to say that the sea had thrown up the wreck- but they were wrong! They had kicked her for nothing! "Sorry for kicking you, Anne," said Julian. "My foot sort of slipped." "So did mine," said Dick. "Yes, Aunt Fanny, it was a magnificent sight on the island. The waves raced up that little inlet, and we had to take our boat almost up to the top of the low cliff there." "I wasn't really afraid of the storm," said Anne. "In fact, I wasn't really as afraid of it as Ti ..." Everyone knew perfectly well that Anne was going to mention Timothy, and they all interrupted her at once, speaking very loudly. Julian managed to get a kick in again. "Oooh!" said Anne. "The rabbits were so tame," said Julian, loudly. "We watched the cormorants," said Dick, and George joined in too, talking at the same time. "The jackdaws made such a noise, they said 'Chack, chack, chack,' all the time." "Well, really, you sound like jackdaws yourselves, talking all at once like this!" said Aunt Fanny, with a laugh. "Now, have you all finished? Very well, then, go and wash your sticky hands- yes, George, I know they're sticky, because I made that gingerbread, and you've had three slices! Then you had better go and play quietly in the other room, because it's raining, and you can't go out. But don't disturb your father, George. He's very busy." The children went to wash. "Idiot!" said Julian to Anne. "Nearly gave us away twice!" "I didn't mean what you thought I meant the first time!" began Anne indignantly. George interrupted her. "I'd rather you gave the secret of the wreck away than my secret about Tim," she said. "I do think you've got a careless tongue." "Yes, I have," said Anne, sorrowfully. "I think I'd better not talk at meal-times any more. I love Tim so much I just can't seem to help wanting to talk about him." They all went to play in the other room. Julian turned a table upside down with a crash. "We'll play at wrecks," he said. "This is the wreck. Now we're going to explore it." The door flew open and an angry, frowning face looked in. It was George's father! "What was that noise?" he said. "George! Did you overturn that table?" "I did," said Julian. "I'm sorry, sir. I quite forgot you were working." "Any more noise like that and I shall keep you all in bed tomorrow!" said his Uncle Quentin. "Georgina, keep your cousins quiet." The door shut and Uncle Quentin went out. The children looked at one another. "Your father's awfully fierce, isn't he?" said Julian. "I'm sorry I made that row. I didn't think." "We'd better do something really quiet," said George. "Or he'll keep his word- and we'll find ourselves in bed tomorrow just when we want to explore the wreck." This was a terrible thought. Anne went to get one of her dolls to play with. She had managed to bring quite a number after all.


happened because purges and vaporizations were a necessary part of the mechanics of government. The only real clue lay in the words 'refs unpersons', which indicated that Withers was already dead. You could not invariably assume this to be the case when people were arrested. Sometimes they were released and allowed to remain at liberty for as much as a year or two years before being executed. Very occasionally some person whom you had believed dead long since would make a ghostly reappearance at some public trial where he would implicate hundreds of others by his testimony before vanishing, this time for ever. Withers, however, was already an UNPERSON. He did not exist: he had never existed. Winston decided that it would not be enough simply to reverse the tendency of Big Brother's speech. It was better to make it deal with something totally unconnected with its original subject. He might turn the speech into the usual denunciation of traitors and thought-criminals, but that was a little too obvious, while to invent a victory at the front, or some triumph of over-production in the Ninth Three-Year Plan, might complicate the records too much. What was needed was a piece of pure fantasy. Suddenly there sprang into his mind, ready made as it were, the image of a certain Comrade Ogilvy, who had recently died in battle, in heroic circumstances. There were occasions when Big Brother devoted his Order for the Day to commemorating some humble, rank-and-file Party member whose life and death he held up as an example worthy to be followed. Today he should commemorate Comrade Ogilvy. It was true that there was no such person as Comrade Ogilvy, but a few lines of file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (27 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt print and a couple of faked photographs would soon bring him into existence. Winston thought for a moment, then pulled the speakwrite towards him and began dictating in Big Brother's familiar style: a style at once military and pedantic, and, because of a trick of asking questions and then promptly answering them ('What lessons do we learn from this fact, comrades? The lesson--which is also one of the fundamental principles of Ingsoc--that,' etc., etc.), easy to imitate. At the age of three Comrade Ogilvy had refused all toys except a drum, a sub-machine gun, and a model helicopter. At six--a year early, by a special relaxation of the rules--he had joined the Spies, at nine he had been a troop leader. At eleven he had denounced his uncle to the Thought Police after overhearing a conversation which appeared to him to have criminal tendencies. At seventeen he had been a district organizer of the Junior Anti-Sex League. At nineteen he had designed a hand-grenade which had been adopted by the Ministry of Peace and which, at its first trial, had killed thirty-one Eurasian prisoners in one burst. At twenty-three he had perished in action. Pursued by enemy jet planes while flying over the Indian Ocean with important despatches, he had weighted his body with his machine gun and leapt


don’t have money for it,” I said. “That wasn’t your argument.” My dad’s features came slowly into focus: his skin mottled with frostbite, his widow’s peak, his watery greenish-gray eyes. “Your argument was basically that college is useless.” My mom set the bucket of fried chicken down on the table and turned to me. “It’s not useless,” she said. “Do you know I would have killed to go to college?” “You wouldn’t have killed,” I said. “For fuck’s sake,” my dad said. “You have the grades. You have the test scores.” “But I don’t have the money.” “So you take out loans! Everyone takes out loans.” My mom tightened her ponytail and looked at me pityingly. “Are you worried the other kids will be mean to you, sweetheart?” “God, no,” I said, and extended my hand for my phone, which my dad reluctantly gave back to me. “I’m not worried about mean people; I’m worried about being a fucking mark.” “Language,” my dad said. “You just swore,” I said. “You can’t swear,” my dad said lamely. “What’s a mark?” My mom ran her hand through my hair, which conjured the skin shivers I’d always experienced whenever she’d done this during my childhood. When I was scared or crying or angry she’d do this. Everything was bad, and then everything was good. “Like what they used to call a sucker,” I said, quieter than before. “Like someone who gets money stolen from them or gets a trick played on them.” “College graduates aren’t suckers,” my dad said. My mom kept running her hand through my hair. “Why do you say that?” “A lot of reasons.” “You can get a scholarship,” my dad persisted. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A phone call. “I’m going to go to my room,” I said. “I’ll be right back.” I felt them watch me leave the kitchen and run down the hall, where I closed the door as quietly as I could and pulled out my phone. “Hi,” I said, feeling a relief so intense it was almost dizzying. “Hey.” His voice was brittle. “Lost you for a few days there, colonel, sir.” I said too quickly. He began to cry. “What is it?” I asked, but he just sobbed, and I kept imagining myself next to him. I was desperate to touch him, to run my hand through his hair as my mom had just run hers through mine. Anything I could do to make everything good. “My dad,” he gasped finally. “Yeah?” “He’s dead. He had a heart attack.” A horrified sob. “At home. I came back to visit—I found him.” “Jesus Christ.” “I have no idea—I don’t—I have no idea why he went now instead of later.” “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Orson, really—” “No, no. It’s fine,” he said, waving me away with his voice. “Sorry I didn’t get your texts. I was, you know, I was walking, actually. I went on a twenty-mile walk one day. It’s what I do when I can’t do anything else.” “I get that,” I said, though


pulses, talking in whispers, ears alert --------------------------------------------------------- -240- to catch the slightest sound, and muscles tense and ready for instant retreat. In a little while familiarity modified their fears and they gave the place a critical and interested examination, rather admiring their own boldness, and wondering at it, too. Next they wanted to look up-stairs. This was something like cutting off retreat, but they got to daring each other, and of course there could be but one result -- they threw their tools into a corner and made the ascent. Up there were the same signs of decay. In one corner they found a closet that promised mystery, but the promise was a fraud -- there was nothing in it. Their courage was up now and well in hand. They were about to go down and begin work when -- "Sh!" said Tom. "What is it?" whispered Huck, blanching with fright. "Sh! ... There! ... Hear it?" "Yes! ... Oh, my! Let's run!" "Keep still! Don't you budge! They're coming right toward the door." The boys stretched themselves upon the floor with their eyes to knot-holes in the planking, and lay waiting, in a misery of fear. "They've stopped.... No -- coming.... Here they are. Don't whisper another word, Huck. My goodness, I wish I was out of this!" Two men entered. Each boy said to himself: "There's the old deaf and dumb Spaniard that's --------------------------------------------------------- -241- been about town once or twice lately -- never saw t'other man before." "T'other" was a ragged, unkempt creature, with nothing very pleasant in his face. The Spaniard was wrapped in a serape; he had bushy white whiskers; long white hair flowed from under his sombrero, and he wore green goggles. When they came in, "t'other" was talking in a low voice; they sat down on the ground, facing the door, with their backs to the wall, and the speaker continued his remarks. His manner became less guarded and his words more distinct as he proceeded: "No," said he, "I've thought it all over, and I don't like it. It's dangerous." "Dangerous!" grunted the "deaf and dumb" Spaniard -- to the vast surprise of the boys. "Milksop!" This voice made the boys gasp and quake. It was Injun Joe's! There was silence for some time. Then Joe said: "What's any more dangerous than that job up yonder -- but nothing's come of it." "That's different. Away up the river so, and not another house about. 'Twon't ever be known that we tried, anyway, long as we didn't succeed." "Well, what's more dangerous than coming here in the daytime! -- anybody would suspicion us that saw us." "I know that. But there warn't any other place as handy after that fool of a job. I want to quit --------------------------------------------------------- -242- this shanty. I wanted to yesterday, only it warn't any use trying to stir out of here, with those infernal boys playing over there on the hill right in full view." "Those infernal boys" quaked again under the inspiration of this remark, and thought how lucky


pause. “No, there was no pulse.” Seconds later, Ethan appears in the living room dressed in a t-shirt and joggers, holding his phone at his side. “I thought you were going to start CPR?” On her knees beside Brody, Sloane sinks back onto her heels. “I said it would look better if we do. It’s not like you gave him a chance to survive. Shooting him in the head like that.” Ethan puts his hands on his head. Sloane notices his hair is starting to gray at the temples. He looks at Brody’s body lying beside her, before his eyes rest on hers. “What happened? Why did you let him in?” “He knocked on the door, and I couldn’t tell who it was. I asked, you know, who’s there?, before opening the door, and he said he was your partner, Jonah. As soon as I unlocked the door, he came rushing in with a gun.” She motions toward the pistol now sitting on the coffee table. Ethan’s eyes trail hers. “He started waving it around, saying crazy things,” she continues. “Just like he did in the garage yesterday. Demanding to know if I’d told you about our affair and why I hadn’t done something to end the investigation. As if I could do anything. I told him to leave, immediately, and then he took a wild shot at me.” She waves her hand in the air for emphasis. “That’s when I yelled for you.” Outside, the wail of sirens grows closer as the emergency responders turn onto their street. Ethan looks toward the flames flickering through the shattered glass panel of their fireplace. Sloane follows his gaze. “He said he’d kill me for not helping him look innocent.” The sirens fill their quiet street, no doubt drawing the attention of all their neighbors, before coming to a stop in front of their house. Red lights flicker outside their front window as Sloane presses the heel of her hand on Brody’s sternum. “We’ll stick to what we were going to tell your partner tomorrow. That you just found out about my affair with Brody tonight.” Ethan nods as he backs toward the door to let them in. The doorbell rings as Sloane starts compressions. She stares into Brody’s lifeless hazel eyes and the growing puddle of blood mixed with a splatter of brain matter beneath his head. Ethan leads two medics, one pushing a stretcher, into their living room. They are followed by four EMT firefighters. “My wife’s an ER doctor,” she hears Ethan say. She continues to compress Brody’s chest when the two medics reach her side. “He was shot once in the head,” Sloane tells them. “He immediately collapsed and went pulseless. I’ve been doing CPR for five minutes.” After allowing the emergency responders to take over the resuscitation efforts, Sloane moves away from Brody’s side. She can feel Ethan’s eyes on hers as she watches the medics attempt to revive Brody. She turns toward her husband of nearly a decade, and a look passes between them. She searches his blue


problem. I made lasagna when Linda came over the last time. And anyway, lasagna is . . .” He makes a dismissive gesture. “I’ve never had a dinner party.” Andy doesn’t point out that Linda has scrounged food from Nick a dozen times. Apparently the addition of Emily and Jeanne means something. He considers telling Nick that he’s seen Emily eat caviar with tiny mother-of-pearl spoons and he’s seen Emily eat Chex mix out of her palm, and, with the expansive taste of people who have been raised with everything, she doesn’t seem to really prefer one over the other. But Nick will not be making Chex mix for Emily and Jeanne Warburton and probably would be offended by the idea, so Andy keeps his mouth shut and follows Nick down the street. “What’s the deal with that cop who’s always across the street now?” Andy asks. It’s the friendly-looking cop straight out of central casting again. “They probably think junk’s being sold out of that jazz club,” Nick grumbles. “Before eight o’clock on a Saturday morning?” “Neighborhood’s always crawling with cops. You’d think they’d have better things to do.” First, they go to the A&P, where Nick buys noodles, canned tomatoes, and a lot of weird-looking vegetables that Andy refrains from commenting about. “They’re eggplants, Andy,” Nick says, so maybe Andy’s face is doing some commenting of its own. “Trust me.” “I do,” says Andy, maybe a little too earnestly. “Everything you make is delicious.” Then they go to the bakery on Cornelia Street, where Nick gets two loaves of bread, glowers away Andy’s offer to pay, then hands the grocery bag to Andy to carry. A few doors down is a cheese store that Andy has passed a dozen times but is too intimidated by to consider going in. “Where else are we going?” Andy asks when Nick emerges with two paper-wrapped parcels of mysterious cheese that he dumps into Andy’s shopping bag. “Just the butcher.” The butcher Nick likes is a block away on Jones Street, a hole-in-the-wall that’s long since passed old-fashioned and ascended into a sort of battered permanence. The floor is covered in sawdust and meat hangs in the window. There’s no need for Andy to go in—he could wait on the sidewalk as he had at the cheese shop and say hello to all the dogs that come past. Except. Well. Nick greets the butcher in Italian. He’s told Andy that he only speaks kitchen Italian, but this is a flat-out lie because right now the butcher is clearly trying to sell him what looks like beef and Nick is saying no, no, he wants something else. The butcher asks a question, Nick answers, and, honestly, somebody speaking a language that literal millions of other people speak shouldn’t affect Andy in quite this way. In fact, there’s the butcher speaking Italian right now, and Andy in no way wants to push that man against the counter and do lewd things to him. It’s just a language! Jesus. As he watches, Nick leans a hand against


yuther servants wouldn' miss me, kase dey'd shin out en take holiday soon as de ole folks 'uz out'n de way. "Well, when it come dark I tuck out up de river road, en went 'bout two mile er more to whah dey warn't no houses. I'd made up my mine 'bout what I's agwyne to do. You see, ef I kep' on tryin' to git away afoot, de dogs 'ud track me; ef I stole a skift to cross over, dey'd miss dat skift, you see, en dey'd know 'bout whah I'd lan' on de yuther side, en whah to pick up my track. So I says, a raff is what I's arter; it doan' MAKE no track. "I see a light a-comin' roun' de p'int bymeby, so I wade' in en shove' a log ahead o' me en swum more'n half way acrost de river, en got in 'mongst de drift- wood, en kep' my head down low, en kinder swum agin de current tell de raff come along. Den I swum to de stern uv it en tuck a-holt. It clouded up en 'uz pooty dark for a little while. So I clumb up en laid down on de planks. De men 'uz all 'way yonder in de middle, whah de lantern wuz. De river wuz a- risin', en dey wuz a good current; so I reck'n'd 'at by fo' in de mawnin' I'd be twenty-five mile down de river, en den I'd slip in jis b'fo' daylight en swim asho', en take to de woods on de Illinois side. "But I didn' have no luck. When we 'uz mos' down to de head er de islan' a man begin to come aft wid de lantern, I see it warn't no use fer to wait, so I slid overboard en struck out fer de islan'. Well, I had a notion I could lan' mos' anywhers, but I couldn't -- bank too bluff. I 'uz mos' to de foot er de islan' b'fo' I found' a good place. I went into de woods en jedged I wouldn' fool wid raffs no mo', long as dey move de lantern roun' so. I had my pipe en a plug er dog-leg, en some matches in my cap, en dey warn't wet, so I 'uz all right." "And so you ain't had no meat nor bread to eat all this time? Why didn't you get mud-turkles?" "How you gwyne to git 'm? You can't slip up on um en grab um; en how's a body gwyne to hit um wid a rock? How could a body do it in de night? En I warn't gwyne to show mysef on de bank in de daytime." "Well, that's so. You've had to keep in the woods all the time, of course. Did you hear 'em shooting the cannon?" "Oh, yes. I knowed dey was arter you. I see um go by heah -- watched um thoo de bushes." Some young birds come along, flying a yard or two at a time and lighting. Jim said


she’d demand an answer. By any means necessary. It would be inconceivable not to get it. But back then, when she was only a girl, it wasn’t inconceivable. The gentleman looked at her again. “Hold your tongue,” he told her. Mother didn’t admonish him. She didn’t seem to hear him at all. Alice grizzled, as if she couldn’t decide whether to start crying or not. * * * Changeable, Jane-two had said. Mrs. King didn’t like that word, in relation to Alice. Of course there would come a moment when Miss de Vries would try to befriend her. Mrs. King had seen it happen to girls before: the lazy, sideways nature of it. Almost like an alligator yawning, catching flies in its mouth. Madam liked to make alliances below stairs, circumventing the natural order of things: bypassing the butler, housekeeper, the senior servants, anyone with their wits about them. There was no particular harm to it. She just liked to have one humble little person up her sleeve. No doubt it made her feel a little bigger than she was. Alice might fall for it, she thought. She closed that thought away. Not likely. Alice possessed Mrs. King’s own blood. Of course there were girls who would have weakened themselves for Miss de Vries. Indulged all sorts of fantasies—mooning over her, adhering to her, wishing to possess all that she possessed. But Alice wasn’t a fool. She knew which side her bread was buttered. She wanted her fee. She’d said so, only the day before, when Mrs. King went to get her report. “Look here. I don’t suppose I could get some of my payment up front, could I?” Alice had asked. This annoyed Mrs. King. First Mrs. Bone, now the rest of them. “Certainly not,” she said. “I can’t show special favors to you—I told you before.” Alice looked uneasy. “I was only asking,” she said. Mrs. King softened her tone. “Why?” she said. “Is something the matter?” She watched Alice’s expression harden. Mrs. King recognized that demeanor. It was her own. “Not in the least,” her sister said quietly. “And I’ve nothing to report.” 16 Nine days to go Miss de Vries heard William and the under-footmen sorting the post in the front hall. They were fetching extra platters. She knew what this meant. The responses were arriving. It put her on edge. “Alice?” she said, calling through to the dressing room. The girl appeared, eager faced but tired, hair scragged back, skin gray. She tucked her needle into her apron pocket, wiped her hands. “Yes, Madam?” Her throat sounded dry. “I’m running late. Iris has the afternoon off. Bring me some afternoon dresses to look at, will you?” Alice’s eyes widened, and Miss de Vries understood why. Sewing maids sewed. They didn’t do any more than that. The rules below stairs were rigid, unbending. She always enjoyed this, sending them scrambling. It settled her own nerves. “Certainly, Madam,” Alice said, and hurried out of the room. She was keen to impress, and that pleased Miss de Vries, too. Alice


that of a man who was tired out. I sometimes derived an impression, from his manner or from a whispered word or two which escaped him, that he pondered over the question whether he might have been a better man under better circumstances. But, he never justified himself by a hint tending that way, or tried to bend the past out of its eternal shape. It happened on two or three occasions in my presence, that his desperate reputation was alluded to by one or other of the people in attendance on him. A smile crossed his face then, and he turned his eyes on me with a trustful look, as if he were confident that I had seen some small redeeming touch in him, even so long ago as when I was a little child. As to all the rest, he was humble and contrite, and I never knew him complain. When the Sessions came round, Mr. Jaggers caused an application to be made for the postponement of his trial until the following Sessions. It was obviously made with the assurance that he could not live so long, and was refused. The trial came on at once, and, when he was put to the bar, he was seated in a chair. No objection was made to my getting close to the dock, on the outside of it, and holding the hand that he stretched forth to me. The trial was very short and very clear. Such things as could be said for him, were said - how he had taken to industrious habits, and had thriven lawfully and reputably. But, nothing could unsay the fact that he had returned, and was there in presence of the Judge and Jury. It was impossible to try him for that, and do otherwise than find him guilty. At that time, it was the custom (as I learnt from my terrible experience of that Sessions) to devote a concluding day to the passing of Sentences, and to make a finishing effect with the Sentence of Death. But for the indelible picture that my remembrance now holds before me, I could scarcely believe, even as I write these words, that I saw two-and-thirty men and women put before the Judge to receive that sentence together. Foremost among the two-and-thirty, was he; seated, that he might get breath enough to keep life in him. The whole scene starts out again in the vivid colours of the moment, down to the drops of April rain on the windows of the court, glittering in the rays of April sun. Penned in the dock, as I again stood outside it at the corner with his hand in mine, were the two-and-thirty men and women; some defiant, some stricken with terror, some sobbing and weeping, some covering their faces, some staring gloomily about. There had been shrieks from among the women convicts, but they had been stilled, a hush had succeeded. The sheriffs with their great chains and nosegays, other civic gewgaws and monsters, criers, ushers, a great gallery full of


not yet told us his purpose." "The monk's purpose is the Church's purpose," Teabing replied, "to destroy the documents that reveal the great deception. The Church came closer tonight than they have ever come, and the Priory has put its trust in you, Miss Neveu. The task of saving the Holy Grail clearly includes carrying out the Priory's final wishes of sharing the truth with the world." Langdon intervened. "Leigh, asking Sophie to make that decision is quite a load to drop on someone who only an hour ago learned the Sangreal documents exist." Teabing sighed. "I apologize if I am pressing, Miss Neveu. Clearly I have always believed these documents should be made public, but in the end the decision belongs to you. I simply feel it is important that you begin to think about what happens should we succeed in opening the keystone." "Gentlemen," Sophie said, her voice firm. "To quote your words, 'You do not find the Grail, the Grail finds you.' I am going to trust that the Grail has found me for a reason, and when the time comes, I will know what to do." Both of them looked startled. "So then," she said, motioning to the rosewood box. "Let's move on." 199 CHAPTER 70 Standing in the drawing room of Chteau Villette, Lieutenant Collet watched the dying fire and felt despondent. Captain Fache had arrived moments earlier and was now in the next room, yelling into the phone, trying to coordinate the failed attempt to locate the missing Range Rover. It could be anywhere by now, Collet thought. Having disobeyed Fache's direct orders and lost Langdon for a second time, Collet was grateful that PTS had located a bullet hole in the floor, which at least corroborated Collet's claims that a shot had been fired. Still, Fache's mood was sour, and Collet sensed there would be dire repercussions when the dust settled. Unfortunately, the clues they were turning up here seemed to shed no light at all on what was going on or who was involved. The black Audi outside had been rented in a false name with false credit card numbers, and the prints in the car matched nothing in the Interpol database. Another agent hurried into the living room, his eyes urgent. "Where's Captain Fache?" Collet barely looked up from the burning embers. "He's on the phone." "I'm off the phone," Fache snapped, stalking into the room. "What have you got?" The second agent said, "Sir, Central just heard from Andr Vernet at the Depository Bank of Zurich. He wants to talk to you privately. He is changing his story." "Oh?" Fache said. Now Collet looked up. "Vernet is admitting that Langdon and Neveu spent time inside his bank tonight." "We figured that out," Fache said. "Why did Vernet lie about it?" "He said he'll talk only to you, but he's agreed to cooperate fully." "In exchange for what?" "For our keeping his bank's name out of the news and also for helping him recover some stolen property. It sounds like Langdon and Neveu


forgave you, that I would wait for you forever.” Rich was so close now that I could feel his breath, his steady inhale and exhale. “They said I would always protect you, always keep you safe, and if getting a stupid drinking ticket was a way I could prove that, then I would do it a million times over.” I didn’t even mean to open my mouth, but somehow, it happened and out it slipped. “I loved you, too, Rich. More than I’ve ever loved anyone.” It felt like I’d just said, More than I’ve ever loved Bryce. It was so wrong. I needed to walk out. But then, my heart beating fast, he stepped closer to me. With the rain thudding on the roof and the wind whipping outside, our eyes locked. “You’re engaged,” Rich said, stepping even closer. “We’re not in a good place,” I said honestly. “It isn’t working between us.” “Even still, we shouldn’t,” Rich murmured, inching so close the water from his hair dripped on my shoulders. For a second, it seemed like time had stopped. “Screw it.” I took that final step and threw my arms around Rich’s neck, our mouths melting together like they had never been apart. I pulled Rich’s soaking-wet shirt off his body, and we both laughed as he hoisted me up onto the counter, his lips never leaving mine. His skin was so warm, I felt like I might dissolve into him as he pulled me even closer. I was so lost in the feeling of him that I couldn’t imagine ever being apart again. Our hearts beat in time, our bodies were a melody, our breath the lyrics. And I knew that nothing had changed. Just like we had carved all those years ago: RICH + LANIER = LOVE. Daphne CHAOS AND DESTRUCTION LIGHTING A FIRE IS STILL one of my favorite things to do. There’s such power in the feeling of adding light and heat to the world. It must have been a marvelous—and truly terrifying—experience for whoever first rubbed two sticks or rocks together and made a flame. The storm had passed, leaving a lovely crispness in the air, and I decided to build a fire in the cobblestone campfire circle by the river for my friends and anyone else who wanted to come. As I set it up, I feel the paper in my pocket rustle and smile. There is something terribly romantic about being somewhere with horrible cell service and having the man you can’t get enough of send you love notes instead of texts. Sure, I had some concerns yesterday about my future with Huff. But I woke up this morning realizing that Huff is right: My routine with Steven has to change. I’ve been clinging so hard to a past that has worked that I haven’t been able to envision a future. And even though Henry is well-adjusted, he is four; he can adjust again. He already loves Huff, and we will take both quality time with him and weekends at his dad’s house


facing him, her terror still evident, but some other emotion—anger?—burning in those round eyes. So she was tougher than he’d thought. Good. He liked a little fight in them and up to this point she’d been a nearly petrified, weak little sniveling creature. But maybe not. Maybe there was a little grit deep inside that tiny body. He felt the thrumming deep inside, the anticipation racing through his blood, the thought of what was coming, the beads of the home-made rosary, cut glass strung on piano wire, pressing into the soft flesh of her throat. His cock hardened a bit at the thought of what was to come and the glorifying, spiritual act that was still just a precursor to his final, ultimate sanctification. That could only come with Samantha. And it would. Soon. “Very soon,” he whispered under his breath, though he hated this departure from his regular routine. Though necessary as they had to get out of the city quickly, it didn’t feel right, like a scratchy sweater that rubbed and chafed. “What?” his terrified captive asked, quaking in her fear again as the lights of the city disappeared behind them. She was twisting in her seat, looking back through the rear window as New Orleans faded into darkness. “What will come very soon?” “You will see, my child,” he said, telling himself that a change of plan, an altering of routine was good, would keep those who would thwart him guessing. He just had to get his mind around it and he would. They were close now and he could feel that special little thrum in his veins, the twitching of his cock as he contemplated what was to come. The darkened countryside loomed around them. A car passed, speeding rapidly in the opposite direction, headlight beams washing through the bug-spattered windshield to cast her face in a weird unworldly light, and in that nanosecond he saw her fear and a flash of something else . . . determination? In the set of her jaw. But that was wrong. She was so meek. Again he felt her tremble, caught just a glimpse of a quivering lower lip. Whatever he’d thought he’d caught sight of was his imagination. This one would be easy, despite the change in venue. He would take her into the swamp, kill her, and dispose of her in the dark water . . . no, wait. The cabin. Where two other bodies were rotting. He’d leave her there along with his trademark hundred-dollar bill because he’d want the cops to know if and when they found her remains, that it was his doing. Yes . . . it would be difficult. He’d have to kill her, then haul her in the canoe through the winding, treacherous waters of the bayou, deep into the thickets of cypress and muddy, mounded alligator nests, but it would be worth it. Turning off the main road, he rained on her what he hoped was a beatific smile, and adjusted his reflective sunglasses even though it was the dead of night.


their lives. It has now been fourteen years since we found each other—since our correspondence began, and those first careful, hopeful letters gave way to one visit, then many more. My kids have known their aunt Cindy all their lives, but I understand how easily they might never have known her at all, and have told them the story of what we did to put part of our family back together. When I see my sister, talk with her, it feels as if we are recovering lost treasure. In her company, I’m able to be my whole self. She and her husband, Rick, had met my adoptive parents only once before. Yet when my father died, they both took time off work to make the five-hour drive from Portland, arriving just in time to help and offer my children the crucial distraction of a cousin to play with. Cindy and I cleaned my mother’s house so it would be ready for visitors. My brother-in-law ran errands, took the kids to the playground, picked up dinner for all of us. On the morning of the funeral, Dan and I had to call the girls three times before they would stop giggling with their cousin and change into their church clothes. I was worried we would be late, but it was good to see them smiling and looking like themselves again. I inspected them in their dresses and sweaters and buckled leather flats, adjusted their wavy brown ponytails. Again, I tried to explain what was about to happen, though I hardly believed it myself. “We’re going to Grandma’s church to pray, and then we’ll go to the cemetery to bury Grandpa. You’ll get to see him and say goodbye.” The sudden shock of my father’s death was difficult for either of our children to comprehend. Our younger daughter, who had turned seven a few days earlier, found it hardest to grapple with the abstract yet absolute finality of death due to her age and, perhaps, her autism. While she had seen movies and read books touching on death, it was not yet a solid concept to her. Dan and I had tried to explain what it meant that her grandpa was gone—that she wouldn’t see him again as she had known him, and that we were all very sad and would miss him—but these conversations felt no easier, even after several attempts. I wasn’t sure how to bridge the space between our words and her understanding of what had happened when I was still struggling to absorb it myself. When we brought our children up to the casket to see my father one last time, tears were drifting down our older daughter’s cheeks. I took her hand, then put my arm around her and drew her close, as my mother had done with me. My younger daughter reached out, hesitantly, and touched my father’s gray beard. Her fingers brushed his cold cheek. She smiled down at him, just a little smile. “Goodbye, Grandpa. We love you. We’ll miss you.” I was, and had been


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

they expected her to leave first. With another clumsily dipped curtsy, she did. Right before the turn of the stairs blocked them from view, she ducked to look at Bellegarde and August again. They’d started down the steps below together, speaking quietly. Bellegarde’s hands, she noticed, were empty, the paper he’d held now gone. Lore crouched on the landing above, hidden from view. “Everything is coming together nicely,” Bellegarde murmured. “The next group is set to be processed by this evening.” “And the bindings?” August sounded impatient. “Seem to be in working order.” “But we won’t know until I try.” A heartbeat. “Correct, Your Majesty,” Bellegarde said. Then silence, but for the sound of boots on plush-carpeted stairs. When the tread was gone, Lore counted to fifty. Then, moving as quietly as possible, she stood and crept back down the stairs. The hall was empty. Lore didn’t waste the moment. She ran straight to the tapestry where Bellegarde had stood, the one right before the stairs. It didn’t look any different than the others lining the sumptuous corridor. White thread picked out a rearing unicorn, hooves slashing at the air, surrounded by silver-helmed knights and blobby wildflowers in spring pastels. Lore frowned at it, tracing the thread pattern with her eyes until they went blurry. He’d been looking for something in the tapestries. Lore was familiar with how people acted when they didn’t want to seem suspicious; the overly casual stride, the rapid movement of eyes. Severin Bellegarde had ticked all the boxes. And there’d been that paper in his hand. A paper that had disappeared when he left with August, either disposed of or slipped into a pocket. Maybe he’d been looking for a hiding place, somewhere to put it? With a quick glance up and down the hall to make sure she was still alone, Lore shoved her hand behind the tapestry, between the fabric and the wall. Nothing but smooth wood, at first, but as she ran her fingers along the thread-nubbed back, they caught on something sharp. A pin, holding in place a tiny slip of paper. She’d bet money it was the same one that had been in Bellegarde’s hand. Lore only stuck herself once as she carefully pulled the paper off the sharp end of the pin, leaving her thumb in its place so she could put it back exactly where she’d found it. Keeping her hand beneath the heavy fabric required crouching strangely next to the wall, so she unfolded the note and read it as quickly as she could. But the note didn’t have words. Just a number. 75. She frowned at it a moment before hurriedly thrusting the note back behind the tapestry, pricking her finger again and hissing a curse. She was already hopelessly late, and there were seemingly endless stairs between her and Bastian’s apartments. After making sure the note showed no sign of meddling, Lore went back to the stairs, doing her best not to run. A blister was forming on the arch of her foot, helped along by her


fearless, in a bikini top and tiny shorts, her skin gleaming against the blue night. This was their dream time, the magical early days of fall semester, the happy haze of meeting once again, old friendships rekindling in firefly sparks before the real work of the year began. Alex wanted to wallow in it too, to remember that she was safe, she was okay. But there wasn’t time. The Hutch was only a few blocks away, and she stopped to try to get her head together, leaning against the low wall in front of Sterling Library. How had that Gray overtaken her? She knew her connection to the dead had been deepened by what she’d had to do in her fight with Belbalm. She’d called them to her and offered them her name. They’d answered. They’d saved her. And of course rescue had come at a price. All her life, she’d been able to see Grays; now she could hear them too. They were that much closer, that much harder to ignore. But maybe she hadn’t really understood what salvation would cost her at all. Something very bad had happened in Oddman’s house, something she couldn’t explain. She was meant to control the dead, to use them. Not the other way around. She pulled out her phone and saw two texts from Dawes, both exactly fifteen minutes apart and in all caps. URGENT CALL IN. Alex ignored the messages and scrolled down, then typed out a quick It’s done. The reply was immediate: When I have my money She really hoped Oddman got his house in order. She deleted Eitan’s messages, then called Dawes. “Where are you?” Dawes answered breathlessly. Something big must be happening if Dawes was ignoring protocol. Alex could picture her pacing the parlor at Black Elm, her knot of red hair sliding to one side, headphones clamped around her neck. “Sterling. On my way back to the Hutch.” “You’re going to be late to—” “If I stand here talking to you, I will be. What’s up?” “They’ve selected a new Praetor.” “Damn. Already?” The Praetor was the faculty liaison for Lethe, who served as a go-between with the university administration. Only Yale’s president and dean knew about the real activities of the secret societies, and it was Lethe’s job to make sure it stayed that way. The Praetor was a kind of den mother. The responsible adult in the room. At least he was supposed to be. Dean Sandow had turned out to be a murderer. Alex knew a Lethe Praetor had to be a former Lethe deputy and had to be a member of the Yale faculty or at least reside in New Haven. That couldn’t be easy to find. Alex and Dawes had assumed it would take the board at least another semester to find someone to replace the very dead Dean Sandow. They’d counted on it. “Who is he?” Alex asked. “It could be a woman.” “Is it?” “No. But Anselm didn’t give me a name.” “Did you ask?” Alex pushed. A long pause. “Not


thank the madg'strates to dispose of this here little affair, and not to keep me while they read the paper, for I've got an appointment with a genelman in the City, and as I am a man of my word and wery punctual in business matters, he'll go away if I ain't there to my time, and then pr'aps ther won't be an action for damage against them as kep me away. Oh no, certainly not!' At this point, the Dodger, with a show of being very particular with a view to proceedings to be had thereafter, desired the jailer to communicate 'the names of them two files as was on the bench.' Which so tickled the spectators, that they laughed almost as heartily as Master Bates could have done if he had heard the request. 'Silence there!' cried the jailer. 'What is this?' inquired one of the magistrates. 'A pick-pocketing case, your worship.' 'Has the boy ever been here before?' 'He ought to have been, a many times,' replied the jailer. 'He has been pretty well everywhere else. _I_ know him well, your worship.' 'Oh! you know me, do you?' cried the Artful, making a note of the statement. 'Wery good. That's a case of deformation of character, any way.' Here there was another laugh, and another cry of silence. 'Now then, where are the witnesses?' said the clerk. 'Ah! that's right,' added the Dodger. 'Where are they? I should like to see 'em.' This wish was immediately gratified, for a policeman stepped forward who had seen the prisoner attempt the pocket of an unknown gentleman in a crowd, and indeed take a handkerchief therefrom, which, being a very old one, he deliberately put back again, after trying in on his own countenance. For this reason, he took the Dodger into custody as soon as he could get near him, and the said Dodger, being searched, had upon his person a silver snuff-box, with the owner's name engraved upon the lid. This gentleman had been discovered on reference to the Court Guide, and being then and there present, swore that the snuff-box was his, and that he had missed it on the previous day, the moment he had disengaged himself from the crowd before referred to. He had also remarked a young gentleman in the throng, particularly active in making his way about, and that young gentleman was the prisoner before him. 'Have you anything to ask this witness, boy?' said the magistrate. 'I wouldn't abase myself by descending to hold no conversation with him' replied the Dodger. 'Have you anything to say at all?' 'Do you hear his worship ask if you've anything to say?' inquired the jailer, nudging the silent Dodger with his elbow. 'I beg your pardon,' said the Dodger, looking up with an air of abstraction. 'Did you redress yourself to me, my man?' 'I never see such an out-and-out young wagabond, your worship,' observed the officer with a grin. 'Do you mean to say anything, you young shaver?' 'No,' replied the Dodger, 'not here, for this


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

to speak to you.” Upon this he noiselessly slid into view. “Will you tell me, Bartleby, where you were born?” “I would prefer not to.” “Will you tell me any thing about yourself?” “I would prefer not to.” “But what reasonable objection can you have to speak to me? I feel friendly towards you.” He did not look at me while I spoke, but kept his glance fixed upon my bust of Cicero, which as I then sat, was directly behind me, some six inches above my head. “What is your answer, Bartleby?” said I, after waiting a considerable time for a reply, during which his countenance remained immovable, only there was the faintest conceivable tremor of the white attenuated mouth. “At present I prefer to give no answer,” he said, and retired into his hermitage. It was rather weak in me I confess, but his manner on this occasion nettled me. Not only did there seem to lurk in it a certain calm disdain, but his perverseness seemed ungrateful, considering the undeniable good usage and indulgence he had received from me. Again I sat ruminating what I should do. Mortified as I was at his behavior, and resolved as I had been to dismiss him when I entered my offices, nevertheless I strangely felt something superstitious knocking at my heart, and forbidding me to carry out my purpose, and denouncing me for a villain if I dared to breathe one bitter word against this forlornest of mankind. At last, familiarly drawing my chair behind his screen, I sat down and said: “Bartleby, never mind then about revealing your history; but let me entreat you, as a friend, to comply as far as may be with the usages of this office. Say now you will help to examine papers to-morrow or next day: in short, say now that in a day or two you will begin to be a little reasonable:—say so, Bartleby.” “At present I would prefer not to be a little reasonable,” was his mildly cadaverous reply. Just then the folding-doors opened, and Nippers approached. He seemed suffering from an unusually bad night’s rest, induced by severer indigestion then common. He overheard those final words of Bartleby. “Prefer not, eh?” gritted Nippers—”I’d prefer him, if I were you, sir,” addressing me—”I’d prefer him; I’d give him preferences, the stubborn mule! What is it, sir, pray, that he prefers not to do now?” Bartleby moved not a limb. “Mr. Nippers,” said I, “I’d prefer that you would withdraw for the present.” Somehow, of late I had got into the way of involuntarily using this word “prefer” upon all sorts of not exactly suitable occasions. And I trembled to think that my contact with the scrivener had already and seriously affected me in a mental way. And what further and deeper aberration might it not yet produce? This apprehension had not been without efficacy in determining me to summary means. As Nippers, looking very sour and sulky, was departing, Turkey blandly and deferentially approached. “With submission, sir,” said he, “yesterday I was


for the first time in his life, he had forgotten to hide it, when he crept out of the room. But what was that loathsome red dew that gleamed, wet and glistening, on one of the hands, as though the canvas had sweated blood? How horrible it was!--more horrible, it seemed to him for the moment, than the silent thing that he knew was stretched across the table, the thing whose grotesque misshapen shadow on the spotted carpet showed him that it had not stirred, but was still there, as he had left it. He opened the door a little wider, and walked quickly in, with half- closed eyes and averted head, determined that he would not look even once upon the dead man. Then, stooping down, and taking up the gold- and-purple hanging, he flung it over the picture. He stopped, feeling afraid to turn round, and his eyes fixed themselves on the intricacies of the pattern before him. He heard Campbell bringing in the heavy chest, and the irons, and the other things that he had required for his dreadful work. He began to wonder if he and Basil Hallward had ever met, and, if so, what they had thought of each other. "Leave me now," said Campbell. He turned and hurried out, just conscious that the dead man had been thrust back into the chair and was sitting up in it, with Campbell gazing into the glistening yellow face. As he was going downstairs he heard the key being turned in the lock. It was long after seven o'clock when Campbell came back into the library. He was pale, but absolutely calm. "I have done what you asked me to do," he muttered. "And now, good-by. Let us never see each other again." "You have saved me from ruin, Alan. I cannot forget that," said Dorian, simply. As soon as Campbell had left, he went up-stairs. There was a horrible smell of chemicals in the room. But the thing that had been sitting at the table was gone. CHAPTER XIII [94] "There is no good telling me you are going to be good, Dorian," cried Lord Henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl filled with rose-water. "You are quite perfect. Pray don't change." Dorian shook his head. "No, Harry, I have done too many dreadful things in my life. I am not going to do any more. I began my good actions yesterday." "Where were you yesterday?" "In the country, Harry. I was staying at a little inn by myself." "My dear boy," said Lord Henry smiling, "anybody can be good in the country. There are no temptations there. That is the reason why people who live out of town are so uncivilized. There are only two ways, as you know, of becoming civilized. One is by being cultured, the other is by being corrupt. Country-people have no opportunity of being either, so they stagnate." "Culture and corruption," murmured Dorian. "I have known something of both. It seems to me curious now that they should ever


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

it had done on the night of the party, but had not found an outlet in verse. The growth and knowledge of two years of boyhood stood between then and now, forbidding such an outlet: and all day the stream of gloomy tenderness within him had started forth and returned upon itself in dark courses and eddies, wearying him in the end until the pleasantry of the prefect and the painted little boy had drawn from him a movement of impatience. --So you may as well admit, Heron went on, that we've fairly found you out this time. You can't play the saint on me any more, that's one sure five. A soft peal of mirthless laughter escaped from his lips and, bending down as before, he struck Stephen lightly across the calf of the leg with his cane, as if in jesting reproof. Stephen's moment of anger had already passed. He was neither flattered nor confused, but simply wished the banter to end. He scarcely resented what had seemed to him a silly indelicateness for he knew that the adventure in his mind stood in no danger from these words: and his face mirrored his rival's false smile. --Admit! repeated Heron, striking him again with his cane across the calf of the leg. The stroke was playful but not so lightly given as the first one had been. Stephen felt the skin tingle and glow slightly and almost painlessly; and, bowing submissively, as if to meet his companion's jesting mood, began to recite the CONFITEOR. The episode ended well, for both Heron and Wallis laughed indulgently at the irreverence. The confession came only from Stephen's lips and, while they spoke the words, a sudden memory had carried him to another scene called up, as if by magic, at the moment when he had noted the faint cruel dimples at the corners of Heron's smiling lips and had felt the familiar stroke of the cane against his calf and had heard the familiar word of admonition: --Admit. It was towards the close of his first term in the college when he was in number six. His sensitive nature was still smarting under the lashes of an undivined and squalid way of life. His soul was still disquieted and cast down by the dull phenomenon of Dublin. He had emerged from a two years' spell of revery to find himself in the midst of a new scene, every event and figure of which affected him intimately, disheartened him or allured and, whether alluring or disheartening, filled him always with unrest and bitter thoughts. All the leisure which his school life left him was passed in the company of subversive writers whose jibes and violence of speech set up a ferment in his brain before they passed out of it into his crude writings. The essay was for him the chief labour of his week and every Tuesday, as he marched from home to the school, he read his fate in the incidents of the way, pitting himself against some figure ahead of him


IV: Investigations and legal work. Personnel. Department V: Prosecutions: the section which passes final judgement on all victims. Only one SMERSH operative has come into our hands since the war: Goytchev, alias Garrad-Jones. He shot Petchora, medical officer at the Yugoslav Embassy, in Hyde Park, 7 August 1948. During interrogation he committed suicide by swallowing a coat-button of compressed potassium cyanide. He revealed nothing beyond his membership of SMERSH, of which he was arrogantly boastful. We believe that the following British double agents were victims of SMERSH: Donovan, Harthrop-Vane, Elizabeth Dumont, Ventnor, Mace, Savarin. (For details see Morgue: Section Q.) Conclusion: Every effort should be made to improve our knowledge of this very powerful organization and destroy its operatives. CHAPTER 3 - NUMBER 007 Head of S (the section of the Secret Service concerned with the Soviet Union) was so keen on his plan for the destruction of Le Chiffre, and it was basically his own plan, that he took the memorandum himself and went up to the top floor of the gloomy building overlooking Regent's Park and through the green baize door and along the corridor to the end room. He walked belligerently up to M's Chief of Staff, a young sapper who had earned his spurs as one of the secretariat to the Chiefs of Staff committee after having been wounded during a sabotage operation in 1944, and had kept his sense of humour in spite of both experiences. 'Now look here, Bill. I want to sell something to the Chief. Is this a good moment?' 'What do you think, Penny?' The Chief of Staff turned to M's private secretary who shared the room with him. Miss Moneypenny would have been desirable but for eyes which were cool and direct and quizzical. 'Should be all right. He won a bit of a victory at the FO this morning and he's not got anyone for the next half an hour.' She smiled encouragingly at Head of S whom she liked for himself and for the importance of his section. 'Well, here's the dope, Bill.' He handed over the black folder with the red star which stood for Top Secret. 'And for God's sake look enthusiastic when you give it him. And tell him I'll wait here and read a good code-book while he's considering it. He may want some more details, and anyway I want to see you two don't pester him with anything else until he's finished.' 'All right, sir.' The Chief of Staff pressed a switch leant towards the intercom on his desk. 'Yes?' asked a quiet, flat voice. 'Head of S has an urgent docket for you, sir.' There was a pause. 'Bring it in,' said a voice. The Chief of Staff released the switch and stood up. 'Thanks, Bill. I'll be next door,' said Head of S. The Chief of Staff crossed his office and went through the double doors leading into M's room. In a moment he came out and over the entrance a small blue light burned the warning that M was not to be


settle on the dark gray sofa with two beers and the remote. “What should we watch?” He has to know the movie was a ploy to get here, a euphemism for what I really want to do. I cock an eyebrow and shrug. “I don’t care.” His smile is slow but knowing. He sets the remote on the coffee table and turns toward me. His arm is on the back of the sofa, his knee raised so it rests against my thigh. I swallow a mouthful of beer: liquid courage. “How’s your friend doing? The one with the abusive husband?” I hadn’t planned to go there tonight, but I find I’m eager to talk about it. “We had a bit of a falling out, actually.” “How come?” I can’t tell him that Hazel is ashamed to know me. That she offered me money like a panhandler. “She acts a lot differently around her other friends,” I say. “She treats me badly.” “Do her other friends know about the abuse?” “I don’t know. I doubt it.” “My mom got really good at keeping up appearances.” His fingers travel to my shoulder, touch the ends of my hair. “My sister and I knew what went on behind closed doors, but she’d act like everything was perfect with her friends. It drove me crazy. But it was a survival mechanism.” His words resonate. Hazel was playing a part with those other women. They don’t know what I know. Why didn’t I think of that before? “I’m sorry you got hurt, though.” “I’m fine,” I say, because suddenly, I am. Jesse’s fingers are playing with my hair, his knee is pressed against my leg, and I’ve had just enough beer to make the first move. I lean in and kiss him. It is slow and soft at first but quickly gathers force. My hands rove over his strong chest, his muscular arms, the stubble on his jaw. As it was with our first kiss, my desire for him is powerful. It’s sexual but also physical. It’s a need to touch him, to be close to him, to be connected. I’ve been drowning in loneliness and Jesse is oxygen. And then he pulls away. “Lee. Stop.” For a moment, I am left panting and confused, and then the humiliation descends. He doesn’t want me. I should have known. He is out of my league now. Because I am worthless. The lowest of the low. “I’m sorry,” I say, my voice hoarse. “I’ll go.” He grabs my hand as I try to get up and pulls me back to the couch. “Don’t,” he says. “I just want to make sure that you’re okay with this. Things are moving so fast between us.” I stifle a snort. I could tell Jesse that I am a sex-positive woman, comfortable with my body, my desires, my sexual agency. I could tell him that this is, technically, our third date, so far from moving “so fast” in my opinion——in most opinions. I could tell him about my years as a restauranteur when


for the week-end to Kirrin Castle, please, and spend a day or two there on the island? You can't think how we would love to!" "Well- what do you think, Quentin?" asked their aunt, turning to her husband. "If they want to, they can," said Uncle Quentin. "They won't have a chance to, soon. My dears, we have had a marvellous offer for Kirrin Island! A man wants to buy it, rebuild the castle as a hotel, and make it into a proper holiday place! What do you think of that?" All four children stared at the smiling man, shocked and horrified. Somebody was going to buy the island! Had their secret been discovered? Did the man want to buy the castle because he had read the map, and knew there was plenty of gold hidden there? George gave a curious choke. Her eyes burned as if they were on fire. "Mother! You can't sell my island! You can't sell my castle! I won't let them be sold." Her father frowned. "Don't be silly, Georgina," he said. "It isn't really yours. You know that. It belongs to your mother, and naturally she would like to sell it if she could. We need the money very badly. You will be able to have a great many nice things once we sell the island." "I don't want nice things!" cried poor George. "My castle and my island are the nicest things I could ever have. Mother! Mother! You know you said I could have them. You know you did! I believed you." "George dear, I did mean you to have them to play on, when I thought they couldn't possibly be worth anything," said her mother, looking distressed. "But now things are different. Your father has been offered quite a good sum, far more than we ever thought of getting- and we really can't afford to turn it down." "So you only gave me the island when you thought it wasn't worth anything," said George, her face white and angry. "As soon as it is worth money you take it away again. I think that's horrid. It- it isn't honourable." "That's enough, Georgina," said her father, angrily. "Your mother is guided by me. You're only a child. Your mother didn't really mean what she said- it was only to please you. But you know well enough you will share in the money we get and have anything you want." "I won't touch a penny!" said George, in a low, choking voice. "You'll be sorry you sold it." The girl turned and stumbled out of the room. The others felt very sorry for her. They knew what she was feeling. She took things so very seriously. Julian thought she didn't understand grown-ups very well. It wasn't a bit of good fighting grown-ups. They could do exactly as they liked. If they wanted to take away George's island and castle, they could. If they wanted to sell it, they could! But what Uncle Quentin didn't know was the fact that there might be a store of


and I were sitting in Kelly’s office when the chief came back from down the hall. I’d never seen him so mad. “Fuck him,” Kelly roared. “I’m done here. I’m leaving, going home, and quitting this job.” He walked into the hallway to tell his Secret Service agents to get his motorcade ready. “I quit.” Back in the office again for a brief moment—briefcase in hand—Kelly picked up the phone and got Jared on the line. “POTUS says you’ve got it figured out. So fuck you. It’s on you now, Jared. I’m out.” He slammed the phone. With that, Kelly left the West Wing. I cleared the secretary’s calendar the next day. We convened a group of advisors at a private location outside of Washington to talk about an exit plan. Arriving separately at an empty building in rural Virginia, we dumped our electronic devices in a box in the entryway, unsure whether our phones might be monitored. The administration felt increasingly like an autocracy. Kirstjen kicked off the conversation. She’d talked to Kelly, and despite storming out of the White House, he hadn’t officially made up his mind about resigning. He was leaning that direction and was considering whether to implode the administration by bringing others with him. “What’s our game plan?” Kirstjen asked the group. I made my position clear. A mass resignation would be a powerful statement about Trump’s behavior. It would be impossible for Republicans—and the country—to look away if Trump’s top lieutenants left in a blaze of glory. It would be “the second burning of the White House,” I noted (the British literally torched the building during the War of 1812). Others were considering leaving, too. We ran through the names. Defense Secretary Jim Mattis. Intelligence Director Dan Coats. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Joseph Dunford. Education Secretary Betsy DeVos. Interior Secretary Ryan Zinke. A surprising name came up: First Lady Melania Trump. I didn’t press for further details, but one attendee asserted that FLOTUS would actually consider leaving her husband if enough key officials quit. Not everyone agreed quitting was the right approach. My colleague DHS Chief of Staff Chad Wolf remained largely silent, while a communications aide warned the secretary that Trump would blame us if we quit and caused the GOP to lose control of Congress. “It’s not gonna play out how you think,” he asserted. “The president will turn it around and say we cost the party its majority. The base will believe him, not us.” Kirstjen added another wrinkle. Trump aide Stephen Miller had worked up a short list of people to install as DHS leaders. It included far-right extremists who would do whatever the president wanted. At the same time, it was clear our “no’s” didn’t make a difference anymore. We discussed exit planning until nightfall. “For the first time, I am actually scared for the country,” Kirstjen told me afterward. “The insanity has been loosed.” In the end, I lost the argument. The majority of my colleagues favored waiting until after the midterms, so we didn’t inadvertently hurt congressional Republicans


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

slot. You see now how the audience treats these things like their fucking lifeline. They get invested, and when you give them the power of a vote? They feel ownership. Let them have that kind of power and you’re finished the second you step out of line. We put everything we’ve got into this goddamn show and cannot lose our viewers because Trent’s team was breaking the law and banging the stars.” “Okay.” I lean back against my desk, cupping my neck. “What do you need me to do?” “I need you to reassure me that your shop is clean. I want to hear that these Heroes you cast are perfect goddamn gentlemen. That Fizzy could run for president if she wanted to. I want to hear that no one on your crew has wandering hands or a penchant for jerking off in front of people.” Dread fills my gut with a leaden weight. “I want to hear that the only fucking happening is the fucking Felicity Fucking Chen will do with the winner of this goddamn Fiji trip we are spending a small fortune on!” With wry defeat, I exhale a laugh. I reckon it’s good we ended things; I’d have to end it now anyway. I fucking hate all of this. Blaine takes a step closer, glowering. “Connor? I need the words.” I swipe a hand down my face. “Yeah. We’re clean.” “No bullshit, Connor,” he says, straightening. “You’re the only thing we have left right now, and if your show tanks, we go under. And you know what that means: you go under.” forty CONNOR Ash reaches across the table and tugs at my collar. “You look like me today.” I peer down to see what he means. The sweater I pulled on as I left the office is on backward, with the tab sticking up against the front of my neck. How nice that the two women who stopped me for a photo before Ash arrived didn’t bother to tell me. I tug it over my head, putting it on the right way this time. “I’m a little distracted.” “I can imagine.” He studies me for a beat. “You’re not on set today?” I shrug, poking at my plate. “I was headed over when Blaine found me. I just needed to get my head on straight. I’ll head over in a bit. Shooting starts around three. Rory and Brenna’ve got things handled.” “Ah. You’re avoiding her.” I take a bite of melon instead of answering. “What you ought to do is go home and sleep. You look like crap.” I grunt in response, though I know I should do better. Ash has the day off for a teacher development thing that doesn’t start until this afternoon, and instead of lounging in bed with his wife, he’s here with me at brunch, listening to me explain again how my life is in the toilet. I know it’s a good thing I ended my relationship with Fizzy, but a part of me was hoping Ash would say what I know


was a active officer), and tells him to go and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house. "I see him, Spyers," said Chickweed, "pass my house yesterday morning," "Why didn't you up, and collar him!" says Spyers. "I was so struck all of a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick," says the poor man; "but we're sure to have him; for between ten and eleven o'clock at night he passed again." Spyers no sooner heard this, than he put some clean linen and a comb, in his pocket, in case he should have to stop a day or two; and away he goes, and sets himself down at one of the public-house windows behind the little red curtain, with his hat on, all ready to bolt out, at a moment's notice. He was smoking his pipe here, late at night, when all of a sudden Chickweed roars out, "Here he is! Stop thief! Murder!" Jem Spyers dashes out; and there he sees Chickweed, a-tearing down the street full cry. Away goes Spyers; on goes Chickweed; round turns the people; everybody roars out, "Thieves!" and Chickweed himself keeps on shouting, all the time, like mad. Spyers loses sight of him a minute as he turns a corner; shoots round; sees a little crowd; dives in; "Which is the man?" "D--me!" says Chickweed, "I've lost him again!" It was a remarkable occurrence, but he warn't to be seen nowhere, so they went back to the public-house. Next morning, Spyers took his old place, and looked out, from behind the curtain, for a tall man with a black patch over his eye, till his own two eyes ached again. At last, he couldn't help shutting 'em, to ease 'em a minute; and the very moment he did so, he hears Chickweed a-roaring out, "Here he is!" Off he starts once more, with Chickweed half-way down the street ahead of him; and after twice as long a run as the yesterday's one, the man's lost again! This was done, once or twice more, till one-half the neighbours gave out that Mr. Chickweed had been robbed by the devil, who was playing tricks with him arterwards; and the other half, that poor Mr. Chickweed had gone mad with grief.' 'What did Jem Spyers say?' inquired the doctor; who had returned to the room shortly after the commencement of the story. 'Jem Spyers,' resumed the officer, 'for a long time said nothing at all, and listened to everything without seeming to, which showed he understood his business. But, one morning, he walked into the bar, and taking out his snuffbox, says "Chickweed, I've found out who done this here robbery." "Have you?" said Chickweed. "Oh, my dear Spyers, only let me have wengeance, and I shall die contented! Oh, my dear Spyers, where is the villain!" "Come!" said Spyers, offering him a pinch of snuff, "none of that gammon! You did it yourself." So he had; and a good bit of money he had made by it, too; and


Gray?' We could neither of us help laughing, and we became friends at once." "Laughter is not a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is the best ending for one," said Lord Henry, plucking another daisy. Hallward buried his face in his hands. "You don't understand what friendship is, Harry," he murmured,--"or what enmity is, for that matter. You like every one; that is to say, you are indifferent to every one." "How horribly unjust of you!" cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat back, and looking up at the little clouds that were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the summer sky, like ravelled skeins of glossy white silk. "Yes; horribly unjust of you. I make a great difference between people. I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their characters, and my enemies for their brains. A man can't be too careful in the choice of his enemies. I have not got one who is a fool. They are all men of some intellectual power, and consequently they all appreciate me. Is that very vain of me? I think it is rather vain." "I should think it was, Harry. But according to your category I must be merely an acquaintance." "My dear old Basil, you are much more than an acquaintance." "And much less than a friend. A sort of brother, I suppose?" "Oh, brothers! I don't care for brothers. My elder brother won't die, and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else." "Harry!" "My dear fellow, I am not quite serious. But I can't help detesting my relations. I suppose it comes from the fact that we can't stand other people having the same faults as ourselves. I quite sympathize with the rage of the English democracy against what they call the vices of the upper classes. They feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and immorality should be their own special property, and that if any one of us makes an ass of himself he is poaching on their preserves. When poor Southwark got into the Divorce Court, their indignation was quite magnificent. And yet I don't suppose that ten per cent of the lower orders live correctly." "I don't agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is more, Harry, I don't believe you do either." Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard, and tapped the toe of his patent-leather boot with a tasselled malacca cane. "How English you are, Basil! If one puts forward an idea to a real Englishman,-- always a rash thing to do,--he never dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong. The only thing he considers of any importance is whether one believes it one's self. Now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do with the sincerity of the man who expresses it. Indeed, the probabilities are that the more insincere the man is, the more purely intellectual will the idea be, as in that case it [9] will not be colored by either his wants, his desires, or his prejudices. However,


the neighborhood of it. --------------------------------------------------------- -213- A circus came. The boys played circus for three days afterward in tents made of rag carpeting -- admission, three pins for boys, two for girls -- and then circusing was abandoned. A phrenologist and a mesmerizer came -- and went again and left the village duller and drearier than ever. There were some boys-and-girls' parties, but they were so few and so delightful that they only made the aching voids between ache the harder. Becky Thatcher was gone to her Constantinople home to stay with her parents during vacation -- so there was no bright side to life anywhere. The dreadful secret of the murder was a chronic misery. It was a very cancer for permanency and pain. Then came the measles. During two long weeks Tom lay a prisoner, dead to the world and its happenings. He was very ill, he was interested in nothing. When he got upon his feet at last and moved feebly down-town, a melancholy change had come over everything and every creature. There had been a "revival," and everybody had "got religion," not only the adults, but even the boys and girls. Tom went about, hoping against hope for the sight of one blessed sinful face, but disappointment crossed him everywhere. He found Joe Harper studying a Testament, and turned sadly away from the depressing spectacle. He sought Ben Rogers, and found him visiting the --------------------------------------------------------- -214- poor with a basket of tracts. He hunted up Jim Hollis, who called his attention to the precious blessing of his late measles as a warning. Every boy he encountered added another ton to his depression; and when, in desperation, he flew for refuge at last to the bosom of Huckleberry Finn and was received with a Scriptural quotation, his heart broke and he crept home and to bed realizing that he alone of all the town was lost, forever and forever. And that night there came on a terrific storm, with driving rain, awful claps of thunder and blinding sheets of lightning. He covered his head with the bedclothes and waited in a horror of suspense for his doom; for he had not the shadow of a doubt that all this hubbub was about him. He believed he had taxed the forbearance of the powers above to the extremity of endurance and that this was the result. It might have seemed to him a waste of pomp and ammunition to kill a bug with a battery of artillery, but there seemed nothing incongruous about the getting up such an expensive thunder-storm as this to knock the turf from under an insect like himself. By and by the tempest spent itself and died without accomplishing its object. The boy's first impulse was to be grateful, and reform. His second was to wait -- for there might not be any more storms. The next day the doctors were back; Tom had relapsed. The three weeks he spent on his back --------------------------------------------------------- -215- this time seemed an entire age. When he got abroad at


Master Glenn promised me a spar when we last spoke. Would now suit?’ Wulf regarded her. From her tone, he might never have found her alone and shaken in the dark, but her eyes told a different story, as did the tiny crease between her brows. ‘Highness,’ Sauma said, hesitant, ‘we should not raise our blades to the bone of the Saint.’ ‘I think it may be forbidden,’ Thrit mused. ‘I unforbid it.’ Glorian never took her eyes off Wulf. ‘Will you oblige me, Master Glenn?’ After a moment, he nodded. ‘Highness.’ Thrit offered him a sword, which he took. As he walked towards Glorian, he glanced at her ladies. Two were unfamiliar, but the third he did remember, from their childhood – a young woman of short stature, just shy of four feet, with an olive complexion and thick dark hair. ‘I believe you know Julain,’ Glorian said. ‘May I introduce Adeliza and Lady Helisent?’ Wulf inclined his head. Adeliza looked away, a blush climbing into her apple cheeks. ‘It’s been a long time, my lady,’ he said to Julain Crest, who smiled. ‘I heard of your betrothal to Lord Osbert Combe – my brother, Roland, speaks highly of him. I wish you joy.’ ‘Thank you. It’s good to see you, Wulf,’ Julain said warmly. ‘Are the Barons Glenn well?’ ‘I fear you’d know better than I do. I haven’t had time to visit.’ ‘Oh, what a shame.’ Lady Helisent was looking knives at him. He took her in – eyes and skin of a deep brown, hair that sprang in tiny curls around a slender face – and suddenly remembered her. The Dowager Earl of Goldenbirch had once brought his daughter on a visit to Langarth. Her family had guarded the south of the haithwood since the days of the Saint. If anyone knew his past, she did. Glorian took off her cloak. Beneath, she wore a white linen shirt and breeches tucked into fur boots. As Sauma handed her a steel buckler, Helisent passed Wulf, stopping to grip his elbow. ‘Give her so much as a scratch,’ she said under her breath, ‘and you’ll regret it, witchling.’ She let go of him and followed the other two. He clenched his jaw. So much for Saint-touched. Glorian walked with him into the middle of the clearing. Wulf dredged up a smile. ‘Go easy on me,’ he said, so only she could hear. This close, he saw how tired she looked, but she returned his smile. ‘I will endeavour to be gentle.’ She drew the fine blade her father had given her. ‘You have my word.’ She used her left hand, like him. Wulf nodded, and the spar began. It was clear from the first strike that she was far better than Wulf had imagined. Though her blows lacked heft, they were precise, her form and footwork sure. She moved far more like a Hróthi housecarl than an Inysh knight. Small wonder. Bardholt would only have trusted one of his own warriors to instruct his daughter in swordplay. Unlike a housecarl,


“Simon,” Forester said, “I suppose you’d better open up the house if we are to let the lovely Lucy see her future here. Then again, perhaps we—” His words stopped when the door opened, revealing William’s laughably young butler, Mason, in the entryway. “Lord Calloway!” Mason said, clearly surprised by the sight of visitors. “Mr. Forester.” But then his eyes landed on Lucy, and recognition set in. “And the future Mrs. Calloway!” He bowed low before opening the door wider to let them all inside. Whatever confusion Simon was feeling, he wasn’t the only one. For once, Forester was speechless, and even Lucy looked ready to run for half a second before she plastered on a smile and stepped into the house. Even the maid frowned at the reception, and she seemed to have far more answers than Lucy did. “Forgive our unpreparedness, miss,” Mason said once everyone was inside. “We didn’t expect you for a couple of days yet. Mrs. Hughsley!” The old housekeeper had been coming up the entry hall, but at the sight of guests she shuffled her feet faster until she arrived at the little gathering. “Lord Calloway,” she said, though slightly out of breath, and she sank into a curtsy as low as her geriatric legs would allow. Mrs. Hughsley was practically as old as the house itself. “And Mr. Forester, I didn’t expect to see you away from Town.” Forester flashed the woman a smile. “And miss coming to see you? My dear Mrs. Hughsley, you are always my favorite part of coming to see the Calloways, and you know it.” Miraculously, the housekeeper blushed a deep red at the flattery, though Simon had been sure she was no longer capable of such a thing. Then her eyes fell on Lucy, and though she wasn’t as confident as Mason had been, she still said, “And you must be William’s beloved. We’ve been so eager to meet you, Miss . . . ?” Simon frowned. They didn’t know her name? But he held his breath, waiting to see which name Lucy chose to give. Staley or Hayes? He had almost forgotten the confusion between the two. “Lucy,” Lucy said, grasping the woman’s hand as Simon’s disappointment left him feeling empty. “It is so lovely to meet you, Mrs. Hughsley.” “But where’s William?” Mason asked, as if he only just realized the party was missing someone. “I mean, Mr. Calloway.” Simon suppressed a groan. Honestly, why had William employed a man so inexperienced? He looked no older than the two footmen who lined up with two maids and the cook, completing the whole of the Penworth staff. Simon had tried to tell his brother that he needed a proper butler who had worked in a household for longer than a decade, but Will had ignored him. “I am afraid Mr. Calloway caught fever on the journey here,” Lucy said, and she seemed pleased by the concern of the staff. “From what I saw this morning, though, he seems nearly recovered.” That would explain why she had been thinking


mice that she had insisted Zaphod let her bring. She had expected not to see the planet again, but she was disturbed by her negative reaction to the planet's destruction. It seemed remote and unreal and she could find no thoughts to think about it. She watched the mice scurrying round the cage and running furiously in their little plastic treadwheels till they occupied her whole attention. Suddenly she shook herself and went back to the bridge to watch over the tiny flashing lights and figures that charted the ship's progress through the void. She wished she knew what it was she was trying not to think about. Zaphod couldn't sleep. He also wished he knew what it was that he wouldn't let himself think about. For as long as he could remember he'd suffered from a vague nagging feeling of being not all there. Most of the time he was able to put this thought aside and not worry about it, but it had been re-awakened by the sudden inexplicable arrival of Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent. Somehow it seemed to conform to a pattern that he couldn't see. Ford couldn't sleep. He was too excited about being back on the road again. Fifteen years of virtual imprisonment were over, just as he was finally beginning to give up hope. Knocking about with Zaphod for a bit promised to be a lot of fun, though there seemed to be something faintly odd about his semi-cousin that he couldn't put his finger on. The fact that he had become President of the Galaxy was frankly astonishing, as was the manner of his leaving the post. Was there a reason behind it? There would be no point in asking Zaphod, he never appeared to have a reason for anything he did at all: he had turned unfathomably into an art form. He attacked everything in life with a mixture of extraordinary genius and naive incompetence and it was often difficult to tell which was which. Arthur slept: he was terribly tired. There was a tap at Zaphod's door. It slid open. "Zaphod ...?" "Yeah?" "I think we just found what you came to look for." "Hey, yeah?" Ford gave up the attempt to sleep. In the corner of his cabin was a small computer screen and keyboard. He sat at it for a while and tried to compose a new entry for the Guide on the subject of Vogons but couldn't think of anything vitriolic enough so he gave that up too, wrapped a robe round himself and went for a walk to the bridge. As he entered he was surprised to see two figures hunched excitedly over the instruments. "See? The ship's about to move into orbit," Trillian was saying. "There's a planet out there. It's at the exact coordinates you predicted." Zaphod heard a noise and looked up. "Ford!" he hissed. "Hey, come and take a look at this." Ford went and had a look at it. It was a series of figures flashing over a screen. "You recognize those Galactic


so perfect it seemed painted by a master’s hand. “You think . . . I did this?” Io wasn’t surprised. These were always the rules of the game: the Ora family toyed with the truth, twisting and turning it in unrecognizable shapes. It wasn’t just Thais, no matter how much Io wanted to believe that. It was Mama with her expectations, it was, Baba with his love of bending the rules, it was Ava with her diplomatic choices. It was Io herself, with her secrets. “Io, get yourself together,” Thais said urgently, which Io felt was pure irony. She was together, more herself than she ever was. “This does not look good. The Nine dead and a cutter involved? We need to get ahead of it. Whatever happened, Luc can protect you. But we must go now. Do you know what will happen if they catch us here?” Sure she did. She would lay out all her clues tying Thais to the wraiths, all her suspicions that Thais had orchestrated these murders. But it was Bianca’s hand that had slain the Nine—the mob queen would be hunted across Alante. It didn’t matter that they would have Edei’s deposition, or the surviving Muses’. There was no concrete evidence that Thais was behind the wraiths, and, more than that, her sister was the Mayor’s fiancée and the shining other-born spokeswoman for his ambitious Initiative. He would pull every string he had to pin this all on Bianca, on Io, on anyone else, because if he didn’t, his career would collapse. So Io had to play the game. She had to extract the truth, like a rotten fang from a hungry wolf’s mouth. She had to get a confession from Thais’s very lips that no court of law could ever ignore. But first she had to buy some time for Bianca to carry out the last of her commands. “Where did you go?” Io asked. “When you left?” Thais turned to the open panels. “There’s no time for this, Io—” “Sure there is.” Her sister squirmed, attempting to take a step away. “You need to let go of my threads.” Otherwise, Thais wouldn’t be able to move. Io was holding her life-thread in her fists; it was impossible to step away from it, like an invisible chain. “Answer my questions,” Io said, “and I’ll let them go.” Thais exhaled deeply and dropped into an empty armchair. “Is this what you want? To hear my lowest points? To feel superior? I can do that for you, sister mine, even if I find it a bit cruel. After I left Alante, I spent months on the road, traveling through the Wastelands. I was denied entrance to several cities before I was told I’d have better luck at Nanzy, because of their factory indentures. You can’t imagine the sight: a tall, impenetrable walled city and around it, floating slums stretching endlessly in every direction. There are thousands of people living in the slums, all working in the factories outside the city, trying to buy their way into Nanzy


carrying a hot-barreled PKM machine gun. I

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held my thumb over the cursor, watched the screen, waited. There! I pulled

one trigger to fire the pointing laser and another to fire the missile.

The thumbstick I fired was remarkably similar to the thumbstick for the

PlayStation game I’d just been playing.

The missile hit just short of the motorbike’s spokes. Textbook. Exactly

where I’d been taught to aim. Too high, you might send it over the top of his

head. Too low, you’d take out nothing but dirt and sand.

Delta Hotel. Direct hit.

I followed up with the 30-mm.

Where the motorbike had been was now a cloud of smoke and flames.

Well done, Dave said.

We swooped back to camp, critiqued the video.

Perfect kill.

We played some more PlayStation.

Turned in early.

olor

li CAN BE HARD TO BE precise with Hellfires. Apaches fly with such

tremendous speed that it’s hard to take steady aim. Hard for some

anyway. I developed pinpoint accuracy, as if I was throwing darts in a pub.

My targets were moving fast too. The speediest motorbike I shot was

going about 50 k.p.h. The driver, a Taliban commander who'd been calling

in fire all day on our forces, was hunched over the handlebars, looking back

as we gave chase. He was purposely speeding between villages, using

civilians for cover. Old people, children, they were mere props to him.

Our windows of opportunity were those one-minute spans when he was

between villages.

I remember Dave calling out: You’ve got two hundred meters till it’s a no-

go.

Meaning, two hundred meters until this Taliban commander was hiding

behind another child.

I heard Dave again: You’ve got trees coming on the left, wall on the right.

Roger.


I said, looking to Grimes. “But get us moving just as soon as we deploy our Arrows.” I took a seat at the captain’s mount. “Bosun Polk, get that asteroid field’s coordinates over to Helm … And Mr. Chen, let Wrath and Portent both know our intentions. Suggest to them they keep up, so as not to get left behind.” Akari said, “I’ll let J-Dog and team know they’ll be on their own for a while. I’ll also deploy several comms drones so we can keep abreast of the battle.” Captain Wallace Ryder hadn’t changed his uniform in two days, nor had he brushed his teeth or showered. He might have slept an hour or two. His red-rimmed eyes burned; eyelids felt like sheets of sandpaper. “J-Dog, you’re clear for takeoff,” came the bay chief’s voice over comms. “Go take care of business … and watch your six out there. Over.” “Copy that, Chief. Over.” Hovering five meters off the deck, Ryder maneuvered his Arrow into position before the opened Flight Bay doors. Separated by the bay’s shimmering blue energy field, the distorted, star-filled space beyond held none of its usual allure for him. This place, this universe, was just … wrong. His eyes scanned the multiple dash displays and readouts. Behind, several dozen Arrows scrambled, jockeying for position. Not one of them was in prime operating order. With the exception of being fueled, not one of them had gone through the necessary after-flight maintenance checks. This was looking to be one more clusterfuck deployment. Captain Wallace Ryder punched the throttle, the sudden g-forces like a mule kick to the chest. Breaching the energy field, he quickly banked left and straightened out. Looking over his left shoulder, he saw his squadron of bright Arrow fighters shooting out from Adams’ flight bay like bright red spikes from a rail gun. At this moment, two other squadrons would be readying for rapid deployment. Ryder was feeling his age. Wartime Arrow pilots already didn’t have a long life expectancy. In his late thirties now, he was considered an old man, ancient, perhaps even past his prime. Maybe it was time he hung up his flight suit, joined Akari and Quintos on a ship’s bridge. A crooked smile pulled at his lips. Fuck that … I’m not giving this up, at least not today. He spoke into the open channel. “Bogies coming up fast, Deep-Throat. You’re on my wing, Court Jester; get your team ready for a flanking run. Over.” Ryder continued barking off orders just as he’d done a thousand times before. A virtual wall of Ziu scout fighters was now upon them. They moved with precision, as if operating with one mind—which, undoubtedly, they were. Undoubtedly, somewhere, not so far away, was another Ziu mother ship. Deep-Throat said, “Engaging the enemy. Over.” The exchange of plasma fire had begun. Bright red and blue bolts of energy splintered the darkness, leaving echoes of light trails in their wake. Intense and vibrant, the blur of combating fighters was cast in a colorful glow. Arrow and Scout


on them and going down himself, whenever he might, to see how they were doing. The awkward thing was that they had practically no other relations and that his own affairs took up all his time. He had put them in possession of Bly, which was healthy and secure, and had placed at the head of their little establishment-- but below stairs only--an excellent woman, Mrs. Grose, whom he was sure his visitor would like and who had formerly been maid to his mother. She was now housekeeper and was also acting for the time as superintendent to the little girl, of whom, without children of her own, she was, by good luck, extremely fond. There were plenty of people to help, but of course the young lady who should go down as governess would be in supreme authority. She would also have, in holidays, to look after the small boy, who had been for a term at school--young as he was to be sent, but what else could be done?--and who, as the holidays were about to begin, would be back from one day to the other. There had been for the two children at first a young lady whom they had had the misfortune to lose. She had done for them quite beautifully--she was a most respectable person-- till her death, the great awkwardness of which had, precisely, left no alternative but the school for little Miles. Mrs. Grose, since then, in the way of manners and things, had done as she could for Flora; and there were, further, a cook, a housemaid, a dairywoman, an old pony, an old groom, and an old gardener, all likewise thoroughly respectable. So far had Douglas presented his picture when someone put a question. "And what did the former governess die of?--of so much respectability?" Our friend's answer was prompt. "That will come out. I don't anticipate." "Excuse me--I thought that was just what you ARE doing." "In her successor's place," I suggested, "I should have wished to learn if the office brought with it--" "Necessary danger to life?" Douglas completed my thought. "She did wish to learn, and she did learn. You shall hear tomorrow what she learned. Meanwhile, of course, the prospect struck her as slightly grim. She was young, untried, nervous: it was a vision of serious duties and little company, of really great loneliness. She hesitated--took a couple of days to consult and consider. But the salary offered much exceeded her modest measure, and on a second interview she faced the music, she engaged." And Douglas, with this, made a pause that, for the benefit of the company, moved me to throw in-- "The moral of which was of course the seduction exercised by the splendid young man. She succumbed to it." He got up and, as he had done the night before, went to the fire, gave a stir to a log with his foot, then stood a moment with his back to us. "She saw him only twice." "Yes, but that's just the beauty of her passion."


said to her voicemail. I got dressed hurriedly and hustled out the door. The sun, breaking through the clouds, hit me like it had a personal grudge. “Morning.” Ethan Schreiber was standing a few feet away. He had a coffee cup in one hand, three fingers lifted in a wave. “Are you stalking me?” I asked him. “This is the only motel in town,” he said, pointing vaguely at the door two down from mine. “Everything all right?” “Why wouldn’t it be?” I asked him. “You look … Never mind,” he said, shaking his head. I strode to my car. “Nice to see you again,” he called after me. I slammed the door, cutting short his last word, and whipped out of the parking lot. I dialed Liv’s number again on the way. Once again, she didn’t answer. The gate was closed and locked. I didn’t have the code and I didn’t want to panic Liv’s parents if it was nothing—it was probably nothing, I told myself, Liv hardly ever remembered to charge her phone, that was all—so I parked and hopped the fence on foot, jogging the rest of the way up toward the house. I thought of it as Liv’s place, but it was her parents’ house, of course. They’d lived in the same house, set back among the trees, since they moved to Chester three decades ago. They’d remodeled along the way, expanding the tiny enchanted cottage they’d started with, adding energy-efficient windows and solar panels. Kimiko’s kitchen garden was a marvelous sight, bursting with kale and snap peas and pole beans, along with the few tomatoes she always coaxed along in the cool, overcast weather. I’d lived on a diet of instant noodles, canned chili, and saltines most of the time. Coming over to Liv’s place and picking fresh sugar snap peas off the vine had felt like its own kind of magic. Some days when Liv wasn’t up for company, Kimiko had let me join her out there, teaching me how to fertilize the plants, how to thin the carrots to give them room to grow. She would let me hold the tender seedlings cupped in my palms as she dug a hole for them, nestling them in where their roots could stretch. Before you could plant a seedling, she would tell me, you had to harden it. It was used to the indoors, a consistent temperature and moisture and light. Little by little each day you had to set the seedlings outside, sheltered, first for only an hour, then two, slowly introducing them to wind and rain and sun and cold. She’d said raising kids was a bit like that. You had to harden them, before they were ready to go out safely into the world. If you put them out too soon, all at once, the shock of it would wither them. They would never grow to full bloom. Kimiko was in the garden now. She was on her knees with a sun hat on, using a little folding knife to deadhead the flowers in