rocks with the man helpless in front of her. At his mother's first movement, Paul backed two steps. As she attacked, he dove for shadows. A bearded man rose up in his path, half-crouched, lunging forward with a weapon in one hand. Paul took the man beneath the sternum with a straight-hand jab, sidestepped and chopped the base of his neck, relieving him of the weapon as he fell. Then Paul was into the shadows, scrambling upward among the rocks, the weapon tucked into his waist sash. He had recognized it in spite of its unfamiliar shape--a projectile weapon, and that said many things about this place, another clue that shields were not used here. They will concentrate on my mother and that Stilgar fellow. She can handle him. I must get to a safe vantage point where I can threaten them and give her time to escape. There came a chorus of sharp spring-clicks from the basin. Projectiles whined off the rocks around him. One of them flicked his robe. He squeezed around a corner in the rocks, found himself in a narrow vertical crack, began inching upward--his back against one side, his feet against the other--slowly, as silently as he could. The roar of Stilgar's voice echoed up to him: "Get back, you wormheaded lice! She'll break my neck if you come near!" A voice out of the basin said: "The boy got away, Stil. What are we--" "Of course he got away, you sand-brained . . . Ugh-h-h! Easy, woman!" "Tell them to stop hunting my son," Jessica said. "They've stopped, woman. He got away as you intended him to. Great gods below! Why didn't you say you were a weirding woman and a fighter?" "Tell your men to fall back," Jessica said. "Tell them to go out into the basin where I can see them . . . and you'd better believe that I know how many of them there are." And she thought: This is the delicate moment, but if this man is as sharp-minded as I think him, we have a chance. Paul inched his way upward, found a narrow ledge on which he could rest and look down into the basin. Stilgar's voice came up to him. "And if I refuse? How can you . . . ugh-h-h! Leave be, woman! We mean no harm to you, now. Great gods! If you can do this to the strongest of us, you're worth ten times your weight of water." Now, the test of reason, Jessica thought. She said: "You ask after the Lisan al-Gaib." "You could be the folk of the legend," he said, "but I'll believe that when it's been tested. All I know now is that you came here with that stupid Duke who . . . Aiee-e-e! Woman! I care not if you kill me! He was honorable and brave, but it was stupid to put himself in the way of the Harkonnen fist!" Silence. Presently, Jessica said: "He had no choice, but we'll not argue it. Now, tell that man of yours


anxiously. "There wouldn't be no reason," answered Martha. "You wouldn't do no harm." Mary ate her dinner as quickly as she could and when she rose from the table she was going to run to her room to put on her hat again, but Martha stopped her. "I've got somethin' to tell you," she said. "I thought I'd let you eat your dinner first. Mr. Craven came back this mornin' and I think he wants to see you." Mary turned quite pale. "Oh!" she said. "Why! Why! He didn't want to see me when I came. I heard Pitcher say he didn't." "Well," explained Martha, "Mrs. Medlock says it's because o' mother. She was walkin' to Thwaite village an' she met him. She'd never spoke to him before, but Mrs. Craven had been to our cottage two or three times. He'd forgot, but mother hadn't an' she made bold to stop him. I don't know what she said to him about you but she said somethin' as put him in th' mind to see you before he goes away again, tomorrow." "Oh!" cried Mary, "is he going away tomorrow? I am so glad!" "He's goin' for a long time. He mayn't come back till autumn or winter. He's goin' to travel in foreign places. He's always doin' it." "Oh! I'm so glad--so glad!" said Mary thankfully. If he did not come back until winter, or even autumn, there would be time to watch the secret garden come alive. Even if he found out then and took it away from her she would have had that much at least. "When do you think he will want to see--" She did not finish the sentence, because the door opened, and Mrs. Medlock walked in. She had on her best black dress and cap, and her collar was fastened with a large brooch with a picture of a man's face on it. It was a colored photograph of Mr. Medlock who had died years ago, and she always wore it when she was dressed up. She looked nervous and excited. "Your hair's rough," she said quickly. "Go and brush it. Martha, help her to slip on her best dress. Mr. Craven sent me to bring her to him in his study." All the pink left Mary's cheeks. Her heart began to thump and she felt herself changing into a stiff, plain, silent child again. She did not even answer Mrs. Medlock, but turned and walked into her bedroom, followed by Martha. She said nothing while her dress was changed, and her hair brushed, and after she was quite tidy she followed Mrs. Medlock down the corridors, in silence. What was there for her to say? She was obliged to go and see Mr. Craven and he would not like her, and she would not like him. She knew what he would think of her. She was taken to a part of the house she had not been into before. At last Mrs. Medlock knocked at a door, and when some one said, "Come in," they


sensibilities of this kind; though, unless I deceive myself, I have some imperfect comprehension of them. These names of gentleman and lady had a meaning, in the past history of the world, and conferred privileges, desirable or otherwise, on those entitled to bear them. In the present--and still more in the future condition of society-they imply, not privilege, but restriction!" "These are new notions," said the old gentlewoman, shaking her head. "I shall never understand them; neither do I wish it." "We will cease to speak of them, then," replied the artist, with a friendlier smile than his last one, "and I will leave you to feel whether it is not better to be a true woman than a lady. Do you really think, Miss Hepzibah, that any lady of your family has ever done a more heroic thing, since this house was built, than you are performing in it to-day? Never; and if the Pyncheons had always acted so nobly, I doubt whether an old wizard Maule's anathema, of which you told me once, would have had much weight with Providence against them." "Ah!--no, no!" said Hepzibah, not displeased at this allusion to the sombre dignity of an inherited curse. "If old Maule's ghost, or a descendant of his, could see me behind the counter to-day. he would call it the fulfillment of his worst wishes. But I thank you for your kindness, Mr. Holgrave, and will do my utmost to be a good shop-keeper." "Pray do" said Holgrave, "and let me have the pleasure of being your first customer. I am about taking a walk to the seashore, before going to my rooms, where I misuse Heaven's blessed sunshine by tracing out human features through its agency. A few of those biscuits, dipt in sea-water, will be just what I need for breakfast. What is the price of half a dozen?" "Let me be a lady a moment longer," replied Hepzibah, with a manner of antique stateliness to which a melancholy smile lent a kind of grace. She put the biscuits into his hand, but rejected the compensation. "A Pyncheon must not, at all events under her forefathers' roof, receive money for a morsel of bread from her only friend!" Holgrave took his departure, leaving her, for the moment, with spirits not quite so much depressed. Soon, however, they had subsided nearly to their former dead level. With a beating heart, she listened to the footsteps of early passengers, which now began to be frequent along the street. Once or twice they seemed to linger; these strangers, or neighbors, as the case might be, were looking at the display of toys and petty commodities in Hepzibah's shop-window. She was doubly tortured; in part, with a sense of overwhelming shame that strange and unloving eyes should have the privilege of gazing, and partly because the idea occurred to her, with ridiculous importunity, that the window was not arranged so skilfully, nor nearly to so much advantage, as it might have been. It seemed as if the whole fortune or failure of


old Pip, old chap," said Joe, "you and me was ever friends. And when you're well enough to go out for a ride - what larks!" After which, Joe withdrew to the window, and stood with his back towards me, wiping his eyes. And as my extreme weakness prevented me from getting up and going to him, I lay there, penitently whispering, "O God bless him! O God bless this gentle Christian man!" Joe's eyes were red when I next found him beside me; but, I was holding his hand, and we both felt happy. "How long, dear Joe?" "Which you meantersay, Pip, how long have your illness lasted, dear old chap?" "Yes, Joe." "It's the end of May, Pip. To-morrow is the first of June." "And have you been here all that time, dear Joe?" "Pretty nigh, old chap. For, as I says to Biddy when the news of your being ill were brought by letter, which it were brought by the post and being formerly single he is now married though underpaid for a deal of walking and shoe-leather, but wealth were not a object on his part, and marriage were the great wish of his hart--" "It is so delightful to hear you, Joe! But I interrupt you in what you said to Biddy." "Which it were," said Joe, "that how you might be amongst strangers, and that how you and me having been ever friends, a wisit at such a moment might not prove unacceptabobble. And Biddy, her word were, 'Go to him, without loss of time.' That," said Joe, summing up with his judicial air, "were the word of Biddy. 'Go to him,' Biddy say, 'without loss of time.' In short, I shouldn't greatly deceive you," Joe added, after a little grave reflection, "if I represented to you that the word of that young woman were, 'without a minute's loss of time.'" There Joe cut himself short, and informed me that I was to be talked to in great moderation, and that I was to take a little nourishment at stated frequent times, whether I felt inclined for it or not, and that I was to submit myself to all his orders. So, I kissed his hand, and lay quiet, while he proceeded to indite a note to Biddy, with my love in it. Evidently, Biddy had taught Joe to write. As I lay in bed looking at him, it made me, in my weak state, cry again with pleasure to see the pride with which he set about his letter. My bedstead, divested of its curtains, had been removed, with me upon it, into the sittingroom, as the airiest and largest, and the carpet had been taken away, and the room kept always fresh and wholesome night and day. At my own writing-table, pushed into a corner and cumbered with little bottles, Joe now sat down to his great work, first choosing a pen from the pen-tray as if it were a chest of large tools, and tucking up his sleeves as if he were going


a deep breath to keep her voice from rising or trembling. “Kúnlé was bad-mouthing me to you, and you just sat there and believed him?” “Who are you shouting at? Me? It’s me you are raising your voice at, ehn? Is it your fault? No, it’s not your fault. I’m the one that allowed this rubbish. This is what everybody has been telling me about you, but no, I did not listen. Now open your ears and hear me, today is the day you stop calling Kúnlé by name. He’s Uncle Kúnlé to you from now on.” “What are you saying? He’s not my brother or my uncle.” “He will soon marry your sister.” “God forbid bad thing.” “What? Mọ́tárá, are you okay at all?” Yèyé advanced on Mọ́tárá, arms akimbo, face crumpled in rage. “You are saying that about your sister’s marriage?” Mọ́tárá folded her arms and stared down at her feet. She felt sorry about forgetting the clothes but could not see how her mother had made a leap from that to a conversation about Kúnlé. Days had become weeks as she thought about if, how and when to tell anyone what she had seen during Yèyé’s birthday. No moment seemed right. Maybe there was no perfect moment to make sure someone else knew Wúràọlá was in danger. “Is something wrong with your ears? Explain yourself. Why on earth would you say that?” Mọ́tárá took a deep breath and stepped closer to her mother. “Kúnlé slapped Wúràọlá, I saw him do it.” Yèyé frowned, then burst into a laugh. “Which kind of lie is this?” “No, no. I’m not lying this time, I’m not lying. I saw him, it was during your birthday. He slapped her. They can’t go ahead with the introduction. You have to stop them. So yes, God forbid bad thing.” “Shut up there. What rubbish are you saying? Me, I will not be put to shame. It is not me that will fix the introduction for my daughter and cancel. My joy will never turn to embarrassment.” “Kúnlé slapped Wúràọlá, are you even hearing what I’m saying?” Yèyé wagged a finger in Mọ́tárá’s face. “You’re lying.” “But what if I’m not?” “The same Kúnlé that I’ve known since he was tiny?” Yèyé shook her head. “No. I know you, Mọ́tárá, you lie for fun.” “Not this time.” “Stop this nonsense right now.” Yèyé glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s almost seven. Serve your father’s food. Me, I need to change. Don’t let me hear any complaints from your father o. I’m warning you now.” Mọ́tárá felt stupid about how the conversation had gone. Why didn’t she wait until Yèyé was in a good mood? She should have been smart enough to realise that talking about this right after she’d upset her mother was terrible timing. Given that Wúràọlá’s safety was at stake, she should have been more thoughtful about how to bring this up in a convincing way. There were sets of porcelain bowls in one of the many cabinets in the kitchen. All five sets were


by a mingled sense of curiosity and envy that grew as I lingered. "Con-trary!" said a voice as sweet as a silver bell. "That for the third time, you dunce! I'm not going to tell you again. Recollect, or I'll pull your hair." "Contrary, then," answered another, in deep but softened tones. "And now, kiss me for minding so well." "No; read it over first correctly, without a single mistake." The male speaker began to read. He was a young man respectably dressed and seated at a table, having a book before him. His handsome features glowed with pleasure, and his eyes kept impatiently wandering from the page to a small white hand over his shoulder, which recalled him by a smart slap on the cheek whenever its owner detected such signs of inattention. Its owner stood behind, her light, shining ringlets blending at in- tervals with his brown locks, as she bent to superintend his studies; and her face---it was lucky he could not see her face, or he would never have been so steady. I could, and I bit my lip in spite at having thrown away the chance I might have had of doing something be- sides staring at its smiting beauty. The task was done---not free from further blunders; but the pupil claimed a reward, and received at least five kisses, which, however, he generously returned. Then they came to the door, and from their conver- sation I judged they were about to issue out and have a walk on the moors. I supposed I should be condemned in Hareton Earnshaw's heart, if not by his mouth, to the lowest pit in the infernal regions if I showed my un- fortunate person in his neighbourhood then; and feel- ing very mean and malignant, I skulked round to seek refuge in the kitchen. There was unobstructed admit- tance on that side also, and at the door sat my old friend Nelly Dean, sewing and singing a song, which was often interrupted from within by harsh words of scorn and intolerance, uttered in far from musical ac- cents. "I'd rayther, by th' haulf, hev 'em swearing i' my lugs froh morn to neeght nor hearken ye hahsiver!" said the tenant of the kitchen, in answer to an unheard speech of Nelly's. "It's a blazing shame that I cannot oppen t' blessed Book but yah set up them glories to Sattan, and all t' flaysome wickednesses that iver were born into th' warld! Oh! ye're a raight nowt, and shoo's another, and that poor lad'll be lost atween ye. Poor lad!" he added, with a groan; "he's witched, I'm sartin on't! O Lord, judge 'em, for there's norther law nor justice among wer rullers!" "No, or we should be sitting in flaming fagots, I sup- pose," retorted the singer. "But wisht, old man, and read your Bible like a Christian, and never mind me. This is 'Fairy Annie's Wedding'---a bonny tune; it goes to a dance." Mrs. Dean was about to recommence when I ad- vanced; and recognizing me directly, she


Kimmy flashes a tense smile and squeezes my hand as we pass. A lump forms in my throat at the whine of the front door opening behind me. I don’t go to Wyn’s and my room. The bubble has popped, this pocket universe collapsed. Instead, I take the kids’ room. It’s tidy, the twin beds returned to opposite walls and neatly made. Cleo and Kimmy left no trace of themselves here apart from the lingering scent of Kimmy’s peppermint oil. I sit on the edge of the bed, feeling the loneliness swell, not knowing whether it’s pressing against me from the outside or growing from within. Either way, it’s inescapable, my oldest companion. I shuck off my clothes and crawl into bed. I don’t cry, but I don’t sleep either. The argument replays in my mind on a feverish loop until it feels like the words melt together nonsensically. I ask myself, again and again, why I didn’t tell them. All the same half- assed answers cycle through my mind until I’m as sick with myself as everyone else is. I turn onto my back and glare up at a beam of moonlight on the ceiling. I wasn’t afraid they’d be mad at me, exactly, for how things ended with Wyn. I was afraid of their sadness. I was afraid of ruining this trip that meant so much to them. I was afraid of ruining this place where they’ve always been happy. I was afraid they would resent me and never say it, afraid they wouldn’t like me as much without Wyn, because I didn’t like me as much without him. I was afraid they’d ask me what went wrong, and no matter what answer I cobbled together from the rubble, they’d see right through it. They’d know I wasn’t enough. I’m not the brilliant doctor my parents wanted me to be, and I’m not the person who could give Wyn the happiness he deserves, and I’m not the friend Sabrina and Cleo needed. I’ve tried so hard to be good, to deserve the people around me, and I’ve still managed to hurt all of them. The blankets feel too hot, the mattress too soft. Whenever I roll over, I thwack the wall. If there were a TV in here, I’d put on Murder, She Wrote, fall asleep to its blue glow and softly jaunty soundtrack. The silence leaves too much room for questions, for memories to vine around me, hold me captive. Not just of the fight but of the dark place, of the weeks before and after losing Wyn. Of crying into a pillow that smelled like him, and waking up from dreams of him, my chest filled with knots. Of trying to flush him from my system with a double date with Taye, her boyfriend, and their friend. Of coming home, sick to my stomach, and cleaning the apartment. As if scrubbing the grout and the condiment splatters on the kitchen cabinets could make everything about my life look different. Make me different. I remember standing in my kitchen,


they were going; more than anything people were looking for someone to tell them what to do. A man hammered so hard the glass almost smashed, gesturing at his family beside him, pleading to be let in. Liza asked: ‘Why don’t we help them? We have space.’ Her dad shook his head – they were taking no passengers, making no stops, driving all the way to the airport. ‘He has a family.’ ‘If we’re going to survive this, we can’t stop for anyone.’ The man moved in front of the car forcing her father to accelerate around him, crunching against the crash barrier, tearing off the side mirror and denting the doors. Looking back, Liza wanted to tell this man that they didn’t have any answers. They were motivated by a reflex reaction, foreigners in a foreign country heading to the airport because if they could just get home there’d be answers, an orderly process and they’d have a place in whatever process had been devised. Along with the family bond, their country was the only other thing that remained real in their minds. They managed to reach as far as Marques de Pombal, the orbital ring-road down the hill from the hotel, before the city became gridlocked, streets crammed in every direction with every kind of vehicle, some trying to leave the city, others trying to reach the airport or the ports, an exodus of a kind she’d never seen before. Flowing through the narrow gaps in the traffic were people wheeling suitcases so over-stuffed that when they hit a bump in the road they broke open, spilling their contents – sleeping bags, toilet roll, bottles of water, dry food and vitamin pills. Other people had hardly moved since the occupation began, making no effort to escape, stumbling about in a stupor of incomprehension, staring up with child-like wonder as helicopters and jets crisscrossed the sky while above the human commotion the alien ships descended into the atmosphere. From time to time the entire sky turned bright, as though a heavenly searchlight the size of the moon was illuminating the city, and everyone duly paused while this penetrating light sank into their bones, waiting for some god-like act of retribution, gravity to be switched off or cars to turn to dust. But then the light disappeared and it seemed to have no impact aside from causing a minority to lose their minds entirely. One man stood on the hood of a stationary car, addressing the exodus as though it were his congregation. A homeless man sat on a park bench, laughing and laughing, endlessly amused by a private joke – they were all homeless now. Liza sat in the back of the rental car with the doors locked, watching an altercation between two men, their gestures growing wilder by the minute, teetering on the brink of physical violence until one of the men collapsed into tears, holding his head in his hands, a kitchen knife protruding from the back of his trousers. Still crying, he returned to his car, started the


They invited me to join them.

I wanted to say yes. I was dying to say yes. Just one problem. The trek

was in early April, dangerously close to Willy’s announced wedding date.

I’d have to get there and back with no hitches, or risk missing the ceremony.

192

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But the North Pole wasn’t a place you could ever be sure of getting to

and from without hitches. The North Pole was a place of infinite hitches.

There were always variables, usually related to weather. So I was nervous at

the prospect, and the Palace was doubly nervous.

I asked JLP for his advice.

He smiled. /t’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Yes. It is.

You’ve got to go.

But first, he said, there was one other place I needed to go.

In a direct continuation of conversations he and I had begun five years

earlier, after my Nazi debacle, he’d organized a trip to Berlin.

And so. December 2010. A bitterly cold day. I put my fingertips to the

bullet holes in the city’s walls, the still-fresh scars from Hitler’s insane vow

to fight to the last man. I stood at the former site of the Berlin Wall, which

had also been the site of SS torture chambers, and swore I could hear the

echoes of agonized screams on the wind. I met a woman who’d been sent to

Auschwitz. She described her confinement, the horrors she saw, heard,

smelt. Her stories were as difficult to hear as they were vital. But I won’t

retell them. They’re not mine to retell.

I’d long understood that the photo of me in a Nazi uniform had been the

result of various failures—failure of thinking, failure of character. But it had

also been a failure of education. Not just school education, but self-

education. I hadn’t known enough about the Nazis, hadn’t taught myself

enough, hadn’t asked enough questions of teachers and families and

survivors.

I’d resolved to change that.

I couldn’t


at Number 5 - and he felt prepared to share with them or with Monsieur Sixte on his right, if they found themselves faced with too big a bank. At Number 8 was the Maharajah of a small Indian state, probably with all his wartime sterling balances to play with. Bond's experience told him that few of the Asiatic races were courageous gamblers, even the much-vaunted Chinese being inclined to lose heart if the going was bad. But the Maharajah would probably stay in the game and stand some heavy losses if they were gradual. Number 10 was a prosperous-looking young Italian, Signor Tomelli, who possibly had plenty of money from rackrents in Milan and would probably play a dashing and foolish game. He might lose his temper and make a scene. Bond had just finished his sketchy summing-up of the players when Le Chiffre, with the silence and economy of movement of a big fish, came through the opening in the brass rail and, with a cold smile of welcome for the table, took his place directly opposite Bond in the banker's chair. With the same economy of movements the thick slab of cards which the croupier had placed on the table squarely between his blunt relaxed hands. Then, as the croupier fitted the six packs with one swift exact motion into the metal and wooden shoe, Le Chiffre said something quietly to him. 'Messieurs, mesdames, les jeux sont faits. Un banco de cinq cent mille,' and as the Greek at Number 1 tapped the table in front of his fat pile of hundred-mille plaques, 'Le banco est fait.' Le Chiffre crouched over the shoe. He gave it a short deliberate slap to settle the cards, the first of which showed its semicircular pale pink tongue through the slanting aluminium mouth of the shoe. Then, with a thick white fore-finger he pressed gently on the pink tongue and slipped out the first card six inches or a foot towards the Greek on his right hand. Then he slipped out a card for himself, then another for the Greek, then one more for himself He sat immobile, not touching his own cards. He looked at the Greek's face. With his flat wooden spatula, like a long bricklayer's trowel, the croupier delicately lifted up the Greek's two cards and dropped them with a quick movement an extra few inches to the right so that they lay just before the Greek's pale hairy hands which lay inert like two watchful pink crabs on the table. The two pink crabs scuttled out together and the Greek gathered the cards into his wide left hand and cautiously bent his head so that he could see, in the shadow made by his cupped hand, the value of the bottom of the two cards. Then he slowly inserted the forefinger of his right hand and slipped the bottom card slightly sideways so that the value of the top card was also just perceptible. His face was quite impassive. He flattened out his left hand on the table and


himself in trouble chasing a coy smile or kind word. He was absurdly pretty, fair-haired and green-eyed, lean in a way that undersold his strength. To counter his looks, he’d chosen to apprentice with Yuli, Mahair’s most demanding farmer. By spending his days loading wagons and herding oxen, Marek made himself indispensable to every tradesperson in the village. He worked to earn their respect, because there were few things Mahair valued more than calloused palms and sweat on a brow. It was also why they tolerated the string of broken hearts he’d left in his wake. Not one to be ignored for long, Sefa continued, “Your youth, Sylvia, we mourn your youth! At twenty, you’re having fewer adventures than the village brats.” I drained the water, passing the chalice to Marek for more. “I have plenty of adventure.” “I’m not talking about how many times you can kill your fig plant before it stays dead,” Sefa scoffed. “If you had simply accompanied me last week to release the roosters in Nadia’s den—” “Nadia has permanently barred you from her shop,” Marek interjected. Brave one, cutting Sefa off in the middle of a tirade. He scooped up a blackened seed, throwing it from palm to palm to cool. “Leave Sylvia be. Adventure does not fit into a single mold.” Sefa’s nostrils flared wide, but Marek didn’t flinch. They communicated in that strange, silent way of people who were bound together by something thicker than blood and stronger than a shared upbringing. I knew because I had witnessed hundreds of their unspoken conversations over the last five years. “I am not killing my fig plant.” I pushed to my feet. “I’m cultivating its fighter’s spirit.” “Stop glaring at me,” Marek said to Sefa with a sigh. “I’m sorry for interrupting.” He held out a cracked seed. Sefa let his hand dangle in the air for forty seconds before taking the seed. “Help me hem this sleeve?” With a sheepish grin, Marek offered his soot-covered palms. Sefa rolled her eyes. I observed this latest exchange with bewilderment. It never failed to astound me how easily they existed around one another. Their unusual devotion had led to questions from the other wards at the keep. Marek laughed himself into stitches the first time a younger girl asked if he and Sefa planned to wed. “Sefa isn’t going to marry anyone. We love each other in a different way.” The ward had batted her lashes, because Marek was the only boy in the keep, and he was in possession of a face consigning him to a life of wistful sighs following in his wake. “What about you?” the ward had asked. Sefa, who had been smiling as she knit in the corner, sobered. Only Raya and I saw the sorrowful look she shot Marek, the guilt in her brown eyes. “I am tied to Sefa in spirit, if not in wedlock.” Marek ruffled the ward’s hair. The girl squealed, slapping at Marek. “I follow where she goes.” To underscore their insanity, the pair had taken an instant


garden. I'd never wanted to see any one or anything before." The sight of his uplifted face brought about a sudden change in her own. She flushed and the corners of her mouth shook and a mist seemed to sweep over her eyes. "Eh! dear lad!" she broke out tremulously. "Eh! dear lad!" as if she had not known she were going to say it. She did not say, "Mester Colin," but just "dear lad" quite suddenly. She might have said it to Dickon in the same way if she had seen something in his face which touched her. Colin liked it. "Are you surprised because I am so well?" he asked. She put her hand on his shoulder and smiled the mist out of her eyes. "Aye, that I am!" she said; "but tha'rt so like thy mother tha' made my heart jump." "Do you think," said Colin a little awkwardly, "that will make my father like me?" "Aye, for sure, dear lad," she answered and she gave his shoulder a soft quick pat. "He mun come home--he mun come home." "Susan Sowerby," said Ben Weatherstaff, getting close to her. "Look at th' lad's legs, wilt tha'? They was like drumsticks i' stockin' two month' ago--an' I heard folk tell as they was bandy an' knock-kneed both at th' same time. Look at 'em now!" Susan Sowerby laughed a comfortable laugh. "They're goin' to be fine strong lad's legs in a bit," she said. "Let him go on playin' an' workin' in the garden an' eatin' hearty an' drinkin' plenty o' good sweet milk an' there'll not be a finer pair i' Yorkshire, thank God for it." She put both hands on Mistress Mary's shoulders and looked her little face over in a motherly fashion. "An' thee, too!" she said. "Tha'rt grown near as hearty as our 'Lisabeth Ellen. I'll warrant tha'rt like thy mother too. Our Martha told me as Mrs. Medlock heard she was a pretty woman. Tha'lt be like a blush rose when tha' grows up, my little lass, bless thee." She did not mention that when Martha came home on her "day out" and described the plain sallow child she had said that she had no confidence whatever in what Mrs. Medlock had heard. "It doesn't stand to reason that a pretty woman could be th' mother o' such a fou' little lass," she had added obstinately. Mary had not had time to pay much attention to her changing face. She had only known that she looked "different" and seemed to have a great deal more hair and that it was growing very fast. But remembering her pleasure in looking at the Mem Sahib in the past she was glad to hear that she might some day look like her. Susan Sowerby went round their garden with them and was told the whole story of it and shown every bush and tree which had come alive. Colin walked on one side of her and Mary on the other. Each of them kept looking up at her comfortable


he relished. But he was also wildly, desperately, in need of distraction. The days felt endless, and he couldn’t depend on Montserrat to keep him distracted, even if he longed to simply sit in a corner of the editing bay while she worked her magic with the controls. But Montserrat was busy. She had shifts at her job right now, and he was in one of those downward periods when the opportunities were scarce and the tedium kept mounting. The new apartment had cable, and he kept browsing through the channels or else sat on the couch, listless. No new gigs were going to manifest like this, and yet he felt less and less inclined to even try. In his early audio days, he’d gone to the big dubbing studios at nine a.m. and lounged around, fishing for work, waiting to see if a voice actor who was scheduled that morning had missed roll call so he could take his place. It was miserable, unproductive, hard work, and he was reluctant to head down that route again. It was better to stay put, to wait for the telephone to ring, than to be reduced to those awful, mendicant sessions. On a rather gray and dreary Thursday he managed to gather the energy to clean his living room and make his bed. He even went for a walk, and while watching pigeons bobbing for crumbs on a stretch of greenery that passed as a park, he resolved to tell Yolanda that he didn’t think it was wise that they meet for dinner, rather than offering bland replies that could be mistaken for “maybes.” When he returned to the apartment he was in decent spirits. Tristán, despite his multiple failings, was an optimist. He told himself each new day could bring a fresh beginning. He’d learned this from his mother, who always hummed a tune as she cooked; who always smiled despite his father’s meager paycheck and their modest apartment. His mom adored opera, she loved the great dramas and the beautiful arias, and she could reliably conjure good cheer despite her interest in the sorrows of the great heroines created by Verdi. He’d have to give mom and dad a call that Saturday. He’d also take Montserrat and Araceli for ice cream or another treat. Yes, he told himself, it was going to be a fine day and an even better weekend. Optimism! That was the trick. The phone was ringing when he walked in. He was surprised when the person on the other end of the line said she was a writer for De Telenovela. No one cared to interview him anymore except when it was to ask tawdry, exploitative questions, but the writer quickly said she was writing a story on actors who were doing dubbing for TV shows and his name had come up as someone she should talk to. “Would you have a few minutes?” “Oh, sure,” Tristán said, feeling delighted someone was paying attention to his voice work. “What would you like to know?” The writer asked about


hound, but not for such a creature as this. And the fog gave us little time to receive him." "You have saved my life." "Having first endangered it. Are you strong enough to stand?" "Give me another mouthful of that brandy and I shall be ready for anything. So! Now, if you will help me up. What do you propose to do?" "To leave you here. You are not fit for further adventures to-night. If you will wait, one or other of us will go back with you to the Hall." He tried to stagger to his feet; but he was still ghastly pale and trembling in every limb. We helped him to a rock, where he sat shivering with his face buried in his hands. "We must leave you now," said Holmes. "The rest of our work must be done, and every moment is of importance. We have our case, and now we only want our man. "It's a thousand to one against our finding him at the house," he continued as we retraced our steps swiftly down the path. "Those shots must have told him that the game was up." "We were some distance off, and this fog may have deadened them." "He followed the hound to call him off -- of that you may be certain. No, no, he's gone by this time! But we'll search the house and make sure." The front door was open, so we rushed in and hurried from room to room to the amazement of a doddering old manservant, who met us in the passage. There was no light save in the dining-room, but Holmes caught up the lamp and left no corner of the house unexplored. No sign could we see of the man whom we were chasing. On the upper floor, however, one of the bedroom doors was locked. "There's someone in here," cried Lestrade. "I can hear a movement. Open this door!" A faint moaning and rustling came from within. Holmes struck the door just over the lock with the flat of his foot and it flew open. Pistol in hand, we all three rushed into the room. But there was no sign within it of that desperate and defiant villain whom we expected to see. Instead we were faced by an object so strange and so unexpected that we stood for a moment staring at it in amazement. The room had been fashioned into a small museum, and the walls were lined by a number of glass-topped cases full of that collection of butterflies and moths the formation of which had been the relaxation of this complex and dangerous man. In the centre of this room there was an upright beam, which had been placed at some period as a support for the old worm-eaten baulk of timber which spanned the roof. To this post a figure was tied, so swathed and muffled in the sheets which had been used to secure it that one could not for the moment tell whether it was that of a man or a


Pocahontas might have resented; and he was struck again by the religious reverence of even the most unworldly American women for the social advantages of dress. "It's their armour," he thought, "their defence against the unknown, and their defiance of it." And he understood for the first time the earnestness with which May, who was incapable of tying a ribbon in her hair to charm him, had gone through the solemn rite of selecting and ordering her extensive wardrobe. He had been right in expecting the party at Mrs. Carfry's to be a small one. Besides their hostess and her sister, they found, in the long chilly drawing-room, only another shawled lady, a genial Vicar who was her husband, a silent lad whom Mrs. Carfry named as her nephew, and a small dark gentleman with lively eyes whom she introduced as his tutor, pronouncing a French name as she did so. Into this dimly-lit and dim-featured group May Archer floated like a swan with the sunset on her: she seemed larger, fairer, more voluminously rustling than her husband had ever seen her; and he perceived that the rosiness and rustlingness were the tokens of an extreme and infantile shyness. "What on earth will they expect me to talk about?" her helpless eyes implored him, at the very moment that her dazzling apparition was calling forth the same anxiety in their own bosoms. But beauty, even when distrustful of itself, awakens confidence in the manly heart; and the Vicar and the French-named tutor were soon manifesting to May their desire to put her at her ease. In spite of their best efforts, however, the dinner was a languishing affair. Archer noticed that his wife's way of showing herself at her ease with foreigners was to become more uncompromisingly local in her references, so that, though her loveliness was an encouragement to admiration, her conversation was a chill to repartee. The Vicar soon abandoned the struggle; but the tutor, who spoke the most fluent and accomplished English, gallantly continued to pour it out to her until the ladies, to the manifest relief of all concerned, went up to the drawing-room. The Vicar, after a glass of port, was obliged to hurry away to a meeting, and the shy nephew, who appeared to be an invalid, was packed off to bed. But Archer and the tutor continued to sit over their wine, and suddenly Archer found himself talking as he had not done since his last symposium with Ned Winsett. The Carfry nephew, it turned out, had been threatened with consumption, and had had to leave Harrow for Switzerland, where he had spent two years in the milder air of Lake Leman. Being a bookish youth, he had been entrusted to M. Riviere, who had brought him back to England, and was to remain with him till he went up to Oxford the following spring; and M. Riviere added with simplicity that he should then have to look out for another job. It seemed impossible, Archer thought, that he should be long without one, so


couldn’t make a speech without saying that. Some tittered at his ignorance. So Tony said testily, “If all them dat’s goin-tuh cut de monkey is done cut it and through wid, we’ll thank Brother Starks fuh a re- spond.” So Joe Starks and his cigar took the center of the floor. “Ah thanks you all for yo’ kind welcome and for extendin’ tuh me de right hand uh fellowship. Ah kin see dat dis town is full uh union and love. Ah means tuh put mah hands tuh de plow heah, and strain every nerve tuh make dis our town de metropolis uh de state. So maybe Ah better tell yuh in case you don’t know dat if we expect tuh move on, us got tuh incorpo- rate lak every other town. Us got tuh incorporate, and us got tuh have uh mayor, if things is tuh be done and done right. Ah welcome you all on behalf uh me and mah wife tuh dis store and tuh de other things tuh come. Amen.” Tony led the loud hand-clapping and was out in the cen- ter of the floor when it stopped. “Brothers and sisters, since us can’t never expect tuh bet- Their Eyes Were Watching God 51 ter our choice, Ah move dat we make Brother Starks our Mayor until we kin see further.” “Second dat motion!!!” It was everybody talking at once, so it was no need of putting it to a vote. “And now we’ll listen tuh uh few words uh encourage- ment from Mrs. Mayor Starks.” The burst of applause was cut short by Joe taking the floor himself. “Thank yuh fuh yo’ compliments, but mah wife don’t know nothin’ ’bout no speech-makin’. Ah never married her for nothin’ lak dat. She’s uh woman and her place is in de home.” Janie made her face laugh after a short pause, but it wasn’t too easy. She had never thought of making a speech, and did- n’t know if she cared to make one at all. It must have been the way Joe spoke out without giving her a chance to say any- thing one way or another that took the bloom off of things. But anyway, she went down the road behind him that night feeling cold. He strode along invested with his new dignity, thought and planned out loud, unconscious of her thoughts. “De mayor of uh town lak dis can’t lay round home too much. De place needs buildin’ up. Janie, Ah’ll git hold uh somebody tuh help out in de store and you kin look after things whilst Ah drum up things otherwise.” “Oh Jody, Ah can’t do nothin’ wid no store lessen youse there. Ah could maybe come in and help you when things git rushed, but—” “I god, Ah don’t see how come yuh can’t. ’Tain’t nothin’ atall tuh hinder yuh if yuh got uh thimble full uh sense. You 52 Zora Neale Hurston got tuh. Ah got too much else on mah hands as Mayor. Dis town needs some light right now.”


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 returned with two dresses. “Perhaps these, Madam? The plain crepe or the crepe with jet.” Miss de Vries opened her arms. “You choose.” Alice hesitated. “Plain,” she said. And then, with a little flush, as if testing herself, “It suits you better.” Miss de Vries laughed at that. “You ought to tell me they suit me equally.” Alice reddened. “Beg pardon, Madam.” Miss de Vries put out her wrists to be unbuttoned. “I suppose I shall have to give up the jet, then.” She met Alice’s gaze. “You have it.” Alice dropped her hands. “Me?” “Certainly. It’ll get moth-eaten otherwise. I can’t possibly wear it now.” Alice took a step back. “I didn’t mean to speak out of turn,” she said, frowning. Miss de Vries studied herself in the glass. “You didn’t. You have a good eye, as well you know.” She adjusted the lace around her neck. “Iris could take a lesson from you.” She didn’t look at Alice. She knew what effect this would have. It happened the same way, every time. A blush, a demurral, a lot of pretty confusion. They were such adorable playthings, the junior maids. Pet them long enough and they gave up all kinds of gossip. The house-parlormaids were machine-made, perfectly trained, more inscrutable. They’d waited on grander ladies in even bigger houses than this one. Sometimes they even unsettled Miss de Vries herself. But Alice was timid, mouselike. She’d gobble up nice treats. “I oughtn’t to take this, Madam,” said Alice, voice serious. She held the dress at arm’s length, as if she were afraid of it. “It’s too generous.” Miss de Vries turned, surprised. Evidently, this mouse had more strength of will than she had expected. “Whatever do you mean?” The girl’s face looked grave. She hesitated, as if searching for the correct response. “You might want to keep it for yourself,” she said. Miss de Vries considered this unlikely. Black dresses already bored her to tears. Six months to go till half mourning—it was an intolerable wait. “Suit yourself,” she said. “I’ll know not to spoil you next time.” At that moment William knocked on the distant bedroom door. “Post, Madam,” he called. “Enter,” she replied. William left the silver platter by the bedroom door. The male servants never entered her inner sanctum. “You open them,” she said to Alice, her stomach tight with anticipation, her tone careless. “Tell me who to expect.” She went to the window, concentrating hard on the muslins. “Very well, Madam.” Alice began opening the envelopes. A minute passed. “Well?” said Miss de Vries. Alice glanced up. She gave Miss de Vries a furtive look. “I’ve put the declines


clatter. He had started as though a pin had run into him. A shrill trumpet-call had pierced the air. It was the bulletin! Victory! It always meant victory when a trumpet-call preceded the news. A sort of electric drill ran through the cafe. Even the waiters had started and pricked up their ears. The trumpet-call had let loose an enormous volume of noise. Already an excited voice was gabbling from the telescreen, but even as it started it was almost drowned by a roar of cheering from outside. The news had run round the streets like magic. He could hear just enough of what was issuing from the telescreen to realize that it had all happened, as he had foreseen; a vast seaborne armada had secretly assembled a sudden blow in the enemy's rear, the white arrow tearing across the tail of the black. Fragments of triumphant phrases pushed themselves through the din: 'Vast strategic manoeuvre--perfect co-ordination--utter rout--half a million prisoners--complete demoralization--control of the whole of Africa--bring the war within measurable distance of its end--victory--greatest victory in human history--victory, victory, victory!' file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (162 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:52 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt Under the table Winston's feet made convulsive movements. He had not stirred from his seat, but in his mind he was running, swiftly running, he was with the crowds outside, cheering himself deaf. He looked up again at the portrait of Big Brother. The colossus that bestrode the world! The rock against which the hordes of Asia dashed themselves in vain! He thought how ten minutes ago--yes, only ten minutes--there had still been equivocation in his heart as he wondered whether the news from the front would be of victory or defeat. Ah, it was more than a Eurasian army that had perished! Much had changed in him since that first day in the Ministry of Love, but the final, indispensable, healing change had never happened, until this moment. The voice from the telescreen was still pouring forth its tale of prisoners and booty and slaughter, but the shouting outside had died down a little. The waiters were turning back to their work. One of them approached with the gin bottle. Winston, sitting in a blissful dream, paid no attention as his glass was filled up. He was not running or cheering any longer. He was back in the Ministry of Love, with everything forgiven, his soul white as snow. He was in the public dock, confessing everything, implicating everybody. He was walking down the white-tiled corridor, with the feeling of walking in sunlight, and an armed guard at his back. The long-hoped-for bullet was entering his brain. He gazed up at the enormous face. Forty years it had taken him to learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark moustache. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother. THE END APPENDIX. The


with his own scholarly thoughts in the past to consider the little occurrences, the chance words, which would have indicated to a more practical man that these young people were being drawn more and more closely to one another. Now they came back to him, one by one. "As you wish," he said. Chapter 19 102 "You may count on me, also," said Mr. Philander. "No, my dear old friend," said Professor Porter. "We may not all go. It would be cruelly wicked to leave poor Esmeralda here alone, and three of us would be no more successful than one. "There be enough dead things in the cruel forest as it is. Come--let us try to sleep a little." Chapter 19 The Call of the Primitive From the time Tarzan left the tribe of great anthropoids in which he had been raised, it was torn by continual strife and discord. Terkoz proved a cruel and capricious king, so that, one by one, many of the older and weaker apes, upon whom he was particularly prone to vent his brutish nature, took their families and sought the quiet and safety of the far interior. But at last those who remained were driven to desperation by the continued truculence of Terkoz, and it so happened that one of them recalled the parting admonition of Tarzan: "If you have a chief who is cruel, do not do as the other apes do, and attempt, any one of you, to pit yourself against him alone. But, instead, let two or three or four of you attack him together. Then, if you will do this, no chief will dare to be other than he should be, for four of you can kill any chief who may ever be over you." And the ape who recalled this wise counsel repeated it to several of his fellows, so that when Terkoz returned to the tribe that day he found a warm reception awaiting him. There were no formalities. As Terkoz reached the group, five huge, hairy beasts sprang upon him. At heart he was an arrant coward, which is the way with bullies among apes as well as among men; so he did not remain to fight and die, but tore himself away from them as quickly as he could and fled into the sheltering boughs of the forest. Two more attempts he made to rejoin the tribe, but on each occasion he was set upon and driven away. At last he gave it up, and turned, foaming with rage and hatred, into the jungle. For several days he wandered aimlessly, nursing his spite and looking for some weak thing on which to vent his pent anger. It was in this state of mind that the horrible, man-like beast, swinging from tree to tree, came suddenly upon two women in the jungle. He was right above them when he discovered them. The first intimation Jane Porter had of his presence was when the great hairy body dropped to the earth beside her, and she saw the awful face and


do, oh evil one?” “Beware of poison apples once we’re married. I could inherit this place and actually make some decent wine.” “You mean you could hire other people to do it?” “Better than stubbornly trying to do it alone without any expertise whatsoever.” “Do you think you can do better, princess? Because as far as I can tell, you have nothing to do with the actual producing or bottling of your family’s wine. Only the drinking of it.” The shutters went down. She went from animated to robotic in one second flat. And his brain, the upstairs one, started to recall the other times he’d poked fun at Natalie for her penchant to get tipsy on a frequent basis. Had she reacted the same way those other times? Yeah . . . August suspected maybe she had, but it was hard to tell when they were swinging from one barb to the next like monkeys on vines. “Do you want me to stop needling you about the drinking?” he asked, approaching her from the other side of the barn. “I can.” She flipped open the notebook to the first page and pretended to make a note, even though he could see the cap was still on her pen. “It hardly matters. Everything you say to me goes in one ear and out the other.” “No, the drinking thing bothers you.” “You’re making a big deal out of nothing.” “Because I’ll stop.” “We’re setting parameters now for insulting each other?” “Yeah. Looks like it. The goal isn’t to hurt your feelings.” That surprised her. And got her attention. Good. “What is the goal?” “You’re so determined to put me in my place on the peg below you. Maybe I’m just trying to get you down to the same level so we can . . .” “Have sex? God, you’re so predictable.” “I was going to say, so we can see eye to eye again.” “In bed.” “Among other places.” Like cuddling on trains. Not that he could say that out loud without her crucifying him. He could, however, get this one problem solved, couldn’t he? This woman shouldn’t have to put up her guard around him. It bothered him a great deal that she did. He liked her sitting in his lap and trusting him a hell of a lot more. “Your mother said something last night about . . . an incident when you were in high school?” Her muscles braced, as if she didn’t expect him to bring that up and was now preparing to layer on even more armor. Not happening. “Natalie, I burped ‘Wanted Dead or Alive’ by Bon Jovi into a microphone at my high school talent show when I was seventeen. In a wig and tasseled knee socks. I’m not here to pass judgment.” A gasping laugh snuck out of her. “Last place, I’m assuming?” “They didn’t really grasp my artistic vision.” She ran her eyes over him, as if trying to picture the scene, and pressed her lips together to smother a smile. Hesitating. Then


more golden. The wheeled chair had been drawn back under the canopy and Dickon had sat down on the grass and had just drawn out his pipe when Colin saw something he had not had time to notice before. "That's a very old tree over there, isn't it?" he said. Dickon looked across the grass at the tree and Mary looked and there was a brief moment of stillness. "Yes," answered Dickon, after it, and his low voice had a very gentle sound. Mary gazed at the tree and thought. "The branches are quite gray and there's not a single leaf anywhere," Colin went on. "It's quite dead, isn't it?" "Aye," admitted Dickon. "But them roses as has climbed all over it will near hide every bit o' th' dead wood when they're full o' leaves an' flowers. It won't look dead then. It'll be th' prettiest of all." Mary still gazed at the tree and thought. "It looks as if a big branch had been broken off," said Colin. "I wonder how it was done." "It's been done many a year," answered Dickon. "Eh!" with a sudden relieved start and laying his hand on Colin. "Look at that robin! There he is! He's been foragin' for his mate." Colin was almost too late but he just caught sight of him, the flash of red-breasted bird with something in his beak. He darted through the greenness and into the close-grown corner and was out of sight. Colin leaned back on his cushion again, laughing a little. "He's taking her tea to her. Perhaps it's five o'clock. I think I'd like some tea myself." And so they were safe. "It was Magic which sent the robin," said Mary secretly to Dickon afterward. "I know it was Magic." For both she and Dickon had been afraid Colin might ask something about the tree whose branch had broken off ten years ago and they had talked it over together and Dickon had stood and rubbed his head in a troubled way. "We mun look as if it wasn't no different from th' other trees," he had said. "We couldn't never tell him how it broke, poor lad. If he says anything about it we mun--we mun try to look cheerful." "Aye, that we mun," had answered Mary. But she had not felt as if she looked cheerful when she gazed at the tree. She wondered and wondered in those few moments if there was any reality in that other thing Dickon had said. He had gone on rubbing his rust-red hair in a puzzled way, but a nice comforted look had begun to grow in his blue eyes. "Mrs. Craven was a very lovely young lady," he had gone on rather hesitatingly. "An' mother she thinks maybe she's about Misselthwaite many a time lookin' after Mester Colin, same as all mothers do when they're took out o' th' world. They have to come back, tha' sees. Happen she's been in the garden an' happen it was her set us to work, an' told us to


keeping his eyes steadily fixed on the passing houses. At their door she caught her skirt in the step of the carriage, and fell against him. "Did you hurt yourself?" he asked, steadying her with his arm. "No; but my poor dress--see how I've torn it!" she exclaimed. She bent to gather up a mud-stained breadth, and followed him up the steps into the hall. The servants had not expected them so early, and there was only a glimmer of gas on the upper landing. Archer mounted the stairs, turned up the light, and put a match to the brackets on each side of the library mantelpiece. The curtains were drawn, and the warm friendly aspect of the room smote him like that of a familiar face met during an unavowable errand. He noticed that his wife was very pale, and asked if he should get her some brandy. "Oh, no," she exclaimed with a momentary flush, as she took off her cloak. "But hadn't you better go to bed at once?" she added, as he opened a silver box on the table and took out a cigarette. Archer threw down the cigarette and walked to his usual place by the fire. "No; my head is not as bad as that." He paused. "And there's something I want to say; something important--that I must tell you at once." She had dropped into an armchair, and raised her head as he spoke. "Yes, dear?" she rejoined, so gently that he wondered at the lack of wonder with which she received this preamble. "May--" he began, standing a few feet from her chair, and looking over at her as if the slight distance between them were an unbridgeable abyss. The sound of his voice echoed uncannily through the homelike hush, and he repeated: "There is something I've got to tell you . . . about myself . . ." She sat silent, without a movement or a tremor of her lashes. She was still extremely pale, but her face had a curious tranquillity of expression that seemed drawn from some secret inner source. Archer checked the conventional phrases of self-accusal that were crowding to his lips. He was determined to put the case baldly, without vain recrimination or excuse. "Madame Olenska--" he said; but at the name his wife raised her hand as if to silence him. As she did so the gaslight struck on the gold of her wedding-ring, "Oh, why should we talk about Ellen tonight?" she asked, with a slight pout of impatience. "Because I ought to have spoken before." Her face remained calm. "Is it really worth while, dear? I know I've been unfair to her at times--perhaps we all have. You've understood her, no doubt, better than we did: you've always been kind to her. But what does it matter, now it's all over?" Archer looked at her blankly. Could it be possible that the sense of unreality in which he felt himself imprisoned had communicated itself to his wife? "All over--what do you mean?" he asked in an


wooded road that led to the waterfront enclave, I felt the outline of my friend’s knife in my bag. Abruptly, I sat forward. “Stop here,” I said. We were still over a mile from my house, the street dark and desolate. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, mildly perplexed, but he turned on his indicator and pulled over. I paid him cash and climbed out into the chill night. The trail toward the beach was overgrown and treacherous, but I made my way down to the ocean in the darkness. I was almost there when I stumbled, sliding on loose rocks, landing on my bruised back. But I did not cry out. I clamped my teeth together, gathered myself up, and pushed toward the sound of the gentle waves. The ocean was black but for the lights of the mansions glimmering off the surface. A spit of craggy rocks jutted out into the Pacific, and I tentatively picked my way across them. It was risky in the darkness, but I wouldn’t use my flashlight. I couldn’t draw attention to myself. When I reached the final rock, I took the knife from my bag and with a strong overhand throw, I chucked it into the sea. A brief sensation of peace settled over me. I was protecting my friend. I still had a moral compass, however askew. And then I climbed back up the trail and I walked home, slipping through the back door unnoticed. * * * I was safely tucked up in bed when Benjamin returned, my black eye pressed into the pillow. In the morning, I would have to address it, but I’d be ready. “Are you asleep?” His voice was loud in the quiet room. It would have woken anyone, but I kept my eyes closed, breathing slow and steady. My husband knew I sometimes took a sleeping pill that would render me comatose. I pretended to sleep as I listened to him undress, use the bathroom, brush his teeth. Eventually, he crawled into bed beside me, rolled over, and went to sleep. I lay perfectly still, my eyes closed, tears dampening the pillow. 36 “WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO your eye?” There was no concern, only outrage as Benjamin entered the kitchen. I poured him a cup of coffee, my hand barely trembling as I set it on the breakfast bar. “I hit it with a dumbbell,” I said with a sheepish chuckle. “I’m so clumsy.” He took my chin in his fingertips, inspected the damage. “It was more embarrassing than anything,” I continued. “The gym staff were fluttering around me like I was going to pass out.” “You can’t go out like that.” “No, of course not.” I was ready for this. “But may I please go to the gym? I mean, they all saw it happen. And if I don’t show up, they might get concerned. They might want to check on me. They might be worried that I’ll sue them or something.” I watched him process the possibility, find it reasonable. “One


like her?” One eyebrow lifting, Forester made it clear without speaking that it would take a fool not to see the way Simon’s eyes were drawn to her whenever they were in the same room. “We all like Lucy,” he said simply. Desperate to get out of the house and do something before his thoughts ran away from him, Simon grabbed Forester by the shoulder and led him out into the corridor and straight for the front door. “You’re coming with me,” he said with as much strength as he could muster. He needed Forester to listen to him. “Er, why?” Forester followed close behind him, though he seemed wary. “Because I’m not leaving you in this house with my sister.” Forester scoffed. “You can’t honestly think I would—” “She fancies herself in love with you, and you have been wife hunting for more than two years. That is not a combination I am comfortable with.” Thankfully, Forester didn’t argue, and the pair of them headed out into the sunshine. Today was a lot brighter than yesterday had been, which was nothing short of ridiculous. Why couldn’t the English weather mimic Simon’s mood like it usually did? Why couldn’t it have been sunny and warm at the pond yesterday so Lucy wouldn’t have been so keen to get out of the water and return to the house and he could have learned the truth? Why couldn’t Forester have waited five more minutes before announcing himself? Simon growled to himself as he walked. At what point had he become such a terrible person that he wanted to act on his attraction to someone completely outside the boundaries of propriety? His own brother’s betrothed! He was a cad for even entertaining thoughts of something more with the woman. But he had come so close to learning something important about her, and now he feared he never would. Especially because Forester was right. Simon should not be alone with her, no matter how innocent the intention. But thinking that only made him want to be alone with her even more. Simon growled again and picked up his pace. He needed to get over this attraction, and fast. “Where are we going?” Forester asked. He had fallen a bit behind, but Simon knew he would follow. He was a good friend, even if he wouldn’t like what Simon said next. “The east field.” “Blast it all, Calloway, not again.” There were only two controllable circumstances under which Simon didn’t feel weighed down by his responsibilities. One was when he was riding, when he could push Hermes to full speed and let the wind in his hair brush him clean of all stress. He never felt freer than when he rode without holding back. The other was when he worked the fields with his tenants. He knew he was entirely unique in this—at least, he had never heard of other members of nobility condescending to manual labor—but Simon had been assisting the tenant farmers for years, even before Father died. Down to his shirtsleeves, with a scythe


ticket. So why, then, do some people rocket to stardom on their first try? Six months before Athena’s debut novel came out, she got a big, sexy photo spread in a widely read publishing magazine under the title “Publishing’s Newest Prodigy Is Here to Tell the AAPI Stories We Need.” She sold foreign rights in thirty different territories. Her debut launched amidst a fanfare of critical acclaim in venues like the New Yorker and the New York Times, and it occupied top spots on every bestseller list for weeks. The awards circuit the following year was a foregone conclusion. Athena’s debut—Voice and Echo, about a Chinese American girl who can summon the ghosts of all the deceased women in her family—was one of those rare novels that perfectly straddled the line between speculative and commercial fiction, so she accrued nominations for the Booker, Nebula, Hugo, and World Fantasy awards, two of which she won. And that was only three years ago. She’s published two more books since, and the critical consensus is that she’s only gotten better and better. It’s not that Athena isn’t talented. She’s a fucking good writer—I’ve read all her work, and I’m not too jealous to acknowledge good writing when I see it. But Athena’s star power is so obviously not about the writing. It’s about her. Athena Liu is, simply put, so fucking cool. Even her name—Athena Ling En Liu—is cool; well done, Mr. and Mrs. Liu, to choose a perfect combination of the classical and exotic. Born in Hong Kong, raised between Sydney and New York, educated in British boarding schools that gave her a posh, unplaceable foreign accent; tall and razor-thin, graceful in the way all former ballet dancers are, porcelain pale and possessed of these massive, long-lashed brown eyes that make her look like a Chinese Anne Hathaway (that’s not racist for me to say—Athena once posted a selfie of her and “Annie” from some red carpet event, their four enormous doe eyes squeezed side by side, captioned simply, Twins!). She’s unbelievable. She’s literally unbelievable. So of course Athena gets every good thing, because that’s how this industry works. Publishing picks a winner—someone attractive enough, someone cool and young and, oh, we’re all thinking it, let’s just say it, “diverse” enough—and lavishes all its money and resources on them. It’s so fucking arbitrary. Or perhaps not arbitrary, but it hinges on factors that have nothing to do with the strength of one’s prose. Athena—a beautiful, Yale-educated, international, ambiguously queer woman of color—has been chosen by the Powers That Be. Meanwhile, I’m just brown-eyed, brown-haired June Hayward, from Philly—and no matter how hard I work, or how well I write, I’ll never be Athena Liu. I’d expected her to skyrocket out of my orbit by now. But the friendly texts keep coming—how’s writing going today? hitting that word count target? good luck with your deadline!—as do the invitations: happy hour margaritas at El Centro, brunch at Zaytinya, a poetry slam on U Street. We have one of those skin-deep friendships where you manage to spend


my throat. In a village of empty stomachs and dying fields, every kindness came at a price. “You just wanted to see me smile with sesame in my teeth.” Marek smirked. “Ah, yes, our grand scheme is unveiled. We wanted to ruin your smile that emerges once every fifteen years.” I slapped the back of his head. It was the most physical contact I could bear, but it expressed my gratitude. We walked back to the keep and resettled around the extinguished firepit. Marek dug through the ash for any surviving seeds. Sefa lay back on the ground, her feet propped on Marek’s leg. “Arin or Felix?” I slumped on my bed and set to the tedious task of coaxing my curls out of their knotted disaster of a braid. The sesame-seed candies were nestled safely in my wardrobe. The timing of these gifts could not have been better. As soon as Sefa and Marek fell asleep, I would collect what I needed for my trip back to the woods. “Are names of the Nizahl and Omal Heirs.” “Sylvia,” Sefa wheedled, tossing a seed at my forehead. “You have been selected to attend the Victor’s Ball on the arm of an Heir. Arin or Felix?” Marek groaned, throwing his elbow over his eyes. Soot smeared the corners of his mouth. Neither of us understood why Sefa loved dreaming up intrigues of far-flung courts. She claimed to enjoy the aesthetics of romance, even if she didn’t believe in it herself. She had wedded herself to adventure at a young age, when she realized the follies of lust and love did not hold sway over her. I sighed, giving in to Sefa’s game. Felix of Omal would not recognize a hard day’s work if it knelt at his polished feet. I had listened to his address after a particularly unforgiving harvest. He brought his handspun clothes and gilded carriages, leaving behind words as empty as the space between his ears. Worse, he gave the Nizahl soldiers free rein, reserving his resistance to intrusion for Omalian society’s upper classes. “Felix is incompetent, cowardly, and thinks the lower villages are full of brutes,” Marek scoffed, echoing my unspoken opinion. “I would hesitate to leave him in charge of boiling water. At least the other Heirs are clever, if still as despicable.” At “despicable,” my thoughts swung to Arin of Nizahl, the only son of Supreme Rawain. Silver-haired, ruthless, Heir and Commander of the unmatched Nizahl forces. He had been training soldiers twice his age since he was thirteen. I had always thought Supreme Rawain’s bloodthirst had no equal, since it wasn’t his kind heart responsible for murdering my family, burning Jasad to the ground, and sending every surviving Jasadi into hiding. But if the rumors about the Heir were true, I could only be glad Arin had been an adolescent during the siege. With the Nizahl Heir leading the march, I doubted a single Jasadi would have made it out alive. The constant presence of Nizahl soldiers was common to all four kingdoms. An incurable symptom


high, higher, until he found this . . . this place that she was positive had never been so sensitive, and he toyed with it using the pads of his blunt fingers. And oh no, oh no. The palm of his hand pressed down on her clit, tighter, tighter, until her butt was flattened against the shower wall. “I can’t even fucking remember what it’s like to want anything but this pussy, princess. Yours. I don’t look right or left. No exceptions. Got that?” That sounded dangerously close to a vow of faithfulness—and she really shouldn’t have been relieved or gratified to hear it. Not in this setting. Alone in his shower, where they were the only ones to witness it. That made the exchange real. Not a farce. Furthermore, she shouldn’t be lifting up onto her toes and sealing their mouths together, kissing him as if to reward him, those fingers simulating sex between her thighs. Picking up the pace along with their kiss until she could no longer concentrate on both and her head fell back on her shoulders, a gasp of his name tripping over her lips as the orgasm crested— “August, Jesus. Yes. Yes.” “Good girl. I’ve got you.” Got her? Right. Because her knees had buckled, as predicted, and she didn’t even have the room to be miffed or embarrassed about the bracing left arm he’d circled around her back to keep her upright. She was too busy shaking through the most intense orgasm in recent memory. And he knew how to get her through it. Knew to stop advancing and hold firm, wedging his right palm tight to her pulsing flesh and twisting, groaning against her mouth like a satisfied beast as if he were the one getting relief instead of Natalie. So hot. His being so turned on by her pleasure was so stupidly hot. And unexpected. This whole encounter—and August himself—was turning out to be unexpected. As soon as Natalie’s climax started to cool, her open mouth on his shoulder became scarily intimate. The lazy coasting of his lips over her temple and into her hair was decidedly . . . affectionate? Whoa. What had just taken place here? Getting physical with August was not part of the plan. They were supposed to be in a fake relationship. But their wet, tangled limbs felt the furthest thing from fake. They were getting married so she could secure her trust fund. So he could get a bank loan and put it toward a second attempt to run this fledgling winery. They were doing this for money. What did it mean if they sealed their union while in an actual relationship? Did that make the marriage real? Legitimate? A true love match between her and August Cates. That was the most insane possibility she’d ever heard. For one, she had to get back to New York. Her life was on pause until she picked up the broken pieces of what she’d built. Two, they would end up murdering each other. And three, she was fresh from


clips on her chest plate. Guy says: “Yeah.” I call along the bar. “Sam said he isn’t feeling well. He says to keep things quiet.” Vic nods without looking up. “That’s right.” “You want to issue a judgement on what the quiet thing to do is here?” Finally she looks over. Her eyes travel up and down the hero twins and I realise I should have just called to Sam. I see it spark in her eyes: the spirit of commercial enterprise. Goddammit, Victor. She makes her way over, taking her time. “Well, now. Who are these beautiful kids?” One long white-fingered hand like a bird-spider, touching the biceps of the hero. That shade of lipstick, just a little bloodier than cherry, as she smiles. “Truly lovely.” The man looks down at Vic and sees a bartender, maybe a retired hooker. “No problem here, old lady. Walk on. My girl is asking this boy to join us at our table. Seems she’s taken a shine to him. I’m down with it. The gentleman was just about to accept.” Vic looks all kinds of delighted, and I’m getting that sinking feeling in my stomach. “Is that true, sir?” she says to me. “You about to go and show these pretty children a good time? You don’t look like their type, but maybe they like their evenings a little rough sometimes. That about it, honey?” She looks at the woman, who grins. “Oh, yes. I think so.” “No,” I say. “Misunderstanding. I was declining politely, but some offence was taken. I’m not polished like some of your other customers.” “No, I’d say it’s pretty clear all the original edges are still on you,” Vic murmurs, stroking the oiled arm. “Come on, kids. Let me find you someone a little more suitable.” Kids. Suitable. Grandma voice. Thanks, Vic. The guy pushes her away. Vic staggers theatrically into the bar, and a little pyramid of champagne glasses crashes to the floor. The smashing echoes and people stop talking and look. Vic uncoils off the copper top like she’s made of plastic, smiling wide enough to swallow an entire cat. No one in the whole place isn’t looking now. The heroes know it. The woman stretches slightly, pushing her shoulder blades together. Her boyfriend turns his hands in so that his deltoids ripple, and leans in my face. He’s about to speak but Vic gets there first. She pulls a cord mic down from the ceiling and lets out a rebel yell. “LAAAADIIIES AND GENTLEMENNNNN! AND OTHERS MORE INTRIGUINGLY COMPLEX! WELCOME! GOOD EVENING AND WELCOME! I’M VICTOR DEVINE AND THIS IS MY PLACE, AND AS YOU KNOW IT IS THE OOOOONLY PLACE TO FIND. WHAT. YOU. NEED! “With all due respect to Mick—and we all love Mick—I done went and created a place where—whatEVER you like, whatEVER you crave—you can, you can, YOU CAN GET…SATISFACTION!” There’s something happening on the stage level that I’ve never seen before. The tables are sliding apart and an object is rising up out of the floor. An enclosed metal frame four


thing I knows she- she'd grabbed me round the legs, grabbed me round th' legs, Mr. Finch. She scared me so bad I hopped down an' turned the chair over- that was the only thing, only furniture, 'sturbed in that room, Mr. Finch, when I left it. I swear 'fore God." "What happened after you turned the chair over?" Tom Robinson had come to a dead stop. He glanced at Atticus, then at the jury, then at Mr. Underwood sitting across the room. "Tom, you're sworn to tell the whole truth. Will you tell it?" Tom ran his hand nervously over his mouth. "What happened after that?" "Answer the question," said Judge Taylor. One-third of his cigar had vanished. "Mr. Finch, I got down offa that chair an' turned around an' she sorta jumped on me." "Jumped on you? Violently?" "No suh, she- she hugged me. She hugged me round the waist." This time Judge Taylor's gavel came down with a bang, and as it did the overhead lights went on in the courtroom. Darkness had not come, but the afternoon sun had left the windows. Judge Taylor quickly restored order. "Then what did she do?" The witness swallowed hard. "She reached up an' kissed me 'side of th' face. She says she never kissed a grown man before an' she might as well kiss a nigger. She says what her papa do to her don't count. She says, 'Kiss me back, nigger.' I say Miss Mayella lemme outa here an' tried to run but she got her back to the door an' I'da had to push her. I didn't wanta harm her, Mr. Finch, an' I say lemme pass, but just when I say it Mr. Ewell yonder hollered through th' window." "What did he say?" Tom Robinson swallowed again, and his eyes widened. "Somethin' not fittin' to say- not fittin' for these folks'n chillun to hear-" "What did he say, Tom? You must tell the jury what he said." Tom Robinson shut his eyes tight. "He says you goddamn whore, I'll kill ya." "Then what happened?" "Mr. Finch, I was runnin' so fast I didn't know what happened." "Tom, did you rape Mayella Ewell?" "I did not, suh." "Did you harm her in any way?" "I did not, suh." "Did you resist her advances?" "Mr. Finch, I tried. I tried to 'thout bein' ugly to her. I didn't wanta be ugly, I didn't wanta push her or nothin'." It occurred to me that in their own way, Tom Robinson's manners were as good as Atticus's. Until my father explained it to me later, I did not understand the subtlety of Tom's predicament: he would not have dared strike a white woman under any circumstances and expect to live long, so he took the first opportunity to run- a sure sign of guilt. "Tom, go back once more to Mr. Ewell," said Atticus. "Did he say anything to you?" "Not anything, suh. He mighta said somethin', but I weren't there-" "That'll do," Atticus cut in sharply. "What you did hear, who


drink coffee while the waiter comes over with Gratton’s lörtsy. It smells like pork and apple. He hasn’t got one for me. “You ever swim?” He points across at the little crowd. “In winter? No.” “You ever think about it?” “Yeah.” He nods. “You would.” “You?” He nods. “Once or twice a year.” “And?” “And every time I ask myself why I’m literally freezing my balls in a lake.” The waiter drifts away. I get out my wallet. “You really must let me pay for coffee.” “It’s fine, it’s on the department.” “I insist.” I pass him the thumb drive like it’s a mid-denomination bill. He takes it the same way, shakes his head, but puts it in his pocket. “And why does that feel like I just took delivery of a burning sack of shit?” “It’s the murder case our victim was building against Stefan Tonfamecasca.” Gratton chokes on his coffee. “Unsuccessfully,” I tell him, now that he’s breathing. “You’re not funny, Sounder. Where did you get this?” “I got it from where Tebbit hid it, which you don’t want to know about.” “How much do I not want to know about it?” “Probably slightly more than you don’t want to know any of this.” Gratton looks at me like he really wishes he was a kite, too. “All right, Cal. Tell me what’s coming down.” I tell him everything, except about Musgrave burning down the lab, and Maurice trying to kill me, and me handing him over to Doublewide. I also don’t mention sleeping with Athena. So really not everything at all. * * * — When I’ve finished my coffee with Gratton I go up onto my rooftop and get the doc box, then walk it across town to Tonfamecasca Tower. Doublewide will be pissed as hell, but that’s too bad. This isn’t leverage on Stefan, and he can’t have it. I tell the security guy I want to see Stefan, and he laughs. “Not happening, my man.” “Sure,” I tell him. “I’ll wait.” Security guy is about to tell me I won’t, but that’s as long as it takes. The call comes through to let me up. He wants to scan the doc box, but I flat palm his chest and walk right on by. I get into the elevator and don’t push a button. It moves anyway. Stefan is sitting at the enormous desk. He doesn’t get up. I walk across the room and put the doc box down beside him. “You’re an idiot,” I say, and Stefan nods. “You would feel that way. I’m sure you think I should have told you the whole story at the beginning.” “No.” He raises his eyebrows. “No?” “No. It’s private business. You could have saved me some time, but…whatever. Time doesn’t mean that much to you, does it? You’re an idiot because you saved him.” Dr. Lillian Antonin, a researcher at the Tonfamecasca company, was first treated with T7 at Demeter Mercy on September 9th. But on the same day, according to the company files, Dr. Peter Jens Antonin


and licked his face, which seemed maybe medically inadvisable. But then, his voice weak, Jerry said, “There’s my good girl.” * * * — That night, when I told Noah that I was going to sleep on the floor in Jerry’s room, he said, “With a mask on? Won’t you sleep terribly?” “Presumably,” I said, and went to find an ancient sleeping bag in the basement. Noah slept in my bed with the wicker headboard. On the second afternoon, someone from Dr. Fischer’s office called to say that Jerry’s Covid test was positive, and offered me the opportunity to speak with Dr. Fischer after he finished seeing patients, but instead I called my pediatrician college roommate, Denise. Although the advice Denise gave echoed Dr. Fischer’s recommendations, I had learned my lesson, and instead of asking how worried I should be, I said, “It’s completely plausible that he’ll recover, right?” Immediately, she said, “Oh, sure.” The second night, I slept again on the floor of Jerry’s room and on the third night, I slept in my old bed with Noah. In contrast to in California, our physical contact was minimal and chaste. During this time, Jerry continued to have a fever, to report a sore throat, and to mostly sleep and still seem exhausted when he woke, but, with our encouragement, he ate small amounts of bananas and applesauce and chicken broth and toast. He didn’t seem to have lost his sense of taste or smell, he didn’t vomit, and, once we got the rhythms of the bedside urinal and commode established, he no longer went to the bathroom in the bed. I was usually the one who emptied the bedside urinal, which he used solo after I’d helped him sit up, and Noah was usually the one who helped him onto the commode. As the days passed, Noah and I increasingly took turns doing things other than taking care of Jerry. I binge-watched a fantasy drama full of dragons and gore, and Noah worked out in the backyard, apparently while facetiming with Bobby, and he went for runs in the neighborhood. On one of his almost-daily outings to Target, he purchased a legal notepad and a guitar that I’d find him playing on the deck, while intermittently pausing to make notes on the pages, as Sugar sunbathed at his feet. “Kansas City is really creatively inspiring, huh?” I said the first time I came upon this scenario, which was on our fifth day at Jerry’s house. “Kind of like Paris in the 1930s.” I’d just carried a soup bowl from Jerry’s bedroom to the kitchen sink, seen Noah out the window, and slid open the glass and screen doors. Noah smiled. “Kansas City did produce you.” I stepped onto the deck, and Sugar immediately rolled into belly rub position. Noah was sitting in a folding lawn chair with gray webbing, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses that he removed. It was eleven in the morning and eighty degrees, which by Midwest summer standards wasn’t bad. “My mom died of stomach cancer so


not so much for effect as because he was trying to remember the sequence of muscle movements. He had had a terribly therapeutic yell at his prisoners and was now feeling quite relaxed and ready for a little callousness. The prisoners sat in Poetry Appreciation Chairs --strapped in. Vogons suffered no illusions as to the regard their works were generally held in. Their early attempts at composition had been part of bludgeoning insistence that they be accepted as a properly evolved and cultured race, but now the only thing that kept them going was sheer bloodymindedness. The sweat stood out cold on Ford Prefect's brow, and slid round the electrodes strapped to his temples. These were attached to a battery of electronic equipment - imagery intensifiers, rhythmic modulators, alliterative residulators and simile dumpers - all designed to heighten the experience of the poem and make sure that not a single nuance of the poet's thought was lost. Arthur Dent sat and quivered. He had no idea what he was in for, but he knew that he hadn't liked anything that had happened so far and didn't think things were likely to change. The Vogon began to read - a fetid little passage of his own devising. "Oh frettled gruntbuggly ..." he began. Spasms wracked Ford's body - this was worse than ever he'd been prepared for. "... thy micturations are to me | As plurdled gabbleblotchits on a lurgid bee." "Aaaaaaarggggghhhhhh!" went Ford Prefect, wrenching his head back as lumps of pain thumped through it. He could dimly see beside him Arthur lolling and rolling in his seat. He clenched his teeth. "Groop I implore thee," continued the merciless Vogon, "my foonting turlingdromes." His voice was rising to a horrible pitch of impassioned stridency. "And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles,| Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon, see if I don't!" "Nnnnnnnnnnyyyyyyyuuuuuuurrrrrrrggggggghhhhh!" cried Ford Prefect and threw one final spasm as the electronic enhancement of the last line caught him full blast across the temples. He went limp. Arthur lolled. "Now Earthlings ..." whirred the Vogon (he didn't know that Ford Prefect was in fact from a small planet in the vicinity of Betelgeuse, and wouldn't have cared if he had) "I present you with a simple choice! Either die in the vacuum of space, or ..." he paused for melodramatic effect, "tell me how good you thought my poem was!" He threw himself backwards into a huge leathery bat-shaped seat and watched them. He did the smile again. Ford was rasping for breath. He rolled his dusty tongue round his parched mouth and moaned. Arthur said brightly: "Actually I quite liked it." Ford turned and gaped. Here was an approach that had quite simply not occurred to him. The Vogon raised a surprised eyebrow that effectively obscured his nose and was therefore no bad thing. "Oh good ..." he whirred, in considerable astonishment. "Oh yes," said Arthur, "I thought that some of the metaphysical imagery was really particularly effective." Ford continued to stare at him, slowly


Anselm. That was when Alex understood why the Gauntlet and those who had dared walk it had been scrubbed from the books, why they’d made sure no one knew about the extraordinary gateway built into the library’s walls. For the first time since Darlington had returned, Alex felt real fear creeping in. “They made a deal, didn’t they?” she asked. Anselm winked. “The only thing a demon loves more than a puzzle is a bargain.” 44 Anselm’s pets mewled as if sensing his pleasure. The thing with Blake’s haggard face pressed its head against his leg. “What is this?” Turner demanded. Anselm let his fingers trail through Not Blake’s hair. “The men of Yale built a Gauntlet and called their journey one of exploration. But exploration is just another word for conquest, and like all adventurers, once they had seen the riches they could attain, they had no reason to return empty-handed.” “It’s Faust all over again,” said Darlington. Anselm hummed. “Except Faust paid for his sins himself. Not so your pilgrims. They claimed money, fame, talent, influence. For themselves and for their societies. They just left someone else to pick up the bill.” Skull and Bones. Book and Snake. Scroll and Key. Alex thought of all the money that had flowed through their coffers. The gifts given to the university. All bought at the expense of a future generation’s suffering. And Lethe had allowed it. They could have investigated the provenance of the table tucked away in the Peabody basement. They could have at least lobbied to shut down Manuscript after what happened to Mercy, or gone after Scroll and Key after what happened to Tara. But they didn’t. It was too important to keep the alumni appeased, to keep the magic alive no matter who got caught in its workings. “Oh God,” said Dawes. “That was why they erased the journey. To hide the deal they’d made.” “The Gauntlet wasn’t a game,” said Darlington. “It wasn’t an experiment. It was an offering.” “A very fine one,” said Anselm. “They walked away with wealth and power, stores of ancient knowledge and good fortune, and they left the Gauntlet in place, marked with their blood, a beacon.” “The Tower,” Dawes whispered. “A beacon for what?” asked Turner, his face grim. “For a Wheelwalker,” Darlington said quietly. “I didn’t really understand what you were, Galaxy Stern. Not until you passed through the circle of protection at Black Elm. Not until you stole what was rightfully ours. We had no idea the wait would be so long for one of your kind.” Now Alex laughed, a joyless sound. “Daisy got in your way.” Daisy Whitlock was a Wheelwalker, and she’d stayed alive, disguised as Professor Marguerite Belbalm, by eating the souls of young women. Her preferred prey was her own kind: Wheelwalkers like herself, inexplicably drawn to New Haven. Drawn to the Gauntlet. “It didn’t matter that you’d built your beacon,” Alex said. “Because every time a Wheelwalker showed up, Daisy ate her.” “But not you, Galaxy Stern. You survived and you came to


the anger of our neglected gods and ancestors?" "Your gods are not alive and cannot do you any harm," replied the white man. "They are pieces of wood and stone." When this was interpreted to the men of Mbanta they broke into derisive laughter. These men must be mad, they said to themselves. How else could they say that Ani and Amadiora were harmless? And Idemili and Ogwugwu too? And some of them began to go away. Then the missionaries burst into song. It was one of those gay and rollicking tunes of evangelism which had the power of plucking at silent and dusty chords in the heart of an Ibo man. The interpreter explained each verse to the audience, some of whom now stood enthralled. It was a story of brothers who lived in darkness and in fear, ignorant of the love of God. It told of one sheep out on the hills, away from the gates of God and from the tender shepherd's care. After the singing the interpreter spoke about the Son of God whose name was Jesu Kristi. Okonkwo, who only stayed in the hope that it might come to chasing the men out of the village or whipping them, now said "You told us with your own mouth that there was only one god. Now you talk about his son. He must have a wife, then." The crowd agreed. "I did not say He had a wife," said the interpreter, somewhat lamely. "Your buttocks said he had a son," said the joker. "So he must have a wife and all of them must have buttocks." The missionary ignored him and went on to talk about the Holy Trinity. At the end of it Okonkwo was fully convinced that the man was mad. He shrugged his shoulders and went away to tap his afternoon palm-wine. But there was a young lad who had been captivated. His name was Nwoye, Okonkwo's first son. It was not the mad logic of the Trinity that captivated him. He did not understand it. It was the poetry of the new religion, something felt in the marrow. The hymn about brothers who sat in darkness and in fear seemed to answer a vague and persistent question that haunted his young soul--the question of the twins crying in the bush and the question of Ikemefuna who was killed. He felt a relief within as the hymn poured into his parched soul. The words of the hymn were like the drops of frozen rain melting on the dry palate of the panting earth. Nwoye's callow mind was greatly puzzled. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN The missionaries spent their first four or five nights in the marketplace, and went into the village in the morning to preach the gospel. They asked who the king of the village was, but the villagers told them that there was no king. "We have men of high title and the chief priests and the elders," they said. It was not very easy getting the men of high title and the elders together after


the bribe Stefan would offer on day one? T7 changes what jail time even means. Taking Stefan down would be a national effort. Even a multinational one. But you can never tell how fast a wall like his will crumble, how many people have been waiting for the moment. Perhaps, with the right moves, it could be done. So maybe I’m supposed to go through with it because I hate everything Tonfamecasca, or maybe someone knows me a little better than that and they think I’d want to put Athena in the top job. Maybe the world actually would be better with Athena in that job, or maybe she’d be worse. You never can tell. Maybe I’m supposed to call Athena right now, mix her up in this, so someone else can take her down. Maybe the whole thing is a hoax; Roddy Tebbit had some other reason to hate Stefan and he decided the only way to beat him was to make himself look like Peter and fake up a bunch of files, then force Stefan to overreach and kill him—in which case you’d expect Roddy to have laid a trail for me. Maybe Doublewide is Peter and he faked the whole thing up, or he didn’t, and he’s laying a trail. Maybe maybe maybe and if I had another one I could start a farm. I hate political cases. Which is a shame because they’re almost the only ones I get. Coffee, then work. And hope like hell I can see the edge of the table before I walk right off it. * * * — “Good morning, Nicky, how are the poodles today?” “I’m not talking to you, Sounder, get the fuck out.” I make like I’m going to slap him and he cringes. I don’t feel great about it but I don’t have a lot of time and he’s a terrible human being. “Nicky, I asked after the poodles out of politeness but what I meant was that you owe me a number of favours owing to my historical forbearance and this is when you come through.” Nicky is notionally a vet and to be fair he is qualified in veterinary medicine, but his real strong suits are having sex with the owners of small dogs and prescribing pills for mysterious dog ailments which coincidentally have enjoyable effects on humans. That is to say that Nicky is a sleazeball and a drug dealer who is also a vet. I really do not give a shit about the second one but I have occasionally in my off-season been hired by angry spouses to discover the identity of their wives’ boyfriends. It is always and exclusively wives, and in fact he has a type, which you can imagine as the kind of person who walks a poodle through town in what is effectively swimwear plus a coat. Simultaneously: the kind of person whose husband has particular opinions about what he will do with the guy who is showing his perfect girl a good time behind his back. Which, when it’s