speak out the name of thy fellow-sinner and fellow- sufferer! Be not silent from any mistaken pity and tenderness for him; for, believe me, Hester, though he were to step down from a high place, and stand there beside thee, on thy pedestal of shame, yet better were it so than to hide a guilty heart through life. What can thy silence do for him, except it tempt him--yea, compel him, as it were--to add hypocrisy to sin? Heaven hath granted thee an open ignominy, that thereby thou mayest work out an open triumph over the evil within thee and the sorrow without. Take heed how thou deniest to him-- Thesaurus astray: (adj, adv) adrift, off course; (adj) worldly. unfalteringly, unswervingly, lost, wrong, disoriented, awry; (adv) dewy: (adj) wet, dank, bedewed, determinedly, faithfully, persistently, amiss, widely, far, afield, aside. humid, moist, damp, fresh, new, permanently, staunchly. ANTONYM: (adj) accurate. roric, undried, rorid. ANTONYMS: (adv) unreliably, attainments: (n) knowledge, learning, seclusion: (n) retreat, segregation, irresolutely, unfaithfully. achievement, menticulture, culture. retirement, isolation, secrecy, tile: (n) roof, thatch, bonnet, pantile, childlike: (adj) ingenuous, simple, concealment, insulation, separation, castor, ceiling, roofing tile, wimple, babyish, young, innocent, pure, hermitage; (adj, n) solitude, tiling, paving stone; (v) cover. unsophisticated, juvenile, immature, loneliness. ANTONYMS: (n) worshipful: (adj, v) great; (v) childly, childish. ANTONYMS: (adj) company, closeness, inclusion. honorable, noble, proud, dignified; old, untrusting, experienced, steadfastly: (adv) steadily, solidly, (adj) reverential, godly, adoring, cunning, complicated, jaded, unwaveringly, resolutely, venerable, divine, doting. 62 The Scarlet Letter who, perchance, hath not the courage to grasp it for himself--the bitter, but wholesome, cup that is now presented to thy lips!" The young pastor's voice was tremulously sweet, rich, deep, and broken. The feeling that it so evidently manifested, rather than the direct purport of the words, caused it to vibrate within all hearts, and brought the listeners into one accord of sympathy. Even the poor baby at Hester's bosom was affected by the same influence, for it directed its hitherto vacant gaze towards Mr. Dimmesdale, and held up its little arms with a half-pleased, half-plaintive murmur. So powerful seemed the minister's appeal that the people could not believe but that Hester Prynne would speak out the guilty name, or else that the guilty one himself in whatever high or lowly place he stood, would be drawn forth by an inward and inevitable necessity, and compelled to ascend the scaffold.% Hester shook her head. "Woman, transgress not beyond the limits of Heaven's mercy!" cried the Reverend Mr. Wilson, more harshly than before. "That little babe hath been gifted with a voice, to second and confirm the counsel which thou hast heard. Speak out the name! That, and thy repentance, may avail to take the scarlet letter off thy breast. " "Never," replied Hester Prynne, looking, not at Mr. Wilson, but into the deep and troubled eyes of the younger clergyman. "It is too deeply branded. Ye cannot take it off. And would that I might endure his agony as well as mine!" "Speak, woman!" said another voice, coldly and sternly, proceeding from the crowd


mess of corn-meal dumplings, and if love is a bed-quilt!” “So long as they get a name to gnaw on they don’t care whose it is, and what about, ’specially if they can make it sound like evil.” “If they wants to see and know, why they don’t come kiss and be kissed? Ah could then sit down and tell ’em things. Ah been a delegate to de big ’ssociation of life. Yessuh! De Grand Lodge, de big convention of livin’ is just where Ah been dis year and a half y’all ain’t seen me.” They sat there in the fresh young darkness close together. Pheoby eager to feel and do through Janie, but hating to show her zest for fear it might be thought mere curiosity. Janie full of that oldest human longing—self-revelation. Pheoby held her tongue for a long time, but she couldn’t help moving her feet. So Janie spoke. “They don’t need to worry about me and my overhalls long as Ah still got nine hundred dollars in de bank. Tea Cake got me into wearing ’em—following behind him. Tea Cake ain’t wasted up no money of mine, and he ain’t left me for no young gal, neither. He give me every consolation in de world. He’d tell ’em so too, if he was here. If he wasn’t gone.” Pheoby dilated all over with eagerness, “Tea Cake gone?” Their Eyes Were Watching God 9 “Yeah, Pheoby, Tea Cake is gone. And dat’s de only rea- son you see me back here—cause Ah ain’t got nothing to make me happy no more where Ah was at. Down in the Everglades there, down on the muck.” “It’s hard for me to understand what you mean, de way you tell it. And then again Ah’m hard of understandin’ at times.” “Naw, ’tain’t nothin’ lak you might think. So ’tain’t no use in me telling you somethin’ unless Ah give you de under- standin’ to go ’long wid it. Unless you see de fur, a mink skin ain’t no different from a coon hide. Looka heah, Pheoby, is Sam waitin’ on you for his supper?” “It’s all ready and waitin’. If he ain’t got sense enough to eat it, dat’s his hard luck.” “Well then, we can set right where we is and talk. Ah got the house all opened up to let dis breeze get a little catchin’. “Pheoby, we been kissin’-friends for twenty years, so Ah depend on you for a good thought. And Ah’m talking to you from dat standpoint.” Time makes everything old so the kissing, young dark- ness became a monstropolous old thing while Janie talked. 2 Janie saw her life like a great tree in leaf with the things suffered, things enjoyed, things done and undone. Dawn and doom was in the branches. “Ah know exactly what Ah got to tell yuh, but it’s hard to know where to start at. “Ah ain’t never seen mah papa. And Ah didn’t know ’im if Ah did. Mah mama neither. She was gone from round dere long before Ah


the bill from my hand and scurried away. “You’re welcome!” Laurie called after her with a humorless snort. “Who was that?” Vanessa asked, her lip curled with distaste. “Her name is Lee,” I said, diving in. “She sleeps in her car in the park near my house.” “Oh god.” Laurie was appalled. Revolted. “I jog by her every morning,” I elaborated. “Sometimes I take her some fruit or a muffin.” Vanessa pressed her palm to her chest. “You’re so kind, Hazel.” “You are,” Laurie echoed. “But that woman could be dangerous.” “I don’t think so,” I said with a dismissive laugh. “Did she follow you here?” “Oh my god…” The fear on my face must have looked genuine because Laurie continued. “She could be scoping out homes in your neighborhood. Or she could be deranged.” “I never thought of that.” Concern fluttered across my face. They clocked it, just like I wanted them to. “You should call the police,” Laurie said. Vanessa added, “Be careful, Hazel. You can’t be friends with someone like that.” We hugged efficiently and went our separate ways. 32 I WAS DELIGHTED TO TELL Jesse how I’d played the chance encounter with Lee. He nodded appreciatively as I recounted Laurie Gamble’s concerns, Vanessa Vega’s warnings. “Quick thinking,” he said, pulling me in for a kiss. We were nestled on his charcoal couch. I was supposed to be asking restaurants for gift certificates right now, but I’d driven straight to Jesse’s apartment. We hadn’t had time to be intimate lately, and I knew it was important. I knew I had to please my man. “Does she have your phone number?” Jesse asked, touching the ends of my hair. “No, why?” “We’re building a case against her, Hazel. She’s approached you in public. She’s got that Japanese ornament thing. It would be good if she called you. A bunch of times.” “Right,” I said, brow furrowed. “I’ll think of something.” “And we need to get her into the house. On the day.” The day of the murder, he meant. I swallowed thickly. “I’ll figure that out.” “The knife will be the clincher. You’ll have to get it out of her car so I can use it.” He sounded so efficient, so businesslike. Almost like he’d done this before. I felt a heavy weight on my chest, struggled to respond. “Okay.” “That’s my girl.” He tilted my chin so our eyes could connect, and there was warmth in his. “It’ll all be worth it, Hazel. When we’re together, for real. When Benjamin can’t hurt you anymore.” “I know,” I said, and I tried to believe it. * * * The next morning, Lee didn’t come to the beach. Perhaps she’d found a new spot to park? Or she’d gone to a shelter. But when she didn’t return the next day, or the day after that, I began to worry. I’d hurt her. Embarrassed her. I’d chased her away. “She’s gone,” I told Jesse. We were at the gym. He was supervising my dead lifts while we talked in hushed voices. “I


street he’d passed by was not busy, but there were still people outside. It could not be midnight yet. Most streets had rules about people going around after midnight, some had guards who enforced that too. He began walking as fast as he could with the pain in his sides. If he followed the pathway into a street he recognised, he could be home before midnight. * * * Bùsọ́lá was waiting for him outside when he got home. “Where have you been? Everybody is worried about you.” Without pausing for a reply, she bent her head so he could see her hair had been threaded. “I did it. It was only àjànkólokòlo they could thread for me, but I like it so much. Thank you, thank you.” She hugged him, then pulled back to give him a smile before they went inside. His mother swept her gaze over him as he walked in. “Why are you so dirty?” “Where did you go?” His father was pacing the floor. “It’s those politicians you were following, àbí?” “It’s too late to start that one.” His mother’s voice was sharp. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” Ẹniọlá wanted to take a bath, but first, he needed to rest for a few minutes. He would go to Honourable’s house the next day and beg Holy Michael. He would plead and prostrate, he would roll on the floor if he had to. Sàámú was right, he was not ready for special assignments. He lay on the mattress and let his eyes drift shut. He kept his feet on the floor. Soon he would get up to take his bath, soon. He woke to a loud banging. Electricity had gone out at some point, and it took a minute for his eyes to get used to the darkness. The banging was on their door. His parents were rousing themselves as the noise continued. “Who? Who is it?” his mother shouted. “In the middle of the night, who is that?” “Maybe it’s Bàbá Landlord.” The whispered words were his father’s. Beside Ẹniọlá, Bùsọ́lá mumbled to herself and sat up. His father was getting off the bed when the flimsy lock broke and the door swung open. Ẹniọlá was blinded for a while by the swinging torchlights. His father was panting, Jésù, Jésù, Jésù, his mother was whimpering, and he could feel Bùsọ́lá shift closer to the wall as though trying to melt into it. He was the last to register what was happening because the torchlights were trained on his face. But then he recognised Sàámú’s voice. “I told you this was the coward’s house,” Sàámú said. “Ẹniọlá.” Holy Michael’s voice was low and calm. “When you are not insane, why would you run when we had not finished our task. You want to tell police, àbí? You want to report? Reporter, ni ẹ́ àbí?” Ẹniọlá tried to speak—all he could do was gasp. “You need warning. Serious warning.” Holy Michael swung the torchlight towards the bed. “And, you, his parents, you need to warn him very well. Just


swear a hole through a ten gallon pot. Never on the spot when wanted but in quiet parts of the city, Pembroke road for example, the guardians of the law were well in evidence, the obvious reason being they were paid to protect the upper classes. Another thing he commented on was equipping soldiers with firearms or sidearms of any description liable to go off at any time which was tantamount to inciting them against civilians should by any chance they fall out over anything. You frittered away your time, he very sensibly maintained, and health and also character besides which, the squandermania of the thing, fast women of the DEMIMONDE ran away with a lot of l.s.d. into the bargain and the greatest danger of all was who you got drunk with though, touching the much vexed question of stimulants, he relished a glass of choice old wine in season as both nourishing and bloodmaking and possessing aperient virtues (notably a good burgundy which he was a staunch believer in) still never beyond a certain point where he invariably drew the line as it simply led to trouble all round to say nothing of your being at the tender mercy of others practically. Most of all he commented adversely on the desertion of Stephen by all his pubhunting CONFRERES but one, a most glaring piece of ratting on the part of his brother medicos under all the circs. --And that one was Judas, Stephen said, who up to then had said nothing whatsoever of any kind. Discussing these and kindred topics they made a beeline across the back of the Customhouse and passed under the Loop Line bridge where a brazier of coke burning in front of a sentrybox or something like one attracted their rather lagging footsteps. Stephen of his own accord stopped for no special reason to look at the heap of barren cobblestones and by the light emanating from the brazier he could just make out the darker figure of the corporation watchman inside the gloom of the sentrybox. He began to remember that this had happened or had been mentioned as having happened before but it cost him no small effort before he remembered that he recognised in the sentry a quondam friend of his father's, Gumley. To avoid a meeting he drew nearer to the pillars of the railway bridge. --Someone saluted you, Mr Bloom said. A figure of middle height on the prowl evidently under the arches saluted again, calling: --NIGHT! Stephen of course started rather dizzily and stopped to return the compliment. Mr Bloom actuated by motives of inherent delicacy inasmuch as he always believed in minding his own business moved off but nevertheless remained on the QUI VIVE with just a shade of anxiety though not funkyish in the least. Though unusual in the Dublin area he knew that it was not by any means unknown for desperadoes who had next to nothing to live on to be abroad waylaying and generally terrorising peaceable pedestrians by placing a pistol at their head in


will continue but with bigger bombs.’ ” “Signed F.P.?” “Yes. Same as all the other letters.” Every time a bomb went off, Simon went into overdrive, trying to manage the bad publicity that arose with each act of terror. Marion sympathized with his exasperation. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this, Dad.” “It’s an unfortunate part of the job.” He sighed. “Now we’re going to have to comb through all of our employee files, once again, to satisfy the police, looking for similarities to his latest letter.” He looked over at Judy. “Have the clerks pull a team together to start reviewing the files, past and present. We might as well get a jump on it, as I expect the police will be arriving any minute.” “Will do.” Judy practically snapped her heels together, like the good soldier she was. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” said Marion. “Wait a minute, what made you decide to stop by? You said something about Radio City?” Now was definitely not the time. “No, that’s nothing. I wanted to apologize for upsetting you the other night. That’s all.” “You’re a good kid. I know that. Now scram on home and I’ll see you there. You can have the pearls back.” It wasn’t about the pearls, it was never about the pearls, but he didn’t seem to get that. “Sure.” She turned to go, and Judy did as well. Unfortunately, both refused to slow down as they neared the doorway, and they bumped into each other like Laurel and Hardy. Marion’s handbag fell to the floor. Marion’s employee pass for Radio City landed faceup on the carpet. Judy snatched it up before Marion could and rose to her feet. “Why does this say that you’re an employee at Radio City Music Hall?” Marion grabbed it back and stuck it in her handbag, but it was too late. “What’s that about?” asked Simon. “You have enough going on, we can talk later,” said Marion. “Huh. Now I’m curious. Let’s see.” Simon placed one elbow on his desk, the hand turned up, waiting. Slowly, Marion withdrew the pass from her purse, walked over, and placed it in his palm. He studied it. “Are you an usher at Radio City now? Do they allow lady ushers?” “It’s a long story, but I went to an audition there—someone from the dance studio told me about it—and I got the job.” “And what job is that?” His tone came off as teasing, but she knew he was dead serious. She braced herself. “As a professional dancer, for the shows they do in between films. There were hundreds of girls and I was picked after a full day of auditions.” She glanced back at Judy, whose mouth was open. “It’s an honor. And it pays well.” “You’re a chorus girl?” boomed Simon. “You’re a dancing chorus girl?” “No.” She paused, gathering her courage, wanting to make herself heard. “I’m a Rockette,” she said proudly. The room fell silent. When he finally spoke, Simon’s voice came out as a low growl. “You’re


gave a cry of surprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the Lascar, entreated him to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and wig. Even a wife's eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But then it occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and that the clothes might betray me. I threw open the window, reopening by my violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was weighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it from the leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the window, and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would have followed, but at that moment there was a rush of constables up the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my relief, that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his murderer. "I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I was determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the Lascar at a moment when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear." "That note only reached her yesterday," said Holmes. "Good God! What a week she must have spent!" "The police have watched this Lascar," said Inspector Bradstreet, "and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of his, who forgot all about it for some days." "That was it," said Holmes, nodding approvingly; "I have no doubt of it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?" "Many times; but what was a fine to me?" "It must stop here, however," said Bradstreet. "If the police are to hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone." "I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take." "In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may be taken. But if you are found again, then all must come out. I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results." "I reached this one," said my friend, "by sitting upon five pillows and consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker Street we shall just be in time for breakfast." ADVENTURE VII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE I had called upon


while Sir Calvin repeated the chilling warning: IMPACT, IMPACT, IMPACT! “Wait!” Akari spat. “Think I’ve managed to resurrect a handful of Phazon Pulsar cannons.” Vibrant blue plasma bolts filled the short expanse of space between the ship and the fast-approaching missile barrage. I watched as ten missile icons of the halo display blinked out. The remaining fifteen projectiles struck Adams’ shields with ferocious kinetic force. At the back of the bridge, one of the large Waterford chandeliers dropped from the deckhead, cut crystal pendants exploding outward like a prismatic fireworks display. I ducked and covered my head as shards of glass showered down all around us. Chen’s voice broke through the mayhem, his words sharp with urgency. “Captain, I’m receiving a live comms feed from Wrath.” Clearly, we had survived the onslaught. I didn’t bother asking for a damage report. There was no one on board, no SWM crew to deploy to make repairs. The halo display flickered to life, revealing the bridge of Boundless Wrath. Captain Loggins’s face appeared on the screen, his gaze unwavering. He spoke with a solemnity that sent a shiver down my spine. “It has been a privilege, Captain Quintos … I hope to serve with you again, perhaps in another lifetime. Please inform Empress Shawlee Tee, if you are fortunate enough to survive these … unpleasant circumstances, that my crew fought with honor and dedication to the Pleidian Weonan Empire.” Loggins’ feed went black, replaced by another. This time, it showed the once Varapin prison ship Boundless Wrath, her aft drives spewing a brilliant inferno of blue and yellow flames. The ship surged forward on a collision course with the enemy vessel, a beacon of sacrifice and heroism. I, along with my crew, stood frozen, unable to speak or move, as we watched in horror. Wrath, her crew steadfast in their resolve, had chosen to make the ultimate self-sacrifice. The two ships collided in a cataclysmic explosion, an awe-inspiring ball of fire that consumed both Wrath and the Liquilid frigate. The bridge settled into an eerie silence, broken only by distant bellowing klaxons. But even in the face of tragedy, there was no time for despair. This battle was far from over; surely there were other frigates having already been deployed. The fate of Adams and her small crew still hung in the balance. With a heavy heart and renewed determination, I turned to my crew, their eyes searching mine for guidance. “We press on,” I said, my voice resolute. “For Wrath, for the fallen, and for our survival.” Chapter 54 Liquilid Empire Star System USS Adams Sonya Winters Sonya could hardly quell her growing frustration as she led Reggie, the enormous Symbio-Poth bio-mechanical T-Rex, through the winding corridors of the ship. She couldn’t believe she’d been assigned the task of using such a formidable creature for something as trivial as dealing with a bunch of bugs. Maneuvering Reggie into the cargo lift had been a feat in itself; getting him out, even worse. As they approached an intersecting, larger passageway, Sonya’s annoyance reached its peak.


look at it and share it too. Ices and sweets aren't so good as those things- but it would be nice to make a bargain and share with each other." George looked at the brown eyes that gazed steadily into hers. She couldn't help liking Julian. It wasn't her nature to share anything. She had always been an only child, a lonely, rather misunderstood little girl, fierce and hot-tempered. She had never had any friends of her own. Timothy looked up at Julian and saw that he was offering something nice and chocolately to George. He jumped up and licked the boy with his friendly tongue. "There you are, you see- Tim wants to be shared," said Julian, with a laugh. "It would be nice for him to have three new friends." "Yes- it would," said George, giving in suddenly, and taking the chocolate bar. "Thank you, Julian. I will share with you. But promise you'll never tell anyone at home that I'm still keeping Timothy?" "Of course we'll promise," said Julian. "But I can't imagine that your father or mother would mind, so long as Tim doesn't live in their house. How's the ice? Is it nice?" "Ooooh- the loveliest one I've ever tasted!" said George nibbling at it. "It's so cold. I haven't had one this year. It's simply DELICIOUS!" Timothy tried to nibble it too. George gave him a few crumbs at the end. Then she turned and smiled at the three children. "You're nice," she said. "I'm glad you've come after all. Let's take a boat out this afternoon and row round the island to have a look at the wreck, shall we?" "Rather!" said all three at once- and even Timothy wagged his tail as if he understood! Chapter Four AN EXCITING AFTERNOON Contents- Prev/Next They all had a bathe that morning, and the boys found that George was a much better swimmer than they were. She was very strong and very fast, and she could swim under water, too, holding her breath for ages. "You're jolly good," said Julian, admiringly. "It's a pity Anne isn't a bit better. Anne, you'll have to practise your swimming strokes hard, or you'll never be able to swim out as far as we do." They were all very hungry at lunch time. They went back up the cliff-path, hoping there would be lots to eat- and there was! Cold meat and salad, plum-pie and custard, and cheese afterwards. How the children tucked in! "What are you going to do this afternoon?" asked George's mother. "George is going to take us out in a boat to see the wreck on the other side of the island," said Anne. Her aunt looked most surprised. "George is going to take you!" she said. "Why George- what's come over you? You've never taken a single person before, though I've asked you to dozens of times!" George said nothing, but went on eating her plum-pie. She hadn't said a word all through the meal. Her father had not appeared at the table, much to the


had, and two of them were about gardens and were full of pictures. There were two or three games and there was a beautiful little writing-case with a gold monogram on it and a gold pen and inkstand. Everything was so nice that her pleasure began to crowd her anger out of her mind. She had not expected him to remember her at all and her hard little heart grew quite warm. "I can write better than I can print," she said, "and the first thing I shall write with that pen will be a letter to tell him I am much obliged." If she had been friends with Colin she would have run to show him her presents at once, and they would have looked at the pictures and read some of the gardening books and perhaps tried playing the games, and he would have enjoyed himself so much he would never once have thought he was going to die or have put his hand on his spine to see if there was a lump coming. He had a way of doing that which she could not bear. It gave her an uncomfortable frightened feeling because he always looked so frightened himself. He said that if he felt even quite a little lump some day he should know his hunch had begun to grow. Something he had heard Mrs. Medlock whispering to the nurse had given him the idea and he had thought over it in secret until it was quite firmly fixed in his mind. Mrs. Medlock had said his father's back had begun to show its crookedness in that way when he was a child. He had never told any one but Mary that most of his "tantrums" as they called them grew out of his hysterical hidden fear. Mary had been sorry for him when he had told her. "He always began to think about it when he was cross or tired," she said to herself. "And he has been cross today. Perhaps--perhaps he has been thinking about it all afternoon." She stood still, looking down at the carpet and thinking. "I said I would never go back again--" she hesitated, knitting her brows--"but perhaps, just perhaps, I will go and see--if he wants me--in the morning. Perhaps he'll try to throw his pillow at me again, but--I think--I'll go." CHAPTER XVII A TANTRUM She had got up very early in the morning and had worked hard in the garden and she was tired and sleepy, so as soon as Martha had brought her supper and she had eaten it, she was glad to go to bed. As she laid her head on the pillow she murmured to herself: "I'll go out before breakfast and work with Dickon and then afterward--I believe--I'll go to see him." She thought it was the middle of the night when she was awakened by such dreadful sounds that she jumped out of bed in an instant. What was it--what was it? The next minute she felt quite sure she knew. Doors were


once gathered. “We should,” Alex agreed. “But we’re not going to, are we?” Alex shook her head. More than three months had passed since Sandow’s funeral, since Alex had shared her theory that Darlington wasn’t dead but trapped somewhere in hell, the gentleman demon who had so terrified the dead and whatever monsters gathered beyond the Veil. Nothing Alex and Dawes had learned in the time since had given them cause to believe that it was anything more than wishful thinking. But that hadn’t stopped them from trying to piece together a way to reach him. Galaxias. Galaxy. A cry from the other side of the Veil. What would it mean to be an apprentice once more? To be Dante again? Months of seeking clues to the Gauntlet had added up to nothing, and this might too, but they at least had to try. Anselm had been an absentee parent, checking in dutifully from New York but leaving them to their own devices. They couldn’t count on the new Praetor doing the same. “Let’s set the protections,” Alex said. She and Dawes worked together, pouring out salt in a Solomon’s Knot formation—an ordinary circle wouldn’t do. They were, in theory, opening a portal to hell, or at least a corner of it, and if Darlington was more demon than man these days, they didn’t want him cavorting all over campus with his demon buddies. Every line of the knot touched another line, making it impossible to tell where the design began. Alex consulted the image she’d copied from a book on spiritual containment. Apparently demons loved puzzles and games and the knot would keep them occupied until they could be banished, or, in Darlington’s case, clapped into chains of pure silver. At least Alex hoped they were pure silver. She’d found them in a drawer in the armory, and she sure hoped Lethe hadn’t scrimped. And if the hellbeast tried to come through again? They placed gems at each compass point: amethyst, carnelian, opal, tourmaline. Little glittering trinkets to bind a monster. “They don’t look like much, do they?” asked Alex. All Dawes did was chew her lip harder. “It’s going to be fine,” Alex said, not believing a word of it. “What’s next?” They set lines of salt every few feet down the hall, more safeguards in case something got past the knot. The final line they poured out was pale brown. It had been mixed with their own blood, a last line of defense. Dawes pulled a tiny toy trumpet out of her satchel. Alex couldn’t hide her disbelief. “You’re going to call Darlington out of hell with that?” “We don’t have the bells from Aurelian, and the ritual just calls for ‘an instrument of action or alarm.’ You have the note?” They’d used the deed to Black Elm during the failed new moon ritual, a contract Darlington had signed with full hope and intent. They didn’t have anything like that this time around, but they did have a note, written by Michelle Alameddine, that they’d found in the desk


to come running to Daddy, you know.” She offered him the hint of a sad smile. “I’m a big girl, right?” “Who was nearly killed less than three weeks ago.” Leaning back in her chair, she leveled her gaze at him. “Well, yeah, there’s that.” “And the other card.” He pointed to it. “That was actually in your drawer in your bedroom, tucked in with your . . .” “On top of my underwear, wedged in there.” She made a face, offended. “Sick-o.” “Kristi—” “Dad, don’t,” she said, cutting him off before he could even ask her to move in. She’d heard it before. “I know you’re going to tell me to be careful and I will be, but I’m not coming back here, okay?” She explained about nailing the window shut and planning to get it fixed. She also told him she was having the locks changed, getting a new security system with updated cameras, digital footage, and alarms, and that she’d contacted a local shelter about getting a dog, one that would get along with cats as she’d recently taken in a stray kitten. He was undeterred. Worried sick. “You should have told me about it when you received the first one.” “I know. I thought it was just a prank, or a mistake or something,” she said a little defensively. “I mean, I’ve gotten weird letters before.” “Never left on your doorstep, or in your drawer,” he pointed out. “This . . . this . . . maniac . . . person knows where you live.” And that scared the hell out of him. “I know.” She checked her watch. “Look, I’ve gotta run. Literally. Bella wants me to start jogging with her three days a week. Stupidly I said yes. Well, actually I didn’t say anything and she took it as a yes.” She scraped her chair back. “And I’ve got a call in to a new security company. They’re supposed to call back and set up an appointment and I do work, you know.” “You’re a writer. I think your schedule’s pretty flexible.” “It is,” she admitted sharply, “but I’m trying to get back into it. It’s been . . . it’s not been easy.” He nodded. “I, uh, suppose not.” “But I thought I should bring you these”—she motioned to the cards—“ASAP.” “Right.” He didn’t want her to leave, felt impotent. But she was nothing if not headstrong. She’d made up her mind. “Okay, but if you ever want to crash here—” She held up her hand and stood. “Yeah, Dad, I know. Your door is always open.” “Right.” “And I appreciate it. Really. But . . .” She sighed, looked for a second like she might break down, but cleared her throat. “I’ve got this handled. Really.” He didn’t believe her for a minute, but just then Olivia appeared, disheveled, her wild curls framing her face. She was yawning as she cinched the belt of her robe over her nightshirt. “Coffee,” she said. “God, what a night.” Then she spied Kristi. “I thought I heard


pinned to the back. But it just said seventy-five, so I don’t know whether it was actually a note or something else.” Bastian’s face went pale. “It had to be a note.” “Why?” “Because that’s how many people died in the last village,” Bastian said. “Seventy-five exactly.” Footnotes 1 Stricken from the Compendium after Margot D’Laney, Second Night Priestess of the Buried Watch, attempted to open Nyxara’s tomb in 200 AGF. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE It takes more than one cloud to make a storm. —Kirythean proverb That…” Lore’s head spun, fitting the information together. “If it was the number of bodies—” “It means Bellegarde is in on it,” Bastian finished, low and dark. “We met August in the hallway.” Lore’s mind twisted in a thousand different directions, taking pieces and filling them in where they fit. “He didn’t look at the tapestry where Bellegarde hid the note, but they were talking when I left. Something about groups being processed, about bindings —” Danielle’s bright voice cut her off. “Bastian! We found the wine. It isn’t sparkling, but I suppose it will suffice.” “Well, I didn’t know you wanted sparkling.” The Sun Prince flipped from serious to jovial in an instant. Even the way he held himself changed, rigid tension softening into lazy lines as he settled into his still-backward chair. “That’s in one of the second-floor guest rooms.” “This will do.” Dani wagged the bottle in the air, a slight frown drawing a line between her brows when she looked at Lore. “Are you all right, Lore? You look pale.” “Just my stomach,” she said, picking up her now-cold tea and taking a long sip. “I’ll have some of that sent to your rooms,” Brigitte said, nodding to the teacup as she wrapped the cork of the wine bottle in her skirt and tugged. It came off with a pop, and Alie offered quiet applause. Brigitte bowed and poured the wine into the now-empty cups. “It’s the only way I get through the cramps.” “Thank you,” Lore murmured. Lying to Brigitte felt rotten. Repaying kindness with dishonesty always did. Bastian stood so the four women could have the chairs—“I will lean fetchingly against the wall instead, and if any of you feel the sudden inspiration to paint me, I won’t even charge a modeling fee”—while Alie and the others sipped their wine and idly gossiped. Lore sipped her wine and thought about how in the myriad hells she was going to find where August, Anton, and now Bellegarde were hiding seventyfive-plus bodies. “I’m hoping to see Luc again next week,” Danielle said. Her eyes darted from her teacup to Lore. “He’s on a business trip with his father for a few days.” Luc. The docks. Lore frowned, putting something together. “You said someone was hiring people from the docks to move cargo?” For the second time, curious eyes turned Lore’s way, not quite sure what to make of her question. Lore forced a grin, hoping they thought her strangeness was due to social ineptitude bred in country isolation. “I… ah… have an interest


to pass into Rousillon, and along the sea-shore to Languedoc. You, sir, seem to be acquainted with the country, and can, perhaps, give me information on the subject.' The stranger said, that what information he could give was entirely at his service; and then mentioned a road rather more to the east, which led to a town, whence it would be easy to proceed into Rousillon. They now arrived at the village, and commenced their search for a cottage, that would afford a night's lodging. In several, which they entered, ignorance, poverty, and mirth seemed equally to prevail; and the owners eyed St. Aubert with a mixture of curiosity and timidity. Nothing like a bed could be found, and he had ceased to enquire for one, when Emily joined him, who observed the languor of her father's countenance, and lamented, that he had taken a road so ill provided with the comforts necessary for an invalid. Other cottages, which they examined, seemed somewhat less savage than the former, consisting of two rooms, if such they could be called; the first of these occupied by mules and pigs, the second by the family, which generally consisted of six or eight children, with their parents, who slept on beds of skins and dried beech leaves, spread upon a mud floor. Here, light was admitted, and smoke discharged, through an aperture in the roof; and here the scent of spirits (for the travelling smugglers, who haunted the Pyrenees, had made this rude people familiar with the use of liquors) was generally perceptible enough. Emily turned from such scenes, and looked at her father with anxious tenderness, which the young stranger seemed to observe; for, drawing St. Aubert aside, he made him an offer of his own bed. 'It is a decent one,' said he, 'when compared with what we have just seen, yet such as in other circumstances I should be ashamed to offer you.' St. Aubert acknowledged how much he felt himself obliged by this kindness, but refused to accept it, till the young stranger would take no denial. 'Do not give me the pain of knowing, sir,' said he, 'that an invalid, like you, lies on hard skins, while I sleep in a bed. Besides, sir, your refusal wounds my pride; I must believe you think my offer unworthy your acceptance. Let me shew you the way. I have no doubt my landlady can accommodate this young lady also.' St. Aubert at length consented, that, if this could be done, he would accept his kindness, though he felt rather surprised, that the stranger had proved himself so deficient in gallantry, as to administer to the repose of an infirm man, rather than to that of a very lovely young woman, for he had not once offered the room for Emily. But she thought not of herself, and the animated smile she gave him, told how much she felt herself obliged for the preference of her father. On their way, the stranger, whose name was Valancourt, stepped on first to speak to his hostess,


cloak. Mrs. March gave the mother tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises of help, while she dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had been her own. The girls meantime spread the table, set the children round the fire, and fed them like so many hungry birds, laughing, talking, and trying to understand the funny broken English. "Das ist gut!" "Die Engel-kinder!" cried the poor things as they ate and warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze. The girls had never been called angel children before, and thought it very agreeable, especially Jo, who had been considered a `Sancho' ever since she was born. That was a very happy breakfast, though they didn't get any of it. And when they went away, leaving comfort behind, I think there were not in all the city four merrier people than the hungry little girls who gave away their breakfasts and contented themselves with bread and milk on Christmas morning. "That's loving our neighbor better than ourselves, and I like it," said Meg, as they set out their presents while their mother was upstairs collecting clothes for the poor Hummels. Not a very splendid show, but there was a great deal of love done up in the few little bundles, and the tall vase of red roses, white chrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which stood in the middle, gave quite an elegant air to the table. "She's coming! Strike up, Beth! Open the door, Amy! Three cheers for Marmee!" cried Jo, prancing about while Meg went to conduct Mother to the seat of honor. Beth played her gayest march, Amy threw open the door, and Meg enacted escort with great dignity. Mrs. March was both surprised and touched, and smiled with her eyes full as she examined her presents and read the little notes which accompanied them. The slippers went on at once, a new handkerchief was slipped into her pocket, well scented with Amy's cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were pronounced a perfect fit. There was a good deal of laughing and kissing and explaining, in the simple, loving fashion which makes these home festivals so pleasant at the time, so sweet to remember long afterward, and then all fell to work. The morning charities and ceremonies took so much time that the rest of the day was devoted to preparations for the evening festivities. Being still too young to go often to the theater, and not rich enough to afford any great outlay for private performances, the girls put their wits to work, and necessity being the mother of invention, made whatever they needed. Very clever were some of their productions, pasteboard guitars, antique lamps made of old-fashioned butter boats covered with silver paper, gorgeous robes of old cotton, glittering with tin spangles from a pickle factory, and armor covered with the same useful diamond shaped bits left inn sheets when the lids of preserve pots were cut out. The big chamber was the scene of many innocent revels. No gentleman were


friends were meant to be murdered with you, he started to talk. I expect he's still talking now. But there's nothing to link all this with Le Chiffre. They were given the job by some intermediary, perhaps one of Le Chiffre's guards, and Le Chiffre's name means absolutely nothing to the one who survived.' She finished her story just as the waiters arrived with the caviar, a mound of hot toast, and small dishes containing finely chopped onion and grated hard-boiled egg, the white in one dish and the yoke in another. The caviar was heaped on to their plates and they ate for a time in silence. After a while Bond said: 'It's very satisfactory to be a corpse who changes places with his murderers. For them it certainly was a case of being hoist with their own petard. Mathis must be very pleased with the day's work - five of the opposition neutralized in twenty-four hours,' and he told her how the Muntzes had been confounded. 'Incidentally,' he asked, 'how did you come to get mixed up in this affair? What section are you in?' 'I'm personal assistant to Head of S.' said Vesper. 'As it was his plan, he wanted his section to have a hand in the operation and he asked M if I could go. It seemed only to be a liaison job, so M said yes although he told my chief that you would be furious at being given a woman to work with.' She paused and when Bond said nothing continued: 'I had to meet Mathis in Paris and come down with him. I've got a friend who is a vendeuse with Dior and somehow she managed to borrow me this and the frock I was wearing this morning, otherwise I couldn't possibly have competed with all these people.' She made a gesture towards the room. 'The office was very jealous although they didn't know what the job was. All they knew was that I was to work with a Double O. Of course you're our heroes. I was enchanted.' Bond frowned. 'It's not difficult to get a Double O number if you're prepared to kill people,' he said. 'That's all the meaning it has. It's nothing to be particularly proud of. I've got the corpses of a Japanese cipher expert in New York and a Norwegian double agent in Stockholm to thank for being a Double 0. Probably quite decent people. They just got caught up in the gale of the world like that Yugoslav that Tito bumped off. It's a confusing business but if it's one's profession, one does what one's told. How do you like the grated egg with your caviar?' 'It's a wonderful combination,' she said. 'I'm loving my dinner. It seems a shame . . .' She stopped, warned by a cold look in Bond's eye. 'If it wasn't for the job, we wouldn't be here,' he said. Suddenly he regretted the intimacy of their dinner and of their talk. He felt he had said too much and that what


hairy brute. "Could you have seen him charge the monster as a bull might charge a grizzly--absolutely without sign of fear or hesitation--you would have believed him more than human. "Could you have seen those mighty muscles knotting under the brown skin--could you have seen them force back those awful fangs--you too would have thought him invincible. "And could you have seen the chivalrous treatment which he accorded a strange girl of a strange race, you would feel the same absolute confidence in him that I feel." "You have won your suit, my fair pleader," cried the captain. "This court finds the defendant not guilty, and the cruiser shall wait a few days longer that he may have an opportunity to come and thank the divine Portia." "For the Lord's sake honey," cried Esmeralda. "You all don't mean to tell ME that you're going to stay right here in this here land of carnivable animals when you all got the opportunity to escapade on that boat? Don't you tell me THAT, honey." "Why, Esmeralda! You should be ashamed of yourself," cried Jane. "Is this any way to show your gratitude to the man who saved your life twice?" "Well, Miss Jane, that's all jest as you say; but that there forest man never did save us to stay here. He done save us so we all could get AWAY from here. I expect he be mighty peevish when he find we ain't got no more sense than to stay right here after he done give us the chance to get away. "I hoped I'd never have to sleep in this here geological garden another night and listen to all them lonesome noises that come out of that jumble after dark." "I don't blame you a bit, Esmeralda," said Clayton, "and you certainly did hit it off right when you called them `lonesome' noises. I never have been able to find the right word for them but that's it, don't you know, Chapter 24 135 lonesome noises." "You and Esmeralda had better go and live on the cruiser," said Jane, in fine scorn. "What would you think if you HAD to live all of your life in that jungle as our forest man has done?" "I'm afraid I'd be a blooming bounder as a wild man," laughed Clayton, ruefully. "Those noises at night make the hair on my head bristle. I suppose that I should be ashamed to admit it, but it's the truth." "I don't know about that," said Lieutenant Charpentier. "I never thought much about fear and that sort of thing--never tried to determine whether I was a coward or brave man; but the other night as we lay in the jungle there after poor D'Arnot was taken, and those jungle noises rose and fell around us I began to think that I was a coward indeed. It was not the roaring and growling of the big beasts that affected me so much as it was the stealthy noises--the ones that you heard suddenly close by and then listened vainly for


glass. God bless all here is my prayer. --Amen, says the citizen. --And I'm sure He will, says Joe. And at the sound of the sacring bell, headed by a crucifer with acolytes, thurifers, boatbearers, readers, ostiarii, deacons and subdeacons, the blessed company drew nigh of mitred abbots and priors and guardians and monks and friars: the monks of Benedict of Spoleto, Carthusians and Camaldolesi, Cistercians and Olivetans, Oratorians and Vallombrosans, and the friars of Augustine, Brigittines, Premonstratensians, Servi, Trinitarians, and the children of Peter Nolasco: and therewith from Carmel mount the children of Elijah prophet led by Albert bishop and by Teresa of Avila, calced and other: and friars, brown and grey, sons of poor Francis, capuchins, cordeliers, minimes and observants and the daughters of Clara: and the sons of Dominic, the friars preachers, and the sons of Vincent: and the monks of S. Wolstan: and Ignatius his children: and the confraternity of the christian brothers led by the reverend brother Edmund Ignatius Rice. And after came all saints and martyrs, virgins and confessors: S. Cyr and S. Isidore Arator and S. James the Less and S. Phocas of Sinope and S. Julian Hospitator and S. Felix de Cantalice and S. Simon Stylites and S. Stephen Protomartyr and S. John of God and S. Ferreol and S. Leugarde and S. Theodotus and S. Vulmar and S. Richard and S. Vincent de Paul and S. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Tours and S. Alfred and S. Joseph and S. Denis and S. Cornelius and S. Leopold and S. Bernard and S. Terence and S. Edward and S. Owen Caniculus and S. Anonymous and S. Eponymous and S. Pseudonymous and S. Homonymous and S. Paronymous and S. Synonymous and S. Laurence O'Toole and S. James of Dingle and Compostella and S. Columcille and S. Columba and S. Celestine and S. Colman and S. Kevin and S. Brendan and S. Frigidian and S. Senan and S. Fachtna and S. Columbanus and S. Gall and S. Fursey and S. Fintan and S. Fiacre and S. John Nepomuc and S. Thomas Aquinas and S. Ives of Brittany and S. Michan and S. Herman-Joseph and the three patrons of holy youth S. Aloysius Gonzaga and S. Stanislaus Kostka and S. John Berchmans and the saints Gervasius, Servasius and Bonifacius and S. Bride and S. Kieran and S. Canice of Kilkenny and S. Jarlath of Tuam and S. Finbarr and S. Pappin of Ballymun and Brother Aloysius Pacificus and Brother Louis Bellicosus and the saints Rose of Lima and of Viterbo and S. Martha of Bethany and S. Mary of Egypt and S. Lucy and S. Brigid and S. Attracta and S. Dympna and S. Ita and S. Marion Calpensis and the Blessed Sister Teresa of the Child Jesus and S. Barbara and S. Scholastica and S. Ursula with eleven thousand virgins. And all came with nimbi and aureoles and gloriae, bearing palms and harps and swords and olive crowns, in robes whereon were woven the blessed symbols of their efficacies, inkhorns, arrows, loaves, cruses, fetters,


here, keep an eye on you, that kind of thing.” Cass had sent Oscar here? This time, when anger flared, it was for her. She might not know the details of what was between Oscar and me, but she knew how I felt about him. Oscar left at last, leaving me shaky and sick to my stomach. I started to throw the photos and everything else back in the box. There was one more thing at the bottom: a plain manila envelope. I hesitated a moment and then reached for it, shaking it out on the bedspread. From it spilled a random assortment of photographs and papers, along with a thumb drive labeled “Percy.” With what I’ve got on the guy, he can’t say no to me, I remembered Cass saying. I spread out the papers and photos with a slow sweep of my hand, feeling uneasy. There didn’t seem to be any clear theme among the documents. A photo showed a man I didn’t know, laughing and holding a bong. A printed-out email from someone at a construction company seemed to be discussing wetland delineation and something about drain tile and “Section 404.” There were a handful of other photographs, some showing obviously sketchy behavior but most seemingly innocent without context. A duplicate check from Meredith Green to someone named Alicia Barlow for $15,000, dated April 2000. And at the bottom of the stack, there was one more photograph. This one was older, dented from poor storage. It was a photograph of Jim Green, his hands on the hips of a slim woman in tight jeans and a Chester Lumber Co. T-shirt, what looked like the old mill in the background. His head was bent toward hers, almost kissing her. Close enough that there was no ambiguity about his intent, or hers. The woman was in profile, her face turned away from the camera, but still I recognized her. Jessi Walker. Jessi’s mystery man was the mayor. Something like sorrow slithered through me. It wasn’t like I’d ever cared much for Jim. He wasn’t a surrogate father or a protector. But he’d been a constant presence. One more thing turned foul. When I’d gotten the summer job filing, it had been Meredith’s idea. I’d heard her and Big Jim arguing about it once—what had she said? This way you won’t have to stay late at the office. I’d assumed she’d meant that he wouldn’t have as much work to do. I’d been naïve in my own way, even after everything that had happened. I gathered everything and stuffed it back into the envelope. The content of the photograph was less of a surprise than the fact that Cass had it at all. What the hell was this? A blackmail stash? I shook my head. I didn’t know what the hell Cass was doing with this stuff, but the implications of it were clear. Big Jim had been sleeping with Jessi. I’d been focused on Oscar—his jealousy, his rage. But jealousy wasn’t the only thing that could drive a man to kill.


mentioned in the book of Jonah merely meant a life-preserver --an inflated bag of wind --which the endangered prophet swam to, and so was saved from a watery doom. Poor Sag-Harbor, therefore, seems worsted all round. But he had still another reason for his want of faith. It was this, if I remember right: Jonah was .. <p 364 > swallowed by the whale in the Mediterranean Sea, and after three days he was vomited up somewhere within three days' journey of Nineveh, a city on the Tigris, very much more than three days' journey across from the nearest point of the Mediterranean coast. How is that? But was there no other way for the whale to land the prophet within that short distance of Nineveh? Yes. He might have carried him round by the way of the Cape of Good Hope. But not to speak of the passage through the whole length of the Mediterranean, and another passage up the Persian Gulf and Red Sea, such a supposition would involve the complete circumnavigation of all Africa in three days, not to speak of the Tigris waters, near the site of Nineveh, being too shallow for any whale to swim in. Besides, this idea of Jonah's weathering the Cape of Good Hope at so early a day would wrest the honor of the discovery of that great headland from Bartholomew Diaz, its reputed discoverer, and so make modern history a liar. But all these foolish arguments of old Sag-Harbor only evinced his foolish pride of reason --a thing still more reprehensible in him, seeing that he had but little learning except what he had picked up from the sun and the sea. I say it only shows his foolish, impious pride, and abominable, devilish rebellion against the reverend clergy. For by a Portuguese Catholic priest, this very idea of Jonah's going to Nineveh via the Cape of Good Hope was advanced as a signal magnification of the general miracle. And so it was. Besides, to this day, the highly enlightened Turks devoutly believe in the historical story of Jonah. And some three centuries ago, an English traveller in old Harris's Voyages, speaks of a Turkish Mosque built in honor of Jonah, in which mosque was a miraculous lamp that burnt without any oil. .. <p 365 > .. < chapter lxxxiv 2 PITCHPOLING > To make them run easily and swiftly, the axles of carriages are anointed; and for much the same purpose, some whalers perform an analogous operation upon their boat; they grease the bottom. Nor is it to be doubted that as such a procedure can do no harm, it may possibly be of no contemptible advantage; considering that oil and water are hostile; that oil is a sliding thing, and that the object in view is to make the boat slide bravely. Queequeg believed strongly in anointing his boat, and one morning not long after the German ship Jungfrau disappeared, took more than customary pains in that occupation; crawling under its bottom, where it hung over the side, and


you expect me to run the business if I’m never there? I’ll be fine here. I’m assuming you’ll take Taylor with you, but Sawyer and Ryan will be here—” I stop, because Christian is grinning at me. “What?” I snap. “Nothing. Just you,” he says. I frown. Is he laughing at me? Then a nasty thought pops into my mind. “How are you getting to New York?” “The company jet, why?” “I just wanted to check if you were taking Charlie Tango.” My voice is quiet, and a shiver runs down my spine. I remember the last time he flew his helicopter. A wave of nausea hits me as I recall the anxious hours I spent waiting for news. That was possibly the lowest point in my life. I notice Mrs. Jones has stilled, too. I try to dismiss the idea. “I wouldn’t fly to New York in Charlie Tango. She doesn’t have that kind of range. Besides, she won’t be back from the engineers for another two weeks.” Thank heavens. My smile is partly from relief, but also the knowledge that the demise of Charlie Tango has occupied a great deal of Christian’s thoughts and time over the last few weeks. “Well I’m glad she’s nearly fixed, but—” I stop. Can I tell him how nervous I’ll be when he flies next time? “What?” he asks as he finishes his omelet. I shrug. “Ana?” he says, more sternly. “I just . . . you know. Last time you flew in her . . . I thought, we thought, you’d—” I can’t finish the sentence, and Christian’s expression softens. 186/551 “Hey.” He caresses my face with the back of his knuckles. “That was sabot- age.” A dark expression crosses his face, and for a moment I wonder if he knows who was responsible. “I couldn’t bear to lose you,” I murmur. “Five people have been fired because of that, Ana. It won’t happen again.” “Five?” He nods, his face serious. Holy crap! “That reminds me. There’s a gun in your desk.” He frowns at my non sequitur and probably at my accusatory tone, though I don’t mean it that way. “It’s Leila’s,” he says finally. “It’s fully loaded.” “How do you know?” His frown deepens. “I checked it yesterday.” He scowls at me. “I don’t want you messing with guns. I hope you put the safety back on.” I blink at him, momentarily stupefied. “Christian, there’s no safety on that re- volver. Don’t you know anything about guns?” His eyes widen. “Um . . . no.” Taylor coughs discreetly from the entrance. Christian nods at him. “We have to go,” Christian says. He stands, distracted, and slips on his gray jacket. I follow him into the hallway. He has Leila’s gun. I am stunned by this news and briefly wonder what’s happened to her. Is she still in—where is it? East somewhere. New Hampshire? I can’t remember. “Good morning, Taylor,” Christian says. “Good morning, Mr. Grey, Mrs. Grey.” He nods at us both, but he’s careful not to look me in the


of Religions been on Arrakis? Paul lifted the paracompass from the pack, returned it, said: "Think of all these special-application Fremen machines. They show unrivaled sophistication. Admit it. The culture that made these things betrays depths no one suspected." Hesitating, still worried by the harshness in his voice, Jessica returned to the book, studied an illustrated constellation from the Arrakeen sky: "Muad'Dib: The Mouse," and noted that the tail pointed north. Paul stared into the tent's darkness at the dimly discerned movements of his mother revealed by the manual's glowtab. Now is the time to carry out my father's wish, he thought. I must give her his message now while she has time for grief. Grief would inconvenience us later. And he found himself shocked by precise logic. "Mother," he said. "Yes?" She heard the change in his voice, felt coldness in her entrails at the sound. Never had she heard such harsh control. "My father is dead," he said. She searched within herself for the coupling of fact and fact and fact--the Bene Gesserit way of assessing data--and it came to her: the sensation of terrifying loss. Jessica nodded, unable to speak. "My father charged me once," Paul said, "to give you a message if anything happened to him. He feared you might believe he distrusted you." That useless suspicion, she thought. "He wanted you to know he never suspected you," Paul said, and explained the deception, adding: "He wanted you to know he always trusted you completely, always loved you and cherished you. He said he would sooner have mistrusted himself and he had but one regret--that he never made you his Duchess." She brushed the tears coursing down her cheeks, thought: What a stupid waste of the body's water! But she knew this thought for what it was--the attempt to retreat from grief into anger. Leto, my Leto, she thought. What terrible things we do to those we love! With a violent motion, she extinguished the little manual's glowtab. Sobs shook her. Paul heard his mother's grief and felt the emptiness within himself. I have no grief, he thought. Why? Why? He felt the inability to grieve as a terrible flaw. "A time to get and time to lose," Jessica thought, quoting to herself from the O.C. Bible. "A time to keep and a time to cast away; a time for love and a time to hate; a time of war and a time of peace. " Paul's mind had gone on in its chilling precision. He saw the avenues ahead of them on this hostile planet. Without even the safety valve of dreaming, he focused his prescient awareness, seeing it as a computation of most probable futures, but with something more, an edge of mystery--as though his mind dipped into some timeless stratum and sampled the winds of the future. Abruptly, as though he had found a necessary key, Paul's mind climbed another notch in awareness. He felt himself clinging to this new level, clutching at a precarious hold and peering about. It was as though he existed


want to hear another Mr. Darling quote out of your mouth,” I tell her seriously. “Okay? Is that the energy you want to sully your consciousness with? Mr. Darling’s?” Minnie shakes her head and takes a bite of the Mars bar. “I should think not. No wonder you felt giraffe-like yesterday! His bad attitude was poisoning your mind.” She nods, a little more hopeful. “That’s true. That’s very true. I’m not a giraffe. It’s all his fault.” “Exactly,” I say. “You are a swan. A beautiful, beautiful swan. Like Normani.” “Yes,” she murmurs. “It’s okay, Michaela. You are a Normani swan.” I pat her shoulder. “Now, why don’t we walk into town and see if Sonam and Peter are still at Starbucks?” Minnie brightens up like a lightbulb. “Frappes?” she asks around a mouthful of caramel. “Frappes.” “Celiiiiine. You’re the best.” She gives me a chocolatey kiss on the cheek. I wipe it off, pack up my things, and we head out, walking past my latest conspiracy theory. Bradley Graeme is sitting at Top Table, as always. And he’s flawless, as always, with his twists shining and his clothes immaculate but effortless, and an adorable (objectively speaking, I mean) furrow between his eyebrows as he highlights the crap out of what appears to be a history textbook. Since we got back to school, we’ve barely spoken because I no longer know how to speak to him. I should be desperate to prove my who-is-Bradley-really theory, but I’m not sure which outcome I want. If he’s always been the best friend I remember, that means— But if the way we were during the Sherwood expedition wasn’t real— My stomach churns. So that’s us these days: near-silent. No arguments in Philosophy, no bitchy comments in the halls. You’d think we were ignoring each other, but whenever our eyes meet, he gives me this tiny, tentative smile and says: “Hey.” And I reply, helplessly, “Hey.” And then we lapse into a silence I don’t know what to do with. Which is why I’ve decided to just focus on school. Unfortunately, Minnie has followed my gaze and there’s a speculative gleam in her glitter-adorned eyes. “Are you ever going to tell me how the forest thingy went?” “I did tell you,” I say firmly. I told her it was fine. “Are you ever going to tell me why you’ve been texting Jordan Cooper all day?” She smiles sunnily, her earlier mood evaporated. “Well, he’s in my English class. And since his best friend’s been acting weird and my best friend’s been acting weird…” “Brad’s acting weird?” “Brad, is it?” she repeats, pouncing like a panther in sparkly Doc Martens. “I see. Fighting off bears in the woods must forge a powerful bond.” “There are no bears in England, Michaela.” “Then what’s with the nickname?” she asks. “Bears,” I confirm. “There were so many bears. We were inundated.” “Yeah,” she says dryly. “I bet.” I clutch the straps of my rucksack tight as we pass slowly by Top Table. I don’t care if Brad says anything. I


we’re going to run away and find our baby and have a happy family.” “But he doesn’t want that,” my father said. “Do you, son?” “You’re lying.” I turned to Ricky. “Tell me he’s lying!” Ricky’s gaze also skipped about. To the unlit fireplace, to his hands, to the zebra rug under his feet. Anywhere but at me. “It’s true, Ginny,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry.” “See?” My father’s tone was shockingly boastful. He was, I realized, enjoying the worst moment of my life. “I know you’re hurt now, but it’s for the best. You don’t want trash like him dragging you down for the rest of your life.” “But--” It was all I could muster. Shock and heartbreak had silenced me. But I knew I could still speak volumes with the knife in my hand. I tried to rush at both of them, not caring which one I hurt just as long as I inflicted pain on someone. But before I could take a step, I was halted by a gentle grip on the arm that held the knife. My mother. No doubt summoned by my sister. Although I was surprised to see her out of bed and walking around on her own, my mother barely seemed fazed by the sight of me holding a knife. Alert for the first time in weeks, she knew exactly what was transpiring in that billiard room. “Don’t, my darling,” she said, her hands disconcertingly strong as she wrested the knife from my grip. “They’re not worth destroying your young life over.” I let her take the knife from my hand and collapsed against her, weeping. With the knife in one hand and stroking my hair with the other, she addressed my father. “Fifty thousand dollars, Winston? Your price has gone up. If I recall, you only offered twenty-five thousand to make the man I loved go away.” “That didn’t stop him from taking it,” my father said with not an ounce of softness in his voice. “You can judge me for it all you want--and you certainly have--but it was the best thing to happen to you. It allowed you to get married, pretend that Lenora was my child, and keep your precious reputation intact.” His words caused something inside my mother to break. I watched it happen. Her eyes went dark and her body still. Standing silent and motionless, she reminded me of a clock unnervingly stopped at midnight. Yet one small part of her continued to tick. I saw that, too. Something coiled around the gears of her mind, ready to spring. And spring she did. Toward my father. Knife in hand. Not stopping until the blade was deep in his side. My father didn’t scream when the knife plunged into him. I did that for him, letting out a sharp cry that pinged around the room in an infernal echo. I could still hear it when my mother yanked the knife from my father’s gut. He clutched at the wound, blood seeping between his fingers as he stumbled against the pool table.


am by myself," replied the Rajah; "but my cousin is going out with me." "And the nurse, of course?" suggested Dr. Craven. "No, I will not have the nurse," so magnificently that Mary could not help remembering how the young native Prince had looked with his diamonds and emeralds and pearls stuck all over him and the great rubies on the small dark hand he had waved to command his servants to approach with salaams and receive his orders. "My cousin knows how to take care of me. I am always better when she is with me. She made me better last night. A very strong boy I know will push my carriage." Dr. Craven felt rather alarmed. If this tiresome hysterical boy should chance to get well he himself would lose all chance of inheriting Misselthwaite; but he was not an unscrupulous man, though he was a weak one, and he did not intend to let him run into actual danger. "He must be a strong boy and a steady boy," he said. "And I must know something about him. Who is he? What is his name?" "It's Dickon," Mary spoke up suddenly. She felt somehow that everybody who knew the moor must know Dickon. And she was right, too. She saw that in a moment Dr. Craven's serious face relaxed into a relieved smile. "Oh, Dickon," he said. "If it is Dickon you will be safe enough. He's as strong as a moor pony, is Dickon." "And he's trusty," said Mary. "He's th' trustiest lad i' Yorkshire." She had been talking Yorkshire to Colin and she forgot herself. "Did Dickon teach you that?" asked Dr. Craven, laughing outright. "I'm learning it as if it was French," said Mary rather coldly. "It's like a native dialect in India. Very clever people try to learn them. I like it and so does Colin." "Well, well," he said. "If it amuses you perhaps it won't do you any harm. Did you take your bromide last night, Colin?" "No," Colin answered. "I wouldn't take it at first and after Mary made me quiet she talked me to sleep--in a low voice--about the spring creeping into a garden." "That sounds soothing," said Dr. Craven, more perplexed than ever and glancing sideways at Mistress Mary sitting on her stool and looking down silently at the carpet. "You are evidently better, but you must remember--" "I don't want to remember," interrupted the Rajah, appearing again. "When I lie by myself and remember I begin to have pains everywhere and I think of things that make me begin to scream because I hate them so. If there was a doctor anywhere who could make you forget you were ill instead of remembering it I would have him brought here." And he waved a thin hand which ought really to have been covered with royal signet rings made of rubies. "It is because my cousin makes me forget that she makes me better." Dr. Craven had never made such a short stay after a "tantrum"; usually he was obliged


countering the President.” So Trump doubled down on his claim publicly, sending Alabama’s 5 million residents into a state of uncertainty and, in some cases, panic. Did they need to evacuate from the path of a massive CAT-5 hurricane or not? Alabama first responders explained again that the state was not in danger. Weather reporters churned out updated forecasts to prove the point. Still, Trump wouldn’t let go. He held a televised meeting in the Oval Office with FEMA before the hurricane made landfall. The chart he was using showed that Dorian would likely hit Florida, but then in black marker, there was an extra bubble drawn onto the jumbo map, falsely projecting that the hurricane would continue onward into Alabama. The storm track had been doctored. It was widely suspected Trump had drawn the bubble, though it couldn’t be verified. I spoke to two people present in the White House that day and involved in the meeting. Both confirmed that Trump did, in fact, adjust the forecast himself. The president overruled the government’s extreme-weather experts with a Sharpie. As the White House got mocked, Trump got angrier. He directed NOAA to draft a press release saying that he’d been correct. The agency hastily issued an unsigned statement admitting there were earlier “probabilities” that Alabama might be affected by winds. Incredibly, the statement didn’t say anything to emphasize the fact that the state was no longer in danger. Television commentators thought the back-and-forth was comical. Trump’s appointee at NOAA, Tim Gallaudet, was furious. He hadn’t been consulted on the president’s statements or his agency’s press release. “The hurricane track influences emergency management responses to what can be multibillion-dollar damages,” he told me. “It was so reckless and so dangerous for him to politicize it.” Alabama was spared by the storm, while the weather service was roiled. A top NWS official emailed agency leaders in the aftermath: “Employees now fear for [their] jobs and are questioning whether they should post potentially life-saving info or check tweets first.” Gallaudet agreed, writing back to the NWS chief operating officer: “I’m having a hard time not departing the pattern right now”—military parlance for quitting. Some of his top scientists threatened to resign, too. “They were distraught,” he said. I asked the retired admiral what would happen if there was another MAGA presidency. “That shit will be commonplace,” he sighed. “There will be a mass exodus from science agencies.” People I spoke with predicted widespread career resignations under another MAGA presidency. The result will be a younger civil service without the knowledge, experience, or wherewithal to run government agencies. White House appointees will be forced to fill in the gaps as a result. In a hurricane, for instance, you might have inexperienced political operatives trying to handle the crisis instead of experts. Mass resignations will be made worse by mass recriminations. A future MAGA president will purge careerists who dare to dissent against the commander in chief. Trump put such a plan in place in October 2020, issuing an executive order that would have allowed him to


to and from female acquaintances of recognised respectability in the vicinity: courses of evening instruction specially designed to render liberal instruction agreeable. What instances of deficient mental development in his wife inclined him in favour of the lastmentioned (ninth) solution? In disoccupied moments she had more than once covered a sheet of paper with signs and hieroglyphics which she stated were Greek and Irish and Hebrew characters. She had interrogated constantly at varying intervals as to the correct method of writing the capital initial of the name of a city in Canada, Quebec. She understood little of political complications, internal, or balance of power, external. In calculating the addenda of bills she frequently had recourse to digital aid. After completion of laconic epistolary compositions she abandoned the implement of calligraphy in the encaustic pigment, exposed to the corrosive action of copperas, green vitriol and nutgall. Unusual polysyllables of foreign origin she interpreted phonetically or by false analogy or by both: metempsychosis (met him pike hoses), ALIAS (a mendacious person mentioned in sacred scripture). What compensated in the false balance of her intelligence for these and such deficiencies of judgment regarding persons, places and things? The false apparent parallelism of all perpendicular arms of all balances, proved true by construction. The counterbalance of her proficiency of judgment regarding one person, proved true by experiment. How had he attempted to remedy this state of comparative ignorance? Variously. By leaving in a conspicuous place a certain book open at a certain page: by assuming in her, when alluding explanatorily, latent knowledge: by open ridicule in her presence of some absent other's ignorant lapse. With what success had he attempted direct instruction? She followed not all, a part of the whole, gave attention with interest comprehended with surprise, with care repeated, with greater difficulty remembered, forgot with ease, with misgiving reremembered, rerepeated with error. What system had proved more effective? Indirect suggestion implicating selfinterest. Example? She disliked umbrella with rain, he liked woman with umbrella, she disliked new hat with rain, he liked woman with new hat, he bought new hat with rain, she carried umbrella with new hat. Accepting the analogy implied in his guest's parable which examples of postexilic eminence did he adduce? Three seekers of the pure truth, Moses of Egypt, Moses Maimonides, author of MORE NEBUKIM (Guide of the Perplexed) and Moses Mendelssohn of such eminence that from Moses (of Egypt) to Moses (Mendelssohn) there arose none like Moses (Maimonides). What statement was made, under correction, by Bloom concerning a fourth seeker of pure truth, by name Aristotle, mentioned, with permission, by Stephen? That the seeker mentioned had been a pupil of a rabbinical philosopher, name uncertain. Were other anapocryphal illustrious sons of the law and children of a selected or rejected race mentioned? Felix Bartholdy Mendelssohn (composer), Baruch Spinoza (philosopher), Mendoza (pugilist), Ferdinand Lassalle (reformer, duellist). What fragments of verse from the ancient Hebrew and ancient Irish languages were cited with modulations of voice and translation of texts by guest to host and by host to guest? By Stephen: SUIL, SUIL,


come home!” he squealed. “Louise go away!” Mark took an enormous step forward, swinging Pupkin at the same time, and Louise let go of the doorway and fell backward. The claw end of the hammer punched through the drywall where her head had been, sending fragments showering across her face, blinding her. Instinctively she turned, hurling herself toward the kitchen, her vision clearing, seeing Pupkin frantically trying to extract the hammer from the wall. It came out with a blast of plaster across the linoleum as Louise stumbled forward, bounced off the kitchen counter, and stumble-ran for the shattered door to the garage. If she could get to the backyard she could get to a neighbor, she could outrun them, she could be safe, she could be free, she could live. The door seemed to be directly in front of her, but then gravity got heavier on the right side of the room as she lost her balance, veering toward the kitchen sink, and she bruised her hip on the counter again, sending her body spinning. As she did a full three-sixty she caught a lurching, carousel snatch of Mark coming through the dining room entrance, linoleum floor bending beneath his feet, then she kept revolving past him and crashed into the louvered pantry doors with her left shoulder, hearing them splinter and crack, and she bounced herself off them hard, reaching for the garage. So close. “Fee-fi-fo-fum,” Pupkin shrieked, “I smell bloody Louise-eum!” She fell forward and grabbed the splintered doorframe to stop herself from falling down the three brick stairs, and the brightening morning sun coming through the garage door windows showed her the back door was wide open, leading to sunlight and safety. Behind her, Pupkin saw she was getting away and gave a terrible shriek that drove itself into her ears like ice picks. Mark shrieked but really Pupkin shrieked because she had never heard a human throat make a sound like that before. It could only have come from a puppet. Teetering on the threshold of the garage, Louise allowed herself a grim smile of triumph suck it, you little creep She took a step forward and something exploded in her lower back, just above her left kidney. The blow shoved her forward, making her step bigger and wider, and as she heard the thrown hammer clatter to the linoleum floor she fell into the garage, missing the steps entirely. She landed on her left leg and the pain from her kidney where the hammer had hit her made that entire side of her body weak, and she stumbled sideways, sprawling, taking giant loping shuffle-steps across the garage, one foot dragging the extension cord Mark had left there for his saw, then she crashed into the shelves on the other side. Panting, Louise rolled over and it was too late. Mark filled the door, standing at the top of the stairs, but she understood now, it wasn’t Mark. It was all Pupkin. And he had the hammer again. He took three slow steps down and stood at


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

are going to examine them. There”—and I held towards him the fourth quadruplicate. “I would prefer not to,” he said, and gently disappeared behind the screen. For a few moments I was turned into a pillar of salt, standing at the head of my seated column of clerks. Recovering myself, I advanced towards the screen, and demanded the reason for such extraordinary conduct. “Why do you refuse?” “I would prefer not to.” With any other man I should have flown outright into a dreadful passion, scorned all further words, and thrust him ignominiously from my presence. But there was something about Bartleby that not only strangely disarmed me, but in a wonderful manner touched and disconcerted me. I began to reason with him. “These are your own copies we are about to examine. It is labor saving to you, because one examination will answer for your four papers. It is common usage. Every copyist is bound to help examine his copy. Is it not so? Will you not speak? Answer!” “I prefer not to,” he replied in a flute-like tone. It seemed to me that while I had been addressing him, he carefully revolved every statement that I made; fully comprehended the meaning; could not gainsay the irresistible conclusions; but, at the same time, some paramount consideration prevailed with him to reply as he did. “You are decided, then, not to comply with my request—a request made according to common usage and common sense?” He briefly gave me to understand that on that point my judgment was sound. Yes: his decision was irreversible. It is not seldom the case that when a man is browbeaten in some unprecedented and violently unreasonable way, he begins to stagger in his own plainest faith. He begins, as it were, vaguely to surmise that, wonderful as it may be, all the justice and all the reason is on the other side. Accordingly, if any disinterested persons are present, he turns to them for some reinforcement for his own faltering mind. “Turkey,” said I, “what do you think of this? Am I not right?” “With submission, sir,” said Turkey, with his blandest tone, “I think that you are.” “Nippers,” said I, “what do you think of it?” “I think I should kick him out of the office.” (The reader of nice perceptions will here perceive that, it being morning, Turkey’s answer is couched in polite and tranquil terms, but Nippers replies in ill-tempered ones. Or, to repeat a previous sentence, Nippers’ ugly mood was on duty and Turkey’s off.) “Ginger Nut,” said I, willing to enlist the smallest suffrage in my behalf, “what do you think of it?” “I think, sir, he’s a little luny,” replied Ginger Nut with a grin. “You hear what they say,” said I, turning towards the screen, “come forth and do your duty.” But he vouchsafed no reply. I pondered a moment in sore perplexity. But once more business hurried me. I determined again to postpone the consideration of this dilemma to my future leisure. With a little trouble we made out


Some of them had bandaged faces, burns, scars. Some of them were upright and talkative; some of them were lying down, sleeping. Overcome, Iris was worried that she wouldn’t recognize her brother, even if he was here. But she drew in a deep breath, because she knew these soldiers had been through more than she could even begin to imagine. The air tasted like cherry medicine syrup and lemon floor cleaner and cold stainless steel, all cloaking a hint of sickness. She closed her eyes and envisioned Forest, exactly as he had looked the day he departed. I would know you anywhere. When Iris opened her eyes, her attention caught on a particular soldier. The girl was sitting upright in her bed. She looked to be Iris’s age, dealing a worn deck of playing cards on her quilt. Her hair was a soft shade of blond, like corn silk, and cut to her shoulders. Her skin was pallid, and her hands were shaking as she continued to set out cards. But her eyes were warm and brown and fierce, and the moment they met Iris’s gaze, Iris found herself walking toward her. “You play?” the girl asked. Her voice was brittle. “Only when I can find a good partner,” Iris replied. “Then pull up that stool and join me.” Iris obliged. She sat at the girl’s bedside and watched as she reshuffled the cards with her quaking hands. Her fingers were long, like a pianist’s. “I’m Prairie,” the girl said, glancing at Iris. “Like the grass.” “I’m Iris. Like an eyeball.” That coaxed a small smile from Prairie. “I haven’t seen you in here before, Iris Like an Eyeball.” “I only arrived yesterday,” Iris replied, taking the cards Prairie dealt to her. “Reporter, hmm?” Iris nodded, uncertain what more to say. If it would even be right for her to ask Prairie if she could— “I don’t speak to reporters,” Prairie said, clearing her throat. Her voice remained hoarse and weak. “But I’m always looking for someone to beat me in cards. Here, you go first.” Well, that settles that, Iris thought. At least Prairie’s candid bluntness dimmed her nerves and expectations, and Iris could merely enjoy a hand of cards. The girls were quiet as they played. Prairie was competitive, but Iris was close to matching her. They ended up playing two more rounds, until the nurses delivered lunch. “I suppose I should let you eat in peace,” said Iris, rising from the stool. Prairie dipped her spoon into her bowl of soup. It helplessly clattered with her shaky movements. “You might as well stay. Those who would talk to you will be eating right now.” Iris glanced around to find Attie, who was seated with a soldier farther down the room. A young handsome soldier who was smiling at her, and Attie had her notepad out, writing down the things he was saying. “I do have a question for you,” Iris said, easing back down onto the stool. “If I wanted to find out where a certain soldier is stationed,


with village provost minds! Here I make my stand! And he thought with a touch of sadness: I must rule with eye and claw--as the hawk among lesser birds. Unconsciously, his hand brushed the hawk emblem on his tunic. To the east, the night grew a faggot of luminous gray, then seashell opalescence that dimmed the stars. There came the long, bell-tolling movement of dawn striking across a broken horizon. It was a scene of such beauty it caught all his attention. Some things beggar likeness, he thought. He had never imagined anything here could be as beautiful as that shattered red horizon and the purple and ochre cliffs. Beyond the landing field where the night's faint dew had touched life into the hurried seeds of Arrakis, he saw great puddles of red blooms and, running through them, an articulate tread of violet . . . like giant footsteps. "It's a beautiful morning. Sire," the guard said. "Yes, it is." The Duke nodded, thinking: Perhaps this planet could grow on one. Perhaps it could become a good home for my son. Then he saw the human figures moving into the flower fields, sweeping them with strange scythe-like devices--dew gatherers. Water so precious, here that even the dew must be collected. And it could be a hideous place, the Duke thought. =========================== "There is probably no more terrible instant of enlightenment than the one in which you discover your father is a man--with human flesh." -from "Collected Sayings of Muad'Dib" by the Princess Irulan The Duke said: "Paul, I'm doing a hateful thing, but I must." He stood beside the portable poison snooper that had been brought into the conference room for their breakfast. The thing's sensor arms hung limply over the table, reminding Paul of some weird insect newly dead. The Duke's attention was directed out the windows at the landing field and its roiling of dust against the morning sky. Paul had a viewer in front of him containing a short filmclip on Fremen religious practices. The clip had been compiled by one of Hawat's experts and Paul found himself disturbed by the references to himself. "Mahdi!" "Lisan al-Gaib!" He could close his eyes and recall the shouts of the crowds. So that is what they hope, he thought. And he remembered what the old Reverend Mother had said: Kwisatz Haderach. The memories touched his feelings of terrible purpose, shading this strange world with sensations of familiarity that he could not understand. "A hateful thing," the Duke said. "What do you mean, sir?" Leto turned, looked down at his son. "Because the Harkonnens think to trick me by making me distrust your mother. They don't know that I'd sooner distrust myself." "I don't understand, sir." Again, Leto looked out the windows. The white sun was well up into its morning quadrant. Milky light picked out a boiling of dust clouds that spilled over into the blind canyons interfingering the Shield Wall. Slowly, speaking in a slow voice to contain his anger, the Duke explained to Paul about the mysterious note. "You


it.” Bezi wears her heart right on her sleeve. Her mom’s a veterinarian and her dad was a park ranger. If it flies, swims, or runs on all fours, she cares about it. She cares about everything and everybody even when she shouldn’t, including decomposing owls with broken necks. It’s ridiculous, but it happens to be one of the things I love most about her. “What do you think happened to it?” Porter asks, peering out the door at the bird’s crumpled body. “I don’t know,” I say. “Its neck was broken. Maybe it flew into the glass.” “It dive-bombed the glass?” Porter asks. “Does it matter?” Paige asks quietly. Porter shrugs, and Bezi buries the owl in a shallow grave next to the trail before we retreat back into the lodge. Kyle brings over a plate of waffles and sets them on the table. We all settle in and eat and are nearly done when Javier and Tasha come waltzing through the front door. I avoid eye contact. I’m a little annoyed with her, but she falls onto the couch next to me. “Morning,” she says a little too enthusiastically. “Morning,” I say. “Looks like you had a late night.” “You could say that,” Tasha says, nudging me in the side. She’s got her hair pulled up into a puff on top of her head, and she’s wearing Javier’s T-shirt. “It was a rough night for you?” Paige asks sarcastically. “Me, Bezi, and Charity had to share a twin-size bed last night.” Tasha grimaces. “I’m gonna write a whole piece on this place,” Paige says as she makes uncomfortable, unbroken eye contact with Tasha. “About how it brings out the worst in people.” “Like how that one guy with the buzz cut pushed his friend and when he fell stepped on his hand as he was running away?” Tasha asks. “Yeah,” Paige says as she dials up the fake enthusiasm. “And how one of my best friends put me out of the cabin we were supposed to be sharing so she could spend some alone time with some stank-ass boy.” “Hey!” Javier protests. “Sorry,” Paige says. “No offense.” “Uh, full offense taken?” Javier says. I can’t tell if he’s mad or just surprised. I bite my lip to keep from smiling, but Porter laughs out loud and doesn’t care who hears. Javier goes to the recliner and sprawls out, shutting his eyes like he’s going to sleep. On his right wrist is Tasha’s pink hair tie. “Oh, hell no,” I say. “I don’t care how late you two were up; we got things to do today, and I need everybody on board because it’s just the seven of us.” “Calm down,” Javier says dismissively. “I’m here. We’re all here. Relax.” “Don’t tell her to relax,” Paige snaps. Javier opens his eyes and levels his gaze at her. Paige couldn’t care less. She stares right back at him. “Okay, okay,” Porter says, patting the air in front of him. “Let’s all take a deep breath. We’re all in this together.” He turns


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

we had been walking a long time without our destination growing any closer. We were outside the enchantment, and I needed a way in. I let the leash unfurl so that Shadow strode four paces away from me, then five. Slowly, the light grew near. We had stepped into their realm. As soon as I was certain, I drew Shadow to me again. As we moved deeper into the faerie world, Shadow had grown larger. He was now twice the size, his muzzle coming up to my chest. His snout was sharper, wolfish, his paws enormous. But he followed me as calmly as ever, his black eyes trusting. I climbed carefully up the last slope, bending low. I found a volcanic boulder to crouch behind, and peeped out. Below us was a frozen lake. It was perfectly round, a great gleaming eye in which the moon and stars were mirrored. Lanterns glowing the same cold white as the aurora dangled from lampposts made of ice, which framed paths from the lake’s edge to a scattering of benches and merchant-stands, draped in bright awnings of opal and blue. Delicious smells floated on the wind— smoked fish; fire-roasted nuts and candies; spiced cakes. A winter fair.[*1] The Folk gliding upon the ice and strolling easily from stand to stand were not as strange as I had expected. In fact, when I fixed my eyes upon them directly, they looked perfectly mortal, if a little too lovely and graceful. But when viewed slantwise, they were figures of ice and ashes, ashes gone grey and frozen, knife-slender wraiths that at times were not even there, becoming features in the landscape, a phenomenon I had observed with Poe. Their hair was universally silky and white, not like human hair at all, but that of a snow fox or hare, and their eyebrows too, while some had a fine cover of the same hair, or perhaps it was fur, visible on the backs of their hands that disappeared beneath their cuffs. I heard no music. The Folk upon the ice danced and glided to the same song, that much was clear, but Shadow’s presence made me oblivious to it. Naturally, there was a part of me that wished it were otherwise; that I could have been like Odysseus, tied to the mast of his ship. But I had no ship, and no sailors to stop me from drowning myself. I itched for my notebook and camera. I suppose it was cold of me, with Lilja and Margret down there possibly being devoured, but I have vowed to be honest in these pages, even to the last. For some time, I simply watched the Folk and thought nothing about the girls. I thought of Bouchard’s discovery of a curious stone slab in Rosetta, and Gadamer peeping through the trees at the goblin city. Was this what they had felt? It was awe, of course, mingled with stunned disbelief. I suppose that when one spends their career working towards a goal, constructing all sorts of fantasies about what that goal


and tried to lift it into the bed of Mark’s truck. They had to keep moving. “Will it be okay back here?” she asked, struggling to get it over the side of his truck. Pupkin began to sing. “With a chop-chop here, and a chop-chop there,” Pupkin sang, “here a chop, there a chop, everywhere a chop-chop!” “Louise,” Mark said in a dull voice, on the edge of panic. “Here a chop,” Pupkin sang, “there a chop, everywhere a Marky chopchop.” “Pupkin!” Louise snapped. He surprised her by giving her his attention. “Zip it or no Nancy.” Pupkin stopped. “Help me,” she commanded Mark in the same tone, and he tore his eyes away from Pupkin. “Yeah, sure,” he said, coming around the truck from the other direction, not wanting to get anywhere close to Pupkin. — Inside the truck, away from staring strangers, Louise felt her shoulders unclench. She sat in the middle, between Poppy and Mark, because she didn’t want Pupkin anywhere close to the steering wheel. She felt intense guilt not only for having Poppy ride in the front, but also for not having a car seat. She added it to the list of her failures as a mother. Of course, the way Mark was driving didn’t help. “You don’t need a special license or something?” she asked. Poppy began to drum her feet against the glove compartment. “It’s not that different from driving with both arms,” Mark said, drifting toward the shoulder. She heard their tires roar over loose gravel. Mark overcorrected in the other direction. “You can get this ball on your steering wheel that helps with turns, but I’m doing great.” He shifted lanes too quickly and Louise’s heart lurched. Instinctively she put one arm over Poppy. “Have you talked to Aunt Gail?” she asked, not wanting to spell it out in front of Pupkin. Then, because she couldn’t help herself: “Slow down.” “Don’t back-seat drive,” Mark said as Poppy began banging her heels harder against the glove compartment. “Can you tell her to stop that?” Instead of taking her feet off the glove compartment, Poppy thrust Pupkin across Louise and hissed in Mark’s face. “That is not how we behave!” Louise snapped. “Do you want to see Nancy or not?” Pupkin retreated. “That works?” Mark marveled. “Yeah, but, you know . . .” Louise shrugged. You know, how long could she keep manipulating Pupkin this way? “Hey, you need to be in the righthand lane.” The highway split but Mark stayed on the left, headed downtown instead of veering right toward Mount Pleasant. “I need to tell you something,” Mark said. “They called me because they knew you were in the air.” “Who?” Louise asked, then gritted her teeth as Poppy began to kick the underside of the glove compartment again. “Stop it now.” “Where Nancy?” Pupkin demanded. “Aunt Honey is in the hospital,” Mark said. Everything looked too real all of a sudden. I can’t lose another one, Louise thought. “Nancy! Nancy! Nancy!” Pupkin demanded in time with Poppy’s kicks. “What happened?” Louise asked,