Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Epilogue Acknowledgments Readers Guide Discussion Questions About the Author _144196919_ For anyone who took a little while to figure it out and anyone who’s still figuring it out—it’s never too late. I’ve been searching all the wrong places I’ve been trying too many faces Only one way to go This is the way back home —“Maps” by Lesley Roy chapter one This book was a real labor of love,” says the woman seated behind a table of hardcovers sporting her makeup-free face, scrunched mid-yelp as she attempts to drink from a garden hose. “I can’t believe it’s something I can finally hold in my hands! And the cover’s not too bad, either.” The audience laughs right on cue. In the back row, I can practically feel Noemie cringe beside me. “I’ve made bowls of cereal that were more a labor of love than the effort she put into that book,” she whispers. She’s not wrong—I experienced it firsthand. Still, I give my cousin a nudge. “Be respectful.” “I am. To the cereal.” I press my lips together to keep from reacting and focus on the stage, where Maddy DeMarco commands the room with a warm, practiced confidence bordering on emotional manipulation. The bookstore is filled with just a fraction of her 1.6 million Instagram followers: mostly women, mostly white, mostly dressed in sustainable linen they bought using her discount code MADSAVINGS10. At first I thought it was a cult, and to be completely honest, I’m still not sure. Her brand of saccharine positivity doesn’t quite do it for me anymore—whenever I need self-love, it’s more likely to take shape as something handheld and battery-operated. Which Maddy has devoted tragic few (read: zero) social media posts to. She’s built her career on empty affirmations and obvious advice. Case in point—the book is called Go Drink Some Water: A Guide to Self-Care, Self-Discovery, and Staying Thirsty. “People often ask how I turned one viral post into a lifestyle brand,” Maddy says, crossing one linen-clad leg over the other. Her natural waves are shined to perfection with an expensive oil I’m ashamed to admit I tried before chopping my ash-blond hair into a pixie last year. “And the answer is simple: I don’t sleep.” This gets a few more laughs. A muted groan from Noemie. “No, I want to be real with you guys. I was one of those people who never had their shit together—wait, can I say that? Are there kids here?” She makes a show of squinting out at the audience before barreling onward. “I would get so stressed that I literally forgot to drink water! It wasn’t until I got so dehydrated that I ended up in the hospital that I realized I’d stopped doing things just for myself. I’m


ever seen before. It’s almost a smile, if smiles were made of molten metal and bad intentions. Andy resists the urge to turn his head to see the recipient of this look. He doesn’t have to wait long. A moment later, a man appears at Nick’s side. He’s older, maybe in his early thirties, with blond hair, slicked fashionably back. He has on a suit that looks, to Andy’s eye, bespoke. Andy recognizes this as his sign to start reading. He opens the book to his bookmark—or, where his bookmark was before he lost it and replaced it with a matchbook. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Nick and the stranger move further down the bar. Nick takes out a cigarette and the stranger leans forward to light it. The words on the page refuse to align themselves into any kind of sentence. All Andy can think about is the conversation happening just out of earshot. He turns his barstool a fraction to the left so he can at least see what’s going on without craning his neck. The stranger is leaning into Nick’s space, one hand braced on the bar behind him. Nick does not seem to mind this encroachment in the least. Andy wonders where they’ll go—the blond man’s apartment or Nick’s. Surely Nick had been joking about taking care of things in the restroom. He hopes they go to the stranger’s apartment. Andy isn’t much given to jealousy, truth be told. He was never bothered by other men looking at Emily, but that’s because he was always sure that she’d ignore anyone who made a pass at her. He was wrong, it turns out, but he can’t even find it in himself to be jealous of the man she left him for. But right now he’s being driven crazy by the idea that this stranger gets to light Nick’s cigarette and lean in and whisper something that makes Nick laugh, soft and deep. He doesn’t want this man to sit on their sofa, doesn’t want him to drink out of any of the jam jars Nick uses as water glasses, doesn’t want him to see the orange cat that comes through the window. This man shouldn’t get any of that. This can’t be safe, can it? That stranger could be a cop. Granted, most cops probably can’t afford suits as nice as the one this man is wearing, so that’s some peace of mind, but still. He could be a murderer. Only last week Nick was attacked and Andy doesn’t think he can stand the idea of seeing his friend getting hurt again. The man puts his hand on the small of Nick’s back and Andy wants to hiss at him. That strange smile is back on Nick’s face, and Andy doesn’t like that smile one bit, partly because it doesn’t seem very happy, and partly because he thought he had seen all of Nick’s smiles already. Andy knows he isn’t being especially rational. There are times when he couldn’t possibly explain why he’s doing a


world, there was good and evil in that; look at the ecclesiastical law, there was good and evil in THAT. It was all part of a system. Very good. There you were! I had not the hardihood to suggest to Dora's father that possibly we might even improve the world a little, if we got up early in the morning, and took off our coats to the work; but I confessed that I thought we might improve the Commons. Mr. Spenlow replied that he would particularly advise me to dismiss that idea from my mind, as not being worthy of my gentlemanly character; but that he would be glad to hear from me of what improvement I thought the Commons susceptible? Taking that part of the Commons which happened to be nearest to us - for our man was unmarried by this time, and we were out of Court, and strolling past the Prerogative Office - I submitted that I thought the Prerogative Office rather a queerly managed institution. Mr. Spenlow inquired in what respect? I replied, with all due deference to his experience (but with more deference, I am afraid, to his being Dora's father), that perhaps it was a little nonsensical that the Registry of that Court, containing the original wills of all persons leaving effects within the immense province of Canterbury, for three whole centuries, should be an accidental building, never designed for the purpose, leased by the registrars for their Own private emolument, unsafe, not even ascertained to be fire-proof, choked with the important documents it held, and positively, from the roof to the basement, a mercenary speculation of the registrars, who took great fees from the public, and crammed the public's wills away anyhow and anywhere, having no other object than to get rid of them cheaply. That, perhaps, it was a little unreasonable that these registrars in the receipt of profits amounting to eight or nine thousand pounds a year (to say nothing of the profits of the deputy registrars, and clerks of seats), should not be obliged to spend a little of that money, in finding a reasonably safe place for the important documents which all classes of people were compelled to hand over to them, whether they would or no. That, perhaps, it was a little unjust, that all the great offices in this great office should be magnificent sinecures, while the unfortunate working-clerks in the cold dark room upstairs were the worst rewarded, and the least considered men, doing important services, in London. That perhaps it was a little indecent that the principal registrar of all, whose duty it was to find the public, constantly resorting to this place, all needful accommodation, should be an enormous sinecurist in virtue of that post (and might be, besides, a clergyman, a pluralist, the holder of a staff in a cathedral, and what not), - while the public was put to the inconvenience of which we had a specimen every afternoon when the office was busy, and which we knew to be quite monstrous. That, perhaps,


off the Radley property. Besides, it's dangerous. You might get shot. You know Mr. Nathan shoots at every shadow he sees, even shadows that leave size-four bare footprints. You were lucky not to be killed." I hushed then and there. At the same time I marveled at Atticus. This was the first he had let us know he knew a lot more about something than we thought he knew. And it had happened years ago. No, only last summer- no, summer before last, when... time was playing tricks on me. I must remember to ask Jem. So many things had happened to us, Boo Radley was the least of our fears. Atticus said he didn't see how anything else could happen, that things had a way of settling down, and after enough time passed people would forget that Tom Robinson's existence was ever brought to their attention. Perhaps Atticus was right, but the events of the summer hung over us like smoke in a closed room. The adults in Maycomb never discussed the case with Jem and me; it seemed that they discussed it with their children, and their attitude must have been that neither of us could help having Atticus for a parent, so their children must be nice to us in spite of him. The children would never have thought that up for themselves: had our classmates been left to their own devices, Jem and I would have had several swift, satisfying fist-fights apiece and ended the matter for good. As it was, we were compelled to hold our heads high and be, respectively, a gentleman and a lady. In a way, it was like the era of Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose, without all her yelling. There was one odd thing, though, that I never understood: in spite of Atticus's shortcomings as a parent, people were content to re-elect him to the state legislature that year, as usual, without opposition. I came to the conclusion that people were just peculiar, I withdrew from them, and never thought about them until I was forced to. I was forced to one day in school. Once a week, we had a Current Events period. Each child was supposed to clip an item from a newspaper, absorb its contents, and reveal them to the class. This practice allegedly overcame a variety of evils: standing in front of his fellows encouraged good posture and gave a child poise; delivering a short talk made him word-conscious; learning his current event strengthened his memory; being singled out made him more than ever anxious to return to the Group. The idea was profound, but as usual, in Maycomb it didn't work very well. In the first place, few rural children had access to newspapers, so the burden of Current Events was borne by the town children, convincing the bus children more deeply that the town children got all the attention anyway. The rural children who could, usually brought clippings from what they called The Grit Paper, a publication spurious in the eyes of Miss Gates, our teacher. Why


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

strode out of the clearing. It was almost dark now, but Harry could see Quirrell, standing quite still as though he was petrified. *** "Harry, where have you been?" Hermione squeaked. "We won! You won! We won!" shouted Ron, thumping Harry on the back. "And I gave Malfoy a black eye, and Neville tried to take on Crabbe and Goyle single-handed! He's still out cold but Madam Pomfrey says he'll be all right -- talk about showing Slytherin! Everyone's waiting for you in the common room, we're having a party, Fred and George stole some cakes and stuff from the kitchens." "Never mind that now," said Harry breathlessly. "Let's find an empty room, you wait 'til you hear this..." He made sure Peeves wasn't inside before shutting the door behind them, then he told them what he'd seen and heard. "So we were right, it is the Sorcerer's Stone, and Snape's trying to force Quirrell to help him get it. He asked if he knew how to get past Fluffy -- and he said something about Quirrell's 'hocus pocus' -- I reckon there are other things guarding the stone apart from Fluffy, loads of enchantments, probably, and Quirrell would have done some anti-Dark Arts spell that Snape needs to break through -- " "So you mean the Stone's only safe as long as Quirrell stands up to Snape?" said Hermione in alarm. "It'll be gone by next Tuesday," said Ron. CHAPTER FOURTEEN -- NORBERT THE NORWEGIAN RIDGEBACK Quirrell, however, must have been braver than they'd thought. In the weeks that followed he did seem to be getting paler and thinner, but it didn't look as though he'd cracked yet. Every time they passed the third-floor corridor, Harry, Ron, and Hermione would press their ears to the door to check that Fluffy was still growling inside. Snape was sweeping about in his usual bad temper, which surely meant that the Stone was still safe. Whenever Harry passed Quirrell these days he gave him an encouraging sort of smile, and Ron had started telling people off for laughing at Quirrell's stutter. Hermione, however, had more on her mind than the Sorcerer's Stone. She had started drawing up study schedules and colorcoding all her notes. Harry and Ron wouldn't have minded, but she kept nagging them to do the same. "Hermione, the exams are ages away." "Ten weeks," Hermione snapped. "That's not ages, that's like a second to Nicolas Flamel." "But we're not six hundred years old," Ron reminded her. "Anyway, what are you studying for, you already know it A." "What am I studying for? Are you crazy? You realize we need to pass these exams to get into the second year? They're very important, I should have started studying a month ago, I don't know what's gotten into me..." Unfortunately, the teachers seemed to be thinking along the same lines as Hermione. They piled so much homework on them that the Easter holidays weren't nearly as much fun as the Christmas ones. It was hard to relax with Hermione next to you reciting


slumped against the pecan tree, and she felt like she saw his head move, tracking her, but she couldn’t be sure. She trudged across the dirt, rain hissing down hard, making lakes. Poppy came into view, Pupkin still on her arm, resting in her lap. When Louise got closer, Pupkin weakly raised his head. The rain had started dissolving the papier-mâché of his face, making it gummy, peeling it, one layer at a time. He grinned at Louise as the black ink around his eyes ran down his cheeks like mascara. Louise dropped the trunk between them, then fell to her knees. She hunted blindly until she found one latch and opened it, gritty with rust and dirt. Then she found the second, the third, and finally she grabbed the lid with both hands and forced it back. Inside lay a child’s body, curled around itself. Bones, mostly, but scraps of skin clung to its cheeks and wrists, along with some wisps of pale hair that the rain immediately plastered to its open-mouthed skull, his small hands drawn up and folded delicately beneath his chin, a little boy in faded blue jeans and—this is what stabbed Louise through the heart—a red sweater. his mother hadn’t wanted him to be cold “It’s you,” Louise shouted through the rain at Pupkin. “It’s you, Freddie.” Pupkin turned his face from the body of the little boy to Louise, then back to the case. The rain beat down on them like clubs. Black paint dripped from Pupkin’s chin as his features blurred and disappeared. “You have to go now, Pupkin,” Louise said. “It’s time to go home.” Pupkin shivered on the end of Poppy’s arm, a sad, peeling wet thing, looking at his own corpse. “Pupkin no go,” he said. “Pupkin stay and play and play . . .” “There’s no one left,” Louise said. “They’re all gone.” “Pupkin real! Pupkin alive!” he cheered. “No,” Louise said, too exhausted to say more. “Why?!” Pupkin howled. “Because when your body gets hurt very, very badly, it stops working, and you die, and that means you go away forever. And that’s what’s happened to you.” “No . . .” Pupkin whined. “Not fair . . .” “No,” Louise agreed. “Not fair.” The ruined, melting face of Pupkin turned itself to her on the end of Poppy’s arm. “Why?” he asked again, and it was a child’s voice, lost, with no way home. In that moment Louise thought of The Velveteen Rabbit and she knew why she had always hated it. Being loved didn’t mean you were alive. People loved lots of inanimate things: stuffed animals, cars, puppets. Being alive meant something else. “Because you’re real, Pupkin,” Louise said. “And nothing real can last forever. That’s how you know you’re real. Because one day you die.” Rain smashed down on the three of them sitting in the mud. Finally, Pupkin spoke in a voice so small Louise almost didn’t hear him over the rain. “I’m scared,” he said. Louise dragged herself around the trunk and through the cold puddle


along,” says Andy, looking like Nick’s bailed him out of jail. He springs out from behind his enormous new desk in his enormous new office. Nick raises an eyebrow. Andy isn’t even pretending not to hate his new job. “Shut up,” Andy mutters. “And put that eyebrow away.” It’s raining when they get downstairs. The past few days were sunny and about as warm as April can get in New York, so this weather feels like a slap in the face, a lesson that nobody should get too comfortable. Andy opens his umbrella and sighs. “I’m betting that if I suggest a cab, you’re going to laugh in my face.” “No cabs in weather like this. Besides, the subway will get us there twice as fast.” Nick turns up the collar of his coat and makes for the subway entrance. The subway station is wet and muggy, with filthy-looking puddles littering the floor and drips coming from improbable places on the ceiling. It’s the sort of day when nobody even looks at one another. It feels like everyone’s mood is brittle, liable to snap at the slightest provocation. When the train arrives, the car is half empty, so they keep a seat’s worth of space between them. That empty eighteen inches of rattan is taunting Nick, as bad as the suddenly shitty weather or everyone’s shitty mood or the shitty arsonist. Nick hates that empty seat. It feels unnatural to go from touching someone constantly every evening to acting like touching that person is the furthest thing from his mind. Every night that week, they’ve fooled around—kissing, hands over the clothes, orgasms tacitly off the table. Nick has never done anything like it; he’s never been with anyone without getting off being the mutual and immediate goal. But Andy seems to have done plenty of it. He has this way of slowing down once things get too heated: he pulls back a few inches, puts his hands someplace respectable, makes his kisses shallow and soft, so that by the time they separate Nick isn’t even too frustrated. After all that, they go to sleep in their separate beds. When they wake up, they go through their regular morning routine, except with approximately five thousand percent more touching: a hand on the other’s back when passing in the bathroom, a kiss on the crown of the head when handing over a cup of coffee. Mostly chaste, sweet touches that Nick wants to hold in his hands and store someplace safe. And then they leave the apartment and turn all that off like a switch. Which is fine. Everybody does that. Nobody gropes one another on the street. Except Nick feels too aware of Andy’s presence a few feet away. It’s all he can think about; he doesn’t dare turn his head because he’s afraid that everyone on the train will know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s more careful about preserving space between them and keeping his hands to himself than he’d even be with a stranger. The address Jorgensen gave them is just


hand, he looked at the fire, he looked about the room, he gasped rather than smiled at me, he writhed and undulated about, in his deferential servility, he stirred and sipped again, but he left the renewal of the conversation to me. 'So, Mr. Wickfield,' said I, at last, 'who is worth five hundred of you - or me'; for my life, I think, I could not have helped dividing that part of the sentence with an awkward jerk; 'has been imprudent, has he, Mr. Heep?' 'Oh, very imprudent indeed, Master Copperfield,' returned Uriah, sighing modestly. 'Oh, very much so! But I wish you'd call me Uriah, if you please. It's like old times.' 'Well! Uriah,' said I, bolting it out with some difficulty. 'Thank you,' he returned, with fervour. 'Thank you, Master Copperfield! It's like the blowing of old breezes or the ringing of old bellses to hear YOU say Uriah. I beg your pardon. Was I making any observation?' 'About Mr. Wickfield,' I suggested. 'Oh! Yes, truly,' said Uriah. 'Ah! Great imprudence, Master Copperfield. It's a topic that I wouldn't touch upon, to any soul but you. Even to you I can only touch upon it, and no more. If anyone else had been in my place during the last few years, by this time he would have had Mr. Wickfield (oh, what a worthy man he is, Master Copperfield, too!) under his thumb. Un--der--his thumb,' said Uriah, very slowly, as he stretched out his cruel-looking hand above my table, and pressed his own thumb upon it, until it shook, and shook the room. If I had been obliged to look at him with him splay foot on Mr. Wickfield's head, I think I could scarcely have hated him more. 'Oh, dear, yes, Master Copperfield,' he proceeded, in a soft voice, most remarkably contrasting with the action of his thumb, which did not diminish its hard pressure in the least degree, 'there's no doubt of it. There would have been loss, disgrace, I don't know what at all. Mr. Wickfield knows it. I am the umble instrument of umbly serving him, and he puts me on an eminence I hardly could have hoped to reach. How thankful should I be!' With his face turned towards me, as he finished, but without looking at me, he took his crooked thumb off the spot where he had planted it, and slowly and thoughtfully scraped his lank jaw with it, as if he were shaving himself. I recollect well how indignantly my heart beat, as I saw his crafty face, with the appropriately red light of the fire upon it, preparing for something else. 'Master Copperfield,' he began - 'but am I keeping you up?' 'You are not keeping me up. I generally go to bed late.' 'Thank you, Master Copperfield! I have risen from my umble station since first you used to address me, it is true; but I am umble still. I hope I never shall be otherwise than umble. You will not think the worse of my umbleness, if I


behind, was looking about himself as if being bothered by a rambunctious fly. Then I saw the slightest glimmer of fairy dust and knew it must be Tina. For a fleeting second, I wondered if they had patched up their differences, then chastised myself for losing track of what was important here. “How long before you can get it over to Adams?” Hardy stopped being annoying long enough to look at me over Coogong’s helmet. Coogong said, “Two assumptions I had made concerning the QFR were wrong, and I apologize, Captain.” “Just tell me. Pull the Band-Aid off quick.” Coogong blinked back at me. “Just tell me.” “First of all, the QFR is not a separate, standalone device that the Lincoln crew had been working on. The technology, which I must say is quite ingenious, has been integrated into the ship’s entire E & P department.” I let out a breath, dragged a palm down my face, and let that sink in. “And the second wrong assumption you made?” “I, we, had been working under the assumption that the QFR would nullify the enemy’s quantum flux signals throughout local space. That once it was operational, Adams, Wrath, and Portent would all be freed from the Liquilids’ clutches …” “And?” I said, forcing myself not to look at Hardy and Tina in the background. Damn, that robot was annoying. “From what I have determined thus far, the QFR will operate in conjunction with Lincoln’s shields, creating a virtual bubble around the vessel. That is how it nullifies the quantum flux signals.” I shook my head, not knowing how to respond to that. Hardy piped up, “It makes perfect sense, Cap … Lincoln was here alone. There was no need to think in terms of saving other ships.” In a blur of motion, Hardy jabbed a hand into the air, catching Tina with a clenched fist. I winced, wondering if the tiny fairy could possibly have survived. Hardy himself looked momentarily concerned. As he slowly opened his catcher’s mitt–sized hand, Tina rocketed away, once again resuming her incessant circling around the ChronoBot’s head. Feeling the weight of what I was about to say, I hesitated. “If any of us are to leave here, it’ll have to be onboard Lincoln.” Coogong nodded. “Well … that’s only if we can get the QFR to actually work,” Hardy said. “Based on the simple fact Lincoln is still sitting here, that’s a big fat if.” “Coogong, are you confident you can make it operational?” I asked. “Yes, Captain. The issue is not so much if I can, but how long it will take me.” “Then we will need to work in parallel. You and Hardy stay on track over there working on the QFR, and the rest of us will work on finding the enemy’s flux generator and destroying it.” “Yes, Captain. Then I’d best get back to it.” “I want updates on your progress every hour.” Ten minutes later I was still sitting within the darkened confines of Adams’ captain’s ready room. The wood-paneled bulkheads and dimmed


come out?” “Me, dat’s who. Ah’m in heah, ain’t Ah? If you don’t Their Eyes Were Watching God 177 want tuh respect nice people lak Mrs. Turner, God knows you gointuh respect me! Come on outa heah, Coodemay.” “Turn him loose, Tea Cake!” Sterrett shouted. “Dat’s mah buddy. Us come in heah together and he ain’t goin’ nowhere until Ah go mahself.” “Well, both of yuh is goin’!” Tea Cake shouted and fas- tened down on Coodemay. Dockery grabbed Sterrett and they wrassled all over the place. Some more joined in and dishes and tables began to crash. Mrs. Turner saw with dismay that Tea Cake’s taking them out was worse than letting them stay in. She ran out in the back somewhere and got her husband to put a stop to things. He came in, took a look and squinched down into a chair in an off corner and didn’t open his mouth. So Mrs. Turner struggled into the mass and caught Tea Cake by the arm. “Dat’s all right, Tea Cake, Ah ’preciate yo’ help, but leave ’em alone.” “Naw suh, Mis’ Turner, Ah’m gointuh show ’em dey can’t come runnin’ over nice people and loud-talk no place whilst Ah’m around. Dey goin’ outa heah!” By that time everybody in and around the place was tak- ing sides. Somehow or other Mrs. Turner fell down and nobody knew she was down there under all the fighting, and broken dishes and crippled up tables and broken-off chair legs and window panes and such things. It got so that the floor was knee-deep with something no matter where you put your foot down. But Tea Cake kept right on until Cood- emay told him, “Ah’m wrong. Ah’m wrong! Y’all tried tuh 178 Zora Neale Hurston tell me right and Ah wouldn’t lissen. Ah ain’t mad wid nobody. Just tuh show y’all Ah ain’t mad, me and Sterrett gointuh buy everybody somethin’ tuh drink. Ole man Vick- ers got some good coondick over round Pahokee. Come on everybody. Let’s go git our knots charged.” Everybody got in a good humor and left. Mrs. Turner got up off the floor hollering for the police. Look at her place! How come nobody didn’t call the police? Then she found out that one of her hands was all stepped on and her fingers were bleeding pretty peart. Two or three peo- ple who were not there during the fracas poked their heads in at the door to sympathize but that made Mrs. Turner madder. She told them where to go in a hurry. Then she saw her hus- band sitting over there in the corner with his long bony legs all crossed up smoking his pipe. “What kinda man is you, Turner? You see dese no count niggers come in heah and break up mah place! How kin you set and see yo’ wife all trompled on? You ain’t no kinda man at all. You seen dat Tea Cake shove me down! Yes you did! You ain’t raised yo’ hand tuh do nothin’ about it.” Turner


the periphery of the metropolis, within a time limit of not more than 15 minutes from tram or train line (e.g., Dundrum, south, or Sutton, north, both localities equally reported by trial to resemble the terrestrial poles in being favourable climates for phthisical subjects), the premises to be held under feefarm grant, lease 999 years, the messuage to consist of 1 drawingroom with baywindow (2 lancets), thermometer affixed, 1 sittingroom, 4 bedrooms, 2 servants' rooms, tiled kitchen with close range and scullery, lounge hall fitted with linen wallpresses, fumed oak sectional bookcase containing the Encyclopaedia Britannica and New Century Dictionary, transverse obsolete medieval and oriental weapons, dinner gong, alabaster lamp, bowl pendant, vulcanite automatic telephone receiver with adjacent directory, handtufted Axminster carpet with cream ground and trellis border, loo table with pillar and claw legs, hearth with massive firebrasses and ormolu mantel chronometer clock, guaranteed timekeeper with cathedral chime, barometer with hygrographic chart, comfortable lounge settees and corner fitments, upholstered in ruby plush with good springing and sunk centre, three banner Japanese screen and cuspidors (club style, rich winecoloured leather, gloss renewable with a minimum of labour by use of linseed oil and vinegar) and pyramidically prismatic central chandelier lustre, bentwood perch with fingertame parrot (expurgated language), embossed mural paper at 10/- per dozen with transverse swags of carmine floral design and top crown frieze, staircase, three continuous flights at successive right angles, of varnished cleargrained oak, treads and risers, newel, balusters and handrail, with steppedup panel dado, dressed with camphorated wax: bathroom, hot and cold supply, reclining and shower: water closet on mezzanine provided with opaque singlepane oblong window, tipup seat, bracket lamp, brass tierod and brace, armrests, footstool and artistic oleograph on inner face of door: ditto, plain: servants' apartments with separate sanitary and hygienic necessaries for cook, general and betweenmaid (salary, rising by biennial unearned increments of 2 pounds, with comprehensive fidelity insurance, annual bonus (1 pound) and retiring allowance (based on the 65 system) after 30 years' service), pantry, buttery, larder, refrigerator, outoffices, coal and wood cellarage with winebin (still and sparkling vintages) for distinguished guests, if entertained to dinner (evening dress), carbon monoxide gas supply throughout. What additional attractions might the grounds contain? As addenda, a tennis and fives court, a shrubbery, a glass summerhouse with tropical palms, equipped in the best botanical manner, a rockery with waterspray, a beehive arranged on humane principles, oval flowerbeds in rectangular grassplots set with eccentric ellipses of scarlet and chrome tulips, blue scillas, crocuses, polyanthus, sweet William, sweet pea, lily of the valley (bulbs obtainable from sir James W. Mackey (Limited) wholesale and retail seed and bulb merchants and nurserymen, agents for chemical manures, 23 Sackville street, upper), an orchard, kitchen garden and vinery protected against illegal trespassers by glasstopped mural enclosures, a lumbershed with padlock for various inventoried implements. As? Eeltraps, lobsterpots, fishingrods, hatchet, steelyard, grindstone, clodcrusher, swatheturner, carriagesack, telescope ladder, 10 tooth rake, washing clogs, haytedder, tumbling rake, billhook, paintpot, brush, hoe and so on. What improvements might be subsequently introduced? A rabbitry and fowlrun, a dovecote, a


when she first set out. Ekwefi had a feeling of spacious openness, and she guessed they must be on the village ilo, or playground. And she realised too with something like a jerk that Chielo was no longer moving forward. She was, in fact, returning. Ekwefi quickly moved away from her line of retreat. Chielo passed by, and they began to go back the way they had come. It was a long and weary journey and Ekwefi felt like a sleepwalker most of the way. The moon was definitely rising, and although it had not yet appeared on the sky its light had already melted down the darkness. Ekwefi could now discern the figure of the priestess and her burden. She slowed down her pace so as to increase the distance between them. She was afraid of what might happen if Chielo suddenly turned round and saw her. She had prayed for the moon to rise. But now she found the half-light of the incipient moon more terrifying than darkness. The world was now peopled with vague, fantastic figures that dissolved under her steady gaze and then formed again in new shapes. At one stage Ekwefi was so afraid that she nearly called out to Chielo for companionship and human sympathy. What she had seen was the shape of a man climbing a palm tree, his head pointing to the earth and his legs skywards. But at that very moment Chielo's voice rose again in her possessed chanting, and Ekwefi recoiled, because there was no humanity there. It was not the same Chielo who sat with her in the market and sometimes bought beancakes for Ezinma, whom she called her daughter. It was a different woman--the priestess of Agbala, the Oracle of the Hills and Caves. Ekwefi trudged along between two fears. The sound of her benumbed steps seemed to come from some other person walking behind her. Her arms were folded across her bare breasts. Dew fell heavily and the air was cold. She could no longer think, not even about the terrors of night. She just jogged along in a half-sleep, only waking to full life when Chielo sang. At last they took a turning and began to head for the caves. From then on, Chielo never ceased in her chanting. She greeted her god in a multitude of names--the owner of the future, the messenger of earth, the god who cut a man down when his life was sweetest to him. Ekwefi was also awakened and her benumbed fears revived. The moon was now up and she could see Chielo and Ezinma clearly. How a woman could carry a child of that size so easily and for so long was a miracle. But Ekwefi was not thinking about that. Chielo was not a woman that night. "Agbala do-o-o-o! Agbala ekeneo-o-o-o! Chi negbu madu ubosi ndu ya nato ya uto daluo-o-o!..." Ekwefi could already see the hills looming in the moonlight. They formed a circular ring with a break at one point through which the foot-track led to the centre


had only ever beseeched her like this once, when Tunuva had sunk to the lowest point of her grief, into a night that had never ended. All she had wanted was for it to end. Please, Tuva, fight. Esbar had knelt in front of her and gripped her face, tears in her eyes. Fight your way back to me, my love, or I must go with you into the dark. I will not leave you in the dark . . . ‘I need this,’ Tunuva said. Tears flowed down her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t let him slip away.’ Esbar had never looked so empty, so bleak, as she did in that moment. ‘I see that I can’t stop you. Your heart is set on this, as mine is set on fighting for the Priory.’ She turned away. ‘Let the outsider lead you on a hopeless chase. I have warned you against it. When you realise it was all for nothing, and it shatters your heart again, I will be waiting here, with our family – to remind you what you had, and what you decided was not enough.’ 60 West The promise of spring was thawing the frost. In another, softer time, Wulf would have savoured being in Inys to see it. He would have watched the green return to the trees and bluebells freckle the haithwood. He would have picked parsley and garlic with Mara while the birds threaded their nests. He might have joined his father for a lambing, as he had as a child. Not this year. All was hushed in the Lakes, as if even the birds could sense the danger, which they likely could. So far, there seemed to be no sign of plague. Summerport was closed by order of the Lord Protector. Not wanting to risk the causeway again, they had ridden first to Merroworth, where some ships were still permitted to fish and coast in Inysh waters, though not beyond. A karve had taken them past the Fens, to the port of Queens’ Lynn. Now they approached the haithwood, and the manor at its threshold. That forest had always struck trepidation into Wulf. Today, it filled him with burning resolve. ‘Very quaint,’ Thrit observed as the three of them reached Langarth. ‘The chimneys are smoking, at least.’ ‘Doesn’t mean Father is home.’ Wulf dismounted. ‘The servants keep the fires burning.’ ‘Must’ve been strenuous, roughing it with the Hróthi churls when you had servants, Lord Wulfert.’ ‘Ah, quit your jawing.’ ‘On that note, how do I address your father?’ Thrit said with interest. ‘He’s Lord Edrick, or Baron Glenn,’ Mara said. ‘And Pa is Lord Mansell.’ ‘And your brother, the heir?’ ‘Roland. Master Roland, if you want to be courteous, but Rollo isn’t one for airs or graces.’ ‘So he’s not a lord, but Helisent Beck – the heir to Goldenbirch – is a lady. How so?’ ‘Lady Helisent is the only child of an earl. Our father is a baron, a lower rank. None of his children receive titles.’ Thrit nodded sagely. ‘In Hróth


that.” Porter makes a note on a little pad of paper he keeps in his pocket. I smile. Besides the fact that I like Porter as a person, he’s probably the best hire we’ve ever made. He made a point to study the camp inside and out, especially the trails, and he knows them better than any of us, which is helpful when you’re trying to organize a game that takes place over all the acreage the camp sits on. Porter and I finish up our check of the hatch and head to the office by the main entrance. As we pass Mirror Lake, I catch a glimpse of Tasha standing on the dock, peering down into the water. She’s holding the pool skimmer we use to fish dead animals out of the lake. “Tasha!” I yell. “You good?” She glances back and grins. “Yeah! Just thought I heard something. Thought it was a opossum or something that fell in.” “Is it?” I ask. “Can you tell?” I recall hearing the splash in the lake, and now I’m worried we’re gonna have a bunch of dead forest animals bobbing in the murky water. “Not really,” she says. “It’s hard to see, though. I think there’s something down there, but the skimmer’s too short. Poor thing, whatever it is.” She shakes her head, then catches a glimpse of Porter. “I see you, Porter! Your little hoochie-daddy shorts are real cute! You looking for a boyfriend out in these woods?” Porter sticks out his leg, flexes his chiseled thigh, and grins. “I was tryna get Javier, but I think he’s still stuck on you,” Porter calls back. Tasha laughs. She and Javier have been flirting so much, it’s actually a little annoying. Like, hook up or knock it off. As I scan the rocky shore of Mirror Lake, I catch a glimpse of something reflecting the early-morning sun. I jog over and scoop it up. It’s a key chain with two keys attached and a little chain that says, Town of Groton, Estd. 1817, in flaking white letters. Porter joins me and peers over my shoulder. “More keys?” I nod and shove them in my pocket. Porter and I go into the main office to find a group of four people crowding the desk as a bewildered-looking Kyle flips through the reservation book while seated on a low stool. “I just—what was your name again?” he asks, clearly flustered. One girl with a long, dark braid down her back rolls her eyes and sticks out her neck. “Kennedy. K-E-N-N—” “I know how to spell it,” Kyle says. “Thanks.” I slide behind the desk and gently take the reservation book from him. He squeezes my shoulder and pushes the stool back from the counter. He starts to stand up, but I gently push him back down. He gives me a nod, and I turn my attention back to the woman on the other side of the desk. “Reservation for Kennedy,” I say, finding the name scrawled halfway down the page. “Four players. You’ll be at


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

me everywhere I went, so that I was endlessly spinning and leaping and dodging his sword, and generally making myself ridiculous. I tried to throw my own magic at him, but the sword swallowed it. Of course it was no ordinary enchanted sword—it was enchantment, a powerful one at that, probably honed through all the years he’d been alive, just my luck. “Wendell!” you were yelling, trying for some ungodly reason to get my attention as I dodged and weaved, as if I needed another thing to think about. “Wendell, what do you need?” I think I replied something ungracious about shutting up; it’s all a bit hazy. I managed to get an ordinary blow in when the faerie was looking for me in a hazel tree I’d summoned—I was summoning all sorts of trees and shrubberies, more to distract him than anything else, and the icy mountainside was beginning to look like the domain of some mad hedgewitch. My hand still stings from that blow as I write this; it was like punching solid ice. You just kept yelling, though. “Think of the stories, Wendell—there’s always a loophole, a door! I can find it, if you’d just tell me what you need!” “A sword!” I shouted back, half hysterical at this point and not thinking for a second that you’d actually pull a sword out of the snow. I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to blast a hole in time itself to get rid of this bloody iceman; and oh, what a mess that would be to clean up. It’s not something I’ve done before, so who knows, I might’ve blasted myself to pieces in the process, leaving you to put me together again, which I’ve no doubt you would have managed with perfect detachment. The next time I took notice of you, you were sobbing all over the snow. Well, I thought, finally she’s being sensible. Then I realized that you were sobbing because you’d stabbed yourself in the arm, and not out of concern for my imminent demise. I noticed that your tears were freezing as they hit the icy ground and collecting into the shape of a sword. Well, that almost killed me. I mean that—I froze for a full second, during which our yeti friend nearly skewered me through. I dodged, barely, my head whirling. One day I would like for you to explain to me how you heard of the story of Deirdre and her faerie husband, a long-ago king, which is one of the oldest tales in my realm. Do mortals tell it as we do? When the king’s murderous sons schemed to steal his kingdom by starving it into torpor with endless winter, Deirdre collected the tears of his dying people and froze them into a sword, with which he was finally able to slay his children. It is a tale many of my own people have forgotten—I know it only because that poor, witless king is my ancestor. I felt the story in my blood and let my magic flow into


And that was when it struck her. Iris didn’t want time off, but neither did she want to be at the Gazette. The career she had dreamt of suddenly paled in comparison to other things in her life. Her only family was in the west now, where the war raged. She wanted to find her brother. “No, sir. I’m turning in my resignation,” she said, rising. Roman shifted beside her. “What? No, Mr. Autry, I—” Zeb ignored his newly appointed columnist, and sputtered, “Your resignation? You want to quit on me, Winnow? Just like that?” She hated the way he made it sound. Like she was giving up. But now that she had voiced the words, a weight slipped off her shoulders. She was going to find Forest. “Yes, sir. It’s time for me to move on,” she said and pivoted to Roman, extending her hand to him. “Congratulations, Kitt.” He merely stared up at her, his blue eyes smoldering like flames. She was awkwardly retracting her hand when his finally rose to meet it, and his grip was firm and warm. It sent a shock up her forearm, as if the two of them had created static, and she was relieved when he finally let her go. “If you’re quitting, then go ahead and leave, Winnow,” Zeb said with a flick of his stubby fingers. “I don’t need you anymore. But if you walk out that door, don’t expect to ever be hired again.” “Listen, Mr. Autry.” Roman’s voice was brisk. “I don’t think—” Iris didn’t hear the rest of what he said. She quit the office, found a wooden crate in the kitchen, and went to her desk to pack up her things. She didn’t have much. A small potted plant, a few of her favorite pencils and pens, a small figurine of a running horse, some grammar books, a tattered dictionary. “Winnow.” Sarah approached her with a worried expression. “You’re not…” “I’m resigning, Prindle.” “But why? Where will you go?” “I’m not sure yet. But it’s time for me to leave.” Sarah sagged, glasses flashing on her nose. “I’ll miss you.” Iris found one last smile to give her. “I’ll miss you too. Perhaps one day I’ll find you at a museum?” Sarah blushed but glanced down at her feet, as if that dream of hers was still too distant to grasp. One by one, the desks around Iris fell quiet and still. One by one, she drew every eye in the room, until the Oath Gazette came to a halt. Zeb was the one to break the silence. He walked to her with a cigarette clamped in his yellow teeth, a frown on his face, and a wad of bills in his hand. “Your last paycheck,” he said. “Thank you.” She accepted the money and tucked it into her inner coat pocket. She gathered up her crate, turned off her lamp, gently touched the keys of her typewriter one last time, and began to walk down the aisle. Roman wasn’t at his desk. Iris didn’t know where he


with sparkling wit and joie de vivre (also: find YouTube tutorials on sparkling wit and joie de vivre). Secure training position with Sharma & Moncrieff. Sharma & Moncrieff is the second-best corporate law firm in the East Midlands. My dad’s is the first, but that will change when I rise as a giant in the field and Luke Skywalker his arse with the spiked heel of my Louboutin. It’s going to be epic. Boardrooms will crumble. Empires will fall! He’ll— Oh, sorry, back to the point: clearly, a broken wrist is absolutely nowhere in my plan. I should sue Bradley for this because he definitely did it on purpose. I mean, I know I’m a hefty babe, but he’s supposed to be some kind of super sportsman and his biceps are the size of grapefruits. He had me. He did. And then he didn’t. Plus, I landed harder than I would’ve without his oh-so-helpful momentary pawing of my T-shirt because I was too stunned by his audacity to concentrate on falling well. In short, I would be well within my rights to demand blood. Or his firstborn. Or whatever I wanted, really, except his integrity, because he doesn’t have any. Giselle unfolds a never-ending arm and presses her finger between my eyebrows. “Stop scowling, baby. Or the wind will change, and you’ll be stuck like that.” “Good. It would suit my personality.” She rolls onto her back and laughs at the ceiling. My sister is twenty-four—seven years older than me—and when I was a kid, I wanted to be her. Maybe that’s why, even now, whenever she laughs, I do too. We’re still giggling when someone knocks on my door. I wait a second for Mum to breeze in without permission, plonk herself on the bed, and steal my phone to scroll through TikTok. When that doesn’t happen, I frown in confusion and Giselle grins in response. “Oh yeah. Forgot to mention: Bradley’s here.” “What?” It’s supposed to come out frosty and disgusted, but I accidentally squawk like a bird. Giselle snickers and taps my forehead again. “Deep breaths, Cel.” Then she gets up and saunters to the door. I don’t quite believe her until it swings open and, yep, Bradley’s standing right there. I haven’t seen him framed by my doorway in…years. He looks different but the same: taller and older, sure, but wide-eyed and nervous like he used to be. My bedroom lamp is weak and warm, so he’s mostly shadow. Shadowed expression, except for the gleam of his dark eyes; shadowed hands, clutching and releasing the strap of the satchel over his shoulder. Maybe he’s not Bradley at all. Maybe he’s something strange and familiar that crawled out of the past. But, you know. Probably not. We stare at each other for a second in what seems to be mutual shock, although I’m not sure what he’s shocked about since he presumably carried himself over here on his own two legs. Then Giselle flicks him on the head and says, “Brad,” as she leaves, and he jolts like a


are red—she must have been crying. “She is only fourteen.” She is a Spartan. If I have made her a murderess, then what of Father, who ordered her to break Chrysanthe’s face? What of the priestess, who cut her back with a whip? As if reading her mind, Tyndareus shifts on his throne. “Timandra is strong enough to bear the burden. But those slaves were following orders, Clytemnestra. Those lives weren’t yours to take.” A scream in her head is clawing to get out. She spits each word as if it were poison. “You sit there, telling me about lives that were wrongly taken, after you helped a monster murder your grandchild.” “Agamemnon and Menelaus are our guests.” Tyndareus’s voice is flat. “They must be treated with respect.” “They showed no respect to us,” replies Leda. She raises her eyes and meets her daughter’s. Clytemnestra tries to understand whose side Leda has taken. “Agamemnon has shown disrespect to a foreign man, not to us,” Tyndareus says. “He is Greek, and this makes him an ally.” “He slaughtered your grandson!” Clytemnestra shouts. Tyndareus looks down at his hands. When he speaks, his voice shakes slightly. “I wanted to keep the baby alive.” This, for Clytemnestra, is even worse than his coldness. Does he expect her to forgive him now? Did he expect the Atreidai to keep their word? “You are a king,” she says sharply. “If you want something, you demand it.” “You are young still,” Tyndareus says, “and do not understand that sometimes you have to compromise. It is my fault; I have failed to teach you this. I have always given you too much freedom.” “I do not need you to give me my freedom,” Clytemnestra says. “I am free. But you are not. You are Agamemnon’s puppet now, because you are weak.” “Your husband was weak,” Tyndareus replies coolly. “Tantalus was a good man, a kind man. But you can’t see that, because in your world, only the brutes can live, and they do so by tearing down everything else.” “That is how life is. The weak have to die so that the rest may survive.” “You disgust me,” she says. Tyndareus stands and slaps her face before she can back away. She feels her father’s scar on the back of his hand scratch her cheek. She looks up into Tyndareus’s eyes and sneers. “What kind of father are you?” She turns to her mother, seated in her chair with her head lowered. “And you do not fight him. You forgive him. You are no better.” “There are laws to be respected,” Leda says quietly. “You don’t seek vengeance because you have become a coward,” Clytemnestra says. Her hands are trembling, and she clutches them tightly. “But know this. I will have my justice. I swear it here and now. I swear it by the Furies and every other goddess who has known vengeance. I will stalk the Atreidai and crush everything they hold dear until only ashes remain.” “You will avenge nothing,” Tyndareus says. “What would you have me


chemistry between us. But chemistry isn’t love. Regardless, I have a sickening feeling that Lanier is not going to be okay when Huff and I tell her about us. “I was lying in bed last night,” Huff continues, “picturing our future kids thinking they have two daddies because Steven still spends weekends with us.” I laugh before I realize he isn’t kidding. “But, honey, a lot of this will work itself out. I mean, obviously Steven will always be a huge part of our life.” “Of course he will,” Huff says. “I want Henry’s dad to be there for him as much as he can. It’s just, the whole all-living-under-one-roof thing… You two are so… connected.” “But that will pass. Steven will find someone, have another family.” “You’re joking, right?” “Joking about what?” “Steven will never find another family. He has the perfect situation. Most of the time, he does his surfer/pilot thing and sleeps with anyone he wants and then he gets to come to you and play house.” I am taken aback. “So that’s the perfect situation? Is that what you want? To sleep with anyone you want and play house with me occasionally?” Huff tosses the piece of grass in his fingers. “No, Daphne. That’s not what I want. I want all of you. I just don’t want to share you with him.” I shouldn’t be shocked by this. Huff has always wanted me all to himself. But it makes me nervous. I get not wanting to share me with Steven. And, when I really think about it, we do have a flirty dynamic that, roles reversed, would drive me crazy. But it isn’t so much lust as it is a deep comfort level, a love that has grown out of a life-changing experience we shared. I can see why that bothers Huff. But he also can’t be this possessive over me. Not now. I take his hand. “Look, I’m glad you brought this up because it’s super important. But what I need you to hear me say is that, for seven years, whatever I was doing, whoever I was with, I was thinking about you. In the quiet moments of the day, when my mind wandered, it wandered to you. When I thought about feeling really happy and safe and fulfilled, it was you who made me feel that way. When Lanier scolded me for breaking up with a really good guy, it wasn’t because I couldn’t see a future with him; it was because I could only see a future with you. So Steven and I might have a bedtime routine with Henry, but what you and I have is a real, true love story. It’s a connection I’ve never felt with anyone else, and I know I never will. If you want to throw that away because the logistics are hard, then that’s fine. I hear you. We’re grown-ups and we have our own lives, and logistics are hard.” I sound confident, but this still gives me butterflies. What if Huff takes my offer and walks


longer time, and the children felt its welcome warmth. They all stared at the ship on the rocks. The sun shone on it and lighted it up. "There's something queer about it somehow," said Julian, slowly. "Something awfully queer. I've never seen a ship quite like it." George was staring at it with a strange look in her eyes. She turned to face the three children, and they were astonished to see the bright gleam in her blue eyes. The girl looked almost too excited to speak. "What is it?" asked Julian, catching hold of her hand. "Julian- oh Julian- it's my wreck!" she cried, in a high excited voice. "Don't you see what's happened! The storm has lifted the ship up from the bottom of the sea, and has lodged it on those rocks. It's my wreck!" The others saw at once that she was right. It was the old wrecked ship! No wonder it looked queer. No wonder it looked so old and dark, and such a strange shape. It was the wreck, lifted high out of its sleeping-place and put on the rocks near by. "George! We shall be able to row out and get into the wreck now!" shouted Julian. "We shall be able to explore it from end to end. We may find the boxes of gold. Oh, George!" Chapter Seven BACK TO KIRRIN COTTAGE Contents- Prev/Next THE four children were so tremendously surprised and excited that for a minute or two they didn't say a word. They just stared at the dark hulk of the old wreck, imagining what they might find. Then Julian clutched George's arm and pressed it tightly. "Isn't this wonderful?" he said. "Oh, George, isn't it an extraordinary thing to happen?" Still George said nothing, but stared at the wreck, all kinds of thoughts racing through her mind. Then she turned to Julian. "If only the wreck is still mine now it's thrown up like this!" she said. "I don't know if wrecks belong to the queen or anyone, like lost treasure does. But after all, the ship did belong to our family. Nobody bothered much about it when it was down under the sea- but do you suppose people will still let me have it for my own now it's thrown up?" "Well, don't let's tell anyone!" said Dick. "Don't be silly," said George. "One of the fishermen is sure to see it when his ship goes slipping out of the bay. The news will soon be out." "Well then, we'd better explore it thoroughly ourselves before anyone else does!" said Dick, eagerly. "No one knows about it yet. Only us. Can't we explore it as soon as the waves go down a bit?" "We can't wade out to the rocks, if that's what you mean," said George. "We might get there by boat- but we couldn't possibly risk it now, while the waves are so big. They won't go down today, that's certain. The wind is still too strong." "Well, what about tomorrow morning, early?" said Julian. "Before anyone has


adopt a dog or some shit?” “I’m not adopting a dog. Come on, you always have a set of keys.” He meant she had a set of keys when he was between relationships, when he wanted her available to drop everything and come by on the evenings when he became melancholic and lonely. When he needed her to house sit. When his life was a bit of a mess and she was the one restocking his refrigerator. That’s how things worked between them. Montserrat didn’t know if it was simply that age was getting to her, but she didn’t feel like grabbing the key and subjecting herself to the merry-go-round that was Tristán. Habit, however, was a powerful force. She opened her palm, and he placed the key ring on it. She could always return it. “I should put on my shoes,” Tristán said brightly. “You want me to tie your shoelaces?” she asked, her tone mordant. But he laughed her away and disappeared into the bedroom. “I might have a great gig lined up. The audition? Turns out I was right: they like me a lot,” he yelled from inside the bedroom. Montserrat stood up at one end of the hallway and looked in the direction of his room. “What gig?” “For that ad campaign I told you about.” Montserrat was honestly surprised. Tristán leaned against the doorway and smiled charmingly, brushing a piece of lint off his shirt. “I’d play a detective.” “A detective? Holmes or Marlowe?” “Marlowe, I guess. I get to stand in a suit, light filtering through the blinds, glass in hand. It’s for a brand of whiskey. Print and TV commercials. My face would be on billboards. It’s not a soap, but the money is good.” “Forget soaps. Tristán, that’s amazing!” Tristán smiled again. This time it wasn’t his crisp, canned smile, but a genuine one. He looked boyish and a little bashful when he smiled like that, the years melting off him. When they were young they had played by the train tracks in Pantaco, wielding wooden planks as swords, reciting dialogue they scribbled on napkins. Near the tracks were vast storage facilities filled with grain, a veritable ocean of corn, wheat, and rice, just a few paces from rickety fences with plenty of holes that were no deterrent for eager children. The kids in the neighborhood would dare one another to jump into the gigantic piles of grain. They traded gruesome descriptions of rodents hiding in the corn, waiting to gnaw children’s toes off. They whispered stories of people who had choked to death, suffocated by the grain. Stories to scare each other, and yet, there was real danger in this adventure. One had to climb up to the rafters, walking along a wooden beam like a trapeze artist. The dive into the grain was a good seven- or ten-meter jump. Tristán wouldn’t jump alone. Montserrat remembered plummeting into the grain, Tristán’s hand firmly grasping her own. She remembered the way her stomach lurched for a second, the sweaty palms, the gasp escaping their


came to a slow consciousness that she was crying in Tom's --------------------------------------------------------- -292- arms, neither could tell. All that they knew was, that after what seemed a mighty stretch of time, both awoke out of a dead stupor of sleep and resumed their miseries once more. Tom said it might be Sunday, now -- maybe Monday. He tried to get Becky to talk, but her sorrows were too oppressive, all her hopes were gone. Tom said that they must have been missed long ago, and no doubt the search was going on. He would shout and maybe some one would come. He tried it; but in the darkness the distant echoes sounded so hideously that he tried it no more. The hours wasted away, and hunger came to torment the captives again. A portion of Tom's half of the cake was left; they divided and ate it. But they seemed hungrier than before. The poor morsel of food only whetted desire. By-and-by Tom said: " Sh! Did you hear that?" Both held their breath and listened. There was a sound like the faintest, far-off shout. Instantly Tom answered it, and leading Becky by the hand, started groping down the corridor in its direction. Presently he listened again; again the sound was heard, and apparently a little nearer. "It's them!" said Tom; "they're coming! Come along, Becky -- we're all right now!" The joy of the prisoners was almost overwhelming. Their speed was slow, however, because pitfalls were somewhat common, and had to be guarded --------------------------------------------------------- -293- against. They shortly came to one and had to stop. It might be three feet deep, it might be a hundred -- there was no passing it at any rate. Tom got down on his breast and reached as far down as he could. No bottom. They must stay there and wait until the searchers came. They listened; evidently the distant shoutings were growing more distant! a moment or two more and they had gone altogether. The heart-sinking misery of it! Tom whooped until he was hoarse, but it was of no use. He talked hopefully to Becky; but an age of anxious waiting passed and no sounds came again. The children groped their way back to the spring. The weary time dragged on; they slept again, and awoke famished and woe-stricken. Tom believed it must be Tuesday by this time. Now an idea struck him. There were some side passages near at hand. It would be better to explore some of these than bear the weight of the heavy time in idleness. He took a kite-line from his pocket, tied it to a projection, and he and Becky started, Tom in the lead, unwinding the line as he groped along. At the end of twenty steps the corridor ended in a "jumping-off place." Tom got down on his knees and felt below, and then as far around the corner as he could reach with his hands conveniently; he made an effort to stretch yet a little farther to the right, and at that moment, not


Bruton Street. This was six months ago; and Mrs. Carey, already in delicate health, finding herself with child, had lost her head and accepted for the lease the first offer that was made. She stored her furniture, and, at a rent which the parson thought outrageous, took a furnished house for a year, so that she might suffer from no inconvenience till her child was born. But she had never been used to the management of money, and was unable to adapt her expenditure to her altered circumstances. The little she had slipped through her fingers in one way and another, so that now, when all expenses were paid, not much more than two thousand pounds remained to support the boy till he was able to earn his own living. It was impossible to explain all this to Philip and he was sobbing still. "You'd better go to Emma," Mr. Carey said, feeling that she could console the child better than anyone. Without a word Philip slipped off his uncle's knee, but Mr. Carey stopped him." We must go tomorrow, because on Saturday I've got to prepare my sermon, and you must tell Emma to get your things ready today. You can bring all your toys. And if you want anything to remember your father and mother by you can take one thing for each of them. Everything else is going to be sold." The boy slipped out of the room. Mr. Carey was unused to work, and he turned to his correspondence with resentment. On one side of the desk was a bundle of bills, and these filled him with irritation. One especially seemed preposterous. Immediately after Mrs. Carey's death Emma had ordered from the florist masses of white flowers for the room in which the dead woman lay. It was sheer waste of money. Emma took far too much upon herself. Even if there had been no financial necessity, he would have dismissed her. But Philip went to her, and hid his face in her bosom, and wept as though his heart would break. And she, feeling that he was almost her own son--she had taken him when he was a month old--consoled him with soft words. She promised that she would come and see him sometimes, and that she would never forget him; and she told him about the country he was going to and about her own home in Devonshire--her father kept a turnpike on the high-road that led to Exeter, and there were pigs in the sty, and there was a cow, and the cow had just had a calf--till Philip forgot his tears and grew excited at the thought of his approaching journey. Presently she put him down, for there was much to be done, and he helped her to lay out his clothes on the bed. She sent him into the nursery to gather up his toys, and in a little while he was playing happily. But at last he grew tired of being alone and went back to the bed-room, in which Emma was


guard him; and near the King was the White Rabbit, with a trumpet in one hand, and a scroll of parchment in the other. In the very middle of the court was a table, with a large dish of tarts upon it: they looked so good, that it made Alice quite hungry to look at them--`I wish they'd get the trial done,' she thought, `and hand round the refreshments!' But there seemed to be no chance of this, so she began looking at everything about her, to pass away the time. Alice had never been in a court of justice before, but she had read about them in books, and she was quite pleased to find that she knew the name of nearly everything there. `That's the judge,' she said to herself, `because of his great wig.' The judge, by the way, was the King; and as he wore his crown over the wig, (look at the frontispiece if you want to see how he did it,) he did not look at all comfortable, and it was certainly not becoming. `And that's the jury-box,' thought Alice, `and those twelve creatures,' (she was obliged to say `creatures,' you see, because some of them were animals, and some were birds,) `I suppose they are the jurors.' She said this last word two or three times over to herself, being rather proud of it: for she thought, and rightly too, that very few little girls of her age knew the meaning of it at all. However, `jury-men' would have done just as well. The twelve jurors were all writing very busily on slates. `What are they doing?' Alice whispered to the Gryphon. `They can't have anything to put down yet, before the trial's begun.' `They're putting down their names,' the Gryphon whispered in reply, `for fear they should forget them before the end of the trial.' `Stupid things!' Alice began in a loud, indignant voice, but she stopped hastily, for the White Rabbit cried out, `Silence in the court!' and the King put on his spectacles and looked anxiously round, to make out who was talking. Alice could see, as well as if she were looking over their shoulders, that all the jurors were writing down `stupid things!' on their slates, and she could even make out that one of them didn't know how to spell `stupid,' and that he had to ask his neighbour to tell him. `A nice muddle their slates'll be in before the trial's over!' thought Alice. One of the jurors had a pencil that squeaked. This of course, Alice could not stand, and she went round the court and got behind him, and very soon found an opportunity of taking it away. She did it so quickly that the poor little juror (it was Bill, the Lizard) could not make out at all what had become of it; so, after hunting all about for it, he was obliged to write with one finger for the rest of the day; and this was of very little use, as it left no


one who landed on him and dragged him across a roof? Also yes. “Let me help you,” I said, my voice much softer now. “You wouldn’t be scraped up like this if I hadn’t landed on you.” “You wouldn’t have landed on me if I hadn’t come up here.” “You wouldn’t have come up here if the lock had been working properly.” Joe nodded. “So this is all Mr. Kim’s fault.” “One hundred percent Mr. Kim,” I agreed, taking Joe’s hand and pulling him toward my place like a tugboat. “But I’m all you’ve got.” * * * INSIDE, JOE COULDN’T stop looking around at all my paintings, and I couldn’t stop looking at Joe. He was taking in my painting supplies, and my decor, and my hovel in general—but his expression was so different from what Lucinda’s had been. She’d been judging me, and he was, too—but, from his body language, he was judging me positively. Like he liked it. Which was a little bit spellbinding. Or was it the torso? Tough call. I mean … all this time I’d been disliking him, he’d been walking around with that endlessly appealing situation under his shirt? I wondered if I might have assessed him differently if I’d known. God. Was I that shallow? An hour ago, I’d have said no—but now I wasn’t so sure. But what choice did I have—as an artist—to let a visual situation like that go unadmired? It was practically my professional duty. Even now, the thought of it makes me want to let out a low whistle. I mean, that chest might even have been better than a face. If I had to choose. I made Joe lean shirtlessly over my kitchen sink while I poured hydrogen peroxide over the scrapes. He sucked in tight breaths as the cold bubbly liquid ran down his flanks. “Ticklish?” I asked, watching his muscles contract. He shook his head. “Only my ears.” I dried the uninjured parts of his back with a paper towel, and then I offered to wash his shirt for him. He shook his head. “I got it. I’ll just head home.” But at the words, I suddenly pictured him walking down the top-floor hallway all shirtless and someone else happening upon him—and I got the weirdest, most indescribable feeling. If I didn’t know better, I’d have called it jealousy. “Let me put some ointment on you,” I said. “I’m really okay.” “That roof,” I said, giving him a trust me look, “is super filthy. Birds poop on it all the time. Not to mention acid rain, nuclear waste—” “Nuclear waste?” “The point is, you don’t want an infection.” Joe considered that, and then nodded and sat backward on one of the kitchen chairs. I pulled up a chair behind him and used a Q-tip to dab him with ointment. The scratches weren’t deep, but they covered a lot of territory. With any luck, we’d be here a while. He had a bright pink scar on his shoulder that looked like he’d gotten stitches. “Where’d you get


see that these things have now a life of their own, and speak with their own voices? Else they would not have flinched from thy blow, nor from any command of thy will.' Then Aul cast down his hammer and was glad, and he gave thanks to Ilvatar, saying: 'May Eru bless my work and amend it!' But Ilvatar spoke again and said: 'Even as I gave being to the thoughts of the Ainur at the beginning of the World, so now I have taken up thy desire and given to it a place therein; but in no other way will I amend thy handiwork, and as thou hast made it, so shall it be. But I will not suffer this: that these should come before the Firstborn of my design, nor that thy impatience should be rewarded. They shall sleep now in the darkness under stone, and shall not come forth until the Firstborn have awakened upon Earth; and until that time thou and they shall wait, though long it seem. But when the time comes I will awaken them, and they shall be to thee as children; and often strife shall arise between thine and mine, the children of my adoption and the children of my choice.' Then Aul took the Seven Fathers of the Dwarves, and laid them to rest in far-sundered places; and he returned to Valinor, and waited while the long years lengthened. Since they were to come in the days of the power of Melkor, Aul made the Dwarves strong to endure. Therefore they are stone-hard, stubborn, fast in friendship and in enmity, and they suffer toil and hanger and hurt of body more hardily than all other speaking peoples; and they live long, far beyond the span of Men, yet not for ever. Aforetime it was held among the Elves in Middle-earth that dying the Dwarves returned to the earth and the stone of which they were made; yet that is not their own belief. For they say that Aul the Maker, whom they call Mahal, cares for them, and gathers them to Mandos in halls set apart; and that he declared to their Fathers of old that Ilvatar will hallow them and give them a place among the Children in the End. Then their part shall be to serve Aul and to aid him in the remaking of Arda after the Last Battle. They say also that the Seven Fathers of the Dwarves return to live again in their own kin and to bear once more their ancient names: of whom Durin was the most renowned in after ages, father of that kindred most friendly to the Elves, whose mansions were at Khazad-dm. Now when Aul laboured in the making of the Dwarves he kept this work hidden from the other Valar; but at last he opened his mind to Yavanna and told her of all that had come to pass. Then Yavanna said to him: 'Eru is merciful. Now I see that thy heart rejoiceth, as indeed it may; for thou hast received


was, like, twenty years old, and she couldn’t control her bladder.” “I’m joking,” Paige says. “Rest in peace, Geneva!” “Those were the best sleepovers,” I say. “Just endless pizza and soda and scary movies. We should not have been watching A Nightmare on Elm Street when we were eight.” “And Killer Klowns From Outer Space,” Paige says, shaking her head. “That movie is the reason I hate cotton candy to this day.” Bezi laughs. “We thought we were grown. Do y’all remember how we used to go trick-or-treating, then swap costumes and hit up them same houses two or three times?” “We were a mess,” I say, laughing. “I’m glad we came up,” Paige says. “We need to get back to doing stuff like this. I get so busy with the paper. Tasha’s working during the school year too.” Paige throws a sideways glance in the direction of Tasha’s cabin. “As goofy as she’s acting right now, I miss the four of us being together all the time.” “No. I know,” I say. “I miss y’all too.” When we’re together during the school year, it’s nice, but we’re all busy with classwork, homework, and babysitting jobs on the weekends. The four of us don’t get to hang out as much as we used to, and none of us wants to talk about what that means. Are we growing apart or are we just learning a new way of being friends? I guess we can’t eat pizza and watch scary movies forever. Paige gives me a big hug, then rears back. “Charity, babe. You gotta get this fake blood off you.” Going to the showers this late, and after our little run-in with Ms. Keane, is not happening, so I make use of some baby wipes and a few bottles of water. Bezi shields me with a towel as I wash up as best I can. Paige arranges the pillows and blankets on the bed, and when I’m done, we settle in for the night. Me and Bezi snuggle close to each other while Paige curls up like a cat at the foot of the twin-size bed that definitely is not meant to hold three full-size people. The frame protests—loudly. I just hope it can hang on till morning. As we lay in the quiet dark, Paige sighs. “You know, if this was a horror movie, Tasha would be sealing our fate by getting it on with Javier. You really think she would do that to us if the stakes were life-and-death?” Me and Bezi exchange glances, and then all three of us laugh until tears run out of our eyes. “We’d be doomed,” I say through wheezing laughter. I’m suddenly lying wide awake, staring up at the ceiling. The cabin is dark aside from the glow of the porch light filtering through the tattered curtains. Bezi is nuzzled up to me. Her rhythmic breaths blow warm and sweet across my neck. At the foot of the bed, Paige is sprawled out, arms and legs spread wide, her foot dangerously close to my


family’s palm. I’m merely a pebble that has been tumbled and smoothed to give a pleasing appearance, while inside I am but packed mud.” “Meiling—” “No, listen. You’ve lived a life of purity and been rewarded for it with children. I’ve put my hands on the dead. I’m so polluted and fouled, how could a baby ever find nourishment in my child palace or sanctuary in my arms? Or maybe my sad fate is punishment for sins I committed in a previous life. Either way, how could you—a good mother—allow me to touch your son? You couldn’t.” “You are neither polluted nor fouled. What happened is my fault. I missed something—” She interrupts with a question. “Do you ever regret that your grandmother and my mother brought us together?” I take her hand, the same one that has grabbed mine when she’s begged me to let her die. “Never. Now try to go back to sleep. You must grow as strong as you can. In three days’ time, we will leave this place. We’re going home.” She begins to cry and shake. “What if Kailoo won’t take me back?” I smooth the hair from her forehead and then rest my palm there. She’s still hot with a fever I have yet to break. “Don’t doubt for a moment that he’ll be happy to have you home.” “I—” “You and Kailoo have a marriage I can only envy. He loves you with his heart and not out of duty.” She takes small panting breaths—like a child who’s cried too long—but for now she’s empty of tears. On our last night in Beijing, Midwife Quon comes to check on Meiling and says she can switch from packing to the regular padding we use for monthly moon water. I spoon-feed Meiling a soup of pickled bamboo shoots, chicken skin, and jujubes, knowing these foods will provide both warmth and healing properties. Poppy quietly packs the last of our things. She seems despondent. I would have thought she’d be eager to return to the Garden of Fragrant Delights. In the morning, Lin Ta accompanies our palanquins and donkey-pulled carts to the dock, where our boat and people have waited for us all these months. Poppy carries my son, while our bodyguards help Miss Zhao and Meiling board the boat. The tiller woman escorts the traveling party to the cabin we’ll once again share. Seeing the familiar faces fills me with quiet joy. We’re going home. I’m required to stand with the eunuch to watch as my imperial gifts of gratitude are loaded onto the boat, giving me a preview of the rewards that I alone have received as a result of this journey: ten pecks of rice and many catties of coal; several kinds of edible delicacies—tea from the farthest reaches of the empire, lingzhi mushrooms for prolonging life, and fiery mao-tai for the men to drink in their celebrations; bolts of cloth (originally from our province); furniture, lanterns, bamboo screens, and bronze braziers and other ceremonial vessels; ceramics for every purpose; jade and ivory eating


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

to you. If hereafter in your new place of abode I can be of any service to you, do not fail to advise me by letter. Good-bye, Bartleby, and fare you well.” But he answered not a word; like the last column of some ruined temple, he remained standing mute and solitary in the middle of the otherwise deserted room. As I walked home in a pensive mood, my vanity got the better of my pity. I could not but highly plume myself on my masterly management in getting rid of Bartleby. Masterly I call it, and such it must appear to any dispassionate thinker. The beauty of my procedure seemed to consist in its perfect quietness. There was no vulgar bullying, no bravado of any sort, no choleric hectoring, and striding to and fro across the apartment, jerking out vehement commands for Bartleby to bundle himself off with his beggarly traps. Nothing of the kind. Without loudly bidding Bartleby depart—as an inferior genius might have done—I assumed the ground that depart he must; and upon that assumption built all I had to say. The more I thought over my procedure, the more I was charmed with it. Nevertheless, next morning, upon awakening, I had my doubts,—I had somehow slept off the fumes of vanity. One of the coolest and wisest hours a man has, is just after he awakes in the morning. My procedure seemed as sagacious as ever.—but only in theory. How it would prove in practice—there was the rub. It was truly a beautiful thought to have assumed Bartleby’s departure; but, after all, that assumption was simply my own, and none of Bartleby’s. The great point was, not whether I had assumed that he would quit me, but whether he would prefer so to do. He was more a man of preferences than assumptions. After breakfast, I walked down town, arguing the probabilities pro and con. One moment I thought it would prove a miserable failure, and Bartleby would be found all alive at my office as usual; the next moment it seemed certain that I should see his chair empty. And so I kept veering about. At the corner of Broadway and Canal-street, I saw quite an excited group of people standing in earnest conversation. “I’ll take odds he doesn’t,” said a voice as I passed. “Doesn’t go?—done!” said I, “put up your money.” I was instinctively putting my hand in my pocket to produce my own, when I remembered that this was an election day. The words I had overheard bore no reference to Bartleby, but to the success or non-success of some candidate for the mayoralty. In my intent frame of mind, I had, as it were, imagined that all Broadway shared in my excitement, and were debating the same question with me. I passed on, very thankful that the uproar of the street screened my momentary absent-mindedness. As I had intended, I was earlier than usual at my office door. I stood listening for a moment. All was still. He must be gone. I tried


Mr. Dimmesdale. The young divine, whose scholar-like renown still lived in Oxford, was considered by his more fervent admirers as little less than a heavenly ordained apostle, destined, should he live and labour for the ordinary term of life, to do as great deeds, for the now feeble New England Church, as the early Fathers had achieved for the infancy of the Christian faith. About this period, however, the health of Mr. Dimmesdale had evidently begun to fail. By those best acquainted with his habits, the paleness of the young minister's cheek was accounted for by his too earnest devotion to study, his scrupulous fulfilment of parochial duty, and more than all, to the fasts and vigils of which he made a frequent practice, in order to keep the grossness of this earthly state from clogging and obscuring his spiritual lamp. Some declared, that if Mr. Dimmesdale were really going to die, it was cause enough that the world was not worthy to be any longer trodden by his feet. He himself, on the other hand, with characteristic humility, avowed his belief that if Providence should see fit to remove him, it would be because of his own unworthiness to perform its humblest mission here on earth. With all this difference of opinion as to the cause of his decline, there could be no question of the fact. His form grew emaciated; his voice, though still rich and sweet, had a certain melancholy prophecy of decay in it; he was often observed, on any slight alarm or other sudden accident, to put his hand over his heart with first a flush and then a paleness, indicative of pain.% Such was the young clergyman's condition, and so imminent the prospect that his dawning light would be extinguished, all untimely, when Roger Chillingworth made his advent to the town. His first entry on the scene, few people could tell whence, dropping down as it were out of the sky or starting from the nether earth, had an aspect of mystery, which was easily heightened to the miraculous. He was now known to be a man of skill; it was observed that he gathered herbs and the blossoms of wild-flowers, and dug up roots and plucked off twigs from the forest-trees like one acquainted with hidden virtues in what was valueless to common eyes. He was heard to speak of Sir Kenelm Digby and Thesaurus clogging: (n) congestion, plugging, obscuring: (adj) blinding; (n) anonymity. choking, obstruction, loading, confusion. unworthiness: (n) baseness, interference, blockage; (adj) paleness: (adj, n) pallor; (n) pallidness, despicability, despicableness, obstructive, impeding, cumbrous, wanness, whiteness, achromasia, badness, unworth, shamefulness, burdensome. ANTONYM: (n) blondness, lividity, luridness, ignominiousness, disgracefulness, clearance. lividness, fairness, pale. ANTONYM: bad. ANTONYM: (n) worthiness. fasts: (adv) quickly. (n) strength. valueless: (adj) useless, futile, grossness: (n) commonness, renown: (n, v) fame; (n) glory, insignificant, meaningless, null, vulgarism, inelegance, obscenity, distinction, eminence, notoriety, unvalued, trifling, of no value, vulgarity, corpulence, indecency, kudos, name, popularity, prestige, rubbish, priceless, refuse. crassitude, crassness, crudity, prominence, honor. ANTONYMS: (n) ANTONYM: (adj) valuable. density. infamy, commonness; (adj) vigils:


Edy to Jacky and Tommy Caffrey, to little baby Boardman. It was darker now and there were stones and bits of wood on the strand and slippy seaweed. She walked with a certain quiet dignity characteristic of her but with care and very slowly because--because Gerty MacDowell was ... Tight boots? No. She's lame! O! Mr Bloom watched her as she limped away. Poor girl! That's why she's left on the shelf and the others did a sprint. Thought something was wrong by the cut of her jib. Jilted beauty. A defect is ten times worse in a woman. But makes them polite. Glad I didn't know it when she was on show. Hot little devil all the same. I wouldn't mind. Curiosity like a nun or a negress or a girl with glasses. That squinty one is delicate. Near her monthlies, I expect, makes them feel ticklish. I have such a bad headache today. Where did I put the letter? Yes, all right. All kinds of crazy longings. Licking pennies. Girl in Tranquilla convent that nun told me liked to smell rock oil. Virgins go mad in the end I suppose. Sister? How many women in Dublin have it today? Martha, she. Something in the air. That's the moon. But then why don't all women menstruate at the same time with the same moon, I mean? Depends on the time they were born I suppose. Or all start scratch then get out of step. Sometimes Molly and Milly together. Anyhow I got the best of that. Damned glad I didn't do it in the bath this morning over her silly I will punish you letter. Made up for that tramdriver this morning. That gouger M'Coy stopping me to say nothing. And his wife engagement in the country valise, voice like a pickaxe. Thankful for small mercies. Cheap too. Yours for the asking. Because they want it themselves. Their natural craving. Shoals of them every evening poured out of offices. Reserve better. Don't want it they throw it at you. Catch em alive, O. Pity they can't see themselves. A dream of wellfilled hose. Where was that? Ah, yes. Mutoscope pictures in Capel street: for men only. Peeping Tom. Willy's hat and what the girls did with it. Do they snapshot those girls or is it all a fake? LINGERIE does it. Felt for the curves inside her DESHABILLE. Excites them also when they're. I'm all clean come and dirty me. And they like dressing one another for the sacrifice. Milly delighted with Molly's new blouse. At first. Put them all on to take them all off. Molly. Why I bought her the violet garters. Us too: the tie he wore, his lovely socks and turnedup trousers. He wore a pair of gaiters the night that first we met. His lovely shirt was shining beneath his what? of jet. Say a woman loses a charm with every pin she takes out. Pinned together. O, Mairy lost the pin of her. Dressed up to the nines for somebody. Fashion part of their charm.


bad fix. But if we find their boat we can put ALL of 'em in a bad fix -- for the sheriff 'll get 'em. Quick -- hurry! I'll hunt the labboard side, you hunt the stabboard. You start at the raft, and --" "Oh, my lordy, lordy! RAF'? Dey ain' no raf' no mo'; she done broke loose en gone I -- en here we is!" CHAPTER XIII. WELL, I catched my breath and most fainted. Shut up on a wreck with such a gang as that! But it warn't no time to be sentimentering. We'd GOT to find that boat now -- had to have it for ourselves. So we went a-quaking and shaking down the stabboard side, and slow work it was, too -- seemed a week be- fore we got to the stern. No sign of a boat. Jim said he didn't believe he could go any further -- so scared he hadn't hardly any strength left, he said. But I said, come on, if we get left on this wreck we are in a fix, sure. So on we prowled again. We struck for the stern of the texas, and found it, and then scrabbled along forwards on the skylight, hanging on from shutter to shutter, for the edge of the skylight was in the water. When we got pretty close to the cross-hall door there was the skiff, sure enough! I could just barely see her. I felt ever so thankful. In another second I would a been aboard of her, but just then the door opened. One of the men stuck his head out only about a couple of foot from me, and I thought I was gone; but he jerked it in again, and says: "Heave that blame lantern out o' sight, Bill!" He flung a bag of something into the boat, and then got in himself and set down. It was Packard. Then Bill HE come out and got in. Packard says, in a low voice: "All ready -- shove off!" I couldn't hardly hang on to the shutters, I was so weak. But Bill says: "Hold on -- 'd you go through him?" "No. Didn't you?" "No. So he's got his share o' the cash yet." "Well, then, come along; no use to take truck and leave money." "Say, won't he suspicion what we're up to?" "Maybe he won't. But we got to have it anyway. Come along." So they got out and went in. The door slammed to because it was on the careened side; and in a half second I was in the boat, and Jim come tumbling after me. I out with my knife and cut the rope, and away we went! We didn't touch an oar, and we didn't speak nor whisper, nor hardly even breathe. We went gliding swift along, dead silent, past the tip of the paddle- box, and past the stern; then in a second or two more we was a hundred yards below the wreck, and the darkness soaked her up, every last sign


friend; and if she could not exult in her dignity and grace, she could not only love the blooming sweetness and the artless manner, but could most heartily rejoice in that light, cheerful, unsentimental disposition which allowed her so many alleviations of pleasure, in the midst of the pangs of disappointed affection. There she sat--and who would have guessed how many tears she had been lately shedding? To be in company, nicely dressed herself and seeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and look pretty, and say nothing, was enough for the happiness of the present hour. Jane Fairfax did look and move superior; but Emma suspected she might have been glad to change feelings with Harriet, very glad to have purchased the mortification of having loved--yes, of having loved even Mr. Elton in vain--by the surrender of all the dangerous pleasure of knowing herself beloved by the husband of her friend. In so large a party it was not necessary that Emma should approach her. She did not wish to speak of the pianoforte, she felt too much in the secret herself, to think the appearance of curiosity or interest fair, and therefore purposely kept at a distance; but by the others, the subject was almost immediately introduced, and she saw the blush of consciousness with which congratulations were received, the blush of guilt which accompanied the name of "my excellent friend Colonel Campbell." Mrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was particularly interested by the circumstance, and Emma could not help being amused at her perseverance in dwelling on the subject; and having so much to ask and to say as to tone, touch, and pedal, totally unsuspicious of that wish of saying as little about it as possible, which she plainly read in the fair heroine's countenance. They were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and the very first of the early was Frank Churchill. In he walked, the first and the handsomest; and after paying his compliments en passant to Miss Bates and her niece, made his way directly to the opposite side of the circle, where sat Miss Woodhouse; and till he could find a seat by her, would not sit at all. Emma divined what every body present must be thinking. She was his object, and every body must perceive it. She introduced him to her friend, Miss Smith, and, at convenient moments afterwards, heard what each thought of the other. "He had never seen so lovely a face, and was delighted with her naivete." And she, "Only to be sure it was paying him too great a compliment, but she did think there were some looks a little like Mr. Elton." Emma restrained her indignation, and only turned from her in silence. Smiles of intelligence passed between her and the gentleman on first glancing towards Miss Fairfax; but it was most prudent to avoid speech. He told her that he had been impatient to leave the dining-room-- hated sitting long--was always the first to move when he could-- that his father, Mr. Knightley, Mr. Cox,


equal segments which danced and span giddily round each other in lewd and licentious formation, "there is something altogether very strange going on." Wild yowling noises of pipes and strings seared through the wind, hot doughnuts popped out of the road for ten pence each, horrid fish stormed out of the sky and Arthur and Ford decided to make a run for it. They plunged through heavy walls of sound, mountains of archaic thought, valleys of mood music, bad shoe sessions and footling bats and suddenly heard a girl's voice. It sounded quite a sensible voice, but it just said, "Two to the power of one hundred thousand to one against and falling," and that was all. Ford skidded down a beam of light and span round trying to find a source for the voice but could see nothing he could seriously believe in. "What was that voice?" shouted Arthur. "I don't know," yelled Ford, "I don't know. It sounded like a measurement of probability." "Probability? What do you mean?" "Probability. You know, like two to one, three to one, five to four against. It said two to the power of one hundred thousand to one against. That's pretty improbable you know." A million-gallon vat of custard upended itself over them without warning. "But what does it mean?" cried Arthur. "What, the custard?" "No, the measurement of probability!" "I don't know. I don't know at all. I think we're on some kind of spaceship." "I can only assume," said Arthur, "that this is not the first- class compartment." Bulges appeared in the fabric of space-time. Great ugly bulges. "Haaaauuurrgghhh ..." said Arthur as he felt his body softening and bending in unusual directions. "Southend seems to be melting away ... the stars are swirling ... a dustbowl ... my legs are drifting off into the sunset ... my left arm's come off too." A frightening thought struck him: "Hell," he said, "how am I going to operate my digital watch now?" He wound his eyes desperately around in Ford's direction. "Ford," he said, "you're turning into a penguin. Stop it." Again came the voice. "Two to the power of seventy-five thousand to one against and falling." Ford waddled around his pond in a furious circle. "Hey, who are you," he quacked. "Where are you? What's going on and is there any way of stopping it?" "Please relax," said the voice pleasantly, like a stewardess in an airliner with only one wing and two engines one of which is on fire, "you are perfectly safe." "But that's not the point!" raged Ford. "The point is that I am now a perfectly save penguin, and my colleague here is rapidly running out of limbs!" "It's alright, I've got them back now," said Arthur. "Two to the power of fifty thousand to one against and falling," said the voice. "Admittedly," said Arthur, "they're longer than I usually like them, but ..." "Isn't there anything," squawked Ford in avian fury, "you feel you ought to be telling us?" The voice cleared its throat. A giant petit


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

all this isn’t normal?” That explained the knife, maybe. He shifted so he could look at her from his one eye, brow arched over it. “You haven’t had yours yet?” She shook her head. “I turn twenty-four in the middle of the summer.” “Hmm.” He looked forward again, hiding his eye, and that was the extent of the conversation. The man was not much of a talker. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Stare straight ahead. Try not to notice if anyone is looking at you. But Lore’s careful composure was shattered by the overwhelming feeling that she should turn around, right now. It was enough to make her press her hand against her collarbones. The feeling wasn’t physical itself, but the reaction it inspired was—the hairs on her arms rising, her head going strangely light. So she turned around. Behind the pews, yards away, stood a young man with shoulder-length black hair held back from his face with a golden circlet. His clothes were all eye-searing white, down to the leather of his boots. He was too far away to see clearly, but his shape seemed familiar. Similar to the way she’d felt when she saw Gabriel, like this was a person she should know, though surely it wasn’t someone she’d ever met before. A string quartet had gathered off to the side of the pews, all dressed in bright colors, instruments gleaming as if they’d been polished for the occasion. The maestro stood and raised his baton; a slow, stately processional began. Behind them, the distant figure in white started strolling toward the dais as if he had all the time in the world. Oh. That was the Sun Prince. Gabriel stood up next to her, and Lore hurriedly followed suit. Her heartbeat felt faster, her veins almost too full. The Sun Prince grew closer. Gabriel grew stiffer. When he came level with their pew, shining like a god himself, Bastian Arceneaux glanced their way. White skin gilded in sunlight, sharp jaw, dark eyes. When he winked, a memory snapped into place. The man she’d seen in the gardens. The one who’d watched her enter the Citadel flanked by Gabriel, Anton, and Malcolm, in an ill-fitting dress one of his paramours had probably donated. Shit. Bastian mounted the dais, walking elegantly through the billowing curtains and sinuous trails of incense smoke. Applause and whoops greeted his entrance, and he took an exaggerated bow. By the lectern, Anton stood stiffly, the Compendium opened to the first of the scarlet ribbons. August had been seated directly in front of the dais, in a golden throne only slightly less ostentatious than the one inside the Citadel. His ruby-ringed hand clutched another chalice, and he sipped from it quietly as he watched his son, stoic and nearly unmoving. “Seems like bad form to be drinking at your heir’s Consecration,” Lore muttered. “August drinks all the time,” Gabriel replied. The crowd settled, and Anton began to speak, reciting Tract 7 first—a list of the gods who’d ascended from their mortal forms to their holy ones