Haymitch tells me it isn’t enough. Kicking off my sandals, I tuck my feet to the side and lean my head against Peeta’s shoulder. His arm goes around me automatically, and I feel like I’m back in the cave, curled up against him, trying to keep warm. His shirt is made of the same yellow material as my dress, but Portia’s put him in long black pants. No sandals, ei- 354 ther, but a pair of sturdy black boots he keeps solidly planted on the stage. I wish Cinna had given me a similar outfit, I feel so vulnerable in this flimsy dress. But I guess that was the point. Caesar Flickerman makes a few more jokes, and then it’s time for the show. This will last exactly three hours and is re- quired viewing for all of Panem. As the lights dim and the seal appears on the screen, I realize I’m unprepared for this. I do not want to watch my twenty-two fellow tributes die. I saw enough of them die the first time. My heart starts pounding and I have a strong impulse to run. How have the other victors faced this alone? During the highlights, they periodically show the winner’s reaction up on a box in the corner of the screen. I think back to earlier years . . . some are triumphant, pumping their fists in the air, beating their chests. Most just seem stunned. All I know is that the only thing keeping me on this love seat is Peeta — his arm around my shoulder, his other hand claimed by both of mine. Of course, the previous victors didn’t have the Capitol looking for a way to destroy them. Condensing several weeks into three hours is quite a feat, especially when you consider how many cameras were going at once. Whoever puts together the highlights has to choose what sort of story to tell. This year, for the first time, they tell a love story. I know Peeta and I won, but a disproportionate amount of time is spent on us, right from the beginning. I’m glad though, because it supports the whole crazy-in-love thing that’s my defense for defying the Capitol, plus it means we won’t have as much time to linger over the deaths. 355 The first half hour or so focuses on the pre-arena events, the reaping, the chariot ride through the Capitol, our training scores, and our interviews. There’s this sort of upbeat soundtrack playing under it that makes it twice as awful be- cause, of course, almost everyone on-screen is dead. Once we’re in the arena, there’s detailed coverage of the bloodbath and then the filmmakers basically alternate be- tween shots of tributes dying and shots of us. Mostly Peeta re- ally, there’s no question he’s carrying this romance thing on his shoulders. Now I see what the audience saw, how he misled the Careers about me, stayed awake the entire night under the tracker jacker tree, fought Cato to let me escape and even while he lay in that


in the Common. Madame Olenska slipped the sheet into the envelope, wrote a name on it, and put it into her pocket. Then she too stood up. They walked back toward Beacon Street, and near the club Archer caught sight of the plush-lined "herdic" which had carried his note to the Parker House, and whose driver was reposing from this effort by bathing his brow at the corner hydrant. "I told you everything was predestined! Here's a cab for us. You see!" They laughed, astonished at the miracle of picking up a public conveyance at that hour, and in that unlikely spot, in a city where cab-stands were still a "foreign" novelty. Archer, looking at his watch, saw that there was time to drive to the Parker House before going to the steamboat landing. They rattled through the hot streets and drew up at the door of the hotel. Archer held out his hand for the letter. "Shall I take it in?" he asked; but Madame Olenska, shaking her head, sprang out and disappeared through the glazed doors. It was barely half-past ten; but what if the emissary, impatient for her reply, and not knowing how else to employ his time, were already seated among the travellers with cooling drinks at their elbows of whom Archer had caught a glimpse as she went in? He waited, pacing up and down before the herdic. A Sicilian youth with eyes like Nastasia's offered to shine his boots, and an Irish matron to sell him peaches; and every few moments the doors opened to let out hot men with straw hats tilted far back, who glanced at him as they went by. He marvelled that the door should open so often, and that all the people it let out should look so like each other, and so like all the other hot men who, at that hour, through the length and breadth of the land, were passing continuously in and out of the swinging doors of hotels. And then, suddenly, came a face that he could not relate to the other faces. He caught but a flash of it, for his pacings had carried him to the farthest point of his beat, and it was in turning back to the hotel that he saw, in a group of typical countenances--the lank and weary, the round and surprised, the lantern-jawed and mild--this other face that was so many more things at once, and things so different. It was that of a young man, pale too, and half-extinguished by the heat, or worry, or both, but somehow, quicker, vivider, more conscious; or perhaps seeming so because he was so different. Archer hung a moment on a thin thread of memory, but it snapped and floated off with the disappearing face--apparently that of some foreign business man, looking doubly foreign in such a setting. He vanished in the stream of passersby, and Archer resumed his patrol. He did not care to be seen watch in hand within view of the hotel, and his unaided reckoning of the lapse


Candice isn’t here anymore,” says Daniella. “She left a while ago.” “Oh.” I wait, but Daniella doesn’t elaborate. I try not to overthink it. Editorial assistants come and go all the time. They’re underpaid entry-level employees in the most expensive city in the world—ill-treated, overlooked, and overworked with minimal opportunities for advancement. It takes inhuman drive to hack it in publishing. Probably Candice just couldn’t take it. “That’s too bad.” “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” Daniella clears her throat. “June, if there’s anything we need to know, you need to tell us right now.” My nose prickles. To my horror, I realize I’m already close to tears. “I didn’t do it,” I say. “I swear to God. It’s not plagiarized, it’s all my own work, especially Mother Witch—” “Especially?” Todd cuts in. “What does that mean?” “I mean, The Last Front was inspired by conversations with Athena,” I say quickly. “But she’s dead now, obviously, and I didn’t have her to talk to while I was drafting Mother Witch, so the writing style doesn’t resemble hers as much—” “That’s not what Adele Sparks-Sato is claiming,” says Jessica. She pronounces Adele’s last name like she’s reading some exotic soup ingredient from a grocery list. Sparks Sa-touuu. “It appears that she’s gone public with some rather conclusive proof—” “Adele’s full of shit,” I burst out. “Sorry. No—I mean, I get where she’s coming from; I can see why she’s protective of Athena’s work. And, like, yes, I was inspired by a line that Athena wrote once. I saw—um, she showed me, in her notebook. But the story is completely original—it’s based on my own relationship with my mother, in fact, I mean, like, you can call her, even—” “I don’t think that will be necessary,” says Daniella. “What about The Last Front, then? Is that completely original?” “Guys.” My voice hitches. “Come on. You know me.” “You can tell us,” says Daniella. “We’re on your team. If there was any sort of . . . collaboration, or anything that means you are not the sole author, we need to know. We can still make this work. We could set up a split royalties arrangement with Athena’s estate, perhaps, and then out a press release about the shared authorship where you explain that you felt like you needed to do justice to your friend’s work, and that you did not intend to deceive anyone. Then perhaps we can set up a foundation in Athena’s name—” She’s talking like she’s certain I’m guilty. “Hold on,” I cut in. “No, look, I swear to God—it’s mine, the project is mine, I wrote out every single word myself.” And that’s true. Completely true. I made The Last Front. Athena’s version was utterly unpublishable. That book exists because of me. “Do you possibly have proof of that?” Todd asks. “Early drafts, perhaps—emails with time stamps that we could verify?” “Well, no, because I’m not in the habit of emailing things to myself.” “Is there any proof that it is plagiarized?” Brett cuts in. “I mean, what, are


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

a window made of nothing but panels of dark glass, deep blues and purples and shimmering black. Lore frowned as they passed, the light dappling her skirt. “It’s strange that you have depictions of the other gods. I thought Apollius was the only one you were allowed to revere?” “Depiction isn’t reverence,” Gabe said quietly. His eye swung to the dark window, then away. The hallway ended in a short wooden staircase; Gabe jogged up and turned to an arched doorway on the right, rapping a knock. Lore came up the stairs much more slowly. The walk from the Citadel had left her winded; that week abed was doing her no favors. The door creaked open. Malcolm cocked his head curiously. “Gabe? Didn’t expect to see you here.” “We have some questions,” Lore said, trying not to sound as out of breath as she felt. “Questions that will probably involve a lot of religious theory and other technically heretical pursuits,” Gabe grumbled. The head librarian grinned. “Then you, my friends, have come to the right place.” He pushed the door wider and beckoned them inside. The Church library rivaled the one within the Citadel, as far as sheer volume went. It was just as beautiful, too, though in a different way. Where the Citadel library was bright and airy, the Church library was austere, everything made of dark, gleaming wood and lit with the golden glow of gas lamps. The room was at least four stories high, though the upper floors were reached by a sliding ladder rather than clever staircases. Long tables ran the length of the room, and down the center of each was a domed glass lane with small hinges placed at equidistant points. A few ancient-looking books rested beneath the glass, where they could be read but not touched. A small door set into the shelves opened on what looked like a reading room, with another glass-covered table. The shelves in that room were full of much thinner books, with covers embossed in gold lettering too ornate for Lore to make out from a distance. Small potted plants had been placed along the bookcases, green tendrils snaking over shelves. There were no windows to provide sunlight, so Lore didn’t know how they grew, but they all appeared to be in perfect health. “Religious theory, you say?” Malcolm walked to one of the books on the long tables and opened a small door in the glass above it. He slipped his hands into a pair of pale gloves before gingerly reaching in to close the cover, then picked the book up with the care of a father to an infant. “That’s a rather broad topic. Narrow it down for me.” “Information on Spiritum,” Gabe said. “Mostly theories on how it might manifest.” “Easy enough.” Malcolm opened one of a series of drawers on the back wall and gently placed the book inside before soundlessly sliding it closed again. “That’s the same thing Anton’s been researching.” CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Answers mean nothing without the right questions. —Kirythean proverb The next week


in the haunts of sin! I caught you nicely! Scamp! BLOOM: (HURRIEDLY) Not so loud my name. Whatever do you think of me? Don't give me away. Walls have ears. How do you do? It's ages since I. You're looking splendid. Absolutely it. Seasonable weather we are having this time of year. Black refracts heat. Short cut home here. Interesting quarter. Rescue of fallen women. Magdalen asylum. I am the secretary ... MRS BREEN: (HOLDS UP A FINGER) Now, don't tell a big fib! I know somebody won't like that. O just wait till I see Molly! (SLILY) Account for yourself this very sminute or woe betide you! BLOOM: (LOOKS BEHIND) She often said she'd like to visit. Slumming. The exotic, you see. Negro servants in livery too if she had money. Othello black brute. Eugene Stratton. Even the bones and cornerman at the Livermore christies. Bohee brothers. Sweep for that matter. (TOM AND SAM BOHEE, COLOURED COONS IN WHITE DUCK SUITS, SCARLET SOCKS, UPSTARCHED SAMBO CHOKERS AND LARGE SCARLET ASTERS IN THEIR BUTTONHOLES, LEAP OUT. EACH HAS HIS BANJO SLUNG. THEIR PALER SMALLER NEGROID HANDS JINGLE THE TWINGTWANG WIRES. FLASHING WHITE KAFFIR EYES AND TUSKS THEY RATTLE THROUGH A BREAKDOWN IN CLUMSY CLOGS, TWINGING, SINGING, BACK TO BACK, TOE HEEL, HEEL TOE, WITH SMACKFATCLACKING NIGGER LIPS.) TOM AND SAM: There's someone in the house with Dina There's someone in the house, I know, There's someone in the house with Dina Playing on the old banjo. (THEY WHISK BLACK MASKS FROM RAW BABBY FACES: THEN, CHUCKLING, CHORTLING, TRUMMING, TWANGING, THEY DIDDLE DIDDLE CAKEWALK DANCE AWAY.) BLOOM: (WITH A SOUR TENDERISH SMILE) A little frivol, shall we, if you are so inclined? Would you like me perhaps to embrace you just for a fraction of a second? MRS BREEN: (SCREAMS GAILY) O, you ruck! You ought to see yourself! BLOOM: For old sake' sake. I only meant a square party, a mixed marriage mingling of our different little conjugials. You know I had a soft corner for you. (GLOOMILY) 'Twas I sent you that valentine of the dear gazelle. MRS BREEN: Glory Alice, you do look a holy show! Killing simply. (SHE PUTS OUT HER HAND INQUISITIVELY) What are you hiding behind your back? Tell us, there's a dear. BLOOM: (SEIZES HER WRIST WITH HIS FREE HAND) Josie Powell that was, prettiest deb in Dublin. How time flies by! Do you remember, harking back in a retrospective arrangement, Old Christmas night, Georgina Simpson's housewarming while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the pin blindfold and thoughtreading? Subject, what is in this snuffbox? MRS BREEN: You were the lion of the night with your seriocomic recitation and you looked the part. You were always a favourite with the ladies. BLOOM: (SQUIRE OF DAMES, IN DINNER JACKET WITH WATEREDSILK FACINGS, BLUE MASONIC BADGE IN HIS BUTTONHOLE, BLACK BOW AND MOTHER-OF-PEARL STUDS, A PRISMATIC CHAMPAGNE GLASS TILTED IN HIS HAND) Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Ireland, home and beauty. MRS BREEN: The dear dead days beyond recall. Love's old sweet song. BLOOM: (MEANINGFULLY


the laugh, it was evident from Jane's countenance that she too was really hearing him, though trying to seem deaf. "Such an extraordinary dream of mine!" he cried. "I can never think of it without laughing.--She hears us, she hears us, Miss Woodhouse. I see it in her cheek, her smile, her vain attempt to frown. Look at her. Do not you see that, at this instant, the very passage of her own letter, which sent me the report, is passing under her eye-- that the whole blunder is spread before her--that she can attend to nothing else, though pretending to listen to the others?" Jane was forced to smile completely, for a moment; and the smile partly remained as she turned towards him, and said in a conscious, low, yet steady voice, "How you can bear such recollections, is astonishing to me!-- They will sometimes obtrude--but how you can court them!" He had a great deal to say in return, and very entertainingly; but Emma's feelings were chiefly with Jane, in the argument; and on leaving Randalls, and falling naturally into a comparison of the two men, she felt, that pleased as she had been to see Frank Churchill, and really regarding him as she did with friendship, she had never been more sensible of Mr. Knightley's high superiority of character. The happiness of this most happy day, received its completion, in the animated contemplation of his worth which this comparison produced. CHAPTER XIX If Emma had still, at intervals, an anxious feeling for Harriet, a momentary doubt of its being possible for her to be really cured of her attachment to Mr. Knightley, and really able to accept another man from unbiased inclination, it was not long that she had to suffer from the recurrence of any such uncertainty. A very few days brought the party from London, and she had no sooner an opportunity of being one hour alone with Harriet, than she became perfectly satisfied--unaccountable as it was!-- that Robert Martin had thoroughly supplanted Mr. Knightley, and was now forming all her views of happiness. Harriet was a little distressed--did look a little foolish at first: but having once owned that she had been presumptuous and silly, and self-deceived, before, her pain and confusion seemed to die away with the words, and leave her without a care for the past, and with the fullest exultation in the present and future; for, as to her friend's approbation, Emma had instantly removed every fear of that nature, by meeting her with the most unqualified congratulations.-- Harriet was most happy to give every particular of the evening at Astley's, and the dinner the next day; she could dwell on it all with the utmost delight. But what did such particulars explain?-- The fact was, as Emma could now acknowledge, that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin; and that his continuing to love her had been irresistible.--Beyond this, it must ever be unintelligible to Emma. The event, however, was most joyful; and every day was giving her fresh reason for thinking so.--Harriet's


sticks a few healthier-looking roses back into the vase, worried that Ethan will interpret her coming home early as guilt. She needs to make sure he sees it as guilt over her affair, not helping Brody Carr murder his wife. Ethan runs his hand up the back of his short dark hair. “I got a new case.” He leans his elbows onto the quartz countertop. “Chelsea Carr’s parents have come forward saying that she had photographic evidence her husband was doing a lot of partying with Mason Hachette and underage girls in LA. Photos of Carr and Hachette have already surfaced online, but we’re hoping to extract more off her phone.” Sloane rests her hands against the counter to steady herself. Mason Hachette was an extremely wealthy financier who had recently been in the news after his arrest over sexual abuse charges related to minors. She remembers seeing a photo of Brody with Hachette when she searched Brody’s name online a couple months back. At the time, she hadn’t thought much of it. Hachette was a socialite, and photos of him with countless celebrities surfaced after his arrest. “They separated quietly,” Ethan continues, his eyes piercing hers as he studies her reaction. “But Chelsea told her parents she wouldn’t stay quiet any longer. She hired a divorce attorney and was planning to make her accusations public after she filed.” The few bites of lunch she had creep up the back of Sloane’s throat. Any lingering doubts she had about Brody killing Chelsea are now gone. She wants to scream. Underage girls? How could she have been so stupid? Brody wanted Chelsea out of the picture so he wouldn’t go to prison. And he’s brought me into it. Her phone rings atop the counter. Ethan’s eyes follow hers toward the sound. Seeing it is Brody, she swipes Ignore. Her heart pounds, making a mental note to block his number. It’s the first time he’s tried to contact her since Chelsea died. What the hell is he doing calling me when he’s under investigation for murder? Sloane lifts her gaze to Ethan’s, who is still staring at her phone, feeling suddenly exposed. She blinks back the tears that invade her eyes. She feels sick. She needs to lie down. But she can’t fall apart in front of Ethan. When Ethan’s eyes meet hers, there is no trace of the pain that filled them last night. Only a malice-laced suspicion. He interlaces his fingers. “I got the medical report from Bayside Hospital and saw you were the doctor who pronounced Chelsea dead.” Sloane swallows. “Yes, I—I told you last night.” “Yeah, I know.” He leans forward. “Was there any indication that Chelsea had drugs in her system? Like opiates?” Her chest wall freezes as she starts to inhale. The room spins. She recounts yelling at Logan when he asked about giving Narcan. “No. Why?” A shiver runs down her arms as her husband stares at her in silence. She jumps at the chime of Ethan’s ringtone. He keeps his eyes on her while he pulls


it, and him. There was a will, which your mother destroyed, leaving the secret and the gain to you at her own death. It contained a reference to some child likely to be the result of this sad connection, which child was born, and accidentally encountered by you, when your suspicions were first awakened by his resemblance to your father. You repaired to the place of his birth. There existed proofs--proofs long suppressed--of his birth and parentage. Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now, in your own words to your accomplice the Jew, "THE ONLY PROOFS OF THE BOY'S IDENTITY LIE AT THE BOTTOM OF THE RIVER, AND THE OLD HAG THAT RECEIVED THEM FORM THE MOTHER IS ROTTING IN HER COFFIN." Unworthy son, coward, liar,--you, who hold your councils with thieves and murderers in dark rooms at night,--you, whose plots and wiles have brought a violent death upon the head of one worth millions such as you,--you, who from your cradle were gall and bitterness to your own father's heart, and in whom all evil passions, vice, and profligacy, festered, till they found a vent in a hideous disease which had made your face an index even to your mind--you, Edward Leeford, do you still brave me!' 'No, no, no!' returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges. 'Every word!' cried the gentleman, 'every word that has passed between you and this detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child has turned vice itself, and given it the courage and almost the attributes of virtue. Murder has been done, to which you were morally if not really a party.' 'No, no,' interposed Monks. 'I--I knew nothing of that; I was going to inquire the truth of the story when you overtook me. I didn't know the cause. I thought it was a common quarrel.' 'It was the partial disclosure of your secrets,' replied Mr. Brownlow. 'Will you disclose the whole?' 'Yes, I will.' 'Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it before witnesses?' 'That I promise too.' 'Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?' 'If you insist upon that, I'll do that also,' replied Monks. 'You must do more than that,' said Mr. Brownlow. 'Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where you please. In this world you need meet no more.' While Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks on this proposal and the possibilities of evading it: torn by his fears on the one hand and his hatred on the other: the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman


HER WAIST) Is me her was you dreamed before? Was then she him you us since knew? Am all them and the same now we? (BELLA APPROACHES, GENTLY TAPPING WITH THE FAN.) BLOOM: (WINCING) Powerful being. In my eyes read that slumber which women love. THE FAN: (TAPPING) We have met. You are mine. It is fate. BLOOM: (COWED) Exuberant female. Enormously I desiderate your domination. I am exhausted, abandoned, no more young. I stand, so to speak, with an unposted letter bearing the extra regulation fee before the too late box of the general postoffice of human life. The door and window open at a right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet per second according to the law of falling bodies. I have felt this instant a twinge of sciatica in my left glutear muscle. It runs in our family. Poor dear papa, a widower, was a regular barometer from it. He believed in animal heat. A skin of tabby lined his winter waistcoat. Near the end, remembering king David and the Sunamite, he shared his bed with Athos, faithful after death. A dog's spittle as you probably ... (HE WINCES) Ah! RICHIE GOULDING: (BAGWEIGHTED, PASSES THE DOOR) Mocking is catch. Best value in Dub. Fit for a prince's. Liver and kidney. THE FAN: (TAPPING) All things end. Be mine. Now, BLOOM: (UNDECIDED) All now? I should not have parted with my talisman. Rain, exposure at dewfall on the searocks, a peccadillo at my time of life. Every phenomenon has a natural cause. THE FAN: (POINTS DOWNWARDS SLOWLY) You may. BLOOM: (LOOKS DOWNWARDS AND PERCEIVES HER UNFASTENED BOOTLACE) We are observed. THE FAN: (POINTS DOWNWARDS QUICKLY) You must. BLOOM: (WITH DESIRE, WITH RELUCTANCE) I can make a true black knot. Learned when I served my time and worked the mail order line for Kellett's. Experienced hand. Every knot says a lot. Let me. In courtesy. I knelt once before today. Ah! (BELLA RAISES HER GOWN SLIGHTLY AND, STEADYING HER POSE, LIFTS TO THE EDGE OF A CHAIR A PLUMP BUSKINED HOOF AND A FULL PASTERN, SILKSOCKED. BLOOM, STIFFLEGGED, AGING, BENDS OVER HER HOOF AND WITH GENTLE FINGERS DRAWS OUT AND IN HER LACES.) BLOOM: (MURMURS LOVINGLY) To be a shoefitter in Manfield's was my love's young dream, the darling joys of sweet buttonhooking, to lace up crisscrossed to kneelength the dressy kid footwear satinlined, so incredibly impossibly small, of Clyde Road ladies. Even their wax model Raymonde I visited daily to admire her cobweb hose and stick of rhubarb toe, as worn in Paris. THE HOOF: Smell my hot goathide. Feel my royal weight. BLOOM: (CROSSLACING) Too tight? THE HOOF: If you bungle, Handy Andy, I'll kick your football for you. BLOOM: Not to lace the wrong eyelet as I did the night of the bazaar dance. Bad luck. Hook in wrong tache of her ... person you mentioned. That night she met ... Now! (HE KNOTS THE LACE. BELLA PLACES HER FOOT ON THE FLOOR. BLOOM RAISES HIS HEAD. HER HEAVY FACE, HER EYES STRIKE HIM IN MIDBROW. HIS


Her mother-in-law’s Chanel perfume catches in Sloane’s throat, still aching from Brody’s grip. Sloane scans the empty street in front of her house for Brody. “I Ubered from downtown,” Kay says, following Sloane’s gaze. Sloane closes the door, her mind still focused on Brody as she tries to make sense of her mother-in-law’s impromptu visit from California. Being the founding partner of the biggest legal firm in the Bay Area makes her a busy woman. In the nearly ten years she’s been married to Ethan, her mother-in-law had never visited Seattle. Sloane hasn’t seen her since her late husband’s funeral last March. “Is everything okay?” Kay glances toward the direction of the garage. “I thought I heard a scream.” “Oh.” Sloane clears her throat. “Yeah. I just got home from…um…yoga.” Kay raises her eyebrows. “And someone marked up the hood of my car while I was in class.” Sloane motions toward the garage. “I was just assessing the damage. And it’s pretty bad.” Her mother-in-law puts a hand over her heart. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry, dear.” She shakes her head. “Crime seems to be on the rise everywhere these days. I hate going anywhere in San Francisco without secure parking. I’m just glad you’re okay.” Sloane forces a smile. “Thank you.” What on earth is she doing here? And why did it have to be now? Kay’s heels clack against the hardwood floor as Sloane follows her into the living room. Her platinum-blonde bob is teased a good inch at the roots, adding to her already tall stature. Kay stands a good head taller than Sloane’s own mother, and Sloane wonders what Kay would think of Crystal if she were still alive. Kay is a well-kept woman, sparing no cost in her appearance. Crystal bleached her hair from a box, still sporting a perm in 1998. Even without money, her mother’s beauty would outshine everyone else in the room. There was a fire in her eyes that Sloane has never seen in anyone else. “My meeting with the new corporate client finished early, so I thought we could drive together to the restaurant. But maybe we should get an Uber after what happened to your car. Unless Ethan can drive us?” Sloane fights to shake the image of Brody’s gritted teeth and wild eyes when his hand clenched around her throat. What restaurant? Sloane racks her brain but is sure she’s never heard anything from Ethan—or Kay—about this visit. Or dinner plans. Kay furrows her brows. “Did Ethan not tell you? I thought I’d stay the night rather than fly back right away. Take you two to dinner. He said you’d both be free. I spoke to him about it a week ago.” Sloane feels a stab of resentment at her mother-in-law’s words. Ethan can make definite plans a week in advance with his mother? Why can’t he ever do that for me? Kay eyes Sloane’s attire before continuing. “I made us a reservation at Vito’s for eight.” Sloane glances at her leggings and faded t-shirt embellished with the rock band


Ogden countered. Marion didn’t like the way this was going already. “Is Captain Somers around?” Ogden regarded her with a glower. “No. He’s out trying to put out the fire you two set off with your ‘profile.’ We’ve been slammed ever since we fed the information to the press. Everyone and their mother are calling with tips, either turning in some neighbor who kicks his dog or a co-worker who rubbed them the wrong way.” This was a man who was determined to be unhappy no matter what, it seemed. “Isn’t it a good thing that you have something to work with, after sixteen years?” Marion asked. “Define ‘good.’ ” Peter touched Marion on the arm. “Show him the letter.” She placed it on the table. Ogden reached into his desk and put on a pair of rubber gloves. “You got this today?” Marion nodded. “It’s fairly obvious it’s not him,” repeated Peter. Marion stopped herself from nudging Peter in the ribs. Ogden disliked them both, and tossing out his opinion before the man even had a chance to study the letter was sure to put him off. “Why don’t you think it’s the Big Apple Bomber?” asked Ogden, measuring out the words. “It’s not signed F.P. like the others; he uses Met Power instead of Metropolitan Power. And the fact that it’s typed.” “He’s typed letters before.” Ogden examined the postmark. “Westchester again. Well, that’s consistent.” “But as I’ve said before, I don’t think he lives in Westchester,” said Peter. “He’s smarter than that; he wouldn’t mail the letters from where he lives.” “You can’t know that for sure.” Ogden sat back in his chair, arms folded. “In fact, I’ve already ordered our team to get handwriting samples from every Met Power employee who lives in Westchester County. They’re checking driver’s license applications, jury lists, pistol permits, judgments, court files. It’s a huge undertaking, but we’re getting close.” He rose and picked up the letter from his desk. “I’m going to get this fingerprinted.” “None of the other letters had fingerprints,” said Peter. “Maybe he’s getting lazy.” “Do you mind if we wait?” asked Marion. Since it was her week off from Radio City, she didn’t have to worry about the time. “Whatever suits you.” After he left, Marion turned to Peter. “I know he’s a jerk, but maybe you could ease up a bit.” “Ease up? The sheer stupidity of this investigation is maddening.” “But if you push too hard he’ll exclude us entirely. He’s already resentful of all the tips your profile is bringing in.” “Somers seems to have a good head on his shoulders, but this Ogden is a pill. The tips are a gold mine. Why Ogden’s wasting time scouring Westchester is beyond me.” “I couldn’t agree more. But we need him to keep us in the loop with what’s going on with the case, so for now, try not to sock him in the nose.” “Was it that obvious?” Marion couldn’t help but laugh. “Somewhat.” Eventually, Ogden returned, a triumphant smile on his face. “We got


see?" "I'm frightened. Of us. I want to go home. Oh God, I want to go home." "It was an accident," said Piggy stubbornly, "and that's that." He touched Ralph's bare shoulder and Ralph shuddered at the human contact. "And look, Ralph"--Piggy glanced round quickly, then leaned close--"don't let on we was in that dance. Not to Samneric." "But we were! All of us!" Piggy shook his head. "Not us till last. They never noticed in the dark. Anyway you said I was only on the outside." "So was I," muttered Ralph, "I was on the outside too." Piggy nodded eagerly. "That's right. We was on the outside. We never done nothing, we never seen nothing." Piggy paused, then went on. "We'll live on our own, the four of us--" "Four of us. We aren't enough to keep the fire burning." "We'll try. See? I lit it." Samneric came dragging a great log out of the forest. They dumped it by the fire and turned to the pool. Ralph jumped to his feet. "Hi! You two!" The twins checked a moment, then walked on. "They're going to bathe, Ralph." "Better get it over." The twins were very surprised to see Ralph. They flushed and looked past him into the air. "Hullo. Fancy meeting you, Ralph." "We just been in the forest--" "--to get wood for the fire--" "--we got lost last night." Ralph examined his toes. "You got lost after the . . ." Piggy cleaned his lens. "After the feast," said Sam in a stifled voice. Eric nodded. "Yes, after the feast." "We left early," said Piggy quickly, "because we were tired." "So did we--" "--very early--" "--we were very tired." Sam touched a scratch on his forehead and then hurriedly took his hand away. Eric fingered his split lip. "Yes. We were very tired," repeated Sam, "so we left early. Was it a good--" The air was heavy with unspoken knowledge. Sam twisted and the obscene word shot out of him. "--dance?" Memory of the dance that none of them had attended shook all four boys convulsively. "We left early." When Roger came to the neck of land that joined the Castle Rock to the mainland he was not surprised to be challenged. He had reckoned, during the terrible night, on finding at least some of the tribe holding out against the horrors of the island in the safest place. The voice rang out sharply from on high, where the diminishing crags were balanced one on another. "Halt! Who goes there?" "Roger." "Advance, friend." Roger advanced. "You could see who I was." "The chief said we got to challenge everyone." Roger peered up. "You couldn't stop me coming if I wanted." "Couldn't I? Climb up and see." Roger clambered up the ladder-like cliff. "Look at this." A log had been jammed under the topmost rock and another lever under that. Robert leaned lightly on the lever and the rock groaned. A full effort would send the rock thundering down to the neck of land. Roger admired. "He's a proper chief,


guidance, and losing this contest would be the death blow to Zelnick Cellar. August’s chest tightened like he was being strapped to a gurney, but he refused to break eye contact with the heiress. The growing ache below his throat must have been visible on his face because, slowly, Natalie’s smug expression melted away and she frowned at him. Leaned in and whispered for his ears alone, “What’s going on with you? Are you missing WrestleMania to be here or something?” “I wouldn’t miss WrestleMania for my own funeral.” He snorted. “Just taste the wine, compare it to moldy garbage, and get it over with, princess.” “Actually, I was going to ordain it as something like . . . rat bathwater.” She gestured at him with fluttery fingers. “Seriously, what’s up? You have more asshole energy than usual.” He sighed, looking out at the rows of expectant spectators who were either in tennis whites or leisure wear that probably cost more than his truck. “Maybe because I’m trapped in an episode of Succession.” Time to change the channel. Not that he had a choice. “Do your worst, Natalie.” She wrinkled her nose at his wine. “But you’re already so good at being the worst.” August huffed a laugh. “Too bad they’re not giving out a prize for sharpest fangs. You’d be unmatched.” “Are you comparing me to a vampire? Because your wine is what sucks.” “Just down the whole glass without tasting it, like you usually do.” Was that hurt that flashed in her eyes before she hid it? Certainly not. “You are an—” she started. “Ready to begin, Miss Vos?” asked one of the other judges, a silver-haired man in his fifties who wrote for Wine Enthusiast magazine. “Y-yes. Ready.” She shook herself and pulled back, regaining her poise and sliding her fingers around the stem of the wineglass containing August’s most recent Cabernet. A groove remained between her brows as she swirled the glass clockwise and lifted it to her nose to inhale the bouquet. The other judges were already coughing, looking at each other in confusion. Had they accidentally been served vinegar? They spat it out into the provided silver buckets almost in tandem. Natalie, however, seemed determined to hold off as long as possible. Her face turned red, tears forming in her eyes. But to his shock, the swallow went down her throat, followed by a gasp for air. “I’m afraid . . . ” began one of the judges, visibly flustered. The crowd whispered behind August. “I’m afraid something must have gone terribly wrong during your process.” “Yes . . .” The other judge laughed behind his wrist. “Or a step was left out entirely.” The rows of people behind him chuckled, and Natalie’s attention strayed in that direction. She opened her mouth to say something and closed it again. Normally, she wouldn’t hesitate to cut him off at the knees, so what was this? Pity? She’d chosen this moment? This moment, when he needed to walk out of here with some semblance of pride, to go


along its shores into Languedoc; and Valancourt, since he was now nearly recovered, and had no longer a pretence for continuing with his new friends, resolved to leave them here. St. Aubert, who was much pleased with him, invited him to go further, but did not repeat the invitation, and Valancourt had resolution enough to forego the temptation of accepting it, that he might prove himself not unworthy of the favour. On the following morning, therefore, they were to part, St. Aubert to pursue his way to Languedoc, and Valancourt to explore new scenes among the mountains, on his return home. During this evening he was often silent and thoughtful; St. Aubert's manner towards him was affectionate, though grave, and Emily was serious, though she made frequent efforts to appear cheerful. After one of the most melancholy evenings they had yet passed together, they separated for the night. CHAPTER VI I care not, Fortune! what you me deny; You cannot rob me of free nature's grace; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shews her brightening face; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve: Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave: Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave. THOMSON In the morning, Valancourt breakfasted with St. Aubert and Emily, neither of whom seemed much refreshed by sleep. The languor of illness still hung over St. Aubert, and to Emily's fears his disorder appeared to be increasing fast upon him. She watched his looks with anxious affection, and their expression was always faithfully reflected in her own. At the commencement of their acquaintance, Valancourt had made known his name and family. St. Aubert was not a stranger to either, for the family estates, which were now in the possession of an elder brother of Valancourt, were little more than twenty miles distant from La Vallee, and he had sometimes met the elder Valancourt on visits in the neighbourhood. This knowledge had made him more willingly receive his present companion; for, though his countenance and manners would have won him the acquaintance of St. Aubert, who was very apt to trust to the intelligence of his own eyes, with respect to countenances, he would not have accepted these, as sufficient introductions to that of his daughter. The breakfast was almost as silent as the supper of the preceding night; but their musing was at length interrupted by the sound of the carriage wheels, which were to bear away St. Aubert and Emily. Valancourt started from his chair, and went to the window; it was indeed the carriage, and he returned to his seat without speaking. The moment was now come when they must part. St. Aubert told Valancourt, that he hoped he would never pass La Vallee without favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt, eagerly thanking him, assured him that he never would; as he said which he looked timidly at Emily, who tried to smile away the


nothing."     I resolved, in the depth of my heart, that I would be most moderate, most correct; and, having reflected a few minutes in order to arrange coherently what I had to say, I told her all the story of my sad childhood. Exhausted by emotion, my language was more subdued than it generally was when it developed that sad theme; and mindful of Helen's warnings against the indulgence of resentment, I infused into the narrative far less of gall and wormwood than ordinary. Thus restrained and simplified, it sounded more credible; I felt as I went on that Miss Temple fully believed me.     In the course of the tale I had mentioned Mr. Lloyd as having come to see me after the fit; for I never forgot the, to me, frightful episode of the red room; in detailing which, my excitement was sure, in some degree, to break bounds; for nothing could soften in my recollection the spasm of agony which clutched my heart when Mrs. Reed spurned my wild supplication for pardon, and locked me a second time in the dark and haunted chamber.     I had finished. Miss Temple regarded me a few minutes in silence; she then said: "I know something of Mr. Lloyd; I shall write to him; if his reply agrees with your statement, you shall be publicly cleared from every imputation; to me, Jane, you are clear now."     She kissed me, and still keeping me at her side (where I was well contented to stand, for I derived a child's pleasure from the contemplation of her face, her dress, her one or two ornaments, her white forehead, her clustered and shining curls, and beaming dark eyes), she proceeded to address Helen Burns:     "How are you to-night, Helen? Have you coughed much to-day?"     "Not quite so much, I think ma'am."     "And the pain in your chest?"     "It is a little better."     Miss Temple got up, took her hand, and examined her pulse; then she returned to her own seat; as she resumed it, I heard her sigh low. She was pensive a few minutes, then rousing herself, she said cheerfully: "But you two are my visitors to-night; I must treat you as such." She rang her bell.     "Barbara," she said to the servant who answered it, "I have not yet had tea; bring the tray, and place cups for these two young ladies."     And a tray was soon brought. How pretty, to my eyes, did the china cups and bright teapot look, placed on the little round table near the fire! How fragrant was the steam of the beverage, and the scent of the toast! of which, however, I, to my dismay (for I was beginning to be hungry), discerned only a very small portion; Miss Temple discerned it too: "Barbara," said she,


evening. On the contrary, the evidence is that he avoided the moor. That night he waited there. It was the night before he made his departure for London. The thing takes shape, Watson. It becomes coherent. Might I ask you to hand me my violin, and we will postpone all further thought upon this business until we have had the advantage of meeting Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry Baskerville in the morning." Chapter 4 Sir Henry Baskerville Our breakfast table was cleared early, and Holmes waited in his dressing-gown for the promised interview. Our clients were punc- tual to their appointment, for the clock had just struck ten when Dr. Mortimer was shown up, followed by the young baronet. The latter was a small, alert, dark-eyed man about thirty years of age, very sturdily built, with thick black eyebrows and a strong, pugnacious face. He wore a ruddy-tinted tweed suit and had the weather-beaten appearance of one who has spent most of his time in the open air, and yet there was something in his steady eye and the quiet assurance of his bearing which indicated the gentleman. "This is Sir Henry Baskerville," said Dr. Mortimer. "Why, yes," said he, "and the strange thing is, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, that if my friend here had not proposed coming round to you this morning I should have come on my own account. I understand that you think out little puzzles, and I've had one this morning which wants more thinking out than I am able to give it." "Pray take a seat, Sir Henry. Do I understand you to say that you have yourself had some remarkable experience since you arrived in London?" "Nothing of much importance, Mr. Holmes. Only a joke, as like as not. It was this letter, if you can call it a letter, which reached me this morning." He laid an envelope upon the table, and we all bent over it. It was of common quality, grayish in colour. The address, "Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel," was printed in rough characters; the post-mark "Charing Cross," and the date of posting the preceding evening. "Who knew that you were going to the Northumberland Ho- tel?" asked Holmes, glancing keenly across at our visitor. "No one could have known. We only decided after I met Dr. Mortimer." "But Dr. Mortimer was no doubt already stopping there?" "No, I had been staying with a friend," said the doctor. "There was no possible indication that we intended to go to this hotel." "Hum! Someone seems to be very deeply interested in your movements." Out of the envelope he took a half-sheet of fools- cap paper folded into four. This he opened and spread flat upon the table. Across the middle of it a single sentence had been formed by the expedient of pasting printed words upon it. It ran: As you value your life or your reason keep away from the moor. The word "moor" only was printed in ink. "Now," said Sir Henry Baskerville, "perhaps you will tell me, Mr. Holmes, what in


myself. It doesn’t matter that I never got concrete answers about what broke us. What matters is that we broke. What matters is that Wyn’s happy with his new life. We’ll make it through tomorrow, then go our separate ways. When we tell everyone we’ve broken up, we’ll be able to say it was amicable, that it won’t cost them anything. But I can’t let it go. I’ve been trying for months, and I’m no closer to peace. Here’s my opportunity—my last chance. It might be a mistake to get answers, but if I don’t, I’ll spend my life regretting it. This is what I need from this week, the thing that will justify the torture. I leave the bedroom, march down the hall past the hiss of running showers and old pipes creaking in the walls. Everything feels strange, dreamlike: the time-smoothed wooden stairs soft against my soles, the prickle of cool air as I step out back, the rushing sound of the tide sliding over the rocks beneath the bluff. I cross the patio to the side gate, still open from Cleo’s sudden flight of fancy the other night, and follow the path beyond it, into the dense evergreens beyond. The sun hasn’t fully set, but the foliage overhead coats the footbridge in shadow, pinpricks of mounted solar lights illuminating the path to the guesthouse. It’s like I’m moving through jelly, every step slow and heavy. Then the wood-shingled guesthouse appears, and I round the corner toward the cedarwood shower. When I see him, it surprises me. As if I didn’t come here expressly for him. Only the back of his head, neck, and shoulders peek over the top of the cedar walls, the breeze pulling steam out in silver wisps. A feeling of loss, heavy as a sandbag, hits me in the gut. I can’t do this, I think. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to make things worse. I turn. My sleeve catches on a low-hanging branch, and all the moisture accumulated there spatters to the hollow forest floor. Wyn turns, his brow arching with amusement. “Can I help you?” He looks and sounds happy to see me. Somehow it’s another blow. I waver. “I doubt it.” “May I help you,” he amends. “I just wanted to talk!” I step back. “But it can wait. Until you’re less . . .” “Busy?” he guesses. “Naked,” I say. “One and the same,” he says. “For you, I guess,” I say. His brow scrunches. “What’s that mean?” “I honestly don’t know,” I say. He rests his forearms atop the wall, waiting. For me to come closer or to bolt. Now that the opportunity’s in front of me, having an answer I don’t like seems eminently worse than never having an answer at all. “It’s nothing,” I say. “Forget it.” “I won’t.” He wipes water from his eye. “But if you want me to pretend, I can try.” I take another half step back. His gaze stays pinned on me. As always, something about his face coaxes the words


a conversation, or when I’m saying goodbye to someone. I always make sure I say it.” “Who do you say it to?” “Oh, not everyone. Friends and family. People I love.” “And maybe people you want to love you back?” I don’t answer. “Do they verbally reciprocate?” she asks. “Actually, do they ever say it first?” “I’m sure they do. I just remember it always being a response.” “What about your parents?” Angelina asks. “Did they say it often?” “I never heard them say it to each other. Is that weird?” Angelina slowly closes her notebook and gently says, “There is no weird, Maddie. Every individual’s experience is unique. Did they ever say it to you?” I shift in my seat. “Say what? That they love me?” I nod. “Of course. Well, my dad did twice. Once when he was drunk and another when he was … unwell. I think his brain had forgotten itself. A little loose and addled with medication at the time, you know? But I know he loved me; you can’t not love your children, especially the unproblematic ones.” “And your mother?” “Yes, she must have.” I think of all the compliments Mum’s given me; she calls me darling, her baby, and a blessing. They’re all the same thing as love. “I tend to end our phone calls with ‘I love you.’” “So, again, you initiate?” I begin tapping my foot because my stomach feels like it has no lining. “I’m sure she has said it first on multiple occasions, I just can’t remember. She’s not a bad mother.” “I didn’t say she was.” I close my eyes and shake my head. “I’m sorry. I thought these sessions were going to be about my dad passing away and the grieving process.” “They are,” Angelina says. “But you cannot hope to understand an end without starting at the beginning.” “My mum does love me.” “I didn’t say she did not,” Angelina replies. “I’m saying the opposite, rather.” Bringing my hands together, I feel my pulse jump. “I think you know your mother loves you,” Angelina begins, “but your uncertainty may stem from a lack of convention, of the typical. How someone shows you they love you has less to do with you and all to do with them. There are healthy and unhealthy expressions of love and not all of them should be accepted.” This is meant to be about my mum, but I think about Dad and how I used to believe that if someone loved you, they had to say it, otherwise it wasn’t real, it wasn’t known, but I understand now that’s not the case. My dad rarely said those special three words, whether due to his upbringing, his stoic generation, whatever, but I always knew, inexplicably, that he did. “Many assume love is straightforward,” Angelina continues, “when really it is the most complicated of things. There is a right way, a preferred way, for each individual, to love and be loved by someone—but there isn’t only one way. I believe the difficulty of life has


broken yet, but as far as I can tell, he has not gotten any worse. That is a good sign.” “Is it?” Lady Calloway stroked her son’s hair as she gazed down at him. “He is so pale.” “Lucy thinks he is in less pain today,” Lord Calloway said. He had retreated to the corner, leaning his shoulder against the wall, but at least he had a spark of humor in his eyes. His worry for his brother did not run too deep, then. Lady Calloway’s eyes went wide. “Yes, I think you’re right, Lucy!” she said, and a smile played on her lips. “He does seem to be resting a little easier, doesn’t he?” “We’ve been through this before, Mother,” Lord Calloway said. “Do not lose sleep over him.” “That is not something you should say to a mother,” Lucy chided him, though she had meant to keep her mouth shut. It was not her place to interfere in family affairs when she was not actually part of the family. But Lord Calloway grinned at her, clearly appreciating her censure. “You are quite right,” he said. “Mother, I am sorry. I know I don’t know what it’s like to have children, so I cannot understand.” Lady Calloway managed an even better smile than before, and she almost looked happy. “Oh, Simon, you certainly keep me on my toes,” she said, but when she reached out a hand, it was toward Lucy. Confused, Lucy took hold of the woman’s fingers and let her pull her closer to the bed. “What would we have done without you, Lucy?” Lady Calloway asked as she gazed down at William. “He might not have returned this time.” Was the fever as bad as that? Or was she talking about how much time Mr. Calloway—William—had spent away from home? Lucy had no idea, but she certainly was not brave enough to ask. No, she kept silent and glanced at Lord Calloway, who seemed to have lost some of his light as he stood there in his corner. When he caught her gaze, however, he sent her a crooked smile and stood straight. “Well,” he said, “I should be getting to work. Father’s accounts are not going to sort themselves out.” “Is there something wrong with the businesses?” Lady Calloway asked, clearly alarmed by the idea. But Lord Calloway waved the question away. “Of course not, Mother. He taught me well. When you are finished, Pritchard, I would like to know what should be done to help my brother’s recovery. I will be in the library.” He stepped out of the room before waiting for a response. The doctor spent a few more minutes looking over William, but then he declared him at the very least stable, if not recovering, and excused himself to go find Lord Calloway. Lady Calloway took hold of William’s hand in both of her own. “Where is Olivia?” she asked Lucy. “I did not see her this morning.” “She’s out riding.” Lucy lowered herself slowly onto the bed, where Lord Calloway had been


eyes, her limbs aching with sorrow and exhaustion, and drifts into sleep. * * * She wakes to the strong smell of meat. Agamemnon is standing in front of the bed, a cup of wine in his hand. He looks drunk: his cheeks are flushed and his eyes slightly unfocused. Outside, it is late night, the stars veiled by thin clouds. “Eat,” Agamemnon says, sitting on a chair by the side of the bed. Clytemnestra stands slowly and walks to the window. On a stool, a plate is filled with bread and goat meat. She considers smashing it on Agamemnon’s head. As she eats, he watches her, sipping his wine. She finds herself looking at his hands. They are big, with thick fingers, and Clytemnestra thinks of Tantalus’s light-brown hands, his long, elegant fingers brushing her body like feathers. When she gobbles the last bite of bread, Agamemnon stands. Clytemnestra doesn’t move, not even when he is close enough that she can smell his breath. He unpins her dress and it falls at her feet. “The slaves said you are to give them orders from now on,” he says. “Yes.” “I didn’t give you permission.” He seems almost amused, though Clytemnestra can’t say why. “I don’t need your permission. I won’t take orders from you.” A shadow passes on his face. He takes her hair in his hand and pulls. She takes a step back and he moves with her. “I know what you think of me, and you are right. I am a bad man. But I don’t regret it. Do you know why? Because admitting what you are is the only way to get what you want.” And what do you want? You have already taken everything from me. He grabs her waist with both hands and pushes inside her. She feels her body resisting, trying to draw back, so she focuses on the torches that brighten the frescoes on the walls, the painted fish and birds. When she feels pain, she tries to imagine being the painted nightingale by the door. She remembers the story of the girl Philomela, transformed into a nightingale after being raped and mutilated by her sister’s husband. But she got her revenge first. Philomela had killed the man’s son, boiled him, and served him as a meal. She stands with her back against the wall and lets Agamemnon kiss and bite her. As he shoves inside her again and again, she licks away the blood on her lip and keeps looking over his shoulder at the wall opposite. At last, he grunts and moves aside, breathless. She feels the inside of her thighs wet and wishes she could clean herself. She puts her dress back on, ready to leave, though she doesn’t know where to go. He grabs her arm. “I have chosen you because you are strong, Clytemnestra. Stop being weak now.” She shakes him away. Her nightdress flutters behind her as she walks the lit corridors, leaving her chamber far behind. She reaches a window. The corridor feels hot and close and


up, of course. Waste a lot of your time. Did he give you that line of shit about file formats? We made a weasel into a Titan with that boy. Jeanine’s fault entirely, my sister dotes on him. I’m hoping that the passage of time will change him into something more interesting, but honestly I think he’ll just mummify in his own sense of entitlement.” “So I’ll ask Elaine.” His head comes around so fast I can hear the muscles strain to hold it. “That won’t do at all, Cal.” “Then you tell me.” “I don’t really take direction from the quick, Cal. You want to remember that. Athena likes you, but even if you married her I wouldn’t expect it to last more than a few decades. You’re inflexible. Time will grind you down. She, on the other hand, is perfect. Made for immortality. In three or four lifetimes, she’ll be better at this than I am. But you…by then, you’ll be a distant memory. She might still have a photograph of you, but she won’t really care. She’ll remember one time you had sex, and that it was good, but not why; she’ll remember one time you fought, and that it made her sad, but not what it was about. If I kill you, she’ll remember being angry with me, but that will wash away in time. I’m her father, and you’re a mayfly. When everyone else your age is gone, she’ll feel differently about it.” “You’re full of shit.” “I don’t think I am, Cal, and nor do you.” “Peter and Lillian. Who were they?” Stefan’s head cocks to one side and he almost smiles. “A fairy tale. There was a Lillian, of course. Pretty girl. She had the same last name as one of our scientists at the time, but they weren’t related. There was a tabloid story, and as usual they got it all wrong. The wicked Titan and the married genius. All so very meaty, below the fold. For my part, I mostly remember some pneumatic fucking. That woman was a delight. She crawled all over me, called me her god. Brought friends to play. Vice can be like that: it enjoys seeing the place where its degradation is indistinguishable from its triumph, and ecstasy swallows them both. And then one day—did she get bored? Or did I? She lived happily ever after, anyway, and I—I barely recall her face, or whether I liked her, just as Athena will forget you. Hmm? Well, it’s not important. Find out about the organs, Cal. Destroy them or hand them over to security here. Give my regrets to the Travis. Tell me when it’s done.” “I’ll let you know if I have any further questions.” I get up to leave. Stefan’s hand stops me, like walking into a glass door. “I gave you instructions, Cal. You need to understand that. I wasn’t asking a favour. I was telling you what you need to do.” “I don’t work for you, Stefan.” “Of course, you do. Everyone does. Let me remind


only a dim light (a lantern) of knowledge in a closed-in space (a yard). She says that it gives its members a sense of security, but she describes their joyless beliefs with heavy irony. Notice how long and roundabout her sentences get, mocking the brethren's interpretation of Silas' fits. She also shows how they persuaded Silas to give up his herbal studies, which he enjoyed. Her description of Dane's views is sarcastic, while she pities Silas for his earnest doubts. Eliot continually hints at William's falseness as she tells Silas' story. Dane seems to undermine Silas' engagement to Sarah and his place in the sect (Dane interprets Silas' fits as a mark of the devil). So when you see Silas sharing with William the job of nursing an ill deacon of the church, you may suspect trouble. Silas stays late at the old man's bedside, but William never shows up. Silas falls asleep--or probably has a fit--and when he comes to, the deacon is dead. Silas innocently goes off to work as usual. But that night he is summoned to a mysterious church meeting (it's William Dane who comes to fetch him). There, Silas is shown his own pocket-knife, which was found in the dead deacon's dresser drawer--where a bag of church money should have been. Silas, knowing he's innocent, stays calm. But when the brethren search his house, William finds the money (he probably hid it there). While William is accusing him, Silas remembers with a sickening jolt that William had borrowed his knife the day before, but loyally he says nothing. The congregation tries the case by praying and drawing lots. NOTE: LOTS This, Eliot says, was typical practice for some sects. They bypassed the legal process, believing that only God should judge and punish offenders. In this ritual, everyone in the group drew a slip of paper. Whoever drew a particular marked slip was judged guilty. William Dane probably fixed it so Silas would draw the damning piece of paper. Silas feels sure he'll be cleared, although he's already disturbed by William's treachery. Then comes the shocking decision--the lots show that Silas is guilty. What could he have done to prove his innocence? What would you have done in his place? He is asked to leave the sect, to return the money, and to confess his guilt. He protests, explaining that William had the knife. But in the heat of emotion, he speaks against God, causing the brethren to side with William. Silas leaves with his faith in God as shattered as his faith in his fellow man. Silas' reaction is extreme, for his world has been turned upside down. He seems helpless and passive. He doesn't try to regain Sarah's confidence, he doesn't question the church's decision--he just buries himself in his familiar, repetitive work. As you might expect, Sarah soon marries William Dane. Silas leaves town so quietly that the brethren don't know about it until he's gone. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 2 Imagine setting foot on another planet, with a moonlit rocky landscape and a green


bottom floor. “It’s best if she doesn’t find you here.” “What is this, Darlington?” Alex whispered. “How do we help you? How do we get you out?” “Find the Gauntlet.” “Believe me, we’re trying. You don’t have any idea where it is?” “Would that I did,” he said, and there was desperation in his voice, even as he released a laugh that raised the hair on Alex’s arms. “But I am just a man, heir to nothing. Find the Gauntlet, make the descent. I can’t exist between two worlds for long. Eventually the tether will snap.” “And you’ll be trapped in hell forever?” Again his expression seem to flicker. Hopelessness. Anticipation. “Or whatever I am will be unleashed upon the world.” He was close to the edge of the circle now. Alex hadn’t seen him move, hadn’t even seen him stand. “I have appetites, Stern. They are not entirely … wholesome.” His clawed fingertips pierced the golden circle, and Alex stumbled backward, a high-pitched yelp emerging from her lips. Darlington seemed to shift. He was taller, broader; his horns looked sharper. He had fangs. I feel a little less human. Then he seemed to yank himself back to the center of the circle. He was sitting once more, hands on knees, as if he’d never moved. Maybe he really was meditating, trying to keep his demon self in check. “Find the Gauntlet, make the descent. Come get me, Stern.” He paused then, and his golden eyes flashed open. “Please.” That word, raw and human, was all she could bear. Alex ran, down the hall, down the steps. She slammed into Dawes at the foot of the stairs. “Alex!” Dawes cried as they fought to keep their balance. “Come on,” Alex said, dragging Dawes back through the house. “What happened?” Dawes was saying as she let herself be pulled along. “You shouldn’t have gone up there—” “I know.” “We can’t be sure what we’re dealing—” “I know, Dawes. Just get me out of here and I’ll explain everything.” Alex threw open the kitchen door, grateful for the clean burst of cold air. She could hear Belbalm’s voice: All worlds are open to us. If we are bold enough to enter. Did that mean the underworld too? She had passed through the boundary unscathed, just like in the dream. What would happen if she entered the circle? Alex grunted and stumbled when her feet hit the gravel. Dawes caught her by the elbow. “Alex, slow down. Here.” She held up soft white tube socks and a pair of Tevas. “I brought these for you. They’re too big, but better than going barefoot.” Alex sat down on the doormat to pull on the socks and shoes. She wasn’t going back inside. Her head was buzzing. Her body felt alien. “What were you doing up there?” Dawes asked. Alex could hear the accusation in her voice and she didn’t quite know how to reply. She thought about lying, but there was too much to explain. Like how she’d ended up at Black Elm in her pajamas.


had a revelation: she didn’t need to tell him about Mark’s arm at all. When was Ian ever going to see Mark again? Taking the easy way out felt a little like lying, it made her feel a little like Mark, but it also felt like a huge relief. Maybe being a little bit like Mark wasn’t a bad thing. A little bit of Mark wasn’t the problem. The problem with Mark was that it was never a little bit of Mark, it was always either none at all or way too much. She slept through her entire flight, and when it landed she felt like a key fitting a lock. She texted Ian with lots of exclamation points and even asked her Uber driver where he was from and how long he’d been in San Francisco to make the ride go faster. She texted Ian again a few blocks from the house and she didn’t even dread seeing him, she just needed to get rid of him as soon as she politely could. Unlocking the downstairs door to her building felt weirdly like she was doing it for the first time. She noticed every single scuff mark in the stairwell, every rip in the hall carpet. She lugged her suitcase up the stairs, which creaked more than she remembered, and through their front door and called, “Poppy! I’m home!” like she was about to burst into song. She expected to see Poppy sitting cross-legged on the floor drawing, or maybe she’d made a cute Welcome Home sign, or she’d be running across the room with her arms out for a hug, but she just got Ian sitting on the sofa instead. “Hey,” he said, looking up from his phone. “Jesus, what happened to your face?” “Shelves fell on me,” she said, putting down her suitcase and dropping her purse on top. “Is Poppy okay?” “Are you all right?” he asked, coming over, arms out at waist level to give her a hug, imitating a concerned partner. She didn’t have time for this. “It’s fine, honestly,” she said, sidestepping his proposed hug. “Where’s Poppy?” “She’s in her bedroom,” he told her. “Slow down. She’s fine.” She dodged Ian and semi-ran down the short, creaking hall to Poppy’s room and gave two quick knocks on the door. “Pop-pee!” she sang, pushing it open. Poppy stood in the middle of her brightly colored rag carpet. “Kakawewe!” Poppy screeched in a familiar, squeaky voice. “How do dee do?” Pupkin waved to Louise, dancing from side to side, on Poppy’s arm. Chapter 29 L ouise’s skin turned to ice. Sweat erupted from her pores. Her guts hollowed out. Her body caved in. She’d traveled across the country only to run in a circle. “Kakawewe!” Pupkin screeched, his voice forcing itself out of her daughter’s throat. “Pupkin home! Pupkin home! Pupkin home forever!” Louise heard the scream of the saw, she pictured a fantail of orange and white sparks as it bit into the concrete floor. The word no stuck to her lips, just a moan. Her


sweltering. Or sweltering for the midcoast anyway, which is to say extremely comfortable when compared to the swampy summers of southern Indiana or the burning-under-a-microscope heat of July in New York City. A midcoast summer day is the exact day you pine for in the dead of winter. Still, after ten minutes of following the curving road, past overflowing rhododendron bushes and graying wood-shingled inns being scraped and repainted for the hundredth time, I’m wishing I’d put a tank top on under my sweater. I’ll have to find a cab back, easier said than done in a tiny village like this. Usually, Sabrina schedules our transportation, and I’m not sure how far ahead she has to do it. If I waited on all of you, this friendship would already be over, she said. She’s not entirely wrong. Friendship with Sabrina, with this whole group, has always felt like a current I could toss myself bodily into. And that’s what I’m most used to: coasting along on other people’s whims and feelings. It had never occurred to me that that could be read as apathy. That they might think I just don’t care. Guilt twinges through me. The cracked sidewalk turns and deposits me in town in front of the coffee shop. Under the faded awning over its walk-up window, collecting a recycled drink carrier, is Cleo. She stiffens at the sight of me, slowly lifts one hand. I do the same. For a moment, neither of us moves. Then the barista calls out, “Doug!” and the only other waiting customer nudges Cleo aside to pick up an order. She ambles toward me with her carrier, and I meet her halfway, in front of the cheerily painted bench in front of the Italian restaurant. In between rows of cutesy red cartoon lobsters, in cutesy font, are the words FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY!!! “Hi,” she says. “Hi,” I say. She lifts the drink carrier. “Coffee?” “Then you’d only have three left,” I say. She cracks a half-hearted smile. “The salted-caramel latte is for you.” I look down at the carrier. Three very average-sized drinks, and one that’s the coffee shop equivalent of a Big Gulp. “So they were out of 5-Hour Energies and Adderall, I see.” Her smile widens. “I couldn’t carry five drinks. So I got one big-ass Americano for Sabrina and Parth to split, a black coffee for Wyn, and a matcha for Kim.” My chest stings. “You have our drink orders memorized.” She lifts one shoulder. “I know you.” Another beat of silence. “You want to walk for a minute?” she asks. I nod. “Here.” She balances the carrier on the bench and pries my paper cup out of it. “I’ll Venmo you,” I say. She winces a little. “Please don’t.” We meander down toward the water, the brine in the air thickening. After a second, I tell her, “I never learned how to fight.” She glances sidelong at me. “Especially not with people I care about,” I say. “I mean, not with anyone. But especially not with the people I love.


me again. We all sit on a musty cat-hair-covered couch as she paces in front of us. “Lemonade?” she asks. “Wha—what?” Javier stammers. “Lem-on-ade,” she repeats, emphasizing every syllable. “Thirsty?” “I—No,” I say. I don’t think even the threat of catching a bullet could get me to drink or eat anything from inside this house. Ms. Keane turns her back to us and lets the gun rest on her hip but keeps her finger close to the trigger. “Is she seriously offering us drinks?” Bezi whispers against my ear. Ms. Keane spins around, and I wince as she points the firearm at us again. “It’s the polite thing to do when you have guests, you know. Offer food, drinks. I’m a little rusty. Don’t have many visitors but I have some lemonade.” Javier stifles a gag. “I think we’re good.” “Ah well.” Ms. Keane sighs as she sits down in a rocking chair directly across from us. She rests the butt of the gun on the floor. “You’re the kids from the camp.” She sucks her teeth. Her ragged salt-and-pepper hair is hanging around her face like a shroud, but her eyes, black as coal, stand out. “I don’t like it. Not one little bit. It’s not the way things should be.” “I don’t know what you mean, but I want to,” I say. I try sucking up to her again. “I’m looking for my friends. They came out here to talk to you about the camp, about its history. We really want to understand, and they figured you’d be the best person to ask.” Her beady eyes narrow and her mouth turns down. “Its history?” Her unkempt brows push up. “What do you know about it? Can’t be too much or you wouldn’t be here.” I try to judge how quickly I can get to the door, but Ms. Keane is positioned almost directly between it and us. “Well, that’s what my friends came here to find out,” I say as I fight to keep my voice steady. “I heard what you said, Ms. Keane. You said we should be ashamed of ourselves, that if we knew what you know, it might mean something. What did you mean by that?” Ms. Keane rocks back and looks up at the ceiling but keeps her fingers curled around the barrel of the shotgun. “That camp is an abomination. Distasteful if you ask me.” She raises her face to the ceiling again. “How?” I ask. “We don’t know what you mean.” I glance at Javier, who looks down into his lap. Bezi slides her hand onto my leg and squeezes it. Hard. Her eyes are wide, and I realize she’s trying to get me to look at something in her line of sight. I follow her gaze to a window at the front of the house. Kyle’s shadowy silhouette is hovering behind the glass. He’s wildly gesturing to the side of the house, but I can’t make out what he’s trying to tell me. Ms. Keane raises her head and I immediately lower my


be safe. And I’ll be free. As if he can read my mind, Benjamin calls back to me. “Don’t worry, Missy. I’ll be home soon.” Despite his pleasant tone, it is a warning. A threat. A visible shiver runs through me. French clocks it. “Don’t worry. He won’t be.” “Are you sure?” My voice is husky. “Is he going to jail?” “He’ll be processed and sent to holding,” she says. “He’ll likely be arraigned tomorrow. Given the seriousness of these charges, and his extensive resources, I’ll be surprised if he gets bail.” “You don’t know him,” I tell her. “He’s powerful. And connected. He’s a criminal defense lawyer!” My panic is building. Benjamin was planning to kill me. If he gets out, he will finish the job. I feel light-headed. Weak. Sick. The detective attempts to calm me. “You’ll be assigned a victim’s advocate to guide you through the legal process,” she says. “You’ll be kept informed of his release, if it happens.” If. It’s not good enough. “You might want to consider getting your own lawyer,” French says, her voice low and confidential. “This could get messy.” There’s no doubt about that. And I have no one else to lean on. No friends. No family. Benjamin has made sure of it. I can hardly reach out to my circle of acquaintances, the spouses of my husband’s colleagues. You may have heard Benjamin has been arrested for planning to murder me. Would you like to try that new wine bar on Pike? “Most people can’t afford it,” the cop adds, glancing around at our luxurious surroundings, “but it can make things a lot easier.” She thinks I am rich, for obvious reasons. But despite my fine home filled with expensive art and furnishings, I don’t have my own money. Benjamin gave me credit cards that I was allowed to use for clothes, groceries, and beauty treatments. I asked him for cash when I needed it, but he wouldn’t necessarily oblige me. And the safe in his study is practically emptied of money. I had found the code, written on a slip of paper tucked behind a picture frame. The money was now with Lee, who was hopefully in Panama. “I’ll do it,” I tell her, because I have to protect myself. “Can you recommend someone?” “I’ll see that you get a list of lawyers who handle these kinds of cases.” “Thanks.” She stands, suddenly cool and perfunctory. “We have a warrant to seize the computers and smartphones as evidence. Can you show me where they are?” “O-of course.” I get up and lead her toward the study, but Nate blocks our path. “Can I see the warrant?” he says. He is loyal to Benjamin. He is still on the payroll. Despite our affinity, Nate is not my ally. For all I know, he could have been tasked with my murder. But he’d had ample opportunity to do it, and he hadn’t. So how had my husband planned to get rid of me? The officer hands Nate a document and he looks it


Colonel Fitzwilliam, ``Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so well able to expose my real character, in a part of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire -- and, give me leave to say, very impolitic too -- for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come out, as will shock your relations to hear.'' ``I am not afraid of you,'' said he, smilingly. ``Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,'' cried Colonel Fitzwilliam. ``I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.'' ``You shall hear then -- but prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball -- and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances! I am sorry to pain you -- but so it was. He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.'' ``I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party.'' ``True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball room. Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.'' ``Perhaps,'' said Darcy, ``I should have judged better, had I sought an introduction, but I am ill qualified to recommend myself to strangers.'' ``Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?'' said Elizabeth, still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. ``Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?'' ``I can answer your question,'' said Fitzwilliam, ``without applying to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.'' ``I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,'' said Darcy, ``of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.'' ``My fingers,'' said Elizabeth, ``do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault -- because I would not take the trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe _my_ fingers as capable as any other woman's of superior execution.'' Darcy smiled, and said, ``You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you, can think any thing wanting. We neither of us perform


met Van Helsing running up the avenue. When he saw me, he gasped out, "Then it was you, and just arrived. How is she? Are we too late? Did you not get my telegram?" I answered as quickly and coherently as I could that I had only got his telegram early in the morning, and had not a minute in coming here, and that I could not make any one in the house hear me. He paused and raised his hat as he said solemnly, "Then I fear we are too late. God's will be done!" With his usual recuperative energy, he went on, "Come. If there be no way open to get in, we must make one. Time is all in all to us now." We went round to the back of the house, where there was a kitchen window. The Professor took a small surgical saw from his case, and handing it to me, pointed to the iron bars which guarded the window. I attacked them at once and had very soon cut through three of them. Then with a long, thin knife we pushed back the fastening of the sashes and opened the window. I helped the Professor in, and followed him. There was no one in the kitchen or in the servants' rooms, which were close at hand. We tried all the rooms as we went along, and in the dining room, dimly lit by rays of light through the shutters, found four servant women lying on the floor. There was no need to think them dead, for their stertorous breathing and the acrid smell of laudanum in the room left no doubt as to their condition. Van Helsing and I looked at each other, and as we moved away he said, "We can attend to them later."Then we ascended to Lucy's room. For an instant or two we paused at the door to listen, but there was no sound that we could hear. With white faces and trembling hands, we opened the door gently, and entered the room. How shall I describe what we saw? On the bed lay two women, Lucy and her mother. The latter lay farthest in, and she was covered with a white sheet, the edge of which had been blown back by the drought through the broken window, showing the drawn, white, face, with a look of terror fixed upon it. By her side lay Lucy, with face white and still more drawn. The flowers which had been round her neck we found upon her mother's bosom, and her throat was bare, showing the two little wounds which we had noticed before, but looking horribly white and mangled. Without a word the Professor bent over the bed, his head almost touching poor Lucy's breast. Then he gave a quick turn of his head, as of one who listens, and leaping to his feet, he cried out to me, "It is not yet too late! Quick! Quick! Bring the brandy!" I flew downstairs and returned with it, taking care to smell and taste


do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out again," said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep. After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the united exertions of the entire family Jo's hair was got up and her dress on. They looked very well in their simple suits, Meg's in silvery drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin. Jo in maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light glove, and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect "quite easy and fine". Meg's high-heeled slippers were very tight and hurt her, though she would not own it, and Jo's nineteen hairpins all seemed stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable, but, dear me, let us be elegant or die. "Have a good time, dearies!" said Mrs. March, as the sisters went daintily down the walk. "Don't eat much supper, and come away at eleven when I send Hannah for you." As the gate clashed behind them, a voice cried from a window . . . "Girls, girls! Have you you both got nice pocket handkerchiefs?" "Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers," cried Jo, adding with a laugh as they went on, "I do believe Marmee would ask that if we were all running away from an earthquake. "It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real lady is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief," replied Meg, who had a good many little `aristocratic tastes' of her own. "Now don't forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my sash right? And does my hair look very bad?" said Meg, as she turned from the glass in Mrs. Gardiner's dressing room after a prolonged prink. "I know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind me by a wink, will you?" returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch and her head a hasty brush. "No, winking isn't ladylike. I'll lift my eyebrows if any thing is wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulder straight, and take short steps, and don't shake hands if you are introduced to anyone. It isn't the thing." "How do you learn all the proper ways? I never can. Isn't that music gay?" Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to parties, and informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to them. Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them kindly and handed them over to the eldest of her six daughters. Meg knew Sallie and was at her ease very soon, but Jo, who didn't care much for girls or girlish gossip, stood about, with her back carefully against the wall, and felt as much out of place as a colt in a flower garden. Half a dozen jovial lads were talking about


knuckles showed white as if her fist was tightly clenched. Between the thumb and first two fingers of her right hand she held one of Bond's cigarettes, as an artist holds a crayon, and though she smoked with composure, she tapped the cigarette occasionally into an ash-try when the cigarette had no ash. Bond noticed these small things because he felt intensely aware of her and because he wanted to draw her into his own feeling of warmth and relaxed sensuality. But he accepted her reserve. He thought it came from a desire to protect herself from him, or else it was her reaction to his coolness to her earlier in the evening, his deliberate coolness, which he knew had been taken as a rebuff. He was patient. He drank champagne and talked a little about the happenings of the day and about the personalities of Mathis and Leiter and about the possible consequences for Le Chiffre. He was discreet and he only talked about the aspects of the case on which she must have been briefed by London. She answered perfunctorily. She said that, of course, they had picked out the two gunmen, but had thought nothing of it when the man with the stick had gone to stand behind Bond's chair. They could not believe that anything would be attempted in the Casino itself. Directly Bond and Leiter had left to walk over to the hotel, she had telephoned Paris and told M's representative of the result of the game. She had had to speak guardedly and the agent had rung off without comment. She had been told to do this whatever the result. M had asked for the information to be passed on to him personally at any time of the day or night. This was all she said. She sipped at her champagne and rarely glanced at Bond. She didn't smile. Bond felt frustrated. He drank a lot of champagne and ordered another bottle. The scrambled eggs came and they ate in silence. At four o'clock Bond was about to call for the bill when the matre d'htel appeared at their table and inquired for Miss Lynd. He handed her a note which she took and read hastily. 'Oh, it's only Mathis,' she said. 'He says would I come to the entrance hall. He's got a message for you. Perhaps he's not in evening clothes or something. I won't be a minute. Then perhaps we could go home.' She gave him a strained smile. 'I'm afraid I don't feel very good company this evening. It's been rather a nerve-racking day. I'm so sorry.' Bond made a perfunctory reply and rose, pushing back the table. 'I'll get the bill,' he said, and watched her take the few steps to the entrance. He sat down and lit a cigarette. He felt flat. He suddenly realized that he was tired. The stuffiness of the room hit him as it had hit him in the Casino in the early hours of the previous day. He called for the bill and took a


hastened to reply; but I thought it, after an instant, not opposed to this concession to pursue: "Did she die here?" "No--she went off." I don't know what there was in this brevity of Mrs. Grose's that struck me as ambiguous. "Went off to die?" Mrs. Grose looked straight out of the window, but I felt that, hypothetically, I had a right to know what young persons engaged for Bly were expected to do. "She was taken ill, you mean, and went home?" "She was not taken ill, so far as appeared, in this house. She left it, at the end of the year, to go home, as she said, for a short holiday, to which the time she had put in had certainly given her a right. We had then a young woman-- a nursemaid who had stayed on and who was a good girl and clever; and SHE took the children altogether for the interval. But our young lady never came back, and at the very moment I was expecting her I heard from the master that she was dead." I turned this over. "But of what?" "He never told me! But please, miss," said Mrs. Grose, "I must get to my work." III Her thus turning her back on me was fortunately not, for my just preoccupations, a snub that could check the growth of our mutual esteem. We met, after I had brought home little Miles, more intimately than ever on the ground of my stupefaction, my general emotion: so monstrous was I then ready to pronounce it that such a child as had now been revealed to me should be under an interdict. I was a little late on the scene, and I felt, as he stood wistfully looking out for me before the door of the inn at which the coach had put him down, that I had seen him, on the instant, without and within, in the great glow of freshness, the same positive fragrance of purity, in which I had, from the first moment, seen his little sister. He was incredibly beautiful, and Mrs. Grose had put her finger on it: everything but a sort of passion of tenderness for him was swept away by his presence. What I then and there took him to my heart for was something divine that I have never found to the same degree in any child-- his indescribable little air of knowing nothing in the world but love. It would have been impossible to carry a bad name with a greater sweetness of innocence, and by the time I had got back to Bly with him I remained merely bewildered--so far, that is, as I was not outraged-- by the sense of the horrible letter locked up in my room, in a drawer. As soon as I could compass a private word with Mrs. Grose I declared to her that it was grotesque. She promptly understood me. "You mean the cruel charge--?" "It doesn't live an instant. My dear woman, LOOK at him!" She smiled at my


a hand. “You’ll make a terribly good thief, Win.” Winnie frowned. “Don’t tease me.” “I’m not teasing in the least,” said Mrs. King, with mock seriousness. “I’ve never met such a bloodthirsty woman in my life.” Winnie stared up at her from her chair, with an expression in her eyes that made her look suddenly much older. “And I’ve never met a woman in my life who decided to clear out a whole house, strip it right down to the bones, for no more reason than she feels like it.” She studied Mrs. King. “Remind me never to cross you.” Mrs. King kept things easy. “I’m sure you don’t need reminding.” She tapped her pocket watch. “Now, come along. You’ve got a job to do, my fine lady-felon. Clock’s ticking.” 5 Winnie entered the Paragon through the doors on the Mile End Road. She crossed the crush room and saw herself reflected in the giant mirrors, flushed with heat. They’d replaced the gaslights with blistering new electroliers and put Chinese prints all over the walls. Everything was glazed and swagged with red velvet. She rather liked it. She took a breath and made straight for the auditorium, spying a door near the stage. Mrs. King had given very clear instructions. “We need someone with a gift for deception, someone who knows all about acting.” “Who did you have in mind?” “Who do you think?” “You can’t be serious,” Winnie had said, knowing exactly who Mrs. King meant. “She’s entirely unpredictable.” “She’s perfect. And you’ve known her the longest. She’ll do it if you ask her.” Winnie had shaken her head. “Not a good idea.” “Nonsense. I have every faith in you,” Mrs. King had said. “Off you go,” she’d added when Winnie hesitated. Winnie hadn’t been able to tell Mrs. King why she dreaded this appointment. It had depths and dimensions even she was only just beginning to comprehend. And she’d sworn to keep them secret. So she had nodded, stoically. “Very well,” she’d said. “I’ll do my best.” Now Winnie felt a hand on her arm. “Madam!” It was an usher, barring the way. “Have you got a ticket?” Winnie felt his eyes assessing her shabby coat, and marched back to the lobby. She spent all the cash Mrs. King had given her on a box. Necessary expense, she told herself, trying not to look at the price. They gave her a program for free, which was something. It was printed on silk, the color of peaches and cream. She ran her finger down the acts, searching for one name: Hephzibah Grandcourt. Couldn’t find it. She frowned, looking out over the balcony. There were an awful lot of shopkeepers and cutlery salesmen here. The men wore tartan jackets, luridly patterned, and left their umbrellas in the aisle. Stop being a snob, she reminded herself. She looked odder than they did, a lump of coal in a jewelry box, pins falling out of her hat. Another usher peered in. “Something from the menu?” “Brandy,” she said, summoning her courage. She might as


a timeship.” “They didn’t,” Resnick said. “Portent returned with Adams and Wrath. Remember how the council wouldn’t give me a new timeship? The smug bastards knew it was coming back. Problem is, now that Adams and Wrath have seen the Portent, it can’t just bug out. It has to wait until things resolve. So get your team together, because we need to rescue everyone. Fast.” Chapter 10 Liquilid Empire Star System USS Adams Captain Galvin Quintos The asteroid field was a sea of isolated islands, big, slowly tumbling rocks, some the size of a building back on Earth, some as large as a small moon. With Akari at the pinnacle of our three-Arrow formation, we moved as one unit. Getting a feel for just how massive this field was, I realized we needed help and had Ryder call back to Adams for those pilots that were physically able; several more squads needed to be deployed. We kept our comms chatter to a minimum as we swerved and dodged the celestial masses. Keeping an eye on my Arrow’s sensor readings, I saw there were no signs of life, no indications of advanced technology—no alien scan pings, no distant weapon locks. I suspected we were in as remote a location as I’d ever been. Perhaps we were the first intelligent life to have ever entered this section of deep space. That’s when I saw it. A reflective glimmer of light and then it was gone. A tiny blip of illumination as we flew past one of the medium-sized asteroids. It could easily have been my imagination. “Did either of you see that? Over.” “See what, Brigs? You catch sight of little green men? Maybe it was Big Foot in a space suit. I’m convinced we’re it out here … all alone within the farthest reaches of space. Over,” Ryder said. “Yeah, it was just a glimmer … maybe a reflection off … something. Over,” I said. “Let’s check it out,” Akari said. “Take point, Brigs. Show us your glimmer of light. Over.” I moved into the point position and banked hard to port around an asteroid. Coming around it to the other side, I straightened out and slowed. “It was somewhere around here. Maybe that baby moon–sized rock up ahead. We should have a better view from this perspective—” And there it was. “Holy Mother of God,” Ryder said. “That’s some glimmer of light, Brigs,” Akari added. I was beyond tongue-tied. It was a ship. Big. Dreadnought class for sure, and it was US Space-Navy. I recognized her profile immediately. “Looks to be adrift. Dark … no running lights. Sensors not picking up much of anything—well, maybe some rudimentary active circuits. Okay, I’m now picking up … something. Over,” Akari said. Hardy’s voice joined the open-channel conversation. He must have been listening in, back on Adams. “I’ve been thinking I should have a callsign … How about Quicksilver? Or Metalman? Maybe—” “Enough. You’re not getting a callsign,” I said. “What can you tell us about this ship?” We had now come full circle around


audience, and, as Anne assured Diana, every succeeding thrill was thrillier than the last. When Prissy Andrews, attired in a new pink-silk waist with a string of pearls about her smooth white throat and real carnations in her hair-rumor whispered that the master had sent all the way to town for them for her-"climbed the slimy ladder, dark without one ray of light," Anne shivered in luxurious sympathy. when the choir sang "Far Above the Gentle Daisies" Anne gazed at the ceiling as if it were frescoed with angels; when Sam Sloane proceeded to explain and illustrate "How Sockery Set a Hen" Anne laughed until people sitting near her laughed too, more out of sympathy with her than with amusement at a selection that was rather threadbare even in Avonlea; and when Mr. Phillips gave Mark Antony's oration over the dead body of Caesar in the most heartstirring tones-looking at Prissy Andrews at the end of every sentence-Anne felt that she could rise and mutiny on the spot if but one Roman citizen led the way. Only one number on the program failed to interest her. When Gilbert Blythe recited "Bingen on the Rhine" Anne picked up Rhoda Murray's library book and read it until he had finished, when she sat rigidly stiff and motionless while Diana clapped her hands until they tingled. It was eleven when they got home, sated with dissipation, but with the exceeding sweet pleasure of talking it all over still to come. Everybody seemed asleep and the house was dark and silent. Anne and Diana tiptoed into the parlor, a long narrow room out of which the spare room opened. It was pleasantly warm and dimly lighted by the embers of a fire in the grate. "Let's undress here," said Diana. "It's so nice and warm." "Hasn't it been a delightful time?" sighed Anne rapturously. "It must be splendid to get up and recite there. Do you suppose we will ever be asked to do it, Diana?" "Yes, of course, someday. They're always wanting the big scholars to recite. Gilbert Blythe does often and he's only two years older than us. Oh, Anne, how could you pretend not to listen to him? When he came to the line, "There's another, not a sister, he looked right down at you." "Diana," said Anne with dignity, "you are my bosom friend, but I cannot allow even you to speak to me of that person. Are you ready for bed? Let's run a race and see who'll get to the bed first." The suggestion appealed to Diana. The two little whiteclad figures flew down the long room, through the spareroom door, and bounded on the bed at the same moment. And then-something-moved beneath them, there was a gasp and a cry-and somebody said in muffled accents: "Merciful goodness!" Anne and Diana were never able to tell just how they got off that bed and out of the room. They only knew that after one frantic rush they found themselves tiptoeing shiveringly upstairs. "Oh, who was it-WHAT was it?" whispered Anne,