and slowly-built-up cells in which thought hides itself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy yourself safe, and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of color in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings strange memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play,--I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend. Browning writes about that somewhere; but our [97] own senses will imagine them for us. There are moments when the odor of heliotrope passes suddenly across me, and I have to live the strangest year of my life over again. "I wish I could change places with you, Dorian. The world has cried out against us both, but it has always worshipped you. It always will worship you. You are the type of what the age is searching for, and what it is afraid it has found. I am so glad that you have never done anything, never carved a statue, or painted a picture, or produced anything outside of yourself! Life has been your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days have been your sonnets." Dorian rose up from the piano, and passed his hand through his hair. "Yes, life has been exquisite," he murmured, "but I am not going to have the same life, Harry. And you must not say these extravagant things to me. You don't know everything about me. I think that if you did, even you would turn from me. You laugh. Don't laugh." "Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Go back and play the nocturne over again. Look at that great honey-colored moon that hangs in the dusky air. She is waiting for you to charm her, and if you play she will come closer to the earth. You won't? Let us go to the club, then. It has been a charming evening, and we must end it charmingly. There is some one at the club who wants immensely to know you,--young Lord Poole, Bournmouth's eldest son. He has already copied your neckties, and has begged me to introduce him to you. He is quite delightful, and rather reminds me of you." "I hope not," said Dorian, with a touch of pathos in his voice. "But I am tired to-night, Harry. I won't go to the club. It is nearly eleven, and I want to go to bed early." "Do stay. You have never played so well as to-night. There was something in your touch that was wonderful. It had more expression than I had ever heard from it before." "It is because I am going to be good," he answered, smiling. "I am a little changed already." "Don't change, Dorian; at any rate, don't change to me. We must always be friends." "Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that. Harry, promise me that you will never lend that


you back together by then. Oh, and if it gets dirty, wash it.” “It’s not anti-microbial?” “It is, but if it gets dirty you end up with a dirt-coloured pucker-mark on your baby-soft skin. In this case it’ll look like you have a new asshole right there. Is that what you’re into?” “Not really.” “So. Wash. It. My god, everything’s adversarial with you.” “Did she make it?” He doesn’t answer. “The woman who was with me. Did she make it?” “Your girlfriend?” “My witness.” “Patient Jane was pretty dinged up by the car. Two broken legs, cracked pelvis, concussion. Then they shot her.” “Where?” “In the designer bulletproof item—so her brain is still inside her head—but from real close up. Those things are good, but they’re not magical. Figure she got hit three times with a sledgehammer. She is all kinds of fucked up inside, my friend. No idea if or when she will wake up.” I stop eating. “…shit.” “Marcus,” he says. “What?” “You never asked me my name, asshole. It’s Marcus.” “Hi, Marcus. I’m Cal.” “I know. You talk in your sleep. So listen to me, Cal: if she does live, it’s because of you. If she doesn’t, it’s because of them. I know that look you have. I’ve seen it on soldier boys and cops and firemen and every other kind of desperate life-saving son-of-a-bitch. I will be honest and tell you I see it in the mirror on those days when God in Her wisdom decides to fuck my scorecard good and hard and I lose every patient on my round. That happens. It is statistically inevitable. We get up, and we do it again, and we save someone else. We can’t do that if we’re still carrying the ones we couldn’t get to. Okay? Guilt is a luxury no one can afford in this life, least of all people like you. Don’t buy it.” I look at Marcus the nurse and I see someone who’s got an old head in a young body for reasons that have nothing to do with T7, and I nod at him once because after a certain point you can’t dick around any more. “Sleep tight, Cal. I’ll see you in the morning.” And he leaves me to sleep. Which I don’t, because this is St. Helen’s, and I’m supposed to find it interesting. * * * — I open my door and there’s a uniform. Her shirt says “Kristoffsen, J.” “Hi there, Kristoffsen J., I’m Cal.” “I know, sir.” “You looking after me today?” “Sergeant Tidbo says you’re not to get any more shot, sir.” “Figure Susan Green has friends here too?” “Yes, sir.” Thank you, Tidbo, for doing the obvious right thing. Cop life has its rhythms, and Tidbo hasn’t missed the beat. Speaking of which: “You happen to come here by squad car, Kristoffsen J.?” “Of course, sir.” “You ride shotgun in the squad car?” “Yes, sir.” “And that squad car have the battery pack for your non-lethal there under the shotgun seat?” She laughs. It’s a cop bugbear,


verges. And then, out of nowhere, two stone pillars and a wrought-iron gate. A man appeared from the trees, it seemed, and opened it. The car rattled over the cattle grid and sped up a short drive which led to a square grey building. It looked like a monastery, with a small church off to the left. There were two black cars parked near the entrance and Lyndon pulled up beside them. He got out and opened my door for me. I did not move. After a moment he grabbed my arm and pulled me out. There was a woman in a nurse’s uniform waiting for us at the door. I looked askance at Lyndon, who still had hold of my arm. I had heard about mother-and-baby homes in Ireland – a place where unmarried mothers were sent to have their babies in secret by their families. More often than not, the child was taken away and adopted by a respectable family. I pulled away from Lyndon, but the nurse saw this and grabbed my other arm. ‘No, no!’ I screamed. It was all I could say. A primal demand for escape. I was bundled into a room. A man was sitting behind a giant mahogany desk. He looked friendly, or so I thought, and I began pleading with him immediately. ‘Please, you must understand, I am a woman of means. I own my own business and the baby’s father left an income,’ I said. ‘My brother has brought me here against my will.’ ‘Opaline, let’s not entertain this charade any longer. Doctor, the bastard child was conceived out of wedlock and this husband she speaks of is a pure fabrication.’ I was stunned into silence. The man walked out from around his desk and shook my hand politely. ‘Please, Miss Carlisle, just take a seat and rest. Polly, can you bring the Carlisles some tea? They must be tired after their journey.’ The nurse disappeared and Lyndon sat down in one of the straight-backed chairs. I wanted to run out of there, but I didn’t stand a chance with two men blocking my way, and so I also took a seat. ‘Your brother has informed me that you haven’t been feeling well recently, not quite yourself. Would you agree?’ ‘Absolutely not. I have not seen my brother in years and his sole interest in my affairs is borne of malice and jealousy.’ ‘As you can see, Doctor, she is still suffering from these delusions,’ said Lyndon in the most sympathetic tone I had ever heard him employ. ‘It has been clear to me for some time that she is not capable of managing her own affairs and so I shall be taking over the little shop with immediate effect.’ My head whipped around and my eyes burned at the sight of him. ‘You read about the manuscript in the letter, didn’t you? You know its worth. That’s why you’ve come for me now. You couldn’t care less about the baby. You are a jealous, spiteful little man—’ I turned back to


be increased. The extreme sweetness of her temper must hurt his. He had all the clearness and quickness of mind which she wanted, and he could sometimes act an ungracious, or say a severe thing. He was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong in him escaped her. She was quick in feeling the little injuries to Isabella, which Isabella never felt herself. Perhaps she might have passed over more had his manners been flattering to Isabella's sister, but they were only those of a calmly kind brother and friend, without praise and without blindness; but hardly any degree of personal compliment could have made her regardless of that greatest fault of all in her eyes which he sometimes fell into, the want of respectful forbearance towards her father. There he had not always the patience that could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse's peculiarities and fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or sharp retort equally ill-bestowed. It did not often happen; for Mr. John Knightley had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and generally a strong sense of what was due to him; but it was too often for Emma's charity, especially as there was all the pain of apprehension frequently to be endured, though the offence came not. The beginning, however, of every visit displayed none but the properest feelings, and this being of necessity so short might be hoped to pass away in unsullied cordiality. They had not been long seated and composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy shake of the head and a sigh, called his daughter's attention to the sad change at Hartfield since she had been there last. "Ah, my dear," said he, "poor Miss Taylor--It is a grievous business." "Oh yes, sir," cried she with ready sympathy, "how you must miss her! And dear Emma, too!--What a dreadful loss to you both!-- I have been so grieved for you.--I could not imagine how you could possibly do without her.--It is a sad change indeed.--But I hope she is pretty well, sir." "Pretty well, my dear--I hope--pretty well.--I do not know but that the place agrees with her tolerably." Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any doubts of the air of Randalls. "Oh! no--none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my life-- never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret." "Very much to the honour of both," was the handsome reply. "And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?" asked Isabella in the plaintive tone which just suited her father. Mr. Woodhouse hesitated.--"Not near so often, my dear, as I could wish." "Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they married. Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one, have we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both, either at Randalls or here--and as you may suppose, Isabella, most frequently here. They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston is really as kind as herself.


I’m waiting on my legal team before I make a public announcement.” “Brody, I—” “Look, I know this might seem crazy, but I want to see you again. Whatever this is between you and me, I don’t want to lose it. Come away with me for the weekend. We can leave tomorrow. I’ll fly us—no one will know. I have a very secluded home on San Juan Island where we can be alone. If you want me to go away, I will. But I had to tell you how I feel.” A weekend in the San Juans getting showered with attention from the billionaire app founder would be a lot better than sitting around an empty house or picking up another understaffed hospital shift. And it would get Ethan’s attention a lot more now that he had learned where she was last night. But there is a risk it could drive him away completely. Sloane turns off the guest room light. Let Ethan be the one to come home to an empty house and wonder where I am. “What time should I meet you?” Chapter 11 Brody grins at Sloane from the seat beside her as the float plane’s propellers rumble to life. There is hardly a cloud in the sky, and the October sun glistens against the deep blue of Lake Washington. “Ready?” His voice comes through her headset. “I think so.” He taxis away from his dock, past the boathouse and superyacht moored in the adjacent boat slip. Sloane tilts her head to admire the sleek white boat that had been too dark for her to see the other night from Brody’s patio. The vessel towers a few stories above them and has to be over one hundred feet long. Having gotten home in the middle of the night, Ethan was still asleep when Sloane had left that morning. She left him a note saying she went in for an overtime shift, knowing he would call the hospital that night when she didn’t come home. She smiles thinking of him kicking into detective mode, wondering where she was. Brody scans the surrounding waters as he taxis toward the middle of the lake. He turns south and glances out the windows again before pushing in the throttle. Sloane admires the stunning view of snow-covered Mount Rainier in the distance before looking out her side window as they cruise over the sapphire blue water, forming a wake behind them. Brody pushes in full throttle before pulling back on the yoke. Sloane feels a wave of excitement as they lift off from the lake and climb over Mercer Island before Brody banks to the right. They didn’t say much when Brody met her in his driveway, although the tension between them was undeniable. He hugged her when she got out of her car. The feel of his embrace, Sloane noticed, was starting to become familiar. They held each other for a long moment before he took her overnight bag, and they walked hand-in-hand through the pristine grounds to the dock. Now, as they


watches me across the table, hooded eyes dark in the white folds of his face. “Admirable. And what is your exit strategy, when you are old and grey?” “Retire to the sun. Go shark fishing. Open a bar and marry a windsurfer.” “How curiously specific. But Tonfamecasca will say that age makes you likely to die, and with that risk, his own risk increases. He won’t like that.” “By then we’ll have a working relationship. Mutual understanding. That changes the equation.” Eyebrows rise. “Oh, dear. I did not take you for a fool. Is it possible you have so thoroughly misunderstood the nature of the man you are dealing with? You’re talking of half a lifetime for you, I grant. Thirty years, let us say. For him, the equivalent of perhaps five. He will not grow to trust you in that time. Nor will he forget the affront. No, Mr. Sounder, I am very much afraid your retirement will feature an altogether different relationship with sharks.” “Well, that’s my problem, isn’t it?” Another contemplative pause. “You are a man of resolve. Perhaps you will improve your position and survive.” “I’m glad you think so.” “Or perhaps you will need another friend, in time. In which case you might find one in me. I could prepare some sort of soft landing for you.” “I’m listening.” “The donor organs, of course, in the first instance. Tell Stefan you have arranged for their destruction, but bring them to the Travis.” “And in thirty years you’ll help me out.” Laughter. “That would be rather a lot to ask for a distant prize, would it not? Though perhaps you are the sort of man who would accept such a long-term proposition. No, I think I could arrange to sweeten the pot. Money, for example. Hmm?” “I do like money.” “A very reasonable fondness, and one we share. So: I will give you a great deal of it in exchange for Roddy Tebbit’s liver, lungs and other biological accoutrements, and in the fullness of time I will take the call when you need me. Which, I promise you, you will.” Too right, if that was really what was going on. I’d be stunned if I made it that far. Stefan would reach into every law firm and bank, every deposit box. He’d look under every floorboard and in every old mattress, starting in the city and spiralling out across the whole, entire world, until he found my leverage and crushed me to bloody pulp on the silk carpets in his receiving room. And then he’d make his next appointment get down on their knees and clean them, and they would. “I don’t love it,” I tell Doublewide. “It puts me on the chess board. I prefer to sit the game out.” “Once, perhaps, that was possible, but not any more. You are connected. You hang in a web. Is it yours? Someone else’s? I’m not sure. Perhaps this whole narrative exists to draw me into conflict on someone else’s terms. Who is the spider, hm? You have friends.


the White Sands Hotel. Mr. Kirke runs it, but the season hasn't begun yet. There are heaps of Americans come there for the summer. They think this shore is just about right." "I was afraid it might be Mrs. Spencer's place," said Anne mournfully. "I don't want to get there. Somehow, it will seem like the end of everything." 6. Marilla Makes Up Her Mind Get there they did, however, in due season. Mrs. Spencer lived in a big yellow house at White Sands Cove, and she came to the door with surprise and welcome mingled on her benevolent face. "Dear, dear," she exclaimed, "you're the last folks I was looking for today, but I'm real glad to see you. You'll put your horse in? And how are you, Anne?" "I'm as well as can be expected, thank you," said Anne smilelessly. A blight seemed to have descended on her. "I suppose we'll stay a little while to rest the mare," said Marilla, "but I promised Matthew I'd be home early. The fact is, Mrs. Spencer, there's been a queer mistake somewhere, and I've come over to see where it is. We send word, Matthew and I, for you to bring us a boy from the asylum. We told your brother Robert to tell you we wanted a boy ten or eleven years old." "Marilla Cuthbert, you don't say so!" said Mrs. Spencer in distress. "Why, Robert sent word down by his daughter Nancy and she said you wanted a girl-didn't she Flora Jane?" appealing to her daughter who had come out to the steps. "She certainly did, Miss Cuthbert," corroborated Flora Jane earnestly. I'm dreadful sorry," said Mrs. Spencer. "It's too bad; but it certainly wasn't my fault, you see, Miss Cuthbert. I did the best I could and I thought I was following your instructions. Nancy is a terrible flighty thing. I've often had to scold her well for her heedlessness." "It was our own fault," said Marilla resignedly. "We should have come to you ourselves and not left an important message to be passed along by word of mouth in that fashion. Anyhow, the mistake has been made and the only thing to do is to set it right. Can we send the child back to the asylum? I suppose they'll take her back, won't they?" "I suppose so," said Mrs. Spencer thoughtfully, "but I don't think it will be necessary to send her back. Mrs. Peter Blewett was up here yesterday, and she was saying to me how much she wished she'd sent by me for a little girl to help her. Mrs. Peter has a large family, you know, and she finds it hard to get help. Anne will be the very girl for you. I call it positively providential." Marilla did not look as if she thought Providence had much to do with the matter. Here was an unexpectedly good chance to get this unwelcome orphan off her hands, and she did not even feel grateful for it. She know Mrs. Peter Blewett only by sight


is perhaps better first to take the knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had plush upon her sleeves, which is a most useful material for showing traces. The double line a little above the wrist, where the typewritist presses against the table, was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of the hand type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the broadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her face, and, observing the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I ventured a remark upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed to surprise her." "It surprised me." "But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were really odd ones; the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the other at the first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home with odd boots, half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry." "And what else?" I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by my friend's incisive reasoning. "I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go back to business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?" I held the little printed slip to the light. "Missing [it said] on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman named Hosmer Angel. About five ft. seven in. in height; strongly built, sallow complexion, black hair, a little bald in the centre, bushy, black side-whiskers and moustache; tinted glasses, slight infirmity of speech. Was dressed, when last seen, in black frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and gray Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots. Known to have been employed in an office in Leadenhall Street. Anybody bringing--" "That will do," said Holmes. "As to the letters," he continued, glancing over them, "they are very commonplace. Absolutely no clew in them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you." "They are typewritten," I remarked. "Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the neat little 'Hosmer Angel' at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but no superscription except Leadenhall Street,


you looked queer," I persisted, "when I mentioned to you the letter from his school!" "I doubt if I looked as queer as you!" she retorted with homely force. "And if he was so bad then as that comes to, how is he such an angel now?" "Yes, indeed--and if he was a fiend at school! How, how, how? Well," I said in my torment, "you must put it to me again, but I shall not be able to tell you for some days. Only, put it to me again!" I cried in a way that made my friend stare. "There are directions in which I must not for the present let myself go." Meanwhile I returned to her first example-- the one to which she had just previously referred-- of the boy's happy capacity for an occasional slip. "If Quint--on your remonstrance at the time you speak of-- was a base menial, one of the things Miles said to you, I find myself guessing, was that you were another." Again her admission was so adequate that I continued: "And you forgave him that?" "Wouldn't YOU?" "Oh, yes!" And we exchanged there, in the stillness, a sound of the oddest amusement. Then I went on: "At all events, while he was with the man--" "Miss Flora was with the woman. It suited them all!" It suited me, too, I felt, only too well; by which I mean that it suited exactly the particularly deadly view I was in the very act of forbidding myself to entertain. But I so far succeeded in checking the expression of this view that I will throw, just here, no further light on it than may be offered by the mention of my final observation to Mrs. Grose. "His having lied and been impudent are, I confess, less engaging specimens than I had hoped to have from you of the outbreak in him of the little natural man. Still," I mused, "They must do, for they make me feel more than ever that I must watch." It made me blush, the next minute, to see in my friend's face how much more unreservedly she had forgiven him than her anecdote struck me as presenting to my own tenderness an occasion for doing. This came out when, at the schoolroom door, she quitted me. "Surely you don't accuse HIM--" "Of carrying on an intercourse that he conceals from me? Ah, remember that, until further evidence, I now accuse nobody." Then, before shutting her out to go, by another passage, to her own place, "I must just wait," I wound up. IX I waited and waited, and the days, as they elapsed, took something from my consternation. A very few of them, in fact, passing, in constant sight of my pupils, without a fresh incident, sufficed to give to grievous fancies and even to odious memories a kind of brush of the sponge. I have spoken of the surrender to their extraordinary childish grace as a thing I could actively cultivate, and it may be imagined if I neglected


no problem wrenching a student’s feet into the proper turnout with a forceful hand or humiliating a struggling dancer in front of her classmates, Marion vowed to never stoop to such behaviors. After all, dancing was supposed to be joyful. Although right then no one in the room was feeling much joy at all, including Marion. She walked over to the accompanist and whispered in her ear. The students, sensing that something was up, quieted, and even Tabitha rose to her feet, curious. “It’s time for freestyle,” said Marion, and was rewarded with cheers. The accompanist broke into Carl Perkins’s “Blue Suede Shoes” as the girls assembled against the side wall in a line. Marion pointed at the first dancer, who sailed across the studio floor, performing a mad jumble of moves that involved a great deal of shimmying, jumping, and twirling. One child rolled around on the floor, finishing off with a crablike scuttle, while the next skipped gaily, flinging her arms as if she were tossing confetti into the air. Each student earned praise for her originality and effort. After two rounds of freestyle, it was back to business, and the rest of the hour went off without a hitch. Marion dismissed the girls and thanked the accompanist. As she turned to go, she noticed that the whisper-thin Miss Beaumont had joined Tabitha’s mother at the window, their lipsticked mouths wearing matching frowns. Out in the waiting room, Miss Beaumont asked Marion to see her in her office before she left for the day. The Broadway Ballet and Dance Studio was considered one of the best in New York, where former ballerinas from national companies taught master classes after they’d retired, and Marion knew she was lucky to be teaching and taking classes here, having no professional experience herself. One of the perks of teaching meant she could slip into any classroom she fancied, focusing on lyrical jazz one day and modern dance another. She still remembered the moment she fell in love with dance. When Marion was five and her sister, Judy, eight, their mother took them to see a children’s performance in the city. The way the dancers crossed the stage mesmerized Marion, their arms like jelly, as if there were no bones inside, rising high on their toes, where they stayed for what seemed like whole minutes at a time. Marion wanted to move like that, to spin until it seemed like there was no way she could possibly remain upright, and then freeze in place, one leg outstretched. She’d told her mother that evening as she was tucked into bed that she wanted to be a ballerina, and her mother had kissed her nose and said, “Of course,” with a satisfied smile, as if that were the most natural thing in the world. Marion collected her things from the locker room and passed through the waiting area on her way to Miss Beaumont’s office. Two of the advanced students had gathered in front of the bulletin board. Marion recognized one—Vanessa—as they’d been in the same ballet


to be done,' he said in a matter-of-fact voice. 'I'd better explain what I'm going to try and do and how you can help. Which isn't very much I'm afraid,' he added. 'Now these are the basic facts.' He proceeded to sketch out the plan and enumerate the various contingencies which faced them. The matre d'htel supervised the serving of the second course and then as they ate the delicious food, Bond continued. She listened to him coldly, but with attentive obedience. She felt thoroughly deflated by his harshness, while admitting to herself that she should have paid more heed to the warning of Head of S. 'He's a dedicated man,' her chief had said when he gave her the assignment. 'Don't imagine this is going to be any fun. He thinks of nothing but the job on hand and, while it's on, he's absolute hell to work for. But he's an expert and there aren't many about, so you won't be wasting your time. He's a good-looking chap, but don't fall for him. I don't think he's got much heart. Anyway, good luck and don't get hurt.' All this had been something of a challenge and she was pleased when she felt she attracted and interested him, as she knew intuitively that she did. Then at a hint that they were finding pleasure together, a hint that was only the first words of a conventional phrase, he had suddenly turned to ice and had brutally veered away as if warmth were poison to him. She felt hurt and foolish. Then she gave a mental shrug and concentrated with all her attention on what he was saying. She would not make the same mistake again. '. . . and the main hope is to pray for a run of luck for me, or against him.' Bond was explaining just how baccarat is played. 'It's much the same as any other gambling game. The odds against the banker and the player are more or less even. Only a run against either can be decisive and 'break the bank', or break the players. 'Tonight, Le Chiffre, we know, has bought the baccarat bank from the Egyptian syndicate which is running the high tables here. He paid a million francs for it and his capital has been reduced to twenty-four million. I have about the same. There will be ten players, I expect, and we sit round the banker at a kidney-shaped table. 'Generally, this table is divided into two tableaux. The banker plays two games, one against each of the tableaux to left and right of him. In the game that banker should be able to win by playing off one tableaux against the other and by first-class accountancy. But there aren't enough baccarat players yet at Royale and Le Chiffre is just going to pit his luck against the other players at the single tableau. It's unusual because the odds in favour of the banker aren't so good, but they're a shade in his favour and, of course, he has control of the


it.” The HARP looked at the others. Vic kept his gaze down, his helmet falling forward slightly. “And it wasn’t because of them?” “N-no. It was a f-fourth.” “And what happened to the fourth?” “D-destroyed,” Hap said. “Good. We must keep the peace, after all.” He pushed by Hap, stopping in front of Nurse Ratched and Rambo. Vic prayed Rambo would keep quiet as Hap shook his head in warning behind the HARP. “Dissidents. They don’t look like much.” “They aren’t,” Hap said. “Their p-programming was altered.” “By whom?” “I d-do not know.” The HARP tapped Nurse Ratched’s screen. “You. Nursing model. Who altered your programming?” Hap took a step forward. “I’ve administered a m-memory wipe of the offending p-p-programs. They c-can’t answer you.” The HARP’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t turn around. “Why would you do that? We cannot find out who they belong to.” “Th-they started a self-d-destruct sequence when I c-cornered them. I made the d-decision to preserve what I c-could. I am b-bringing them to Creation to s-see if anything c-can be recovered.” “No sense of self-preservation,” the HARP said, standing upright. “Pity, though expected. If the memories can be recovered, it might finally lead us back to the source. You know the source of which I speak, brother?” Hap nodded. “The Blue F-Fairy.” “Yes. They have managed to cover their tracks for far longer than expected. Why we have not been given orders to raze the pyramid to the ground is beyond me. I don’t question the minds of our mothers and fathers, but I do wonder what purpose they see in allowing that place to exist.” He grabbed one of Rambo’s arms, tugging on it. Rambo stayed silent. The HARP let him go before looking at Vic. “And this one? I have never seen such a model before. How distasteful. It looks as if it were constructed from parts that do not belong together. An abomination.” “That is m-my thinking, brother,” Hap said quickly. “It will be ddissected. Creation will glean what th-they can from it.” “Machine,” the HARP said, “look at me.” Vic lifted his head. He kept his expression blank, his mouth a thin line. He let his gaze slide unfocused even as the HARP was inches away from his own face. No, this wasn’t like Hap at all, even with what Vic had seen from Hap’s memories. The HARP flicked his helmet, causing it to jar on Vic’s head. He didn’t wince as it dug into his skull, the dull clang echoing in the hall around them. “This one,” the HARP said. “This one is … different.” The HARP didn’t blink as he studied Vic’s face. “How lifelike it is. And it appears to be leaking.” A trickle of sweat dripped down Vic’s cheek like a tear. The HARP reached for it. “Y-yes,” Hap said. “It is. A m-malfunction. Do not t-touch it. I b-believe it is acidic.” The HARP pulled his hand away as he turned from Vic toward Hap. “I would like to know what Creation discovers. If this is


he muttered and brushed a tear from her cheek with the back of his finger. “Trust me; Mr. Mackenzie has a soft spot for strong-willed ladies. He will not hesitate to do what he can to assist you, and he knows a good deal of good people far from London. Please. For my own sanity.” “Very well.” An enormous weight seemed to lift from her shoulders, and she took a slow breath, as if she hadn’t been able to breathe deeply for days. Maybe she hadn’t. “I suppose I will go take my walk now.” Nick grimaced, glancing at the closed door that separated them from Simon. “Couldn’t you at least take that maid of yours with you? I can’t like the idea of you being out there on your own.” “I need only a few moments to myself,” she assured him. “A chance to see the grounds one last time. Besides, only someone truly touched in the head would be awake this early.” She grinned when Nick chuckled. “Go. Look after Simon, and I will come inside shortly.” He clasped her hand briefly, then stepped back, walking backward in the direction of the parlor. “I will see to the travel arrangements once the rest of the world is awake. Don’t stay out too long, Lucy.” “Thank you, Nick. Thank you for being my friend.” Lucy stepped out into the cool morning and breathed the air damp from the rain, feeling almost at peace for the first time since her admission. She would still ache from missing this place—even in the darkness the grounds were beautiful and wild—but her future was not looking so bleak. She would survive once she woke from this dream, and perhaps she would even be better for it. A gentle wind blew through the leaves of the nearby trees, and Lucy closed her eyes, letting the coolness of the breeze dry her tears. Yes, she decided. She was at peace. Ready to move on and let her past disappear behind her. “Good morning, Miss Hayes.” Lucy shrieked, though the sound was cut off when she recognized Mr. Granger’s voice. She could barely make out the man’s silhouette in the thick darkness, but he was far closer than she’d expected. Where had he come from? “Mr. Granger,” she said, her heart still racing from being startled. “What are you doing here?” He chuckled, the sound low and far more menacing than she’d ever heard him. “I told you three days, did I not? Well? Have you made your peace? It is time for us to be on our way.” Chapter Twenty-Nine Was it possible for a man to sleep when his heart was broken? Simon doubted it; he hadn’t slept a minute since the moment Forester had finally let him go upstairs to his chamber to get a couple of hours’ sleep. He had simply lain awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering how he could have been so completely foolish. That and reliving the kiss that would haunt him for the rest of his life. And now


the idea had just occurred to him, he said to Mrs. March . . . "The boy neglects his music now, and I'm glad of it, for he was getting too fond of it. But the piano suffers for want of use. Wouldn't some of your girls like to run over, and practice on it now and then, just to keep it in tune, you know, ma`am?" Beth took a step forward, and pressed her hands tightly together to keep from clapping them, for this was an irresistible temptation, and the thought of practicing on that splendid instrument quite took her breath away. Before Mrs. March could reply, Mr. Laurence went on with an odd little nod and smile. . . "They needn't see or speak to anyone, but run in at any time. For I'm shut up in my study at the other end of the house, Laurie is out a great deal, and the servants are never near the drawing room after nine o'clock." Here he rose, as if going, and Beth made up her mind to speak, for that last arrangement left nothing to be desired. "Please, tell the young ladies what I say, and if they don't care to come, why, never mind." Here a little hand slipped into his, and Beth looked up at him with a face full of gratitude, as she said, in her earnest yet timid way . . . "Oh sir, they do care, very very much!" "Are you the musical girl?" he asked, without any startling "Hey!" as he looked down at her very kindly. "I'm Beth. I love it dearly, and I'll come, if you are quite sure nobody will hear me, and be disturbed," she added, fearing to be rude, and trembling at her own boldness as she spoke. "Not a soul, my dear. The house is empty half the day, so come and drum away as much as you like, and I shall be obliged to you." "How kind you are, sir!" Beth blushed like a rose under the friendly look he wore, but she was not frightened now, and gave the hand a grateful squeeze because she had no words to thank him for the precious gift he had given her. The old gentleman softly stroked the hair off her forehead, and, stooping down, he kissed herr, saying, in a tone few people ever heard . . . "I had a little girl once, with eyes like these. God bless you, my dear! Good day. madam." And away he went, in a great hurry. Beth had a rapture with her mother, and then rushed up to impart the glorious news to her family of invalids, as the girls were not home. How blithely she sang that evening, and how they all laughed at her because she woke Amy in the night by playing the piano on her face in her sleep. Next day, having seen both the old and young gentleman out of the house, Beth, after two or three retreats, fairly got in at the side door,


he wake? When should she return to him? “Iris?” Marisol called. “Breakfast!” Breakfast, in the middle of the night. Iris set her comb aside and carried her candle down the stairs, into the kitchen. At the smell of the food, her stomach clenched. She was so hungry, but she wasn’t sure if she would be able to eat. “Here, start with the cocoa,” Attie said, offering a steaming cup to Iris. Iris took it gratefully, sinking into her usual chair. Marisol continued to set down plates on the table. She had made some sort of cheesy hash, full of comforting ingredients, and gradually, Iris was able to begin taking a few bites. The warmth trickled through her; she sighed and felt herself slowly returning to her body. Attie and Marisol sat and ate with her, but they were quiet. And Iris was thankful. She didn’t think she could speak of it yet. Just having them close beside her was all she needed. “Can I help you clean, Marisol?” Attie asked, rising to gather the dishes when they were done. “No, I’ve got this. Why don’t you help Iris to her room?” Marisol said. Iris’s eyes were heavy. Her feet felt like iron as she rose, and Attie took hold of her arm. She hardly remembered ascending the stairs, or Attie opening her door and guiding her inside. “Do you want me to stay with you tonight, Iris?” Iris sank to her pallet on the floor. The blankets were cold. “No, I’m so tired I don’t think sleeping will be an issue. But wake me if a siren sounds.” She hardly remembered falling asleep. Iris woke with a start. She didn’t know where she was at first. Sunlight was streaming in through the window, and the house was silent. She sat forward, her body stiff and sore. The B and B. She was at Marisol’s, and it looked to be late morning. The events of the past few days returned to her in a rush. Roman. She needed to go to the infirmary. She wanted to see him, touch him. Surely he was awake by now. Iris stood with a groan. She had fallen asleep with wet hair, and it was a snarled mess now. She was reaching for her comb when she saw her bag on the floor nearby, Roman’s directly next to it. Both were scuffed and streaked with dirt. And then her gaze roamed to her jumpsuit, discarded by her desk where her typewriter sat, gleaming in the light. Carver. His name whispered through her, and she eagerly glanced at her wardrobe, expecting to find letter after letter on the floor. There was nothing. The floor was bare. He hadn’t written to her at all while she was away, and her heart sank. Iris closed her eyes, her thoughts swimming. She remembered his final letter to her. The one she had shoved in her pocket and tried to read before Roman interrupted her twice. She dove for her jumpsuit, searching the pockets. She half expected the paper to be gone,


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

particularly as it had not involved the company of a dozen others. She gave me another warm smile, and she and Margret departed. 26th November I spent most of the day poring over my notes and rereading my journal, unable to focus on either the paper or my encyclopaedia, still beset by the certainty that I was missing something. I turned eventually to my books, in particular those collections of ancient faerie stories in various iterations that dryadologists love more than anything to debate—which version should be given primacy; whether similar tales told in differing regions share a primogenitor. Bambleby had absconded again, and I was left to my fretting until past midday, when there came a knock on the door. Expecting Lilja and the welcome distraction of another woodcutting lesson, I was surprised to instead find Aud, looking determined. “He did not like our gifts,” she said without preamble. I sighed. I considered telling her that Bambleby required no gifts, but she wouldn’t understand that—favours granted by the Folk must always be repaid in a manner that satisfies them, which is not the same as saying that the values must be equal by human standards. I cast my gaze around the room, and it fell upon Wendell’s sewing kit. “Have you any silver needles?” I said. I had observed that Wendell’s were made from bone. Aud nodded slowly, looking puzzled. “Will that suffice?” “I expect he’d like a mirror or two,” I said. “To hang on the wall. But only if they are handsome. And chocolate,” I added with some pique, because surely I deserved a gift too, for my efforts. Aud nodded, looking pleased. She went away again, and an hour later, all that I had requested was delivered by one of Bambleby’s conquests, the little dark-haired one, who looked both relieved and disappointed to find him absent. I understood how she felt, for I had finally worked out what had been bothering me and was beside myself with excitement to share it with him. But evening set in, and there was still no sign of him. I decided to go down to the tavern—no doubt I would find him there, happily ensconced in awe and admiration. But when I pushed through the door, only the familiar faces of the villagers gazed back at me. To my horror, they burst into applause and began clapping me on the shoulders. Several of the women hugged me—I didn’t note which ones, as my senses were temporarily overwhelmed by this onslaught. “Leave her be, leave her be,” Thora’s voice grumbled, and her bony hand wrapped round my wrist and pulled me to her usual cosy and out-of-the-way nook next to the fire. “Thank you,” I murmured, collapsing into the other chair. She gave a rumble of laughter. “The way you froze! You looked like a startled badger.” I didn’t argue with her unflattering choice of metaphor, merely folded myself deeper into the chair. “Have you seen Wendell?” “Why would I know where that creature’s gotten to? He’s your faerie. What’s the matter?” I


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

he repeated. "No?" "And my heart's weak. That little business--I pulled it through, of course--but bless you! I could have dropped." "Well?" "I haven't the nerve and strength for the sort of thing you want." "I'll stimulate you." "I wish you wouldn't. I wouldn't like to mess up your plans, you know. But I might,--out of sheer funk and misery." "You'd better not," said the Voice, with quiet emphasis. "I wish I was dead," said Marvel. "It ain't justice," he said; "you must admit--It seems to me I've a perfect right--" "Get on!" said the Voice. Mr. Marvel mended his pace, and for a time they went in silence again. "It's devilish hard," said Mr. Marvel. This was quite ineffectual. He tried another tack. "What do I make by it?" he began again in a tone of unendurable wrong. "Oh! shut up!" said the Voice, with sudden amazing vigour. "I'll see to you all right. You do what you're told. You'll do it all right. You're a fool and all that, but you'll do--" "I tell you, sir, I'm not the man for it. Respectfully--but it is so--" "If you don't shut up I shall twist your wrist again," said the Invisible Man. "I want to think." Presently two oblongs of yellow light appeared through the trees, and the square tower of a church loomed through the gloaming. "I shall keep my hand on your shoulder," said the Voice, "all through the village. Go straight through and try no foolery. It will be the worse for you if you do." "I know that," sighed Mr. Marvel, "I know all that." The unhappy-looking figure in the obsolete silk hat passed up the street of the little village with his burdens, and vanished into the gathering darkness beyond the lights of the windows. Chapter 14 At Port Stowe Ten o'clock the next morning found Mr. Marvel, unshaven, dirty, and travel-stained, sitting with the books beside him and his hands deep in his pockets, looking very weary, nervous, and uncomfortable, and inflating his cheeks at frequent intervals, on the bench outside a little inn on the outskirts of Port Stowe. Beside him were the books, but now they were tied with string. The bundle had been abandoned in the pinewoods beyond Bramblehurst, in accordance with a change in the plans of the Invisible Man. Mr. Marvel sat on the bench, and although no one took the slightest notice of him, his agitation remained at fever heat. His hands would go ever and again to his various pockets with a curious nervous fumbling. When he had been sitting for the best part of an hour, however, an elderly mariner, carrying a newspaper, came out of the inn and sat down beside him. "Pleasant day," said the mariner. Mr. Marvel glanced about him with something very like terror. "Very," he said. "Just seasonable weather for the time of year," said the mariner, taking no denial. "Quite," said Mr. Marvel. The mariner produced a toothpick, and (saving his regard) was engrossed thereby for some minutes. His eyes meanwhile


in a chic and tasteful commitment ceremony and all the ladies attend, dressed in the ratty old T-shirts they masturbate in. The happy couple is registered in the battery aisle at Best Buy. Episode 11: “The Drought” THAT FART SHOULD HAVE BEEN LOUDER. Okay, so this is one of my favorite episodes because (1) I love flatulence-related humor, (2) that whoopee cushion prank scene literally made me choke laughing, and (3) as a culture, we should really be normalizing people being together romantically but not having sex every single night, as it sets a dangerous precedent that I am too old and tired to live up to. If you are fucking every single day, congratulations to you but please don’t tell me about it. My pussy has not been that active since I was in my late teens, and my decrepit living corpse has devolved to the point where if I have a fizzy water after 7:00 p.m. I will be awake and uncomfortable and not in the mood for sex for the next three weeks, minimum. Anyway, that fart should’ve broken the sound barrier. I’m talking a thunderous, window-rattling sonic boom that catapulted Carrie right out of Big’s luxurious Frette sheets. It should’ve been so rancid that we could literally see it. Episode 12: “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” James’s tiny penis isn’t that big of a problem, if we’re being honest and if he isn’t intimidated by a Lelo Soraya gently buzzing against his nuts while he fucks from behind. But Carrie should’ve been struck by lightning for misbehaving in church! I am not a religious person, but I definitely am a person who was babysat every Sunday morning, and Thursday afternoon, for the first ten-plus years of my life by the father, the son, and the holy ghost; a person whose first handful of birthday parties were thrown in the basement of Fisher Memorial AME Zion Church; a person who was forced to go to a “fall celebration” with the rest of my Sunday school attendees while other kids were out trick-or-treating. I stopped going when I was in high school because my life was falling apart, but I did dip a toe back in in my twenties, when I thought “find and marry a stable man who goes to church” was a thing that sounded good and plausible. All my years of indoctrination left one very clear mark: you don’t play around in church. I mean, just in case hell is real, I don’t want to have to defend, say, “cussing near the pulpit” when I present my life’s worn and tattered dossier to Saint Peter. So, when Carrie leaned over the railing to get a better look at Mama Big (nosy!) I gasped, not because I was worried that she might fall, but because I was braced for a bolt of lightning to crash through the ceiling and electrocute her for misbehaving in Jesus’s living room. * * * — An aside: IN DEFENSE OF CHARLOTTE Why does no one ever talk about how Charlotte is the


all in a bit of a creative funk,” she says. “We don’t have any fresh ideas and all the new stuff we keep losing.” “Ideas?” I repeat. “So the team can come up with ideas instead of waiting for agents to bring us their titles?” “It’s something Penny started when we were really struggling,” Kris answers. “Instead of continuously trying to outbid other publishers, we’d focus on food writers already on our list and come up with exciting things for them to write about. For example, getting Carmen to write about her stay in Italy was Penny’s idea.” Wow. Carmen Loremo’s Sardinia is one of OTP’s bestsellers. “I didn’t know that was an option.” I write down: What do we want and which of our writers can do it? “It’s a good idea.” “It’s a good idea when we have good ideas,” Kris says. “It’s not easy getting a book about foreign cuisine from our list of writers who are … well, limited in foreign experience.” In other words, homogenous in culture. I nod. “Of course.” “It only worked for Carmen because her husband is from Sardinia so they travel there a lot. We’ll think of something.” She closes her notebook. “Did you manage to get that list of titles up on MDX?” “Yes, but, actually, I’ve had an idea about something.” I pitch her my practiced paragraph on Cooking Combos, a book focused on classic and unique pairings, what you can do with them and why. It would discuss the science behind the flavor combination, as text-heavy, informative cookbooks are popular now, and how to cook classic or unexpected dishes with what you’ve got at home. Kris listens patiently and at the end says she’ll think about it but well done me for bringing ideas to the table already. I smile at this and, after, print out a list of our authors going back a decade. Like Kris hinted, we have a lot of white, middle-aged men writing about pies, potatoes, and bread. The majority of our female authors specialize in comfort cooking and family meals. I try not to pull a face. On the train ride home, I think about that list. We need something different, a quiet, undiscussed cuisine; we need recipes we wouldn’t have thought to try or even search for, but no one on our list seems qualified. I get home and, whilst my pasta boils, I google the rest of OTP’s food writers. On one man’s Instagram is a picture of a colorful food spread; nothing like the images of food found in his books. The caption thanks his wife Afra, whose page I click on. Her account is full of bright dishes: rice topped with seeds, breads bursting with add-ins, and platters of roasted meats. There aren’t any recipes written in the captions and I know not to judge a plate of food based on its appearance, but the titles of her dishes sound promising because I’ve not heard of most of them. I’m bookmarking her page when Jo rushes into the kitchen. “Where’s Cam?”


suddenly didn’t feel too eager to start an Argento film. There were other matters nagging her. Montserrat munched on a cold potato patty, then washed her hands and sat in the living room and opened Ewers’s book. There are four cardinal points, but a congregation is led by three, for the fourth point is the haven of the Lords of the Air who serve as a conduit for our will. Thus, let there be three. The son, who will rule the West. The mother, who is both whore and divine, Lady of the South. And upon the Eastern King, the Mighty Father. Thus three become four and four are one, united by the might of man. Montserrat turned the page and saw a drawing of a circle, sectioned into quarters, which seemed to depict the “four” points Ewers had mentioned, and in the middle a smaller, black circle and a white dot inside the black space. She thumbed through more pages, landing at an entry with a heading that said, “The Permutation of Water,” followed by “The Whispers of the Earth.” She stopped at the page titled “The Cipher of Fire.” Fire, as the alchemists of old knew, is the most challenging of elements. We fear fire, yet without the sun’s fire we would perish in an endless winter. Fire cleanses as much as it destroys, removing all vapors and impurities. Water nourishes the Earth, but fire perfects it, and it is fire that brings day into night. As Valentinus said, at the end of the world, the world shall be judged by fire. After the conflagration, there shall be formed a new heaven and a new earth, and the new man will be more noble in his glorified state. This all sounded to Montserrat like the kind of literature that would definitely appear in Enigma, with mentions of this and that alchemist, or an occultist she’d never heard of. She’d tried to understand the book but was having a hard time of it. Maybe she was going into this from the wrong direction. Maybe she needed to talk to a historian. But the one historian she knew was Regina, and Montserrat tried to stay away from her exes, even if the breakup had been relatively clean. In this case, Montserrat’s crime had been the fact that she didn’t like hanging out with Regina’s friends, the lot of whom were professors and grad students from the UNAM. Montserrat found herself gritting her teeth at parties as someone yelled about Foucault. She couldn’t help but look at all those strangers gathered in her girlfriend’s living room and wonder at the fact that they were supposed to be members of the same species. This wasn’t an especially novel sensation, as she’d felt the same thing when previous boyfriends or girlfriends had attempted to induct her into their social circles. On each occasion she cycled through bewilderment, then irritation, finally ending in boredom. Not that she’d dated that much. Dating was but an impulse that flared every three or four years, but she could identify


cologne?" she added, as the little flask did not appear. "She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on it, or some such notion," replied Jo, dancing about the room to take the first stiffness off the new army slippers. "How nice my handkerchiefs look, don't they? Hannah washed and ironed them for me, and I marked them all myself," said Beth, looking proudly at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor. "Bless the child! She's gone and put `Mother' on them instead of `M. March'. How funny!" cried Jo, taking one up. "Isn't that right? I thought it was better to do it so, because Meg's initials are M.M., and I don't want anyone to use these but Marmee," said Beth;, looking troubled. "It's all right, dear, and a very pretty idea, quite sensible too, for no one can ever mistake now. It will please her very much, I know," said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth. "There's Mother. Hide the basket, quick!" cried Jo, as a door slammed and steps sounded in the hall. Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters all waiting for her. "Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?" asked Meg, surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so early. "Don't laugh at me, Jo! I didn't mean anyone should know till the time came. I only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and I gave all my money to get it, and I'm truly trying not to be selfish any more." As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap one, and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget herself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her `a trump', while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to ornament the stately bottle. "You see I felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking about being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed it the minute I was up, and I'm so glad, for mine is the handsomest now." Another bang of the street door sent the basket under the sofa, and the girls to the table, eager for breakfast. "Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books. We read some, and mean to every day," they all cried in chorus. "Merry Christmas, little daughters! I'm glad you began at once, and hope you will keep on. But I want to say one word before we sit down. Not far away from here lies a poor woman with a little newborn baby. Six children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they have no fire. There is nothing to eat over there, and the oldest boy came to tell me they were suffering hunger and cold. My girls, will you give them your breakfast as


able to achieve her voice in Their Eyes. What concerned Stepto was the courtroom scene in which Janie is called on not only to preserve her own life and liberty but also to make the jury, as well as all of us who hear her tale, understand the meaning of her life with Tea Cake. Stepto found Janie curiously silent in this scene, with Hurston telling the story in omniscient third person so that we do not hear Janie speak—at least not in her own first-person voice. Stepto was quite convinced (and convincing) that the frame story in which Janie speaks to Pheoby creates only the illusion that Janie has found her voice, that Hurston’s insistence on telling Janie’s story in the third person undercuts her power as speaker. While the rest of us in the room struggled to find our voices, Alice Walker rose and claimed hers, insisting passionately that women did not have to speak when men thought they should, that they would choose when and where they wish to speak because while many women had found their own voices, they also knew when it was better not to use it. What was most remarkable about the energetic and at times heated discussion that followed Stepto’s and Walker’s remarks was the assumption of everyone in that room that Their Eyes was a shared text, that a novel that just ten years earlier was unknown and unavailable had entered into critical acceptance as perhaps the most widely known and the most privileged text in the African-American literary canon. That MLA session was important for another reason. Walker’s defense of Janie’s choice (actually Hurston’s choice) to be silent in the crucial places in the novel turned out to be the earliest feminist reading of voice in Their Eyes, a reading that was later supported by many other Hurston scholars. In a recent essay on Their Eyes, and the question of voice, Michael Awkward argues that Janie’s voice at the end of the novel is a communal one, that when she tells Pheoby to tell her story (“You can tell’em what Ah say if you wants to. Dat’s just de same as me ‘cause mah tongue is in mah fiend’s mout”) she is choosing a collective rather than an individual voice, demonstrating her closeness to the collective spirit of the African-American oral tradition. Thad Davis agrees with this reading of voice, adding that while Janie is the teller of the tale, Pheoby is the bearer of the tale. Davis says that Janie’s experimental life may not allow her to effect changes beyond what she causes in Pheoby’s life; but Pheoby, standing within the traditional role of women, is the one most suited to take the message back to the community. Although, like Stepto, I too am uncomfortable with the absence of Janie’s voice in the courtroom scene, I think that silence reflects Hurston’s discomfort with the model of the male hero who asserts himself through his powerful voice. When Hurston chose a female hero for the story she faced an interesting dilemma: the


strange, grotesque creatures that they might be again aware of his presence among them. Dropping his bundle of arrows at the foot of the tree, Tarzan crept among the shadows at the side of the street until he came to the same hut he had entered on the occasion of his first visit. Inside all was darkness, but his groping hands soon found the object for which he sought, and without further delay he turned again toward the door. He had taken but a step, however, ere his quick ear caught the sound of approaching footsteps immediately without. In another instant the figure of a woman darkened the entrance of the hut. Tarzan drew back silently to the far wall, and his hand sought the long, keen hunting knife of his father. The woman came quickly to the center of the hut. There she paused for an instant feeling about with her hands for the thing she sought. Evidently it was not in its accustomed place, for she explored ever nearer and nearer the wall where Tarzan stood. So close was she now that the ape-man felt the animal warmth of her naked body. Up went the hunting knife, and then the woman turned to one side and soon a guttural "ah" proclaimed that her search had at last been successful. Immediately she turned and left the hut, and as she passed through the doorway Tarzan saw that she carried a cooking pot in her hand. He followed closely after her, and as he reconnoitered from the shadows of the doorway he saw that all the women of the village were hastening to and from the various huts with pots and kettles. These they were filling with water and placing over a number of fires near the stake where the dying victim now hung, an inert and bloody mass of suffering. Choosing a moment when none seemed near, Tarzan hastened to his bundle of arrows beneath the great tree at the end of the village street. As on the former occasion he overthrew the cauldron before leaping, sinuous and catlike, into the lower branches of the forest giant. Silently he climbed to a great height until he found a point where he could look through a leafy opening upon the scene beneath him. The women were now preparing the prisoner for their cooking pots, while the men stood about resting after the fatigue of their mad revel. Comparative quiet reigned in the village. Tarzan raised aloft the thing he had pilfered from the hut, and, with aim made true by years of fruit and coconut throwing, launched it toward the group of savages. Squarely among them it fell, striking one of the warriors full upon the head and felling him to the ground. Then it rolled among the women and stopped beside the half-butchered thing they were preparing to feast Chapter 11 upon. All gazed in consternation at it for an instant, and then, with one accord, broke and ran for their huts. It was a grinning human skull which looked up


for her degradation. Then, also, the augury of ill-success, uttered from the sure wisdom of experience, fell upon her half-dead hope like a clod into a grave. The man's wife had already tried the same experiment, and failed! How could the born, lady the recluse of half a lifetime, utterly unpractised in the world, at sixty years of age,--how could she ever dream of succeeding, when the hard, vulgar, keen, busy, hackneyed New England woman had lost five dollars on her little outlay! Success presented itself as an impossibility, and the hope of it as a wild hallucination. Some malevolent spirit, doing his utmost to drive Hepzibah mad, unrolled before her imagination a kind of panorama, representing the great thoroughfare of a city all astir with customers. So many and so magnificent shops as there were! Groceries, toy-shops, drygoods stores, with their immense panes of plate-glass, their gorgeous fixtures, their vast and complete assortments of merchandise, in which fortunes had been invested; and those noble mirrors at the farther end of each establishment, doubling all this wealth by a brightly burnished vista of unrealities! On one side of the street this splendid bazaar, with a multitude of perfumed and glossy salesmen, smirking, smiling, bowing, and measuring out the goods. On the other, the dusky old House of the Seven Gables, with the antiquated shop-window under its projecting story, and Hepzibah herself, in a gown of rusty black silk, behind the counter, scowling at the world as it went by! This mighty contrast thrust itself forward as a fair expression of the odds against which she was to begin her struggle for a subsistence. Success? Preposterous! She would never think of it again! The house might just as well be buried in an eternal fog while all other houses had the sunshine on them; for not a foot would ever cross the threshold, nor a hand so much as try the door! But, at this instant, the shop-bell, right over her head, tinkled as if it were bewitched. The old gentlewoman's heart seemed to be attached to the same steel spring, for it went through a series of sharp jerks, in unison with the sound. The door was thrust open, although no human form was perceptible on the other side of the half-window. Hepzibah, nevertheless, stood at a gaze, with her hands clasped, looking very much as if she had summoned up an evil spirit, and were afraid, yet resolved, to hazard the encounter. "Heaven help me!" she groaned mentally. "Now is my hour of need!" The door, which moved with difficulty on its creaking and rusty hinges, being forced quite open, a square and sturdy little urchin became apparent, with cheeks as red as an apple. He was clad rather shabbily (but, as it seemed, more owing to his mother's carelessness than his father's poverty), in a blue apron, very wide and short trousers, shoes somewhat out at the toes, and a chip hat, with the frizzles of his curly hair sticking through its crevices. A book and a small slate, under


this far north once before. Thin brown grass flanked the dusty path that stretched out from the doors. To the west, the Smoking Ridge continued. ‘Virtudom.’ Esbar narrowed her eyes. ‘We are lawbreakers and heathens now, Tuva.’ ‘Then let us leave as soon as we can.’ Tunuva tightened her grip on the reins. ‘I have no wish to be in any place where the people worship the Deceiver.’ ‘Agreed. Even if some were given no choice.’ Esbar sighed. ‘To the salt road, then. If I hear even one person insult the Mother, I will not be held responsible for my actions.’ 19 West The salt road cleaved to the Smoking Ridge. They rode for as long as they could by night, the air chilling as they moved farther north. By day, they slept among dark boulders or oak groves, out of sight. Without their ichneumons to track the scent, they relied on reason. The salt road was the fastest way to Sadyrr, the way that Siyu would most likely have come. On the fourth day, they stopped for supplies and a hot meal at Svartal, where the Ments mined a rare black salt. Mentendon had once been a mosaic of cultures and beliefs, even when its own ancient religion had been widespread. Before the Midwinter Flood, every faith in the world had earned followers here. The Six Virtues had been present for at least a century, especially in the west, where Yscali influence was strongest – but now the law enshrined their supremacy. Any other form of worship was severely punished. In the past, the wine den at Svartal must have welcomed orchardists, mountain singers, mirrorfolk. Now there was one drunk sanctarian. Esbar eyed him over her cup of apple wine. ‘Stop staring,’ Tunuva muttered. ‘Why?’ Esbar said under her breath. ‘What do I have to fear from his dead knight?’ ‘Do you want to spend time on a pyre?’ ‘I could always use a warding. It might be fun,’ Esbar mused, ‘watching him squawk as I refuse to burn.’ Tunuva went to pay. ‘What?’ They made camp in the foothills. Through a crack between two boulders, Tunuva watched a train of carts head north at sunrise, laden with lumber. Three riders in leather and mail, their hair oiled in a Hróthi style, barked orders at the Ments. ‘Those must be salt warriors,’ Tunuva said. ‘Can they be taking all that wood for Hróth?’ Esbar grunted. ‘Iron pine. I hear they cut all theirs down.’ She turned over, bundling her cloak under her head. ‘Get some rest, Tuva.’ Tunuva lay down beside her. ‘What if Siyu doesn’t want to come back?’ ‘She is coming back whether she likes it or not.’ ‘The Priory is not a cage.’ Tunuva looked at her. ‘Is it?’ ‘If it was, you and I would not be in this place,’ Esbar said, her voice short with exhaustion. ‘We are the Mother’s secret. That means protecting our sisters even from themselves.’ ‘What if Siyu no longer wants to be a secret?’ ‘Perhaps none of us can do or


a stew with the meat and some more greens Prim had gathered. Then she acted confused and went back to bed, but when the stew was done, we made her eat a bowl. The woods became our savior, and each day I went a bit farther into its arms. It was slow-going at first, but I was de- termined to feed us. I stole eggs from nests, caught fish in nets, sometimes managed to shoot a squirrel or rabbit for stew, and gathered the various plants that sprung up beneath my feet. Plants are tricky. Many are edible, but one false mouthful and you’re dead. I checked and double-checked the plants I har- vested with my father’s pictures. I kept us alive. Any sign of danger, a distant howl, the inexplicable break of a branch, sent me flying back to the fence at first. Then I began to risk climbing trees to escape the wild dogs that quickly got bored and moved on. Bears and cats lived deeper in, perhaps disliking the sooty reek of our district. On May 8th, I went to the Justice Building, signed up for my tesserae, and pulled home my first batch of grain and oil in Prim’s toy wagon. On the eighth of every month, I was entitled to do the same. I couldn’t stop hunting and gathering, of course. The grain was not enough to live on, and there were 51 other things to buy, soap and milk and thread. What we didn’t absolutely have to eat, I began to trade at the Hob. It was frightening to enter that place without my father at my side, but people had respected him, and they accepted me. Game was game after all, no matter who’d shot it. I also sold at the back doors of the wealthier clients in town, trying to remem- ber what my father had told me and learning a few new tricks as well. The butcher would buy my rabbits but not squirrels. The baker enjoyed squirrel but would only trade for one if his wife wasn’t around. The Head Peacekeeper loved wild turkey. The mayor had a passion for strawberries. In late summer, I was washing up in a pond when I noticed the plants growing around me. Tall with leaves like arrow- heads. Blossoms with three white petals. I knelt down in the water, my fingers digging into the soft mud, and I pulled up handfuls of the roots. Small, bluish tubers that don’t look like much but boiled or baked are as good as any potato. “Katniss,” I said aloud. It’s the plant I was named for. And I heard my fa- ther’s voice joking, “As long as you can find yourself, you’ll never starve.” I spent hours stirring up the pond bed with my toes and a stick, gathering the tubers that floated to the top. That night, we feasted on fish and katniss roots until we were all, for the first time in months, full. Slowly, my mother returned to us. She began to clean and cook


portraits of myself already.” “So,” I went on, businesslike. “Let’s just say you can have whatever you want.” “Whatever I want?” he asked, like it was too good to be true. “Within reason,” I said. “If you want me to paint something for you, or if you want me to buy you dinner or give you an art lesson, maybe. Whatever you can think of.” “Are you giving me a blank check?” he asked. “No!” “Sounds like a blank check to me.” “I’m saying you and I can find a mutually agreed-on form of payment at some point.” “So in other words,” Joe said, the delight of teasing me pretty clear in his voice, “a blank check.” Eighteen SUE’S ELOPING WAS a bummer for many reasons. One, I’d be missing my best friend’s wedding. Two, all the stuff I was about to do to Joe was nerve-racking to say the least. He had no idea what he was in for. And three, Sue had promised to be my date to the art show. Which was the worst bummer of all. Because when you have to do something genuinely scary, it’s nice to have a friend. I’d be all alone. Just standing straight and brittle with crazy eyes and a quavery smile all night while I waited for a bunch of portrait critics in tortoiseshell glasses to render judgment on my talent, my value as a human being, and my entire future. So, yeah. Was eloping to Canada really more important than keeping me from dying of misery? I could see both sides. Anyway, Sue had been fully on board to help me survive it all. Until she got kidnapped, that is. I suppose it was possible I’d astonish us all and win this art show. But I didn’t love my odds. That said—I had just enough hope to keep going. That’s the dark underbelly of hope that nobody ever talks about. How it can skew your perspective. How it can keep you in long past when any reasonable person would’ve been out. How it can land you in your own apartment on a random Tuesday night—annotating your downstairs neighbor’s nose-to-lip dimensions with a tape measure. “You don’t have to hold your breath,” I kept telling Joe. “Right. Got it.” He was more nervous than he’d expected to be. I could tell from his posture. And how very scrubbed clean he was—like maybe he’d taken a shower and a half. Even from the cautious way he’d walked across the rooftop toward my door. Almost like he had half a mind to turn around. “It’s harder than it seems, huh?” I said. “Trigonometry is hard. Climbing El Capitan is hard. Landing on the beaches of Normandy is hard. This is just … sitting here.” “Sitting here while a total stranger measures every square inch of your face.” “You’re not a total stranger.” “You’re right. I’m worse. You know me just enough for this to be super awkward.” “I don’t feel awkward,” Joe said. “Yeah, you do.” I’d made a graph on a canvas and


go and see if she’s back yet, but could I just use your bathroom, and of course I could. So I get into the private space and look around. Detective Nat Felton—Liz calls him Nathaniel every single time—likes a wet shave, a spearmint toothpaste and dark-coloured towels, and when I get out of the bathroom and I’m thinking I might just have a quick look along the hall, his wife is holding a gun on me, dead steady and not amused at all. “Don’t feel bad,” she says, “you did it really well.” She waggles the gun and I sit back down at the dining table. “What gave me away?” “Nothing. I’m a cop’s wife. I smelled you.” “Cal Sounder.” She acts like she doesn’t know the name. Maybe she doesn’t. She doesn’t talk to me and she also doesn’t sit, or stop looking at me, for an hour. She just holds the gun level at my face until Felton gets home and calls me a fucking asshole. “What the fuck are you doing in my house?” “I guess I nearly trust you.” “You nearly trust me so you sneak into my house and go through my shave bag?” “Yeah.” “Well that is a messed-up way of being in the world you have there, Sounder, so why don’t you fuck off? And actually when you get there you can just keep on fucking. How would that be?” “I’m sorry, man.” “The fuck is wrong with you?” “A guy with a scratch on his left boot drove a car over my witness and put a bullet in me.” Felton’s all kinds of pissed off but it doesn’t take him even a heartbeat to work that one out. “What kind of scratch?” I can tell he really wants me to say it looked like a picture of Marilyn Monroe. “Like a little moon.” Felton huffs a big breath and all the asshole goes out of him on it. He bows his head and says: “Shit.” Then he looks at me and he thinks about it, and I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking what he would do if that would happen to him and he’s counting the people he really trusts and coming up with a short list, and he’s realising that in a very real way he was on my short list and that is a thing between us now. He waves at Liz and she puts the gun down but not away, super-proficient. Figure the other thing she teaches is pistol. “You just got to the part where you trust me sorta kinda but you’d turn over my place real quick just in case.” “Gratton told me not to go home, so I came here and it turns out I’m not quite a good enough person that I just took it on faith, which you know about because neither are you and nor is your lady wife which is why she has a pistol in a cereal box.” Felton looks like he wants to argue but I’m right. He says “shit” again.


alone. Haven’t you done enough? “We were going over his notes for this very presentation, sitting on the floor of our living room, surrounded by empty boxes of Iyen food,” she said sweetly. “And suddenly, he took my hand, and he said he couldn’t have done this without me. That he never wanted to do anything without me. And he gave me his grandmother’s ring.” Thais extended her ringed finger to them—the crowd went nuts, exploding with applause, whistles, and supportive crooning. “My fiancée,” Saint-Yves called over the ruckus, “is moira-born. A weaver. She was the first volunteer to join our Initiative and to use her powers to track the connections between other-born and their victims. Tell them, darling, what made you decide to join us?” “You, mostly.” Thais laughed, and the crowd joined her. They were loving this. They were buying this. But not Io. This wasn’t Thais. The Thais Io knew had walked away from Thomas Mutton without a second thought. She had sought to build an empire with her own two hands, never sacrificing an ounce of who she was and what she believed in. This impersonator with the trendy haircut and the expensive necklace? With the dazzling fiancé who embodied everything Thais hated: rich boys who wanted to be the saviors of other-born, privilege in all its putrid glory? This girl couldn’t be Thais. “Truly, though,” Thais said. “The Initiative is necessary. It should have been implemented years ago when the Order of the Furies was wiped out. It will not only lower the crime rate in Alante, but also remove some of the stigma around other-born. I was born and raised in the Silts—” The theater made a collective sound of disproval. “That. Exactly that. I know what it’s like to be looked down on. My sisters and I were constantly mistreated: we were expected to work for half the pay or cut corners to help our employers. People believe other-born are corrupted and corruptive, but I know that couldn’t be further from the truth. What Luc suggests is a collaboration: we other-born can be better and, in the process, make this city better.” Be better, make this world better. Gods, this part did sound like her. Thais had always been an idealist. She truly believed that if you worked hard enough, if you chose nobility and kindness over corruption, you could make a difference in this world. Better yourself and better the world—that had always been her mantra. But she couldn’t have truly fallen for Saint-Yves, couldn’t truly believe that he could solve injustice against other-born by simply making people work together. Thais wasn’t that naive, was she? When the applause died, Saint-Yves said, “Let me introduce everyone else on the team, our wonderful other-born volunteers and the police officers that will be consulting with us.” He started listing names as people climbed onstage. Io didn’t bother listening—she had eyes only for Thais, standing by Saint-Yves’s side, smiling and prompting questions for him to ask the team. She looked so happy. It just seemed to me,


he kept certain details hidden. But magic is energy. It has to go somewhere. You can picture what happened in 1961 as an accident at a power plant. An amount of radiation leaked when Ewers died. It affected us. Then imagine if a damaged reactor was powered up again. You’d end up with a big explosion, and anyone in the control room drenched in radiation. Only instead of dying a horrible death you became Spider-Man.” It made Montserrat think of frequency-shifted keying, one of the easiest ways to synchronize electronic instruments. Easy, yes, but you could also mess it up. If you recorded your FSK tone too loudly it would leak onto adjacent tracks. That’s what Ewers had done. His magic was leaking onto others, distorting not sound, but lives. López took a sip of milk. “What, you don’t read comic books? Peter Parker was bitten by a radioactive spider.” “Maybe it’s more like The Fly,” Tristán suggested. “Pick your metaphor, kid. Anyway, it needs to be shut down for good, before Clarimonde and her army of crazies try to bring Ewers back to life. Or Alma keeps taking advantage of the situation.” “But she wants Ewers destroyed,” Tristán said. “Don’t be silly, of course she doesn’t. Alma is the only person who has benefited from this whole thing. All these years she’s been using the magic Ewers originally invoked in those nitrate reels to keep herself young.” Montserrat shook her head. “That didn’t happen. The spell was supposed to give her back her youth, but Ewers was working behind her back, and the spell was never intended for Alma.” The old man scoffed and looked at her as if he were talking to a student who had failed a quiz. “She didn’t get her youth back: she has not aged since the day Ewers died.” Montserrat remembered the remarkable similarities between Marisa and her aunt. Her nose was different, yes, but that could be a simple prosthetic. Alma had worked in movies, after all. She might know all kinds of makeup tricks to change her appearance. With a different haircut, different clothes, she might not be immediately recognized as Alma. “Then Marisa Montero is Alma,” Montserrat said. López had gone back to nibbling his sandwich and bobbed his head. “Is that even possible? How would she have managed it?” Montserrat asked. The cat was now rubbing itself against Tristán’s legs, and he picked it up and began scratching its head. “Ewers didn’t give enough credit to some of the people around him,” López said. “He didn’t think Alma was capable or smart enough, but she’s crafty. Of course, he didn’t think I’d amount to much, either, and I was not stabbed in the back ten times.” “You were the one who told Alma he was cheating on her. Why?” “Why not?” “Wasn’t Ewers your friend?” López brushed crumbs off his shirt. “Ewers had no friends. Only followers.” A thought occurred to Montserrat, and her fingers danced upon the top of the book poking out from her purse. “Alma didn’t kill him.


hickeys on my neck. My vagina, to be honest, felt fine—later I would poke and prod at it, trying to tell if I was sore or bleeding, but it all seemed normal. I was just dry-mouthed, hungover, and so nauseated that I kept leaning over the side of the bunk bed to dry heave. Everything was blurry; I’d fallen asleep with my contacts in, and my eyes were so dry I could barely keep them open. Beside me, Andrew was fully clothed and asleep. He didn’t wake up when I climbed over him out of bed, for which I was desperately grateful. I found my heels, pulled them on, and staggered back to my dorm. I was fine throughout the weekend. I didn’t go out again, even though half the girls I knew were getting pretty for a sorority open house night. I stayed in, enjoyed a popcorn and movie night with some girls on my floor, and attempted my course reading. It was getting colder outside; I wore turtlenecks and scarves to hide my hickeys. Back in my room, where I could not conceal my bare neck from my roommate, Michelle, I made jokes about having a wild weekend, and that was the last we spoke of it. Andrew hadn’t texted me since I left his room, which didn’t bother me much. Mostly I felt blasé about the whole affair, and proud of being blasé. I felt grown-up, womanly, accomplished. I’d hooked up with a sophomore. A cute sophomore. The enormity of it delighted me. I’d crossed a bridge into adulthood; I’d “hooked up” with someone, as the youths say. And I was fine. It was only the next week that I started suffering flashbacks. Andrew’s face would pop up in my mind during lectures: vivid, up close, his chin prickly and his breath sour with cinnamon Burnett’s. I’d find myself unable to breathe, unable to move without feeling waves of vertigo. My imagination would spiral out, imagining the worst possible scenarios. Could I be pregnant? Did I have HIV? HPV? Herpes? AIDS? Would my uterus rot out inside me? Should I see campus health? If I saw campus health, would it cost me hundreds of dollars I didn’t have? Had my mom waived the student insurance plan? I couldn’t remember. Was I going to die because of a stupid mistake I’d made, something I hadn’t even been awake for? Andrew didn’t text me until two in the morning the following Saturday: Hey, u up? I saw it when I got up to pee and deleted it, hoping to spare my waking self the reminder of his existence. But I couldn’t get his face, his smell, his touch out of my mind. I started taking incredibly long showers, three or four times a day. I kept having nightmares in which I was pinned beneath him, trapped under his scratchy chin, unable to move or scream. Michelle would wake me up, shaking my shoulders gently, asking me apologetically and diplomatically if I had earplugs she could borrow, because she had discussion section


story.” “Well, that’s it. Only I remember that night, Prim insisted on sleeping with Lady on a blanket next to the fire. And just be- fore they drifted off, the goat licked her cheek, like it was giv- ing her a good night kiss or something,” I say. “It was already mad about her.” “Was it still wearing the pink ribbon?” he asks. “I think so,” I say. “Why?” “I’m just trying to get a picture,” he says thoughtfully. “I can see why that day made you happy.” 268 “Well, I knew that goat would be a little gold mine,” 1 say. “Yes, of course I was referring to that, not the lasting joy you gave the sister you love so much you took her place in the reaping,” says Peeta drily. “The goat has paid for itself. Several times over,” I say in a superior tone. “Well, it wouldn’t dare do anything else after you saved its life,” says Peeta. “I intend to do the same thing.” “Really? What did you cost me again?” I ask. “A lot of trouble. Don’t worry. You’ll get it all back,” he says. “You’re not making sense,” I say. I test his forehead. The lever’s going nowhere but up. “You’re a little cooler though.” The sound of the trumpets startles me. I’m on my feet and at the mouth of the cave in a flash, not wanting to miss a sylla- ble. It’s my new best friend, Claudius Templesmith, and as I expected, he’s inviting us to a feast. Well, we’re not that hun- gry and I actually wave his offer away in indifference when he says, “Now hold on. Some of you may already be declining my invitation. But this is no ordinary feast. Each of you needs something desperately.” I do need something desperately. Something to heal Peeta’s leg. “Each of you will find that something in a backpack, marked with your district number, at the Cornucopia at dawn. Think hard about refusing to show up. For some of you, this will be your last chance,” says Claudius. 269 There’s nothing else, just his words hanging in the air. I jump as Peeta grips my shoulder from behind. “No,” he says. “You’re not risking your life for me.” “Who said I was?” I say. “So, you’re not going?” he asks. “Of course, I’m not going. Give me some credit. Do you think I’m running straight into some free-for-all against Cato and Clove and Thresh? Don’t be stupid,” I say, helping him back to bed. “I’ll let them fight it out, we’ll see who’s in the sky tomor- row night and work out a plan from there.” “You’re such a bad liar, Katniss. I don’t know how you’ve survived this long.” He begins to mimic me. “I knew that goat would be a little gold mine. You’re a little cooler though. Of course, I’m not going. He shakes his head. “Never gamble at cards. You’ll lose your last coin,” he says. Anger flushes my face. “All right, I am going, and you can’t stop


Brittles to retire, brought in the two ladies, and shut the door. 'This is the lady of the house,' said Mr. Losberne, motioning towards Mrs. Maylie. Mr. Blathers made a bow. Being desired to sit down, he put his hat on the floor, and taking a chair, motioned to Duff to do the same. The latter gentleman, who did not appear quite so much accustomed to good society, or quite so much at his ease in it--one of the two--seated himself, after undergoing several muscular affections of the limbs, and the head of his stick into his mouth, with some embarrassment. 'Now, with regard to this here robbery, master,' said Blathers. 'What are the circumstances?' Mr. Losberne, who appeared desirous of gaining time, recounted them at great length, and with much circumlocution. Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked very knowing meanwhile, and occasionally exchanged a nod. 'I can't say, for certain, till I see the work, of course,' said Blathers; 'but my opinion at once is,--I don't mind committing myself to that extent,--that this wasn't done by a yokel; eh, Duff?' 'Certainly not,' replied Duff. 'And, translating the word yokel for the benefit of the ladies, I apprehend your meaning to be, that this attempt was not made by a countryman?' said Mr. Losberne, with a smile. 'That's it, master,' replied Blathers. 'This is all about the robbery, is it?' 'All,' replied the doctor. 'Now, what is this, about this here boy that the servants are a-talking on?' said Blathers. 'Nothing at all,' replied the doctor. 'One of the frightened servants chose to take it into his head, that he had something to do with this attempt to break into the house; but it's nonsense: sheer absurdity.' 'Wery easy disposed of, if it is,' remarked Duff. 'What he says is quite correct,' observed Blathers, nodding his head in a confirmatory way, and playing carelessly with the handcuffs, as if they were a pair of castanets. 'Who is the boy? What account does he give of himself? Where did he come from? He didn't drop out of the clouds, did he, master?' 'Of course not,' replied the doctor, with a nervous glance at the two ladies. 'I know his whole history: but we can talk about that presently. You would like, first, to see the place where the thieves made their attempt, I suppose?' 'Certainly,' rejoined Mr. Blathers. 'We had better inspect the premises first, and examine the servants afterwards. That's the usual way of doing business.' Lights were then procured; and Messrs. Blathers and Duff, attended by the native constable, Brittles, Giles, and everybody else in short, went into the little room at the end of the passage and looked out at the window; and afterwards went round by way of the lawn, and looked in at the window; and after that, had a candle handed out to inspect the shutter with; and after that, a lantern to trace the footsteps with; and after that, a pitchfork to poke the bushes with. This done, amidst the breathless interest of all beholders, they came


to launch a joint attack on our own Galaxy - now positively identified as the source of the offending remark. For thousands more years the mighty ships tore across the empty wastes of space and finally dived screaming on to the first planet they came across - which happened to be the Earth - where due to a terrible miscalculation of scale the entire battle fleet was accidentally swallowed by a small dog. Those who study the complex interplay of cause and effect in the history of the Universe say that this sort of thing is going on all the time, but that we are powerless to prevent it. "It's just life," they say. A short aircar trip brought Arthur and the old Magrathean to a doorway. They left the car and went through the door into a waiting room full of glass-topped tables and perspex awards. Almost immediately, a light flashed above the door at the other side of the room and they entered. "Arthur! You're safe!" a voice cried. "Am I?" said Arthur, rather startled. "Oh good." The lighting was rather subdued and it took him a moment or so to see Ford, Trillian and Zaphod sitting round a large table beautifully decked out with exotic dishes, strange sweetmeats and bizarre fruits. They were stuffing their faces. "What happened to you?" demanded Arthur. "Well," said Zaphod, attacking a boneful of grilled muscle, "our guests here have been gassing us and zapping our minds and being generally weird and have now given us a rather nice meal to make it up to us. Here," he said hoiking out a lump of evil smelling meat from a bowl, "have some Vegan Rhino's cutlet. It's delicious if you happen to like that sort of thing." "Hosts?" said Arthur. "What hosts? I don't see any ..." A small voice said, "Welcome to lunch, Earth creature." Arthur glanced around and suddenly yelped. "Ugh!" he said. "There are mice on the table!" There was an awkward silence as everyone looked pointedly at Arthur. He was busy staring at two white mice sitting in what looked like whisky glasses on the table. He heard the silence and glanced around at everyone. "Oh!" he said, with sudden realization. "Oh, I'm sorry, I wasn't quite prepared for ..." "Let me introduce you," said Trillian. "Arthur this is Benji mouse." "Hi," said one of the mice. His whiskers stroked what must have been a touch sensitive panel on the inside of the whisky-glass like affair, and it moved forward slightly. "And this is Frankie mouse." The other mouse said, "Pleased to meet you," and did likewise. Arthur gaped. "But aren't they ..." "Yes," said Trillian, "they are the mice I brought with me from the Earth." She looked him in the eye and Arthur thought he detected the tiniest resigned shrug. "Could you pass me that bowl of grated Arcturan Megadonkey?" she said. Slartibartfast coughed politely. "Er, excuse me," he said. "Yes, thank you Slartibartfast," said Benji mouse sharply, "you may go." "What? Oh ... er, very well," said the


were hued black, the windows rimmed with gold paint, the glass tinted a shadowy gray. Electrical wires spilled like veins from its body to feed the chandeliers, mics, and dozens of gambling mechanisms inside. The two bridges connecting it to the rooftops across the street were retractable, a gaudy expense customary in wealthier districts that must have cost Bianca Rossi a fortune. Rumor was that after her rise to power during the Moonset Riots, an eight-day-long violent gang war twelve years ago that almost wiped out the Silts, she lived in constant fear of being attacked again. The bouncers made to search Io—the Fortuna had a strict no-guns rule—but Edei nodded once and the two men stepped aside, holding the door open. Edei led her down carpeted corridors, piano music drifting up from the gambling pit on the ground floor. He knocked at a nondescript door but didn’t wait for an answer before entering. Bianca Rossi’s office was as flamboyant as the rest of the club. Ornate black wood covered every wall and the ceiling, a superfluous extravagance given how fast the city’s humidity would destroy it. A fluffy white carpet sat in the middle of the room, enveloped by heavy furniture: a sofa and two armchairs, a bar with rows upon rows of drinks, a desk inlaid with what looked like leviathan scales. A long window stood behind the desk. The sun had begun its ascent, soaking the office in deep reds and setting Bianca Rossi’s blond hair aflame. The mob queen of the Silts was in her early thirties, lean as a cat, with several skin discolorations on her neck and arms. Ersa’s kisses, people called them—named for the largest of Alante’s moons. Legend said that these lightened spots were the debris that fell from the sky the night the one moon split into three. Bianca never wore anything but men’s suits, tailored to cinch her waist and hug her long legs. Today, the suit was dark green velvet, the look completed by a lime silk tie around her neck. Ever since she started singing at the Fortuna a year ago, Ava came home every day with a new tale of how cool her boss was, but Io didn’t buy it—Bianca Rossi ruled from a throne gilded with knocked-out teeth. The mob queen sat back from her paperwork and spoke with a thick Silts accent, drawling every vowel. “Io Ora.” Io took the seat Bianca gestured at, noticing that Edei remained standing by the door. “Why am I here?” she asked, more sharply than she’d intended. Bianca’s face shone with mirth. “I do like you Ora sisters. Direct, verging on rude, yet never quite crossing it. Once, a customer was getting handsy with your sister—has she ever told you that story? I sent Edei here to help her, but by the time he reached her, Ava had already broken the man’s nose against the table. And when I asked why she didn’t just wait for help, you know what she said? My mama taught me to take no prisoners. Was