don't try anything. Ready?" "Ready." Montag snapped the safety-catch on the flamethrower. "Fire!" A great nuzzling gout of flame leapt out to lap at the books and knock them against the wall. He stepped into the bedroom and fired twice and the twin beds went up in a great simmering whisper, with more heat and passion and light than he would have supposed them to contain. He burnt the bedroom walls and the cosmetics chest because he wanted to change everything, the chairs, the tables, and in the dining-room the silverware and plastic dishes, everything that showed that he had lived here in this empty house with a strange woman who would forget him tomorrow, who had gone and quite forgotten him already, listening to her Seashell radio pour in on her and in on her as she rode across town, alone. And as before, it was good to burn, he felt himself gush out in the fire, snatch, rend, rip in half with flame, and put away the senseless problem. If there was no solution, well then now there was no problem, either. Fire was best for everything! "The books, Montag!" The books leapt and danced like roasted birds, their wings ablaze with red and yellow feathers. And then he came to the parlour where the great idiot monsters lay asleep with their white thoughts and their snowy dreams. And he shot a bolt at each of the three blank walls and the vacuum hissed out at him. The emptiness made an even emptier whistle, a senseless scream. He tried to think about the vacuum upon which the nothingness had performed, but he could not. He held his breath so the vacuum could not get into his lungs. He cut off its terrible emptiness, drew back, and gave the entire room a gift of one huge bright yellow flower of burning. The fire-proof plastic sheath on everything was cut wide and the house began to shudder with flame. "When you're quite finished," said Beatty behind him. "You're under arrest." The house fell in red coals and black ash. It bedded itself down in sleepy pink-grey cinders and a smoke plume blew over it, rising and waving slowly back and forth in the sky. It was three-thirty in the morning. The crowd drew back into the houses; the great tents of the circus had slumped into charcoal and rubble and the show was well over. Montag stood with the flame-thrower in his limp hands, great islands of perspiration drenching his armpits, his face smeared with soot. The other firemen waited behind him, in the darkness, their faces illuminated faintly by the smouldering foundation. Montag started to speak twice and then finally managed to put his thought together. "Was it my wife turned in the alarm?" Beatty nodded. "But her friends turned in an alarm earlier, that I let ride. One way or the other, you'd have got it. It was pretty silly, quoting poetry around free and easy like that. It was the act of a silly damn snob. Give a man


kind of on Finn’s side here.” I choke out a laugh. “I’m . . . not sure how to react to that.” Her sigh crackles through the phone. “You haven’t prioritized your writing in so long. Are you sure you even want it anymore?” “Yes. Of course I do.” More than almost anything. Not even to be published, but to have the satisfaction of completing my book, typing THE END and giving my characters the resolution they deserve. Anything that happened afterward would be icing. It isn’t that I disagree with her—not necessarily. I just hoped there was an easier solution here, one that didn’t end with anyone heartbroken and my career left up to chance. I place a hand on my chest, rising and falling with the quickening of my breaths. The anxiety crawls up my throat, tightens my lungs. I don’t know how to explain that it’s possible to want something without actively trying to get it. Although maybe she understands—after all, I did it with Wyatt for so many years. Even then, I convinced myself I was happy with what we were, because anything else would have required changing the status quo. It would have meant taking a risk, that thing I’ve avoided for so, so long. “If you take this job,” Noemie continues, “then nothing changes. You know how that story goes. And you can get a little codependent on your work.” “Pot, kettle.” A sigh. “I know, I know. But if you think about it, as stressful as your jobs have been sometimes, they’ve been comfortable. It’s not one hundred percent what you want, but it’s less scary than cutting ties and trying something new.” “What if that’s it? What if—what if I’m just too fucking scared?” I say it too loudly, realizing that there are tears in my eyes. “What if I try and it doesn’t work out?” “Then you have a soft place to land.” Her voice is gentle. “You have your family. You have me. And, well, I have a lot of time to talk during the next few weeks because . . .” A deep breath. “I got a new job. I start in January.” I sit up, crossing my legs and settling back against the headboard. “And you’re only telling me now?” “You were in panic mode. I was waiting for the right time,” she says. “I’m going to be an in-house publicist at an organic snack-of-the-month subscription company. I didn’t want to tell you until I had the offer because I didn’t want to jinx it—and I just got it today.” And despite everything, I let out a laugh, because if that isn’t the perfect job for her, nothing is. I can hear the excitement in her voice. “Nome. I am so, so happy for you. Truly.” “Thank you. And I hope you know . . . you have the room in my house as long as you need it,” she says. “But Chandler? I hope you decide you don’t need it. Not now—I’m not kicking you out or anything. But


slept soundly and comfortably, though he growled and barked and wrestled with bad dreams. Nor did he open his eyes till roused by the noises of the waking camp. At first he did not know where he was. It had snowed during the night and he was completely buried. The snow walls pressed him on every side, and a great surge of fear swept through him--the fear of the wild thing for the trap. It was a token that he was harking back through his own life to the lives of his forebears; for he was a civilized dog, an unduly civilized dog, and of his own experience knew no trap and so could not of himself fear it. The muscles of his whole body contracted spasmodically and instinctively, the hair on his neck and shoulders stood on end, and with a ferocious snarl he bounded straight up into the blinding day, the snow flying about him in a flashing cloud. Ere he landed on his feet, he saw the white camp spread out before him and knew where he was and remembered all that had passed from the time he went for a stroll with Manuel to the hole he had dug for himself the night before. A shout from Francois hailed his appearance. "Wot I say?" the dog-driver cried to Perrault. "Dat Buck for sure learn queek as anyt'ing." Perrault nodded gravely. As courier for the Canadian Government, bearing important despatches, he was anxious to secure the best dogs, and he was particularly gladdened by the possession of Buck. Three more huskies were added to the team inside an hour, making a total of nine, and before another quarter of an hour had passed they were in harness and swinging up the trail toward the Dyea Canon. Buck was glad to be gone, and though the work was hard he found he did not particularly despise it. He was surprised at the eagerness which animated the whole team and which was communicated to him; but still more surprising was the change wrought in Dave and Sol-leks. They were new dogs, utterly transformed by the harness. All passiveness and unconcern had dropped from them. They were alert and active, anxious that the work should go well, and fiercely irritable with whatever, by delay or confusion, retarded that work. The toil of the traces seemed the supreme expression of their being, and all that they lived for and the only thing in which they took delight. Dave was wheeler or sled dog, pulling in front of him was Buck, then came Sol-leks; the rest of the team was strung out ahead, single file, to the leader, which position was filled by Spitz. Buck had been purposely placed between Dave and Sol-leks so that he might receive instruction. Apt scholar that he was, they were equally apt teachers, never allowing him to linger long in error, and enforcing their teaching with their sharp teeth. Dave was fair and very wise. He never nipped Buck without cause, and he never failed to nip him


home, but since he hasn't got enough money, he convinces himself that it's a shorter route to go straight home. With a cocky air, he sets off, thinking about how he'll make people at the pub admire him when he boasts of how he walked all the way home. NOTE: WEATHER Notice the mist gathering here. It may remind you of scenes in movies in which swirling mist creates a sense of imminent danger. The mist in this chapter, however, also symbolizes Dunstan's confused sense of right and wrong. Eliot often uses weather to express a moral environment. This chapter, for example, started on a cold, wet morning, attuned to Dunstan's malicious mind. Watch the role that weather plays as the story moves on. Typically, Dunstan still thinks he's a lucky fellow, just because he's getting home without being seen. Yet he's surrounded by mist, rain, and darkness, and he stumbles along the road until a light shines out. (Note the darkness and light imagery again.) He realizes that it's Silas' cottage. Dunsey's half-baked plan for borrowing money from Silas has been growing in his dim mind as he walked. He decides to get started on it right now. Dunstan is surprised that the old weaver isn't home and that his door's unlocked. The brightness and warmth inside are inviting, though, so Dunstan walks in and makes himself at home. Dunstan, with upperclass prejudice, is surprised that Silas has pork roasting for dinner. Of course, this is out of character for Silas' reputation as a miser, but most poor folks back then couldn't afford meat more than once a week. Remember this when you see how the gentry eat. Eliot traces Dunstan's thinking step by step. He notices the pork roasting slowly, hung over the fire from a string attached to a door-key. Silas obviously has stepped out only for a moment. Dunstan thinks of the nearby stone-pit and leaps to the conclusion that Silas has fallen in. That would make it easy for him to steal the old man's money. This is such an attractive idea that he assumes Silas is dead and starts to wonder where the money is. Dunstan can only think of obvious hiding places, but Silas has chosen an obvious one. Dunstan notices a spot in the floor where the sand has been moved around. (People scattered sand over their floors to absorb dirt back then.) He pries up the bricks to find Silas' two bags of gold. Look at how easy, almost accidental, this theft is. The money seems to fall into Dunstan's hands. Some readers see this as a sign of fate--that Dunstan was meant to steal Silas' gold for some divine purpose. Others see it as a sign that life is random, and that Silas is still a victim. Dunstan seems a little confused by this opportunity, but he doesn't stop to think clearly. He scoops up the gold, replaces the bricks, and slips outside. The darkness of night seems to be his element, now--he seeks refuge in it. Is this another case of


ship. You can’t fight us— Gray, there, got away from five of you. Your ship’s in irons, Master Silver; you’re on a lee shore, and so you’ll find. I stand here and tell you so; and they’re the last good words you’ll get Contents from me, for in the name of heaven, I’ll put a bullet in your back when next I meet you. Tramp, my lad. Bundle out of Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 166 167 is. The captain looked on for a while in silence. Then he spoke. “My lads,” said he, “I’ve given Silver a broadside. I pitched it in red-hot on purpose; and before the hour’s out, as he said, we shall be boarded. We’re outnumbered, I needn’t tell you that, but we fight in shelter; and a minute ago I should have said we fought with discipline. I’ve no manner of doubt that we can drub them, if you choose.” Then he went the rounds and saw, as he said, that all was Chapter 21. clear. The Attack. On the two short sides of the house, east and west, there were only two loopholes; on the south side where the porch AS soon as Silver disappeared, the captain, who had been was, two again; and on the north side, five. There was a round closely watching him, turned towards the interior of the house score of muskets for the seven of us; the firewood had been and found not a man of us at his post but Gray. It was the built into four piles—tables, you might say—one about the first time we had ever seen him angry. middle of each side, and on each of these tables some ammu- “Quarters!” he roared. And then, as we all slunk back to nition and four loaded muskets were laid ready to the hand of our places, “Gray,” he said, “I’ll put your name in the log; the defenders. In the middle, the cutlasses lay ranged. you’ve stood by your duty like a seaman. Mr. Trelawney, I’m “Toss out the fire,” said the captain; “the chill is past, and surprised at you, sir. Doctor, I thought you had worn the we mustn’t have smoke in our eyes.” king’s coat! If that was how you served at Fontenoy, sir, you’d The iron fire-basket was carried bodily out by Mr. have been better in your berth.” Trelawney, and the embers smothered among sand. “Hawkins hasn’t had his breakfast. Hawkins, help your- Contents The doctor’s watch were all back at their loopholes, the rest were busy loading the spare muskets, and everyone with a self, and back to your post to eat it,” continued Captain red face, you may be certain, and a flea in his ear, as the saying Smollett. “Lively, now, my lad; you’ll want it before you’ve Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 168 169 done. Hunter, serve out a round of brandy to all hands.” “I told you so!” cried the captain. And while this was going on, the captain completed, in “Thank you, sir,” returned Joyce with the


called her, was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression which was seldom disturbed. Her father called her `Little Miss Tranquility', and the name suited her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy world of her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved. Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own opinion at least. A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow hair curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters of the four sisters were we will leave to be found out. The clock struck six and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good effect upon the girls, for Mother was coming, and everyone brightened to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, Amy got out of the easy chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired she was as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the blaze. "They are quite worn out. Marmee must have a new pair." "I thought I'd get her some with my dollar," said Beth. "No, I shall!" cried Amy. "I'm the oldest," began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided, "I'm the man of the family now Papa is away, and I shall provide the slippers, for he told me to take special care of Mother while he was gone." "I'll tell you what we'll do," said Beth, "let's each get her something for Christmas,land not get anything for ourselves." "That's like you, dear! What will we get?" exclaimed Jo. Everyone thought soberly for a minute, then Meg announced, as if the idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, "I shall give her a nice pair of gloves." "Army shoes, best to be had," cried Jo. "Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed," said Beth. "I'll get a little bottle of cologne. She likes it, and it won't cost much, so I'll have some left to buy my pencils," added Amy. "How will we give the things?" asked Meg. "Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles. Don't you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?" answered Jo. "I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the chair with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the presents, with a kiss. I liked the things and the kisses, but it was dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened the bundles," said Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea at the same time. "Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then surprise her. We must go shopping tomorrow afternoon, Meg. There is so much to do about the play for Christmas night,"


over the dead man. I heard a sharp intake of his breath and the cigar fell from his fingers. "Who -- who's this?" he stammered. "It is Selden, the man who escaped from Princetown." Stapleton turned a ghastly face upon us, but by a supreme effort he had overcome his amazement and his disappointment. He looked sharply from Holmes to me. "Dear me! What a very shocking affair! How did he die?" "He appears to have broken his neck by falling over these rocks. My friend and I were strolling on the moor when we heard a cry." "I heard a cry also. That was what brought me out. I was uneasy about Sir Henry." "Why about Sir Henry in particular?" I could not help asking. "Because I had suggested that he should come over. When he did not come I was surprised, and I naturally became alarmed for his safety when I heard cries upon the moor. By the way" -- his eyes darted again from my face to Holmes's -- "did you hear anything else besides a cry?" "No," said Holmes; "did you?" "No." "What do you mean, then?" "Oh, you know the stories that the peasants tell about a phantom hound, and so on. It is said to be heard at night upon the moor. I was wondering if there were any evidence of such a sound to-night." "We heard nothing of the kind," said I. "And what is your theory of this poor fellow's death?" "I have no doubt that anxiety and exposure have driven him off his head. He has rushed about the moor in a crazy state and eventually fallen over here and broken his neck." "That seems the most reasonable theory," said Stapleton, and he gave a sigh which I took to indicate his relief. "What do you think about it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" My friend bowed his compliments. "You are quick at identification," said he. "We have been expecting you in these parts since Dr. Watson came down. You are in time to see a tragedy." "Yes, indeed. I have no doubt that my friend's explanation will cover the facts. I will take an unpleasant remembrance back to London with me to-morrow." "Oh, you return to-morrow?" "That is my intention." "I hope your visit has cast some light upon those occurrences which have puzzled us?" Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "One cannot always have the success for which one hopes. An investigator needs facts and not legends or rumours. It has not been a satisfactory case." My friend spoke in his frankest and most unconcerned man- ner. Stapleton still looked hard at him. Then he turned to me. "I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to my house, but it would give my sister such a fright that I do not feel justified in doing it. I think that if we put something over his face he will be safe until morning." And so it was arranged. Resisting Stapleton's offer of hospi- tality, Holmes and I set off to Baskerville Hall, leaving the naturalist to


the last little while I had even lost, but now redou- Contents among the waves, with only now and then a blow upon her bling my efforts, I began once more to overhaul the chase. bows and a dash of foam in my face. I was not a hundred yards from her when the wind came Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 198 199 again in a clap; she filled on the port tack and was off again, stooping and skimming like a swallow. My first impulse was one of despair, but my second was towards joy. Round she came, till she was broadside on to me—round still till she had covered a half and then two thirds and then three quarters of the distance that separated us. I could see the waves boiling white under her forefoot. Im- mensely tall she looked to me from my low station in the coracle. And then, of a sudden, I began to comprehend. I had scarce time to think—scarce time to act and save myself. I Chapter 25. was on the summit of one swell when the schooner came stoop- I Strike the Jolly Roger. ing over the next. The bowsprit was over my head. I sprang to my feet and leaped, stamping the coracle under water. With I HAD scarce gained a position on the bowsprit when the one hand I caught the jib-boom, while my foot was lodged flying jib flapped and filled upon the other tack, with a re- between the stay and the brace; and as I still clung there port like a gun. The schooner trembled to her keel under the panting, a dull blow told me that the schooner had charged reverse, but next moment, the other sails still drawing, the jib down upon and struck the coracle and that I was left without flapped back again and hung idle. retreat on the HISPANIOLA. This had nearly tossed me off into the sea; and now I lost no time, crawled back along the bowsprit, and tumbled head foremost on the deck. I was on the lee side of the forecastle, and the main- sail, which was still drawing, concealed from me a certain portion Contents of the after-deck. Not a soul was to be seen. The planks, which had not been swabbed since the mutiny, bore the print of many feet, and an empty bottle, broken by the neck, Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 200 201 tumbled to and fro like a live thing in the scuppers. wards the stern, so that his face became, little by little, hid Suddenly the HISPANIOLA came right into the wind. from me; and at last I could see nothing beyond his ear and The jibs behind me cracked aloud, the rudder slammed to, the frayed ringlet of one whisker. the whole ship gave a sickening heave and shudder, and at the At the same time, I observed, around both of them, splashes same moment the main-boom swung inboard, the sheet groan- of dark blood upon the planks and began to feel sure


went home,” I said. “I picked up your prescriptions,” Lucinda said, like she’d done me a favor. “Didn’t I tell you not to do that?” But Lucinda was looking around. “It’s very … bohemian,” she said, like that was the nicest thing she could come up with. “How did you get up here?” I demanded. “Mr. Kim gave me the code.” “You met Mr. Kim?” She nodded, still looking around. “He kept calling me Martha Stewart.” At that, I stifled a smile. Mr. Kim always had everybody’s number. I sighed. “That’s actually a great nickname for you.” She considered that. Was she complimented or insulted? Either way, I didn’t like seeing my worlds collide. “Don’t bother Mr. Kim, okay?” Mr. Kim, along with the whole Kim family, belonged to me. But she wasn’t listening. “You live here?” I could have lied, I guess. But maybe I was tired of lying. And it was hopeless anyway. She was here. It was what it was. “It’s temporary,” I said. And then, with her trademark decisiveness, she pulled out her wallet, scanned down her credit cards, and took one out. “Take it,” she said. “I don’t need it,” I said. “Just take it,” she insisted. “Your dad will never know.” “I’m fine,” I said. “This one gives you points,” she said, waving it at me. “So?” “So every time you use it, we’re making money.” “That is not how that works.” But she gave me a wink. “Just use it. I do all the bills, anyway. I’ll never tell.” How dare she act like I needed her? I never needed anyone. Ever. For anything. And the reason that was true? The reason I never let myself do a very simple thing like need other people that the rest of humanity got to do all the time? That reason was standing right here in a hot-pink sweater. I took hold of her shoulders and steered her toward the door. “I don’t need your help. And I don’t want you up here. And I’m changing the passcode. So go home, okay? And take your credit card with you.” She didn’t fight me. She left without protest. But it was only after I’d dead-bolted the door that I saw, on the table beside it, looking defiantly up at me … her credit card. * * * IT ONLY HIT me, really, after I’d gotten rid of her. My entire life up until now had been a before. And now I was in the after. I couldn’t see faces. Not even my own. I was face-blind. Maybe I’d stay that way, and maybe I wouldn’t. But one thing was certain. I would never be the same. It was like suddenly finding myself on an alien planet. Even in the hospital, where caretaking was literally the job of every person I interacted with, people felt strange and foreign and vaguely unsafe. Either I was thinking about all the missing faces and working to avert my eyes, or I was staring at them, still disbelieving, or I was forgetting about my


apothecary days. Prim is in my first reaping outfit, a skirt and ruffled blouse. It’s a bit big on her, but my mother has made it stay with pins. Even so, she’s having trouble keeping the blouse tucked in at the back. A tub of warm water waits for me. I scrub off the dirt and sweat from the woods and even wash my hair. To my surprise, my mother has laid out one of her own lovely dresses for me. A soft blue thing with matching shoes. 15 “Are you sure?” I ask. I’m trying to get past rejecting offers of help from her. For a while, I was so angry, I wouldn’t allow her to do anything for me. And this is something special. Her clothes from her past are very precious to her. “Of course. Let’s put your hair up, too,” she says. I let her towel-dry it and braid it up on my head. I can hardly recognize myself in the cracked mirror that leans against the wall. “You look beautiful,” says Prim in a hushed voice. “And nothing like myself,” I say. I hug her, because I know these next few hours will be terrible for her. Her first reaping. She’s about as safe as you can get, since she’s only entered once. I wouldn’t let her take out any tesserae. But she’s wor- ried about me. That the unthinkable might happen. I protect Prim in every way I can, but I’m powerless against the reaping. The anguish I always feel when she’s in pain wells up in my chest and threatens to register on my (ace. I notice her blouse has pulled out of her skirt in the back again and force myself to stay calm. “Tuck your tail in, little duck,” I say, smoothing the blouse back in place. Prim giggles and gives me a small “Quack.” “Quack yourself,” I say with a light laugh. The kind only Prim can draw out of me. “Come on, let’s eat,” I say and plant a quick kiss on the top of her head. The fish and greens are already cooking in a stew, but that will be for supper. We decide to save the strawberries and ba- kery bread for this evening’s meal, to make it special we say. Instead we drink milk from Prim’s goat, Lady, and eat the 16 rough bread made from the tessera grain, although no one has much appetite anyway. At one o’clock, we head for the square. Attendance is man- datory unless you are on death’s door. This evening, officials will come around and check to see if this is the case. If not, you’ll be imprisoned. It’s too bad, really, that they hold the reaping in the square — one of the few places in District 12 that can be pleasant. The square’s surrounded by shops, and on public market days, especially if there’s good weather, it has a holiday feel to it. But today, despite the bright banners hanging on the build- ings, there’s an air of grimness. The


her brother and Hallie. Ingram Meyer and his Tommy Bahama hat took up the rear of the line, making no pretense about being zeroed in on August and Natalie. His brows looked so skeptical, they’d almost reached the center of his forehead, and he was obviously unconvinced that Natalie and August were a happily engaged couple. Maybe such a feat was impossible. Maybe this was all a huge waste of time. “This is insane,” Natalie whispered. “I’m insane.” August leaned down, bringing them nearly eye level. Don’t look at his mouth. Natalie refused to think about the sweep of exhilaration she’d felt when their lips locked together. Her body’s unwise response to this man needed to be the furthest thing from her mind. Pushed way out into the ether, because it didn’t matter. This plan was meant to be a business arrangement—and already it was on shaky ground. Might not even be viable at all. “What’s insane?” August prompted. “This. Me. Asking for your help. You just want to make a fool out of me.” Momentarily, he cast his gaze downward. “I’ll admit I came on a little strong back there. I’m just . . . I’m never comfortable at these things.” “So you have to make everyone else uncomfortable to compensate?” “Correct.” “At least you’re an honest dickhead.” “The wedding vows practically write themselves,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck with his free hand. “Look, it’s out of my system now. I’ll do better.” Natalie closed her eyes, acutely aware of Corinne watching them from her position in line. Of course Corinne had spotted the subterfuge right away. Even if the trust fund wasn’t hanging in the balance, giving Natalie a big fat motive for a hasty marriage, never in Natalie’s life had she gotten away with a lie to her mother. Corinne was a human polygraph test that she’d been taking and failing since birth. That’s not my weed, Mom. Our test determined that was a lie. Natalie attempted a small smile at her mother over her shoulder and was given an impassive look in return. Ingram Meyer watched the whole exchange happen, visibly taking mental notes behind shrewd eyes. He really did see everything, didn’t he? Who in this crowd and the town beyond could be considered his eyes and ears? Anyone at any time? Faking this union was going to be a lot more complicated than she’d imagined. “I’m pretty sure it’s too late, Adonis,” she muttered, her gaze straying back to Ingram. “I think we’ve been made.” August shook his head. “We’ll salvage it.” “Doubtful. I hope you can get your money back for this ring.” A line popped in August’s cheek. His giant hand was beginning to sweat inside of hers. Was he worried? Obviously. He wanted that bank loan as much as she wanted her trust fund released. They were almost to the hostess station when one of the passengers squeezed past them toward the exit, crowding Natalie closer to August’s big, warm body. The air was beginning to cool, thanks to


to the southeast.” Shademount was one of the smaller villages in Auverraine, more an outpost than a proper town. It was the last Auverrani settlement before reaching what was formerly Balgia, a small duchy now part of the Kirythean Empire. Lore had never been there, obviously, but she’d had Shademount-brewed beer. It was very good. She guessed no one would be making it anymore. “The people had no marks on them, no sign of poisoning or sickness. They just look like they’re asleep. Some think it’s a sign of Apollius’s disfavor.” “And what do you think it is?” Anton folded his fingers across his middle, like a teacher quizzing a student. “Mostly, I think it’s all rumors. Maybe one or two got sick and died in the night, maybe a whole farmhouse full, but a whole village? Horseshit.” “Not horseshit,” Anton said levelly. Priest he might be, but he didn’t stutter at all over the profanity. “Truth. All of it.” A pause. “Though there have been two villages, now. It happened again two nights ago. Orlimar. Slightly bigger than Shademount, nearer Erocca than Balgia.” Another village on the southeastern border, close to another country conquered by the Empire. Lore swallowed. Anton’s eye glinted as he leveled an unreadable look her way, something vaguely sinister in the curve of his mouth. But it was gone quickly, covered by a mask of nondescript pleasantry. Behind the Priest, Malcolm and Gabriel were mostly expressionless. Gabriel kept raising his hand to his eye patch, though, like it itched. “That’s interesting,” Lore said finally. “But I fail to see how I can help you with it.” “The same way you helped your unfortunate equine friend in the Northwest Ward this morning,” Anton replied. “Reanimation.” The word fell like a stone in the quiet room. Lore gaped, the uncomfortable feeling of returning circulation forgotten. “I…” She stopped, shook her head, jangling free more of that chloroform headache. “Listen, it’s not something that I do frequently, and the comedown is really unpleasant, so I’d rather not—” “You’ve done it more than once already.” Anton nodded and waved a stately hand, as if presenting her with her own success. “It’s not an ability you can simply wish away. Wouldn’t you rather do it in the employ of Church and Crown, where a pyre isn’t imminent?” That was a threat, despite his genteel tone. She sat back in her chair, instinctually putting distance between the two of them. The scar tissue massing the left side of the Priest Exalted’s face moved as his mouth stretched to a cruel smile. “When you have unholy skills,” he said, “it is best to put them to holy purpose.” “Don’t you have some unholy skills of your own? Surely one of you could do it.” Incredulous laughter ticked at the back of Lore’s throat. “You can channel Mortem, can’t you? All of you can, that’s your whole purpose.” Her newly free hand cut through the air, jabbed toward Gabriel. “He can feel it! There has to be someone in your damn cult that can raise


eyes only gave hints of this. She frequently fixed them upon her anxious friends with an expression of pity, and of tenderness, as if she anticipated the sorrow that awaited them, and that seemed to say, it was for their sakes only, for their sufferings, that she regretted life. On the seventh day, the disorder was at its crisis. The physician assumed a graver manner, which she observed, and took occasion, when her family had once quitted the chamber, to tell him, that she perceived her death was approaching. 'Do not attempt to deceive me,' said she, 'I feel that I cannot long survive. I am prepared for the event, I have long, I hope, been preparing for it. Since I have not long to live, do not suffer a mistaken compassion to induce you to flatter my family with false hopes. If you do, their affliction will only be the heavier when it arrives: I will endeavour to teach them resignation by my example.' The physician was affected; he promised to obey her, and told St. Aubert, somewhat abruptly, that there was nothing to expect. The latter was not philosopher enough to restrain his feelings when he received this information; but a consideration of the increased affliction which the observance of his grief would occasion his wife, enabled him, after some time, to command himself in her presence. Emily was at first overwhelmed with the intelligence; then, deluded by the strength of her wishes, a hope sprung up in her mind that her mother would yet recover, and to this she pertinaciously adhered almost to the last hour. The progress of this disorder was marked, on the side of Madame St. Aubert, by patient suffering, and subjected wishes. The composure, with which she awaited her death, could be derived only from the retrospect of a life governed, as far as human frailty permits, by a consciousness of being always in the presence of the Deity, and by the hope of a higher world. But her piety could not entirely subdue the grief of parting from those whom she so dearly loved. During these her last hours, she conversed much with St. Aubert and Emily, on the prospect of futurity, and on other religious topics. The resignation she expressed, with the firm hope of meeting in a future world the friends she left in this, and the effort which sometimes appeared to conceal her sorrow at this temporary separation, frequently affected St. Aubert so much as to oblige him to leave the room. Having indulged his tears awhile, he would dry them and return to the chamber with a countenance composed by an endeavour which did but increase his grief. Never had Emily felt the importance of the lessons, which had taught her to restrain her sensibility, so much as in these moments, and never had she practised them with a triumph so complete. But when the last was over, she sunk at once under the pressure of her sorrow, and then perceived that it was hope, as well as fortitude, which


his mind except to do as much damage as possible to the two gunmen and be able to exchange a few hurried words with the girl. No other plan was possible. He just wanted to tell her not to give in. As the Corsican turned at the commotion Bond was on him and his right shoe was launched in a flying kick at the other man's groin. Like lightning the Corsican slammed himself back against the wall of the passage and, as Bond's foot whistled past his hip, he very quickly, but somehow delicately, shot out his left hand, caught Bond's shoe at the top of its arch and twisted it sharply. Completely off balance, Bond's other foot left the ground. In the air his whole body turned and with the momentum of his rush behind it crashed sideways and down on to the floor. For a moment he lay there, all the breath knocked out of him. Then the thin man came and hauled him up against the wall by his collar. He had a gun in his hand. He looked Bond inquisitively in the eyes. Then unhurriedly he bent down and swiped the barrel viciously across Bond's shins. Bond grunted and caved at the knees. 'If there is a next time, it will be across your teeth,' said the thin man in bad French. A door slammed. Vesper and the Corsican had disappeared. Bond turned his head to the right. Le Chiffre had moved a few feet out into the passage. He lifted his finger and crooked it again. Then for the first time he spoke. 'Come, my dear friend. We are wasting our time.' He spoke in English with no accent. His voice was low and soft and unhurried. He showed no emotion. He might have been a doctor summoning the next patient from the waiting-room, a hysterical patient who had been expostulating feebly with a nurse. Bond again felt puny and impotent. Nobody but an expert in ju-jitsu could have handled him with the Corsican's economy and lack of fuss. The cold precision with which the thin man had paid him back in his own coin had been equally unhurried, even artistic. Almost docilely Bond walked back down the passage. He had nothing but a few more bruises to show for his clumsy gesture of resistance to these people. As he preceded the thin man over the threshold he knew that was utterly and absolutely in their power. CHAPTER 17 - 'MY DEAR BOY' It was a large bare room, sparsely furnished in cheap French art nouveau style. It was difficult to say whether it was intended as a living- or dining-room for a flimsy-looking mirrored sideboard, sporting an orange crackle-ware fruit dish and two painted wooden candlesticks, took up most of the wall opposite the door and contradicted the faded pink sofa ranged against the other side of the room. There was no table in the centre under the alabasterine ceiling light, only a small square of stained carpet with a futurist design in contrasting browns. Over


out a history of the accident, all except the Lizard, who seemed too much overcome to do anything but sit with its mouth open, gazing up into the roof of the court. `What do you know about this business?' the King said to Alice. `Nothing,' said Alice. `Nothing WHATEVER?' persisted the King. `Nothing whatever,' said Alice. `That's very important,' the King said, turning to the jury. They were just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit interrupted: `UNimportant, your Majesty means, of course,' he said in a very respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him as he spoke. `UNimportant, of course, I meant,' the King hastily said, and went on to himself in an undertone, `important--unimportant-- unimportant--important--' as if he were trying which word sounded best. Some of the jury wrote it down `important,' and some `unimportant.' Alice could see this, as she was near enough to look over their slates; `but it doesn't matter a bit,' she thought to herself. At this moment the King, who had been for some time busily writing in his note-book, cackled out `Silence!' and read out from his book, `Rule Forty-two. ALL PERSONS MORE THAN A MILE HIGH TO LEAVE THE COURT.' Everybody looked at Alice. `I'M not a mile high,' said Alice. `You are,' said the King. `Nearly two miles high,' added the Queen. `Well, I shan't go, at any rate,' said Alice: `besides, that's not a regular rule: you invented it just now.' `It's the oldest rule in the book,' said the King. `Then it ought to be Number One,' said Alice. The King turned pale, and shut his note-book hastily. `Consider your verdict,' he said to the jury, in a low, trembling voice. `There's more evidence to come yet, please your Majesty,' said the White Rabbit, jumping up in a great hurry; `this paper has just been picked up.' `What's in it?' said the Queen. `I haven't opened it yet,' said the White Rabbit, `but it seems to be a letter, written by the prisoner to--to somebody.' `It must have been that,' said the King, `unless it was written to nobody, which isn't usual, you know.' `Who is it directed to?' said one of the jurymen. `It isn't directed at all,' said the White Rabbit; `in fact, there's nothing written on the OUTSIDE.' He unfolded the paper as he spoke, and added `It isn't a letter, after all: it's a set of verses.' `Are they in the prisoner's handwriting?' asked another of they jurymen. `No, they're not,' said the White Rabbit, `and that's the queerest thing about it.' (The jury all looked puzzled.) `He must have imitated somebody else's hand,' said the King. (The jury all brightened up again.) `Please your Majesty,' said the Knave, `I didn't write it, and they can't prove I did: there's no name signed at the end.' `If you didn't sign it,' said the King, `that only makes the matter worse. You MUST have meant some mischief, or else you'd have signed your name like an honest man.' There was


was a great support in his adven- About the author turous and arduous life. Stevenson made several trips to the Kingdom of Hawaii and be- came a good friend of King David Kalakaua with whom Stevenson spent much time. Stevenson also became best friends with the king's niece Princess Victoria Kaiulani, also of Scottish heritage. Since the tragic deaths of both Stevenson and Kaiulani, historians have debated the true nature of their relationship as to whether or not they had Robert Louis (Balfour) romantic feelings for each other. Because of the age difference, such Stevenson (November 13, stories have often been discredited. In 1888, Stevenson travelled to 1850-December 3, 1894), was the island of Molokai just weeks after the death of Father Damien. He a novelist, poet, and travel writer. spent twelve days at the missionary priest's residence, Bishop Home at Kalawao. Stevenson taught the local girls to play croquet. When Stevenson was born Robert Lewis Balfour Stevenson in Congregationalist and Presbyterian ministers began to incite slander Edinburgh, Scotland, the son of Thomas Stevenson, a successful engi- against Father Damien out of spite for his Catholicism, Stevenson neer, and Margaret Balfour. They were both very religious. Robert wrote one of his most famous essays in defense of the life and work of gave up the religion of his parents while in his university years, but the the missionary priest. teaching that he received as a child continued to influence him. Stevenson died of a brain haemorrhage in Vailima in Samoa, aged Although ill with tuberculosis from childhood, Stevenson had a 44. full life. He began his education as an engineer (and his lighthouse designs were much praised). At the age of 18 he dropped the name Balfour and changed his middle name from Lewis to Louis (but re- taining the original pronunciation); from this time on he began styling himself "RLS". He turned to the law because of poor health, but he never practiced. He ended as a tribal leader (called by his tribe Tusitala) and plantation owner in Samoa, all this in addition to his literary ca- reer. Contents Stevenson's novels of adventure, romance, and horror are of con- siderable psychological depth and have continued in popularity long after his death, both as books and as films. Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 18. Narrative continued by the doctor: end of the first day’s fighting Contents 19. 20. Narrative resumed by jim hawkins: the garrison in the stockade Silver’s embassy 21. The attack To the hesitating purchaser. Part 5. Part 1. My Sea Adventure The Old Buccaneer 22. How my sea adventure began 1. The old sea-dog at the admiral benbow 23. The ebb-tide runs 2. Black dog appears and disappears 24. The cruise of the coracle 3. The black spot 25. I strike the jolly roger 4. The sea-chest 26. Israel hands 5. The last of the blind man 27. “Pieces of eight” 6. The captain’s papers Part 6. Part 2. Captain Silver The Sea Cook 28. In the enemy’s camp 7. I go to bristol 29. The black spot again


leech, and Io was working for the mob queen of the Silts. So much for dreams of justice. Gods, it sounded like a cautionary tale. Her feet found their own way to the door of the apartment Rosa shared with her two cousins. The thread that bound them went straight through the door, where Io could see her friend moving through the small living room. Four other bundles of threads sat in various corners of the room. Her family? New friends? Io could turn back and forget their meeting on that scaffolding tonight ever happened. That was the safest way to ensure Bianca, and all that mess with the wraiths, stayed well away from her friend. Perhaps Rosa wasn’t even interested in seeing Io, in explaining things, after all this time they had spent apart. But the thread they shared was still there; their love for each other hadn’t faded yet. Before she could talk herself out of it, Io knocked, two times fast, two times slow. The door swung open in seconds, bathing the corridor with light. Rosa’s face was still turned back, mid-laugh at something her friends had said. When her eyes finally registered Io, her smile faded, those high, joyous eyebrows collapsing into a frown. Her police jacket was undone, the sleeves rolled up to her biceps. “Hey,” Io said. “I just wanted to make sure—” That you’re safe. That I didn’t hurt you. “Is it the food?” someone called from inside, an older, male voice. Rosa startled, then quickly composed herself with a liquid “Don’t be greedy, Marco. It’s just my neighbor, the one I told you I babysit for?” Casually, she leaned into the wood, blocking the space between door and frame with her body. She wasn’t being cruel; she was trying to keep Io out of view from whoever was in the room. They must be her colleagues, then. Io knew she didn’t have a lot of time, if they were to keep this ruse going. “Are you all right?” she whispered. “Yeah, yeah,” Rosa said, her voice bored, almost blasé, appropriate for an overbearing neighbor. The apartment was small; her guests could probably hear her perfectly. “Listen, I can’t babysit tomorrow—I’m working the night shift again.” Io played along. “Day after tomorrow?” “Sounds good.” Rosa’s eyes bulged with exaggerated meaning. “I’ll come to you.” Io nodded. Message received. They could talk at length the day after tomorrow. The shadows behind Rosa’s legs shifted, like someone had stood up from the couch. Io shuffled back from the door. Time to go before anyone unsavory spotted her. Rosa called down the corridor, “Stay safe, all right?” Worry clenched at Io’s throat. That was easier said than done. * * * At dawn, when the last dregs of revelers left the Fortuna to stumble home, Ava found Io in the small parlor on the second floor of the club, three doors down from where Edei rested. She was in her golden dress with the plunging back, hair pinned over one shoulder as was the current trend. She patted


has discovered. A discovery that affects all of us.” Captain Loggins’ irritation was obvious; what was bugging him, I had no idea. On the other hand, Captain Church looked as calm as a cucumber. Loggins smirked. “So … you’ve decided to be more transparent. How nice.” “What is that supposed to mean?” I snapped back. “Whatever I learn, you’ll learn.” “And it’s no mistake that it’s only your people over there on Lincoln?” I momentarily considered if I would include Hardy as “people,” but let it pass. Captain Church said, “How about we let Quintos say what he wants to say? We can debate and quibble later.” “Screw you, Church… This is important … Maybe you should take some time to find your balls.” Looking amused, Captain Church raised a brow. “And tell me, Captain Loggins, do Symbio-Poths 2.0s come equipped with a set of balls … Do you have an actual ball sac?” “Enough. I didn’t call this meeting to argue. Here’s what I know … What the crew of Lincoln had been working on, the QFR, was not some kind of self-contained device that could be transferred to Adams, Wrath, or Portent.” “What the hell are you saying?” Loggins barked. “I’m saying the quantum flux reverser was built right into Lincoln’s Engineering and Propulsion department. As in, it’s integrated as part of the ship.” “That does make a kind of sense,” Church commented. “Fuck you, Church. Or maybe you haven’t figured out the ramifications of all this.” I looked to Church for his response to that. As obnoxious as Loggins was being, his hostility was at least understandable. He, like me, was facing the prospect of abandoning our respective ships. But Captain Church remained unruffled, treating the situation as effortlessly as a leisurely stroll through a sun-dappled meadow. “Look, that’s a last-resort scenario right now,” I said. “But we need to prepare for it just the same. I suggest we work tirelessly to find the location of that alien quantum flux generator. We destroy that, well, our problems are solved, right?” Loggins grumbled something indecipherable, while Church nodded a little too enthusiastically. “I’ll keep you apprised of things on our end.” I cut the connection. I stood and headed for the ready room’s exit. As unpleasant as that last conversation was, I dreaded this next one even more. I moved to the front of the bridge. “Listen up; I have an update.” Heads lifted; eyes found me. The half-dozen ancillary bridge crew in the back looked quizzical, while the forward crew members, Akari, Grimes, Chen, and Polk, all looked wary. I looked to Akari. “If, and only if, we are unable to locate and destroy the Liquilids’ quantum flux generator, and soon, we will be abandoning Adams.” No one looked surprised. Akari shrugged. Chen sniffed. “Who told you?” I asked. Then I held up a hand. “Let me guess. A seven-foot-tall, ChronoBot by the name of Hardy.” “Guess no one thought it was a big secret,” Grimes said from the helm station. “Then you also know the QFR is integrated—”


England’s men now? I suspicion. I’m fifty, mark you; once back from this cruise, I dunno. Where’s Flint’s? Why, most on ‘em aboard here, set up gentleman in earnest. Time enough too, says you. Ah, and glad to get the duff—been begging before that, some on but I’ve lived easy in the meantime, never denied myself o’ ‘em. Old Pew, as had lost his sight, and might have thought nothing heart desires, and slep’ soft and ate dainty all my days shame, spends twelve hundred pound in a year, like a lord in but when at sea. And how did I begin? Before the mast, like Parliament. Where is he now? Well, he’s dead now and un- you!” der hatches; but for two year before that, shiver my timbers, “Well,” said the other, “but all the other money’s gone now, the man was starving! He begged, and he stole, and he cut ain’t it? You daren’t show face in Bristol after this.” throats, and starved at that, by the powers!” “Why, where might you suppose it was?” asked Silver de- “Well, it ain’t much use, after all,” said the young seaman. risively. “‘Tain’t much use for fools, you may lay to it—that, nor “At Bristol, in banks and places,” answered his compan- nothing,” cried Silver. “But now, you look here: you’re young, ion. you are, but you’re as smart as paint. I see that when I set my “It were,” said the cook; “it were when we weighed anchor. eyes on you, and I’ll talk to you like a man.” But my old missis has it all by now. And the Spy-glass is You may imagine how I felt when I heard this abominable sold, lease and goodwill and rigging; and the old girl’s off to Contents old rogue addressing another in the very same words of flat- meet me. I would tell you where, for I trust you, but it’d tery as he had used to myself. I think, if I had been able, that make jealousy among the mates.” Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 90 91 “And can you trust your missis?” asked the other. But on this point I was soon to be relieved, for Silver giving a “Gentlemen of fortune,” returned the cook, “usually trusts little whistle, a third man strolled up and sat down by the little among themselves, and right they are, you may lay to it. party. But I have a way with me, I have. When a mate brings a slip “Dick’s square,” said Silver. on his cable—one as knows me, I mean—it won’t be in the “Oh, I know’d Dick was square,” returned the voice of the same world with old John. There was some that was feared of coxswain, Israel Hands. “He’s no fool, is Dick.” And he turned Pew, and some that was feared of Flint; but Flint his own self his quid and spat. “But look here,” he went on, “here’s what I was feared of me. Feared he was, and proud. They was the want to know, Barbecue: how


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

team indeed. I doubted I would have to worry ever again about securing funding for future fieldwork, nor being overlooked when it came to conference invitations. It was the thought of invitations—yes, that thought—that made me rise from my bed. I yanked open my door, intending to stomp down the hall and —well, throw myself at him. I wanted to see what he would do, but more important, I needed to know if it was something I would enjoy. I was not going to marry someone without making sure of that. But before I could take a step in his direction, a calm settled over me like a dream. Instead of going to Wendell’s door, I returned to my own room and dressed in warm clothes. Shadow remained asleep at the foot of my bed, though it was a strange sleep—he twitched and whined, his huge paws batting at invisible foes. I left my room and pulled on my cloak. As I did, I happened to glance down at my hand. The ring was there, but it was no longer a ring of shadow. It was a ring of ice, polished smooth and patterned with tiny blue crystals. I knew exactly what was happening, of course. I have had enough faerie magic thrown at me over the years that I believe I have become somewhat inured to it—at the very least, I have trained myself to recognize when enchantment is affecting me; the absence of such recognition is what dooms most mortals. The truth is that it is not impossible to throw off faerie spells if you have a focused mind. But most people don’t try, because they fail to recognize that it is enchantment pushing them to dance until their feet bleed, or murder their families, or any other number of horrors inflicted upon hapless mortals by the Folk. Unfortunately, in this case, the knowledge of my own enchantment was of little use, for it was uncommonly strong magic, and held me like an iron vise. I did what I could to push against it, to feel about for cracks. I could not stop myself from donning my boots, but I was able to slow the process by fumbling with the laces. Yet eventually, the laces were fastened, and then I was opening the door and stepping into the night. I managed a single glance over my shoulder, and what did my gaze fall upon but my encyclopaedia, pages stacked tidily beneath my paperweight, little bookmarks sticking out the sides indicating sections requiring revision. That pinnacle of faerie scholarship, which I had only weeks ago likened to a museum exhibit of the Folk, neatly pinned down and labelled by the foremost expert on the subject—that is, me—brimming with meticulously documented accounts of foolish mortals who bumbled into faerie plots and games. The irony was rather too keen to appreciate. Trying to shout for Wendell was, of course, ineffective. It made sense, the rational, freethinking part of my mind noted, that this would be the case. My feet were being led somewhere—to


second family ten years ago and I haven’t seen him since. The usual girl stuff. Grimacing, she squeaks, “Maybe the sponsoring firms won’t be super involved?” “I honestly couldn’t care less.” I’m not lying. He’s the one with something to be ashamed of. I’m the one who’s a credit to my family name. Which is Bangura, not Soro, thank you very much. I slip the leaflet into my bag, pressed between the pages of a textbook to keep it fresh and uncreased. “I’ll think about this. Thanks, Min.” She blows me a kiss as the bell rings, and we get up for class. Only then do I realize who slunk into the Beech Hut while Minnie and I were talking. Bradley Graeme is here. Alongside, you know, a ton of other people, but he stands out as the King of Uselessness. He and his breathless fan club are ensconced at their usual table, miles away from the admin office, which allows them to get away with breaking all kinds of rules. Case in point: Bradley Graeme is currently bouncing a Completely Illicit Football off his head. His short, shiny twists are jumping, and his grin is wide and carefree the way only a truly terrible person’s can be. Minnie leans in as we walk by. “Do you think Brad’s applying to Cambridge?” “Of course he is,” I mutter. When does he ever miss a chance to show off? “So, you might see him at interviews and stuff. Right?” Ugh. God forbid. “I don’t care, stop looking at him.” She arches an eyebrow. “You started it.” Yeah, well. Who can avoid looking at Bradley? His sheer annoyingness creates its own gravitational pull. His fan club—consisting of 70 percent boys’ football team and 30 percent girls whose parents pay for their mammoth Depop wardrobes, which equals 100 percent skinny, glowing people who practice TikTok dances unironically and spend their weekends being bland and hooking up at house parties—is absolutely entranced by his tomfoolery like they’ve never seen a ball before. Except for Jordan Cooper, who rolls his eyes, snatches the ball out of the air, and says in his flat American accent, “Cut it out, or Mr. Darling will rip you a new one.” (Mr. Darling is our head of year, a tightly wound geography teacher who hands out detentions like he gets paid by the hour.) Bradley just laughs as if he fears nothing in the world—which is an absolute lie. But then, I’ve always believed he is fake and false and entirely made of earth-destroying plastic, so…that tracks. I’m in the process of looking away with withering disdain when he—inconvenient down to his very soul—glances up and catches my eye. Great. I give him my filthiest look, but his grin doesn’t falter. In fact, it gets wider. He raises his eyebrows, and I can practically read his thoughts: Watching me again, Bangura? I glare. You wish. His smile turns into a smirk. Ugh. BRAD September’s supposed to be fresh and crisp like the empty pages of my brand-new notebook, but so far,


would--I'm not certain.' 'Are you sorry you didn't?' 'Yes. On the whole I'm sorry I didn't.' They were sitting side by side on the dusty floor. He pulled her closer file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (74 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt against him. Her head rested on his shoulder, the pleasant smell of her hair conquering the pigeon dung. She was very young, he thought, she still expected something from life, she did not understand that to push an inconvenient person over a cliff solves nothing. 'Actually it would have made no difference,' he said. 'Then why are you sorry you didn't do it?' 'Only because I prefer a positive to a negative. In this game that we're playing, we can't win. Some kinds of failure are better than other kinds, that's all.' He felt her shoulders give a wriggle of dissent. She always contradicted him when he said anything of this kind. She would not accept it as a law of nature that the individual is always defeated. In a way she realized that she herself was doomed, that sooner or later the Thought Police would catch her and kill her, but with another part of her mind she believed that it was somehow possible to construct a secret world in which you could live as you chose. All you needed was luck and cunning and boldness. She did not understand that there was no such thing as happiness, that the only victory lay in the far future, long after you were dead, that from the moment of declaring war on the Party it was better to think of yourself as a corpse. 'We are the dead,' he said. 'We're not dead yet,' said Julia prosaically. 'Not physically. Six months, a year--five years, conceivably. I am afraid of death. You are young, so presumably you're more afraid of it than I am. Obviously we shall put it off as long as we can. But it makes very little difference. So long as human beings stay human, death and life are the same thing.' 'Oh, rubbish! Which would you sooner sleep with, me or a skeleton? Don't you enjoy being alive? Don't you like feeling: This is me, this is my hand, this is my leg, I'm real, I'm solid, I'm alive! Don't you like THIS?' She twisted herself round and pressed her bosom against him. He could feel her breasts, ripe yet firm, through her overalls. Her body seemed to be pouring some of its youth and vigour into his. 'Yes, I like that,' he said. 'Then stop talking about dying. And now listen, dear, we've got to fix up about the next time we meet. We may as well go back to the place in the wood. We've given it a good long rest. But you must get there by a different way this time. I've got it all planned out. You take the train--but look, I'll draw it out for you.' And in her practical way she scraped together a small square of dust, and with a twig from a pigeon's nest


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

says I to her like that. He turned aside and made the act of spitting. --PHTH! says I to her like that, right into her eye. He clapped his hand to his eye and gave a hoarse scream of pain. --O JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH! says she. I'M BLINDED! I'M BLINDED AND DROWNDED! He stopped in a fit of coughing and laughter, repeating: --I'M BLINDED ENTIRELY. Mr Dedalus laughed loudly and lay back in his chair while uncle Charles swayed his head to and fro. Dante looked terribly angry and repeated while they laughed: --Very nice! Ha! Very nice! It was not nice about the spit in the woman's eye. But what was the name the woman had called Kitty O'Shea that Mr Casey would not repeat? He thought of Mr Casey walking through the crowds of people and making speeches from a wagonette. That was what he had been in prison for and he remembered that one night Sergeant O'Neill had come to the house and had stood in the hall, talking in a low voice with his father and chewing nervously at the chinstrap of his cap. And that night Mr Casey had not gone to Dublin by train but a car had come to the door and he had heard his father say something about the Cabinteely road. He was for Ireland and Parnell and so was his father: and so was Dante too for one night at the band on the esplanade she had hit a gentleman on the head with her umbrella because he had taken off his hat when the band played GOD SAVE THE QUEEN at the end. Mr Dedalus gave a snort of contempt. --Ah, John, he said. It is true for them. We are an unfortunate priest-ridden race and always were and always will be till the end of the chapter. Uncle Charles shook his head, saying: --A bad business! A bad business! Mr Dedalus repeated: --A priest-ridden Godforsaken race! He pointed to the portrait of his grandfather on the wall to his right. --Do you see that old chap up there, John? he said. He was a good Irishman when there was no money in the job. He was condemned to death as a whiteboy. But he had a saying about our clerical friends, that he would never let one of them put his two feet under his mahogany. Dante broke in angrily: --If we are a priest-ridden race we ought to be proud of it! They are the apple of God's eye. TOUCH THEM NOT, says Christ, FOR THEY ARE THE APPLE OF MY EYE. --And can we not love our country then? asked Mr Casey. Are we not to follow the man that was born to lead us? --A traitor to his country! replied Dante. A traitor, an adulterer! The priests were right to abandon him. The priests were always the true friends of Ireland. --Were they, faith? said Mr Casey. He threw his fist on the table and, frowning angrily, protruded one finger after another. --Didn't the bishops of


let me in! It's only Huck Finn!" "It's a name that can open this door night or day, lad! -- and welcome!" These were strange words to the vagabond boy's ears, and the pleasantest he had ever heard. He could not recollect that the closing word had ever been applied in his case before. The door was quickly unlocked, and he entered. Huck was given a seat and the old man and his brace of tall sons speedily dressed themselves. "Now, my boy, I hope you're good and hungry, because breakfast will be ready as soon as the sun's up, and we'll have a piping hot one, too -- make yourself easy about that! I and the boys hoped you'd turn up and stop here last night." --------------------------------------------------------- -271- "I was awful scared," said Huck, "and I run. I took out when the pistols went off, and I didn't stop for three mile. I've come now becuz I wanted to know about it, you know; and I come before daylight becuz I didn't want to run across them devils, even if they was dead." "Well, poor chap, you do look as if you'd had a hard night of it -- but there's a bed here for you when you've had your breakfast. No, they ain't dead, lad -- we are sorry enough for that. You see we knew right where to put our hands on them, by your description; so we crept along on tiptoe till we got within fifteen feet of them -- dark as a cellar that sumach path was -- and just then I found I was going to sneeze. It was the meanest kind of luck! I tried to keep it back, but no use -- 'twas bound to come, and it did come! I was in the lead with my pistol raised, and when the sneeze started those scoundrels a-rustling to get out of the path, I sung out, 'Fire boys!' and blazed away at the place where the rustling was. So did the boys. But they were off in a jiffy, those villains, and we after them, down through the woods. I judge we never touched them. They fired a shot apiece as they started, but their bullets whizzed by and didn't do us any harm. As soon as we lost the sound of their feet we quit chasing, and went down and stirred up the constables. They got a posse together, and went off to guard the river bank, and as soon as it is light the sheriff and a gang are going to beat up the --------------------------------------------------------- -272- woods. My boys will be with them presently. I wish we had some sort of description of those rascals -- 'twould help a good deal. But you couldn't see what they were like, in the dark, lad, I suppose?" "Oh yes; I saw them down-town and follered them." "Splendid! Describe them -- describe them, my boy!" "One's the old deaf and dumb Spaniard that's ben around here once or twice, and t'other's a mean-looking, ragged --


waited for it! It is late! It is late! I want my happiness!" Alas, poor Clifford! You are old, and worn with troubles that ought never to have befallen you. You are partly crazy and partly imbecile; a ruin, a failure, as almost everybody is,--though some in less degree, or less perceptibly, than their fellows. Fate has no happiness in store for you; unless your quiet home in the old family residence with the faithful Hepzibah, and your long summer afternoons with Phoebe, and these Sabbath festivals with Uncle Venner and the daguerreotypist, deserve to be called happiness! Why not? If not the thing itself, it is marvellously like it, and the more so for that ethereal and intangible quality which causes it all to vanish at too close an introspection. Take it, therefore, while you may Murmur not,--question not,--but make the most of it! XI The Arched Window FROM the inertness, or what we may term the vegetative character, of his ordinary mood, Clifford would perhaps have been content to spend one day after another, interminably,--or, at least, throughout the summer-time,--in just the kind of life described in the preceding pages. Fancying, however, that it might be for his benefit occasionally to diversify the scene, Phoebe sometimes suggested that he should look out upon the life of the street. For this purpose, they used to mount the staircase together, to the second story of the house, where, at the termination of a wide entry, there was an arched window, of uncommonly large dimensions, shaded by a pair of curtains. It opened above the porch, where there had formerly been a balcony, the balustrade of which had long since gone to decay, and been removed. At this arched window, throwing it open, but keeping himself in comparative obscurity by means of the curtain, Clifford had an opportunity of witnessing such a portion of the great world's movement as might be supposed to roll through one of the retired streets of a not very populous city. But he and Phoebe made a sight as well worth seeing as any that the city could exhibit. The pale, gray, childish, aged, melancholy, yet often simply cheerful, and sometimes delicately intelligent aspect of Clifford, peering from behind the faded crimson of the curtain, --watching the monotony of every-day occurrences with a kind of inconsequential interest and earnestness, and, at every petty throb of his sensibility, turning for sympathy to the eyes of the bright young girl! If once he were fairly seated at the window, even Pyncheon Street would hardly be so dull and lonely but that, somewhere or other along its extent, Clifford might discover matter to occupy his eye, and titillate, if not engross, his observation. Things familiar to the youngest child that had begun its outlook at existence seemed strange to him. A cab; an omnibus, with its populous interior, dropping here and there a passenger, and picking up another, and thus typifying that vast rolling vehicle, the world, the end of whose journey is everywhere and nowhere; these objects he followed eagerly


last Mrs. Medlock knocked at a door, and when some one said, "Come in," they entered the room together. A man was sitting in an armchair before the fire, and Mrs. Medlock spoke to him. "This is Miss Mary, sir," she said. "You can go and leave her here. I will ring for you when I want you to take her away," said Mr. Craven. When she went out and closed the door, Mary could only stand waiting, a plain little thing, twisting her thin hands together. She could see that the man in the chair was not so much a hunchback as a man with high, rather crooked shoulders, and he had black hair streaked with white. He turned his head over his high shoulders and spoke to her. "Come here!" he said. Mary went to him. He was not ugly. His face would have been handsome if it had not been so miserable. He looked as if the sight of her worried and fretted him and as if he did not know what in the world to do with her. "Are you well?" he asked. "Yes," answered Mary. "Do they take good care of you?" "Yes." He rubbed his forehead fretfully as he looked her over. "You are very thin," he said. "I am getting fatter," Mary answered in what she knew was her stiffest way. What an unhappy face he had! His black eyes seemed as if they scarcely saw her, as if they were seeing something else, and he could hardly keep his thoughts upon her. "I forgot you," he said. "How could I remember you? I intended to send you a governess or a nurse, or some one of that sort, but I forgot." "Please," began Mary. "Please--" and then the lump in her throat choked her. "What do you want to say?" he inquired. "I am--I am too big for a nurse," said Mary. "And please--please don't make me have a governess yet." He rubbed his forehead again and stared at her. "That was what the Sowerby woman said," he muttered absentmindedly. Then Mary gathered a scrap of courage. "Is she--is she Martha's mother?" she stammered. "Yes, I think so," he replied. "She knows about children," said Mary. "She has twelve. She knows." He seemed to rouse himself. "What do you want to do?" "I want to play out of doors," Mary answered, hoping that her voice did not tremble. "I never liked it in India. It makes me hungry here, and I am getting fatter." He was watching her. "Mrs. Sowerby said it would do you good. Perhaps it will," he said. "She thought you had better get stronger before you had a governess." "It makes me feel strong when I play and the wind comes over the moor," argued Mary. "Where do you play?" he asked next. "Everywhere," gasped Mary. "Martha's mother sent me a skipping-rope. I skip and run--and I look about to see if things are beginning to stick up out of the earth. I don't do any harm." "Don't look so


was it you shot the lord lieutenant of Finland between you? You look as though you had done the deed. General Bobrikoff. OMNIUM GATHERUM --We were only thinking about it, Stephen said. --All the talents, Myles Crawford said. Law, the classics ... --The turf, Lenehan put in. --Literature, the press. --If Bloom were here, the professor said. The gentle art of advertisement. --And Madam Bloom, Mr O'Madden Burke added. The vocal muse. Dublin's prime favourite. Lenehan gave a loud cough. --Ahem! he said very softly. O, for a fresh of breath air! I caught a cold in the park. The gate was open. YOU CAN DO IT! The editor laid a nervous hand on Stephen's shoulder. --I want you to write something for me, he said. Something with a bite in it. You can do it. I see it in your face. IN THE LEXICON OF YOUTH ... See it in your face. See it in your eye. Lazy idle little schemer. --Foot and mouth disease! the editor cried in scornful invective. Great nationalist meeting in Borris-in-Ossory. All balls! Bulldosing the public! Give them something with a bite in it. Put us all into it, damn its soul. Father, Son and Holy Ghost and Jakes M'Carthy. --We can all supply mental pabulum, Mr O'Madden Burke said. Stephen raised his eyes to the bold unheeding stare. --He wants you for the pressgang, J. J. O'Molloy said. THE GREAT GALLAHER --You can do it, Myles Crawford repeated, clenching his hand in emphasis. Wait a minute. We'll paralyse Europe as Ignatius Gallaher used to say when he was on the shaughraun, doing billiardmarking in the Clarence. Gallaher, that was a pressman for you. That was a pen. You know how he made his mark? I'll tell you. That was the smartest piece of journalism ever known. That was in eightyone, sixth of May, time of the invincibles, murder in the Phoenix park, before you were born, I suppose. I'll show you. He pushed past them to the files. --Look at here, he said turning. The NEW YORK WORLD cabled for a special. Remember that time? Professor MacHugh nodded. --NEW YORK WORLD, the editor said, excitedly pushing back his straw hat. Where it took place. Tim Kelly, or Kavanagh I mean. Joe Brady and the rest of them. Where Skin-the-Goat drove the car. Whole route, see? --Skin-the-Goat, Mr O'Madden Burke said. Fitzharris. He has that cabman's shelter, they say, down there at Butt bridge. Holohan told me. You know Holohan? --Hop and carry one, is it? Myles Crawford said. --And poor Gumley is down there too, so he told me, minding stones for the corporation. A night watchman. Stephen turned in surprise. --Gumley? he said. You don't say so? A friend of my father's, is it? --Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford cried angrily. Let Gumley mind the stones, see they don't run away. Look at here. What did Ignatius Gallaher do? I'll tell you. Inspiration of genius. Cabled right away. Have you WEEKLY FREEMAN of 17 March? Right. Have you got that? He flung back pages


she’s saying it was the scary way.” “Right,” Lola said, “but she’s a white woman saying this about a Black man after he was arrested for murder. Her perception might be skewed.” They started arguing, and I couldn’t follow anyone’s voice. This—I realized it, and it sank me into my chair—this was why I shouldn’t be involved. Because what the hell did I know? Maybe Sonya was bitter and exaggerating and he was the same Omar I knew, outgoing and kind; maybe she was telling the truth and Omar killed Thalia, would have killed again if he weren’t in prison; maybe he was indeed a terrible husband, an aggressive man, who had not killed Thalia but whose vibe had given Thalia’s friends just enough fuel to convince each other it was him. If it was inappropriate, in 1995, for Thalia’s friends to speculate, for their opinions to weigh something—for me to offer my unhelpful memory to the police, too—maybe it was equally inappropriate for these students to get involved. What measures did any of us have for the truth? But who was I kidding? I wasn’t going to stop the kids, or myself. I put on my most convincing teacher voice and I said, “The back-and-forth on this will make it a better podcast. Remember, we want questions. This raises such great questions.” 52 I wanted to call Yahav after film class, but I knew he’d be getting his kids dinner—he was the family cook—plus I’d told Mike Stiles I’d call. I hate the phone. It’s one thing talking to family or the pharmacist, but a scheduled call with someone I sort of know makes me want to pull hairs from the nape of my neck. I do best when I’m moving, so after a hot shower in the guesthouse, I put in my AirPods and started my walk toward the dining hall. He answered, mercifully, with “Bodie!” so there was no need to stammer an explanation, remind him why I was calling. He said, “How’s everyone? How’s everything?” I gushed about Lola, the class, campus, told him who was still around. I said, “I hear you’re at UConn.” He mentioned that he had three kids, that the oldest was twelve. I was crossing Middle Bridge, and told him so. “I’m jealous!” he said. “Lola knows I’m coming to graduation whether I’m invited or not.” And then, “So speaking of Lola, this—this project.” “Oddly,” I said, inanely anxious that he know this, “I had nothing to do with the idea.” I explained about Britt’s interest predating the class, how the kids saw the whole thing as ancient lore. Mike said, “It’s been on my mind a lot, actually. The past couple years.” “It means something new when you have your own kids.” “Sure,” he said, “sure. But I guess I just mean this moment we’re in, the stuff—we were so—God, Bodie, I don’t know.” One of the first things I’d taught the kids about getting someone to talk was biting your tongue. (“Literally,” I said, “if necessary.”) Sure enough, he filled his


wait many more days, because the brain tumor—which her doctors believed was fast growing—had completely changed the terrain and timeline of her disease. After I had a chance to question three different oncologists over seven hours, their combined thoughts boiled down to two treatment options: she could undergo radiation to shrink the brain tumor, or have surgery to remove it. None of them recommended further chemotherapy or treatment of the primary tumors, the metastasis we had already known about. The brain tumor, they said, demanded our immediate attention, because it had started a countdown. The final option was no treatment at all, but hospice care. The hospice intake nurse I spoke to was kind but candid. “Whatever your mother decides about treatment, now is the time to be making arrangements,” she told me. “You need to be able to pay her bills once she can’t, so she keeps her house and her lights stay on. She will need you or someone else to make important decisions when she is no longer able to. And if she decides not to treat the brain tumor at all, you should know that you’re probably looking at weeks.” I did not know how to ask the question. “Weeks before . . . ?” “Weeks before your mother is no longer the person you know,” she said, more gently. Mom was firmly opposed to a brain resection after meeting with the surgeon, who’d spent less than five minutes with her and told her she should have the operation if she wanted to live. Brain surgery at this stage felt like too extreme and risky an option to her—how much time could it possibly buy her, even if the brain tumor was successfully removed, when she had inoperable tumors in her pelvic cavity, her bones, her lungs, her liver? She also felt uncertain about the less aggressive treatment, targeted brain radiation; she worried that she would suffer cognitively or lose her memory. But when I talked to the radiation oncologist, who was by far the most patient and compassionate doctor I spoke with that week, he said that he hoped my mother would consider one week of brain radiation sessions in his lab. He felt there was minimal risk to her brain function and assured me that it was absolutely not a desperate attempt to prolong her life at any cost. “At this point, I wouldn’t recommend any treatment if it was just about buying her a little more time.” As painful as this was to hear, I appreciated his frankness. “This is really about the quality of the time she has left. She’s at very high risk of having another seizure or a stroke if the brain tumor is allowed to keep growing. I’m not sure she really understands that most patients with untreated brain tumors eventually kind of . . . drift away.” “What does that mean?” A brief silence followed, not long enough for me to fill with all my wild guesses. “If she does nothing to treat it, the most typical scenario would mean


folded. As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a particularly happy face, "I've got a treat for you after supper." A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth clapped her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo tossed up her napkin, crying, "A letter! A letter! Three cheers for Father!" "Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and thinks he shall get through the cold season better than we feared. He sends all sorts of loving wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls," said Mrs. March, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there. "Hurry and get done! Don't stop to quirk your little finger and simper over your plate, Amy," cried Jo, choking on her tea and dropping her bread, butter side down, on the carpet in her haste to get at the treat. Beth ate no more, but crept away to sit in her shadowy corner and brood over the delight to come, till the others were ready. "I think it was so splendid in Father to go as chaplain when he was too old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier," said Meg warmly. "Don't I wish I could go as a drummer, a vivan -- mdash; what's its name? Or a nurse, so I could be near him and help him," exclaimed Jo, with a groan. "It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug," sighed Amy. "When will he come home, Marmee? asked Beth, with a little quiver in her voice. "Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his work faithfully as long as he can, and we won't ask for him back a minute sooner than he can be spared. Now come and hear the letter." They all drew to the fire, Mother in the big chair with Beth at her feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and Jo leaning on the back, where no one would see any sign of emotion if the letter should happen to be touching. Very few letters were written in those hard times that were not touching, especially those which fathers sent home. In this one little was said of the hardships endured, the dangers faced, or the homesickness conquered. It was a cheerful, hopeful letter, full of lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military news, and only at the end did the writer's heart over-flow with fatherly love and longing for the little girls at home. " Give them all of my dear love and a kiss. Tell them I think of them by day, pray for them by night, and find my best comfort in their affection at all times. A year seems very long to wait before I see them, but remind them that while we wait we may all work, so that these hard days need not be wasted.


He's been"--he giggled excitedly--"he's been tied for hours, waiting--" "But didn't the chief say why?" "I never heard him." Sitting on the tremendous rock in the torrid sun, Roger received this news as an illumination. He ceased to work at his tooth and sat still, assimilating the possibilities of irresponsible authority. Then, without another word, he climbed down the back of the rocks toward the cave and the rest of the tribe. The chief was sitting there, naked to the waist, his face blocked out in white and red. The tribe lay in a semicircle before him. The newly beaten and untied Wilfred was sniffing noisily in the background. Roger squatted with the rest. "Tomorrow," went on the chief, "we shall hunt again." He pointed at this savage and that with his spear. "Some of you will stay here to improve the cave and defend the gate. I shall take a few hunters with me and bring back meat. The defenders of the gate will see that the others don't sneak in." A savage raised his hand and the chief turned a bleak, painted face toward him. "Why should they try to sneak in, Chief?" The chief was vague but earnest. "They will. They'll try to spoil things we do. So the watchers at the gate must be careful. And then--" The chief paused. They saw a triangle of startling pink dart out, pass along his lips and vanish again. "--and then, the beast might try to come in. You remember how he crawled--" The semicircle shuddered and muttered in agreement. "He came--disguised. He may come again even though we gave him the head of our kill to eat. So watch; and be careful." Stanley lifted his forearm off the rock and held up an interrogative finger. "Well?" "But didn't we, didn't we--?" He squirmed and looked down. "No!" In the silence that followed, each savage flinched away from his individual memory. "No! How could we--kill--it?" Half-relieved, half-daunted by the implication of further terrors, the savages murmured again. "So leave the mountain alone," said the chief, solemnly, "and give it the head if you go hunting." Stanley flicked his finger again. "I expect the beast disguised itself." "Perhaps," said the chief. A theological speculation presented itself. "We'd better keep on the right side of him, anyhow. You can't tell what he might do." The tribe considered this; and then were shaken, as if by a flow of wind. The chief saw the effect of his words and stood abruptly. "But tomorrow we'll hunt and when we've got meat we'll have a feast--" Bill put up his hand. "Chief." "Yes?" "What'll we use for lighting the fire?" The chief's blush was hidden by the white and red clay. Into his uncertain silence the tribe spilled their murmur once more. Then the chief held up his hand. "We shall take fire from the others. Listen. Tomorrow we'll hunt and get meat. Tonight I'll go along with two hunters--who'll come?" Maurice and Roger put up their hands. "Maurice--" "Yes, Chief?" "Where was their fire?" "Back


a hydrant, the hose burst and water shot up, tinkling down on the pavement. "Oh-h Lord, Jem..." Jem put his arm around me. "Hush, Scout," he said. "It ain't time to worry yet. I'll let you know when." The men of Maycomb, in all degrees of dress and undress, took furniture from Miss Maudie's house to a yard across the street. I saw Atticus carrying Miss Maudie's heavy oak rocking chair, and thought it sensible of him to save what she valued most. Sometimes we heard shouts. Then Mr. Avery's face appeared in an upstairs window. He pushed a mattress out the window into the street and threw down furniture until men shouted, "Come down from there, Dick! The stairs are going! Get outta there, Mr. Avery!" Mr. Avery began climbing through the window. "Scout, he's stuck..." breathed Jem. "Oh God..." Mr. Avery was wedged tightly. I buried my head under Jem's arm and didn't look again until Jem cried, "He's got loose, Scout! He's all right!" I looked up to see Mr. Avery cross the upstairs porch. He swung his legs over the railing and was sliding down a pillar when he slipped. He fell, yelled, and hit Miss Maudie's shrubbery. Suddenly I noticed that the men were backing away from Miss Maudie's house, moving down the street toward us. They were no longer carrying furniture. The fire was well into the second floor and had eaten its way to the roof: window frames were black against a vivid orange center. "Jem, it looks like a pumpkin-" "Scout, look!" Smoke was rolling off our house and Miss Rachel's house like fog off a riverbank, and men were pulling hoses toward them. Behind us, the fire truck from Abbottsville screamed around the curve and stopped in front of our house. "That book..." I said. "What?" said Jem. "That Tom Swift book, it ain't mine, it's Dill's..." "Don't worry, Scout, it ain't time to worry yet," said Jem. He pointed. "Looka yonder." In a group of neighbors, Atticus was standing with his hands in his overcoat pockets. He might have been watching a football game. Miss Maudie was beside him. "See there, he's not worried yet," said Jem. "Why ain't he on top of one of the houses?" "He's too old, he'd break his neck." "You think we oughta make him get our stuff out?" "Let's don't pester him, he'll know when it's time," said Jem. The Abbottsville fire truck began pumping water on our house; a man on the roof pointed to places that needed it most. I watched our Absolute Morphodite go black and crumble; Miss Maudie's sunhat settled on top of the heap. I could not see her hedge-clippers. In the heat between our house, Miss Rachel's and Miss Maudie's, the men had long ago shed coats and bathrobes. They worked in pajama tops and nightshirts stuffed into their pants, but I became aware that I was slowly freezing where I stood. Jem tried to keep me warm, but his arm was not enough. I pulled free of it and


itself is not lighted, and a plush runner that carpets the center of the wood floor ensures his silent progress. The light issues from a book-lined study, a masculine space. Handsome mahogany desk. Button-tufted burgundy-red leather sofa. Seascape paintings with sailing ships. A fiftysomething man, white-haired, sizable and fit, in pajamas and robe, sits in a leather armchair, slippered feet propped on a footstool, a hardcover book in his hands, reading glasses partway down his prominent nose. He looks up, without apparent surprise, certainly not with alarm, but with interest and calculation. He has the self-possession of a military man who has had to remain calm through times of crisis and chaos. Stepping into the room, easing the door shut behind him, pistol ready, Calaphas says, “You should have a dog.” “We did. She was a good old girl, passed a month ago.” “Bad timing,” says Calaphas. “She was a golden retriever. She would’ve let me know you were coming, but she still would’ve loved you up if you’d let her.” “Who else is in the house?” “Just Colleen, my wife. Whatever this is, it’s nothing to do with her.” “That’s why I’m keeping my voice low,” Calaphas says. Instinct warns him that this is one of those characters in the game on whom the fate of the player can suddenly take an unexpected turn. “I’m not here to hurt anyone. I just need some help, information. You have a name?” “Why ask when you must know it? Vincent.” “So, Vince, what branch was it—navy?” “Hard to believe you’d come here without knowing my history. Marine intelligence.” “This isn’t about your service. Fact is, this isn’t any more about you than it is about Colleen.” Vincent marks his place in the book with a dust-jacket flap, closes the volume. Rather than put it on the side table, under the lamp, he places it on his lap, still cupped in his right hand. If he has the opportunity, he means to throw it—as feeble a weapon as it is, it’s all that he has—and come out of the chair fast after it. “You’re no common burglar.” “It’s about your neighbor, the property with the big gate.” “You’re an agency man, though I can’t figure which agency.” With his left hand, Calaphas produces his ID wallet, flips it open, displays the badge card. “ISA. National security matter.” “All right. Then you don’t need a gun with me.” “You’re wondering if the ID is fake. It’s not.” “I’ll take you at your word.” Putting the wallet away, Calaphas says, “You’ve spent a career taking no one at his word. It’s how you were trained. As I was.” “I’m retired now.” “But still the same man,” Calaphas says. “With all due respect, this situation is too pressing to risk you taking the gun away from me and throwing a wrench into the operation. Minutes matter.” “Call in your partner. I’m an old guy, can’t take two of you.” Instead of answering, Calaphas says, “Who lives next door?” “You must have access to anything you want to


my girl should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was more than I could suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction than if he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought back his son; but I had gained the cover of the wood, though I was forced to go back to fetch the cloak which I had dropped in my flight. That is the true story, gentlemen, of all that occurred." "Well, it is not for me to judge you," said Holmes as the old man signed the statement which had been drawn out. "I pray that we may never be exposed to such a temptation." "I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?" "In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the Assizes. I will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is condemned I shall be forced to use it. If not, it shall never be seen by mortal eye; and your secret, whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe with us." "Farewell, then," said the old man solemnly. "Your own deathbeds, when they come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace which you have given to mine." Tottering and shaking in all his giant frame, he stumbled slowly from the room. "God help us!" said Holmes after a long silence. "Why does fate play such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as this that I do not think of Baxter's words, and say, 'There, but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.'" James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of a number of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and submitted to the defending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven months after our interview, but he is now dead; and there is every prospect that the son and daughter may come to live happily together in ignorance of the black cloud which rests upon their past. ADVENTURE V. THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes cases between the years '82 and '90, I am faced by so many which present strange and interesting features that it is no easy matter to know which to choose and which to leave. Some, however, have already gained publicity through the papers, and others have not offered a field for those peculiar qualities which my friend possessed in so high a degree, and which it is the object of these papers to illustrate. Some, too, have baffled his analytical skill, and would be, as narratives, beginnings without an ending, while others have been but partially cleared up, and have their explanations founded rather upon conjecture and surmise than on that absolute logical proof which was so dear to him. There is, however, one of these last which was so remarkable in its details and so startling in its results that


out of this place, a single friend to turn to?' 'The more's the reason,' returned Peggotty, 'for saying that it won't do. No! That it won't do. No! No price could make it do. No!' - I thought Peggotty would have thrown the candlestick away, she was so emphatic with it. 'How can you be so aggravating,' said my mother, shedding more tears than before, 'as to talk in such an unjust manner! How can you go on as if it was all settled and arranged, Peggotty, when I tell you over and over again, you cruel thing, that beyond the commonest civilities nothing has passed! You talk of admiration. What am I to do? If people are so silly as to indulge the sentiment, is it my fault? What am I to do, I ask you? Would you wish me to shave my head and black my face, or disfigure myself with a burn, or a scald, or something of that sort? I dare say you would, Peggotty. I dare say you'd quite enjoy it.' Peggotty seemed to take this aspersion very much to heart, I thought. 'And my dear boy,' cried my mother, coming to the elbow-chair in which I was, and caressing me, 'my own little Davy! Is it to be hinted to me that I am wanting in affection for my precious treasure, the dearest little fellow that ever was!' 'Nobody never went and hinted no such a thing,' said Peggotty. 'You did, Peggotty!' returned my mother. 'You know you did. What else was it possible to infer from what you said, you unkind creature, when you know as well as I do, that on his account only last quarter I wouldn't buy myself a new parasol, though that old green one is frayed the whole way up, and the fringe is perfectly mangy? You know it is, Peggotty. You can't deny it.' Then, turning affectionately to me, with her cheek against mine, 'Am I a naughty mama to you, Davy? Am I a nasty, cruel, selfish, bad mama? Say I am, my child; say "yes", dear boy, and Peggotty will love you; and Peggotty's love is a great deal better than mine, Davy. I don't love you at all, do I?' At this, we all fell a-crying together. I think I was the loudest of the party, but I am sure we were all sincere about it. I was quite heart-broken myself, and am afraid that in the first transports of wounded tenderness I called Peggotty a 'Beast'. That honest creature was in deep affliction, I remember, and must have become quite buttonless on the occasion; for a little volley of those explosives went off, when, after having made it up with my mother, she kneeled down by the elbow-chair, and made it up with me. We went to bed greatly dejected. My sobs kept waking me, for a long time; and when one very strong sob quite hoisted me up in bed, I found my mother sitting on the coverlet, and leaning over me. I fell