how!" cried all the young Spaniards, crowding. "Nay, Dons, Dons --nay, nay! I cannot rehearse that now. Let me get more into the air, Sirs." "The chicha! the chicha!" cried Don Pedro; "our vigorous friend looks faint; --fill up his empty glass!" No need, gentlemen; one moment, and I proceed. --Now, gentlemen, so suddenly perceiving the snowy whale within fifty yards of the ship --forgetful of the compact among the crew --in the excitement of the moment, the Teneriffe man had instinctively and involuntarily lifted his voice for the monster, though for some little time past it had been plainly beheld from the three sullen mast-heads. All was now a phrensy. "The White Whale --the White Whale!" was the cry from captain, mates, and harpooneers, who, undeterred by fearful rumors, were all anxious to capture so famous and precious a fish; while the dogged crew eyed askance, and with curses, the appalling beauty of the vast milky mass, that lit up by a horizontal spangling sun, shifted and glistened like a living opal in the blue morning sea. Gentlemen, a strange fatality pervades the whole career of these events, as if verily mapped out before the world itself was charted. The mutineer was the bowsman of the mate, and when fast to a fish, it was his duty to sit next him, while Radney stood .. <p 258 > up with his lance in the prow, and haul in or slacken the line, at the word of command. Moreover, when the four boats were lowered, the mate's got the start; and none howled more fiercely with delight than did Steelkilt, as he strained at his oar. After a stiff pull, their harpooneer got fast, and, spear in hand, Radney sprang to the bow. He was always a furious man, it seems, in a boat. And now his bandaged cry was, to beach him on the whale's topmost back. Nothing loath, his bowsman hauled him up and up, through a blinding foam that blent two whitenesses together; till of a sudden the boat struck as against a sunken ledge, and keeling over, spilled out the standing mate. That instant, as he fell on the whale's slippery back, the boat righted, and was dashed aside by the swell, while Radney was tossed over into the sea, on the other flank of the whale. He struck out through the spray, and, for an instant, was dimly seen through that veil, wildly seeking to remove himself from the eye of Moby Dick. But the whale rushed round in a sudden maelstrom; seized the swimmer between his jaws; and rearing high up with him, plunged headlong again, and went down. Meantime, at the first tap of the boat's bottom, the Lakeman had slackened the line, so as to drop astern from the whirlpool; calmly looking on, he thought his own thoughts. But a sudden, terrific, downward jerking of the boat, quickly brought his knife to the line. He cut it; and the whale was free. But, at some distance, Moby Dick rose again, with some tatters of


paint was all over. “You fucking psychopath.” He left the studio. Carlotta said, “The best part, he’s gonna wash that with soap and it won’t work.” She laughed loud enough that he could surely hear it all the way down the hall. At dinner that night, he was still pale blue. “He looked like a Smurf,” I told Geoff. Geoff laughed gleefully. He said, “That guy had issues. Miserable little dude.” I was kind of stunned by the idea. Specifically: the notion—it should have been obvious—that Dorian’s harassment wasn’t about me. It had nothing to do with who I was or what I looked like; I was just a convenient prop, someone who wouldn’t bite back. It should not have taken me this long to realize. It should not have taken Geoff pointing it out. Behind Geoff, someone in a puffy red parka had walked to the gazebo and now circled it slowly, holding an iPad in front of his face. As far as I could tell it wasn’t Hector or anyone else from the defense team. Not that it mattered—Geoff wasn’t a witness—but it might look odd that I was playing out some awkward Romeo-and-Juliet scenario in back of the inn. I said, “You want to come in? Over the railing?” He shook his head. “Believe it or not, I still have two conference calls tonight. But let’s do breakfast. And then—I dug up the stuff I promised your students. Well, your former—” “Stuff?” “They’d been bugging me for photos, but it was all in my mom’s house. Old concert programs, whatever. I used to save things. I’m allowed to see them, right? Your students?” “You can do whatever you want. You can talk to them, but only individually, because Britt’s a witness and Alder’s recording for the podcast, so he’s press. And you can talk to me. But none of us can talk to each other.” “This puts me in an interesting position of power,” he said, and grinned. “How shall I abuse it?” I put one pointer finger on his forehead and said, “Should I push you? Noted economist plummets to untimely end.” He reeled his head back, fake-flailed with one arm, then angled toward the lawn and jumped, landing hard enough that I worried he had hurt himself. The man in the red parka turned to see what happened, hustled a few steps closer and into the lights of the hotel. But Geoff was fine. Geoff was already bounding off, calling that he’d see me at breakfast. Then I saw: The man in the red parka was Dane Rubra. He looked up at me curiously. He was taller than I’d imagined, his stringy hair hidden under a gray winter cap. The moment he recognized me back was a clear jolt; he went from looking up to staring up, stunned. He did nothing, said nothing—just stood, six yards away, and for a moment we were two figures in a geometry problem. The dead girl’s onetime roommate is ten feet up on a balcony. Her YouTube avenger is eighteen feet


difference, mark me, whether she dies conscious or in her sleep. Wake that poor boy, and let him come and see the last. He trusts us, and we have promised him." I went to the dining room and waked him. He was dazed for a moment, but when he saw the sunlight streaming in through the edges of the shutters he thought he was late, and expressed his fear. I assured him that Lucy was still asleep, but told him as gently as i could that both Van Helsing and I feared that the end was near. He covered his face with his hands, and slid down on his knees by the sofa, where he remained, perhaps a minute, with his head buried, praying, whilst his shoulders shook with grief. I took him by the hand and raised him up. "Come," I said, "my dear old fellow, summon all your fortitude. It will be best and easiest for her." When we came into Lucy's room I could see that Van Helsing had, with his usual forethought, been putting matters straight and making everything look as pleasing as possible. He had even brushed Lucy's hair, so that it lay on the pillow in its usual sunny ripples. When we came into the room she opened her eyes, and seeing him, whispered softly, "Arthur! Oh, my love, I am so glad you have come!" He was stooping to kiss her, when Van Helsing motioned him back. "No," he whispered, "not yet! Hold her hand, it will comfort her more." So Arthur took her hand and knelt beside her, and she looked her best, with all the soft lines matching the angelic beauty of her eyes. Then gradually her eyes closed, and she sank to sleep. For a little bit her breast heaved softly, and her breath came and went like a tired child's. And then insensibly there came the strange change which I had noticed in the night. Her breathing grew stertorous, the mouth opened, and the pale gums, drawn back, made the teeth look longer and sharper than ever. In a sort of sleep-waking, vague, unconscious way she opened her eyes, which were now dull and hard at once, and said in a soft, voluptuous voice, such as I had never heard from her lips, "Arthur! Oh, my love, I am so glad you have come! Kiss me!" Arthur bent eagerly over to kiss her, but at that instant Van Helsing, who, like me, had been startled by her voice, swooped upon him, and catching him by the neck with both hands, dragged him back with a fury of strength which I never thought he could have possessed, and actually hurled him almost across the room. "Not on your life!" he said, "not for your living soul and hers!" And he stood between them like a lion at bay. Arthur was so taken aback that he did not for a moment know what to do or say, and before any impulse of violence could seize him he realized the place and the occasion,


her departure from her dear Maryland, while the white girl, dry eyed and outwardly calm, was torn by inward fears and forebodings. She feared not more for herself than for the three men whom she knew to be wandering in the abysmal depths of the savage jungle, from which she now heard issuing the almost incessant shrieks and roars, barkings and growlings of its terrifying and fearsome denizens as they sought their prey. And now there came the sound of a heavy body brushing against the side of the cabin. She could hear the great padded paws upon the ground outside. For an instant, all was silence; even the bedlam of the forest died to a faint murmur. Then she distinctly heard the beast outside sniffing at the door, not two feet from where she crouched. Instinctively the girl shuddered, and shrank closer to the black woman. "Hush!" she whispered. "Hush, Esmeralda," for the woman's sobs and groans seemed to have attracted the thing that stalked there just beyond the thin wall. Chapter 14 A gentle scratching sound was heard on the door. The brute tried to force an entrance; but presently this ceased, and again she heard the great pads creeping stealthily around the cabin. Again they stopped--beneath the window on which the terrified eyes of the girl now glued themselves. "God!" she murmured, for now, silhouetted against the moonlit sky beyond, she saw framed in the tiny square of the latticed window the head of a huge lioness. The gleaming eyes were fixed upon her in intent ferocity. "Look, Esmeralda!" she whispered. "For God's sake, what shall we do? Look! Quick! The window!" Esmeralda, cowering still closer to her mistress, took one frightened glance toward the little square of moonlight, just as the lioness emitted a low, savage snarl. The sight that met the poor woman's eyes was too much for the already overstrung nerves. "Oh, Gaberelle!" she shrieked, and slid to the floor an inert and senseless mass. For what seemed an eternity the great brute stood with its forepaws upon the sill, glaring into the little room. Presently it tried the strength of the lattice with its great talons. The girl had almost ceased to breathe, when, to her relief, the head disappeared and she heard the brute's footsteps leaving the window. But now they came to the door again, and once more the scratching commenced; this time with increasing force until the great beast was tearing at the massive panels in a perfect frenzy of eagerness to seize its defenseless victims. Could Jane have known the immense strength of that door, built piece by piece, she would have felt less fear of the lioness reaching her by this avenue. Little did John Clayton imagine when he fashioned that crude but mighty portal that one day, twenty years later, it would shield a fair American girl, then unborn, from the teeth and talons of a man-eater. For fully twenty minutes the brute alternately sniffed and tore at the door, occasionally giving voice to a wild, savage cry of


this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular which I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very often connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been committed. As far as I have heard it is impossible for me to say whether the present case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, unique." The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement column, with his head thrust forward and the paper flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man and endeavored, after the fashion of my companion, to read the indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance. I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy gray shepherd's check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man save his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features. Sherlock Holmes's quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances. "Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else." Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion. "How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. "How did you know, for example, that I did manual labour. It's as true


moon and the stars to light our path. Huff took my hands, and we went all the way under until we totally ran out of breath. When we came back up, laughing, I realized he was right. I felt better. I felt free. I felt cleansed. Now, silently, as I muse about the past and ponder my future, June sits down beside me on the grass and takes my hand as a realization floods me. A truth. All those years ago, what had made me feel better that night hadn’t been these ripples, the cleansing movement of one of earth’s finest creations. I look at June and say the truest thing I can think of. “It’s Huff,” I say. “Huff is the river.” June doesn’t ask any questions. She just nods, and I know that, somehow, she understands. “Maybe you’re the river, Daphne.” Maybe we all are. Lanier SUMMER SHAPE I WOKE UP FEELING THE best I had in some time, ready to take on the day despite the pure discomfort of the bed I’d slept in, the whir of the old AC unit, and the musty scent of the cabin that had been closed for months save the one weekend we were here for my bachelorette. Huff was snoring, and I realized I hadn’t even heard him. That was how well I had slept. Because that’s how good it felt to be back at camp. I picked up my phone and realized, with irritation, that my fiancé had neither called nor responded to my many, many texts. Fine. That was fine. He wasn’t going to ruin my weekend. If he didn’t care about me, I didn’t care about him. It was very mature. As quietly as possible, I went into the bathroom to get ready for the day. I pulled on the one-piece practical-yet-sexy swimsuit with the deep V and little ruffles on the shoulders that, I will admit, I had bought specifically for camp. Usually, I would have worn an old Speedo suit for sailing and getting dirty in the river or lake. But the idea that Rich might see me was on my mind. I walked outside to find Henry drawing with sidewalk chalk on the concrete floor of the porch that connected our three rooms. The door to Daphne’s room was open. “Henry!” I exclaimed. “My main man! What’s up?” “Daddy is taking me fishing on the pier!” He jumped up in excitement. Then, very seriously, he said, “We are having a dude’s day because Mommy has a lot to do, and we can help her by having fun.” I nodded back seriously. “That is a very responsible plan, I think.” I looked around. “Hey, where is your mom?” She stepped out, smelling of perfume and sliding an earring into her ear. “Only you would be wearing perfume at camp.” She laughed, but she seemed uncomfortable. She kissed Henry. “You be good for Daddy, and I’ll come find you soon.” Then she looked down at his chalk dog and gasped. “It’s fabulous! Practically a Picasso!” Henry scrunched his


and he comes into the light, a sword in one hand, a spear in the other. Two hunting blades gleam at his waist. She can see the scars running along his bare arms, pink like peaches and jagged like stones. He casts his spear into one of the trees. The weapon flies faster than her eyes can follow. It sinks into the bark, and splinters fly. In the stark light of the torch, Aegisthus wields his sword. It flashes forward, like a lion’s claws, then back. There is nothing elegant about his movements, nothing graceful. There is a kind of desperation in the way he fights. The sky bleeds above him, then grows darker, angrier. She holds her jeweled knife tight. She waits as he turns his back to her, making his sword whirl, and then she throws it in his direction. His head jerks back in time. He lifts the sword to his face, and her knife bounces off it. He looks at her, his face raw with rage. She feels as if she has just discovered a secret of his, something she wasn’t meant to see. She moves forward, grabbing a spear from the ground as she walks. In the practice yard, she smiles. A challenge. “You are good.” He takes a step back, and his figure slips away from the light of the torch. “I won’t fight you.” She keeps moving forward. “Why? Are you afraid?” “You are my queen. And a mother.” And you are a usurper. And a son. “Fight me,” she says. She lifts the spear and he instinctively moves his sword. The two weapons clash, bronze on bronze. “I’ll put my sword down now,” he says. “Then you will die.” She attacks him again, and this time he pushes forward too, ripping the air, his eyes filled with violence. They fight each other, their feet kicking up dust. When she disarms him, he takes his hunting blades. He is fast with them, much faster, and Clytemnestra struggles to keep him away. She throws her spear at him, and as he wards it off, she grabs a shorter sword from the ground. Their arms move quickly, one blow after another, until they are exhausted, sweat pouring down their backs. They stop fighting together. His face is twisted, his daggers abandoned in the dust. He retrieves his sword carefully, cleaning it on his tunic. She wonders if it was his father’s but doesn’t ask. Instead, she picks up her own knife and says, “You look different when you fight.” “So do you.” His head is bent, and his profile is handsome in the golden light of the torch. How do I look different? she wants to ask, but he is quicker. “Who gave you that knife?” “My mother,” she says. “It is the sharpest blade I’ve ever touched.” She holds it out for him to see. As he caresses the blade with his finger, she adds, “But you are not afraid of a little sharpness, are you?” He looks up at her, and she holds his gaze.


hers. I drove over each morning to pick her up and bring her to the Airbnb and drove her back when she was ready to go to bed. That morning, I’d thrown on some clothes and stopped for doughnuts on the way to her place. While she dug into the sticky pink box, searching for a maple bar, I tidied up her living room and took Buster out to do his business. Mom had slipped and fractured her knee two days before our arrival; she was waiting to see an orthopedic surgeon, making do with a knee brace and a cane. We didn’t yet know that the break was the result of the cancer eating away at her tibia and femur, or that it would prove unmendable—as the surgeon would put it, There’s not enough healthy bone left to repair. We didn’t know that she would never walk unassisted again. We wouldn’t get her latest scan results until after New Year’s, and so we were still able to tell ourselves that we might get what her oncologist called more quality time—a phrase implying that the quality of her time would slowly leech away as her cancer advanced, until it no longer made sense to continue treatment. After I unhooked Buster’s leash and washed my hands at the kitchen sink, I asked Mom what she wanted for lunch. She thought for a moment, then named her wish: a Reuben sandwich from the diner one town over. We set off in the rental car, and I found myself wishing we had farther to go. It was an afternoon of cold, sunlit beauty in the mountains. I was still struggling to put myself back together after falling apart the night before. We all had a surprisingly good Christmas together, with a full house of family and friends. My brother-in-law deep-fried a turkey. My kids had gotten a mini Polaroid camera for Christmas, and the coffee table soon filled up with their tiny developing portraits. My mother, a largely stationary and therefore easy subject, materialized in shot after shot, sitting on a stranger’s couch in her festive burgundy tunic and a necklace of Christmas bells. She was smiling in every picture and clearly having a wonderful time, despite the pain in her knee. I tried to pretend that this was just another holiday, telling myself that I should be happy to be spending it with both my sister and my mother. Then my husband threw up, and though he told me he thought it was only a delayed travel reaction, or something he’d eaten that disagreed with him, I began to fret about all of us catching a stomach bug and giving it to my immunocompromised mom. My children were more interested in playing with their cousin than they were in visiting with any of the adults, and chafed at our request that they spend more time playing in the living room, where my mother could watch them and enjoy their company. I felt irrationally betrayed by everyone, abandoned to face my worry and heartbreak alone—didn’t


entered this narrow valley screened by Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic spell, Here scorch'd by lightnings, there with ivy green. The scene of barrenness was here and there interrupted by the spreading branches of the larch and cedar, which threw their gloom over the cliff, or athwart the torrent that rolled in the vale. No living creature appeared, except the izard, scrambling among the rocks, and often hanging upon points so dangerous, that fancy shrunk from the view of them. This was such a scene as SALVATOR would have chosen, had he then existed, for his canvas; St. Aubert, impressed by the romantic character of the place, almost expected to see banditti start from behind some projecting rock, and he kept his hand upon the arms with which he always travelled. As they advanced, the valley opened; its savage features gradually softened, and, towards evening, they were among heathy mountains, stretched in far perspective, along which the solitary sheep-bell was heard, and the voice of the shepherd calling his wandering flocks to the nightly fold. His cabin, partly shadowed by the cork-tree and the ilex, which St. Aubert observed to flourish in higher regions of the air than any other trees, except the fir, was all the human habitation that yet appeared. Along the bottom of this valley the most vivid verdure was spread; and, in the little hollow recesses of the mountains, under the shade of the oak and chestnut, herds of cattle were grazing. Groups of them, too, were often seen reposing on the banks of the rivulet, or laving their sides in the cool stream, and sipping its wave. The sun was now setting upon the valley; its last light gleamed upon the water, and heightened the rich yellow and purple tints of the heath and broom, that overspread the mountains. St. Aubert enquired of Michael the distance to the hamlet he had mentioned, but the man could not with certainty tell; and Emily began to fear that he had mistaken the road. Here was no human being to assist, or direct them; they had left the shepherd and his cabin far behind, and the scene became so obscured in twilight, that the eye could not follow the distant perspective of the valley in search of a cottage, or a hamlet. A glow of the horizon still marked the west, and this was of some little use to the travellers. Michael seemed endeavouring to keep up his courage by singing; his music, however, was not of a kind to disperse melancholy; he sung, in a sort of chant, one of the most dismal ditties his present auditors had ever heard, and St. Aubert at length discovered it to be a vesper-hymn to his favourite saint. They travelled on, sunk in that thoughtful melancholy, with which twilight and solitude impress the mind. Michael had now ended his ditty, and nothing was heard but the drowsy murmur of the breeze among the woods, and its light flutter, as it blew freshly into the carriage. They were at length


a home as your kinswoman can offer you." With this measured, but not exactly cold assurance of a hospitable purpose, Hepzibah kissed her cheek. They now went below stairs, where Phoebe--not so much assuming the office as attracting it to herself, by the magnetism of innate fitness--took the most active part in preparing breakfast. The mistress of the house, meanwhile, as is usual with persons of her stiff and unmalleable cast, stood mostly aside; willing to lend her aid, yet conscious that her natural inaptitude would be likely to impede the business in hand. Phoebe and the fire that boiled the teakettle were equally bright, cheerful, and efficient, in their respective offices. Hepzibah gazed forth from her habitual sluggishness, the necessary result of long solitude, as from another sphere. She could not help being interested, however, and even amused, at the readiness with which her new inmate adapted herself to the circumstances, and brought the house, moreover, and all its rusty old appliances, into a suitableness for her purposes. Whatever she did, too, was done without conscious effort, and with frequent outbreaks of song, which were exceedingly pleasant to the ear. This natural tunefulness made Phoebe seem like a bird in a shadowy tree; or conveyed the idea that the stream of life warbled through her heart as a brook sometimes warbles through a pleasant little dell. It betokened the cheeriness of an active temperament, finding joy in its activity, and, therefore, rendering it beautiful; it was a New England trait,--the stern old stuff of Puritanism with a gold thread in the web. Hepzibah brought out Some old silver spoons with the family crest upon them, and a china tea-set painted over with grotesque figures of man, bird, and beast, in as grotesque a landscape. These pictured people were odd humorists, in a world of their own,--a world of vivid brilliancy, so far as color went, and still unfaded, although the teapot and small cups were as ancient as the custom itself of tea-drinking. "Your great-great-great-great-grandmother had these cups, when she was married," said Hepzibah to Phoebe."She was a Davenport, of a good family. They were almost the first teacups ever seen in the colony; and if one of them were to be broken, my heart would break with it. But it is Nonsense to speak so about a brittle teacup, when I remember what my heart has gone through without breaking." The cups--not having been used, perhaps, since Hepzibah's youth--had contracted no small burden of dust, which Phoebe washed away with so much care and delicacy as to satisfy even the proprietor of this invaluable china. "What a nice little housewife you. are" exclaimed the latter, smiling, and at the Same time frowning so prodigiously that the smile was sunshine under a thunder-cloud. "Do you do other things as well? Are you as good at your book as you are at washing teacups?" "Not quite, I am afraid," said Phoebe, laughing at the form of Hepzibah's question. "But I was schoolmistress for the little children in our district last summer, and


a matter of days anyway, but I love that she’s doing math. The aesthetician says you can keep one for yourself and give the other to your significant other, and I broke out in a full-body sweat like “HOLD UP, THEY GOT LESBIANS ON HERE????” But, no. She is just talking about her dumb husband who apparently never washed his face in fifty-plus years until she gently nudged her bottle of Peter Thomas Roth Anti-Aging Cleansing Gel closer to his side of the sink. What kind of bathroom do they have? Are all the products locked up like at Walgreens? If my lady gets a new soap or toner and I want to try some I just…use it. What is this “bottle for your significant other” business? Is this how Americans are living in the heartland, just out here doubling and quadrupling up on his-’n’-hers economy-sized jugs of face wash? Next the aesthetician starts busting out the science words that we’ve all heard but couldn’t define if our lives depended on it (I’ll wait while you tell me, without using your pocket computer, what “glycolic acid” is and does), but what hooks me is she describes the scent and feeling of the gel as “peachy clean.” Is she: misusing the common American colloquialism “peachy keen”? thinking about how peaches are soft and hairy like a face and that this soap would be a good way to clean their delicate skins? describing the scent as both “peachy” and “clean,” two things that absolutely do not go together olfactorily? Julia describes how skin feels firmer from the first wash and this is the first cleanser of its kind (probably?) to make your skin feel firm without leaving it tight and stripped. I don’t care about firmness, but I do hate that crackly dry feeling you get from washing your face with the wrong thing, but then she says that it preps your skin for your daily toner, serum, moisturizer, and eye cream, and I believe there was a time in my life when I would’ve tried to do all that, but now is not it. The first and last time I tried eye cream, I didn’t yet know that I was supposed to apply it on my orbital bone, not to the dingy gray pocket beneath my eye, so I blinked eye cream into my eyeball, where not only was it ineffective in fighting my wrinkles and bags but also it turned my scleras neon fuchsia and I spent the rest of the day assuring rude customers at my job that I wasn’t going to give them pink eye. I want to have an elaborate skincare situation, but it’s so boring, and if any of it gets in or on any of your mucous membranes, it ruins your entire day. But then, as if she can hear my brain wandering, Julia says, “It’s like a cleanser and moisturizer all in one!” I love multitasking. *Adds to cart* WHAT IT COST ME: Three Easy Payments of $13 Truly, the best part of any of these


the library, she went to check on Mercy in the courtyard first. The air seemed colder by the basin, as if they’d truly left a door open and a draft was blowing through. There were no stars visible in the gray November sky, but Alex found herself drinking in the feel of the weather, the winter chill on her skin, the dim yellow light from the library windows, the textured gray of the stone. Hell had been like a vacuum, dead and empty, all color and life leached away, as if some demon had fed on the world as much as the souls that inhabited it. If this was her last look at anything real, she wanted to remember it. She helped Mercy into her salt armor and they talked through the plan. They still didn’t know what might be waiting for them—in this world or below. Mercy was armed with death words, bone dust, and a salt sword, but Alex had retrieved another item from the armory. She handed the jar to Mercy. “I wouldn’t open—” But Mercy had already lifted the lid. She gagged and hastily shut the jar. “Alex,” she coughed, “you have to be kidding me.” “Afraid not.” Alex hesitated. “Vampires hate strong smells. It’s where the garlic myth came from. It’s not too late to back out of this.” She needed to offer this chance at escape, at safety. Mercy had walked this path without hesitation, but did she really know what she was moving toward with such happy momentum? “Pretty sure it is.” “It’s never too late to make a run for it, Mercy. Trust me on that.” “I know.” Mercy looked down at the sword in her hands. “But I like this life better.” “Better than what?” “Better than what I was living before. Better than a world without magic. I think I’ve been waiting my whole life for the moment someone would see something in me that wasn’t ordinary.” “We all are.” Alex couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “That’s how they get you.” Mercy’s eyes glinted. “Not if we get them first.” Maybe because Mercy was so sweet, so smart, so kind—Alex forgot how much fight she had in her. She couldn’t help but think of Hellie, what it had cost her to fall into Alex’s orbit. What might it cost Mercy to be Alex’s friend? But it was too late for that calculation. She needed Mercy in this courtyard tonight. “The phone is on,” she said, handing over her cell. “Leave it that way.” Mercy gave a rapid nod. “Got it.” “Stay close to the basin. Don’t forget the balm. And if this turns ugly, you run. Find a room in the library to lock yourself in and stay there until daylight.” “Understood.” Now Mercy hesitated. “You’re coming back, right?” Alex made herself smile. “One way or another.” Once the metronome had been set ticking in the courtyard, they waited for quiet on Cross Campus. Then, in front of the library’s main entrance, they made their cuts, each to the left


on it like a mushroom, where you can lean in. It’s a knife for penetrating an abnormally resistant rib cage, say, or the skull of one of those dogs bred to hunt bears. Maurice’s eyes track it as Zoegar slices through most of the tape around his arms, then steps back to let him finish the job himself. It still takes a minute or two of straining, because Zoegar is a conservative sort of man. I give him a little fuck-you wave. “Hi, Maurice, it’s me, Cal.” “Sounder—” But then he doesn’t have anything to say. “You sure that’s it?” Maurice looks away. We’re in the living room of Doublewide’s hobby farm. It’s big and rustic and cosy, with thick rugs all over the walls and a fireplace in the middle with a stack of pine logs. A few hours and some red velvet and you could make Santa’s Grotto in here, no trouble at all. I look at Maurice, his legs bandaged quite professionally by Zoegar. They haven’t bothered to restrain him in the leather high-back love seat because he can barely stay upright without holding on to the arms. “I suggest you start with sorry. ‘I am sorry I came to your office to kill you, Cal. It was personal and I understand you’re upset.’ I mean, I don’t imagine it gets said a lot in this situation. You could try an actual apology. They’re free.” Nothing. “Mr. Nugent, do people generally apologise at this point?” “You shock me, Mr. Sounder, with the implication that I would know such a thing. This experience is quite entirely new to me.” I look at him. He does the salamander smile again. Zoegar rolls his eyes. Apparently this is too fey even for him. I tell Doublewide I’m sorry I asked. He beams. “You are forgiven!” “You see, Maurice? That’s how it goes. You want to try it?” Maurice isn’t looking at me. He’s looking at Doublewide. Titans always think other Titans are in charge. They’re also almost always right about that, even when the appearance is against it. “Who are you?” “Lyman Nugent,” Doublewide says. “Beggar king. Big fan of your uncle, though perhaps that’s the wrong word. Let us say I admire his…reach.” He flexes one mantis arm, reaching two metres to lift an apple out of the fruit bowl and take a bite. He’s dainty with it, but half the fruit disappears into his mouth. Maurice watches him. They say that Stefan Tonfamecasca’s arm reaches anywhere in the world, but they haven’t met Lyman Nugent. Figure Maurice is right now thinking about that. Finally he looks at me and says “I’m sorry.” “Traditionally, there should be a ‘for.’ What are you sorry for?” “I am sorry I came to your office and tried to kill you.” “That is what you were doing?” “Yes.” I look at Doublewide. “That sound about right to you?” “I thought it palpably sincere. Shall we eat?” “By all means.” Maurice stares. “Why, yes, Mr. Tonfamecasca, you too. You are fallen among civilised thieves today. It


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

it seemed, and, turning, was surprised to see Hall a dozen feet off on the top-most stair. But in another moment he was beside her. She bent forward and put her hand on the pillow and then under the clothes. "Cold," she said. "He's been up this hour or more." As she did so, a most extraordinary thing happened--the bed- clothes gathered themselves together, leapt up suddenly into a sort of peak, and then jumped headlong over the bottom rail. It was exactly as if a hand had clutched them in the centre and flung them aside. Immediately after, the stranger's hat hopped off the bed-post, describing a whirling flight in the air through the better part of a circle, and then dashed straight at Mrs. Hall's face. Then as swiftly came the sponge from the washstand; and then the chair, flinging the stranger's coat and trousers carelessly aside, and laughing dryly in a voice singularly like the stranger's, turned itself up with its four legs at Mrs. Hall, seemed to take aim at her for a moment, and charged at her. She screamed and turned, and then the chair legs came gently but firmly against her back and impelled her and Hall out of the room. The door slammed violently and was locked. The chair and bed seemed to be executing a dance of triumph for a moment, and then abruptly everything was still. Mrs. Hall was left almost in a fainting condition in Mr. Hall's arms on the landing. It was with the greatest difficulty that Mr. Hall and Millie, who had been roused by her scream of alarm, succeeded in getting her downstairs, and applying the restoratives customary in these cases. "'Tas sperrits," said Mrs. Hall. "I know 'tas sperrits. I've read in papers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing--!" "Take a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "'Twill steady ye." "Lock him out," said Mrs. Hall. "Don't let him come in again. I half guessed--I might ha' known. With them goggling eyes and bandaged head, and never going to church of a Sunday. And all they bottles--more'n it's right for any one to have. He's put the sperrits into the furniture. My good old furniture! 'Twas in that very chair my poor dear mother used to sit when I was a little girl. To think it should rise up against me now!" "Just a drop more, Janny," said Hall. "Your nerves is all upset." They sent Millie across the street through the golden five o'clock sunshine to rouse up Mr. Sandy Wadgers, the blacksmith. Mr. Hall's compliments and the furniture upstairs was behaving most extraordinary. Would Mr. Wadgers come round? He was a knowing man, was Mr. Wadgers, and very resourceful. He took quite a grave view of the case. "Arm darmed ef thet ent witchcraft," was the view of Mr. Sandy Wadgers. "You warnt horseshoes for such gentry as he." He came round greatly concerned. They wanted him to lead the way upstairs to the room, but he didn't seem to be in any hurry. He


wouldn’t let me go; Candice her deranged wannabe proxy. I am innocent. My only sin is loving literature too much, and refusing to let Athena’s very prenatal work go to waste. The draft will be messy, but that’s all right—this whole affair is messy. It’s more important to strike while the iron’s hot. Brett and I will clean up the typos as best we can, then put the manuscript on submission. Someone will buy that story. Perhaps it’ll be Eden—I’d be willing to work again with Daniella, provided she comes groveling, stacks of cash in hand. But I’m expecting a choice. The offers will be many. We’ll go to auction. I would not, in fact, be surprised if this project goes for more money than any of my previous works. A year later, I’ll be in bookstores everywhere. The initial press coverage will be skeptical at best, scathing at worst. White lady publishes tell-all! June Hayward writes the memoir none of us wanted, because this psycho just can’t stop. Diana Qiu will blow a gasket. Adele Sparks-Sato will lose her fucking mind. But some reviewer, somewhere, will give the book a closer look. They’ll publish a contrarian review, because editors who want clickbait always solicit contrarian reviews. What if we got it all wrong? And that’s all it takes to sow doubt. The netizens who love to argue for the sake of arguing will look for the holes in Candice’s story. The character assassinations will begin. We’ll all get dragged down in the mud, and when the dust clears, all that will remain is the question: What if Juniper Song was right? And this will become, in time, my story once again. Acknowledgments YELLOWFACE IS, IN LARGE PART, A HORROR STORY ABOUT LONELINESS in a fiercely competitive industry. Compared to June and Athena, I am gratefully supported by the most wonderful friends, family, and publishing team a writer could ask for. Many thanks are in order. Thank you to the brilliant folks at William Morrow and Borough Press who turn my scribblings into books: May Chen, Ann Bissell, Natasha Bardon, David Pomerico, Liate Stehlik, Holly Rice, Danielle Bartlett, DJ DeSmyter, Susanna Peden, Robyn Watts, Vicky Leech, Elizabeth Vaziri, Mireya Chiriboga, and Alessandra Roche. You all make HarperCollins feel like home. Thank you to the team at Liza Dawson Associates, who have stood by me every step of the way—Hannah Bowman, Havis Dawson, Liza Dawson, Joanne Fallert, and Lauren Banka. Thank you to Farah Naz Rishi, Ehigbor Shultz, Akanksha Shah, James Jensen, Tochi Onyebuchi, Katicus O’Nell, Julius Bright Ross, Taylor Vandick, Shirlene Obuobi, and all of I Pomodori for laughing with me and encouraging me never to pull my punches. Thank you to Emily Jin, Melodie Liu, and Moira De Graef—my fellow Jingsketeers in arms—for keeping me sane. Thank you to the Bunker for letting me gripe and for making me laugh. Bookstores will always be magical places for me—thank you to all the bookstores and booksellers who have championed my work to readers, but especially to Waterstones Oxford, Barnes & Noble Milford,


to show up at the ball and claim it, if it means seeing my father? In the months since I laid eyes on him, I still haven’t decided, and it’s eating me alive. “Good night, Explorers,” Holly says, all doom and gloom. “And good luck.” There’s an angsty, wind-howling pause. Then Zion announces, “I brought hot chocolate, by the way. Shall we set up the camping stoves?” BRAD The first day of our hike dawns so bright and so frosty, I am in serious danger of snow blindness. It turns out Scotland is like a fear factor version of England, in that almost everything’s the same but 10,000 times more extreme. The sky? Bluer. The grass? Greener. Unfortunately, the cold is also colder, and the morning dew is wetter. I learned that last part around 6:00 a.m., when I was woken up by the drip-drip-drip of icy water on my nose. That’s right. Our tent let in water. I mean, Raj says it was condensation and called it “perfectly natural” but the point is…outside water touched my face. I may never sleep again. I’m still scrubbing at my nose in absentminded disgust when Celine appears, looking ridiculously gorgeous for a girl who slept on the ground last night like the rest of us. Her cheeks are shiny and rounded by her way-too-chirpy smile. She makes her plain black rain jacket look Instagram-worthy, and the straps of her Breakspeare-issued rucksack are doing magnificent things to her boobs. If I don’t die of horror during this expedition, I might die of lust instead. “Hey,” she says to Raj, then catches my wrist and tugs my hand off my face. I tangle our fingers together. She gives me a look and pulls gently away because we are not a couple. We are next-to-nothing. I can only touch her in private, and that might never change. Every time I remember those facts, a section of my stomach shrivels up and curls in on itself. At this rate I won’t have anywhere to put my food and I’ll be permanently nauseous. “Your nose is red,” she murmurs. I roll my lips inward, curl my hand into a fist, and remind myself of a few things. You offered her this. You mostly enjoy this. And it’s not forever. “Are you okay?” Celine nudges me. “Yeah.” I’m getting myself together. Remembering the plan, because that’s a thing I do now: I have plans to reach my goals, and I execute them. I learned that from Celine. Right now, my plans go something like this: Goal A: Become a writer. Apply to uni in Leeds and Bristol, where I’ll study English. ✓ Receive acceptance letters. ? Tell parents. X I’m still working on that last one. And then there’s Goal B: Date Celine. Unfortunately, this plan’s not quite as straightforward, but it goes something like this: Kiss Celine a lot. ✓ Show her she can trust me. ? Confess my true feelings and ask her for more (third time’s the charm). X Things get complicated after that because the rest


he held for Da Vinci. The poem's reference to the knight was brutally simple once one saw it-a credit to Saunire's wit-and yet how this tomb would reveal the final password was still a mystery. You seek the orb that ought be on his tomb. The Teacher vaguely recalled photos of the famous tomb and, in particular, its most distinguishing feature. A magnificent orb. The huge sphere mounted atop the tomb was almost as large as the tomb itself. The presence of the orb seemed both encouraging and 259 troubling to the Teacher. On one hand, it felt like a signpost, and yet, according to the poem, the missing piece of the puzzle was an orb that ought to be on his tomb... not one that was already there. He was counting on his closer inspection of the tomb to unveil the answer. The rain was getting heavier now, and he tucked the cryptex deep in his right-hand pocket to protect it from the dampness. He kept the tiny Medusa revolver in his left, out of sight. Within minutes, he was stepping into the quiet sanctuary of London's grandest nine-hundred-year-old building. Just as the Teacher was stepping out of the rain, Bishop Aringarosa was stepping into it. On the rainy tarmac at Biggin Hill Executive Airport, Aringarosa emerged from his cramped plane, bundling his cassock against the cold damp. He had hoped to be greeted by Captain Fache. Instead a young British police officer approached with an umbrella. "Bishop Aringarosa? Captain Fache had to leave. He asked me to look after you. He suggested I take you to Scotland Yard. He thought it would be safest." Safest? Aringarosa looked down at the heavy briefcase of Vatican bonds clutched in his hand. He had almost forgotten. "Yes, thank you." Aringarosa climbed into the police car, wondering where Silas could be. Minutes later, the police scanner crackled with the answer. 5 Orme Court. Aringarosa recognized the address instantly. The Opus Dei Centre in London. He spun to the driver. "Take me there at once!" 260 CHAPTER 95 Langdon's eyes had not left the computer screen since the search began. Five minutes. Only two hits. Both irrelevant. He was starting to get worried. Pamela Gettum was in the adjoining room, preparing hot drinks. Langdon and Sophie had inquired unwisely if there might be some coffee brewing alongside the tea Gettum had offered, and from the sound of the microwave beeps in the next room, Langdon suspected their request was about to be rewarded with instant Nescafe. Finally, the computer pinged happily. "Sounds like you got another," Gettum called from the next room. "What's the title?" Langdon eyed the screen. Grail Allegory in Medieval Literature: A Treatise on Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. "Allegory of the Green Knight," he called back. "No good," Gettum said. "Not many mythological green giants buried in London." Langdon and Sophie sat patiently in front of the screen and waited through two more dubious returns. When the computer pinged again, though, the offering was unexpected. DIE OPERN VON RICHARD WAGNER


again, and we won't talk about cats or dogs either, if you don't like them!' When the Mouse heard this, it turned round and swam slowly back to her: its face was quite pale (with passion, Alice thought), and it said in a low trembling voice, `Let us get to the shore, and then I'll tell you my history, and you'll understand why it is I hate cats and dogs.' It was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the birds and animals that had fallen into it: there were a Duck and a Dodo, a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures. Alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the shore. CHAPTER III A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale They were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank--the birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable. The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had a consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, `I am older than you, and must know better'; and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, `Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! I'LL soon make you dry enough!' They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon. `Ahem!' said the Mouse with an important air, `are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! "William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--"' `Ugh!' said the Lory, with a shiver. `I beg your pardon!' said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: `Did you speak?' `Not I!' said the Lory hastily. `I thought you did,' said the Mouse. `--I proceed. "Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--"' `Found WHAT?' said the Duck. `Found IT,' the Mouse replied rather crossly: `of course you know what "it" means.' `I know what "it" means well enough, when I find a thing,' said the Duck: `it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?' The Mouse did not


talked of how a dog could break its heart through being denied the work that killed it, and recalled instances they had known, where dogs, too old for the toil, or injured, had died because they were cut out of the traces. Also, they held it a mercy, since Dave was to die anyway, that he should die in the traces, heart-easy and content. So he was harnessed in again, and proudly he pulled as of old, though more than once he cried out involuntarily from the bite of his inward hurt. Several times he fell down and was dragged in the traces, and once the sled ran upon him so that he limped thereafter in one of his hind legs. But he held out till camp was reached, when his driver made a place for him by the fire. Morning found him too weak to travel. At harness-up time he tried to crawl to his driver. By convulsive efforts he got on his feet, staggered, and fell. Then he wormed his way forward slowly toward where the harnesses were being put on his mates. He would advance his fore legs and drag up his body with a sort of hitching movement, when he would advance his fore legs and hitch ahead again for a few more inches. His strength left him, and the last his mates saw of him he lay gasping in the snow and yearning toward them. But they could hear him mournfully howling till they passed out of sight behind a belt of river timber. Here the train was halted. The Scotch half-breed slowly retraced his steps to the camp they had left. The men ceased talking. A revolver-shot rang out. The man came back hurriedly. The whips snapped, the bells tinkled merrily, the sleds churned along the trail; but Buck knew, and every dog knew, what had taken place behind the belt of river trees. Chapter V The Toil of Trace and Trail Thirty days from the time it left Dawson, the Salt Water Mail, with Buck and his mates at the fore, arrived at Skaguay. They were in a wretched state, worn out and worn down. Buck's one hundred and forty pounds had dwindled to one hundred and fifteen. The rest of his mates, though lighter dogs, had relatively lost more weight than he. Pike, the malingerer, who, in his lifetime of deceit, had often successfully feigned a hurt leg, was now limping in earnest. Sol-leks was limping, and Dub was suffering from a wrenched shoulder-blade. They were all terribly footsore. No spring or rebound was left in them. Their feet fell heavily on the trail, jarring their bodies and doubting the fatigue of a day's travel. There was nothing the matter with them except that they were dead tired. It was not the dead-tiredness that comes through brief and excessive effort, from which recovery is a matter of hours; but it was the dead-tiredness that comes through the slow and prolonged strength drainage of months of toil. There was no power of recuperation left, no


in his hair and clutch his shoulder with the other. His lips move to my throat, leaving tender kisses in their wake, and his fin- gers follow, deftly undoing each button of my blouse. Tugging my blouse apart, 499/551 he kisses the soft swell of my breasts. He murmurs appreciatively, low in his throat, and the sound echoes through my body to my deep dark places. “Your body’s changing,” he whispers. His thumb teases my nipple until it’s erect and straining against my bra. “I like,” he adds. I watch his tongue taste and trace the line between my bra and my breast, tantalizing and teasing me. Taking my bra cup delicately between his teeth, he pulls it down, freeing my breast and nuzzling my nipple with his nose in the process. It puckers at his touch and from the chill of the gentle fall breeze. His lips close around me, and he sucks long and hard. “Ah!” I groan, inhaling sharply then wincing as pain radiates outward from my bruised ribs. “Ana!” Christian exclaims and glares down at me, concern etched on his face. “This is what I’m talking about,” he admonishes. “Your lack of self-preser- vation. I don’t want to hurt you.” “No . . . don’t stop,” I whimper. He stares at me, warring with himself. “Please.” “Here.” Abruptly he moves, and I’m sitting astride him, my short skirt now bunched up around my hips. His hands glide over the top of my thigh-highs. “There. That’s better, and I can enjoy the view.” He reaches up and hooks his long index finger into my other bra cup, freeing that breast, too. He grasps both of my breasts, and I throw my head back, pushing them into his welcome, expert hands. He teases me, tugging and rolling my nipples until I cry out, then sits up so we’re nose to nose, his greedy gray eyes on mine. He kisses me, his fingers still teasing me. I scramble for his shirt, undoing the first two buttons, and it’s like sensory overload—I want to be kissing him everywhere, undressing him, making love with him all at once. “Hey—” He gently grasps my head and pulls back, eyes dark and full of sen- sual promise. “There’s no rush. Take it slow. I want to savor you.” “Christian, it’s been so long.” I’m panting. “Slow,” he whispers, and it’s a command. He kisses the right corner of my mouth. “Slow.” He kisses the left corner. “Slow, baby.” He tugs my bottom lip with his teeth. “Let’s take this slow.” He unfurls his fingers in my hair, keeping me in place as his tongue invades my mouth, seeking, tasting, calming . . . inflam- ing. Oh, my man can kiss. 500/551 I caress his face, my fingers moving tentatively down to his chin then to his throat, and I start again on the buttons of his shirt, taking my time, as he continues to kiss me. Slowly I pull his shirt apart, my fingers trailing over his clavicles, feeling their way across his warm, silky


gate. For some reason, though, with Thalia, I’d had the opposite instinct at the time. Fran was right: I’d been spiraling all of senior year, but Thalia’s death affected me more than I’d ever admitted. That spring was when the water really got down to the drain. My depression, my insomnia, my self-destructive behavior continued into freshman year of college, and it took ten visits to the free school therapist for Thalia to even come up. (In my defense: There were the dead dad, dead brother, mom in the desert, Mormon foster family to get through first.) I raised it in passing—my junior year roommate was murdered my senior year of high school—and the shrink latched onto it like a bone. He wanted to know what it had brought up from my past, how it had contributed to my distrust of men, why I wasn’t letting myself grieve. I said, “We weren’t even friends,” and he asked me if that mattered. Yes, yes, I told him, it did. I tossed my sheet mask in the vague direction of the trash and rubbed the remainder of the goo into my skin. I kept scrolling: Let’s not forget that Jerome Wager’s work is terrible + derivative. His Obama mural was racist AF. He’s just one of the many scum men who run the planet. What @wilde_jazz has done is ferocious and brave. If you’ve been harmed by Jerome Wager, DM me. I will protect your anonymity. Can someone explain to me how Jerome Wager still has a platform? He’s still on Twitter, and @CGRgallery has made NO statement denouncing his actions. This doesn’t seem like abuse to me. It seems like a shitty relationship. Are we canceling people now for being bad at dating? How on earth was his Obama mural racist? It’s sad this has to be explained to you. Lording power 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


Louise and Ella? Who knew if they’d like him? Or if he’d like them—and if he didn’t, she wouldn’t like him anymore. He was only a few yards away, but he already seemed long gone. He was mouthing something at her. She tried to read his lips. Spill the drink. “I should probably get back,” she said. “Need to get ready for the girls.” “Looking like rain anyway,” Lydia said. “When did rain ever stop you from sitting outside?” Harriet said. “You think?” Gabriel said. The cloudless sky looked stoic. “We’re old,” Lydia said. “We feel it in our bones.” “And we read the weather forecast,” Harriet added. Sure enough, as Maud and Gabriel walked away from the house with the umbrellas Lydia had insisted they borrow, Maud felt a drop on her forehead. “They’re sweet,” she said, as they waited to cross the road, the raindrops turning to glitter in the headlights of a passing car. “A little too sweet, maybe.” “Too much love?” Another car swished by, windshield wipers squeaking. “Too much everything. Did you see that kid pull off his diaper and pee against a tree? And everybody talking at the same time. I don’t think I had one actual conversation.” “If you figure out how to have enough love without too much love, let me know,” Maud said. They crossed to the other side. Maud hadn’t meant to say something so serious. The chaos at the farm reminded her of family gatherings in Burlingame, with her elderly aunts clucking over the latest Hollywood scandal, her father and uncles roaring with laughter as a football game blared on the TV, nieces and nephews racing each other between the rooms, tripping on the carpet, skinning their knees, and crying, her mother barking orders at Maud and her sister from the kitchen. An only child, Gabriel had no idea. Peter, when he first met Maud’s family, had been shell-shocked, though in time, somehow, he’d adjusted. Even when they were divorced, Maud thought, as she and Gabriel passed through the gates, Peter would be in her life. She belonged to an equation in which Gabriel had no part. And how could he ever? They’d been playing house these weeks, and that was coming to an end. “I didn’t really want to go over there tonight,” Gabriel said. “I wanted us to have a last dinner together in our usual spot.” Maud swallowed her fear. “I’ll miss spending time with you,” she said. “Your husband will probably prefer it, though,” Gabriel said. “It doesn’t bug him that we’re always together? He knows, right?” They were passing the orchard, its cherry leaves buffed by the rain. Neither of them had opened the umbrellas, and Gabriel’s face glistened. Maud knew what he was really asking. “Peter and I are separated,” she said. “Separated like you were in England?” “No. Really separated. He thinks it’s temporary. I know it isn’t.” Gabriel stopped. “So, what does that mean?” He was an arm’s length away and he was looking at her softly, and it was up to her


without getting too dizzy, and I’m absolutely famished. So is Peeta. It’s clear he’s been waiting for me to wake up to eat and is eager to get started. There’s not much left. Two pieces of groosling, a small mishmash of roots, and a handful of dried fruit. “Should we try and ration it?” Peeta asks. “No, let’s just finish it. The groosling’s getting old anyway, and the last thing we need is to get sick off spoilt food,” I say, dividing the food into two equal piles. We try and eat slowly, 290 but we’re both so hungry were done in a couple of minutes. My stomach is in no way satisfied. “Tomorrow’s a hunting day,” I say. “I won’t be much help with that,” Peeta says. “I’ve never hunted before.” “I’ll kill and you cook,” I say. “And you can always gather.” “I wish there was some sort of bread bush out there,” says Peeta. “The bread they sent me from District Eleven was still warm,” I say with a sigh. “Here, chew these.” I hand him a couple of mint leaves and pop a few in my own mouth. It’s hard to even see the projection in the sky, but it’s clear enough to know there were no more deaths today. So Cato and Thresh haven’t had it out yet. “Where did Thresh go? I mean, what’s on the far side of the circle?” I ask Peeta. “A field. As far as you can see it’s full of grasses as high as my shoulders. I don’t know, maybe some of them are grain. There are patches of different colors. But there are no paths,” says Peeta. “I bet some of them are grain. I bet Thresh knows which ones, too,” I say. “Did you go in there?” “No. Nobody really wanted to track Thresh down in that grass. It has a sinister feeling to it. Every time I look at that field, all I can think of are hidden things. Snakes, and rabid an- imals, and quicksand,” Peeta says. “There could be anything in there.” 291 I don’t say so but Peeta’s words remind me of the warnings they give us about not going beyond the fence in District 12. I can’t help, for a moment, comparing him with Gale, who would see that field as a potential source of food as well as a threat. Thresh certainly did. It’s not that Peeta’s soft exactly, and he’s proved he’s not a coward. But there are things you don’t question too much, I guess, when your home always smells like baking bread, whereas Gale questions everything. What would Peeta think of the irreverent banter that passes between us as we break the law each day? Would it shock him? The things we say about Panem? Gale’s tirades against the Capitol? “Maybe there is a bread bush in that field,” I say. “Maybe that’s why Thresh looks better fed now than when we started the Games.” “Either that or he’s got very generous sponsors,” says Pee- ta. “I wonder what we’d


by sweat, bodies pressed together, the damp clink of beer bottles; she wanted someone closer to hand. There—a Gray in a parka and a beanie, hovering by an arguing couple, undisturbed by the heavy heat of a too-long summer. She made eye contact with him, his baby face an uncomfortable jolt. He’d died young. “Come on along,” she sang under her breath, then gave a disgusted snort. She had that goofy song in her head. Some a cappella group had been practicing in the courtyard when Alex was getting ready to leave the dorm. “How are they already starting that shit?” Lauren had complained, sorting through her crates of vinyl, her blond hair even brighter after a summer spent lifeguarding. “It’s Irving Berlin,” Mercy had noted. “I don’t care.” “It’s also racist.” “That shit is racist!” Lauren had called out of the window and put AC/DC on her record player, turning the volume all the way up. Alex loved every minute of it. She’d been surprised at how much she’d missed Lauren and Mercy over the summer, their easy talk and gossip, the shared worry over classes, the arguments about music and clothes, all of it like a tether she could grasp to bring her back to the ordinary world. This is my life, she’d told herself, curled up on the couch in front of a noisy fan, watching Mercy hang a garland of stars over the fireplace in their new common room, quite a change from their cramped rooms on Old Campus. The couch and recliner had made it into their new suite, the coffee table they’d all assembled together at the start of freshman year, the toaster and its seemingly inexhaustible supply of Pop-Tarts sent courtesy of Lauren’s mom. Alex had asked Lethe for a bike and a printer and a new tutor at the end of last year. They’d been happy to agree, and she wished she’d asked for more. Their freshman dorm on Old Campus had been the most beautiful place Alex had ever lived, but the residential college—JE proper—felt real, solid and elegant, permanent. She liked the stained glass windows, the stonework faces in every corner of the courtyard, the scuffed wood floors, the heavily carved fireplace that didn’t work but that they’d decorated with candles and a vintage globe. She even liked the little Gray in an old-fashioned dress, a child with hair done up in crisp curls who liked to linger in the branches above the tree swing. She and Mercy were sharing a double because Lauren had won the single in their draw. Alex was sure she’d cheated, but she didn’t much mind. It would have been easier to come and go if she had a room to herself, but there was also something comforting about lying in bed at night and hearing Mercy snore across the room. And at least they weren’t stuck in bunks anymore. Alex had planned on hanging out with Mercy and Lauren for a few hours before she had to leave to oversee a ritual at Book and Snake,


what nature refused to do for them they simply did without until such time as they were able to rectify the grosser anatomical inconveniences with surgery. Meanwhile, the natural forces on the planet Vogsphere had been working overtime to make up for their earlier blunder. They brought forth scintillating jewelled scuttling crabs, which the Vogons ate, smashing their shells with iron mallets; tall aspiring trees with breathtaking slenderness and colour which the Vogons cut down and burned the crab meat with; elegant gazelle- like creatures with silken coats and dewy eyes which the Vogons would catch and sit on. They were no use as transport because their backs would snap instantly, but the Vogons sat on them anyway. Thus the planet Vogsphere whiled away the unhappy millennia until the Vogons suddenly discovered the principles of interstellar travel. Within a few short Vog years every last Vogon had migrated to the Megabrantis cluster, the political hub of the Galaxy and now formed the immensely powerful backbone of the Galactic Civil Service. They have attempted to acquire learning, they have attempted to acquire style and social grace, but in most respects the modern Vogon is little different from his primitive forebears. Every year they import twenty-seven thousand scintillating jewelled scuttling crabs from their native planet and while away a happy drunken night smashing them to bits with iron mallets. Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz was a fairly typical Vogon in that he was thoroughly vile. Also, he did not like hitch hikers. Somewhere in a small dark cabin buried deep in the intestines of Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz's flagship, a small match flared nervously. The owner of the match was not a Vogon, but he knew all about them and was right to be nervous. His name was Ford Prefect*. He looked about the cabin but could see very little; strange monstrous shadows loomed and leaped with the tiny flickering flame, but all was quiet. He breathed a silent thank you to the Dentrassis. The Dentrassis are an unruly tribe of gourmands, a wild but pleasant bunch whom the Vogons had recently taken to employing as catering staff on their long haul fleets, on the strict understanding that they keep themselves very much to themselves. This suited the Dentrassis fine, because they loved Vogon money, which is one of the hardest currencies in space, but loathed the Vogons themselves. The only sort of Vogon a Dentrassi liked to see was an annoyed Vogon. It was because of this tiny piece of information that Ford Prefect was not now a whiff of hydrogen, ozone and carbon monoxide. He heard a slight groan. By the light of the match he saw a heavy shape moving slightly on the floor. Quickly he shook the match out, reached in his pocket, found what he was looking for and took it out. He crouched on the floor. The shape moved again. Ford Prefect said: "I bought some peanuts." Arthur Dent moved, and groaned again, muttering incoherently. "Here, have some," urged Ford, shaking the packet again, "if you've never been through a matter


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

the card for first. His white silk badge fluttered and fluttered as he worked at the next sum and heard Father Arnall's voice. Then all his eagerness passed away and he felt his face quite cool. He thought his face must be white because it felt so cool. He could not get out the answer for the sum but it did not matter. White roses and red roses: those were beautiful colours to think of. And the cards for first place and second place and third place were beautiful colours too: pink and cream and lavender. Lavender and cream and pink roses were beautiful to think of. Perhaps a wild rose might be like those colours and he remembered the song about the wild rose blossoms on the little green place. But you could not have a green rose. But perhaps somewhere in the world you could. The bell rang and then the classes began to file out of the rooms and along the corridors towards the refectory. He sat looking at the two prints of butter on his plate but could not eat the damp bread. The tablecloth was damp and limp. But he drank off the hot weak tea which the clumsy scullion, girt with a white apron, poured into his cup. He wondered whether the scullion's apron was damp too or whether all white things were cold and damp. Nasty Roche and Saurin drank cocoa that their people sent them in tins. They said they could not drink the tea; that it was hogwash. Their fathers were magistrates, the fellows said. All the boys seemed to him very strange. They had all fathers and mothers and different clothes and voices. He longed to be at home and lay his head on his mother's lap. But he could not: and so he longed for the play and study and prayers to be over and to be in bed. He drank another cup of hot tea and Fleming said: --What's up? Have you a pain or what's up with you? --I don't know, Stephen said. --Sick in your breadbasket, Fleming said, because your face looks white. It will go away. --O yes, Stephen said. But he was not sick there. He thought that he was sick in his heart if you could be sick in that place. Fleming was very decent to ask him. He wanted to cry. He leaned his elbows on the table and shut and opened the flaps of his ears. Then he heard the noise of the refectory every time he opened the flaps of his ears. It made a roar like a train at night. And when he closed the flaps the roar was shut off like a train going into a tunnel. That night at Dalkey the train had roared like that and then, when it went into the tunnel, the roar stopped. He closed his eyes and the train went on, roaring and then stopping; roaring again, stopping. It was nice to hear it roar and stop and then roar out of the tunnel


in her press. The brush with the maroon velvet back was for Michael Davitt and the brush with the green velvet back was for Parnell. Dante gave him a cachou every time he brought her a piece of tissue paper. The Vances lived in number seven. They had a different father and mother. They were Eileen's father and mother. When they were grown up he was going to marry Eileen. He hid under the table. His mother said: --O, Stephen will apologize. Dante said: --O, if not, the eagles will come and pull out his eyes.-- Pull out his eyes, Apologize, Apologize, Pull out his eyes. Apologize, Pull out his eyes, Pull out his eyes, Apologize. * * * * * The wide playgrounds were swarming with boys. All were shouting and the prefects urged them on with strong cries. The evening air was pale and chilly and after every charge and thud of the footballers the greasy leather orb flew like a heavy bird through the grey light. He kept on the fringe of his line, out of sight of his prefect, out of the reach of the rude feet, feigning to run now and then. He felt his body small and weak amid the throng of the players and his eyes were weak and watery. Rody Kickham was not like that: he would be captain of the third line all the fellows said. Rody Kickham was a decent fellow but Nasty Roche was a stink. Rody Kickham had greaves in his number and a hamper in the refectory. Nasty Roche had big hands. He called the Friday pudding dog-in-the-blanket. And one day he had asked: --What is your name? Stephen had answered: Stephen Dedalus. Then Nasty Roche had said: --What kind of a name is that? And when Stephen had not been able to answer Nasty Roche had asked: --What is your father? Stephen had answered: --A gentleman. Then Nasty Roche had asked: --Is he a magistrate? He crept about from point to point on the fringe of his line, making little runs now and then. But his hands were bluish with cold. He kept his hands in the side pockets of his belted grey suit. That was a belt round his pocket. And belt was also to give a fellow a belt. One day a fellow said to Cantwell: --I'd give you such a belt in a second. Cantwell had answered: --Go and fight your match. Give Cecil Thunder a belt. I'd like to see you. He'd give you a toe in the rump for yourself. That was not a nice expression. His mother had told him not to speak with the rough boys in the college. Nice mother! The first day in the hall of the castle when she had said goodbye she had put up her veil double to her nose to kiss him: and her nose and eyes were red. But he had pretended not to see that she was going to cry. She was a nice mother but she was not so nice when she


is. And two, it’s not the room that’s cursed—it’s Drew. Drew, who blushed when I rolled up his sleeves. Who spoke in one of the Elvish languages in a way that was weirdly charming. Who kissed me like he couldn’t wait to get my clothes off but is evidently mystified by oral. A night like this isn’t supposed to come with instructions. At least, I don’t think so. “Could you—a little lower?” I finally manage. He obliges, switching back to his fingers, which is better in the sense that I can feel something. “You feel so good,” he says. “So hot. So ready. I love how hot and ready you are.” In the parts of my mind that aren’t cringing, I remember that Little Caesars sells pizzas called Hot-N-Ready, a fact that does not make me any hornier. His erection strains against his boxers. Gently, I push up on his chest so that I can flip us around. He is extremely Hot-N-Ready, and one additional benefit to all this lube is that when I slip my hand inside his boxers and wrap my fingers around him, his head falls back against the pillow, all his freckles giving the impression of filthy, sexy innocence. Jesus. The way he shuts his eyes, exposing his elegant neck . . . I don’t hate the view. Not at all. And damn it—despite all our mishaps so far, I still want this to be good. Tonight was supposed to get me out of a rut, remind me I can be wild and carefree. I’m not ready to give up just yet. “I need you,” I say into his ear, wondering if there’s more truth in those words than I care to admit. His groan and mumbled please bring me closer to orgasm than I’ve been all night. With my remaining shards of hope, I reach for the box of condoms. He gives me a sly lift of his eyebrows as he takes one from me, and before I can tell him not to, sinks his teeth into it. When he removes it from his mouth, he frowns down at the torn wrapper. A Casanova, he is not. I grab another one and open it myself this time, giving him a few hard tugs before I roll it on. His eyes flutter shut as he lets out a low hum, shifting me back against the bed with his cock poised at my entrance. “Fuuuuuuck,” he exhales as he pushes into me. “Fuck. Yes. Fuck. Yes.” He punctuates each sentence with a pump of his hips. I try to meet his strokes, but he’s going so fast, I can’t keep up. When I reach down to where our bodies are joined in a halfhearted attempt to get myself there, he interprets this as me reaching for his hand. “Oooh, there it is,” he pants out as he threads our fingers together. “There it is.” Rhythmically, it sounds like some porno version of “Whoomp! (There It Is),” which is if not the least sexy song in the world, at least


died without so much agony, but she was too contrary-" "Sir?" said Jem. Atticus said, "Just before your escapade she called me to make her will. Dr. Reynolds told her she had only a few months left. Her business affairs were in perfect order but she said, 'There's still one thing out of order.'" "What was that?" Jem was perplexed. "She said she was going to leave this world beholden to nothing and nobody. Jem, when you're sick as she was, it's all right to take anything to make it easier, but it wasn't all right for her. She said she meant to break herself of it before she died, and that's what she did." Jem said, "You mean that's what her fits were?" "Yes, that's what they were. Most of the time you were reading to her I doubt if she heard a word you said. Her whole mind and body were concentrated on that alarm clock. If you hadn't fallen into her hands, I'd have made you go read to her anyway. It may have been some distraction. There was another reason-" "Did she die free?" asked Jem. "As the mountain air," said Atticus. "She was conscious to the last, almost. Conscious," he smiled, "and cantankerous. She still disapproved heartily of my doings, and said I'd probably spend the rest of my life bailing you out of jail. She had Jessie fix you this box-" Atticus reached down and picked up the candy box. He handed it to Jem. Jem opened the box. Inside, surrounded by wads of damp cotton, was a white, waxy, perfect camellia. It was a Snow-on-the-Mountain. Jem's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "Old hell-devil, old hell-devil!" he screamed, flinging it down. "Why can't she leave me alone?" In a flash Atticus was up and standing over him. Jem buried his face in Atticus's shirt front. "Sh-h," he said. "I think that was her way of telling you- everything's all right now, Jem, everything's all right. You know, she was a great lady." "A lady?" Jem raised his head. His face was scarlet. "After all those things she said about you, a lady?" "She was. She had her own views about things, a lot different from mine, maybe... son, I told you that if you hadn't lost your head I'd have made you go read to her. I wanted you to see something about her- I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do. Mrs. Dubose won, all ninety-eight pounds of her. According to her views, she died beholden to nothing and nobody. She was the bravest person I ever knew." Jem picked up the candy box and threw it in the fire. He picked up the camellia, and when I went off to bed I saw him fingering the wide


past than her falsely noble present, Lore hadn’t wanted to go to Val and Mari, had wanted to keep them as far from all this as possible. Both to keep them safe, and because the idea of seeing them pried at a very precise wound in her heart, like pushing on a bruise. But there was really no choice now. Fog hung low over the street, thickening the closer they drew to the harbor. The full moon reflected on the black water, visible in the distance as a glimmering expanse not unlike the sky above it. Looking at the moon made her think of the upcoming eclipse, the ball on her twenty-fourth birthday. The warehouse was a long, dark block of a building, with virtually nothing to distinguish it from the other long, dark blocks of buildings around it, and intentionally left to look abandoned. The roof sagged in the middle. The gutters were full of dried gull shit. Water marks bloomed over the rough wooden paneling of the outer walls. Most of the other buildings were actually empty, a haven for revenants looking for someplace to sleep off their latest fix, or for a quiet place to finally die after ossifying themselves into too-long lives. Val never kicked anyone out of the empty warehouses, but she’d send in people to look for bodies occasionally. Especially in the warmer months, when the little flesh they had left started to stink. They burned the corpses they found, didn’t bother trying to figure out next of kin to contact. If someone was crawling down to die in the empty warehouses by the harbor, they didn’t have anyone looking for them, and probably didn’t care much about reaching the Shining Realm. Not many people out here did. “Where, exactly, are we going?” Bastian barely sounded out of breath. When she looked back at him, the muscles of his shoulders were tense against the blood-stiff fabric of his shirt. It only drew attention to his corded arms, the well-formed plane of his chest. She looked away. “Poison runner den.” No sense dithering over it. “Oh, excellent,” Bastian said. “I’ve never been to one.” Behind him, Gabe was still silent. The streets around the warehouse were empty, which was typical. Val made her crew stagger times they were seen near the headquarters so as not to draw attention. It must just be force of habit now. Val had her papers, she was officially sanctioned by Church and Crown. Turning Lore over to Anton had bought her a veil of legitimacy. Streetlights were far behind them, now, and the only illumination was the round moon, the scattering of stars. It made the building loom like an executioner’s block. Lore paused before the door, nerves writhing around her middle. But she had a mostly stone man to hide until she figured out how to change him back, and this was the only place she could think to do it. So she knocked. A familiar pattern, ingrained in her since she was thirteen. Two sharp raps, then two more with


still here,” Clytemnestra says. “What upsets you?” “I had never seen a dead thing before,” Electra says simply. This strikes Clytemnestra. A flash of Helen sitting on their bed when they were sixteen comes to her. “I have never killed anything,” Helen had said. But still, as innocent as her sister was, she had seen plenty of dead men, women, and animals. Horses rotting by the river, children killed by illness in the helots’ villages, thieves thrown down the Ceadas, young boys killed in combat. But that was Sparta. In Mycenae, Electra is twelve and her life is shielded. She hasn’t bled yet. She hasn’t been touched by a boy. She has never been beaten. And she has never seen a dead body. As if reading her mind, Electra asks, “You saw dead babies when you were my age, did you not?” Clytemnestra looks away, the image of her dead son in Leda’s arms like a heated blade against her brain. Sometimes Electra says things that make her suffer, and she wonders if her daughter does it on purpose. It seems unlikely, but a thought creeps through her mind, making her restless: What if Electra can be as unkind as her father? What if she is not quiet because she is shy but because she is crafty? “The first dead thing I saw was a boy,” Clytemnestra says. “It was in the gymnasium. He died because of an accident.” Electra’s eyes go flat. “What did it look like?” Clytemnestra tries to think. There was no blood, but the head was bent sideways unnaturally, as if the boy had fallen asleep in an uncomfortable position. “It was bloodless.” “Like a fish when it is caught.” This is another thing about her daughter: rather than asking many questions, her sentences come out as statements. Other children find it unnerving. “Yes,” Clytemnestra says. “But fish gasp before dying. The boy didn’t suffer.” Electra thinks it through. “Death doesn’t scare you.” “It scares me, but less than it scares others, because I am used to it. Does it scare you?” “Yes. Only a fool wouldn’t fear death.” Clytemnestra smiles. “Your grandfather once said something similar.” Electra stands, smoothing her dress. “I don’t want to eat in the hall tonight. I am sad and the elders are like spiders, speaking into Father’s ear, weaving their webs.” Clytemnestra waits, looking at the light shifting in her daughter’s eyes as she thinks of the best way to ask. Finally, Electra says, “Can I stay in the gynaeceum and eat alone?” Clytemnestra stands too. “You can’t eat by yourself. You know that.” Electra opens her mouth to reply, but her mother says, “I will talk to your father so you and I can eat together in your room.” Electra stays very still, and for a moment, Clytemnestra thinks she will say no. Then suddenly, she smiles, and her serious face is lit, like the first glint of sun on water. * * * Later, when they have eaten their fish and lentils, they lie down in Electra’s room, the frescoed


say that no, they cannot watch the show, not when things are weird and Andy seems mad at him. But he isn’t going to get anywhere by pestering Andy. “You hate this show,” Nick points out after about thirty seconds. Andy likes sitcoms and shows about dogs, not this creepy shit. Andy rubs his temple. “But you like it. Watch the fucking show, Nick!” Nick’s heart is racing. That’s maybe the second time he’s ever heard Andy swear. What he needs to do is act normal and just wait this out. He can do that. This episode is about a reporter who’s investigating a wax museum. “How come we never get sent to report on haunted museums?” Nick asks. “Just crime scenes and fires and building collapses. Never a haunting.” “First of all, we don’t know that it’s haunted.” “Come on, why would you have a show about a non-haunted wax museum?” “Second, I’m pretty sure that if you find a haunted museum in the tristate area, Jorgensen will let you stay overnight and—oh.” They both stop talking as a wax figure comes to life. “Never mind. I love crime scenes and fires and building collapses.” “Me too. They’re the best.” By the time they go to bed, things are maybe normal? Or almost normal? Nick can’t tell. He’s too anxious to do anything but call out a hasty good-night and shut his bedroom door. * * * Nick wakes to an empty apartment. It’s quiet. Peaceful, even, without Andy dropping cans of shaving cream and begging for more coffee. Nick hates it. He checks the sink and it’s totally empty, not even a coffee cup in there, which means Andy somehow managed to leave the apartment without coffee and without waking Nick up. Nick hates that, too. If Andy mentioned needing to wake up early, Nick would have gotten up along with him, would have put on a pot of coffee. But that’s probably the sort of thing Nick shouldn’t do. He needs to try to be a normal friend, not an overly clingy basket case who tries to put the moves on his best friend. It was smart for Andy to leave. Nick made things weird, and Andy got some distance so that when he returns, they can forget about it. This is Andy being smart about people, as usual. Nick tells himself that he ought to be grateful that Andy knows how to handle this gracefully. He hasn’t lost anything. He isn’t any worse off than he was yesterday morning, and he tells himself this very sternly as he gets dressed. If he’s disappointed, that’s on him, not on Andy. His feelings are his own problem, and he has plenty of practice keeping his feelings to himself. Chapter Eleven On Tuesday morning, after Monday has come and gone without a word from Andy, Nick gets himself to the Chronicle offices early and does something he hasn’t ever done before: he takes the elevator to the seventh floor. The seventh floor is sandwiched between the bustle of the newsroom and


turned up in her search regarding Linus Reiter? She combed through the index for any mention of him, then slid her finger down to V, for vampire. A single page was listed. Kittscher: Think on the vampire. (Jeering from the assembly.) Herman Moseby: What’s next, leprechauns and kelpies? (A call to order from the moderator.) Kittscher: Have you never wondered why in our stories some seduce and some terrify? Why some are beautiful and others grotesque? These disparate stories are proof that demons remain in our world, some who feed on misery or terror, others who feed on desire, all of whom take the forms most likely to elicit those emotions. (Terrence Gleebe is recognized by the moderator.) Gleebe: In this scenario, is blood a vehicle or incidental to the process? (Laughter from the assembly.) Alex touched her fingers to the bandage on her neck. “Incidental, my ass.” She thought of handsome Linus Reiter in his white suit. Why would a vampire become a drug dealer? There had to be a thousand ways to make money when you had that kind of power and that much time. But what if you fed on desperation? What if the money meant nothing but you required an endless buffet of fear and need? Alex remembered the hangers-on at Eitan’s house, the losers at Ground Zero, her own aching sadness, the desolation that had been her life, the scraps of hope she’d wrung from the moments of peace that a little weed, a little alcohol, a pop of Valium could provide. So if Kittscher was right and vampires were demons, at least she knew what she was dealing with. But how to keep the monster at bay? She left the library and took out the Albemarle Book, wrote: how to avoid vampires, nonfiction. Then she hesitated. Why had the library provided her with information on a vampire when she had specifically asked for books mentioning Linus Reiter? She kept the Albemarle Book open and returned to the round table where she’d left Kittscher’s Daemonologie. Reiter hadn’t been listed in the index. She flipped to the back of the book. Minutes taken by Phillip Walter Merriman, Oculus, 1933. In attendance: The participants were listed by society, and there, under Skull and Bones: Lionel Reiter. He’d been there. Under a different name, but he’d been in this house, under Lethe’s roof. Maybe he’d been mortal then. But maybe there had been a demon in one of the societies, inside Il Bastone, and no one had been the wiser. And what about the date? 1933. A year after Sterling had been built. Did that mean there really had been a first pilgrimage to hell? Was that the subtext here? Who had known about the Gauntlet, and was this less a heated argument about philosophic hypotheticals than a very real debate about the possibility of traveling to the underworld? And if demons fed on humans, on their happiness or their pain, even their blood, was there another variable she had to consider? She remembered Marjorie Stephen, old before her time,


you safe, but all it does is weigh you down and make it hard for you to move. Look at you now. You know why you summoned me here. You know what you want to ask me to do. You know it has to be done . . . but it's not honorable, so the words stick in your throat." Ned's neck was rigid with tension. For a moment he was so angry that he did not trust himself to speak. Littlefinger laughed. "I ought to make you say it, but that would be cruel . . . so have no fear, my good lord. For the sake of the love I bear for Catelyn, I will go to Janos Slynt this very hour and make certain that the City Watch is yours. Six thousand gold pieces should do it. A third for the Commander, a third for the officers, a third for the men. We might be able to buy them for half that much, but I prefer not to take chances." Smiling, he plucked up the dagger and offered it to Ned, hilt first. JON Jon was breaking his fast on applecakes and blood sausage when Samwell Tarly plopped himself down on the bench. "I've been summoned to the sept," Sam said in an excited whisper. "They're passing me out of training. I'm to be made a brother with the rest of you. Can you believe it?" "No, truly?" "Truly. I'm to assist Maester Aemon with the library and the birds. He needs someone who can read and write letters." "You'll do well at that," Jon said, smiling. Sam glanced about anxiously. "Is it time to go? I shouldn't be late, they might change their minds." He was fairly bouncing as they crossed the weed-strewn courtyard. The day was warm and sunny. Rivulets of water trickled down the sides of the Wall, so the ice seemed to sparkle and shine. Inside the sept, the great crystal caught the morning light as it streamed through the south-facing window and spread it in a rainbow on the altar. Pyp's mouth dropped open when he caught sight of Sam, and Toad poked Grenn in the ribs, but no one dared say a word. Septon Celladar was swinging a censer, filling the air with fragrant incense that reminded Jon of Lady Stark's little sept in Winterfell. For once the septon seemed sober. The high officers arrived in a body; Maester Aemon leaning on 454 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN Clydas, Ser Alliser cold-eyed and grim, Lord Commander Mormont resplendent in a black wool doublet with silvered bearclaw fastenings. Behind them came the senior members of the three orders: red-faced Bowen Marsh the Lord Steward, First Builder Othell Yarwyck, and Ser Jaremy Rykker, who commanded the rangers in the absence of Benjen Stark. Mormont stood before the altar, the rainbow shining on his broad bald head. "You came to us outlaws," he began, "poachers, rapers, debtors, killers, and thieves. You came to us children. You came to us alone, in chains, with neither friends nor honor. You


steadfastly at her. Rosa Dartle's keen glance comprehended all of us. For some moments not a word was spoken. She motioned to Mr. Peggotty to be seated. He said, in a low voice, 'I shouldn't feel it nat'ral, ma'am, to sit down in this house. I'd sooner stand.' And this was succeeded by another silence, which she broke thus: 'I know, with deep regret, what has brought you here. What do you want of me? What do you ask me to do?' He put his hat under his arm, and feeling in his breast for Emily's letter, took it out, unfolded it, and gave it to her. 'Please to read that, ma'am. That's my niece's hand!' She read it, in the same stately and impassive way, - untouched by its contents, as far as I could see, - and returned it to him. '"Unless he brings me back a lady,"' said Mr. Peggotty, tracing out that part with his finger. 'I come to know, ma'am, whether he will keep his wured?' 'No,' she returned. 'Why not?' said Mr. Peggotty. 'It is impossible. He would disgrace himself. You cannot fail to know that she is far below him.' 'Raise her up!' said Mr. Peggotty. 'She is uneducated and ignorant.' 'Maybe she's not; maybe she is,' said Mr. Peggotty. 'I think not, ma'am; but I'm no judge of them things. Teach her better!' 'Since you oblige me to speak more plainly, which I am very unwilling to do, her humble connexions would render such a thing impossible, if nothing else did.' 'Hark to this, ma'am,' he returned, slowly and quietly. 'You know what it is to love your child. So do I. If she was a hundred times my child, I couldn't love her more. You doen't know what it is to lose your child. I do. All the heaps of riches in the wureld would be nowt to me (if they was mine) to buy her back! But, save her from this disgrace, and she shall never be disgraced by us. Not one of us that she's growed up among, not one of us that's lived along with her and had her for their all in all, these many year, will ever look upon her pritty face again. We'll be content to let her be; we'll be content to think of her, far off, as if she was underneath another sun and sky; we'll be content to trust her to her husband, - to her little children, p'raps, - and bide the time when all of us shall be alike in quality afore our God!' The rugged eloquence with which he spoke, was not devoid of all effect. She still preserved her proud manner, but there was a touch of softness in her voice, as she answered: 'I justify nothing. I make no counter-accusations. But I am sorry to repeat, it is impossible. Such a marriage would irretrievably blight my son's career, and ruin his prospects. Nothing is more certain than that it never can take place, and never will. If there is