glasses, but she got the


Those eyes! Big and utterly scared. “Here you go, little goose,” said Mrs. Bone, shoving her hand through the door, holding out an envelope. “Your fee.” Sue goggled at her. “My what?” she said. Her voice was husky. “You know what for,” Mrs. Bone said, folding her arms. “Don’t pretend you don’t. I pay well when people hold their tongues.” She nodded at the envelope. “Open it.” * * * Park Lane, at dusk. “Aha.” Mrs. King lowered her binoculars. “Seen him?” “Upstairs window.” She and Mrs. Bone took the ladder and scaled the garden wall. Midnight came. Then one o’clock. Then two. The world grew quiet, shifted its dimensions. Mrs. Bone coughed into the crook of her elbow. “You can still go home, Mrs. Bone.” Mrs. Bone snuffled. “Look here, I need to say something. I thought... I thought they were pretending to be married—I never thought that Danny would have ever...” “Don’t trouble yourself,” Mrs. King replied gently. Mrs. Bone shook her head, closed her eyes. “You never should have gone into that house.” There was a great deal Mrs. King could have said in response to that. Any number of people might have altered things for her. They didn’t: because Mr. de Vries was a rich man, and being rich was a virtue—it carried all before it. Even Mrs. Bone must have believed that, on some level. “I daresay you’re right,” Mrs. King said. No need to cause a fuss. “Now look sharp. I’m going to get him.” Mrs. King crossed the garden, made for the house. She guessed where Shepherd would be. In the master’s old room. She picked up a handful of stones, aimed for the balustrade on the second floor. Her aim was straight and true. One pebble. Then another. It didn’t take long. She heard the scrape of wood. A window opening. Saw a pale and flickering light. “Mr. Shepherd,” she called up. “It’s Mrs. King.” The garden was dark and hollow all around her. The light wobbled above her, fearful. She wondered what it was like for Shepherd, living alone inside the house. Someone had to guard it till it could be sold. He was the most natural candidate. She wondered if he slept on the floor, his cheek against cold marble. She wondered if he licked the walls. The window juddered closed. The lamplight died. He was coming downstairs. It took him a while. At last, she heard the distant click of the French doors, saw a lamplit figure in a greatcoat picking his way down the steps. He’d lost weight in the past few weeks. He looked like a priest no longer. Nor even a butler. He looked more like what he was. A pimp, or a pimp’s agent, living on the underside of the world. “Evening,” she said. Mrs. Bone stayed in the shadows. Mr. Shepherd wound his fingers together. His voice was as oily as it ever was. “Mrs. King,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise.” She closed her eyes for a moment, picturing the darkest nights on Park Lane,


bare the whole villainy which by these lights became plain as day. Write and appoint the evening after to-morrow, at seven, for the meeting. We shall be down there, a few hours before, but shall require rest: especially the young lady, who MAY have greater need of firmness than either you or I can quite foresee just now. But my blood boils to avenge this poor murdered creature. Which way have they taken?' 'Drive straight to the office and you will be in time,' replied Mr. Losberne. 'I will remain here.' The two gentlemen hastily separated; each in a fever of excitement wholly uncontrollable. CHAPTER L THE PURSUIT AND ESCAPE Near to that part of the Thames on which the church at Rotherhithe abuts, where the buildings on the banks are dirtiest and the vessels on the river blackest with the dust of colliers and the smoke of close-built low-roofed houses, there exists the filthiest, the strangest, the most extraordinary of the many localities that are hidden in London, wholly unknown, even by name, to the great mass of its inhabitants. To reach this place, the visitor has to penetrate through a maze of close, narrow, and muddy streets, thronged by the rougest and poorest of waterside people, and devoted to the traffic they may be supposed to occasion. The cheapest and least delicate provisions are heaped in the shops; the coarsest and commonest articles of wearing apparel dangle at the salesman's door, and stream from the house-parapet and windows. Jostling with unemployed labourers of the lowest class, ballast-heavers, coal-whippers, brazen women, ragged children, and the raff and refuse of the river, he makes his way with difficulty along, assailed by offensive sights and smells from the narrow alleys which branch off on the right and left, and deafened by the clash of ponderous waggons that bear great piles of merchandise from the stacks of warehouses that rise from every corner. Arriving, at length, in streets remoter and less-frequented than those through which he has passed, he walks beneath tottering house-fronts projecting over the pavement, dismantled walls that seem to totter as he passes, chimneys half crushed half hesitating to fall, windows guarded by rusty iron bars that time and dirt have almost eaten away, every imaginable sign of desolation and neglect. In such a neighborhood, beyond Dockhead in the Borough of Southwark, stands Jacob's Island, surrounded by a muddy ditch, six or eight feet deep and fifteen or twenty wide when the tide is in, once called Mill Pond, but known in the days of this story as Folly Ditch. It is a creek or inlet from the Thames, and can always be filled at high water by opening the sluices at the Lead Mills from which it took its old name. At such times, a stranger, looking from one of the wooden bridges thrown across it at Mill Lane, will see the inhabitants of the houses on either side lowering from their back doors and windows, buckets, pails, domestic utensils of all kinds, in which to haul the water up;


Kings' in Arnor. The prefix Ar- of the Adnaic names of the Kings of Nmenor was derived from this. arien (the Maia of the Sun) is derived from a root as- seen also in Quenya r 'sunlight'. atar 'father' in Atanatri (see Atani in Index), Ilvatar. band 'prison, duress' in Angband; from original mbando, of which the Quenya form appears in Mandos (Sindarin Angband=Quenya Angamando). bar 'dwelling' in Bar-en-Danwedh. The ancient word mbar (Quenya mar, Sindarin bar) meant the 'home' both of persons and of peoples, and thus appears in many place-names, as Brithombar, Dimbar (the first element of which means 'sad, gloomy'), Eldamar, Val(i)mar, Vinyamar, Mar-nu-Falmar. Mardil, name of the first of the Ruling Stewards of Gondor, means 'devoted to the house' (i.e. of the Kings). barad 'tower' in Barad-dr, Barad Either Barad Nimras; the plural in Emyn Beraid. beleg 'mighty' in Beleg, Belegaer, Belegost, Laer C Beleg. brago 'sudden' in Dagor Bragollach. brethil probably means 'silver birch'; cf. Nimbrethil the birchwoods in Arvernien, and Fimbrethil, one of the Entwives. brith 'gravel' in Brithiach, Brithombar, Brithon. (For many names beginning with C see entries under K) calen (galen) the usual Sindarin word for 'green', in Ard-galen, Tol Galen, Calenardhon; also in Parth Galen ('Green Sward') beside Anduin and Pinnath Gelin ('Green Ridges') in Gondor. See kal-. cam (from kamba) 'hand', but specifically of the hand held cupped in the attitude of receiving or holding, in Camlost, Erchamion. carak- This root is seen in Quenya carca 'fang', of which the Sindarin form carch occurs in Carcharoth, and also in Carchost ('Fang Fort', one of the Towers of the Teeth at the entrance to Mordor). Cf. Caragdr, Carach Angren ('Iron Jaws', the rampart and dike guarding the entrance to Udun in Mordor), and Helcarax. caran 'red', Quenya carn, in Caranthir, Carnil, Orocarni; also in Caradhras, from caran-rass, the 'Red-horn' in the Misty Mountains, and Carnimirie 'red-jewelled', the rowan-tree in Treebeard's song. The translation of Carcharoth in the text as 'Red Maw' must depend on association with this word; see carak-. celeb 'silver' (Quenya telep, telp, as in Telperion) in Celeborn, Celebrant, Celebros. Celebrimbor means 'silver-fist', from the adjective celebrin 'silver' (meaning not 'made of silver' but 'like silver, in hue or worth') and paur (Quenya quare) 'fist' often used to mean 'hand'; the Quenya form of the name was Telperinquar. Celebrindal has celebrin and tal, dal 'foot'. coron 'mound' in Corollair (also called Coron Oiolair, which latter word appears to mean 'Ever-summer', cf. Oioloss); cf. Cerin Amroth, the great mound in Lothlrien. c 'bow' in Cthalion, Dor Carthol, Laer C Beleg. cuivi 'awakening' in Cuivinen (Sindarin Nen Echui). Other derivatives of the same root are Dor Firn-i-Guinar; coire, the first beginning of Spring, Sindarin echuir. The Lord of the Rings Appendix D; and coimas 'life-bread', Quenya name of lembas. cul- 'golden-red' in Culrien. curu 'skill' in Curuftn(we), Curunr. dae 'shadow' in Dor Daedeloth, and perhaps in Daeron. dagor 'battle'; the root is ndak-, cf. Haudh-en-Ndengin. Another derivative is Dagnir (Dagnir Glaurunga 'Glaurung's Bane'). del 'horror* in Deldwath; deloth 'abhorrence' in Dor Daedeloth. dn


monitoring equipment beeped and dinged, merging into a kind of constant white noise. Above several of the beds were slow-rotating 3D medical avatars. I’d make my rounds, drop by each of the patients later. For right now, I needed to check in on Sonya. I made a left through double doors beneath a sign that read “Surgical Suite.” Staff wearing pastel-colored scrubs bustled by. A harried-looking nurse noticed me. “Captain? Um … Sorry, but Doc Viv’s not allowing any—” “Sonya Winters. She’s out of surgery?” “Yes, but as I said …” It was then that I saw Hardy lean his bulk out into the corridor. “She’s in here, Cap.” I strode past the nurse. “Keep up the good work. I won’t stay long.” Sonya was sitting upright but looked to be asleep. A web of tubes and wires emerged from her shoulder dressing. Rhythmic beeps of a heart monitor echoed within the quiet compartment, punctuating the stillness. Unmoving, Hardy stood tall against an adjacent bulkhead. “How is she?” I asked. Hardy’s faceplate came alive, his holographic John Hardy face looking back at me. “She came through the surgery without any complications. Her arm was reattached at the shoulder. Prognosis … She’ll be fine within several weeks. She won’t be giving any high fives for a while—that, or playing badminton.” Sonya looked small and vulnerable, lying there in her pink bunny–patterned gown. Having been brought up within the Pylor pirate clan once led by the infamous pirate, Thunderballs, she’d been forced to grow up fast and fend for herself within a rough, male-dominated society. I’d only recently discovered this sixteen-year-old kid, and I had a familial genetic connection with her. I now thought of her, even if it wasn’t totally true, as my niece. She was special to me. Seeing her now, lying there looking broken and helpless, well, the guilt was weighing heavy on my shoulders. She wasn’t a soldier; she wasn’t one of Max’s Marines. She’d been insistent; nothing new there, but I should never have allowed her onto that Ziu mother ship. This was on me. I watched as Sonya’s chest rose and fell in a slow and steady rhythm. “Are you going to just stand there and watch me? Creepy comes to mind.” Her words had come out just above a whisper. Her eyes fluttered open. “And King Kong over there, can’t you find something for him to do?” I took a seat at the side of her bed. “How do you feel, kid?” She didn’t answer right away, and I thought she might have fallen back to sleep. “I feel like one of those monster Ziu fuckers pulled my arm off, then tossed me around like a big chew toy.” “I’m sorry, Sonya. This is my fault.” She turned her head just enough to look at me. She made a face. “Oh God … you’re getting all sappy and mushy. Hardy, find me a bucket; my uncle’s making me want to ralph.” “Knock it off. I’m allowed to be worried about you. You gave all of us, gave


though, I have some promises of my own to keep," he said as he sliced off a wedge. "I shall require three thousand helms and as many hauberks, plus swords, pikes, steel spearheads, maces, battleaxes, gauntlets, gorgets, greaves, breastplates, wagons to carry all this-" The door behind him opened with a crash, so violently that Tyrion almost dropped his cheese. Ser Kevan leapt up swearing as the captain of the guard went flying across the room to smash against the hearth. As he tumbled down into the cold ashes, his lion helm askew, Shagga snapped the man's sword in two over a knee thick as a tree trunk, threw down the pieces, and lumbered into the common room. He was preceded by his stench, riper than the cheese and overpowering in the closed space. "Little redcape," he snarled, "when next you bare steel on Shagga son of Dolf, I will chop off your manhood and roast it in the fire." "What, no goats?" Tyrion said, taking a bite of cheese. The other clansmen followed Shagga into the common room, Bronn with them. The sellsword gave Tyrion a rueful shrug. "Who might you be?" Lord Tywin asked, cool as snow. "They followed me home, Father," Tyrion explained. "May I keep them? They don't eat much." No one was smiling. "By what right do you savages intrude on our councils?" demanded Ser Kevan. "Savages, lowlander?" Conn might have been handsome if you washed him. "We are free men, and free men by rights sit on all war councils." "Which one is the lion lord?" Chella asked. "They are both old men," announced Timett son of Timett, who had yet to see his twentieth year. Ser Kevan's hand went to his sword hilt, but his brother placed two fingers on his wrist and held him fast. Lord Tywin seemed unperturbed. "Tyrion, have you forgotten your courtesies? Kindly acquaint us with our . . . honored guests." 540 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN Tyrion licked his fingers. "With pleasure," he said. "The fair maid is Chella daughter of Cheyk of the Black Ears." "I'm no maid," Chella protested. "My sons have taken fifty ears among them." "May they take fifty more." Tyrion waddled away from her. "This is Conn son of Coratt. Shagga son of Dolf is the one who looks like Casterly Rock with hair. They are Stone Crows. Here is Ulf son of Umar of the Moon Brothers, and here Timett son of Timett, a red hand of the Burned Men. And this is Bronn, a sellsword of no particular allegiance. He has already changed sides twice in the short time I've known him, you and he ought to get on famously, Father." To Bronn and the clansmen he said, "May I present my lord father, Tywin son of Tytos of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, Shield of Lannisport, and once and future Hand of the King." Lord Tywin rose, dignified and correct. "Even in the west, we know the prowess of the warrior clans of the Mountains of the Moon.


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

is common usage. Every copyist is bound to help examine his copy. Is it not so? Will you not speak? Answer!” “I prefer not to,” he replied in a flute-like tone. It seemed to me that while I had been addressing him, he carefully revolved every statement that I made; fully comprehended the meaning; could not gainsay the irresistible conclusions; but, at the same time, some paramount consideration prevailed with him to reply as he did. “You are decided, then, not to comply with my request—a request made according to common usage and common sense?” He briefly gave me to understand that on that point my judgment was sound. Yes: his decision was irreversible. It is not seldom the case that when a man is browbeaten in some unprecedented and violently unreasonable way, he begins to stagger in his own plainest faith. He begins, as it were, vaguely to surmise that, wonderful as it may be, all the justice and all the reason is on the other side. Accordingly, if any disinterested persons are present, he turns to them for some reinforcement for his own faltering mind. “Turkey,” said I, “what do you think of this? Am I not right?” “With submission, sir,” said Turkey, with his blandest tone, “I think that you are.” “Nippers,” said I, “what do you think of it?” “I think I should kick him out of the office.” (The reader of nice perceptions will here perceive that, it being morning, Turkey’s answer is couched in polite and tranquil terms, but Nippers replies in ill-tempered ones. Or, to repeat a previous sentence, Nippers’ ugly mood was on duty and Turkey’s off.) “Ginger Nut,” said I, willing to enlist the smallest suffrage in my behalf, “what do you think of it?” “I think, sir, he’s a little luny,” replied Ginger Nut with a grin. “You hear what they say,” said I, turning towards the screen, “come forth and do your duty.” But he vouchsafed no reply. I pondered a moment in sore perplexity. But once more business hurried me. I determined again to postpone the consideration of this dilemma to my future leisure. With a little trouble we made out to examine the papers without Bartleby, though at every page or two, Turkey deferentially dropped his opinion that this proceeding was quite out of the common; while Nippers, twitching in his chair with a dyspeptic nervousness, ground out between his set teeth occasional hissing maledictions against the stubborn oaf behind the screen. And for his (Nippers’) part, this was the first and the last time he would do another man’s business without pay. Meanwhile Bartleby sat in his hermitage, oblivious to every thing but his own peculiar business there. Some days passed, the scrivener being employed upon another lengthy work. His late remarkable conduct led me to regard his ways narrowly. I observed that he never went to dinner; indeed that he never went any where. As yet I had never of my personal knowledge known him to be outside of my office. He was a perpetual sentry in


Loneliest Number” Man, I’m a bitch. That fancy book party Carrie had? The one with the flowers and catered snacks?! That shit is absolutely not happening. Nobody’s regular-ass book tour looks like that. A color scheme? A stylist?! BAHAHAHAHA SHUT UP. No, Carrie’s book event’s gotta look like all the ones I’ve ever had: crammed in the back of an independent bookstore with a dozen disheveled people who just got off work staring expectantly up at her as she stammers through an intro for a book those folks are definitely not gonna pay thirty bucks for; while other people mill around in the background shopping, yelling at their kids, trying to get a coffee at the in-store café, and loudly stage-whispering, “WHO IS THIS? IS HER BOOK ANY GOOD?” to a stranger at the back of the crowd. Once during a book tour stop in San Francisco, the store I was at got fucking robbed while I was standing behind the lectern making my little jokes, and they told me to just…keep going? So yeah, I’m putting Carrie at a rickety folding table hastily set up in the story time clearing in the middle of the children’s section in a suburban bookstore with a handful of old ladies who treat the bookstore like a library and shush her every time her reading gets too animated, and the three people who are paying attention give her little more than a polite chuckle. She’ll retire from writing books that night. Episode 8: “I Love a Charade” I was not a fan of Carrie visiting Big in LA in the episode before this one, mostly because Big is such a New York guy that he just seemed like an alien out there in all that sunshine and fresh air. Listen, I loved Berger. He was funny and charming and apparently wrote a fantastic book. And watching Carrie dump all her relationship breakup baggage onto him during that impromptu picnic in the grass made my brain scream, but they were so good together, I wished they could’ve figured it out. I haven’t dated a writer, but I have a lot of close writer friends, and the only way to survive the menacing voice in your head that’s whispering “Her book is better than your book; her book is better than your book” on a loop is to just pretend she doesn’t have one. I do it all the time! I buy my friends’ books, but I don’t always read them, because I don’t like having my deficits spread before me as I am forced to examine them. Maybe this is the self-loathing, mentally unstable personal essayist in me, but I get Berger, and he and Carrie could’ve been the dream couple. Also, I just hate Big so much, I can’t help it. It should be a felony for a man to waste that much of a woman’s time. But I love Berger and Carrie’s collective wit and charm and incredible chemistry. If only he’d just taken his ass off his shoulders for five minutes and not


me to sit in the seat in front of the readout screen, where he attached the Bliss-Mini to my head and adhered a few meaningless wires to the skin below my ears, to the base of my neck, and to the top of my forehead. Then he switched on the screen behind me, which began to display an x-axis stretched and compressed into a series of jagged peaks and valleys. “This is Ezra’s brain activity without the help of the Bliss-Mini,” Orson said. “He’s experiencing what we call negative activity, which is when fear centers like the amygdala take over.” “Begin now,” I said, and with those words my sine wave’s peaks and dips became curves. The venture capitalists murmured among themselves. “How do you feel, Ezra?” he asked. “Calmer,” I said. “Relaxed.” The venture capitalists wanted to try it for themselves: Orson magnetized their brains, watching them all say “begin now” and un-tense, generating aesthetically pleasing waves on the screen. To a one, they reported feeling calmer, able to think more clearly, soothed. “This is cutting-edge technology made portable and practical,” Orson said. “This is the future in your hands.” When we were finished, I watched Orson stand at the back of the room shaking hands, accepting invitations to dinners in members-only clubs in Manhattan. He was in his element. He was happy, and I was glad to have made him happy. He could ask me to jump and I’d jump as high as he wanted. Love is a great unlocker of potential. * * * It may be surprising to learn that a reverse merger is not a difficult thing to pull off. It happens in stages, and it happens quietly, and at the end you come away with a public company. It’s better than going public the traditional way, which is like trying to put lipstick on a pig. First: find the target. I spent hours looking up penny stocks online—defunct or near-defunct companies whose shares sold for a matter of pennies—trying to find the most ignored ones. There were whole forums dedicated to this sort of thing, where finance bros would “pump and dump” penny stocks by buying up millions of worthless shares and then letting people believe the company was about to “make an announcement,” leading unsuspecting forum users to buy up shares themselves. By doing this, the conniving finance bro could raise the share price by five or ten cents and make a decent amount of money when he sold his million shares. This happened with all sorts of public zombie companies: Fielding Dishes, ASO Systems, MEGA Computers. For a few months, I lurked while Johnny and Timmy and Ricky pumped money into the penny stocks and then dumped them on the heads of other forum users. The cycle was endless and unfair but remained unbroken. I struggled to understand not only why people participated in this, but why finance bros always wanted to add y’s to the ends of their names. Eventually I found what I was looking for: RSO Diamond Corp., a company that


I set out onto the main road. “You’re sure about this?” “Yes,” Christian says tightly, telling me he’s not sure about this at all. Oh, my poor, poor Fifty. I want to laugh at both him and myself because I’m nervous and excited. A small part of me wants to lose Sawyer and Ryan just for the kicks. I check for traffic then inch the R8 out onto the road. Christian curls up with ten- sion and I can’t resist. The road is clear. I put my foot down on the gas and we shoot forward. “Whoa! Ana!” Christian shouts. “Slow down—you’ll kill us both.” I immediately ease off the gas. Wow, can this car move! “Sorry,” I mutter, trying to sound contrite and failing miserably. Christian smirks at me, to hide his relief, I think. “Well, that counts as misbehaving,” he says casually and I slow right down. I glance in the rearview mirror. No sign of the Audi, just a solitary dark car with tinted windows behind us. I imagine Sawyer and Ryan flustered, frantic to catch up, and for some reason this gives me a thrill. But not wanting to give my dear husband a coronary, I decide to behave and drive steadily with growing con- fidence toward the 520 bridge. Suddenly, Christian swears and struggles to pull his BlackBerry from the pocket of his jeans. “What?” he snaps angrily at whoever it is on the other end of the line. “No.” he says and glances behind us. “Yes. She is.” I briefly check the rearview mirror, but I don’t see anything odd, just a few cars behind us. The SUV is about four cars back, and we’re all cruising at an even pace. “I see.” Christian sighs long and hard and rubs his forehead with his fingers, tension radiates off him. Something’s wrong. “Yes . . . I don’t know.” He glances at me and lowers the phone from his ear. “We’re fine. Keep going,” he says calmly, smiling at me, but the smile doesn’t touch his eyes. Shit! Adrenaline spikes through my system. He picks the phone up again. “Okay on the 520. As soon as we hit it . . . Yes . . . I will.” He slots the phone into the speaker cradle, putting it on hands-free. “What’s wrong, Christian?” 99/551 “Just look where you’re going, baby,” he says softly. I’m heading for the on-ramp of the 520 in the direction of Seattle. When I glance at Christian, he’s staring straight ahead. “I don’t want you to panic,” he says calmly. “But as soon as we’re on the 520 proper, I want you to step on the gas. We’re being followed.” Followed! Holy shit. My heart lurches into my mouth, pounding, my scalp prickles and my throat constricts with panic. Followed by whom? My eyes dart to the rearview mirror and, sure enough, the dark car I saw earlier is still behind us . Fuck! Is that it? I squint through the tinted windshield to see who’s driving, but I see nothing. “Keep your


in the fire, with her pretty hair fluttering in the wind and her eyes scorning me, - often at such a time I would look towards those panels of black night in the wall which the wooden windows then were, and would fancy that I saw her just drawing her face away, and would believe that she had come at last. After that, when we went in to supper, the place and the meal would have a more homely look than ever, and I would feel more ashamed of home than ever, in my own ungracious breast. Chapter 15 As I was getting too big for Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt's room, my education under that preposterous female terminated. Not, however, until Biddy had imparted to me everything she knew, from the little catalogue of prices, to a comic song she had once bought for a halfpenny. Although the only coherent part of the latter piece of literature were the opening lines, When I went to Lunnon town sirs, Too rul loo rul Too rul loo rul Wasn't I done very brown sirs? Too rul loo rul Too rul loo rul - still, in my desire to be wiser, I got this composition by heart with the utmost gravity; nor do I recollect that I questioned its merit, except that I thought (as I still do) the amount of Too rul somewhat in excess of the poetry. In my hunger for information, I made proposals to Mr. Wopsle to bestow some intellectual crumbs upon me; with which he kindly complied. As it turned out, however, that he only wanted me for a dramatic lay-figure, to be contradicted and embraced and wept over and bullied and clutched and stabbed and knocked about in a variety of ways, I soon declined that course of instruction; though not until Mr. Wopsle in his poetic fury had severely mauled me. Whatever I acquired, I tried to impart to Joe. This statement sounds so well, that I cannot in my conscience let it pass unexplained. I wanted to make Joe less ignorant and common, that he might be worthier of my society and less open to Estella's reproach. The old Battery out on the marshes was our place of study, and a broken slate and a short piece of slate pencil were our educational implements: to which Joe always added a pipe of tobacco. I never knew Joe to remember anything from one Sunday to another, or to acquire, under my tuition, any piece of information whatever. Yet he would smoke his pipe at the Battery with a far more sagacious air than anywhere else - even with a learned air - as if he considered himself to be advancing immensely. Dear fellow, I hope he did. It was pleasant and quiet, out there with the sails on the river passing beyond the earthwork, and sometimes, when the tide was low, looking as if they belonged to sunken ships that were still sailing on at the bottom of the water. Whenever I watched the vessels standing out to sea


lace panties, while I gasp at his words—my insides liquefying. He’s just so . . . naughty. Gathering up my clothes and sandals, he stands in one swift, graceful move, like an athlete. “Go and stand beside the table,” he says calmly, pointing with his chin. Turn- ing, he strides over to the museum chest of wonder. He glances back and smirks at me. “Face the wall,” he commands. “That way you won’t know what I’m planning. We aim to please, Mrs. Grey, and you wanted a surprise.” I turn away from him listening acutely—my ears suddenly sensitive to the slightest sound. He’s good at this—building my expectations, stoking my de- sire . . . making me wait. I hear him put my shoes down and, I think, my clothes on the chest, followed by the telltale clatter of his shoes as they drop to the floor, one at a time. Hmm . . . love barefoot Christian. A moment later, I hear him pull open a drawer. Toys! Oh, I love, love, love this anticipation. The drawer closes and my breathing spikes. How can the sound of a drawer render me a quivering mess? It makes no sense. The subtle hiss of the sound system coming to life tells me it’s 115/551 going to be a musical interlude. A lone piano starts, muted and soft, and mournful chords fill the room. It’s not a tune I know. The piano is joined by an electric gui- tar. What is this? A man’s voice speaks and I can just make out the words, something about not being frightened of dying. Christian pads leisurely toward me, his bare feet slapping on the wooden floor. I sense him behind me as a woman starts to sing . . . wail . . . sing? “Rough, you say, Mrs. Grey?” he breathes in my left ear. “Hmm.” “You must tell me to stop if it’s too much. If you say stop, I will stop imme- diately. Do you understand?” “Yes.” “I need your promise.” I inhale sharply. Shit, what is he going to do? “I promise,” I murmur breath- less, recalling his words from earlier: I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m more than happy to play. “Good girl.” Leaning down, he plants a kiss on my naked shoulder then hooks a finger beneath my bra strap and traces a line across my back beneath the strap. I want to moan. How does he make the slightest touch so erotic? “Take it off,” he whispers at my ear, and hurriedly I oblige and let my bra fall to the floor. His hands skim down my back, and he hooks both of his thumbs into my panties and slides them down my legs. “Step,” he orders. Once more I do as I’m told, stepping out of my panties. He plants a kiss on my backside and stands. “I am going to blindfold you so that everything will be more intense.” He slips an airline eye mask over my eyes, and my world is plunged into the


and Thangorodrim was broken, the Edain alone of the kindreds of Men fought for the Valar, whereas many others fought for Morgoth. And after the victory of the Lords of the West those of the evil Men who were not destroyed fled back into the east, where many of their race were still wandering in the unharvested lands, wild and lawless, refusing alike the summons of the Valar and of Morgoth. And the evil Men came among them, and cast over them a shadow of fear, and they took them for kings. Then the Valar forsook for a time the Men of Middle-earth who had refused their summons and had taken the friends of Morgoth to be their masters; and Men dwelt in darkness and were troubled by many evil things that Morgoth had devised in the days of his dominion: demons, and dragons, and misshapen beasts, and the unclean Orcs that are mockeries of the Children of Ilvatar. And the lot of Men was unhappy. But Manw put forth Morgoth and shut him beyond the World in the Void that is without; and he cannot himself return again into the World, present and visible, while the Lords of the West are still enthroned. Yet the seeds that he had planted still grew and sprouted, bearing evil fruit, if any would tend them. For his will remained and guided his servants, moving them ever to thwart the will of the Valar and to destroy those that obeyed them. This the Lords of the West knew full well. When therefore Morgoth had been thrust forth, they held council concerning the ages that should come after. The Eldar they summoned to return into the West, and those that hearkened to the summons dwelt in the Isle of Eressa; and there is in that land a haven that is named Avalln, for it is of all cities the nearest to Valinor, and the tower of Avalln is the first sight that the mariner beholds when at last he draws nigh to the Undying Lands over the leagues of the Sea. To the Fathers of Men of the three faithful houses rich reward also was given. Enw came among them and taught them; and they were given wisdom and power and life more enduring than any others of mortal race have possessed. A land was made for the Edain to dwell in, neither part of Middle-earth nor of Valinor, for it was sundered from either by a wide sea; yet it was nearer to Valinor. It was raised by Oss out of the depths of the Great Water, and it was established by Aul and enriched by Yavanna; and the Eldar brought thither flowers and fountains out of Tol Eressa. That land the Valar called Andor, the Land of Gift; and the Star of Erendil shone bright in the West as a token that all was made ready, and as a guide over the sea; and Men marvelled to see that silver flame in the paths of the Sun. Then the Edain set sail upon the


anxious thoughts. I counted one … two … three. The house creaked softly and I closed my eyes for a moment. I had an image of a cradle being gently rocked in a bough. Madame Bowden’s words returned to me. If you’re not scared, you’re not living. Up to now, I had never associated fear with anything positive. But maybe there were different kinds of fear. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’ My eyes flew open wide. She was there, again, sneaking up on me. ‘What?’ ‘You’re going to miss your bus at this rate, now shoo!’ I didn’t move and looked at her with pleading eyes. ‘What if I can’t do it? What if everyone else is smarter than me?’ ‘I don’t recall you having any doubts about your abilities to work here – and, frankly, you were mediocre at the start.’ ‘Thanks. That really helps,’ I replied flatly. She pursed her lips and sighed heavily. ‘Tell me, that book you’ve been reading in the kitchen when you think I’m not looking …’ ‘Normal People?’ ‘Yes, that one. Do you like it?’ I considered her question. It wasn’t at all what I expected. I don’t know if I liked it as such, but I couldn’t stop reading it. Connell and Marianne had also come to feel like real people to me. I was completely invested in their lives. ‘It’s good because I feel like I’m a fly on the wall, watching everything happen. And I like that Connell is a country boy, applying to Trinity.’ I smiled. ‘So, the characters are relatable.’ ‘Yes! That’s it. But I get so angry with Marianne. I mean, why would she let people treat her that way?’ ‘Maybe she thinks she deserves it.’ The realisation was cold and hard. Even I couldn’t see why someone would feel so unlovable that they’d accept abuse. I’d been uncomfortable reading her story all along but at the same time I felt like I wasn’t going through this alone. If it could happen to someone like Marianne, who was wealthy and intelligent, it could happen to anyone. ‘I think it’s easy to get confused about what love is when you’re young. Even the title kind of suggests that we normalise bad behaviour in relationships, or assume that being normal is the most important thing, so we hide all of the ugly stuff that happens to us. I mean, who even is normal, anyway?’ ‘Congratulations. You’ve just delivered your first critical review of a book. Now off you go and no more of this nonsense.’ As I walked down the steps of 12 Ha'penny Lane, I looked back to see her fading reflection in the glass of the living-room window. That was how it was when I tried to read her; she was always obscured by the light, rather than illuminated by it. Like an overexposed photograph. She was unlike anyone I’d ever met and maybe that was a good thing. Chapter Thirty-Three HENRY The air felt different somehow, as I got off the bus in O’Connell Street. They


know. I didn’t think so.” I clench my jaw and turn my face away from him so he doesn’t see me smile. I’m usually super professional, playing my part to the very end, but this guy is so scared, I really do feel bad for him. I’m glad he’s going to claim the prize of a shitty T-shirt and what is sure to be a hideous picture of himself emerging from under the Camp Mirror Lake signage. We stumble down Path #3, past the campfire ring and the main office, past the parking lot with the beat-up camp truck, Bezi’s car, and another one that belongs to the guests and Tasha’s “lifeless” body. The prop ax is sticking out of her chest, and she’s gone way overboard with the fake blood. It’s going to take her forever to get it out of her hair and off her skin, but knowing Tasha, she’s having the time of her life. In the darkness, I can’t even see the rise and fall of her chest. She really looks dead. I usher the last guest past her and under the big wooden sign, where we cling to the metal gate. I pause. I wait. Nothing happens. “What—what do we do now?” the guy stammers. I scan the tree line for Kyle. He should be making his way toward us from the opposite side of the gate by now. It takes me a minute to spot the darkened silhouette down the road. He’s a little off his cue, but it’s still workable. “Oh no,” I say, trying my best to sound desperate and terrified. “Oh no! Please!” The figure moves closer, and I let my fingers dance over the handle of the fake butcher knife tucked in my waistband. Just then, there is movement in the brush to my right. I glance over, straining to see into the dark. Another figure—tall and hulking—is just beyond the tree line. My gaze darts between the two. My first thought is that one of the guests got turned around and somehow ended up outside the perimeter of the camp. But Bezi would have seen that, and she would have let me know. Some of the light from the parking lot filters through the trees, and I see that the figure to my right is Kyle. I turn my attention back to the figure in the road, and as they stalk forward, I take a step back from the gate. This is wrong. There’s someone else in the game, and it’s not someone I recognize. My heart kicks up. “What’s going on?” the blond guy asks. Suddenly, the floodlights in the parking lot come up. They bathe the entire area in a brilliant white haze. The Halloween theme music begins to play, and the other staff and guests emerge from their holding areas. “I want my damn money back!” yells one of the guests as he stalks up to the gate. “Supposed to be a serial killer out here, right? Whose grandma is this?” He gestures to the other side of


over someone, even “soft power,” is structural imbalance. Abuse does not have to equal rape. Still no statement from @msbodiekane. Hello, @starletpod? Even if #JeromeWager faces repercussions, the damage is done. How many gallery shows should have gone to other people? How much money has he made wielding his power and keeping others down? if you need to ask how that mural was racist you’re the problem. We have ONE law in this country about the age of consent, and it’s the age of 18. Someone 18 can screw someone 100, and I’m sorry but it’s PERFECTLY LEGAL. Actually some places it’s younger but this is not about the age of consent, you absolute dingbat. I was angry—I was shaking—and I was certain now that my anger had less to do with loyalty to Jerome or concern over his reputation than with the stunning contrast between this easy online outrage and the outrage any one of us should have felt for years over people like you, people like Dorian. It was like seeing someone hanged for stealing gum when down the street someone else was robbing a bank. I shouldn’t have done anything. Sober, I wouldn’t have done anything. But I was not sober. I typed out a thread of messages with my pruning thumbs, posting each after a quick scan for drunken typos: Has Jasmine Wilde even asked for repercussions? This is a work of art, not, as far as I know, a call to action. 1/ I’m no longer with Jerome Wager, but as a survivor of ACTUAL sexual assault, this all sits wrong with me. Age is not the only form of power. You could argue that working for the gallery, Jasmine had as much career power over him as he had over her. 2/ Are we talking here about the feminism of empowerment, or the feminism of victimhood? Either a 21-year-old woman is an adult who can make her own decisions or a helpless waif who needs our protection against big scary men. Which is it? It can’t be both. 3/ Are we saying a 21-year-old woman lacks sexual agency? Lacks the ability to make decisions about her own body? Whose permission does she need to date someone older? Her father’s? This is infantilizing. 4/ What age range WOULD be acceptable to all of you? Is five years older okay? Is one year older okay? One month? 5/ That said, Jasmine has created an evocative piece of art. Let’s leave it at that: art, not a call for a Twitter mob. 6/6 I stopped myself, because my blood pressure was only going up, and I hadn’t run any of this by Jerome and there were already replies coming in that I didn’t want to read. I managed not to slip on the floor, managed to make it to the bed. 31 I didn’t really sleep, just rested my body and fitfully sobered up. Across the state, Omar was awake this whole night too; this is when he removed his own gauze and made his pillowcase into a kind


he remained in the dream, Paul knew he would remember it upon awakening. He always remembered the dreams that were predictions. The dream faded. Paul awoke to feel himself in the warmth of his bed -- thinking . . . thinking. This world of Castle Caladan, without play or companions his own age, perhaps did not deserve sadness in farewell. Dr. Yueh, his teacher, had hinted that the faufreluches class system was not rigidly guarded on Arrakis. The planet sheltered people who lived at the desert edge without caid or bashar to command them: will-o'-the-sand people called Fremen, marked down on no census of the Imperial Regate. Arrakis -- Dune -- Desert Planet. Paul sensed his own tensions, decided to practice one of the mind-body lessons his mother had taught him. Three quick breaths triggered the responses: he fell into the floating awareness . . . focusing the consciousness . . . aortal dilation . . . avoiding the unfocused mechanism of consciousness . . . to be conscious by choice . . . blood enriched and swift-flooding the overload regions . . . one does not obtain food-safety-freedom by instinct alone . . . animal consciousness does not extend beyond the given moment nor into the idea that its victims may become extinct . . . the animal destroys and does not produce . . . animal pleasures remain close to sensation levels and avoid the perceptual . . . the human requires a background grid through which to see his universe . . . focused consciousness by choice, this forms your grid . . . bodily integrity follows nerve-blood flow according to the deepest awareness of cell needs . . . all things/cells/beings are impermanent . . . strive for flow-permanence within . . . Over and over and over within Paul's floating awareness the lesson rolled. When dawn touched Paul's window sill with yellow light, he sensed it through closed eyelids, opened them, hearing then the renewed bustle and hurry in the castle, seeing the familiar patterned beams of his bedroom ceiling. The hall door opened and his mother peered in, hair like shaded bronze held with a black ribbon at the crown, her oval face emotionless and green eyes staring solemnly. "You're awake," she said. "Did you sleep well?" "Yes." He studied the tallness of her, saw the hint of tension in her shoulders as she chose clothing for him from the closet racks. Another might have missed the tension, but she had trained him in the Bene Gesserit Way -- in the minutiae of observation. She turned, holding a semiformal jacket for him. It carried the red Atreides hawk crest above the breast pocket. "Hurry and dress," she said. "Reverend Mother is waiting." "I dreamed of her once," Paul said. "Who is she?" "She was my teacher at the Bene Gesserit school. Now, she's the Emperor's Truthsayer. And Paul . . . " She hesitated. "You must tell her about your dreams." "I will. Is she the reason we got Arrakis?" "We did not get Arrakis." Jessica


I was past all that now.’ ‘You’re an attractive widow,’ Lin said, then her face was sad. ‘And I’m an abandoned wife.’ ‘No, you’re not.’ Josie hugged Lin’s arm. ‘Where’s Neil now?’ ‘He took the car – he was driving Dangerous to Tadderly. He said he had to buy some bits and pieces for it.’ ‘On a Sunday?’ ‘Andy’s Motor Mart is open on a Sunday morning.’ ‘So will he be joining us later?’ Lin shook her head sadly. ‘Are you okay, Lin?’ ‘I think so.’ Lin felt the familiar salty rush of tears in her eyes. ‘He’s just always so busy nowadays. He has no time for me.’ ‘Why don’t you suggest a day out together? Tell him you’re feeling a bit neglected.’ ‘I was thinking about it,’ Lin said. ‘It’s our fiftieth wedding anniversary this year and I wondered if we could maybe manage a romantic weekend somewhere really nice.’ ‘October is a long way away,’ Josie said quietly. ‘It is.’ As they approached the woods, the air suddenly became cooler. They stepped beneath a green canopy of leaves surrounded by thick clusters of trees. A squirrel scampered across the path and scrambled up a tall trunk, disappearing along a branch. In a clearing, a group of people sat on the grass around a large cloth covered with dishes of food. Cecily was perched on a camping chair, looking pleased with herself. Her mobility scooter was parked a little way off. She waved eagerly. ‘Here we all are.’ Josie and Lin called out greetings and a chorus of replies echoed back. Minnie was sitting cross-legged on the ground, warm in a military coat, black beret and sunglasses, next to a woman in dungarees with pale hair, hunched awkwardly as if she’d rather be elsewhere. Josie called, ‘Minnie, Tina – it’s good to see you.’ Florence was next to them on a cushion, wearing a cardigan over a loose dress, and next to her Jack Lovejoy was strumming a guitar, his fringe covering deep-set eyes. Cecily smiled gleefully. ‘I asked Jack to come.’ Florence seemed a little uncomfortable, shifting position away from him as Jack launched into ‘With a Little Help From My Friends’. Cecily was the queen at the head of the table. She smiled towards Florence. ‘Poor Florence couldn’t be the only young one with all us Silver Ladies. Jack’s a very good musician.’ Jack smiled. ‘Cecily has a guitar – she plays a lot.’ ‘I do,’ Cecily admitted. ‘She used to sing to us when we were at school,’ Minnie added. ‘What did you sing?’ Jack asked. ‘“Wake Up, Little Susie”,’ Lin recalled. ‘“Jail House Rock”,’ Josie added. ‘We loved it – anything but “Shenandoah”…’ Minnie agreed. Tina took a breath. ‘When I was in Miss Hamilton’s class, we all sang “Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini”.’ She laughed. ‘We thought it was dead racy.’ ‘Then let’s sing it now,’ Jack grinned, playing the chords. Josie was surprised he knew all the old songs – he had an incredible repertoire. They launched into the song together,


of Wyn’s fingers against mine. Kimmy’s gaze darts to Cleo, her grin flagging at Cleo’s stunned expression. “We’ve talked about it forever,” Sabrina goes on, “and this is the perfect time. To commemorate our last trip to the cottage and the last ten years of friendship. Something that will always connect us.” My stomach sinks, even as my heart feels like a crazed bird fighting its way up through my windpipe. It’s one thing to accept that I might always be a little bit in love with Wyn Connor. It’s another to put a permanent reminder of that on my body. Before I’ve come close to finding a way out of this, Cleo says, “I don’t think so, Sab.” You’d think the shocked silence might’ve prepared her for this, but Sabrina looks genuinely flabbergasted. “What do you mean you don’t think so?” Cleo shrugs. “I don’t think we should get matching tattoos tonight.” Kimmy touches her arm, some unspoken sentiment passing between them. Sabrina laughs. “Why not?” “Because I don’t want to,” Cleo says. “And looking around, I’m not sure anyone else does either.” Sabrina blinks and scans us. “It’s not that,” I say. “It’s just . . . really sudden.” “We’ve been talking about this for a decade,” she says. “And we’ve never decided what it would even be,” Wyn says. “Who cares what it is?” Sabrina says. “It’s about the bond.” “Maybe next time,” I suggest. “We can pick a design tonight, and then everyone has some time to get used to it, and then—” “I’ve already put a deposit down,” she says. “I got the shop to stay open for us.” Cleo rubs the spot between her brows. “Sab. You should have asked us before you did that. You can’t assume we’ll go along with whatever you want.” “What the hell does that mean, Cleo,” Sabrina says, hurt splashed across her face. “She just means this is a big, permanent decision,” I say. “We all need a little time to commit to this kind of thing.” “That’s not what I mean,” Cleo says calmly. “I meant what I said. That she can’t just decide how things should be between all of us and then bulldoze all of us to get her way.” “She’s not bulldozing anyone,” Parth says, stepping in toward Sabrina. “She’s doing all of this for you all. This whole trip was for you. All of it.” “If it’s for us,” Cleo says, “then you’ll respect my decision not to do something I’m uncomfortable with.” “You have, like, nineteen separate tattoos,” Sabrina says. “What’s so uncomfortable about this one?” “Can we please drop this?” Cleo says, averting her gaze. “Sure,” Sabrina says. “I’ll drop it. I’ll drop the fact that one of my best friends keeps canceling plans and the other will barely text me back, and my dad’s selling the only place that’s ever felt anything like home to me, and that no one except me seems to give a fuck that we’re growing apart.” She turns back toward where we left the car. “I’ll talk