as three or four markets, making music and feasting. Unoka loved the good hire and the good fellowship, and he loved this season of the year, when the rains had stopped and the sun rose every morning with dazzling beauty. And it was not too hot either, because the cold and dry harmattan wind was blowing down from the north. Some years the harmattan was very severe and a dense haze hung on the atmosphere. Old men and children would then sit round log fires, warming their bodies. Unoka loved it all, and he loved the first kites that returned with the dry season, and the children who sang songs of welcome to them. He would remember his own childhood, how he had often wandered around looking for a kite sailing leisurely against the blue sky. As soon as he found one he would sing with his whole being, welcoming it back from its long, long journey, and asking it if it had brought home any lengths of cloth. That was years ago, when he was young. Unoka, the grown-up, was a failure. He was poor and his wife and children had barely enough to eat. People laughed at him because he was a loafer, and they swore never to lend him any more money because he never paid back. But Unoka was such a man that he always succeeded in borrowing more, and piling up his debts. One day a neighbour called Okoye came in to see him. He was reclining on a mud bed in his hut playing on the flute. He immediately rose and shook hands with Okoye, who then unrolled the goatskin which he carried under his arm, and sat down. Unoka went into an inner room and soon returned with a small wooden disc containing a kola nut, some alligator pepper and a lump of white chalk. "I have kola," he announced when he sat down, and passed the disc over to his guest. "Thank you. He who brings kola brings life. But I think you ought to break it," replied Okoye, passing back the disc. "No, it is for you, I think," and they argued like this for a few moments before Unoka accepted the honour of breaking the kola. Okoye, meanwhile, took the lump of chalk, drew some lines on the floor, and then painted his big toe. As he broke the kola, Unoka prayed to their ancestors for life and health, and for protection against their enemies. When they had eaten they talked about many things: about the heavy rains which were drowning the yams, about the next ancestral feast and about the impending war with the village of Mbaino. Unoka was never happy when it came to wars. He was in fact a coward and could not bear the sight of blood. And so he changed the subject and talked about music, and his face beamed. He could hear in his mind's ear the blood-stirring and intricate rhythms of the ekwe and the udu and the ogene, and he could hear his own


no mercy. He looked round fiercely, daring them to contradict. Then they broke out into the sunlight and for a while they were busy finding and devouring food as they moved down the scar toward the platform and the meeting. CHAPTER TWO Fire on the Mountain By the time Ralph finished blowing the conch the platform was crowded. There were differences between this meeting and the one held in the morning. The afternoon sun slanted in from the other side of the platform and most of the children, feeling too late the smart of sunburn, had put their clothes on. The choir, less of a group, had discarded their cloaks. Ralph sat on a fallen trunk, his left side to the sun. On his right were most of the choir; on his left the larger boys who had not known each other before the evacuation; before him small children squatted in the grass. Silence now. Ralph lifted the cream and pink shell to his knees and a sudden breeze scattered light over the platform. He was uncertain whether to stand up or remain sitting. He looked sideways to his left, toward the bathing pool. Piggy was sitting near but giving no help. Ralph cleared his throat. "Well then." All at once he found he could talk fluently and explain what he had to say. He passed a hand through his fair hair and spoke. "We're on an island. We've been on the mountain top and seen water all round. We saw no houses, no smoke, no footprints, no boats, no people. We're on an uninhabited island with no other people on it." Jack broke in. "All the same you need an army--for hunting. Hunting pigs--" "Yes. There are pigs on the island." All three of them tried to convey the sense of the pink live thing struggling in the creepers. "We saw--" "Squealing--" "It broke away--" "Before I could kill it--but--next time!" Jack slammed his knife into a trunk and looked round challengingly. The meeting settled down again. "So you see," said Ralph, "We need hunters to get us meat. And another thing." He lifted the shell on his knees and looked round the sun-slashed faces. "There aren't any grownups. We shall have to look after ourselves." The meeting hummed and was silent. "And another thing. We can't have everybody talking at once. We'll have to have 'Hands up' like at school." He held the conch before his face and glanced round the mouth. "Then I'll give him the conch." "Conch?" "That's what this shell's called. I'll give the conch to the next person to speak. He can hold it when he's speaking." "But--" "Look--" "And he won't be interrupted: Except by me." Jack was on his feet. "We'll have rules!" he cried excitedly. "Lots of rules! Then when anyone breaks 'em--" "Whee--oh!" "Wacco!" "Bong!" "Doink!" Ralph felt the conch lifted from his lap. Then Piggy was standing cradling the great cream shell and the shouting died down. Jack, left on his feet, looked uncertainly at Ralph who smiled and patted the


"The couple of guys we picked up." "Oh, yeah," said Zaphod, "those couple of guys." "We picked them up in sector ZZ 9 Plural Z Alpha." "Yeah?" said Zaphod and blinked. Trillian said quietly, "Does that mean anything to you?" "Mmmmm," said Zaphod, "ZZ 9 Plural Z Alpha. ZZ 9 Plural Z Alpha?" "Well?" said Trillian. "Er ... what does the Z mean?" said Zaphod. "Which one?" "Any one." One of the major difficulties Trillian experienced in her relationship with Zaphod was learning to distinguish between him pretending to be stupid just to get people off their guard, pretending to be stupid because he couldn't be bothered to think and wanted someone else to do it for him, pretending to be outrageously stupid to hide the fact that he actually didn't understand what was going on, and really being genuinely stupid. He was renowned for being amazingly clever and quite clearly was so - but not all the time, which obviously worried him, hence the act. He proffered people to be puzzled rather than contemptuous. This above all appeared to Trillian to be genuinely stupid, but she could no longer be bothered to argue about it. She sighed and punched up a star map on the visiscreen so she could make it simple for him, whatever his reasons for wanting it to be that way. "There," she pointed, "right there." "Hey ... Yeah!" said Zaphod. "Well?" she said. "Well what?" Parts of the inside of her head screamed at other parts of the inside of her head. She said, very calmly, "It's the same sector you originally picked me up in." He looked at her and then looked back at the screen. "Hey, yeah," he said, "now that is wild. We should have zapped straight into the middle of the Horsehead Nebula. How did we come to be there? I mean that's nowhere." She ignored this. "Improbability Drive," she said patiently. "You explained it to me yourself. We pass through every point in the Universe, you know that." "Yeah, but that's one wild coincidence isn't it?" "Yes." "Picking someone up at that point? Out of the whole of the Universe to choose from? That's just too ... I want to work this out. Computer!" The Sirius Cybernetics Corporation Shipboard Computer which controlled and permeated every particle of the ship switched into communication mode. "Hi there!" it said brightly and simultaneously spewed out a tiny ribbon of ticker tape just for the record. The ticker tape said, Hi there! "Oh God," said Zaphod. He hadn't worked with this computer for long but had already learned to loathe it. The computer continued, brash and cheery as if it was selling detergent. "I want you to know that whatever your problem, I am here to help you solve it." "Yeah yeah," said Zaphod. "Look, I think I'll just use a piece of paper." "Sure thing," said the computer, spilling out its message into a waste bin at the same time, "I understand. If you ever want ..." "Shut up!" said Zaphod, and snatching up a


'em. Frankie baby, we are made!" They performed a scampering dance in their excitement. Near them on the floor lay several rather ugly men who had been hit about the head with some heavy design awards. Half a mile away, four figures pounded up a corridor looking for a way out. They emerged into a wide open-plan computer bay. They glanced about wildly. "Which way do you reckon Zaphod?" said Ford. "At a wild guess, I'd say down here," said Zaphod, running off down to the right between a computer bank and the wall. As the others started after him he was brought up short by a Kill-O-Zap energy bolt that cracked through the air inches in front of him and fried a small section of adjacent wall. A voice on a loud hailer said, "OK Beeblebrox, hold it right there. We've got you covered." "Cops!" hissed Zaphod, and span around in a crouch. "You want to try a guess at all, Ford?" "OK, this way," said Ford, and the four of them ran down a gangway between two computer banks. At the end of the gangway appeared a heavily armoured and space- suited figure waving a vicious Kill-O-Zap gun. "We don't want to shoot you, Beeblebrox!" shouted the figure. "Suits me fine!" shouted Zaphod back and dived down a wide gap between two data process units. The others swerved in behind him. "There are two of them," said Trillian. "We're cornered." They squeezed themselves down in an angle between a large computer data bank and the wall. They held their breath and waited. Suddenly the air exploded with energy bolts as both the cops opened fire on them simultaneously. "Hey, they're shooting at us," said Arthur, crouching in a tight ball, "I thought they said they didn't want to do that." "Yeah, I thought they said that," agreed Ford. Zaphod stuck a head up for a dangerous moment. "Hey," he said, "I thought you said you didn't want to shoot us!" and ducked again. They waited. After a moment a voice replied, "It isn't easy being a cop!" "What did he say?" whispered Ford in astonishment. "He said it isn't easy being a cop." "Well surely that's his problem isn't it?" "I'd have thought so." Ford shouted out, "Hey listen! I think we've got enough problems on our own having you shooting at us, so if you could avoid laying your problems on us as well, I think we'd all find it easier to cope!" Another pause, and then the loud hailer again. "Now see here, guy," said the voice on the loud hailer, "you're not dealing with any dumb two-bit trigger-pumping morons with low hairlines, little piggy eyes and no conversation, we're a couple of intelligent caring guys that you'd probably quite like if you met us socially! I don't go around gratuitously shooting people and then bragging about it afterwards in seedy space-rangers bars, like some cops I could mention! I go around shooting people gratuitously and then I agonize about it afterwards for hours to my girlfriend!" "And


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rulebreaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours. "The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting." Her eyes lingered for a moment on Neville's cloak, which was fastened under his left ear, and on Ron's smudged nose. Harry nervously tried to flatten his hair. "I shall return when we are ready for you," said Professor McGonagall. "Please wait quietly." She left the chamber. Harry swallowed. "How exactly do they sort us into houses?" he asked Ron. "Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking." Harry's heart gave a horrible jolt. A test? In front of the whole school? But he didn't know any magic yet -- what on earth would he have to do? He hadn't expected something like this the moment they arrived. He looked around anxiously and saw that everyone else looked terrified, too. No one was talking much except Hermione Granger, who was whispering very fast about all the spells she'd learned and wondering which one she'd need. Harry tried hard not to listen to her. He'd never been more nervous, never, not even when he'd had to take a school report home to the Dursleys saying that he'd somehow turned his teacher's wig blue. He kept his eyes fixed on the door. Any second now, Professor McGonagall would come back and lead him to his doom. Then something happened that made him jump about a foot in the air -- several people behind him screamed. "What the -- ?" He gasped. So did the people around him. About twenty ghosts had just streamed through the back wall. Pearly-white and slightly transparent, they glided across the room talking to one another and hardly glancing at the first years. They seemed to be arguing. What looked like a fat little monk was saying: "Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance -- " "My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not really even a ghost -- I say, what are you all doing here?" A ghost wearing a ruff and tights had suddenly noticed the first years. Nobody answered. "New students!" said the Fat Friar, smiling around at them. "About to be Sorted, I suppose?" A few people nodded mutely. "Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!" said the Friar. "My old house, you know." "Move along now," said a sharp voice. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start." Professor McGonagall had returned. One by one, the ghosts floated away through the opposite wall.


about it, and was out with 'em on the ferryboat hunt, and right away after he up and left. Before night they wanted to lynch him, but he was gone, you see. Well, next day they found out the nigger was gone; they found out he hadn't ben seen sence ten o'clock the night the murder was done. So then they put it on him, you see; and while they was full of it, next day, back comes old Finn, and went boo-hooing to Judge Thatcher to get money to hunt for the nigger all over Illinois with. The judge gave him some, and that evening he got drunk, and was around till after mid- night with a couple of mighty hard-looking strangers, and then went off with them. Well, he hain't come back sence, and they ain't looking for him back till this thing blows over a little, for people thinks now that he killed his boy and fixed things so folks would think robbers done it, and then he'd get Huck's money without having to bother a long time with a lawsuit. People do say he warn't any too good to do it. Oh, he's sly, I reckon. If he don't come back for a year he'll be all right. You can't prove anything on him, you know; everything will be quieted down then, and he'll walk in Huck's money as easy as nothing." "Yes, I reckon so, 'm. I don't see nothing in the way of it. Has everybody guit thinking the nigger done it?" "Oh, no, not everybody. A good many thinks he done it. But they'll get the nigger pretty soon now, and maybe they can scare it out of him." "Why, are they after him yet?" "Well, you're innocent, ain't you! Does three hundred dollars lay around every day for people to pick up? Some folks think the nigger ain't far from here. I'm one of them -- but I hain't talked it around. A few days ago I was talking with an old couple that lives next door in the log shanty, and they happened to say hardly anybody ever goes to that island over yonder that they call Jackson's Island. Don't any- body live there? says I. No, nobody, says they. I didn't say any more, but I done some thinking. I was pretty near certain I'd seen smoke over there, about the head of the island, a day or two before that, so I says to myself, like as not that nigger's hiding over there; anyway, says I, it's worth the trouble to give the place a hunt. I hain't seen any smoke sence, so I reckon maybe he's gone, if it was him; but husband's going over to see -- him and another man. He was gone up the river; but he got back to-day, and I told him as soon as he got here two hours ago." I had got so uneasy I couldn't set still. I had to do something with my hands; so I took up a needle off


down through the leaves, and the freckled places swapped about a little, showing there was a little breeze up there. A couple of squirrels set on a limb and jabbered at me very friendly. I was powerful lazy and comfortable -- didn't want to get up and cook breakfast. Well, I was dozing off again when I thinks I hears a deep sound of "boom!" away up the river. I rouses up, and rests on my elbow and listens; pretty soon I hears it again. I hopped up, and went and looked out at a hole in the leaves, and I see a bunch of smoke laying on the water a long ways up -- about abreast the ferry. And there was the ferryboat full of people floating along down. I knowed what was the matter now. "Boom!" I see the white smoke squirt out of the ferryboat's side. You see, they was firing cannon over the water, trying to make my carcass come to the top. I was pretty hungry, but it warn't going to do for me to start a fire, because they might see the smoke. So I set there and watched the cannon-smoke and listened to the boom. The river was a mile wide there, and it always looks pretty on a summer morning -- so I was having a good enough time seeing them hunt for my remainders if I only had a bite to eat. Well, then I happened to think how they always put quicksilver in loaves of bread and float them off, because they always go right to the drownded carcass and stop there. So, says I, I'll keep a lookout, and if any of them's floating around after me I'll give them a show. I changed to the Illinois edge of the island to see what luck I could have, and I warn't disappointed. A big double loaf come along, and I most got it with a long stick, but my foot slipped and she floated out further. Of course I was where the current set in the closest to the shore -- I knowed enough for that. But by and by along comes another one, and this time I won. I took out the plug and shook out the little dab of quick- silver, and set my teeth in. It was "baker's bread" -- what the quality eat; none of your low-down corn-pone. I got a good place amongst the leaves, and set there on a log, munching the bread and watching the ferry- boat, and very well satisfied. And then something struck me. I says, now I reckon the widow or the parson or somebody prayed that this bread would find me, and here it has gone and done it. So there ain't no doubt but there is something in that thing -- that is, there's something in it when a body like the widow or the parson prays, but it don't work for me, and I reckon it don't work for only just the right kind. I lit a pipe


and bum-rushed me, stripping me out of my clothes in less than a second and throwing a gown over me as I climbed up on the table. On my right side, I heard a woman’s voice say, “BIG POKE,” as she stuck me to put an IV port into the crook of my arm, and then a woman next to her said, “ANOTHER POKE,” as she jammed an EpiPen into my thigh. A nurse behind my head was reaching over me to affix a bunch of heart-monitoring electrodes to my chest. On my left side was a doctor in black scrubs (fancy!) who was trying to look in my eyes with a penlight and a doctor in green scrubs with a clipboard who kept repeating, “What did you take? What did you take? What did you take?” while I tried to choke out the word “Zyrtec” in a way he could understand around my enormous tongue. Black Scrubs instructed me to “scooch [my] butt down and open [my] mouth as wide as possible,” and I tried to make a joke like “(HEE HAW) sure but (gasp) you gotta take me (HEE HAW) to dinner first (gasp),” and Black Scrubs looked at me with such kind pity that it broke my heart. He very solemnly said, “Samantha, you are funny, but you are also in anaphylactic shock. I am trying to clear your airway, please stop joking and tilt your head back.” That was not my first time being booed offstage, but it was certainly the most jarring, especially since he didn’t even give me a chance to workshop the one about how my throat was tighter than new leather shoes, so he should use his meat tube to intubate me. “Clear my airway”? “Anaphylactic shock”? Those are death sentences! I think the most upsetting realization I had that night was that when faced with imminent doom, these-could-be-the-last-few-snorting-breaths-you-ever-take kind of doom, I naturally defaulted to joking. I will die, eventually, being a fucking clown. A clown who is desperate to coax even a hint of a smile from the very serious people tasked with making sure she lives to honk her big red nose another day. I think about dying all the time; I wonder when it’s gonna happen and what embarrassing thing I’ll be wearing when it does, and if anyone is gonna see me dying and think I look stupid. I started thinking about death so much that when the pandemic hit and every news report was like, “Bye, fat people!” I added Kirsten to my bank account, which is a thing I never thought I’d do because what if she decides to get cute? I don’t even like sharing popcorn with her at the movies, but if someone coughed into my mouth and I died from it, I didn’t want her to be tasked with that olden-times gay shit where she has to go through a bunch of headachy paperwork just to withdraw whatever money I have to cremate me before she moves on to her new nonfat wife who


as the supper of the preceding night; but their musing was at length interrupted by the sound of the carriage wheels, which were to bear away St. Aubert and Emily. Valancourt started from his chair, and went to the window; it was indeed the carriage, and he returned to his seat without speaking. The moment was now come when they must part. St. Aubert told Valancourt, that he hoped he would never pass La Vallee without favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt, eagerly thanking him, assured him that he never would; as he said which he looked timidly at Emily, who tried to smile away the seriousness of her spirits. They passed a few minutes in interesting conversation, and St. Aubert then led the way to the carriage, Emily and Valancourt following in silence. The latter lingered at the door several minutes after they were seated, and none of the party seemed to have courage enough to say--Farewell. At length, St. Aubert pronounced the melancholy word, which Emily passed to Valancourt, who returned it, with a dejected smile, and the carriage drove on. The travellers remained, for some time, in a state of tranquil pensiveness, which is not unpleasing. St. Aubert interrupted it by observing, 'This is a very promising young man; it is many years since I have been so much pleased with any person, on so short an acquaintance. He brings back to my memory the days of my youth, when every scene was new and delightful!' St. Aubert sighed, and sunk again into a reverie; and, as Emily looked back upon the road they had passed, Valancourt was seen, at the door of the little inn, following them with his eyes. Her perceived her, and waved his hand; and she returned the adieu, till the winding road shut her from his sight. 'I remember when I was about his age,' resumed St. Aubert, 'and I thought, and felt exactly as he does. The world was opening upon me then, now--it is closing.' 'My dear sir, do not think so gloomily,' said Emily in a trembling voice, 'I hope you have many, many years to live--for your own sake-- for MY sake.' 'Ah, my Emily!' replied St. Aubert, 'for thy sake! Well- I hope it is so.' He wiped away a tear, that was stealing down his cheek, threw a smile upon his countenance, and said in a cheering voice, 'there is something in the ardour and ingenuousness of youth, which is particularly pleasing to the contemplation of an old man, if his feelings have not been entirely corroded by the world. It is cheering and reviving, like the view of spring to a sick person; his mind catches somewhat of the spirit of the season, and his eyes are lighted up with a transient sunshine. Valancourt is this spring to me.' Emily, who pressed her father's hand affectionately, had never before listened with so much pleasure to the praises he bestowed; no, not even when he had bestowed them on herself. They travelled on, among vineyards, woods, and


skidded to a stop outside the gaping hangar door, the police poured out, guns drawn. Edwards jumped out too. The noise was deafening. 225 The Hawker's engines were still roaring as the jet finished its usual rotation inside the hangar, positioning itself nose-out in preparation for later departure. As the plane completed its 180-degree turn and rolled toward the front of the hangar, Edwards could see the pilot's face, which understandably looked surprised and fearful to see the barricade of police cars. The pilot brought the plane to a final stop, and powered down the engines. The police streamed in, taking up positions around the jet. Edwards joined the Kent chief inspector, who moved warily toward the hatch. After several seconds, the fuselage door popped open. Leigh Teabing appeared in the doorway as the plane's electronic stairs smoothly dropped down. As he gazed out at the sea of weapons aimed at him, he propped himself on his crutches and scratched his head. "Simon, did I win the policemen's lottery while I was away?" He sounded more bewildered than concerned. Simon Edwards stepped forward, swallowing the frog in his throat. "Good morning, sir. I apologize for the confusion. We've had a gas leak and your pilot said he was coming to the terminal." "Yes, yes, well, I told him to come here instead. I'm late for an appointment. I pay for this hangar, and this rubbish about avoiding a gas leak sounded overcautious." "I'm afraid your arrival has taken us a bit off guard, sir." "I know. I'm off my schedule, I am. Between you and me, the new medication gives me the tinkles. Thought I'd come over for a tune-up." The policemen all exchanged looks. Edwards winced. "Very good, sir." "Sir," the Kent chief inspector said, stepping forward. "I need to ask you to stay onboard for another half hour or so." Teabing looked unamused as he hobbled down the stairs. "I'm afraid that is impossible. I have a medical appointment." He reached the tarmac. "I cannot afford to miss it." The chief inspector repositioned himself to block Teabing's progress away from the plane. "I am here at the orders of the French Judicial Police. They claim you are transporting fugitives from the law on this plane." Teabing stared at the chief inspector a long moment, and then burst out laughing. "Is this one of those hidden camera programs? Jolly good!" The chief inspector never flinched. "This is serious, sir. The French police claim you also may have a hostage onboard." Teabing's manservant Rmy appeared in the doorway at the top of the stairs. "I feel like a hostage working for Sir Leigh, but he assures me I am free to go." Rmy checked his watch. "Master, we really are running late." He nodded toward the Jaguar stretch limousine in the far corner of the hangar. The enormous automobile was ebony with smoked glass and whitewall tires. "I'll bring the car." Rmy started down the stairs. "I'm afraid we cannot let you leave," the chief inspector said. "Please return to your aircraft.


feelings about faith, life, and death—he had pastored him, counseled him, heard his confessions for years—but if what he said was true, why had he seen it when my mother and I had not? Had Dad truly spent the past weeks, maybe even months, preparing to die? If he’d known it was imminent, why didn’t he warn my mother? Why didn’t he tell me, his only child, so I could try to say goodbye? I stared at my father in his handmade casket, and the sudden flare of anger I felt was so unlike sorrow that I let myself take momentary refuge in it. If you really knew and didn’t tell us, that was a real dick move, Dad. He did look peaceful, as if he had welcomed death, or at least been ready for it. When we approached to say our final goodbyes, Mom, mostly cried out by then, put her arm around my shoulders, her solid warmth a familiar comfort as always. “Don’t despair,” she told me. “This is our hope in the Resurrection.” The words might have upset me coming from anyone else in that church, anyone else in the world. But I felt her sorrow as something deeper and more powerful than my own, a great river spilling its banks. I couldn’t help but feel awed by her abiding faith in what she saw as my father’s victory over death. She was a warrior, even in grief. Though it was the middle of winter, she had asked that the traditional Paschal Troparion be sung at his grave. Everyone in attendance took a turn with the shovel, dropping earth over his casket with the Easter song of triumph resounding in our ears: Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and upon those in the tombs bestowing life. I was no longer a regular Sunday Mass goer. There were too many things that I felt ambivalent about or disagreed with altogether, though when I did make it to church, I still found some reassurance in the rhythm of the liturgy, the prayers I’d known since childhood, the echo of moments when I’d felt a whisper of something like grace. I knew it would always be a link to my parents and how they raised me; now, if I wanted, I could go to Mass and try to believe what I had been taught—that I was touching eternity while earthbound, in communion with my father and everyone I would ever love or lose. As I get older, I’ve found there are some answers I don’t need. I can’t say whether I’ll ever again feel as certain of anything as my parents were of the prevailing mercy of God or the promise of heaven. But it’s also true that the faith you’re raised in can still move fathoms below the surface, even when your relationship to it has changed beyond recognition. As I held my mother’s hand, watching my father’s casket disappear beneath a layer of earth, perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised to feel the old belief


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

--Hold out! cried the prefect of studies. Fleming held out his hand. The pandybat came down on it with a loud smacking sound: one, two, three, four, five, six. --Other hand! The pandybat came down again in six loud quick smacks. --Kneel down! cried the prefect of studies. Fleming knelt down, squeezing his hands under his armpits, his face contorted with pain; but Stephen knew how hard his hands were because Fleming was always rubbing rosin into them. But perhaps he was in great pain for the noise of the pandybat was terrible. Stephen's heart was beating and fluttering. --At your work, all of you! shouted the prefect of studies. We want no lazy idle loafers here, lazy idle little schemers. At your work, I tell you. Father Dolan will be in to see you every day. Father Dolan will be in tomorrow. He poked one of the boys in the side with his pandybat, saying: --You, boy! When will Father Dolan be in again? --Tomorrow, sir, said Tom Furlong's voice. --Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, said the prefect of studies. Make up your minds for that. Every day Father Dolan. Write away. You, boy, who are you? Stephen's heart jumped suddenly. --Dedalus, sir. --Why are you not writing like the others? --I...my... He could not speak with fright. --Why is he not writing, Father Arnall? --He broke his glasses, said Father Arnall, and I exempted him from work. --Broke? What is this I hear? What is this your name is! said the prefect of studies. --Dedalus, sir. --Out here, Dedalus. Lazy little schemer. I see schemer in your face. Where did you break your glasses? Stephen stumbled into the middle of the class, blinded by fear and haste. --Where did you break your glasses? repeated the prefect of studies. --The cinder-path, sir. --Hoho! The cinder-path! cried the prefect of studies. I know that trick. Stephen lifted his eyes in wonder and saw for a moment Father Dolan's white-grey not young face, his baldy white-grey head with fluff at the sides of it, the steel rims of his spectacles and his no-coloured eyes looking through the glasses. Why did he say he knew that trick? --Lazy idle little loafer! cried the prefect of studies. Broke my glasses! An old schoolboy trick! Out with your hand this moment! Stephen closed his eyes and held out in the air his trembling hand with the palm upwards. He felt the prefect of studies touch it for a moment at the fingers to straighten it and then the swish of the sleeve of the soutane as the pandybat was lifted to strike. A hot burning stinging tingling blow like the loud crack of a broken stick made his trembling hand crumple together like a leaf in the fire: and at the sound and the pain scalding tears were driven into his eyes. His whole body was shaking with fright, his arm was shaking and his crumpled burning livid hand shook like a loose leaf in the air. A cry sprang to his lips, a prayer to


smiled with the first hint of conspiracy she had shown. 'I would like to very much,' she said, 'and then perhaps you would chaperon me to the Casino where Monsieur Mathis tells me you are very much at home. Perhaps I will bring you luck.' With Mathis gone, her attitude towards him showed a sudden warmth. She seemed to acknowledge that they were a team and, as they discussed the time and place of their meeting, Bond realized that it would be quite easy after all to plan the details of his project with her. He felt that after all she was interested and excited by her role and that she would work willingly with him. He had imagined many hurdles before establishing a rapport, but now he felt he could get straight down to professional details. He was quite honest to himself about the hypocrisy of his attitude towards her. As a woman, he wanted to sleep with her but only when the job had been done. When Mathis came back to the table Bond called for his bill. He explained that he was expected back at his hotel to have lunch with friends. When for a moment he held her hand in his he felt a warmth of affection and understanding pass between them that would have seemed impossible half an hour earlier. The girl's eyes followed him out on to the boulevard. Mathis moved his chair close to hers and said softly: 'That is a very good friend of mine. I am glad you have met each other. I can already feel the ice-floes on the two rivers breaking up.' He smiled, 'I don't think Bond has ever been melted. It will be a new experience for him. And for you.' She did not answer him directly. 'He is very good-looking. He reminds me rather of Hoagy Carmichael, but there is something cold and ruthless in his . . .' The sentence was never finished. Suddenly a few feet away the entire plate-glass window shivered into confetti. The blast of a terrific explosion, very near, hit them so that they were rocked back in their chairs. There was an instant of silence. Some objects pattered down on to the pavement outside. Bottles slowly toppled off the shelves behind the bar. Then there were screams and a stampede for the door. 'Stay there,' said Mathis. He kicked back his chair and hurtled through the empty window-frame on to the pavement. CHAPTER 6 - TWO MEN IN STRAW HATS When Bond left the bar he walked purposefully along the pavement flanking the tree-lined boulevard towards his hotel a few hundred yards away. He was hungry. The day was still beautiful, but by now the sun was very hot and the plane-trees, spaced about twenty feet apart on the grass verge between the pavement and the broad tarmac, gave a cool shade. There were few people abroad and the two men standing quietly under a tree on the opposite side of the boulevard looked out of place. Bond noticed them when he


this death to a former one, which was attended with such disastrous consequences to Clifford, they have had no idea but of removing themselves from the scene. How miserably unfortunate! Had Hepzibah but shrieked aloud,--had Clifford flung wide the door, and proclaimed Judge Pyncheon's death,--it would have been, however awful in itself, an event fruitful of good consequences to them. As I view it, it would have gone far towards obliterating the black stain on Clifford's character." "And how" asked Phoebe, "could any good come from what is so very dreadful?" "Because," said the artist, "if the matter can be fairly considered and candidly interpreted, it must be evident that Judge Pyncheon could not have come unfairly to his end. This mode of death had been an idiosyncrasy with his family, for generations past; not often occurring, indeed, but, when it does occur, usually attacking individuals about the Judge's time of life, and generally in the tension of some mental crisis, or, perhaps, in an access of wrath. Old Maule's prophecy was probably founded on a knowledge of this physical predisposition in the Pyncheon race. Now, there is a minute and almost exact similarity in the appearances connected with the death that occurred yesterday and those recorded of the death of Clifford's uncle thirty years ago. It is true, there was a certain arrangement of circumstances, unnecessary to be recounted, which made it possible nay, as men look at these things, probable, or even certain--that old Jaffrey Pyncheon came to a violent death, and by Clifford's hands." "Whence came those circumstances?" exclaimed Phoebe. "He being innocent, as we know him to be!" "They were arranged," said Holgrave,--"at least such has long been my conviction,--they were arranged after the uncle's death, and before it was made public, by the man who sits in yonder parlor. His own death, so like that former one, yet attended by none of those suspicious circumstances, seems the stroke of God upon him, at once a punishment for his wickedness, and making plain the innocence of Clifford, But this flight,--it distorts everything! He may be in concealment, near at hand. Could we but bring him back before the discovery of the Judge's death, the evil might be rectified," "We must not hide this thing a moment longer!" said Phoebe. "It is dreadful to keep it so closely in our hearts. Clifford is innocent. God will make it manifest! Let us throw open the doors, and call all the neighborhood to see the truth!" "You are right, Phoebe," rejoined Holgrave. "Doubtless you are right." Yet the artist did not feel the horror, which was proper to Phoebe's sweet and order-loving character, at thus finding herself at issue with society, and brought in contact with an event that transcended ordinary rules. Neither was he in haste, like her, to betake himself within the precincts of common life. On the contrary, he gathered a wild enjoyment,--as it were, a flower of strange beauty, growing in a desolate spot, and blossoming in the wind, --such a flower of momentary happiness he gathered


Beatty chuckled. "And you said, quoting, `Truth will come to light, murder will not be hid long!' And I cried in good humour, 'Oh God, he speaks only of his horse!' And `The Devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.' And you yelled, 'This age thinks better of a gilded fool, than of a threadbare saint in wisdom's school!' And I whispered gently, 'The dignity of truth is lost with much protesting.' And you screamed, 'Carcasses bleed at the sight of the murderer!' And I said, patting your hand, 'What, do I give you trench mouth?' And you shrieked, 'Knowledge is power!' and 'A dwarf on a giant's shoulders of the furthest of the two!' and I summed my side up with rare serenity in, 'The folly of mistaking a metaphor for a proof, a torrent of verbiage for a spring of capital truths, and oneself as an oracle, is inborn in us, Mr. Valery once said.'" Montag's head whirled sickeningly. He felt beaten unmercifully on brow, eyes, nose, lips, chin, on shoulders, on upflailing arms. He wanted to yell, "No! shut up, you're confusing things, stop it!" Beatty's graceful fingers thrust out to seize his wrist. "God, what a pulse! I've got you going, have I, Montag. Jesus God, your pulse sounds like the day after the war. Everything but sirens and bells! Shall I talk some more? I like your look of panic. Swahili, Indian, English Lit., I speak them all. A kind of excellent dumb discourse, Willie!" "Montag, hold on! " The moth brushed Montag's ear. "He's muddying the waters!" "Oh, you were scared silly," said Beatty, "for I was doing a terrible thing in using the very books you clung to, to rebut you on every hand, on every point! What traitors books can be! You think they're backing you up, and they turn on you. Others can use them, too, and there you are, lost in the middle of the moor, in a great welter of nouns and verbs and adjectives. And at the very end of my dream, along I came with the Salamander and said, Going my way? And you got in and we drove back to the firehouse in beatific silence, all -dwindled away to peace." Beatty let Montag's wrist go, let the hand slump limply on the table. "All's well that is well in the end." Silence. Montag sat like a carved white stone. The echo of the final hammer on his skull died slowly away into the black cavern where Faber waited for the echoes to subside. And then when the startled dust had settled down about Montag's mind, Faber began, softly, "All right, he's had his say. You must take it in. I'll say my say, too, in the next few hours. And you'll take it in. And you'll try to judge them and make your decision as to which way to jump, or fall. But I want it to be your decision, not mine, and not the Captain's. But remember that the Captain belongs to the most dangerous enemy of


“Ella was having a panic attack. I’ll be back to check on her again. I agree about the genital exam.” “What genital exam?” Maud said. Her knees filled with air. “It seems prudent,” the doctor said. “Given the concerns that have been raised. If there was any abuse, we need to check for it now.” He flipped a paper on his clipboard. “Do you know if your daughter is sexually active?” “She isn’t,” Maud said. An orderly wheeled a meal cart by, letting off the smells of stringy meat and plastic wrap. The hallway had become a funnel. The doctor’s head gleamed. Peter grimaced. “Are you sure this is necessary?” “It’s protocol.” “Isn’t there a woman doctor?” Maud said. “I’ll have a female nurse with me,” the doctor said. “Will you have to use a speculum?” Ella had never been examined before, never had her legs parted into stirrups, the piercing bluntness of the speculum, that invasion, handing over your body to someone who could see places of yourself that you would never see. “Not unless I find signs,” the doctor said. “What signs?” “Swelling, lacerations, petechiae.” “What’s that?” “Broken blood vessels.” “I want to be there,” Maud said. In the small room, Ella’s shoulders were lifted, hands knotted in her armpits, eyes bleary and unfocused. A nurse spoke soothingly as she checked the IV. “You’re dehydrated,” she told Ella, “so we’re giving you fluids.” Maud sat in a chair next to the bed. She took Ella’s hand. The doctor told Ella that he was going to take a quick look at her privates. He sat on a rolling stool and put on a pair of gloves. Maud hated his calm, measured face, the way he sniffed as he turned on the examination lamp. He looked at the nurse, who, in a caramel voice, asked Ella to fold her knees, then open them. “No,” Ella said. When the nurse touched her thigh, Ella let out a low, guttural howl. Maud started at the noise, then squeezed Ella’s hand as bile climbed into her throat. “Let’s give this a little more time,” the doctor said. He turned off the light and took off his gloves. He told the nurse to increase the dosage of sedative. “What was that noise?” Peter said in the hallway. “She didn’t want to be examined,” Maud stuttered. Her mouth and throat were ice-dry, her tongue stuck to her teeth. That noise had been wretched. What was Ella hiding? What would they see when they looked between her legs? What had Gabriel done to her? “We should check on Louise,” Peter said. Maud swallowed hard. “Can you?” She waited for him to go before hurrying down the hall to a restroom. She locked the door and with a trembling finger dialed Gabriel’s phone number. “What did you do to her?” she said when he picked up. “Jesus,” Gabriel said. “Maud. Nothing. She came over to my place to use the Wi-Fi. I worked in the other room.” “How many times?” “Just a few afternoons. I was going to tell


her neighbor’s behind with it. Marion glanced at the clock. Forty-five more minutes to go. She’d been working as an instructor at the Broadway Ballet and Dance Studio for two years now, after having studied here herself since the age of five. Miss Stanwich, the kindly owner and founder, had asked her to teach the beginners part-time when Marion was a senior in high school, and most days she had a knack for corralling even the feistiest of children. The studio was like her second home, and if anyone asked, she’d say that she enjoyed her job immensely. Although, to be honest, she’d enjoyed it much more before Miss Stanwich retired and moved to North Carolina. Marion had been asked to stay on by the studio’s new owner, Miss Beaumont, who, unfortunately, was difficult to please on the best of days. Marion put her fingers into her mouth and let out a whistle loud enough that the taxis gliding on Broadway three floors below might have pulled over in hope of a fare. It also served to bring Tabitha’s mother to the glass viewing window that connected the studio to the waiting room, where she stood peering with disapproval over her reading glasses, a copy of Woman’s Day clutched to her chest. At the sound of Marion’s whistle, all ten girls miraculously fell into place, making two rows of five. Marion signaled for the accompanist to begin playing and led her tiny dancers through another round of pliés. “Imagine you’re surrounded by marshmallows.” Marion faced them, demonstrating. “Use your knees to gently push the marshmallows out, and then they gently push back, until your legs are straight. Necks long, like you’re wearing a dangly pair of earrings and want to show them off.” For a glorious few minutes, she had their rapt attention, until Tabitha plunked down on the floor. “I want a marshmallow,” she demanded. “Me too!” chimed in Dottie. Whenever her students became fidgety, Marion couldn’t bring herself to resort to what some of the newly hired instructors did, namely, snap at them and scare them back into focusing on her. While the other teachers had no problem wrenching a student’s feet into the proper turnout with a forceful hand or humiliating a struggling dancer in front of her classmates, Marion vowed to never stoop to such behaviors. After all, dancing was supposed to be joyful. Although right then no one in the room was feeling much joy at all, including Marion. She walked over to the accompanist and whispered in her ear. The students, sensing that something was up, quieted, and even Tabitha rose to her feet, curious. “It’s time for freestyle,” said Marion, and was rewarded with cheers. The accompanist broke into Carl Perkins’s “Blue Suede Shoes” as the girls assembled against the side wall in a line. Marion pointed at the first dancer, who sailed across the studio floor, performing a mad jumble of moves that involved a great deal of shimmying, jumping, and twirling. One child rolled around on the floor, finishing off with a crablike


Hannah Whitten - The Foxglove King-Orbit (2023).txt

decided to burn hotter for a heartbeat. Appreciative murmurs rose; maybe it was just a bit of stagecraft, something else to make the Sun Prince’s Consecration as dramatic as possible. But across the dais, August looked stricken. “Behold, Bastian Leander Arceneaux, the scion of House Arceneaux and future Sainted King of Auverraine, who has today been consecrated in the sight of our Bleeding God!” Anton sounded nearly jubilant. The golden knife still dripped with scarlet in his hand. “Hail!” called the crowd, and the word dissolved into thunderous applause. Bastian laughed, giving another sweeping bow, then purposefully wiped his bleeding hand on his white doublet. “Come on,” Gabriel grumbled next to her. “Let’s get out of here.” The courtiers mobbed the dais, laughing and trying to get as close to Bastian as possible; he let them. Someone handed him a glass of wine, and he took a long, hearty gulp to the sound of more cheering. August said that he suspected Bastian of betraying Auverrani secrets because he didn’t want the weight of rulership. But it looked to Lore like he was just fine with being the center of attention. She stuck close behind Gabriel as he made his way back to the Citadel doors, trusting Bastian to hold the courtiers’ attention. The only other people moving away from the dais were Anton, the other clergymen, and August. The Sainted King still held tight to his chalice as he walked, flanked by bloodcoats. He raised it to take another drink, a slight tremor in his hand. Dark wine spilled from the cup as Lore and Gabriel passed him, splashing onto the ground and barely missing Lore’s hem. Lore glanced over her shoulder before following Gabriel inside. Bastian stood on the dais still, surrounded by beautiful people in colorful clothing, leaning in close to whisper in the ear of a young man who looked thrilled to be the object of his attention. But his eyes were on her. She wasn’t sure how she could tell, across so much space, but she knew with a pull in her gut and no hint of a doubt that the Sun Prince was staring right at her. CHAPTER EIGHT The Night Witch said she’d watch the tomb But lost her mind instead She tried to let the goddess out But the goddess got in her head —Auverrani children’s rhyme Think they left any wine in here?” Their apartments felt cavernous with only the two of them inside. Lore toed off her slippers by the door—they pinched something awful, which meant in all the years the Presque Mort had been watching her, they’d still managed to get her shoe size wrong—and sat heavily down on the couch. “I need some, after all that.” “If they did, it will be in the sidebar.” Gabriel waved toward a small table next to the empty fireplace. He leaned against the wall by the door, one hand reaching up to readjust the leather patch on his eye. “Hopefully August tells someone to send us food.” “He can’t expect me to spy on


and wins. Otherwise he is faced with the same problems as I was. But he is helped in his decision to draw or not to draw a third card by my actions. If I have stood, he must assume that I have a five, six, or seven: if I have drawn, he will know that I had something less than a six and I may have improved my hand or not with the card he gave me. And this card was dealt to me face up. On its face value and a knowledge of the odds, he will know whether to take another card or to stand on his own. 'So he has a very slight advantage over me. He has a tiny help over his decision to draw or to stand. But there is always one problem card at this game - shall one draw or stand on a five and what will your opponent do with a five? Some players always draw or always stand. I follow my intuition. 'But in the end,' Bond stubbed out his cigarette and called for the bill, 'it's the natural eights and nines that matter, and I must just see that I get more of them than he does.' CHAPTER 10 - THE HIGH TABLE While telling the story of the game and anticipating the coming fight, Bond's face had lit up again. The prospect of at least getting to grips with Le Chiffre stimulated him and quickened his pulse. He seemed to have completely forgotten the brief coolness between them, and Vesper was relieved and entered into his mood. He paid the bill and gave a handsome tip to the sommelier. Vesper rose and led the way out of the restaurant and out on to the steps of the hotel. The big Bentley was waiting and Bond drove Vesper over, parking as close to the entrance as he could. As they walked through the ornate ante-rooms, he hardly spoke. She looked at him and saw that his nostrils were slightly flared. In other respects he seemed completely at ease, acknowledging cheerfully the greetings of the Casino functionaries. At the door to the salle prive they were not asked for their membership cards. Bond's high gambling had already made him a favoured client and any companion of his shared in the glory. Before they had penetrated very far into the main room, Felix Leiter detached himself from one of the roulette tables and greeted Bond as an old friend. After being introduced to Vesper Lynd and exchanging a few remarks, Leiter said: 'Well, since you're playing baccarat this evening, will you allow me to show Miss Lynd how to break the bank at roulette? I've got three lucky numbers that are bound to show soon, and I expect Miss Lynd has some too. Then perhaps we could come and watch you when your game starts to warm up.' Bond looked inquiringly at Vesper. 'I should love that,' she said, 'but will you give me one of your lucky numbers to play on?' 'I have


He taps a finger to his lips, and I strain to hear what the bartenders are saying. “Those guinea pigs are not my responsibility. If you’re going to insist on keeping them in our apartment, you need to clean up after them.” “You could at least call them by their names.” “I refuse to call those little beasts Ricardo and Judith.” “Just like you refused to do the dishes after that party you threw last week? The one with a build-your-own-chili-dog bar?” “I want to call you out for eavesdropping, but I can’t blame you,” I say. “This is quality entertainment.” “Right? Now I can’t leave until I know how it ends.” Then he raises an eyebrow, squinting at the water bottle I stupidly placed on the bar next to me. “Is there a reason your water bottle says . . . ‘Live Laugh Girlboss’?” He holds up his hands. “Not judging, just curious.” “Oh, this? I’m part of a hydration-based MLM. I’m in really deep. They’ll be running the docuseries any day now.” Without missing a beat, he calmly places his glass back down. Flicks his eyes around the bar. When he speaks again, it’s in a whisper. “Do I need to call someone for you?” “Afraid it’s too late.” I give the water bottle a shake. “But if I can sell you a thousand of these babies, I might be able to get off with minimal prison time.” “The thing is,” he says, drumming a couple fingertips on the bar, “I could probably find a use for three hundred. Maybe four. But I don’t know what I’d do with the rest of them.” “You’d just have to find other people to sell them to. I could hook you up, give you all the training you need to become your very own boss.” “I’m not falling for that one.” He’s grinning at me, his teeth a brilliant white. The longer I study him, the cuter he is. It’s all in the details—a dusting of reddish facial hair, the warmth of his rich hazel eyes, the freckles spiraling across his knuckles, up onto his left wrist where his shirt is unbuttoned and bare skin peeks through. And the way he’s looking at me might feel better than I’ve felt all day. All week. All month since Wyatt. “I’m Drew,” he says. “I completely understand if you can’t tell me your name, though. For legal reasons. What with the show and all.” I try and fail to hold in another smile. God, he’s charming. “Chandler,” I say. “I was at the book signing over there.” I drag out the book, as though the introduction necessitates some additional shred of truth. “What do you do? When you’re not trying to rescue women from MLMs drinking at bookstore bars?” “I mean, jeez, that’s practically a full-time job.” Then he takes another sip of his drink before tenting his fingers together. “I’m in sales. Not very interesting, unfortunately.” “I disagree. That depends entirely on what you’re selling. For example, tiny rain boots for dogs? Fascinating, and


unable to trace cut sheet of Times. CARTWRlGHT. "There go two of my threads, Watson. There is nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you. We must cast round for another scent." "We have still the cabman who drove the spy." "Exactly. I haw wired to get his name and address from the Official Registry. I should not be surprised if this were an answer to my question." The ring at the bell proved to be something even more satis- factory than an answer, however, for the door opened and a rough-looking fellow entered who was evidently the man himself. "I got a message from the head office that a gent at this address had been inquiring for No. 2704," said he. "I've driven my cab this seven years and never a word of complaint. I came here straight from the Yard to ask you to your face what you had against me." "I have nothing in the world against you, my good man," said Holmes. "On the contrary, I have half a sovereign for you if you will give me a clear answer to my questions." "Well, I've had a good day and no mistake," said the cabman with a grin. "What was it you wanted to ask, sir?" "First of all your name and address, in case I want you again." "John Clayton, 3 Turpey Street, the Borough. My cab is out of Shipley's Yard, near Waterloo Station." Sherlock Holmes made a note of it. "Now, Clayton, tell me all about the fare who came and watched this house at ten o'clock this morning and afterwards followed the two gentlemen down Regent Street." The man looked surprised and a little embarrassed. "Why there's no good my telling you things, for you seem to know as much as I do already," said he. "The truth is that the gentleman told me that he was a detective and that I was to say nothing about him to anyone." "My good fellow; this is a very serious business, and you may find yourself in a pretty bad position if you try to hide anything from me. You say that your fare told you that he was a detective?" "Yes, he did." "When did he say this?" "When he left me." "Did he say anything more?" "He mentioned his name." Holmes cast a swift glance of triumph at me. "Oh, he men- tioned his name, did he? That was imprudent. What was the name that he mentioned?" "His name," said the cabman, "was Mr. Sherlock Holmes." Never have I seen my friend more completely taken aback than by the cabman's reply. For an instant he sat in silent amazement. Then he burst into a hearty laugh. "A touch, Watson -- an undeniable touch!" said he. "I feel a foil as quick and supple as my own. He got home upon me very prettily that time. So his name was Sherlock Holmes, was it?" "Yes, sir, that was the gentleman's name." "Excellent! Tell me where you picked him up and all that


at those words. It burst its thin restraints and went skittering along her arms, raising the fine hairs beneath her sleeves. They saw her body as another document to sign. ‘You would be wise to set your mind to motherhood now, and to not exert yourself before your marriage,’ Lord Robart said, tidying his papers. ‘The entire Virtues Council is here to guard the queendom for you. Leave everything to us, Lady Glorian.’ 47 North Throughout the cruel winters of Hróth, the light died at midday. With its cloak of sea mist fallen, the high cliff known as Hólrhorn could be seen for leagues off the western coast, though few ships ever sailed nearby. Only gulls and rock crabs moved, and even they were quiet. Below was a black beach, miles long. The waves pared thick snow from its sand and withdrew with a roar, leaving a lace of foam. The coast they washed became a mirror in their wake, reflecting the grim cliffs, the birds, and a bank of grey cloud, all tarnished with copper. Rock stacks towered from the spindrift. Most called them the Six Virtues of the Sea, but those who still cleaved to the past, who lullabied the frozen lakes, knew them by a far older name. Thousands of years they had stood guard. Now they watched the dead appear. For days, only the rocks witnessed the corpses washing in, charred and broken, released from the sea. Only they saw the entangled pair – one in the holdfast of the other – come ashore to rest at last. The red sun took its leave. When darkness fell, it fell entire. So it was until the sky lights woke. Colours sketched the sky, flowed tall and bright, and billowed like sails through clear water, ghosting in shades of blue and green. They picked out the remains on the long beach and reflected in the eyes of a young woman with brown hair. Like the other corpses, she was burnt, the skin and flesh torched from her arms – though her face remained whole, white as ice. Whether it was the water or the fire that had killed her, no one could have told. Beside her lay the last survivor. A strong wave rolled in and broke across his back. He coughed seawater, his nose stinging. When he peeled his eyes open and saw the lights, he knew this was not Halgalant. His fingers were swollen and blistered. The sea had almost wrung him of all strength, but he found the will for one last crawl, to gather the dead woman close and drag her up the beach. Each inch opened his salt sores. Each one unlocked the agony the bitter cold had kept at bay, drawing raw, tearless groans. When he had gone as far as he could, he collapsed beside her, the woman who had never feared him. With cracked lips, he kissed her brow. He had fought hard to get her home, and it was done. Her bones were safe. He had only one regret – that


his arms fall to his sides as his mouth forms a little O. “Fall in line,” Mr. Lamont orders. Kyle raises his hands in front of him. “Please. Please don’t hurt me.” Mr. Lamont flicks the gun, gesturing for Kyle to move. He stumbles over to me and stays behind me as we all go into the lodge single file. Mr. Lamont gestures to the couch, and I help Bezi take a seat while Kyle settles next to her. I go to sit down when the tip of my sneaker bumps up against something partially hidden under the couch. It’s dark. I’m having trouble seeing, but as my eyes adjust, I realize it’s a hand, clenched into a bloody fist, and on the wrist is a bright pink hair tie. I stumble back and fall hard onto the ground. From the floor, I have a clear view of Tasha’s and Javier’s bloodied faces. Their bodies lie tangled together under the couch. A scream claws its way up my throat and erupts from behind my lips. My cries split the air, and Mr. Lamont delivers a swift kick to my leg. “Get up,” he growls. I pull myself onto the couch, and I can feel the soft bulges of Tasha’s and Javier’s corpses through the thin fabric. Bezi leans against me, sobbing. The orange glow from the fireplace washes the room in a gauzy light, and Mr. Lamont stands backlit by the flames, like a monster emerging from the depths of hell. “You killed them,” I say through a blur of tears. “You’re with those people from the woods.” Mr. Lamont narrows his eyes at me. “No. Not with them.” He keeps the gun trained on me as he speaks. “Do you know where you are right now?” I exchange glances with Kyle. “I don’t know what you mean,” I say. “Of course you don’t,” Mr. Lamont says dismissively. “This particular piece of land has been used for generations by those Owl Society folks.” Mr. Lamont points the gun at me and clenches his jaw, then smiles. “That’s what they call themselves,” Mr. Lamont says. “They’ve always been here. They stole this land from the folks who were here before. Been conducting their meetings and rituals in the forest around here ever since. Seeding the land with blood and giving the flesh over to the lake.” My mind goes in circles. “The man in the owl mask told me.” Mr. Lamont tilts his head. “Did he now?” He seems irritated. “He was a regular chatty Cathy with you, huh? I couldn’t get him to tell me a damn thing. Did he tell you about the ritual too?” He drags his hand across his gut in the same spot where Porter was sliced open. “Spill the blood on the ground, dump the corpse in the lake, recite the words. Not necessarily in that order.” He shakes his head and toes at the floor with the tip of his boot. “They could have anything they want, but the price—the price always has to be paid


male counterpart says, “just when you think the details surrounding Chelsea Carr’s death couldn’t get any worse—they do.” Sloane turns off the radio. She wonders what the likelihood is that the FBI will get involved, like Ethan said. A horn blares outside her window. She turns to see a dark SUV enter the intersection, speeding toward her driver’s side door. She floors the gas as she flies beneath the red light, her heart hammering against her chest. In her rearview mirror, she watches with wide eyes as the SUV skids to a stop, missing the back of her car by mere inches. Mouth agape, she clings to the steering wheel, her chest heaving up and down. She drives a good ten miles per hour under the speed limit the rest of the way to the hospital, still shaking when she pulls into the parking garage. She contemplates calling in sick. But at this late hour, they’d be hard pressed to find anyone to replace her. Everyone in the ER was overworked and exhausted. Evelyn turns her Escalade into the Physician’s Only parking bay beside her, and Sloane feels a ping of guilt at the thought of abandoning her. Plus, it would only add to Brody’s case if he does accuse her of conspiring with him to kill Chelsea—if she’s out sick the days following her death. She takes a steadying breath before opening her car door. “Morning, sunshine.” Evelyn appears behind her Porsche holding a large Starbucks. “I texted you to see if you wanted coffee.” “Oh,” Sloane says. “I must have my phone on silent.” She runs a hand through her hair, unable to remember if she brushed it that morning. Evelyn’s long hair is pulled back, and her eyes are puffy. While she looks sleep deprived, she also looks happy. Sloane swallows back the envy she feels creep to the surface. Evelyn assesses her before taking a sip from her drink. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like crap.” Evelyn elbows her as a smile forms on her lips. “You sure you’re not pregnant?” Chapter 30 Ethan stares at the underwater photo of Chelsea on Carr’s living room wall. TESU was still working to recover any deleted images off Chelsea’s phone when Ethan called them this morning. According to the data extraction technician whom he spoke with, if there were images deleted from her device, whoever deleted them was tech savvy enough to permanently delete them from her cloud storage. But if they were deleted in the last sixty days, the technician was hopeful they could recover them. It would just take time. Ethan wasn’t as optimistic. The app founder undoubtedly has the knowledge and resources to ensure the images won’t be found. When Ethan asked if there was an option to send the phone to a private electronic forensics lab if TESU was unsuccessful, he was told that with TESU’s recently upgraded technology, if they couldn’t recover the images, no other lab could either. He crosses his arms as he studies Chelsea’s lean, athletic form, diving


Finches are supposed to do...." "I don't want you to remember it. Forget it." He went to the door and out of the room, shutting the door behind him. He nearly slammed it, but caught himself at the last minute and closed it softly. As Jem and I stared, the door opened again and Atticus peered around. His eyebrows were raised, his glasses had slipped. "Get more like Cousin Joshua every day, don't I? Do you think I'll end up costing the family five hundred dollars?" I know now what he was trying to do, but Atticus was only a man. It takes a woman to do that kind of work. 14 Although we heard no more about the Finch family from Aunt Alexandra, we heard plenty from the town. On Saturdays, armed with our nickels, when Jem permitted me to accompany him (he was now positively allergic to my presence when in public), we would squirm our way through sweating sidewalk crowds and sometimes hear, "There's his chillun," or, "Yonder's some Finches." Turning to face our accusers, we would see only a couple of farmers studying the enema bags in the Mayco Drugstore window. Or two dumpy countrywomen in straw hats sitting in a Hoover cart. "They c'n go loose and rape up the countryside for all of 'em who run this county care," was one obscure observation we met head on from a skinny gentleman when he passed us. Which reminded me that I had a question to ask Atticus. "What's rape?" I asked him that night. Atticus looked around from behind his paper. He was in his chair by the window. As we grew older, Jem and I thought it generous to allow Atticus thirty minutes to himself after supper. He sighed, and said rape was carnal knowledge of a female by force and without consent. "Well if that's all it is why did Calpurnia dry me up when I asked her what it was?" Atticus looked pensive. "What's that again?" "Well, I asked Calpurnia comin' from church that day what it was and she said ask you but I forgot to and now I'm askin' you." His paper was now in his lap. "Again, please," he said. I told him in detail about our trip to church with Calpurnia. Atticus seemed to enjoy it, but Aunt Alexandra, who was sitting in a corner quietly sewing, put down her embroidery and stared at us. "You all were coming back from Calpurnia's church that Sunday?" Jem said, "Yessum, she took us." I remembered something. "Yessum, and she promised me I could come out to her house some afternoon. Atticus. I'll go next Sunday if it's all right, can I? Cal said she'd come get me if you were off in the car." "You may not." Aunt Alexandra said it. I wheeled around, startled, then turned back to Atticus in time to catch his swift glance at her, but it was too late. I said, "I didn't ask you!" For a big man, Atticus could get up and down from a


know if you know where that is--at a hurling match between the Croke's Own Boys and the Fearless Thurles and by God, Stevie, that was the hard fight. My first cousin, Fonsy Davin, was stripped to his buff that day minding cool for the Limericks but he was up with the forwards half the time and shouting like mad. I never will forget that day. One of the Crokes made a woeful wipe at him one time with his caman and I declare to God he was within an aim's ace of getting it at the side of his temple. Oh, honest to God, if the crook of it caught him that time he was done for. --I am glad he escaped, Stephen had said with a laugh, but surely that's not the strange thing that happened you? --Well, I suppose that doesn't interest you, but leastways there was such noise after the match that I missed the train home and I couldn't get any kind of a yoke to give me a lift for, as luck would have it, there was a mass meeting that same day over in Castletownroche and all the cars in the country were there. So there was nothing for it only to stay the night or to foot it out. Well, I started to walk and on I went and it was coming on night when I got into the Ballyhoura hills, that's better than ten miles from Kilmallock and there's a long lonely road after that. You wouldn't see the sign of a christian house along the road or hear a sound. It was pitch dark almost. Once or twice I stopped by the way under a bush to redden my pipe and only for the dew was thick I'd have stretched out there and slept. At last, after a bend of the road, I spied a little cottage with a light in the window. I went up and knocked at the door. A voice asked who was there and I answered I was over at the match in Buttevant and was walking back and that I'd be thankful for a glass of water. After a while a young woman opened the door and brought me out a big mug of milk. She was half undressed as if she was going to bed when I knocked and she had her hair hanging and I thought by her figure and by something in the look of her eyes that she must be carrying a child. She kept me in talk a long while at the door, and I thought it strange because her breast and her shoulders were bare. She asked me was I tired and would I like to stop the night there. She said she was all alone in the house and that her husband had gone that morning to Queenstown with his sister to see her off. And all the time she was talking, Stevie, she had her eyes fixed on my face and she stood so close to me I could hear


inability to get under way earlier in the morning prevented them from travelling longer hours. Not only did they not know how to work dogs, but they did not know how to work themselves. The first to go was Dub. Poor blundering thief that he was, always getting caught and punished, he had none the less been a faithful worker. His wrenched shoulder-blade, untreated and unrested, went from bad to worse, till finally Hal shot him with the big Colt's revolver. It is a saying of the country that an Outside dog starves to death on the ration of the husky, so the six Outside dogs under Buck could do no less than die on half the ration of the husky. The Newfoundland went first, followed by the three short-haired pointers, the two mongrels hanging more grittily on to life, but going in the end. By this time all the amenities and gentlenesses of the Southland had fallen away from the three people. Shorn of its glamour and romance, Arctic travel became to them a reality too harsh for their manhood and womanhood. Mercedes ceased weeping over the dogs, being too occupied with weeping over herself and with quarrelling with her husband and brother. To quarrel was the one thing they were never too weary to do. Their irritability arose out of their misery, increased with it, doubled upon it, outdistanced it. The wonderful patience of the trail which comes to men who toil hard and suffer sore, and remain sweet of speech and kindly, did not come to these two men and the woman. They had no inkling of such a patience. They were stiff and in pain; their muscles ached, their bones ached, their very hearts ached; and because of this they became sharp of speech, and hard words were first on their lips in the morning and last at night. Charles and Hal wrangled whenever Mercedes gave them a chance. It was the cherished belief of each that he did more than his share of the work, and neither forbore to speak this belief at every opportunity. Sometimes Mercedes sided with her husband, sometimes with her brother. The result was a beautiful and unending family quarrel. Starting from a dispute as to which should chop a few sticks for the fire (a dispute which concerned only Charles and Hal), presently would be lugged in the rest of the family, fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, people thousands of miles away, and some of them dead. That Hal's views on art, or the sort of society plays his mother's brother wrote, should have anything to do with the chopping of a few sticks of firewood, passes comprehension; nevertheless the quarrel was as likely to tend in that direction as in the direction of Charles's political prejudices. And that Charles's sister's tale-bearing tongue should be relevant to the building of a Yukon fire, was apparent only to Mercedes, who disburdened herself of copious opinions upon that topic, and incidentally upon a few other traits unpleasantly peculiar to her husband's family. In the meantime


emotions, the weight of an unresolved past and an equally uncertain future. Finally, Viv sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. Her words were barely audible. “Fine, Galvin. Do what you have to do. We’ll just throw this on the growing pile of reasons we should never have …” She let her words die. I nodded, my heart heavy with regret. My Jadoo ring was vibrating. “I’m needed on the bridge.” She nodded. As I turned to leave, the air between us was still thick with unresolved tension. I stopped and looked back at her. “Think about what you want, Viv … what you really want. I’ll support you in any way I can.” Chapter 44 I reached the captain’s mount and took a seat, eyes locked onto the halo display. “We’re just entering the asteroid field, Captain,” Grimes said. “Yeah, well, there’s no clear path to Adams,” Akari added. “This field has obviously moved, drifted, since Lincoln traversed this rocky maze almost a decade ago. I’ll try to use rail guns sparingly.” A sudden burst of rail spikes eviscerated an asteroid the size of the Hub Gunther, clearing their slow, methodical progression deeper into the field. Seeing Akari’s profile, I glimpsed a smile—at least someone still loved her job here. Bosun Polk joined me at the captain’s mount. “Sitrep, Bosun?” “The crew is … begrudgingly making preparations to abandon ship. Only what someone can carry with them on their person goes onboard Lincoln.” “Let’s dedicate extra resources to HealthBay … kid gloves when it comes to moving the patients—” “Met with Doc Viv an hour ago; we’ll be using hovercarts to move the patients. They’ll hardly know they’re being moved.” I looked over to Polk. “Wait, she didn’t have a problem with moving them?” Polk hitched a shoulder. “I guess, but no more than anyone else has a problem with the move.” Viv’s vehement reaction earlier … What was all that about? “Just make sure anything she wants to take with her, MediBots, specialized equipment, her medication stores; hell, if she wants the deck plates—make sure it’s moved over.” “Don’t worry, Cap … We’ll take care of your … um, Doc Viv.” Polk’s cheeks flushed, catching herself misspeaking. Another burst of rail spikes shattered an even larger asteroid, Adams’ shields coming alive as an influx of gravel pieces peppered the protective barrier. I let Polk’s comment go unanswered but was curious as to what she’d almost said. My what? My main squeeze? My girlfriend? Perhaps that was the problem. Hell, if I didn’t know … Chen said, “I have confirmation both Portent and Wrath have entered the asteroid field behind us.” The halo display segmented, Hardy’s form now prominent. “My sensors are tingling.” “Okay, not sure what we’re supposed to do with that bit of news?” I said. “Liquilids are on the move. Not slow and unhurried like before. They’re making a mad dash for us.” Akari stole a quick look back at me. “He’s not wrong. Sir Calvin just pinged an alert … realizing the same thing.” “That’s all we need,


be on your terms.” “No one’s forcing you to stay!” Sabrina says. “If you want to go, go!” Cleo looks down at her feet, a tiny fern growing up between the cracks in the sidewalk there, right between her sandals. “Fine,” she says. “Kimmy and I will find a hotel for the night.” Another cold laugh from Sabrina. “So, what, you’re going to consciously uncouple from our friendship?” “I’m going to take some space,” Cleo says. “This is ridiculous,” Sabrina replies. “You won’t find anywhere to stay on this entire coast.” Cleo’s lips press tighter. “Then we’ll sleep in the guesthouse tonight.” “And then what?” Sabrina says. “I don’t know yet,” Cleo said. “Maybe leave.” I have no idea how to argue with her, or if I even want to. My head throbs. Everything is all wrong. Finally, Sabrina says, “I’ll get the car.” She turns and stalks down the street. I look back the way we came. Even in silhouette, Kimmy, Wyn, and Parth look rigid. They heard everything. In a way, I tell myself, it’s a relief, to have everything out in the open. But the truth is, if I could take it all back, I would. I’d do anything to go back to that happy place, outside of time, where nothing from real life can touch us. 32 REAL LIFE Friday ON THE DRIVE home, we’re silent. Now that the truth is out, Wyn and I can’t even look at each other. He won’t look at Parth either, keeps his eyes fixed out the car window. As soon as we get inside the cottage, everyone retreats, and rather than endure any more awkward or painful run-ins, I tuck myself away in the first- floor powder room. When I make my way up the stairs, though, Kimmy and Cleo are coming down, bags in hand, bound for the guesthouse. Cleo doesn’t look at me. Neither of them says anything, but Kimmy flashes a tense smile and squeezes my hand as we pass. A lump forms in my throat at the whine of the front door opening behind me. I don’t go to Wyn’s and my room. The bubble has popped, this pocket universe collapsed. Instead, I take the kids’ room. It’s tidy, the twin beds returned to opposite walls and neatly made. Cleo and Kimmy left no trace of themselves here apart from the lingering scent of Kimmy’s peppermint oil. I sit on the edge of the bed, feeling the loneliness swell, not knowing whether it’s pressing against me from the outside or growing from within. Either way, it’s inescapable, my oldest companion. I shuck off my clothes and crawl into bed. I don’t cry, but I don’t sleep either. The argument replays in my mind on a feverish loop until it feels like the words melt together nonsensically. I ask myself, again and again, why I didn’t tell them. All the same half- assed answers cycle through my mind until I’m as sick with myself as everyone else is. I turn onto my back and glare up at a


suddenly touched his hat gardener fashion and said, "Yes, sir! Yes, sir!" and obediently disappeared as he descended the ladder. CHAPTER XXII WHEN THE SUN WENT DOWN When his head was out of sight Colin turned to Mary. "Go and meet him," he said; and Mary flew across the grass to the door under the ivy. Dickon was watching him with sharp eyes. There were scarlet spots on his cheeks and he looked amazing, but he showed no signs of falling. "I can stand," he said, and his head was still held up and he said it quite grandly. "I told thee tha' could as soon as tha' stopped bein' afraid," answered Dickon. "An' tha's stopped." "Yes, I've stopped," said Colin. Then suddenly he remembered something Mary had said. "Are you making Magic?" he asked sharply. Dickon's curly mouth spread in a cheerful grin. "Tha's doin' Magic thysel'," he said. "It's same Magic as made these 'ere work out o' th' earth," and he touched with his thick boot a clump of crocuses in the grass. Colin looked down at them. "Aye," he said slowly, "there couldna' be bigger Magic than that there--there couldna' be." He drew himself up straighter than ever. "I'm going to walk to that tree," he said, pointing to one a few feet away from him. "I'm going to be standing when Weatherstaff comes here. I can rest against the tree if I like. When I want to sit down I will sit down, but not before. Bring a rug from the chair." He walked to the tree and though Dickon held his arm he was wonderfully steady. When he stood against the tree trunk it was not too plain that he supported himself against it, and he still held himself so straight that he looked tall. When Ben Weatherstaff came through the door in the wall he saw him standing there and he heard Mary muttering something under her breath. "What art sayin'?" he asked rather testily because he did not want his attention distracted from the long thin straight boy figure and proud face. But she did not tell him. What she was saying was this: "You can do it! You can do it! I told you you could! You can do it! You can do it! You can!" She was saying it to Colin because she wanted to make Magic and keep him on his feet looking like that. She could not bear that he should give in before Ben Weatherstaff. He did not give in. She was uplifted by a sudden feeling that he looked quite beautiful in spite of his thinness. He fixed his eyes on Ben Weatherstaff in his funny imperious way. "Look at me!" he commanded. "Look at me all over! Am I a hunchback? Have I got crooked legs?" Ben Weatherstaff had not quite got over his emotion, but he had recovered a little and answered almost in his usual way. "Not tha'," he said. "Nowt o' th' sort. What's tha' been doin' with thysel'--hidin' out o' sight an' lettin'


This obliged me to run after her, and she ran so fast that we were very near the cottage before I caught her. 'Oh, it's you, is it?' said little Em'ly. 'Why, you knew who it was, Em'ly,' said I. 'And didn't YOU know who it was?' said Em'ly. I was going to kiss her, but she covered her cherry lips with her hands, and said she wasn't a baby now, and ran away, laughing more than ever, into the house. She seemed to delight in teasing me, which was a change in her I wondered at very much. The tea table was ready, and our little locker was put out in its old place, but instead of coming to sit by me, she went and bestowed her company upon that grumbling Mrs. Gummidge: and on Mr. Peggotty's inquiring why, rumpled her hair all over her face to hide it, and could do nothing but laugh. 'A little puss, it is!' said Mr. Peggotty, patting her with his great hand. 'So sh' is! so sh' is!' cried Ham. 'Mas'r Davy bor', so sh' is!' and he sat and chuckled at her for some time, in a state of mingled admiration and delight, that made his face a burning red. Little Em'ly was spoiled by them all, in fact; and by no one more than Mr. Peggotty himself, whom she could have coaxed into anything, by only going and laying her cheek against his rough whisker. That was my opinion, at least, when I saw her do it; and I held Mr. Peggotty to be thoroughly in the right. But she was so affectionate and sweet-natured, and had such a pleasant manner of being both sly and shy at once, that she captivated me more than ever. She was tender-hearted, too; for when, as we sat round the fire after tea, an allusion was made by Mr. Peggotty over his pipe to the loss I had sustained, the tears stood in her eyes, and she looked at me so kindly across the table, that I felt quite thankful to her. 'Ah!' said Mr. Peggotty, taking up her curls, and running them over his hand like water, 'here's another orphan, you see, sir. And here,' said Mr. Peggotty, giving Ham a backhanded knock in the chest, 'is another of 'em, though he don't look much like it.' 'If I had you for my guardian, Mr. Peggotty,' said I, shaking my head, 'I don't think I should FEEL much like it.' 'Well said, Mas'r Davy bor'!' cried Ham, in an ecstasy. 'Hoorah! Well said! Nor more you wouldn't! Hor! Hor!' - Here he returned Mr. Peggotty's back-hander, and little Em'ly got up and kissed Mr. Peggotty. 'And how's your friend, sir?' said Mr. Peggotty to me. 'Steerforth?' said I. 'That's the name!' cried Mr. Peggotty, turning to Ham. 'I knowed it was something in our way.' 'You said it was Rudderford,' observed Ham, laughing. 'Well!' retorted Mr. Peggotty. 'And ye steer with a rudder, don't ye? It ain't fur off. How is he, sir?' 'He


the gym. But not Jesse’s gym, surely. Seattle is a big city, with hundreds of workout options. What are the odds that the two had met, had developed a relationship? A relationship that had gotten him killed. When I am safely ensconced in a forested thicket, I press the heels of my palms into my eyes. Don’t cry, I admonish myself. Don’t fall apart now. You’ve survived this long on your own. But my throat is thick with sadness, my heart tight and racing. Jesse is dead. His chest full of deep gashes, his face grotesque in its death mask. He was my lover. My comfort. My safe place. And someone has brutally murdered him. In Hazel’s beautiful house. Suspicious thoughts swirl in my head, snaking their way through my grief. Had my feelings for Jesse blinded me to the red flags? His sparse apartment and luxury car were at odds. He had never given me his phone number, leaving me waiting and wondering for days on end. Did Jesse have another life that I wasn’t a part of? Another woman? And was that woman Hazel? I had pitied her, tried to save her from a sick and toxic marriage. But now I wonder if she tricked me. Played me. All the while, she could have been involved with my boyfriend. But even if she was, why is he dead? And why the fuck did she want me to discover his lifeless body? The purse. I’d had the wherewithal to grab it as I fled, but what is inside? Hazel was supposed to leave me a disguise—a jacket and a hat. I unzip the leather bag and search for the clothing. It’s not there, of course it’s not. Because now I know that Hazel’s plan was just a ruse. My fingers alight on the fat manila envelope and I withdraw it. I’d been so optimistic when I’d first retrieved it. The thought of a new identity, enough money to live like a normal member of society had buoyed me. But it will be filled with useless paper, another cruel trick. My damaged finger throbs and my others are weak from cold, but I tear it open. There is a note on top, handwritten. I pull it out and read it. Lee, You have to go. Start over. Rebuild your life. Jesse is not who you think he is. I’m so sorry. You were always a good friend to me. H. An audible sob shudders out of me, and I press a fist to my mouth. What has Hazel done? To me and to Jesse? I shake the envelope into my lap to see what else Hazel has left me. There is money. A lot of money. Stacks of hundreds wrapped in rubber bands like the proceeds of a robbery. My mind struggles to calculate the number, but it has to be fifty grand, just like she promised. I find a passport too. I open it up; my face, pale and serious, stares back at me. Kelly Jane Wilcox A new birthdate. Born


Grand Empress, or involve her in some intrigue,’ Kanifa said. ‘I mean to keep an eye on her.’ ‘Yes, I’m sure you would be happy to keep a close watch on a beautiful woman.’ Kanifa cocked a heavy eyebrow, a faint smile on his lips. ‘Go to your mother, Dumai of Ipyeda.’ He continued down the corridor. ‘She will cleanse you of such earthly thoughts.’ Dumai screened her grin behind her hair as she stepped into the room. She teased him, but in truth, Kanifa had never expressed interest in anyone. The mountain was his only love. The traveller lay on a mat, covered to his chin with bedding, feet snug in a heat trap. He was about sixty, grey woven through his thick hair, which framed a brown and solemn face. Unora was nearby, watching a kettle. While there were guests in the temple, she was obliged to wear the grey veil of the Maiden Officiant, even outside the rituals she led. The Maiden Officiant acted as the understudy and representative of the Supreme Officiant. While the latter was always a member of the imperial family, the former was usually not of noble birth. Her veil symbolised the waterline between the earthly and celestial realms. ‘There you are.’ Unora patted the floor. ‘Come.’ Dumai knelt beside her. ‘Have you found out who he is?’ ‘A saltwalker, from his collection.’ Her mother motioned to a dish, full of shells of rare beauty. ‘He woke for long enough to ask me where he was.’ For a saltwalker, he was curiously unweathered. They were wanderers who tended to the ancient shrines – only ever washing in the sea, dressing in what they found on its shore. ‘And the climber?’ Dumai said. ‘Did you learn why she came so late in the year?’ ‘Yes.’ Unora took the steaming kettle from the pothook. ‘You know I can’t share her secrets, but she made a choice she fears may cause a scandal at court. She needed to clear her mind.’ ‘Perhaps I could talk to her, give her some comfort. I think I am about her age.’ ‘A kind offer, but it was my counsel she sought.’ Unora tipped the boiled water into a cup. ‘Don’t concern yourself, my kite. Your life is on this mountain, and it needs your full devotion.’ ‘Yes, Mother.’ Dumai glanced at the saltwalker. A chill grazed her spine. Not only was he now awake, but his gaze was hard and stunned on her face. He looked as if he had seen a water ghost. Unora noticed, stiffening. ‘Honourable stranger.’ She moved between them, the cup between her hands. ‘Welcome. You have come to the High Temple of Kwiriki. I am its Maiden Officiant.’ The man did not utter a word. ‘Mountain sickness . . . can shadow the sight. Can you see?’ Dumai was starting to feel nervous. Finally, the man said, ‘I have a thirst.’ His voice came deep and rough. Unora held the cup to his lips. ‘Your head may be very light for a time,’ she told him


push off the wall into a standing position. “Into what?” “Your uniform, of course.” Mrs. Baker steps away from the door, allowing me to peek inside. The room is small but tidy. Butter yellow walls, a dresser, a reading chair, a large bookshelf blessedly filled with books. There’s even a view of the ocean, which under different circumstances would make my heart sing. But I’m too focused on the bed and the white nurse’s uniform sitting on top of it, folded as neatly as a napkin in a fancy restaurant. “If it doesn’t fit properly, I can find a seamstress who’ll be able to do some alterations,” Mrs. Baker says. I eye the uniform like it’s a ticking time bomb. “You seriously want me to wear this?” “No, dear,” Mrs. Baker says. “I require that you wear it.” “But I’m not a nurse.” “You are here.” I should have known this was coming. I’d seen Jessica in her ridiculous maid’s outfit and Archie in his chef’s gear. “I know you think it’s silly,” Mrs. Baker says. “The nurses before you did as well. Even Mary. But we abide by the old ways here. And those ways involve a strict dress code. Besides, it’s what Miss Hope is accustomed to. To deviate now would likely confuse and upset her.” It’s that last bit that makes me concede defeat. While I don’t give a damn about abiding by the old ways—why follow them if no one is ever here to notice?—I can’t argue with not wanting to upset a patient. I have no choice but to suck it up and wear the uniform. Mrs. Baker waits in the hall as I close the door and strip out of my coat, skirt, and blouse. On goes the uniform, which doesn’t quite fit. It’s loose at the hips, just right at the bust, and tight at the shoulders, making it simultaneously too snug and not snug enough. By the time the winged cap is pinned to my head, I feel positively ridiculous. In the adjoining bathroom, I check to see how I look. It’s . . . not bad, actually. While undeniably formal, the tightness in the uniform’s shoulders makes me stand a little taller. Forced out of my perpetual slump, I appear less like a caregiver and more like a legitimate nurse. For the first time in months, I feel resourceful again. A refreshing change of pace. Mrs. Baker certainly approves. When I emerge from the bedroom, she lifts her glasses to her eyes and says, “Yes, that’s much better.” Then she’s off again, to the next door down the hallway. Lenora Hope’s room. I suck in a breath when Mrs. Baker opens the door, feeling the need to brace myself. For what, I don’t know. It’s not as if Lenora Hope will be standing just inside, a knife in one hand and a noose in the other. Yet that’s the only thing I can picture as Mrs. Baker gestures for me to step inside. After another deep breath, I do. The first thing I


up.” “You realize I know about you and Orson, Ezra,” Mack said, a new sharpness in his voice. “You two were fucking. I know how much you love him. I could read it on your face the minute I met you. You’re doing all this for him, aren’t you? Because you can’t get over him? And it’s a shame, isn’t it, because he loves that movie star?” I balled my fists in my lap. “None of that is true.” I could hear a smile creep into Mack’s voice. “It’s all true. And I’m going public with it.” Delpy looked at me like I was another species and I motioned for him to redirect his attention out the cockpit window. “Stop him talking,” I said to Palugas. I could hear the rip of duct tape, Mack’s desperate protests as Palugas sealed off his mouth. Now the writhing began in earnest, Mack kicking the back of my seat, Palugas exerting himself with the effort of keeping him still. “Honestly, Mack, I’m really sorry about this,” I said. “But you’re trying to extort us, you’re spreading weird, salacious rumors. It’s very unprofessional. Please just try to relax, okay? Until we get to the office?” But Mack wouldn’t relax. He broke free from Palugas and banged on the window again, his muffled screams crowding the cabin. Palugas restrained his arms. Mack kicked violently against the hatch. I heard a click: the hatch releasing. The air taxi tipped and Delpy jerked the joystick, trying to right us. Palugas made a noise like he’d been burned on a hot stove and Mack’s duct-taped screams grew more urgent. I turned around and could just make out the purplish night sky, the shape of Palugas clinging to his seat as the shape of Mack fell screaming from the air taxi. “Oh Jesus,” Palugas said, and began to cry. “What the fuck?” I barked. “Why did you let go of him?” “It was either him alone or both of us,” Palugas whined. I rammed the heel of my palm into my forehead. “Fuck!” I could feel Delpy shaking silently beside me. “He fell so far.” The wind blowing in from the open hatch was distorting Palugas’s voice. With a grunt, he pulled the hatch closed, and the sudden stillness in the cab was unsettling. “Yes, he did,” I said, a surge of adrenaline making my stomach turn. Palugas kept crying. “What do we do?” Delpy asked. “Fuck, Ez, what do we do?” “This was not supposed to happen,” I said to myself. “I know it wasn’t,” Delpy said. “I know you know it wasn’t!” I shouted back at him. The cab was silent except for Palugas’s crying. My gears were spinning so fast I felt sick. “We have to just go back to the office,” I said, and turned to Delpy. “Just take us back to the office.” Mack’s body wouldn’t be found for weeks, and by then it would have decayed gruesomely, all traces of his struggle lost to his rotting skin. * * * I took a car to