a global force. Its residence halls, teaching centers, and even universities could be found in almost every major metropolis on earth. Opus Dei was the fastest-growing and most financially secure Catholic organization in the world. Unfortunately, Aringarosa had learned, in an age of religious cynicism, cults, and televangelists, Opus Dei's escalating wealth and power was a magnet for suspicion. "Many call Opus Dei a brainwashing cult," reporters often challenged. "Others call you an ultraconservative Christian secret society. Which are you?" "Opus Dei is neither," the bishop would patiently reply. "We are a Catholic Church. We are a congregation of Catholics who have chosen as our priority to follow Catholic doctrine as rigorously as we can in our own daily lives." "Does God's Work necessarily include vows of chastity, tithing, and atonement for sins through self-flagellation and the cilice?" "You are describing only a small portion of the Opus Dei population," Aringarosa said. "There are many levels of involvement. Thousands of Opus Dei members are married, have families, and do God's Work in their own communities. Others choose lives of asceticism within our cloistered residence halls. These choices are personal, but everyone in Opus Dei shares the goal of bettering the world by doing the Work of God. Surely this is an admirable quest." 21 Reason seldom worked, though. The media always gravitated toward scandal, and Opus Dei, like most large organizations, had within its membership a few misguided souls who cast a shadow over the entire group. Two months ago, an Opus Dei group at a midwestern university had been caught drugging new recruits with mescaline in an effort to induce a euphoric state that neophytes would perceive as a religious experience. Another university student had used his barbed cilice belt more often than the recommended two hours a day and had given himself a near lethal infection. In Boston not long ago, a disillusioned young investment banker had signed over his entire life savings to Opus Dei before attempting suicide. Misguided sheep, Aringarosa thought, his heart going out to them. Of course the ultimate embarrassment had been the widely publicized trial of FBI spy Robert Hanssen, who, in addition to being a prominent member of Opus Dei, had turned out to be a sexual deviant, his trial uncovering evidence that he had rigged hidden video cameras in his own bedroom so his friends could watch him having sex with his wife. "Hardly the pastime of a devout Catholic," the judge had noted. Sadly, all of these events had helped spawn the new watch group known as the Opus Dei Awareness Network (ODAN). The group's popular website-www.odan.org- relayed frightening stories from former Opus Dei members who warned of the dangers of joining. The media was now referring to Opus Dei as "God's Mafia" and "the Cult of Christ." We fear what we do not understand, Aringarosa thought, wondering if these critics had any idea how many lives Opus Dei had enriched. The group enjoyed the full endorsement and blessing of the Vatican. Opus Dei is a personal prelature of the Pope himself.


was down with the mumps and her glands swollen wheres this and wheres that of course she cant feel anything deep yet I never came properly till I was what 22 or so it went into the wrong place always only the usual girls nonsense and giggling that Conny Connolly writing to her in white ink on black paper sealed with sealingwax though she clapped when the curtain came down because he looked so handsome then we had Martin Harvey for breakfast dinner and supper I thought to myself afterwards it must be real love if a man gives up his life for her that way for nothing I suppose there are a few men like that left its hard to believe in it though unless it really happened to me the majority of them with not a particle of love in their natures to find two people like that nowadays full up of each other that would feel the same way as you do theyre usually a bit foolish in the head his father must have been a bit queer to go and poison himself after her still poor old man I suppose he felt lost shes always making love to my things too the few old rags I have wanting to put her hair up at I S my powder too only ruin her skin on her shes time enough for that all her life after of course shes restless knowing shes pretty with her lips so red a pity they wont stay that way I was too but theres no use going to the fair with the thing answering me like a fishwoman when I asked to go for a half a stone of potatoes the day we met Mrs Joe Gallaher at the trottingmatches and she pretended not to see us in her trap with Friery the solicitor we werent grand enough till I gave her 2 damn fine cracks across the ear for herself take that now for answering me like that and that for your impudence she had me that exasperated of course contradicting I was badtempered too because how was it there was a weed in the tea or I didnt sleep the night before cheese I ate was it and I told her over and over again not to leave knives crossed like that because she has nobody to command her as she said herself well if he doesnt correct her faith I will that was the last time she turned on the teartap I was just like that myself they darent order me about the place its his fault of course having the two of us slaving here instead of getting in a woman long ago am I ever going to have a proper servant again of course then shed see him coming Id have to let her know or shed revenge it arent they a nuisance that old Mrs Fleming you have to be walking round after her putting the things into her hands sneezing and farting into the pots well of


He nods. To him, I am a woman who has just learned that her husband wants her dead. Nothing more. I hurry into the bathroom and lock the door. Inside, I turn on the sink to camouflage my movements. My phone is on the edge of the tub, and I grab it, quickly canceling the scheduled video. Then I delete the recording and the app. I have already ensured my files don’t sync to the cloud. The police don’t need to know that I ever thought about killing myself. No one does. Because now I want to live! If Benjamin goes to jail, I will be a free woman. I can be happy! I can have my life back! Putting the vodka-filled bottle of cleaner back under the sink, I shove the sleeping pills into the drawer and turn off the taps. I look at myself in the mirror, wan and shaky, but safe. For the moment at least. I must remain calm. I must protect my secrets. With my phone in hand, I exit the bathroom. Officer Deane is leaning casually against the opposite wall when I emerge, but he rights himself quickly. “Here it is,” I say, handing the phone to him. I notice the plastic gloves he is wearing, the plastic bag he drops it into. It’s all so official, and I feel vulnerable again. “You can get dressed,” he says, “and we’ll take you down to the station.” “Why do I need to go to the station?” “Your perspective is important. It’s standard procedure.” “But I have nothing to say. I had no idea my husband was planning to kill me!” The words sound like a foreign language in my ears. “It’s our job to build a case for the prosecutor. If we don’t do it thoroughly, your husband could get off.” Fear sends a tremor through me, rattles my bones. If Benjamin gets released after this, he will be lethal. The officer sees my angst and presses on. “As the intended victim, you might know something useful.” The intended victim. But I have so much to hide. “Of course,” I say. “But can’t we just talk here? I’m really not feeling well.” “Detective French would like you to come to the station.” I could crack under a harsh interrogation, spill all my secrets, my own deadly plans. But if I refuse to go, it will look bad. I will look guilty. And so, I give him an obliging nod. “Give me a few minutes.” 51 THE POLICE STATION IS LOUD, frenetic, rank with testosterone. I keep my eyes forward, alert only for Benjamin. He is somewhere in this building, and I am still terrified, even here. Detective French leads me to an interrogation room that is much smaller—and beiger—than the ones I’ve seen on TV. After ushering me to a wooden chair, she offers me water, soda, or a sandwich. She is being kind to me; she has clearly been trained on how to handle victims of a crime. But she is not my friend. I must


a little weep' as Jo said, because she couldn't take music lessons and have a fine piano. She loved music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practiced away so patiently at the jingling old instrument, that it did seem as if someone (not to hint Aunt March) ought to help her. Nobody did, however, and nobody saw Beth wipe the tears off the yellow keys, that wouldn't keep in tune, when she was all alone. She sang like a little lark about her work, never was too tired for Marmee and the girls, and day after day said hopefully to herself, " I know I'll get my music some time, if I'm good." There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind. If anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial of her life was, she would have answered at once, "My nose." When she was a baby,Jo had accidently dropped her into the coal hod, and Amy insisted that the fall had ruined her nose forever. It was not big nor red, like poor `Petrea's', it was only rather flat, and all the pinching in the world could not give it an aristocratic point. No one minded it but herself, and it was doing its best to grow, but Amy felt deeply the want of a Grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome ones to console herself. "Little Raphael," as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing fairies, or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art. Her teachers complained that instead of doing her sums she covered her slate with animals, the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy maps on, and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came fluttering out of all her books at unlucky moments. She got through her lessons as well as she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model of deportment. She was a great favorite with her mates, being good-tempered and possessing the happy art of pleasing without effort. Her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her accomplishments, for besides her drawing, she could play twelve tunes, crochet, and read French without mispronouncing more than two-thirds of the words. She had a plaintive way of saying, "When Papa was rich we did so-and-so," which was very touching, and her long words were considered `perfectly elegant' by the girls. Amy was in a fair way to be spoiled, for everyone petted her, and her small vanities and selfishnesses were growing nicely. One thing, however, rather quenched the vanities. She had to wear her cousin's clothes. Now Florence's mama hadn't a particle of taste, and Amy suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet, unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that


purchase of his has ever been questioned, and his credit card, issued by the agency, has no charge limit as far as he is aware. This is the bold new age of Modern Monetary Theory, which holds that excess has no consequence because the government can tax the economy into prosperity and the treasury is bottomless, or something like that. The restaurant is around the corner from the street of streets, in this neighborhood where millionaires and billionaires have for decades come to shop for outrageously priced merchandise, which is where they will continue shopping as long as there is both vanity and social order. The former is never in danger of being exhausted, but the latter seems less certain in a country where many of those in the higher echelons of power seem to yearn for anarchy in the style of Batman’s nemesis, the Joker, for anarchy and the brute authoritarianism that will follow. Calaphas heartily approves of this managed descent from democracy to anarchy to soft tyranny. The tablecloths are of fine cotton so meticulously processed and tailored that they drape like heavy silk, with the soft curves that remind him of thick, powdery snow that has sifted down in the utter absence of wind. The lighting is soft, the shadows sculpted and strategic, the candle glow glittering off polished glassware, stainless-steel flatware, architectural elements leafed in white gold, and the jewelry of dazzling women who believe that ostentation is a virtue. Calaphas is savoring his first glass of wine and contemplating the appetizers listed on the menu when Julian Grantworth appears and takes a chair at the table, uninvited. Julian is the deputy director of the ISA, currently on this coast because of the catastrophe at Beautification Research. Fortysomething, tall, as lean as a greyhound, with blue eyes and a social-register nose and otherwise the pinched features of one who suffers from chronic constipation, he’s a fortunate son of the Philadelphia Main Line, the product of prep schools and Princeton. If he doesn’t travel to London twice a year and spend two days with a team of tailors on Savile Row, then those tailors come to him each spring and autumn. Although Julian is Calaphas’s superior, he’s always deferential because he’s afraid of his underling. “I’m sorry to interrupt you at your dinner, Durand, but I’m afraid there’s been a wrinkle in the case.” “Wrinkle,” Calaphas says, doing his best to pronounce the word in a way that expresses subtle amusement and subtler contempt that will keep Grantworth off balance. The power of Calaphas, a one-man department within the ISA, is a result of his willingness to perform the dirtiest of dirty work while making no effort to protect himself from the legal consequences of his actions. He knows they monitor his phone and internet activities, assess everything he does, to determine if he’s salting away evidence that might implicate them, which he is not. None of the others in the ISA would risk their freedom and privileges with such nonchalance. Some call him—as Julian Grantworth has done, but


thought was. “It was Alma Montero. You wouldn’t know her, but she used to be—” “A silent film star,” Montserrat said immediately. “I should have guessed you would know after all,” Urueta said. Montero had made the jump to Hollywood, along with Gilbert Roland and Ramón Novarro, but couldn’t cut it in talkies. Neither could Norma Talmadge or John Gilbert. For every Joan Crawford there was a Vilma Banky, whose career was snuffed out with the advent of microphones. Accents, squeaky voices, stiff performances spelled doom for dozens of performers. “Alma Montero was bankrolling a German occultist,” Montserrat said. She couldn’t suppress a snort. It was like hearing that María Félix regularly attended Ouija board séances with Zabludovsky. Oh, it was better than the plot of any Hammer film she knew. “I’ve told enough stories for a day and have errands to run,” Urueta said, standing up quickly. There must have been something about Montero that bothered the old man. He’d been chatty as hell so far. “You’re kicking us out so soon?” Tristán asked. “What are we supposed to do with our evening now?” “Would you mind if I came back with a tape recorder and asked you a bit more about Ewers? I’m thinking of doing a piece on Beyond the Yellow Door,” she said quickly, perhaps too eagerly. Abel, who had been about to reply to Tristán, likely with a joke, froze and looked at her with suspicion. “A piece?” Urueta asked. “What kind of piece?” “Montserrat has contacts at Enigma. They do a weekly show. It has a lot of viewers. It could be good for you,” Tristán said, dropping his cigarette in an ashtray. “It would be very classy.” It wasn’t the way Montserrat had hoped to introduce the topic, and she wanted to slap Tristán on the back of the head. Urueta shook his head firmly. “I know what show you mean, and there’s nothing classy about it.” “If we could talk it over a little,” Montserrat said. “If we could work out an angle.” “Not now,” Urueta said. Quickly, stiffly, Urueta bid them goodbye, and Montserrat and Tristán ended up standing in the hallway, looking at each other. “Why did you have to mention Enigma?” she asked, stomping toward the stairs. Tristán shrugged and raised his hands helplessly in the air. “How was I supposed to know he’d take it so badly? He was willing to tell us Ewers’s life story until that.” “And until he mentioned Montero.” “Meaning?” “Meaning there’s more to that there. We’ll have to find what. I need to pay a visit to the Cineteca.” “Does this mean Cornelia got you a job at Enigma or what?” “Nothing solid. Freelance assignment, if that. But Ewers is what I pitched her, so that’s what I should be working on. I have to do more research.” Tristán patted his clothes looking for his keys. “Do you need to do research? I thought these were the kind of folks that broadcast stories about how Pedro Infante is alive and living in Mazatlán because he


law, there was good and evil in THAT. It was all part of a system. Very good. There you were! I had not the hardihood to suggest to Dora's father that possibly we might even improve the world a little, if we got up early in the morning, and took off our coats to the work; but I confessed that I thought we might improve the Commons. Mr. Spenlow replied that he would particularly advise me to dismiss that idea from my mind, as not being worthy of my gentlemanly character; but that he would be glad to hear from me of what improvement I thought the Commons susceptible? Taking that part of the Commons which happened to be nearest to us - for our man was unmarried by this time, and we were out of Court, and strolling past the Prerogative Office - I submitted that I thought the Prerogative Office rather a queerly managed institution. Mr. Spenlow inquired in what respect? I replied, with all due deference to his experience (but with more deference, I am afraid, to his being Dora's father), that perhaps it was a little nonsensical that the Registry of that Court, containing the original wills of all persons leaving effects within the immense province of Canterbury, for three whole centuries, should be an accidental building, never designed for the purpose, leased by the registrars for their Own private emolument, unsafe, not even ascertained to be fire-proof, choked with the important documents it held, and positively, from the roof to the basement, a mercenary speculation of the registrars, who took great fees from the public, and crammed the public's wills away anyhow and anywhere, having no other object than to get rid of them cheaply. That, perhaps, it was a little unreasonable that these registrars in the receipt of profits amounting to eight or nine thousand pounds a year (to say nothing of the profits of the deputy registrars, and clerks of seats), should not be obliged to spend a little of that money, in finding a reasonably safe place for the important documents which all classes of people were compelled to hand over to them, whether they would or no. That, perhaps, it was a little unjust, that all the great offices in this great office should be magnificent sinecures, while the unfortunate working-clerks in the cold dark room upstairs were the worst rewarded, and the least considered men, doing important services, in London. That perhaps it was a little indecent that the principal registrar of all, whose duty it was to find the public, constantly resorting to this place, all needful accommodation, should be an enormous sinecurist in virtue of that post (and might be, besides, a clergyman, a pluralist, the holder of a staff in a cathedral, and what not), - while the public was put to the inconvenience of which we had a specimen every afternoon when the office was busy, and which we knew to be quite monstrous. That, perhaps, in short, this Prerogative Office of the diocese of Canterbury was altogether


such great strength that they were both moved to laughter as they gazed upon it. Here the greatest difficulty confronted Clayton, for he had no means whereby to hang his massive door now that he had built it. After two days' work, however, he succeeded in fashioning two massive hardwood hinges, and with these he hung the door so that it opened and closed easily. The stuccoing and other final touches were added after they moved into the house, which they had done as soon as the roof was on, piling their boxes before the door at night and thus having a comparatively safe and comfortable habitation. The building of a bed, chairs, table, and shelves was a relatively easy matter, so that by the end of the second month they were well settled, and, but for the constant dread of attack by wild beasts and the ever growing loneliness, they were not uncomfortable or unhappy. At night great beasts snarled and roared about their tiny cabin, but, so accustomed may one become to oft repeated noises, that soon they paid little attention to them, sleeping soundly the whole night through. Thrice had they caught fleeting glimpses of great man-like figures like that of the first night, but never at sufficiently close range to know positively whether the half-seen forms were those of man or brute. The brilliant birds and the little monkeys had become accustomed to their new acquaintances, and as they had evidently never seen human beings before they presently, after their first fright had worn off, approached closer and closer, impelled by that strange curiosity which dominates the wild creatures of the forest and the jungle and the plain, so that within the first month several of the birds had gone so far as even to accept morsels of food from the friendly hands of the Claytons. One afternoon, while Clayton was working upon an addition to their cabin, for he contemplated building several more rooms, a number of their grotesque little friends came shrieking and scolding through the trees from the direction of the ridge. Ever as they fled they cast fearful glances back of them, and finally they stopped near Clayton jabbering excitedly to him as though to warn him of approaching danger. At last he saw it, the thing the little monkeys so feared-- the man-brute of which the Claytons had caught occasional fleeting glimpses. It was approaching through the jungle in a semi-erect position, now and then placing the backs of its closed fists upon the ground--a great anthropoid ape, and, as it advanced, it emitted deep guttural growls and an occasional low barking sound. Clayton was at some distance from the cabin, having come to fell a particularly perfect tree for his building operations. Grown careless from months of continued safety, during which time he had seen no dangerous animals during the daylight hours, he had left his rifles and revolvers all within the little cabin, and now that he saw the great ape crashing through the underbrush directly toward him, and from a


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He brought out his wireless and we began sampling music, wonderful

music, all kinds of music. He wholly endorsed our desire to have an

orchestra rather than an organist, and he played an assortment of orchestras

to get us in the mood.

After a time, we segued into classical, and he talked about his love of

Beethoven.

Meg spoke about her own deep feeling for Chopin.

She’d always loved Chopin, she said, but in Canada she grew

dependent on him, because Chopin was the only thing that could soothe

Guy and Bogart.

She played them Chopin day and night.

Pa smiled sympathetically.

As one piece ended, he’d quickly reload his wireless, begin humming or

tapping his foot to the next. He was airy, witty, charming, and I kept

shaking my head in amazement. I knew Pa loved music, but I never knew

he loved it this much.

Meg evoked so much in him, qualities I’d rarely seen. In her presence

Pa became boyish. I saw it, saw the bond between them growing stronger,

and I felt strengthened in my own bond with him. So many people were

treating her shabbily, it filled my heart to see my father treating her like the

princess she was about to—maybe born to—become.

41.

A, FTER ALL THE STRESS OF ASKING Granny for permission to marry Meg, I

thought I’d never have the courage to ask her for anything else.

And yet I now dared to make another ask: Granny, please, may I, for my

wedding, keep my beard?

Not a small ask either. A beard was thought by some to be a clear

violation of protocol and long-standing norms, especially since I was

getting married in my Army uniform. Beards were forbidden in the British

Army.

But I was no longer in the Army and I desperately wanted to hang on to

something that had become an effective check on my anxiety.


sick again, which means that I have to pick up the slack. Fuck, all that’s in here is IPAs. I might as well drink grass clippings.” “There’s a porter in the back,” I said, sipping my wine and staring at the wall. “Thank God.” I picked out patterns in the wall texture as Mitch cracked open the beer and dropped onto the couch next to me. I liked Mitch. There was a reason I liked Mitch. In a moment I would remember what it was. I ran a finger along the rim of my glass, examining him. His hair flopped over his eye, too long to be respectable by exactly a centimeter, and he maintained a precise amount of stubble. We’d met at the gallery opening of my ex-girlfriend, forty-eight hours after she dumped me for being “an emotional black hole” and then demanded I still attend to support her. Mitch had stolen a whole tray of fancy cheeses and we hid in the corner drinking champagne and waxing faux-eloquent about tables and light fixtures as if they were the exhibit. It had been a bit cruel and definitely stupid, but it had been fun. This man, I’d thought, is an asshole. So of course I’d gone home with him. “And how goes the wedding-industrial complex?” he asked. “Fine,” I said. I paused. “No, it wasn’t. The bride didn’t want a photographer with a mangled face.” “Bitch,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re wasting your time with those people.” It was, more or less, what I’d said to her. But it meant something else, coming from him. “Today was a waste of time,” I agreed. The whole thing felt so far away. “You’re better than this,” Mitch said. His hand dropped to my knee, his head lolling on the back of the couch. “I mean, Jesus. You have actual talent. And you’re spending your time on Extruded Wedding Product #47.” “I like what I do,” I said evenly. “It’s beneath you.” “Okay.” I wasn’t interested in this argument, not again. “All those women are so desperate to have their perfect day. I can’t even imagine getting married. I just try to picture it, you and me at the altar and the tux and the floofy white gown, and it’s like a complete parody. I don’t see the point. Do you?” “I don’t see the point of marrying you, no,” I replied, but he was already moving on. We were back to complaining about work—something about a jammed copier. “I mean, Jesus, this job is going to kill me,” he groaned when he’d finally wound down. My glass was empty. I reached for the bottle on the coffee table and discovered that was empty as well. “You polished that off by yourself?” Mitch asked, amusement with a rotten underside of judgment. “An old friend of mine called today,” I said. “Bad news?” he asked. His posture shifted, canting toward me. Two parts comfort, one part hunger. That was the problem with writers. They couldn’t help digging the edge of a fingernail under your scabs so


suffered a heart attack while she was teaching and died before she could be taken to the hospital. It was the closest Wúràọlá had ever come to death. For days she would weep when she was asked to come have dinner. Her mother became impatient with her tears after a couple of days and spent the better part of an hour warning Wúràọlá about being too soft. If she was crying over someone she saw only in school, what would she do when someone she loved died? Yèyé’s phrasing of a possibility as certainty had only upset Wúràọlá more. She bawled until her father, who was already done with dinner, came back into the room to see what was wrong. It was her father who held her while her sobs subsided into occasional hiccups. Then he told her about àkúdàáyà. How people who had died in one city could show up in another to continue their time on earth. Not everyone got to be one, but what if her class teacher did? He invited her to imagine that her teacher was still somewhere on earth, settling into a new life, having an adventure. She had fallen asleep while her father was still speaking, weary from all her wailing. “Wúràọlá, you must wipe your tears and think about the things you have to do before Saturday,” Yèyé said now as the car came to a stop in the hospital car park. “Life doesn’t stop because you are sad.” “Thanks for the ride,” Wúràọlá said, glad she had insisted on going back to her place to spend the night. “I’ll see you tomorrow evening.” * * * The introduction ceremony had been scheduled for noon, to give family members who were coming in from other states enough time to arrive. After she’d greeted her parents at dawn, Wúràọlá returned to her room and covered her head with the duvet. She’d texted with Kúnlé until way past midnight and wanted to get more sleep before her day began. “Get up, get up.” Mọ́tárá was shaking her awake with more force than was necessary. “Why are you here?” “Yèyé asked me to be with you while you get ready for the thing.” Mọ́tárá pulled the duvet away. “Since your friends won’t be here.” Wúràọlá rolled onto her stomach. Neither Grace nor Tifẹ́ had been able to get out of their weekend calls. “Get up, the photographer and makeup artist will be here soon. Come on, Yèyé is going to blame me if you are not ready by the time the thing is supposed to start.” Wúràọlá sat up as Mọ́tárá proceeded to switch on all the lights in the room, even the two fluorescent tubes that were not in use anymore. Mọ́tárá had taken to calling both the introduction ceremony and the marriage that was to follow the thing or this nonsense thing, as though naming the ceremonies would be a capitulation. “Mọ́tárá, you should get to know Kúnlé. He’s—” “Yeah. I know, he’s a nice guy, there’s more to him than what I’ve seen. He’s


of course was, how to get dry again: they had a consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, `I am older than you, and must know better'; and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, `Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! I'LL soon make you dry enough!' They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon. `Ahem!' said the Mouse with an important air, `are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! "William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--"' `Ugh!' said the Lory, with a shiver. `I beg your pardon!' said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: `Did you speak?' `Not I!' said the Lory hastily. `I thought you did,' said the Mouse. `--I proceed. "Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--"' `Found WHAT?' said the Duck. `Found IT,' the Mouse replied rather crossly: `of course you know what "it" means.' `I know what "it" means well enough, when I find a thing,' said the Duck: `it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?' The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, `"--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--" How are you getting on now, my dear?' it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. `As wet as ever,' said Alice in a melancholy tone: `it doesn't seem to dry me at all.' `In that case,' said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, `I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--' `Speak English!' said the Eaglet. `I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!' And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. `What I was going to say,' said the Dodo in an offended tone, `was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race.' `What IS


to hear your real, real opinion." "Upon what point?" "In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?" Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question. "Frankly, now!" she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at him as he leaned back in a basket-chair. "Frankly, then, madam, I do not." "You think that he is dead?" "I do." "Murdered?" "I don't say that. Perhaps." "And on what day did he meet his death?" "On Monday." "Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it is that I have received a letter from him to-day." Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanized. "What!" he roared. "Yes, to-day." She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paper in the air. "May I see it?" "Certainly." He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon the table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The envelope was a very coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark and with the date of that very day, or rather of the day before, for it was considerably after midnight. "Coarse writing," murmured Holmes. "Surely this is not your husband's writing, madam." "No, but the enclosure is." "I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and inquire as to the address." "How can you tell that?" "The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried itself. The rest is of the grayish color, which shows that blotting-paper has been used. If it had been written straight off, and then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade. This man has written the name, and there has then been a pause before he wrote the address, which can only mean that he was not familiar with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles. Let us now see the letter. Ha! there has been an enclosure here!" "Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring." "And you are sure that this is your husband's hand?" "One of his hands." "One?" "His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual writing, and yet I know it well." "'Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge error which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in patience.--NEVILLE.' Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, octavo size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very much in error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And you have no doubt that it is your husband's hand, madam?" "None. Neville wrote those words." "And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the danger is over." "But he


itself. By the fifteenth the season was in full blast, Opera and theatres were putting forth their new attractions, dinner-engagements were accumulating, and dates for dances being fixed. And punctually at about this time Mrs. Archer always said that New York was very much changed. Observing it from the lofty stand-point of a non- participant, she was able, with the help of Mr. Sillerton Jackson and Miss Sophy, to trace each new crack in its surface, and all the strange weeds pushing up between the ordered rows of social vegetables. It had been one of the amusements of Archer's youth to wait for this annual pronouncement of his mother's, and to hear her enumerate the minute signs of disintegration that his careless gaze had overlooked. For New York, to Mrs. Archer's mind, never changed without changing for the worse; and in this view Miss Sophy Jackson heartily concurred. Mr. Sillerton Jackson, as became a man of the world, suspended his judgment and listened with an amused impartiality to the lamentations of the ladies. But even he never denied that New York had changed; and Newland Archer, in the winter of the second year of his marriage, was himself obliged to admit that if it had not actually changed it was certainly changing. These points had been raised, as usual, at Mrs. Archer's Thanksgiving dinner. At the date when she was officially enjoined to give thanks for the blessings of the year it was her habit to take a mournful though not embittered stock of her world, and wonder what there was to be thankful for. At any rate, not the state of society; society, if it could be said to exist, was rather a spectacle on which to call down Biblical imprecations-- and in fact, every one knew what the Reverend Dr. Ashmore meant when he chose a text from Jeremiah (chap. ii., verse 25) for his Thanksgiving sermon. Dr. Ashmore, the new Rector of St. Matthew's, had been chosen because he was very "advanced": his sermons were considered bold in thought and novel in language. When he fulminated against fashionable society he always spoke of its "trend"; and to Mrs. Archer it was terrifying and yet fascinating to feel herself part of a community that was trending. "There's no doubt that Dr. Ashmore is right: there IS a marked trend," she said, as if it were something visible and measurable, like a crack in a house. "It was odd, though, to preach about it on Thanksgiving," Miss Jackson opined; and her hostess drily rejoined: "Oh, he means us to give thanks for what's left." Archer had been wont to smile at these annual vaticinations of his mother's; but this year even he was obliged to acknowledge, as he listened to an enumeration of the changes, that the "trend" was visible. "The extravagance in dress--" Miss Jackson began. "Sillerton took me to the first night of the Opera, and I can only tell you that Jane Merry's dress was the only one I recognised from last year; and even that had had


Watching you as you changed clothes.” Marion involuntarily crossed her arms over her chest, as if the boy were there now. “That’s awful.” “He ran out of the house when I caught him, and then I resigned from the math club for good. I don’t know why I even bothered.” “It’s not your fault, what happened.” Marion wished she could throttle Stan. At the same time, she was amazed and gratified that Judy would have asked for her advice on a prom gown. “He’s the one who should have resigned, not you.” “For a long time, I thought it was your fault.” “He was a creep. There are plenty of them out there.” She was thinking of Dale. “But they’re not all like that. Dad’s not like that.” Judy looked up at the city skyline to the south, which rose high above the tree branches. “There’s something going on with him.” “With Dad? What do you mean?” “I know what he does every second of every day, practically, but sometimes he goes off to these appointments that aren’t in the calendar. Hours that are not accounted for. He’s slipping off to do something, and I’m not sure what it is.” How strange. “Do you think he’s seeing someone?” While their father had been pursued by several women he’d encountered over the years—at the tennis club, or when they were all out to dinner, ladies who were obviously smitten by his mix of charm and gruffness—he’d never followed up. “It’s the only thing I can think of. But why would he hide it?” Judy checked her watch. “I have to go.” “Already?” “I have to get back downtown.” “Well, I loved seeing you,” said Marion, and she meant it. Something about Judy brought her back to earth, reminded her that she was solid and safe. To her surprise, Judy leaned in and gave her a hug. Marion remembered when they were little girls and would fling themselves into each other’s arms over the silliest things: the promise of ice cream after dinner, the radio announcing a snow day for the school district. They stood there, embracing in the cold wind, and Judy murmured in her ear, “I’ll come to see you.” “You will?” Marion almost fell in her surprise, her skate sliding out from under her, but Judy caught her right in time and they both laughed. “Next Thursday is the opening day for the Christmas Spectacular. I’ll leave a ticket for you for the six-o’clock show. Is that all right? You’ll come?” Judy gave a quick nod. “I’ll be there.” CHAPTER THIRTEEN The first two shows of the Christmas Spectacular went by in a whirlwind for Marion, and while she adored the applause and the smiling faces of the children who waited for autographs outside the stage door, she blew past them, apologizing profusely, in order to meet Judy at the Rehearsal Club. She’d convinced her sister—over a rushed call—to come early so she could properly show her around her new life. Once Judy saw how well she was doing, she would


after her hus- band dead, she pointed to de dark one and said, ‘Dat’s you, Alphabet, don’t you know yo’ ownself?’ “Dey all useter call me Alphabet ’cause so many people had done named me different names. Ah looked at de picture a long time and seen it was mah dress and mah hair so Ah said: “‘Aw, aw! Ah’m colored!’ “Den dey all laughed real hard. But before Ah seen de picture Ah thought Ah wuz just like de rest. “Us lived dere havin’ fun till de chillun at school got to teasin’ me ’bout livin’ in de white folks’ back-yard. Dere wuz uh knotty head gal name Mayrella dat useter git mad every time she look at me. Mis’ Washburn useter dress me up in all de clothes her gran’chillun didn’t need no mo’ which still wuz better’n whut de rest uh de colored chillun 12 Zora Neale Hurston had. And then she useter put hair ribbon on mah head fuh me tuh wear. Dat useter rile Mayrella uh lot. So she would pick at me all de time and put some others up tuh do de same. They’d push me ’way from de ring plays and make out they couldn’t play wid nobody dat lived on premises. Den they’d tell me not to be takin’ on over mah looks ’cause they mama told ’em ’bout de hound dawgs huntin’ mah papa all night long. ’Bout Mr. Washburn and de sheriff puttin’ de bloodhounds on de trail tuh ketch mah papa for whut he done tuh mah mama. Dey didn’t tell about how he wuz seen tryin’ tuh git in touch wid mah mama later on so he could marry her. Naw, dey didn’t talk dat part of it atall. Dey made it sound real bad so as tuh crumple mah feathers. None of ’em didn’t even remember whut his name wuz, but dey all knowed de bloodhound part by heart. Nanny didn’t love tuh see me wid mah head hung down, so she figgered it would be mo’ better fuh me if us had uh house. She got de land and everything and then Mis’ Washburn helped out uh whole heap wid things.” Pheoby’s hungry listening helped Janie to tell her story. So she went on thinking back to her young years and explain- ing them to her friend in soft, easy phrases while all around the house, the night time put on flesh and blackness. She thought awhile and decided that her conscious life had commenced at Nanny’s gate. On a late afternoon Nanny had called her to come inside the house because she had spied Janie letting Johnny Taylor kiss her over the gatepost. It was a spring afternoon in West Florida. Janie had spent most of the day under a blossoming pear tree in the Their Eyes Were Watching God 13 back-yard. She had been spending every minute that she could steal from her chores under that tree for the last three days. That was to say, ever since the first tiny bloom had opened. It


start kissing passionately? He said, “They’re perfect.” Inside the house, we found ourselves in a high-ceilinged entry hall with white stucco walls and, as in the pictures I’d seen online, a floor of terra-cotta brick tiles interspersed with blue-and-white ceramic tiles. An interior arched doorway that opened onto a large living room confirmed that the aesthetic was Casually Fancy Southwestern and The Color White. As he led me through the living room, the dining room, and the study, almost all the rugs and couches and chairs were white—the furniture’s fabric was often linen, with a couple cowhide ottomans thrown in—and almost all the tables looked expensively rough-hewn. Standing in the doorway of the study, I pointed at the desk and said, “Is that where you sat when you were emailing me? Where the magic happens?” He laughed. “Some of the time.” There was a kind of instrument room, not to be confused with the freestanding recording studio, that was mostly empty except for a grand piano and bench, four guitars on stands against a wall, and a large (white) armless chair in one corner. The kitchen was also large and open, with a massive wooden island and a stainless steel refrigerator and a stainless steel range and an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that revealed a long rectangular pool set in a patio of terra-cotta tiles. We stepped onto the patio, where Adirondack chairs circled a firepit. Beyond the pool, the land fell away into a valley then rose again into mountains, above which the pale blue sky was clear and expansive. “Where are we right now in relation to the ocean?” I asked. He jabbed his thumb over one shoulder. “It’s that way.” “Nice view,” I said. “And it smells even better than the inside of my car.” He laughed. “It’s the eucalyptus.” “Do you actually swim, or is the pool more decorative? It’s kind of Zen.” “Interesting you should ask. Much like with cooking, I’ve gone swimming more in the last few months than in the previous few years. I started out doing laps for exercise but now, just for fun, I float around on inflatables that I used to put out for parties but never used on my own.” “Where are your butler and chambermaid right now? Are they watching us on closed-circuit TV?” He laughed. “I hope not. No, Glenn and Margit go see their grandkids on the weekends, and they usually stay overnight. Their daughter lives in Torrance.” “Do their grandkids come here? Have you met them?” “They don’t usually come here, but I have met them. It’s a boy and girl who are close in age to my nephews.” I swept one hand horizontally, taking it all in, and said, “Well, you have a very nice backyard.” “The truth is that Topanga isn’t the ideal place to be in terms of wildfires, but otherwise it’s pretty great. And things have been okay this summer.” Our eyes met, and he said, “Should I have mentioned the wildfire thing before you drove halfway across the country?” “Wildfires sound


had answered the door? Sold a house that was not theirs to pay for yet another operation? A rich man amid ten wretched men was not really rich; he just had not discovered yet that he was poor. “Àlàkẹ́? Àlàkẹ́?” Yèyé turned away from the balcony, thinking for a moment that her father was standing behind her, calling her name. But it was only Aunty Bíọ́lá reverting to Àlàkẹ́ after calling Yèyé for a while. No one called her Àlàkẹ́ anymore, not since she and her husband received their chieftaincy titles the year Wúràọlá was born. “Ṣéèsí” Aunty Bíọ́lá asked. “I’m all right.” “Kóìtiírí kí o mí wò sìì.” “Aunty Bíọ́lá, don’t worry. Àní, I’m all right. Óyá, let’s take the photo.” Yèyé moved away from the glass door and settled into a chair. Aunty Bíọ́lá handed her a framed photograph, and Yèyé set it on her knee without glancing at it. It was a photo of their mother. From before. Had she even taken any pictures after that diagnosis? Yèyé and her sisters used the same photo at every wedding and major birthday. Their Mother. Seated on a chair in the yà mí tùkatùka pose. Hands on her knees, one gripping a clutch, the other splayed to show the gold rings on every other finger, both wrists decked with beads. Her ìró tied above her waist. Two layers of coral beads nestled against her bùbá. The aṣọ-òkè ìró and gèlè were probably red, but there was no way to tell for sure, since the photo was black-and-white. She was smiling. One eye gazed directly at the camera while the other, the right one, glanced at something outside the frame. Yèyé thought of them often, those eyes that never really met hers. “Óyá, smile.” Aunty Bíọ́lá hovered, as though waiting to grab the frame if it slipped from Yèyé’s hands. “And hold the photo a little higher, a little more. Ehen, good.” “You smile like her,” Aunty Jùmọ̀kẹ́ said. “No,” Aunty Àbẹ̀ní said. “It’s that Mọ́tárá that really smiles like her.” They had done this for the first time on the morning of Aunty Bíọ́lá’s wedding. Hers was the only wedding that they held in the front yard of their father’s house, as though he were alive to receive his new in-laws. Much had changed in that house, but the living room’s yolk-yellow walls were still adorned with several photos of their parents. Aunty Bíọ́lá had pointed to this picture of their mother when her photographer arrived. It was Yèyé who climbed a stool to dislodge it from the wall. When Yèyé reached for their father’s photograph too, Aunty Bíọ́lá asked her to stop. At first, Yèyé had mistaken the stricken look on her sister’s face for grief refreshed. Then Aunty Bíọ́lá spoke, voice strident with rage: I don’t want that man in my wedding photos, let his precious son take photos with him. Later that day, after the sisters had clustered around Aunty Bíọ́lá while she held their mother’s photo on her knee, the precious son would sit in their father’s


Holly Springs magic. Little girls can be free here. They will find a place. Of that, she is one hundred percent sure. You belong here, she wants to call after the three little girls. Because at Camp Holly Springs, we all do. Daphne HARD THINGS Subject: Hard Things To: daphne@millerlaw.com; lanier@bookmasters.com Dearest Songbirds, I AM GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW!! CAN YOU EVEN BELIEVE IT? (That is me screaming at you.) This is going to be the best day of my life, obviously, especially because you two are here to do my hard things! Daphne—Could you please call the town of Figure Eight about extending our noise permit tonight? They’re telling Ted’s mom we can’t have music after 10 p.m. for the rehearsal dinner dance, and she’s freaking out. Lanier—Could you please email Ted’s mother (from my account, obvs) and politely tell her that, yes, I will be offended if she wears white to my wedding? I mean, seriously? Love you to the ends of the earth and cannot wait to see you rocking those bridesmaids’ dresses! Fair winds and following seas, Mary Stuart I cross my legs underneath my desk in my office and look out the third-floor window of what always has been my favorite building in the charming downtown of Cape Carolina. My desk is positioned so I have an expansive view across the tree-lined street of the ice cream shop, the Old-Fashioned Candy Shop, and, conveniently, the dentist’s office in between. If I lean over, I can just make out the Intracoastal Waterway between the buildings. I smile, about to form my voice reply, when I see that Lanier’s weekly “Hard Things” email has come through as well. This is nothing new. We’ve been sending these emails since we graduated college. And we’ve been doing each other’s hard things since we were eight-year-olds at Camp Holly Springs, when each of us had something we didn’t want to face that didn’t bother another one of us in the least. We tackled each other’s hard things and found the strategy so effective we never stopped. Subject: Re: Hard Things To: daphne@millerlaw.com; marystuart@harrispr.com Dear Songbirds, Blond Division: Mary Stuart, I will certainly respond to your vapid soon-to-be mother-in-law with an email that makes you seem both charming and witty. As for my list: MS: I am hosting book club next month, and I just cannot with the menu. Can you plan it, pretty please? Daphne: One of my vendors is refusing to give me a refund on forty cases of a single title they shipped because they’re saying I placed a non-returnable order. I ordered four cases for the bookstore. Four. Not forty. Help! FWAFS, Lanier “Finn!” I call to my amazing paralegal, who sparkles in so quickly I can only assume he has been standing there waiting. “Are you ready for your smoothie, my golden goddess?” Finn just came on board to help me. Had I partly hired him because he was a six-foot-four package of muscle who loved Andy Cohen as much as I do? Perhaps. But he was also a


job. But when one of Marion’s skates slid out from under her and she wobbled, Judy grasped her hand and didn’t let it go. “Nathaniel comes by the house every few days,” said Judy. “Sometimes I think Dad should just adopt him as his son and get it over with. He likes Nathaniel way better than me. They can cut me out of the picture altogether.” “Do you want to marry him?” Marion hadn’t ever been asked this by anyone; the wedding had simply been a given. “I don’t know.” “I think you could do better.” She hadn’t even considered that Judy might have an opinion on the matter. Never mind such a strong one. Marion’s defenses rose. “What’s wrong with him? He’s kind and funny, and we know his family well.” “You don’t mention love at all. I mean, I don’t have much experience, but I would think that comes first.” “You’re right. You don’t know.” Marion regretted snapping at her as soon as the words came out of her mouth. “Sorry. I can’t think straight anymore. It feels like there are two separate tracks of my life running at the same time. The one where Dad and Nathaniel expect me to come home and become the good little wife, and the one where I’m a successful dancer.” “I wish I could do something to help. I really do.” They continued skating in slow, easy circles around the rink. “I want you to come to see the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City,” Marion said. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Dad would kill me.” “Part of growing up is striking out on your own path, doing what you think is best,” said Marion. “That’s what I’m doing. I’m having an amazing time, I’m earning my own money, I’m surrounded by wonderful, supportive people. What I don’t get is why my father and my sister are so cruel as to cut me off for doing what I love.” “I haven’t cut you off,” said Judy. “But you’re not standing by my side, standing up to him. You can’t even come to see me dance without being scared that he’ll take your watch away from you as punishment or kick you out of the house as he did me. Meanwhile, other families make the effort to see their daughters or sisters in the show and cry with happiness when they come backstage.” She could tell she’d hit home with Judy by the way she bit her lip. Judy always did that when she was unsure. “I don’t understand why you’re content to do whatever he says,” Marion continued. “To obey his every command. You should strike out on your own path as well. Do you really want to be working for him for the rest of your life? Don’t you want more?” “I happen to like my job. And what more should I expect? I’m not pretty like you, it’s not like anyone’s knocking on my door to get married.” Marion drew back, surprised. “You want to get married?” “Of course. I


doing it with when they’re away.” “You’re speaking of jealousy,” Fourth Aunt jumps in, as though every person here doesn’t know that this is the very emotion that causes her to carp at her husband whenever he’s home. “Or envy,” one of Second Uncle’s concubines quips from across the room. “Who here hasn’t heard you banging on my door when the master is visiting me?” Lady Kuo holds up a hand. “That’s enough!” And it is for a few moments. But over where the widows and spinsters sit something’s brewing. Those old ladies can be unpredictable. Great-Aunt, who moved here after her husband’s family died out, can be especially nettlesome, yet her voice sounds casual when she begins speaking. “A bevy of husbands was afraid of their wives.” Heads swing in Great-Aunt’s direction at the recognition of the beginning of the familiar story. “One day those men met in a tavern to discuss what to do. The first man said, ‘I will beat my wife into submission. She will be as docile as a doe in springtime.’ ” One of the other widows is ready with the next part. “The second man said, ‘I will stop feeding my bride. Hunger will tame her bossiness.’ ” “The third man said, ‘I will tie my wife to the bed,’ ” Great-Aunt resumes. “ ‘She won’t be able to escape my charms then.’ ” Listening to them, I miss Spinster Aunt. I think a couple of other women do too. “All of a sudden, who should appear?” Great-Aunt asks in mock alarm. “Why, it was one of the Six Grannies! This one happened to be a crone who made her living as a fortune-teller. She warned the husbands. ‘Look out! Look out! Your wives are coming!’ Despite their earlier daring words, two of the men scattered like fleas from a dead cat. The third man stayed planted to his chair, proving he was the most valiant of men.” She falls silent to let the suspense build. Then, much like Spinster Aunt did in the past, she leans forward to confide in a voice just loud enough for everyone to hear. “But when the other husbands regained their courage, they approached only to discover he’d frozen to death from fear!” I join the laughter, but inside I’m as nervous as a bride. I’m lucky to love my husband and for him to love me in return, but sending letters back and forth over great distances by foot courier is not the same as sharing a bed. Just then, we hear the first sounds of the procession. Lady Kuo raps her knuckles on the arm of her chair, signaling that she wishes me to approach. Standing before her, I feel every pair of eyes in the room on me. Poppy helped with my hair, brushing it until it shines, and inserting my best gold and jade pins to hold and decorate the upswept bun. The red paint on my lips and pink powder on my cheeks stand out even brighter and, I hope, alluringly, above my snow-white


over and said, couldn't I put on some of them old things and dress up like a girl? That was a good notion, too. So we shortened up one of the calico gowns, and I turned up my trouser-legs to my knees and got into it. Jim hitched it behind with the hooks, and it was a fair fit. I put on the sun-bonnet and tied it under my chin, and then for a body to look in and see my face was like looking down a joint of stove- pipe. Jim said nobody would know me, even in the daytime, hardly. I practiced around all day to get the hang of the things, and by and by I could do pretty well in them, only Jim said I didn't walk like a girl; and he said I must quit pulling up my gown to get at my britches-pocket. I took notice, and done better. I started up the Illinois shore in the canoe just after dark. I started across to the town from a little below the ferry-landing, and the drift of the current fetched me in at the bottom of the town. I tied up and started along the bank. There was a light burning in a little shanty that hadn't been lived in for a long time, and I wondered who had took up quarters there. I slipped up and peeped in at the window. There was a woman about forty year old in there knitting by a candle that was on a pine table. I didn't know her face; she was a stranger, for you couldn't start a face in that town that I didn't know. Now this was lucky, because I was weakening; I was getting afraid I had come; people might know my voice and find me out. But if this woman had been in such a little town two days she could tell me all I wanted to know; so I knocked at the door, and made up my mind I wouldn't forget I was a girl. CHAPTER XI. "COME in," says the woman, and I did. She says: "Take a cheer." I done it. She looked me all over with her little shiny eyes, and says: "What might your name be?" "Sarah Williams." "Where 'bouts do you live? In this neighbor- hood?' "No'm. In Hookerville, seven mile below. I've walked all the way and I'm all tired out." "Hungry, too, I reckon. I'll find you something." "No'm, I ain't hungry. I was so hungry I had to stop two miles below here at a farm; so I ain't hungry no more. It's what makes me so late. My mother's down sick, and out of money and everything, and I come to tell my uncle Abner Moore. He lives at the upper end of the town, she says. I hain't ever been here before. Do you know him?" "No; but I don't know everybody yet. I haven't lived here quite two weeks. It's a considerable ways to the upper end of the town. You better


fooled. Nor is your sister alone in wondering at the manner of the Hand's death. None dare say Jon was murdered, not openly, but suspicion casts a long shadow." He gave Catelyn a look, his mouth tight. "And there is the boy." "The boy? What of him?" She ducked her head as they passed under a low overhang of rock, and around a sharp turn. Her uncle's voice was troubled. "Lord Robert," he sighed. "Six years old, sickly, and prone to weep if you take his dolls away. Jon Arryn's trueborn heir, by all the gods, yet there are some who say he is too weak to sit his father's seat, Nestor Royce has been high steward these past fourteen years, while Lord Jon served in King's Landing, and many whisper that he should rule until the boy comes of age. Others believe that Lysa must marry again, and soon. Already the suitors gather like crows on a battlefield. The Eyrie is full of them." "I might have expected that," Catelyn said. Small wonder there; Lysa was still young, and the kingdom of Mountain and Vale made a handsome wedding gift. "Will Lysa take another husband?" "She says yes, provided she finds a man who suits her," Brynden Tully said, "but she has already rejected Lord Nestor and a dozen other suitable men. She swears that this time she will choose her lord husband." "You of all people can scarce fault her for that." Ser Brynden snorted. "Nor do 1, but . . . it seems to me Lysa is A GAME OF THRONES 323 only playing at courtship. She enjoys the sport, but I believe your sister intends to rule herself until her boy is old enough to be Lord of the Eyrie in truth as well as name." "A woman can rule as wisely as a man," Catelyn said. "The tight woman can," her uncle said with a sideways glance. "Make no mistake, Cat. Lysa is not you." He hesitated a moment. "If truth be told, I fear you may not find your sister as helpful as you would like." She was puzzled. "What do you mean?" "The Lysa who came back from King's Landing is not the same girl who went south when her husband was named Hand. Those years were hard for her. You must know. Lord Arryn was a dutiful husband, but their marriage was made from politics, not passion." "As was my own." "They began the same, but your ending has been happier than your sister's. Two babes stillborn, twice as many miscarriages, Lord Arryn's death . . . Catelyn, the gods gave Lysa only the one child, and he is all your sister lives for now, poor boy. Small wonder she fled rather than see him handed over to the Lannisters. Your sister is afraid, child, and the Lannisters are what she fears most. She ran to the Vale, stealing away from the Red Keep like a thief in the night, and all to snatch her son out of the lion's mouth . . .


He had even started humming to an improvised tune Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement's, You owe me three farthings, say the---- Suddenly his heart seemed to turn to ice and his bowels to water. A figure in blue overalls was coming down the pavement, not ten metres away. It was the girl from the Fiction Department, the girl with dark hair. The light was failing, but there was no difficulty in recognizing her. She looked him straight in the face, then walked quickly on as though she had not seen him. For a few seconds Winston was too paralysed to move. Then he turned to the right and walked heavily away, not noticing for the moment that he was going in the wrong direction. At any rate, one question was settled. There was no doubting any longer that the girl was spying on him. She must have followed him here, because it was not credible that by pure chance she should have happened to be walking on the same evening up the same obscure backstreet, kilometres distant from any quarter where Party members lived. It was too great a coincidence. Whether she was really an agent of the Thought Police, or simply an amateur spy actuated by officiousness, hardly file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (56 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt mattered. It was enough that she was watching him. Probably she had seen him go into the pub as well. It was an effort to walk. The lump of glass in his pocket banged against his thigh at each step, and he was half minded to take it out and throw it away. The worst thing was the pain in his belly. For a couple of minutes he had the feeling that he would die if he did not reach a lavatory soon. But there would be no public lavatories in a quarter like this. Then the spasm passed, leaving a dull ache behind. The street was a blind alley. Winston halted, stood for several seconds wondering vaguely what to do, then turned round and began to retrace his steps. As he turned it occurred to him that the girl had only passed him three minutes ago and that by running he could probably catch up with her. He could keep on her track till they were in some quiet place, and then smash her skull in with a cobblestone. The piece of glass in his pocket would be heavy enough for the job. But he abandoned the idea immediately, because even the thought of making any physical effort was unbearable. He could not run, he could not strike a blow. Besides, she was young and lusty and would defend herself. He thought also of hurrying to the Community Centre and staying there till the place closed, so as to establish a partial alibi for the evening. But that too was impossible. A deadly lassitude had taken hold of him. All he wanted was to get home quickly and then sit down and be quiet. It was after twenty-two hours when


a bunch of Imodium into her coffee, and Onion Guy gives her a look, and she’s like, “Fuck you! It’s medicine!” In real life I would worry that a man brazen enough to eat a stinky onion salad on a public bus at seven in the morning would have no fucking problem murdering me on the spot, so I would avoid eye contact and busy myself with my phone, but this takes place in a magical television universe where my fictional counterpart gets to be loud and brave with zero consequences! INT. BAKERY KITCHEN / FRONT COUNTER—MOMENTS LATER Sam walks into the bakery through the kitchen and greets all her coworkers, who are positively delighted to see her, which is my way of getting revenge on everyone who worked at Judy’s who was mean to me or never talked to me or made a face when I walked into work. The TV bakery is called Amy’s, because I don’t want actual Judy, who is hopefully enjoying her life and riding a horse with an American flag saddle somewhere on the West Coast, to sue me. One of the weirder things about writing an autobiographical show is that I had to populate the world with people who felt like real people but weren’t the actual people I knew. Sam goes to the front counter where her work friend FERNANDO is organizing the pastry case. I never worked with anyone named Fernando, but in my real life one of my best friends is a hot and hilarious Mexican advertising executive named Fernando, so I kinda squeezed him in here, reimagined as a tattooed pastry chef who is flirty and funny, and also a poet? Fernando asks Sam to try some of the tarte tatin he just made, but Sam’s like, “Ooh no, my guts,” and then they banter for a little bit, so you get that they’re close enough to fuck with each other in a salty way but also that there’s love there. Writing scripts is fucking weird, and writing a pilot script is the weirdest weird of all, because unless you’re writing a show about a bunch of infants who meet each other on the day they are born—wait, should I write that show?—you have to figure out how to make people talk to each other in a way that feels both real and accurate, but also isn’t pure exposition. I have written nine hundred versions of this episode, and one of the (many, humiliating) notes I got on the very first one I turned in was: “Real people don’t talk to each other like this.” I had written, basically, biting, hilarious quip after biting, hilarious quip, volleyed back and forth between people in the guise of their having a normal conversation, and one particular exec’s reaction was, “Hey, some people are boring and unfunny.” In my life? Never. But, I don’t know, unless you’re writing Veep or whatever, there has to be someone who just says “yes” and “okay,” and doesn’t speak in punch lines. Sam tries Fernando’s tarte tatin. I


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

yet I still want Connor. Get it together, Fizzy, I think, and turn my attention back to Isaac and his caramel milkshake and the cherry he’s dangling for me to eat. No doubt viewers will compare this moment to the one with Nick yesterday, as I close my eyes and eat it with a smile. I tie the stem in a knot with only my tongue and open my mouth to flirtatiously display it. It gets the impressed reaction I’d hoped for—Isaac claps and gives me a sexy “Dang, girl”—but it takes every ounce of effort to not look at Connor to see what he thinks about it, and to wonder whether he’s thinking about what that tongue of mine felt like gliding over his neck, his bottom lip, his jaw. We’ll have our confessional later, but my plan is to escape as soon as Rory says cut. My head is a mess, and I need to sift through my feelings for both men: my attraction to Isaac and the strange way it makes me feel like I’m betraying Connor, even though connecting with other men is literally the point of the show. But after the confessionals are all done and Isaac—who waited for me to finish—gives me a sweet hug goodbye and a gentle kiss to my cheek (pants feelings, we meet again), Connor’s hand comes around my arm. I think he’ll ask me about Isaac, or tell me why he was late, or one of a dozen other possibilities. What I don’t expect is for him to quietly lean in and say, “Let me take you to Peter’s wedding. It’s easy to explain why I’d be there. I don’t want you to have to face that alone.” thirty Episode Two Confessional Transcript Connor Prince: Well, here we are again. Fizzy Chen: Hello, Connor Prince. You were away for some of our shoots this week. It was weird. Connor: I know, and I apologize. Unfortunately for me, I had some things related to the show that I needed to take care of. Fortunately for you and our viewers, you had six handsome men to keep you company. Fizzy: Am I allowed to say I missed you? Because I missed you. Connor: That’s very kind. Fizzy: It was a hot day and you’re really tall. We could have used the shade. Connor: There she is. Brenna, please make a note to insert a rim shot in post. Fizzy: Okay, stop, wait. All I want in life is a sparkle sound to announce my entrance into any room. If I knew we could add sound effects in edits, I would have gone insane in that editing booth. Connor: This is precisely why you aren’t allowed in the editing booth. Shall we get back to your dates? The week was quite a whirlwind. Fizzy: It was busy, but the Heroes were great. I’m really hoping you cut when I slipped down the stairs at Balboa Park and my dress slid up to my neck and I showed everyone my butt, but I suspect you’ve


plainly audible. Darkness had now fallen, and an early moon was sending its faint light to cast strange, grotesque shadows among the dense foliage of the forest. Here and there the brilliant rays penetrated to earth, but for the most part they only served to accentuate the Stygian blackness of the jungle's depths. Like some huge phantom, Kala swung noiselessly from tree to tree; now running nimbly along a great branch, now swinging through space at the end of another, only to grasp that of a farther tree in her rapid progress toward the scene of the tragedy her knowledge of jungle life told her was being enacted a short distance before her. The cries of the gorilla proclaimed that it was in mortal combat with some other denizen of the fierce wood. Suddenly these cries ceased, and the silence of death reigned throughout the jungle. Kala could not understand, for the voice of Bolgani had at last been raised in the agony of suffering and death, but no sound had come to her by which she possibly could determine the nature of his antagonist. That her little Tarzan could destroy a great bull gorilla she knew to be improbable, and so, as she neared the spot from which the sounds of the struggle had come, she moved more warily and at last slowly and with extreme caution she traversed the lowest branches, peering eagerly into the moon- splashed blackness for a sign of the combatants. Presently she came upon them, lying in a little open space full under the brilliant light of the moon--little Tarzan's torn and bloody form, and beside it a great bull gorilla, stone dead. With a low cry Kala rushed to Tarzan's side, and gathering the poor, blood-covered body to her breast, listened for a sign of life. Faintly she heard it--the weak beating of the little heart. Tenderly she bore him back through the inky jungle to where the tribe lay, and for many days and nights she sat guard beside him, bringing him food and water, and brushing the flies and other insects from his cruel wounds. Chapter 7 35 Of medicine or surgery the poor thing knew nothing. She could but lick the wounds, and thus she kept them cleansed, that healing nature might the more quickly do her work. At first Tarzan would eat nothing, but rolled and tossed in a wild delirium of fever. All he craved was water, and this she brought him in the only way she could, bearing it in her own mouth. No human mother could have shown more unselfish and sacrificing devotion than did this poor, wild brute for the little orphaned waif whom fate had thrown into her keeping. At last the fever abated and the boy commenced to mend. No word of complaint passed his tight set lips, though the pain of his wounds was excruciating. A portion of his chest was laid bare to the ribs, three of which had been broken by the mighty blows of the gorilla. One arm was nearly severed


Chapter 2, where she compares Silas' hoarding to the way sophisticated men bury themselves in their work.) These comments keep you from getting too caught up in the story. But this is intentional--Eliot wants you always to think about the moral significance of what is happening. Some readers resent this preaching and feel that the story itself teaches the lesson well enough without her comments. Yet other people enjoy her interpreting remarks, feeling that they open up depths of wisdom in this seemingly simple novel. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: FORM AND STRUCTURE Silas Marner is divided into Part One and Part Two, separated by sixteen years in time. The flashback in Chapter I travels an equal sixteen years in time, creating a fundamental symmetry. Some readers have felt that the gap between the two parts is too long-they would like to watch Silas being transformed by his love for Eppie, not just be told about it. Yet in Chapter 14 Eliot does show the first stages of the process in detail, and in Chapter 16 she backtracks to fill in even more. This novel is divided into two parts in another, more important way. While Silas follows a cycle from misery back to happiness, Godfrey Cass follows an opposite path, from a life rich with possibilities to an unfulfilled existence. Eliot shifts back and forth between these two plots continually. Silas and Godfrey rarely meet face to face, yet they are linked--through Dunstan, who cheats Godfrey and robs Silas, and later through Eppie, whom Godfrey abandons and Silas adopts. Some readers feel the novel is split in two, that Silas' half is like a simple folktale with its happy ending, while Godfrey's half is a complex psychological study with a sad, realistic conclusion. Other readers say that the two halves are separated by different moral climates. In Silas' story, fate is ruled by mysterious pagan gods. Human beings can only surrender themselves and trust these inscrutable divinities. Godfrey's story is like a stern Greek tragedy, where a man's own actions lead inexorably to a tragic climax. Pain and suffering are necessary for him to purge himself of his sin. To counteract this split, Eliot's elaborate system of parallels, contrasts, and symmetries holds the two stories together. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 1 With the very first sentence of this book, you are swept back in time. "In the days when" sounds like "Once upon a time," the traditional fairy-tale opening. Next you're drawn to a distant place, buried deep in the hills. And finally you're introduced to creatures of another race, shrunken, distorted, and pale, like gnomes. Eliot writes in the rhythms of blank verse and a hushed, solemn tone. The next few sentences focus entirely upon the weavers, viewed from a distance as weird, alien creatures. NOTE: Eliot was inspired to write this novel by a memory of a weaver she had seen in her childhood. The dominant features she remembered were the bag on his back, his stooped shoulders, and an "expression of face that led her to think he was an


baby, he winked in approval. Lin, Josie, Cecily and Minnie joined in lustily, giving their full support, while Tina seemed baffled, Andrew’s face creased with confusion and the Turvey sisters looked completely shocked. 20 A week later, on a Saturday afternoon, Florence hurried home from Odile’s café after work. Her belly was rounded a little now – a few people looked at her with sidelong glances in the café, but she didn’t care about what others thought. The news was out: the baby came first. Odile had taken being the perfect boss to another level, insisting Florence had lots of breaks to put her feet up, making sure she ate at lunchtime. Florence wished she had a pound for every time Odile said, ‘How are you feeling right now, Florence? You need anything?’ In truth, she felt a bit tired. It was June already – the due date she’d been given of 3 October was rushing towards her like an express train. But at least she wasn’t hiding the pregnancy and she wasn’t ashamed. Why should she be? She was bringing a new life into the world, a new person to care for, and that feeling of being proud and protective would be with her for the rest of her days. Florence had so much love to give to her child. She pushed open the front door: it was quiet inside the house – she expected to hear the hum of the television, but there was no sound. She called out, ‘Dad?’ ‘Up here, princess,’ came a muffled voice and Florence made her way upstairs, pushing open the door to the third bedroom, a small square room with one tiny window, the floors now covered with rumpled sheets. Dangerous Dave was wearing spattered overalls, balancing on the top of a stepladder, paintbrush in his hand, covering the green walls with pale-yellow paint. He smiled when he saw Florence. ‘What do you think?’ Florence wasn’t sure about the colour: it wasn’t the vibrant sunshine yellow she’d hoped for in the nursery, but her father was doing his best. She beamed with positivity. ‘If we get a pretty cot and have mobiles dangling from the ceiling…’ In her imagination, she was already holding the baby in her arms, staring into his or her trusting eyes. ‘And bookshelves, Dad – lots of things for the baby to look at, and a baby bouncer in the corner, toys…’ ‘This baby won’t go without anything,’ Dave said determinedly. ‘We’ll make sure of that,’ Florence agreed. ‘Thanks, Dad.’ Dangerous Dave applied a few more brush strokes to the top of the wall, leaning forward precariously as the ladder wobbled slightly. ‘You don’t think it’s the colour of dog sick?’ ‘No…’ It had been Florence’s first thought. ‘But we could always use this as a base coat and put something brighter on top.’ ‘We could.’ Dave’s face creased as he examined the colour and Florence knew that he wanted nothing but the best for her. Then there was a knock at the door downstairs. ‘I’ll see who that is,


him." I didn't think so: Atticus was trying to show, it seemed to me, that Mr. Ewell could have beaten up Mayella. That much I could follow. If her right eye was blacked and she was beaten mostly on the right side of the face, it would tend to show that a left-handed person did it. Sherlock Holmes and Jem Finch would agree. But Tom Robinson could easily be left-handed, too. Like Mr. Heck Tate, I imagined a person facing me, went through a swift mental pantomime, and concluded that he might have held her with his right hand and pounded her with his left. I looked down at him. His back was to us, but I could see his broad shoulders and bull-thick neck. He could easily have done it. I thought Jem was counting his chickens. 18 But someone was booming again. "Mayella Violet Ewell-!" A young girl walked to the witness stand. As she raised her hand and swore that the evidence she gave would be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help her God, she seemed somehow fragile-looking, but when she sat facing us in the witness chair she became what she was, a thick-bodied girl accustomed to strenuous labor. In Maycomb County, it was easy to tell when someone bathed regularly, as opposed to yearly lavations: Mr. Ewell had a scalded look; as if an overnight soaking had deprived him of protective layers of dirt, his skin appeared to be sensitive to the elements. Mayella looked as if she tried to keep clean, and I was reminded of the row of red geraniums in the Ewell yard. Mr. Gilmer asked Mayella to tell the jury in her own words what happened on the evening of November twenty-first of last year, just in her own words, please. Mayella sat silently. "Where were you at dusk on that evening?" began Mr. Gilmer patiently. "On the porch." "Which porch?" "Ain't but one, the front porch." "What were you doing on the porch?" "Nothin'." Judge Taylor said, "Just tell us what happened. You can do that, can't you?" Mayella stared at him and burst into tears. She covered her mouth with her hands and sobbed. Judge Taylor let her cry for a while, then he said, "That's enough now. Don't be 'fraid of anybody here, as long as you tell the truth. All this is strange to you, I know, but you've nothing to be ashamed of and nothing to fear. What are you scared of?" Mayella said something behind her hands. "What was that?" asked the judge. "Him," she sobbed, pointing at Atticus. "Mr. Finch?" She nodded vigorously, saying, "Don't want him doin' me like he done Papa, tryin' to make him out lefthanded..." Judge Taylor scratched his thick white hair. It was plain that he had never been confronted with a problem of this kind. "How old are you?" he asked. "Nineteen-and-a-half," Mayella said. Judge Taylor cleared his throat and tried unsuccessfully to speak in soothing tones. "Mr. Finch has no idea of scaring


as long as he is happy. He can't get into mischief in that little nunnery over there, and Mrs. March is doing more for him than we can." What good times they had, to be sure. Such plays and tableaux, such sleigh rides and skating frolics, such pleasant evenings in the old parlor, and now and then such gay little parties at the great house. Meg could walk in the conservatory whenever she liked and revel in bouquets, Jo browsed over the new library voraciously, and convulsed the old gentleman with her criticisms, Amy copied pictures and enjoyed beauty to her heart's content, and Laurie played `lord of the manor' in the most delightful style. But Beth, though yearning for the grand piano, could not pluck up courage to go to the `Mansion of Bliss', as Meg called it. She went once with Jo, but the old gentleman, not being aware of her infirmity, stared at her so hard from under his heavy eyebrows, and said "Hey!" so loud, that he frightened her so much her `feet chattered on the floor', she never told her mother, and she ran away, declaring she would never go there any more, not even for the dear piano. No persuasions or enticements could overcome her fear, till, the fact coming to Mr. Laurence's ear in some mysterious way, he set about mending matters. During one of the brief calls he made, he artfully led the conversation to music, and talked away about great singers whom he had seen, fine organs he had heard, and told such charming anecdotes that Beth found it impossible to stay in her distant corner, but crept nearer and nearer, as if fascinated. At the back of his chair she stopped and stood listening, with her great eyes wide open and her cheeks red with excitement of this unusual performance. Taking no more notice of her than if she had been a fly, Mr. Laurence talked on about Laurie's lessons and teachers. And presently, as if 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


lot more than I—” “Stop talking!” Carr gapes at his attorney’s outburst, and Ethan wastes no time asking the next question while Carr is seemingly in the mood to share. “How does a former competitive freediver, who could once hold her breath for seven minutes, swim through a thick patch of bull kelp without considering the risks of entanglement, then panic, only to further entangle herself until she passes out?” While he and Jonah waited for Carr’s attorney to arrive, Ethan watched a video of Chelsea’s record-breaking freedive on his phone. After diving to a depth of three hundred feet, Ethan watched in amazement as she effortlessly pulled herself to the surface while holding her breath for over three minutes. “Don’t answer that.” Carr’s attorney turns and points his finger at Ethan. “That’s enough. My client is grieving. Don’t make us sue the department for emotional damages.” He stands from the table. “I’ll see you out.” “She was abusing opiates again,” Carr says before the detectives get up. “The stress of our separation probably only made it worse.” His attorney leans over and whispers something in Carr’s ear, but he waves him away. “I had a prescription of oxycodone left over from a dental procedure in my bathroom cabinet. After Chelsea moved out, it was gone. She took it with her, I’m sure.” He exhales a heavy sigh. “I’m guessing she took a few pills before we went diving yesterday.” Ethan and Jonah exchange a look. Carr’s attorney strides around the table, signaling the meeting is over, but Ethan makes no move to get up. “Did you see her take pills yesterday?” He rests his elbows on the polished wood table. Carr shakes his head. “She’d been clean for a while. But I suspected she was using again before we separated. I could tell. She denied it when I confronted her about it, which was part of the reason she moved out.” “She had a problem with opiates before?” Jonah asks. “Chelsea got into a party scene in LA a few years ago. The wrong crowd, as they say. She was taking several pills a day by the time I finally convinced her to go to rehab last year.” His eyes brim with tears. He looks up at the ceiling. “I should’ve gotten to her sooner. I can’t believe she’s...” His voice cracks, and he brings a hand to his mouth. Ethan thinks of the photos of Carr with underage girls that Chelsea was said to have on her phone. She wasn’t the only one mixed up in the wrong crowd. If that’s even true. “Did you say anything to the emergency responders about Chelsea possibly having drugs in her system?” Carr shakes his head. “I was in shock. And she seemed fine before we went into the water. It didn’t dawn on me until after she—” He exhales out his mouth. “After she died that she might’ve taken some before we went diving.” Carr’s attorney steps closer, stopping inches from Ethan’s side. “This interview is over. My client is distressed, and


well by your photographs. I think my husband has got twenty-seven of them." [23] "Not twenty-seven, Lady Henry?" "Well, twenty-six, then. And I saw you with him the other night at the Opera." She laughed nervously, as she spoke, and watched him with her vague forget-me-not eyes. She was a curious woman, whose dresses always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest. She was always in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never returned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to look picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy. Her name was Victoria, and she had a perfect mania for going to church. "That was at 'Lohengrin,' Lady Henry, I think?" "Yes; it was at dear 'Lohengrin.' I like Wagner's music better than any other music. It is so loud that one can talk the whole time, without people hearing what one says. That is a great advantage: don't you think so, Mr. Gray?" The same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her fingers began to play with a long paper-knife. Dorian smiled, and shook his head: "I am afraid I don't think so, Lady Henry. I never talk during music,--at least during good music. If one hears bad music, it is one's duty to drown it by conversation." "Ah! that is one of Harry's views, isn't it, Mr. Gray? But you must not think I don't like good music. I adore it, but I am afraid of it. It makes me too romantic. I have simply worshipped pianists,-- two at a time, sometimes. I don't know what it is about them. Perhaps it is that they are foreigners. They all are, aren't they? Even those that are born in England become foreigners after a time, don't they? It is so clever of them, and such a compliment to art. Makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn't it? You have never been to any of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray? You must come. I can't afford orchids, but I spare no expense in foreigners. They make one's rooms look so picturesque. But here is Harry!--Harry, I came in to look for you, to ask you something,--I forget what it was,--and I found Mr. Gray here. We have had such a pleasant chat about music. We have quite the same views. No; I think our views are quite different. But he has been most pleasant. I am so glad I've seen him." "I am charmed, my love, quite charmed," said Lord Henry, elevating his dark crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused smile.--"So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of old brocade in Wardour Street, and had to bargain for hours for it. Nowadays people know the price of everything, and the value of nothing." "I am afraid I must be going," exclaimed Lady Henry, after an awkward silence, with her silly sudden laugh. "I have promised to drive with the duchess.--Good-by, Mr. Gray.--Good-by, Harry. You are dining out,


“It’s fun,” I insisted. “I want you to think coming here was a good idea,” he said, and there was a catch in my chest, less from swooning than from being startled. “I want you to think I’m not boring, even though I don’t work at TNO.” I could tell that he wasn’t being sarcastic, or even flirty. He was being completely unguarded and sincere, and I tried to be equally sincere as I said, “I don’t want to alarm you, but no one has ever made anything like this for me. It’s so, like, premeditatedly sweet. And I want you to think my visit was a good idea. In your room just then—” I trailed off and looked at him uncertainly. “No, that was awesome,” he said. “That was great. To be honest, I was afraid of going too fast and I just—I want to let you get settled here and get comfortable. I don’t want you to feel pressured.” “I’m actually pretty comfortable.” “Don’t get me wrong, that’s definitely what I want. But I worry that I’ve spooked you in the past.” I could feel my forehead wrinkle. “When?” “At the bar after the after-party.” “Oh—I was really confused that night. I almost thought—well, I wondered if you were about to kiss me, but I couldn’t believe you’d want to.” “I was planning on asking you out. Of course I wanted to kiss you, but I wouldn’t have done it there.” It was slightly easier to summon my courage this time. I said, “Do you want to kiss me now?” We were standing with a corner of the island between us, and he stepped around it, leaned his face into mine, and kissed my lips. “Does that answer your question?” I smiled as I said, “Have I mentioned that I’m very comfortable right now? And not at all spooked?” And then we were making out in the kitchen, and this time he was a tiny bit more familiar, the taste of his mouth and skin and the feel of his body, and I was a tiny bit more relaxed, and again it was overwhelming and exhilarating. And again, after a minute or two, he stepped back, this time with his hands holding my upper arms. He nodded down once with his chin and said, “See? I just—I don’t want to jump the gun or, like, freak you out.” I understood, as I hadn’t before, that he meant because he had an erection; even before he’d said anything, I’d been able to feel it. And I’d been delighted. Looking at him, I thought that he was so handsome, but also so endearing. “You know what?” I said. “Let’s go back to your room and jump the gun.” * * * — We did not end up eating the salmon. We didn’t end up eating at all until after midnight when we went out to the kitchen with him wearing nothing and me wearing only my black T-shirt, when we both ate a handful of cashews, split a banana, and chugged water


a little Rossk. The Silts were an amalgamation of cultures, and so were its people, one of the few things that actually made Io proud of her home. Edei spoke in a low tone, his gaze steady on her. “I’ve got notes on the victims and a few witness accounts if you want to see them. But I’ve found little on the women. Only physical description and ethnicity.” Straight to the point, then. Disappointment twinged at her core, but she couldn’t blame him. She’d made it quite clear earlier that she’d only taken this job to get rid of him. Gods, would she be the first person to ever get their destined lover to dislike them? A fate-thread of hate—Ava would get a good laugh out of that one. “So, um,” she asked, “did anyone recognize the body of the woman last night?” The question was a test. The wraith had died inside the Fortuna Club, her thread sliced by a cutter. Bianca could dump the body at some gods-forsaken hole, and no one would blame her. Police officers were a nuisance in the Silts, more trouble than they were worth. But if Bianca was serious about this investigation, the police and their records were fundamentally necessary. Edei shook his head. “Not yet. I’m told the leeches are looking into a few missing persons cases.” Io exhaled with relief. It was a complicated feeling, rooted in her own guilt. When they found out who the wraith was, she would pay the woman’s family a visit. Offer her apology, for all the good it would do now. “We can take a look at the public registry. If she was a cutter, she’ll be on the other-born records. It’ll have to wait for when the registry opens tomorrow, though.” She paused, then added, “I’m sorry I arrived so late.” He gave a small shake of his head. “It was a long night.” “Let’s go back to the apartment. We might spot something the police missed.” As they walked, Edei cataloged his findings. The first murder was two weeks ago at the Modiano Market. A Rossk chernobog-born was attacked in broad daylight while shopping with his family. One of the eyewitnesses was moira-born, a weaver, and thought the woman—younger, blond, but as ragged as last night’s wraith—had a severed life-thread. Bianca and Edei hadn’t believed that last part until Io confirmed it yesterday. The woman’s body was found at the Docks five days later, too bloated to identify. “A chernobog-born?” asked Io. The descendants of the Rossk god of darkness could create invisible walls that no one could cross; their twins, the belobog-born, could wield light as a shield. Io had never heard of a chernobog-born this far south; their powers worked better in the long nights of Rossk. “He used to be a border guard. Rumor is his lifelong stash of bribes and payoffs led to early retirement and a life of luxury.” Every city-nation was walled, and every wall had its cracks. “Bianca occasionally did business with him.” “How was he killed?” Edei’s