A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

that the torment of this infernal prison is increased by the company of the damned themselves. Evil company on earth is so noxious that the plants, as if by instinct, withdraw from the company of whatsoever is deadly or hurtful to them. In hell all laws are overturned--there is no thought of family or country, of ties, of relationships. The damned howl and scream at one another, their torture and rage intensified by the presence of beings tortured and raging like themselves. All sense of humanity is forgotten. The yells of the suffering sinners fill the remotest corners of the vast abyss. The mouths of the damned are full of blasphemies against God and of hatred for their fellow sufferers and of curses against those souls which were their accomplices in sin. In olden times it was the custom to punish the parricide, the man who had raised his murderous hand against his father, by casting him into the depths of the sea in a sack in which were placed a cock, a monkey, and a serpent. The intention of those law-givers who framed such a law, which seems cruel in our times, was to punish the criminal by the company of hurtful and hateful beasts. But what is the fury of those dumb beasts compared with the fury of execration which bursts from the parched lips and aching throats of the damned in hell when they behold in their companions in misery those who aided and abetted them in sin, those whose words sowed the first seeds of evil thinking and evil living in their minds, those whose immodest suggestions led them on to sin, those whose eyes tempted and allured them from the path of virtue. They turn upon those accomplices and upbraid them and curse them. But they are helpless and hopeless: it is too late now for repentance. --Last of all consider the frightful torment to those damned souls, tempters and tempted alike, of the company of the devils. These devils will afflict the damned in two ways, by their presence and by their reproaches. We can have no idea of how horrible these devils are. Saint Catherine of Siena once saw a devil and she has written that, rather than look again for one single instant on such a frightful monster, she would prefer to walk until the end of her life along a track of red coals. These devils, who were once beautiful angels, have become as hideous and ugly as they once were beautiful. They mock and jeer at the lost souls whom they dragged down to ruin. It is they, the foul demons, who are made in hell the voices of conscience. Why did you sin? Why did you lend an ear to the temptings of friends? Why did you turn aside from your pious practices and good works? Why did you not shun the occasions of sin? Why did you not leave that evil companion? Why did you not give up that lewd habit, that impure habit? Why did you not listen to


know it again, with a thousand candle- power Swan and Edison right here in front of the hall door." The avenue opened into a broad expanse of turf, and the house lay before us. In the fading light I could see that the centre was a heavy block of building from which a porch projected. The whole front was draped in ivy, with a patch clipped bare here and there where a window or a coat of arms broke through the dark veil. From this central block rose the twin towers, ancient, crenellated, and pierced with many loopholes. To right and left of the turrets were more modern wings of black granite. A dull light shone through heavy mullioned windows, and from the high chimneys which rose from the steep, high-angled roof there sprang a single black column of smoke. "Welcome, Sir Henry! Welcome to Baskerville Hall!" A tall man had stepped from the shadow of the porch to open the door of the wagonette. The figure of a woman was silhouet- ted against the yellow light of the hall. She came out and helped the man to hand down our bags. "You don't mind my driving straight home, Sir Henry?" said Dr. Mortimer. "My wife is expecting me." "Surely you will stay and have some dinner?" "No, I must go. I shall probably find some work awaiting me. I would stay to show you over the house, but Barrymore will be a better guide than I. Good-bye, and never hesitate night or day to send for me if I can be of service." The wheels died away down the drive while Sir Henry and I turned into the hall, and the door clanged heavily behind us. It was a fine apartment in which we found ourselves, large, lofty, and heavily raftered with huge baulks of age-blackened oak. In the great old-fashioned fireplace behind the high iron dogs a log-fire crackled and snapped. Sir Henry and I held out our hands to it, for we were numb from our long drive. Then we gazed round us at the high, thin window of old stained glass, the oak panelling, the stags' heads, the coats of arms upon the walls, all dim and sombre in the subdued light of the central lamp. "It's just as I imagined it," said Sir Henry. "Is it not the very picture of an old family home? To think that this should be the same hall in which for five hundred years my people have lived. It strikes me solemn to think of it." I saw his dark face lit up with a boyish enthusiasm as he gazed about him. The light beat upon him where he stood, but long shadows trailed down the walls and hung like a black canopy above him. Barrymore had returned from taking our luggage to our rooms. He stood in front of us now with the subdued manner of a well-trained servant. He was a remarkable-looking man, tall, handsome, with a square black beard and pale, distinguished features. "Would you wish dinner to


grudge or something, like the people in his own office. “I was wondering if you could give me some information on a death that occurred about a month ago.” “Sure.” “Great. The name of the deceased is Samuel David Lucas, and he died on October 27th.” Ethan hears Macedo’s fingertips tap against his keyboard. “Yep. Got the report right here. There’s not much to it. Oh, yeah. I remember this one. I was the one who picked up his body from Bayside. His cause of death was sepsis. IV drug user.” Ethan goes still. “Bayside?” “Yeah. He’d been in the ICU for a couple of days before we got the call. He was brought to the ER after passing out at a bus stop.” Ethan brings his hand to his temple. If he was brought to the ER two days before he died, it was likely during Sloane’s shift. “There was no next of kin so we—” “Thanks, Macedo. I gotta run, but I really appreciate your help.” Ethan slams his laptop closed and stands from his chair while slipping his phone into his pocket. “See ya tomorrow, Marks,” one of his coworkers says as he marches out of the homicide unit. “Good night,” Ethan calls over his shoulder. He throws the door open to the seventh-floor parking area adjacent to the homicide unit, seething with rage as he rushes to his car. Sloane lied about everything. Carr hadn’t brought a gun to their home that night. Sloane was so desperate to get rid of Brody Carr that she stole a gun off her patient in the ER. She planned the whole damn thing. Chapter 51 Perched on one of her barstools, Sloane smiles at Ethan when he walks into the kitchen. “I have something to tell you. Two things, actually.” He presses his trembling hands against the kitchen island countertop, trying to control the anger seething through his body. He’s never been this enraged in his life. “Like that you lied about Carr bringing a gun to our house? That you actually stole it from a gang member who came into the ER?” Her face falters, but only for a moment. “How do you know that?” Ethan recognizes he’s more livid now that she’s not even bothering to deny it. “Did you lure him over here that night? You must have.” She stares back at him. “Yes.” He takes a deep breath. “Why wasn’t there a record of that on his phone?” “I told him to get a second unregistered phone after you were assigned to Chelsea’s case. And I got one too.” Ethan backs away from the counter and paces back and forth, tempted to throw one of Sloane’s stupid barstools through the window. “Only so I could make sure he wasn’t going to falsely incriminate me. For a while, I had to pretend like I was on his side.” Ethan grabs a tuft of his hair behind his head and releases it. “Why couldn’t you have come forward to Jonah that next morning, like you said you were?” He


I might have seen the low wretch to which it had once belonged turn on receipt of an order, and pass, with my eyes on the villainous back that no hunch could have more disfigured, straight down the staircase and into the darkness in which the next bend was lost. X I remained awhile at the top of the stair, but with the effect presently of understanding that when my visitor had gone, he had gone: then I returned to my room. The foremost thing I saw there by the light of the candle I had left burning was that Flora's little bed was empty; and on this I caught my breath with all the terror that, five minutes before, I had been able to resist. I dashed at the place in which I had left her lying and over which (for the small silk counterpane and the sheets were disarranged) the white curtains had been deceivingly pulled forward; then my step, to my unutterable relief, produced an answering sound: I perceived an agitation of the window blind, and the child, ducking down, emerged rosily from the other side of it. She stood there in so much of her candor and so little of her nightgown, with her pink bare feet and the golden glow of her curls. She looked intensely grave, and I had never had such a sense of losing an advantage acquired (the thrill of which had just been so prodigious) as on my consciousness that she addressed me with a reproach. "You naughty: where HAVE you been?"--instead of challenging her own irregularity I found myself arraigned and explaining. She herself explained, for that matter, with the loveliest, eagerest simplicity. She had known suddenly, as she lay there, that I was out of the room, and had jumped up to see what had become of me. I had dropped, with the joy of her reappearance, back into my chair--feeling then, and then only, a little faint; and she had pattered straight over to me, thrown herself upon my knee, given herself to be held with the flame of the candle full in the wonderful little face that was still flushed with sleep. I remember closing my eyes an instant, yieldingly, consciously, as before the excess of something beautiful that shone out of the blue of her own. "You were looking for me out of the window?" I said. "You thought I might be walking in the grounds?" "Well, you know, I thought someone was"--she never blanched as she smiled out that at me. Oh, how I looked at her now! "And did you see anyone?" "Ah, NO!" she returned, almost with the full privilege of childish inconsequence, resentfully, though with a long sweetness in her little drawl of the negative. At that moment, in the state of my nerves, I absolutely believed she lied; and if I once more closed my eyes it was before the dazzle of the three or four possible ways in which I might take this up. One of these, for a moment, tempted me


his contact number, practically aching from wishing he’d call, tell me the whole thing had been a mistake. I needed to take the possibility away, to free myself from waiting for it. His eyes go stormy. His lips part. He looks toward the balcony, grooves rising between his eyebrows. He just has one of those vaguely tortured faces, I remind myself. He can’t help it, and he certainly doesn’t need my comfort. He’s the one who derailed our life together in a four-minute phone call. His jaw muscles leap as his pale-fog eyes retrain on me. “What should I have done, Harriet?” Found an excuse. Simply told her no. Not have broken my heart like it was a last-minute dinner plan. Not have made me love you in the first place. I shake my head. He steps closer until he’s a question mark, hanging over me. “I’m really asking.” On a sigh, I drop my eyes and massage my temples. “I don’t know. But now there’s nothing we can do. You can’t break up at a wedding. Especially when the guest list is four people.” “Maybe we give them tonight,” he says. “Celebrate everything, tell them tomorrow.” I look up at the ceiling, buying some time. Maybe in the next four seconds the world will end, and I’ll be spared making this decision. “Harriet,” he presses. “Fine,” I bite out. “I’m sure we can stomach each other for one more night.” His gaze narrows, limiting the intake of light to his eyes and sharpening their focus to better suss out my expression. “Are you sure?” No. “I’m fine,” I say. “It’s fine.” I slump against the edge of the bed. After a beat, he shakes himself. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.” “Sure.” He nods. “Fine.” “Fine.” I push off the bed. He retreats a step, keeping the space between us. “We can tell them things have been rocky for a while, and seeing how happy they were made us realize we’ve grown apart.” My chest stings. It’s not the exact phrasing, but it’s close enough to what he said to me, months ago: We were kids when we got together, and things are different now, and it’s time we accepted that. “You honestly think they won’t suspect anything?” “Harriet.” His eyes flash. “They didn’t even know we’d been hooking up for a whole year.” I step backward, only to collide with the bed so hard I rebound right into him. We snap apart like each of us is convinced the other is made of wasps, but the faintly spicy scent of him has already hit my bloodstream. “This might be harder than that,” I say stiffly. Wyn’s hand rakes back through his hair, his T-shirt riding up to expose a sliver of his waist so sensually you’d think there was an art director in the corner barking orders. I force my eyes back to his face. “We can handle one night.” He’s trying to make one night sound like a mere accumulation of minutes. I know better. When we’re together,


and the help also of those whom you choose.' And she gave him store of lembas, the waybread of the Elves, wrapped in leaves of silver, and the threads that bound it were sealed at the knots with the seal of the Queen, a wafer of white wax shaped as a single flower of Telperion; for according to the customs of the Eldali the keeping and giving of lembas belonged to the Queen alone. In nothing did Melian show greater favour to Trin than in this gift; for the Eldar had never before allowed Men to use this waybread, and seldom did so again. Then Beleg departed with these gifts from Menegroth and went back to the north marches, where he had his lodges, and many friends. Then in Dimbar the Orcs were driven back, and Anglachel rejoiced to be unsheathed; but when the winter came, and war was stilled, suddenly his companions missed Beleg, and he returned to them no more. Now when Beleg parted from the outlaws and returned into Doriath, Trin led them away westward out of Sirion's vale; for they grew weary of their life without rest, ever watchful and in fear of pursuit, and they sought for a safer lair. And it chanced at a time of evening that they came upon three Dwarves, who fled before them; but one that lagged behind was seized and thrown down, and a man of the company took his bow and let fly an arrow at the others as they vanished in the dusk. Now the dwarf that they had taken was named Mm; and he pleaded for his life before Trin, and offered as ransom to lead them to his hidden halls which none might find without his aid. Then Trin pitied Mm, and spared him; and he said: 'Where is your house?' Then Mm answered: 'High above the lands lies the house of Mm, upon the great hill; Amon Rdh is that hill called now, since the Elves changed all the names.' Then Trin was silent, and he looked long upon the dwarf; and at last he said: 'You shall bring us to that place.' On the next day they set out thither, following Mm to Amon Rdh. Now that hill stood upon the edge of the moorlands that rose between the vales of Sirion and Narog, and high above the stony heath it reared its crown; but its steep grey head was bare, save for the red seregon that mantled the stone. And as the men of Trin's band drew near, the sun westering broke through the clouds, and fell upon the crown; and the seregon was all in flower. Then one among them said: 'There is blood on the hill-top.' But Mm led them by secret paths up the steep slopes of Amon Rdh; and at the mouth of his cave he bowed to Trin, saying: 'Enter into Bar-en-Danwedh, the House of Ransom; for so it shall be called.' And now there came another dwarf bearing light to greet him, and they spoke together, and passed


her purse. “How did you know we’d be at Tristán’s apartment, and how did you know they were coming?” “Alma called, wanting to know if you’d spoken to me. That’s when I realized Abel was dead.” “You had no idea?” “My house has multiple safeguards. I keep to myself and live a quiet life. I also prefer to know little of what my former friends are up to.” “But Abel wasn’t your former friend. You sent him a box filled with feathers and nails.” “I did. Because he asked for a protective charm but did not specify why. Later, he phoned to say he had tried his hand at a spell, and not any spell, but he had used Ewers’s old nitrate film and was having unexpected side effects. That is when I learned of your little experiment. I told him to come over and we’d try to straighten the matter out, but he never did.” “What do you mean by straighten the matter out?” López grabbed two slices of bread and began spreading mayo on them. “We’d have to undo the spell, of course. There was no other way. Only he was afraid that would undo his good luck. He said he needed to consider things and left it at that.” “And you didn’t get curious about the situation until Alma contacted you?” “I was curious. I simply decided not to get involved until today.” “What made you change your mind?” Tristán asked. He was hovering by the doorway. Montserrat had wedged herself next to the refrigerator. “I had a premonition.” “Then you’re like Abel. You can see the future. Like in ‘The Whispers of the Earth,’ ” she said, reaching for Ewers’s book, wanting to clap it open and stilling her hand. “I don’t slavishly rely on Ewers’s runic system and elemental divisions for my spells.” “The tattoos on your forearms—” “Defensive symbols, but not duplicates of Ewers’s runes,” López said, pulling up a sleeve and showing them his arm. “They’re altered; refined designs of my own making, if you will.” Indeed, those were not clones of Ewers’s runes. Montserrat recognized certain elements, but López had put his touch on them. She supposed it was like fingerprints: no two were identical. López pulled his sleeve down and continued building his sandwich. “A premonition doesn’t explain why you saved our lives.” “Those dogs outside your building: I had never seen that. Theoretically, Ewers talked about such spells. Practically? We didn’t have that. Yet in the past few days I have felt a thread of magic weaving around me unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. You’ve caused a nuclear explosion,” López said as he took a big bite of his sandwich. The white cat picked that moment to wander into the kitchen and rub itself against Montserrat’s leg. “In 1961 Ewers died and his spell was ruined. Afterward, most people associated with the film had bad luck, I understand that. But I don’t see how we ended up with a nuclear explosion,” she said. “I’m not entirely sure, either, because I didn’t design


brought with you a letter.” “Yes, and we’ll hand you the other half of it if you’ll tell us the truth,” Montserrat said. “You are rude,” she replied, but her smile only grew wider as if now she was becoming truly amused. “You already have the answers, but I’ll play. What do you want to know?” “Abel is dead,” Montserrat said bluntly. “A pity, that.” “You were not aware of it?” “I suspected. It’s why I have the film. He gave it to me.” “Why would he do that?” “He sold it. For protection.” “From whom?” “Can’t you guess?” “Alma.” Clarimonde Bauer looked directly at her. She did not nod, but Montserrat knew she’d gotten it right. “How were you going to protect him?” Montserrat asked. “Guess.” “Magic.” “See? You already have the answers.” “Not all of them. You are a sorceress and you’ve tried to maintain Ewers’s cult. It didn’t quite work like you planned it, right? That building downtown, it’s abandoned.” For the first time Clarimonde Bauer raised her eyebrows at them, a trace of irritation coloring her eyes. She had been a pretty girl when she was young, but the years had corroded her easy beauty. What was left was a hard shell. It reminded Montserrat a little of Ewers’s look. He’d had that trace of resentment in his mouth as if something had been denied to him. A hunger, in the pit of their bellies. “The building is to be sold. It belonged to my husband. But tides do turn; 1987 was a bad year for us. The stock market tumbled. Our building sustained damage during the earthquake of ’85 and needed repairs I could not fund. I’ve had to economize. Now, the letter, please.” Montserrat wondered what “economize” meant to this woman. She still had a grand home in Las Lomas and servants. Maybe it had not been the performance of the stock market that had pushed her to shutter her book business. Had she grown tired of idolizing a dead man? Montserrat reached into her purse and took out the piece of rice paper. Inside the purse she carried her charm. She noticed that Tristán kept a hand in one pocket, no doubt clutching his own talisman. Montserrat held the letter up. “We do have a few more questions.” “What more will you ask? You know what you did.” “No, no, we don’t,” Tristán said, shaking his head. “We’re trying to understand.” “You and Abel cast a spell, and in doing so you’ve reset the clock, you put things in motion again. Now, hand me the letter and perhaps we can chat more.” Clarimonde’s voice was smooth and rich. The voice of someone used to making demands and writing down orders. For a moment Montserrat thought to refuse her request, but she didn’t think it mattered. The letter, by itself, held no special magic. Neither did Ewers’s book. She knew this instinctively. Montserrat slid the letter across the table. Clarimonde picked it up carefully, smoothing its creases with her ringed fingers. “Where did you find this?”


hated her ability, it felt like losing a limb. Whatever had just happened, it seemed not to affect the Sun Prince. He pulled her into an alley, sooty brick lined with crumpled trash. Then Bastian threw away her arm and spun to face her, advancing until she was trapped between the wall and his still-bare chest, not quite touching. She reached for Mortem, but Bastian’s hand closed tight around her arm, and her sense of death was gone again. What was he doing to her? “Out with it,” Bastian growled, tossing the bloodied shirt in his other hand to the side. Gone was the casual, almost lazy arrogance he showed the court; Bastian’s eyes glinted like bayonet ends, just as sharp. “I was going to wait until we got to the vaults to demand my answers, but now that I know for sure you’re the girl who raised Claude, I’ve found I’d rather know it all now.” “Horse,” she corrected him, because her brain was stuck in a hurricane, and it was the only thing that made sense for her to do. “Yes, Lore, I’m aware it’s a horse.” “No, his name is Horse. Not Claude.” Bastian shook his head again, straightening; the motion brought their chests closer together. His hand left her arm and came to rest on the wall beside her head. “Call the damn horse whatever you want,” Bastian said, “just tell me who you’re working for.” “August.” Anxiety made her voice sound thin, like her throat wouldn’t expand enough to let it out fully. “You know that.” “Is that it?” he asked. “Or are you on Kirythea’s payroll, too? You seemed very interested in what I knew about them.” “No, I’m not working for Kirythea. Just your father.” Slowly, Lore managed to get her nerves under control. It didn’t seem like Bastian was planning to kill her. Not yet, anyway. “August thinks you’re working for Kirythea. That’s why I was trying to find out what you knew.” He glared at her, one curl of sweaty black hair falling over his eye. “Well,” he said, after a moment. “Isn’t that a fun bit of irony.” Lore set her jaw, still trapped between the prince and the brick. She didn’t know what to expect from this other, truer Bastian. Every line of him coiled with anger, the kind often hidden. Now, unfettered, it was so obvious she couldn’t believe she’d never noticed before, distracted by funny Bastian, clever Bastian, toying Bastian who seemed fairly easy to handle. This was furious Bastian, and she had no idea what to do with him. That strange gravity was back, like she’d felt when she and Bastian and Gabe were at the mouth of the culvert. Falling toward something inevitable. The Sun Prince stepped back, though not so much that she could run for the alley mouth. His hands remained on either side of her head. “Here’s how this is going to go. You’re going to tell me exactly why my father brought you here. Then you’re going to tell me how you managed


the face. Ow! Shit . . . my hand. It stings. “Get away from me!” I shout. He gazes down at me, cupping his red cheek. I thrust my uninjured hand in front of his face, spreading my fingers to show him my rings. “I’m married, you asshole!” He shrugs rather arrogantly and gives me a halfhearted, apologetic smile. I glance around frantically. Mia is at my right, glaring at Blond Giant. Kate is lost in the moment doing her thing. Christian is not at the table. Oh, I hope he’s gone to the restroom. I step back into a front I know well. Oh shit. Christian puts his arm around my waist and moves me to his side. “Keep your fucking hands off my wife,” he says. He’s not shouting, but somehow he can be heard over the music. Holy shit! “She can take care of herself,” Blond Giant shouts. His hand moves from his cheek where I’ve slapped him, and Christian hits him. It’s like I’m watching it in slow motion. A perfectly timed punch to the chin that moves at such speed, but with so little wasted energy, Blond Giant doesn’t see it coming. He crumples to the floor like the scumbag he is. Fuck. “Christian, no!” I gasp in panic, standing in front of him to hold him back. Shit, he’ll kill him. “I already hit him,” I shout over the music. Christian doesn’t look at me. He’s glaring at my assailant with a malevolence I’ve not seen before flaring in his eyes. Well, maybe once before after Jack Hyde made a pass at me. The other dancers move outward like a ripple in a pond, clearing space around us, keeping a safe distance. Blond Giant scrambles to his feet as Elliot joins us. Oh no! Kate is with me, gaping at all of us. Elliot grasps Christian’s arm as Ethan appears, too. 291/551 “Take it easy, okay? Didn’t mean any harm.” Blond Giant holds his hands up in defeat, beating a hasty retreat. Christian’s eyes follow him off the dance floor. He does not look at me. The song changes from the explicit lyrics of “Sexy Bitch” to a pulsing techno dance number where a woman sings with an impassioned voice. Elliot looks down at me, then across at Christian, and releasing Christian, pulls Kate into a dance. I put my arms around Christian’s neck until he finally makes eye contact, his eyes still blazing—primal and feral. A glimpse of a brawling adolescent. Holy shit. He scrutinizes my face. “Are you okay?” he asks finally. “Yes.” I rub my palm, trying to dispel the sting, and bring my hands down to his chest. My hand is throbbing. I have never slapped anyone before. What pos- sessed me? Touching me wasn’t the worst crime against humanity. Was it? Yet deep down I know why I hit him. It’s because I instinctively knew how Christian would react seeing some stranger pawing me. I knew he’d lose his precious self-control. And the thought that some stupid nobody could derail my


of? It's cool and warm and sweet all at the same time." "It's th' wind from th' moor," said Mary. "It comes o' sittin' on th' grass under a tree wi' Dickon an' wi' Captain an' Soot an' Nut an' Shell. It's th' springtime an' out o' doors an' sunshine as smells so graidely." She said it as broadly as she could, and you do not know how broadly Yorkshire sounds until you have heard some one speak it. Colin began to laugh. "What are you doing?" he said. "I never heard you talk like that before. How funny it sounds." "I'm givin' thee a bit o' Yorkshire," answered Mary triumphantly. `I canna' talk as graidely as Dickon an' Martha can but tha' sees I can shape a bit. Doesn't tha' understand a bit o' Yorkshire when tha' hears it? An' tha' a Yorkshire lad thysel' bred an' born! Eh! I wonder tha'rt not ashamed o' thy face." And then she began to laugh too and they both laughed until they could not stop themselves and they laughed until the room echoed and Mrs. Medlock opening the door to come in drew back into the corridor and stood listening amazed. "Well, upon my word!" she said, speaking rather broad Yorkshire herself because there was no one to hear her and she was so astonished. "Whoever heard th' like! Whoever on earth would ha' thought it!" There was so much to talk about. It seemed as if Colin could never hear enough of Dickon and Captain and Soot and Nut and Shell and the pony whose name was Jump. Mary had run round into the wood with Dickon to see Jump. He was a tiny little shaggy moor pony with thick locks hanging over his eyes and with a pretty face and a nuzzling velvet nose. He was rather thin with living on moor grass but he was as tough and wiry as if the muscle in his little legs had been made of steel springs. He had lifted his head and whinnied softly the moment he saw Dickon and he had trotted up to him and put his head across his shoulder and then Dickon had talked into his ear and Jump had talked back in odd little whinnies and puffs and snorts. Dickon had made him give Mary his small front hoof and kiss her on her cheek with his velvet muzzle. "Does he really understand everything Dickon says?" Colin asked. "It seems as if he does," answered Mary. "Dickon says anything will understand if you're friends with it for sure, but you have to be friends for sure." Colin lay quiet a little while and his strange gray eyes seemed to be staring at the wall, but Mary saw he was thinking. "I wish I was friends with things," he said at last, "but I'm not. I never had anything to be friends with, and I can't bear people." "Can't you bear me?" asked Mary. "Yes, I can," he answered. "It's funny but I even like you." "Ben Weatherstaff said


off-load. But her bed was her great luxury; it was very important. It simply had to be nice. The windows were shuttered and bolted. She didn’t need to peek outside to know there were men watching the house. Mr. Murphy’s boys. There’d very nearly been a skirmish with his men behind the shop. She thanked her lucky stars it hadn’t come to anything. Intimidation was one thing. Outright assaults were another. They demanded retaliation. And Mrs. Bone didn’t have the resources to retaliate at present. But soon she would, if this job were worth it, if it passed her test. She climbed out of her black dress and put on a tea gown. She had a fine collection of those. This one was the color of ripe peaches, edged with ermine. She lit a cigarette, gave it a few good puffs. It was nice to have a smoke in private. Then she hauled open her closet and started rifling through her dresses. “No good,” she muttered. “Too nice. No, no, no.” She had to push right to the back of the closet. Dragged out boots and stays. Found a neat, sad blouse, much mended. A long coarse skirt of indeterminate color. “Perfect,” she said with a wry sigh. “Oh, very nasty.” She’d look just like a daily woman, wearing that. She stubbed out her cigarette and tried it on. * * * Next, resources. She summoned a ragged-looking boy, who sat before her, head in his hands, bawling with rare splendor. He kicked his heels on the floor. Mrs. Bone counted her fingers. “And your ma. And your pa. And your Aunt Eilidh. And your cousin Gerry. And you, too.” The boy’s howls grew louder. “Now don’t start. You know what you owe.” “I don’t know nothing ’bout that!” “Well, you’d better run home and ask your pa, then, hadn’t you? Tell him Mrs. Bone got her ledger out.” He lifted his head at the word ledger. Mrs. Bone opened the book and licked a finger, keeping her eye on him. “Let’s see. Where’s your name in here?” The boy switched off his tears. She saw him calculating whether he could run for it. He realized he couldn’t. Sensible lad. “What do you want?” he said, mutinous. “I’d like repaying—that’s what I’d like. But I’m willing to make some alternative arrangements. For now.” “What sort of arrangements?” “Men,” said Mrs. Bone, digging a stare into him. “Your brothers. All six of them. And you. Seven’s my lucky number.” “What you need us for?” Mrs. Bone slapped the desk with the ledger. “That’s for me to know, and you to find out.” The boy untangled himself from the chair. He sniffled, rubbing his eyes. “They’ll ask me whether you can pay.” “Whether I can pay?” She leaned right into his face. “Wasn’t you listening? I’ll come for your ma, and your pa, and you, too.” He scrambled out of the chair. “I’ll tell ’em,” he said. Mrs. Bone nodded, done with him. “Then ta-ta, my love, and off you tumble.” * * *


the dog-cart rocking right and left, its axis acquiring a slightly oblique set in relation to the line of progress; the figure of the horse rising and falling in undulations before them. Sometimes a wheel was off the ground, it seemed, for many yards; sometimes a stone was sent spinning over the hedge, and flinty sparks from the horse's hoofs outshone the daylight. The aspect of the straight road enlarged with their advance, the two banks dividing like a splitting stick; one rushing past at each shoulder. The wind blew through Tess's white muslin to her very skin, and her washed hair flew out behind. She was determined to show no open fear, but she clutched d'Urberville's rein-arm. "Don't touch my arm! We shall be thrown out if you do! Hold on round my waist!" She grasped his waist, and so they reached the bottom. "Safe, thank God, in spite of your fooling!" said she, her face on fire. "Tess--fie! that's temper!" said d'Urberville. "'Tis truth." "Well, you need not let go your hold of me so thanklessly the moment you feel yourself our of danger." She had not considered what she had been doing; whether he were man or woman, stick or stone, in her involuntary hold on him. Recovering her reserve she sat without replying, and thus they reached the summit of another declivity. "Now then, again!" said d'Urberville. "No, no!" said Tess. "Show more sense, do, please." "But when people find themselves on one of the highest points in the county, they must get down again," he retorted. He loosened rein, and away they went a second time. D'Urberville turned his face to her as they rocked, and said, in playful raillery: "Now then, put your arms round my waist again, as you did before, my Beauty." "Never!" said Tess independently, holding on as well as she could without touching him. "Let me put one little kiss on those holmberry lips, Tess, or even on that warmed cheek, and I'll stop--on my honour, I will!" Tess, surprised beyond measure, slid farther back still on her seat, at which he urged the horse anew, and rocked her the more. "Will nothing else do?" she cried at length, in desperation, her large eyes staring at him like those of a wild animal. This dressing her up so prettily by her mother had apparently been to lamentable purpose. "Nothing, dear Tess," he replied. "Oh, I don't know--very well; I don't mind!" she panted miserably. He drew rein, and as they slowed he was on the point of imprinting the desired salute, when, as if hardly yet aware of her own modesty, she dodged aside. His arms being occupied with the reins there was left him no power to prevent her manoeuvre. "Now, damn it--I'll break both our necks!" swore her capriciously passionate companion. "So you can go from your word like that, you young witch, can you?" "Very well," said Tess, "I'll not more since you be so determined! But I--thought you would be kind to me, and protect me, as my


the little girl, her hair shining so brightly that at first he thinks his lost gold has magically returned. After finding the mother in the snow, Silas goes to the Squire's house to fetch the doctor. Recognizing the child in Silas' arms, Godfrey guiltily joins the rescue party, but finding his wife dead, he keeps her identity a secret. Silas is determined to keep the child, like a treasure he has found. He names her Eppie after his own sister, and he even takes her to church to be christened. His care for Eppie forces him to become part of village life. His love for her changes his personality. As Eppie grows up, Godfrey watches her silently, and occasionally helps Silas out with money. But he doesn't acknowledge her, because now that he's free, he has married Nancy. Sixteen years pass. Silas and Eppie are happily devoted to each other. Dolly Winthrop's son, Aaron, is Eppie's sweetheart. But at the Cass house, Nancy worries about her marriage. After one stillbirth, she hasn't been able to conceive a child, and Godfrey is wracked with disappointment. He's been urging her to adopt Eppie, but Nancy feels it's against the will of God to adopt a child who is not her own. Then the stone-pit beside Silas' cottage is drained to create new fields. Dunstan's skeleton is discovered at the bottom, clutching Silas' gold. Shaken by the sight, Godfrey tells Nancy the truth about his first marriage. To his surprise, she agrees to adopt Eppie, Godfrey's real daughter. They go to Marner's cottage with their proposal. Though Silas' gold has been restored to him, he's distraught at the prospect of losing his second, more precious treasure, Eppie. But he lets Eppie make her own choice--and she chooses to stay with Silas. Godfrey and Nancy return home, sad but reconciled. In the spring, Eppie marries Aaron and they walk back to Silas' cottage to live with him. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: SILAS MARNER When she first conceived of the story of Silas Marner, George Eliot thought immediately of one of her favorite poets, William Wordsworth. He was the first to show country life realistically in poetry, as Eliot was the first in prose fiction. To some degree, Silas Marner is a typical Wordsworthian hero--a simple, instinctual creature, with limited education and imagination, whose life has a natural dignity. But a novel works differently from a poem, and Silas Marner is an unlikely hero for a novel. It isn't just that he's poor, although before George Eliot few authors cast working folk in major roles in novels. It isn't just that he's skinny and pale, with bulging brown eyes--physically unattractive heroes, like Shakespeare's Richard III or Cervantes' Don Quixote, can make powerful literary material. And it isn't just that he's a loner and an alien in Raveloe. Outsiders have made great heroes throughout literature, from Shakespeare's Othello to Emily Bronte's Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights to R. P. McMurphy in Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. These, however, are charismatic, complex personalities. Silas Marner is not. Yet George


his back was turned, I slipped my Wuthering Heights back into my pocket and left. That was how my career as a book dealer began. Chapter Two MARTHA Dublin, nine months ago … When I first arrived at the redbrick Georgian house on Ha'penny Lane that cold, dark evening with rain dripping from my jacket, I hadn’t planned on staying. The woman on the phone sounded less than friendly, but I had nowhere else to go and very little money. My journey to Dublin had begun a week previously and from the other side of the country, at a lonely bus stop just outside the village. I don’t know how long I sat at the bus stop, if it was cold or warm, or if anyone passed me by. All of my senses were dulled by one overwhelming urge – to leave. I couldn’t see out of my right eye, so I didn’t see the bus eventually pulling up. My whole body felt numb, but when I slid off the stone wall, my ribs complained. Still, I wouldn’t let my thoughts go back there. Not yet. Even when the driver got down to help me with my suitcase and looked at me as though I had just escaped from a secure facility, I wouldn’t let my thoughts go back there. ‘Where to?’ he asked. Anywhere but here. ‘Dublin,’ I answered. Dublin might be far enough. I watched the countryside slide past my window. I fucking hated those fields, the small towns with a school, a church and twelve pubs. The greyness of it, pressing in on me. I must’ve started to doze off, because I jumped, thinking he was on top of me again – my hands protecting my face. I didn’t know what to protect. He was too quick. And when he found the poker, it all fell away from me. Everything. Every hope I had. Every naive, stupid hope. I learned something in that moment; you’re on your own in this world. No one is coming to save you. People don’t suddenly change, say they’re sorry and begin to treat you with respect. They are a jumble of hurt and pain and they will take it out on whomever they can. I had to save myself. ‘Just a coffee and a toasted cheese sandwich please,’ I said to the waiter, picking the cheapest item on the menu. I’d had no luck online, so I grabbed a local newspaper and began searching for jobs. One week staying in a hostel and I was already running out of money. That’s when I saw it: Housekeeper. Live-in. I dialled the number and the very next day found myself on the steps of a very grand-looking house, knocking on the glossy black door. Madame Bowden, as I was told to address her, was like no one I had ever met. Like a character from some historical TV drama, she wore a feather boa and diamond earrings. Within five minutes, she had already regaled me with stories of her days in the Theatre Royal, dancing


I thought of the life that lay before me yourlife, sir an existence more expansive and stirring than my own as much more so as the depths of the sea to which the brook runs are than the shallows of its own strait channel. I wondered why moralists call this world a dreary wilderness; for me it blossomed like a rose. Just at sunset, the air turned cold and the sky cloudy. I went in. Sophie called me upstairs to look at my wedding-dress, which they had just brought; and under it in the box I found your present the veil which, in your princely extravagance, you sent for from London, resolved, I suppose, since I would not have jewels, to cheat me into accepting something as costly. I smiled as I unfolded it, and devised how I would tease you about your aristocratic tastes, and your efforts to mask your plebeian bride in the attributes of a peeress. I thought how I would carry down to you the square of embroidered blond I had myself prepared as a covering for my low-born head, and ask if that was not good enough for a woman who could bring her husband neither fortune, beauty, nor connections. I saw plainly how you would look, and heard your impetuous republican answers, and your haughty disavowal of any necessity on your part to augment your wealth, or elevate your standing, by marrying a purse or a coronet."     "How well you read me, you witch!" interposed Mr. Rochester;" but what did you find in the veil besides its embroidery? Did you find poison, or a dagger, that you look so mournful now?"     "No, no, sir; besides the delicacy and richness of the fabric, I found nothing save Fairfax Rochester's pride; and that did not scare me, because I am used to the sight of the demon. But, sir, as it grew dark, the wind rose; it blew yesterday evening, not as it blows now, wild and high, but 'with a sullen, moaning sound' far more eerie. I wished you were at home. I came into this room, and the sight of the empty chair and fireless hearth chilled me. For some time after I went to bed I could not sleep a sense of anxious excitement distressed me. The gale still rising, seemed to my ear to muffle a mournful under-sound; whether in the house or abroad I could not at first tell, but it recurred, doubtful yet doleful, at every lull. At last I made out it must be some dog howling at a distance. I was glad when it ceased. On sleeping, I continued in dreams the idea of a dark and gusty night. I continued also the wish to be with you, and experienced a strange, regretful consciousness of some barrier dividing us. During all my first sleep I was following the windings of an unknown road; total obscurity environed me; rain pelted me. I was burdened with the charge of a little child a very


going on to Nantucket, and seeing how they spent their wages in that place also, poor Queequeg gave it up for lost. Thought he, it's a wicked world in all meridians; I'll die a pagan. .. <p 56 > and thus an old idolator at heart, he yet lived among these Christians, wore their clothes, and tried to talk their gibberish. Hence the queer ways about him, though now some time from home. By hints, I asked him whether he did not propose going back, and having a coronation; since he might now consider his father dead and gone, he being very old and feeble at the last accounts. He answered no, not yet; and added that he was fearful Christianity, or rather Christians, had unfitted him for ascending the pure and undefiled throne of thirty pagan Kings before him. But by and by, he said, he would return, --as soon as he felt himself baptized again. For the nonce, however, he proposed to sail about, and sow his wild oats in all four oceans. They had made a harpooneer of him, and that barbed iron was in lieu of a sceptre now. I asked him what might be his immediate purpose, touching his future movements. He answered, to go to sea again, in his old vocation. Upon this, I told him that whaling was my own design, and informed him of my intention to sail out of Nantucket, as being the most promising port for an adventurous whaleman to embark from. He at once resolved to accompany me to that island, ship aboard the same vessel, get into the same watch, the same boat, the same mess with me, in short to share my every hap; with both my hands in his, boldly dip into the Potluck of both worlds. To all this I joyously assented; for besides the affection I now felt for Queequeg, he was an experienced harpooneer, and as such, could not fail to be of great usefulness to one, who, like me, was wholly ignorant of the mysteries of whaling, though well acquainted with the sea, as known to merchant seamen. His story being ended with his pipe's last dying puff, Queequeg embraced me, pressed his forehead against mine, and blowing out the light, we rolled over from each other, this way and that, and very soon were sleeping. .. <p 57 > .. < chapter xiii 2 WHEELBARROW > wheelbarrow next morning, Monday, after disposing of the embalmed head to a barber, for a block, I settled my own and comrade's bill; using, however, my comrade's money. The grinning landlord, as well as the boarders, seemed amazingly tickled at the sudden friendship which had sprung up between me and Queequeg -- especially as Peter Coffin's cock and bull stories about him had previously so much alarmed me concerning the very person whom I now companied with. We borrowed a wheelbarrow, and embarking our things, including my own poor carpet-bag, and Queequeg's canvas sack and hammock, away we went down to the Moss, the little Nantucket packet


have made none. I fancied, as I looked at her, that I slipped hopelessly back into the coarse and common boy again. O the sense of distance and disparity that came upon me, and the inaccessibility that came about her! She gave me her hand. I stammered something about the pleasure I felt in seeing her again, and about my having looked forward to it for a long, long time. "Do you find her much changed, Pip?" asked Miss Havisham, with her greedy look, and striking her stick upon a chair that stood between them, as a sign to me to sit down there. "When I came in, Miss Havisham, I thought there was nothing of Estella in the face or figure; but now it all settles down so curiously into the old--" "What? You are not going to say into the old Estella?" Miss Havisham interrupted. "She was proud and insulting, and you wanted to go away from her. Don't you remember?" I said confusedly that that was long ago, and that I knew no better then, and the like. Estella smiled with perfect composure, and said she had no doubt of my having been quite right, and of her having been very disagreeable. "Is he changed?" Miss Havisham asked her. "Very much," said Estella, looking at me. "Less coarse and common?" said Miss Havisham, playing with Estella's hair. Estella laughed, and looked at the shoe in her hand, and laughed again, and looked at me, and put the shoe down. She treated me as a boy still, but she lured me on. We sat in the dreamy room among the old strange influences which had so wrought upon me, and I learnt that she had but just come home from France, and that she was going to London. Proud and wilful as of old, she had brought those qualities into such subjection to her beauty that it was impossible and out of nature - or I thought so - to separate them from her beauty. Truly it was impossible to dissociate her presence from all those wretched hankerings after money and gentility that had disturbed my boyhood - from all those ill-regulated aspirations that had first made me ashamed of home and Joe - from all those visions that had raised her face in the glowing fire, struck it out of the iron on the anvil, extracted it from the darkness of night to look in at the wooden window of the forge and flit away. In a word, it was impossible for me to separate her, in the past or in the present, from the innermost life of my life. It was settled that I should stay there all the rest of the day, and return to the hotel at night, and to London to-morrow. When we had conversed for a while, Miss Havisham sent us two out to walk in the neglected garden: on our coming in by-and-by, she said, I should wheel her about a little as in times of yore. So, Estella and I went out


with us . . . Chaos bends now in our favour . . . Dark flakes tumbled around them all, a fine ash that fell just like snow. Dumai touched the stone. An inexplicable detachment had come over her, as if her mind had floated some way above her body. ‘Take it,’ she said, handing it to Nikeya. ‘If I have to fly against Taugran, and I fall, it will be lost for ever to the sea.’ ‘You need this, to defeat Taugran.’ ‘No.’ Dumai breathed the night in deep. ‘The comet is so close, Nikeya. Don’t you feel it?’ Nikeya looked nervous. Reluctantly, she passed the cord over her head, tucked the stone under the high collar of her tunic, and took Dumai by the jaw, looking her straight in the eyes. ‘Don’t fall,’ she said. ‘I have waited all my life for you, Noziken pa Dumai.’ Dumai gathered her close, allowing herself to be moored by her, her warmth and weight. In that long moment, all her senses sank back towards earth and settled within her. She smelled the fires and pines of their forest. She felt Nikeya shivering against her, the mittened hands pressed to the small of her back. Then they turned together, and walked towards the Western Gate. It formed a perfect frame around the sunset. Twisted from driftwood, it stood as tall as a black pine. After Kwiriki had made her a throne, Snow Maiden had raised the first of these gates, to show the other dragons that they were welcome to return. It had taken her years to win their trust, and she had faced many trials to convince them, but it was the gates that had finally worked. Come back, the doorways whispered. Come back to our isle, lords of the water. Make a home with us. No offering bowl hung from this one. Instead, there was a different shape. Sobs came from the crowd. Dumai could not make out individual features, in that terrible light. Most people were shrouded with damp cloth to keep out soot and sickness. When she reached the Western Gate, she frowned at the black lake beneath it, lit by braziers of wyrmfire. The star comes . . . but too late for them . . . Their blood is spilled, the light extinguished . . . the light of Kwiriki, the first, who lit the waters of their minds, made them one with us . . . ‘Nikeya,’ a voice croaked. Dumai turned to see Sipwo, restrained by armoured men. ‘Is it you?’ ‘Sipwo.’ Nikeya tried to go to her cousin, only for more guards to point spears at her. ‘I would be fascinated to know what you all think you’re doing,’ she said, unflinching in the face of their weapons. ‘This is the Dowager Empress of Seiiki. Who are you to hold her?’ ‘Her uncle’s sworn protectors,’ one of them said. ‘Step away, Lady Nikeya.’ ‘Ah, the silly boys who protect his estates,’ Nikeya observed. ‘Stop playing at warriors, you fools. I doubt you’ve used those spears


it that HAMLET is a ghoststory, John Eglinton said for Mr Best's behoof. Like the fat boy in Pickwick he wants to make our flesh creep. LIST! LIST! O LIST! My flesh hears him: creeping, hears. IF THOU DIDST EVER ... --What is a ghost? Stephen said with tingling energy. One who has faded into impalpability through death, through absence, through change of manners. Elizabethan London lay as far from Stratford as corrupt Paris lies from virgin Dublin. Who is the ghost from LIMBO PATRUM, returning to the world that has forgotten him? Who is King Hamlet? John Eglinton shifted his spare body, leaning back to judge. Lifted. --It is this hour of a day in mid June, Stephen said, begging with a swift glance their hearing. The flag is up on the playhouse by the bankside. The bear Sackerson growls in the pit near it, Paris garden. Canvasclimbers who sailed with Drake chew their sausages among the groundlings. Local colour. Work in all you know. Make them accomplices. --Shakespeare has left the huguenot's house in Silver street and walks by the swanmews along the riverbank. But he does not stay to feed the pen chivying her game of cygnets towards the rushes. The swan of Avon has other thoughts. Composition of place. Ignatius Loyola, make haste to help me! --The play begins. A player comes on under the shadow, made up in the castoff mail of a court buck, a wellset man with a bass voice. It is the ghost, the king, a king and no king, and the player is Shakespeare who has studied HAMLET all the years of his life which were not vanity in order to play the part of the spectre. He speaks the words to Burbage, the young player who stands before him beyond the rack of cerecloth, calling him by a name: HAMLET, I AM THY FATHER'S SPIRIT, bidding him list. To a son he speaks, the son of his soul, the prince, young Hamlet and to the son of his body, Hamnet Shakespeare, who has died in Stratford that his namesake may live for ever. Is it possible that that player Shakespeare, a ghost by absence, and in the vesture of buried Denmark, a ghost by death, speaking his own words to his own son's name (had Hamnet Shakespeare lived he would have been prince Hamlet's twin), is it possible, I want to know, or probable that he did not draw or foresee the logical conclusion of those premises: you are the dispossessed son: I am the murdered father: your mother is the guilty queen, Ann Shakespeare, born Hathaway? --But this prying into the family life of a great man, Russell began impatiently. Art thou there, truepenny? --Interesting only to the parish clerk. I mean, we have the plays. I mean when we read the poetry of KING LEAR what is it to us how the poet lived? As for living our servants can do that for us, Villiers de l'Isle has said. Peeping and prying into greenroom gossip of the day, the poet's


runs his hand through his hair. He looks beautiful. Mad, but beautiful. I drink him in—Christian’s back—angry, but in one piece. “I think Detective Clark wants to talk to you.” “I’m sure he does.” “Christian, please . . .” “Please what?” “Don’t be so cold.” His eyebrows rise in surprise once more. “Anastasia, cold is not what I’m feeling at the moment. I’m burning. Burning with rage. I don’t know how to deal 212/551 with these”—he waves his hand searching for the word—“feelings.” His tone is bitter. Oh shit. His honesty disarms me. All I want to do is crawl into his lap. It’s all I’ve wanted to do since I came home last night. To hell with this. I move, taking him by surprise and climbing awkwardly into his lap, where I curl up. He doesn’t push me away, which is what I’d feared. After a beat, he folds his arms around me and buries his nose in my hair. He smells of whiskey. Jeez, how much did he drink? He smells of bodywash, too. He smells of Christian. I wrap my arms around his neck and nuzzle his throat, and he sighs once more, deeply this time. “Oh, Mrs. Grey. What am I going to do with you?” He kisses the top of my head. I close my eyes, relishing the contact with him. “How much have you had to drink?” He stills. “Why?” “You don’t normally drink hard liquor.” “This is my second glass. I’ve had a trying night, Anastasia. Give a man a break.” I smile. “If you insist, Mr. Grey,” I breathe into his neck. “You smell heav- enly. I slept on your side of the bed because your pillow smells of you.” He nuzzles my hair. “Did you now? I wondered why you were on this side. I’m still mad at you.” “I know.” His hand rhythmically strokes my back. “And I’m mad at you,” I whisper. He pauses. “And what, pray, have I done to deserve your ire?” “I’ll tell you later when you’re no longer burning with rage.” I kiss his throat. He closes his eyes and leans into my kiss but makes no move to kiss me back. His arms tighten around me, squeezing me. “When I think of what might have happened . . .” His voice is barely a whis- per. Broken, raw. “I’m okay.” “Oh, Ana.” It’s almost a sob. “I’m okay. We’re all okay. A bit shaken. But Gail is fine. Ryan is fine. And Jack is gone.” He shakes his head. “No thanks to you,” he mutters. What? I lean back, and glare at him. “What do you mean?” 213/551 “I don’t want to argue about it right now, Ana.” I blink. Well, maybe I do, but I decide against it. At least he’s talking to me. I nestle into him once more. His fingers move to my hair and start playing with it. “I want to punish you,” he whispers. “Really beat the shit out of you,” he adds. My heart leaps into my mouth. Fuck. “I


in water? How could you be safe by the little stream or on the open beach? Ralph listened. He was not really far from the Castle Rock, and during the first panic he had thought he heard sounds of pursuit. But the hunters had only sneaked into the fringes of the greenery, retrieving spears perhaps, and then had rushed back to the sunny rock as if terrified of the darkness under the leaves. He had even glimpsed one of them, striped brown, black, and red, and had judged that it was Bill. But really, thought Ralph, this was not Bill. This was a savage whose image refused to blend with that ancient picture of a boy in shorts and shirt. The afternoon died away; the circular spots of sunlight moved steadily over green fronds and brown fiber but no sound came from behind the rock. At last Ralph wormed out of the ferns and sneaked forward to the edge of that impenetrable thicket that fronted the neck of land. He peered with elaborate caution between branches at the edge and could see Robert sitting on guard at the top of the cliff. He held a spear in his left hand and was tossing up a pebble and catching it again with the right. Behind him a column of smoke rose thickly, so that Ralph's nostrils flared and his mouth dribbled. He wiped his nose and mouth with the back of his hand and for the first time since the morning felt hungry. The tribe must be sitting round the gutted pig, watching the fat ooze and burn among the ashes. They would be intent. Another figure, an unrecognizable one, appeared by Robert and gave him something, then turned and went back behind the rock. Robert laid his spear on the rock beside him and began to gnaw between his raised hands. So the feast was beginning and the watchman had been given his portion. Ralph saw that for the time being he was safe. He limped away through the fruit trees, drawn by the thought of the poor food yet bitter when he remembered the feast. Feast today, and then tomorrow. . . . He argued unconvincingly that they would let him alone, perhaps even make an outlaw of him. But then the fatal unreasoning knowledge came to him again. The breaking of the conch and the deaths of Piggy and Simon lay over the island like a vapor. These painted savages would go further and further. Then there was that indefinable connection between himself and Jack; who therefore would never let him alone; never. He paused, sun-flecked, holding up a bough, prepared to duck under it. A spasm of terror set him shaking and he cried aloud. "No. They're not as bad as that. It was an accident." He ducked under the bough, ran clumsily, then stopped and listened. He came to the smashed acres of fruit and ate greedily. He saw two littluns and, not having any idea of his own appearance, wondered why they screamed and ran. When he


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

scientific world. I simply would not publish, and let him share my credit. I went on working. I got nearer and nearer making my formula into an experiment, a reality. I told no living soul, because I meant to flash my work upon the world with crushing effect,--to become famous at a blow. I took up the question of pigments to fill up certain gaps. And suddenly, not by design but by accident, I made a discovery in physiology." "Yes?" "You know the red colouring matter of blood; it can be made white--colourless--and remain with all the functions it has now!" Kemp gave a cry of incredulous amazement. The Invisible Man rose and began pacing the little study. "You may well exclaim. I remember that night. It was late at night, --in the daytime one was bothered with the gaping, silly students,-- and I worked then sometimes till dawn. It came suddenly, splendid and complete into my mind. I was alone; the laboratory was still, with the tall lights burning brightly and silently. In all my great moments I have been alone. 'One could make an animal--a tissue-- transparent! One could make it invisible! All except the pigments. I could be invisible!' I said, suddenly realising what it meant to be an albino with such knowledge. It was overwhelming. I left the filtering I was doing, and went and stared out of the great window at the stars. 'I could be invisible!' I repeated. "To do such a thing would be to transcend magic. And I beheld, unclouded by doubt, a magnificent vision of all that invisibility might mean to a man,--the mystery, the power, the freedom. Drawbacks I saw none. You have only to think! And I, a shabby, poverty-struck, hemmed-in demonstrator, teaching fools in a provincial college, might suddenly become--this. I ask you, Kemp, if you--Any one, I tell you, would have flung himself upon that research. And I worked three years, and every mountain of difficulty I toiled over showed another from its summit. The infinite details! And the exasperation,--a professor, a provincial professor, always prying. 'When are you going to publish this work of yours?' was his everlasting question. And the students, the cramped means! Three years I had of it-- "And after three years of secrecy and exasperation, I found that to complete it was impossible,--impossible." "How?" asked Kemp. "Money," said the Invisible Man, and went again to stare out of the window. He turned round abruptly. "I robbed the old man--robbed my father. "The money was not his, and he shot himself." Chapter 20 At the House in Great Portland Street For a moment Kemp sat in silence, staring at the back of the headless figure at the window. Then he started, struck by a thought, rose, took the Invisible Man's arm, and turned him away from the outlook. "You are tired," he said, "and while I sit, you walk about. Have my chair." He placed himself between Griffin and the nearest window. For a space Griffin sat silent, and then he resumed abruptly: "I had


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

When Harry pulled back his sheets, he found his invisibility cloak folded neatly underneath them. There was a note pinned to it: Just in case. CHAPTER SIXTEEN -- THROUGH THE TRAPDOOR In years to come, Harry would never quite remember how he had managed to get through his exams when he half expected Voldemort to come bursting through the door at any moment. Yet the days crept by, and there could be no doubt that Fluffy was still alive and well behind the locked door. It was sweltering hot, especially in the large classroom where they did their written papers. They had been given special, new quills for the exams, which had been bewitched with an Anti-Cheating spell. They had practical exams as well. Professor Flitwick called them one by one into his class to see if they could make a pineapple tapdance across a desk. Professor McGonagall watched them turn a mouse into a snuffbox -- points were given for how pretty the snuffbox was, but taken away if it had whiskers. Snape made them all nervous, breathing down their necks while they tried to remember how to make a Forgetfulness potion. Harry did the best he could, trying to ignore the stabbing pains in his forehead, which had been bothering him ever since his trip into the forest. Neville thought Harry had a bad case of exam nerves because Harry couldn't sleep, but the truth was that Harry kept being woken by his old nightmare, except that it was now worse than ever because there was a hooded figure dripping blood in it. Maybe it was because they hadn't seen what Harry had seen in the forest, or because they didn't have scars burning on their foreheads, but Ron and Hermione didn't seem as worried about the Stone as Harry. The idea of Voldemort certainly scared them, but he didn't keep visiting them in dreams, and they were so busy with their studying they didn't have much time to fret about what Snape or anyone else might be up to. Their very last exam was History of Magic. One hour of answering questions about batty old wizards who'd invented self-stirring cauldrons and they'd be free, free for a whole wonderful week until their exam results came out. When the ghost of Professor Binns told them to put down their quills and roll up their parchment, Harry couldn't help cheering with the rest. "That was far easier than I thought it would be," said Hermione as they joined the crowds flocking out onto the sunny grounds. "I needn't have learned about the 1637 Werewolf Code of Conduct or the uprising of Elfric the Eager." Hermione always liked to go through their exam papers afterward, but Ron said this made him feel ill, so they wandered down to the lake and flopped under a tree. The Weasley twins and Lee Jordan were tickling the tentacles of a giant squid, which was basking in the warm shallows. "No more studying," Ron sighed happily, stretching out on the grass. "You could look more cheerful,


danced to keep warm in the winter, even when their bodies protested. It was time to start again. The next day, she rose before dawn and walked to the roofed balcony that enclosed the Inner Palace. The north side faced Mount Ipyeda. Unora stood before it, and she danced. The Grand Empress had gone to that mountain. Unora craved the same escape. If she failed to reach the emperor, she would have to find some other way to save her father – but she had no idea where to begin. For the time being, she would escape into this, her winter dance. Now change had come, it would not stop. One night, a note slid under her door with two white leaves from a season tree, both impossibly perfect. Sleepless, I wandered before sunrise hopeless and forlorn, before I saw a maiden spun from moonlight, dancing. Entranced, I dream and walk past nightfall waiting for first light, when I still hope to glimpse her as she dances, laughing. Someone had seen her. It should have been embarrassing, but she was so lonely, and so cold. She told the messenger to return, asking for an inkstone, a brush, a water dropper. Water could not be squandered on ink in the provinces. It still filled her with guilt to use it, but her father had taught her to write, scratching characters into the earth. Her brush mirrored the ebb and flow of the first poem, and she found that it was effortless. Restless, I dance before each sunrise, cold within my skin. I never saw my witness in the shadows, writing. Haunted, I shy away from morning wondering who sees, yet I must still go dancing in the snowfall, smiling. When it was done, she tucked her poem under the door, and the messenger took it away. At first there was no answer. Unora resolved not to think of it, but the longing, once woken, was hard to press down – longing for someone to see her. A second poem rewarded her patience, the evening before the Day of the Sleepless. Unora held it to her lips. Snow fell over the city. More poems arrived, often paired with gifts: fine brushes, a gold comb adorned with a seashell, fragrant wood for her brazier. When two of the handmaidens passed her new lodgings, smiling at her apparent misfortune, Unora smiled back without bitterness, for she knew that love papered the floor of her room. When he came to her, she invited him in. From the way he was dressed, he could have been anyone. She led him across the room, to where moonlight fell across the floor. His slender hands, untouched by toil, made short work of her sash. When he felt her eternal chill, he tried to warm her fingers with his breath. She smiled, and he smiled back. That was the first of many times. For weeks, he came to her at night, tracing verses on her skin. She showed him how to foretell the weather. He read her tales and travellers’ writings,


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

those dead-wall reveries of his. Revolving all these things, and coupling them with the recently discovered fact that he made my office his constant abiding place and home, and not forgetful of his morbid moodiness; revolving all these things, a prudential feeling began to steal over me. My first emotions had been those of pure melancholy and sincerest pity; but just in proportion as the forlornness of Bartleby grew and grew to my imagination, did that same melancholy merge into fear, that pity into repulsion. So true it is, and so terrible too, that up to a certain point the thought or sight of misery enlists our best affections; but, in certain special cases, beyond that point it does not. They err who would assert that invariably this is owing to the inherent selfishness of the human heart. It rather proceeds from a certain hopelessness of remedying excessive and organic ill. To a sensitive being, pity is not seldom pain. And when at last it is perceived that such pity cannot lead to effectual succor, common sense bids the soul rid of it. What I saw that morning persuaded me that the scrivener was the victim of innate and incurable disorder. I might give alms to his body; but his body did not pain him; it was his soul that suffered, and his soul I could not reach. I did not accomplish the purpose of going to Trinity Church that morning. Somehow, the things I had seen disqualified me for the time from church-going. I walked homeward, thinking what I would do with Bartleby. Finally, I resolved upon this;—I would put certain calm questions to him the next morning, touching his history, etc., and if he declined to answer them openly and unreservedly (and I supposed he would prefer not), then to give him a twenty dollar bill over and above whatever I might owe him, and tell him his services were no longer required; but that if in any other way I could assist him, I would be happy to do so, especially if he desired to return to his native place, wherever that might be, I would willingly help to defray the expenses. Moreover, if, after reaching home, he found himself at any time in want of aid, a letter from him would be sure of a reply. The next morning came. “Bartleby,” said I, gently calling to him behind his screen. No reply. “Bartleby,” said I, in a still gentler tone, “come here; I am not going to ask you to do any thing you would prefer not to do—I simply wish to speak to you.” Upon this he noiselessly slid into view. “Will you tell me, Bartleby, where you were born?” “I would prefer not to.” “Will you tell me any thing about yourself?” “I would prefer not to.” “But what reasonable objection can you have to speak to me? I feel friendly towards you.” He did not look at me while I spoke, but kept his glance fixed upon my bust of Cicero, which as I then


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

from their mortal forms to their holy ones on their twenty-fourth birthdays: Caeliar, Braxtos, Hestraon, Apollius, Nyxara, Lereal. After that, an entry from the Book of Prayer, about stepping into your power when it is time and knowing when to cede it. Bastian shifted back and forth on his feet through the entire recitation, clearly bored. At one point, he smirked at someone to the left of the dais, and Lore wondered if it was the woman he’d been kissing in the garden. The ceremony seemed to reach a natural conclusion, the gathered courtiers growing restless in their seats as they anticipated dismissal. But Anton turned to another scarlet ribbon in the Compendium, one near the back. The Book of Holy Law, then. Anton picked up the knife, golden blade glinting in the sun. Lore was too far away to see Bastian’s expression, but the Sun Prince took a tiny step back. She shot a look at Gabriel. A frown drew at the Presque Mort’s mouth. “The Book of Holy Law, Tract Fourteen,” Anton intoned. “Powers that oppose each other sharpen each other in turn. The presence of darkness increases light, and light drowns the darkness. But my children, have caution, for neither can be wholly tamed except by your god. Life cannot exist without death, and to hold the whole of them is holiness.” Lore’s lips twisted. The Book of Holy Law was a conundrum: Parts of it had been written pre-Godsfall, but a majority hadn’t been recorded until the year of the Godsfall itself, the year between Nyxara’s death and Apollius’s disappearance. Those Tracts contradicted earlier ones, stating that Apollius was the only true god. Right before He disappeared, Apollius dictated the Book of Holy Law to a man named Gerard Arceneaux, whom He then appointed the Sainted King. The Arceneaux family had ruled ever since, handpicked by Apollius Himself. The crowd was silent. Courtiers glanced at each other, some trying to hide bemused grins, others just confused. “Is that not normally part of it?” Lore whispered to Gabriel. He shook his head, still frowning. “Bastian Leander Arceneaux,” Anton said, raising the golden knife. “You are the scion of a holy house. You are the vessel of holy power. And today, you step into your Consecration with a heart that will be made ready to carry us forward into a new age.” The bemused smiles faded, every courtier wearing an expression of confusion, Bastian included. He didn’t speak—he hadn’t through the whole Consecration—but he didn’t step closer to his uncle, either. Anton gestured. “Come, nephew.” His voice was the gentlest Lore had ever heard it. “Today you become who you are meant to be.” In his golden chair, August leaned forward, clutching the chalice in his hand like a lifeline. The Sun Prince hesitated a moment. Then he gave a forced laugh, clearly attempting to break the strange tension. “Well done, Uncle,” he said, in a rich baritone voice that rang over the pews. “You’ve started a trend. I’m sure every Consecration from here on out will include room for


Alante will be most invaluable. But I’ll wait for coffee before I bludgeon you with questions.” “It’s all set up outside!” Thais chirped. “You all go ahead and get comfortable. I’ll cut up the revani and be out in a minute.” Saint-Yves was holding the door open. Marie and Hanne headed to the porch, and Aris Lefteriou joined them with slow, shuffling steps. Io’s mind was on alert; her legs itched to make a run for the door. “Actually, I should be going,” Io started. “Nonsense,” Thais said, smiling at her fiancé. “You have time for a coffee.” “I really should—” A hand nudged at her waist. “Stay,” her sister whispered. “Ten minutes. That’s all I ask. Go—I’ll be out in a second.” All right. Io’s mind began working. She would stay for ten minutes, pretend to need Thais’s help to find the bathroom, then grab her sister and bolt out of here—before Aris Lefteriou could even realize what she was up to. She followed Saint-Yves onto the patio and took a seat at the far end of the long stone bench Lefteriou was sitting on, with Marie between them. That way she wasn’t in his direct eyeline and thus not in danger of falling into his thrall of terror. While Saint-Yves poured coffee and Hanne passed the tray of fruits around, the rest of the group carried on an inane conversation about the Mayoral campaign: meeting with sponsors, opening speakers, voter rallies, event security at tomorrow’s elections. Io kept glancing back at the house; where the hell was Thais? “So, Io.” Saint-Yves smiled charmingly as he filled her cup with coffee. “Thais tells me you’re the best private investigator in the Silts. It would be illuminating to hear the thoughts of someone as connected to the district as you are. What is your opinion of the Initiative?” “It’s ambitious,” Io said, hoping that would be the end of the conversation. The man laughed heartily. “Sure is. Do you think other-born from the Silts would join us?” I highly doubt it, she thought, but she answered, “I wouldn’t know.” “Thais believes that any other-born from the Silts who signed up would be seen as a turncoat. That it would cause internal unrest. Do you think she’s right?” He just wouldn’t leave it alone, would he? Eyes on her empty plate, Io replied, “The Silts and the police don’t work well together.” Hadn’t Saint-Yves heard of Roosters’ Silence? “But wouldn’t a police force comprised of other-born be easier to trust? Despite what the newsies say, the Initiative isn’t just another way to police other-born. Our ultimate goal is equality. True social change, starting with the incorporation of other-born in law enforcement. We seek to establish a new, inclusive Order, yes, but it wouldn’t be like the Order of the Furies. The fury-born were supposed to hold impartial trials of the other-born they arrested, but I’m told that, more and more before their end, their trials ended overwhelmingly in incarceration, despite evidence favoring the defense.” Io had heard those rumors, too, but they were


Maybe you don’t care about anybody but yourself, but my friends are out there, so get your shit together or get out of my face.” Javier shrinks away from me. “Damn,” he says. “Sorry.” Kyle shines his light down the road. The dark swallows the cone of pale yellow light like a giant, gaping mouth. I still myself, willing my heart to find a pace that doesn’t feel like I’ve had ten energy drinks. Outside the perimeter of the camp, without the comforts of my cabin or the routine of the nightly game, I feel painfully exposed. Tasha’s frantic, broken words stick in my head. I push on with Bezi at my heel and Kyle and Javier trailing behind. I have to find my friends. Thirty-five minutes later, the light from Kyle’s flashlight illuminates mile marker seventy. “Look for a driveway or something,” I say, switching on my flashlight. The beam barely puts a dent in the darkness surrounding us, but I sweep it along the side of the main road, looking for any indication that Ms. Keane’s residence is somewhere nearby. “Over here,” Javier says after a few minutes. He’s got his light on and pointed at a splintered wooden post with the numbers 5980 scrawled on the side in reflective white paint. It looks like a mailbox was affixed to the top at some point, but it’s nowhere to be seen. Beyond it are two tracks that look like they’d line up with car tires, but to call it a driveway would be a stretch. It’s just the remnant of an unpaved road snaking into the forest. Stuck in the ground is a makeshift wooden sign with the words no trespassing drawn on in red spray paint. “You gotta be kidding me,” Bezi says. “This is it? I don’t even see a house.” “It’s probably way back in the trees,” I say as I try to peer through the tree cover. Kyle points his light in the direction of the tracks, and still I see nothing. I grip my own flashlight and walk onto the road. Bezi lays her hand against my back as she follows me up the drive. Kyle and Javier stay close behind. No trespassing signs line the drive on both sides, a repeated warning that begs me not to ignore it. After several minutes of trudging up the narrow drive, we see a muted light coming from a window on the upper floor of a house situated in a thick grove of towering pines. Javier stops dead in his tracks, his flashlight pointed at the ground. “Oh my god, come on!” I say angrily. “You are not gonna—” “Look,” Javier whispers. The beam from his flashlight is hovering over something on the ground. I crouch down and poke at it. It’s caked in mud, but the bubble-gum-pink fabric underneath is unmistakable—it’s Tasha’s hair tie. I snatch it up. “She was here,” I say. “Good. That means this lady—Ms. Keane—probably saw her and can tell us how long ago she left.” “She probably got turned around in


like I could cut you out of me, and instead, I just see everywhere you’re supposed to be.” I stare at him, heart cracking open under the weight of what I’m feeling. “Please say something,” he whispers. My eyes fill. My throat fills. I drop my face into my hands again. “I thought you didn’t want me,” I choke out, “so I tried. I tried to love somebody else. I tried to even like somebody else. I kissed someone else. I slept with someone else, but I couldn’t stop feeling like I was yours.” My eyes tighten against another wave of tears. “Like you’re mine.” “Harriet.” He tilts my face up. “Look at me.” He waits. “Please, Harriet.” It takes a few seconds to force my eyes open. Water droplets still cling to his brows. Rivulets race down his jaw and throat. His thumb grazes my cheekbone. “I am,” he says. “I am still yours.” The nail that has been driving closer and closer to my heart all week sinks home. The pads of his fingers slide across my bottom lip. His eyes are so soft, every ginger touch pushing back another layer from my heart. But does it even matter that we belong to each other when we can’t be with each other? Our lives are immovably separate. Everything may look different than it did ten minutes ago, but nothing’s changed. He’s mine, but I can’t have him. My hands tangle in his wet hair, as if that can keep him here with me. His do the same to mine. “What is this?” he whispers. I want it to be an I’m sorry and an I forgive you and a Promise you won’t ever let me go and a million other words I can’t say. Wyn’s finally happy. He has the life that was meant for him. He has a career he’s proud of, one predicated on his being in Montana, and even if he didn’t, there’s Gloria, who needs him. The time with her that he needs, time he missed with Hank. And I’m in California for at least a few more years, too deep in to back out but not so far into the tunnel as to see the light at its end. Maybe, in another life, things could be different. In this one, this can be only one thing. “I think,” I say, “it’s one last I love you.” His fingers tighten on me, his breath stilling. And then, like he’s answering a question, his lungs expand on an inhale and his lips meet mine. When I let out a shaky breath, his tongue slips into my mouth. The taste of him reaches deep and loosens something I’ve spent months tying into knots. Need stretches out in every direction, waking up my skin, nerves, blood. Wyn angles my face up, deepening the kiss, and his tongue sweeps mine, hungry, tender. A whimper rises out of me. His hand spreads across my stomach, finding its way several inches up beneath my shirt, and my spine arcs into him, every


to want to be acquainted with her. Emma knew it to have been very much the case. She had often observed the change, to almost the same extent.-- Harriet repeated expressions of approbation and praise from him-- and Emma felt them to be in the closest agreement with what she had known of his opinion of Harriet. He praised her for being without art or affectation, for having simple, honest, generous, feelings.-- She knew that he saw such recommendations in Harriet; he had dwelt on them to her more than once.--Much that lived in Harriet's memory, many little particulars of the notice she had received from him, a look, a speech, a removal from one chair to another, a compliment implied, a preference inferred, had been unnoticed, because unsuspected, by Emma. Circumstances that might swell to half an hour's relation, and contained multiplied proofs to her who had seen them, had passed undiscerned by her who now heard them; but the two latest occurrences to be mentioned, the two of strongest promise to Harriet, were not without some degree of witness from Emma herself.--The first, was his walking with her apart from the others, in the lime-walk at Donwell, where they had been walking some time before Emma came, and he had taken pains (as she was convinced) to draw her from the rest to himself--and at first, he had talked to her in a more particular way than he had ever done before, in a very particular way indeed!--(Harriet could not recall it without a blush.) He seemed to be almost asking her, whether her affections were engaged.-- But as soon as she (Miss Woodhouse) appeared likely to join them, he changed the subject, and began talking about farming:-- The second, was his having sat talking with her nearly half an hour before Emma came back from her visit, the very last morning of his being at Hartfield--though, when he first came in, he had said that he could not stay five minutes--and his having told her, during their conversation, that though he must go to London, it was very much against his inclination that he left home at all, which was much more (as Emma felt) than he had acknowledged to her. The superior degree of confidence towards Harriet, which this one article marked, gave her severe pain. On the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she did, after a little reflection, venture the following question. "Might he not?--Is not it possible, that when enquiring, as you thought, into the state of your affections, he might be alluding to Mr. Martin-- he might have Mr. Martin's interest in view? But Harriet rejected the suspicion with spirit. "Mr. Martin! No indeed!--There was not a hint of Mr. Martin. I hope I know better now, than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be suspected of it." When Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to her dear Miss Woodhouse, to say whether she had not good ground for hope. "I never should have presumed to think of it at


He lifted his eyes to the sky, sighing like a parent with an unruly child, then turned around to the fallen King. “A gut wound takes time to kill someone,” he said. “A fact I’m beginning to regret.” Anton lifted his foot, clad in heavy boots, and brought it down on August’s head. The white light around the King billowed away like a breeze, a cloud of darkness taking its place. Brain matter caked the sole of Anton’s boot as he lifted it from the ruin of August’s skull. Lore heaved up wine. It puddled sticky in her lap, mixing with blood from her stomach. More shouting, but it sounded like it was coming from underwater. She couldn’t focus her eyes, couldn’t organize her thoughts into straight lines. All was pain, and all was fading. Bastian’s voice cut through the din, the timbre recognizable even if the words weren’t. Gabe’s, the same, soundless roars, growls, clashes of steel and the meaty sound of fists in flesh. He must’ve woken up. That was good. Maybe they’d both live. Two out of three wasn’t bad. “Take her to the gardens,” Anton said, and distantly, Lore felt hands beneath her knees, around her shoulders, lifting her like a fainted noblewoman. “She’s waiting for us there.” Lore’s eyes fluttered closed. Hard ground. Cold seeping through her ruined clothes, making the wound in her side and her sliced-up hand ache. Wind through stone, curling around leaves turned to rock, granite petals. Lore forced her eyes open. The stone garden. Torches burned around the well, replacements for the light stolen by the eclipse. Her vision was still blurry, pain and blood loss making it hard to focus, but she could see Anton standing before the open pit of the well, the statue of Apollius that held it closed placed carefully to the side. Other muted shapes around him—the Presque Mort, all of them that hadn’t been dispatched to the village to deal with the new corpses. New corpses, after her dream… There was another figure near Anton, standing on the other side of the well. Willowy, dressed in black, with a long river of pale hair. Anton turned before her mind would let her comprehend what she was seeing. A small blessing. “Ah. Lore.” At the sound of her name, two of the Presque Mort approached, gingerly helping her up. Blood soaked the side of her gown; her head felt as heavy as the stone roses lining the path. “You did so well,” the Priest Exalted said as she stumbled toward him. “Really, Lore, you should be proud of yourself. To be part of this, to have Apollius speak of you by name. And more than once! The vision that brought me my scar is where I first heard of you, but He has spoken to me since—He told me to learn the art of dreamwalking, how to draw out your power to make our undead army.” He talked too fast, too excited, as if he’d been waiting for the chance to spill all these secrets. “Shut up,”


few days! I don’t need you to care about Yahav. It would be odd if you did. But he’s part of the story, and he was a big part of my mental state those two weeks. Lest I sound clueless and desperate: This was someone I’d been seeing for two years, someone who would, when things were working, text me just to say good morning. When we got together he, too, was separated and starting the divorce process. We were already friends—both teaching at UCLA, both enjoying rapid-fire conversation and politics and tapas bars. I don’t believe in soul mates, and that’s made life easier; we were simply good together. I’d met him at a potluck thrown by a psychology professor friend, in a house full of spider plants—a remarkably unsexy party if only because the place smelled of cat litter. Yahav had piled his plate with so much food that I found myself scoping his physique to see if he was all muscle or just an ectomorph. The answer turned out to be both, I confirmed two years later when we finally slept together, when I ran my hand down his ribs and his long, ropy quadriceps. But in the moment, I apologized for staring at his plate, the mountains of orzo and chicken and veggie lasagna. I said, “You have literally everything, so tell me what ends up being best.” He took the request seriously, and kept reporting back throughout the night, advising that the brownies on the far end of the table were the superior ones. “The key is salt,” he sotto-voced into my hair. “The others lack sufficient salt.” Still married to Jerome, I considered my coffee dates with Yahav simply, if thrillingly, social. We shared an interest in Israeli cinema, and he wanted help finding some early Uri Zohar movies, which led to us watching A Hole in the Moon in his office. I was more taken with the books on his shelves than the film, doubly so because he was a law professor and I hadn’t expected to find David Mitchell and Audre Lorde in lieu of anything leatherbound. I understood that because we were becoming friends, we would never sleep together. Specifically: Because I’d opened myself up to him in unflattering ways, because I’d worn glasses and no makeup on our walks, griped about Jerome’s anxiety, even moaned to him about the stretch marks my kids had gifted me, I’d taken sex off the table. And then, at a wine bar late one night after we discussed our foundering marriages and the panic attacks Yahav was getting in traffic, he looked at me with such imploring eyes that the future rolled out in front of us, soft and green. We’d only been seeing each other six months when his wife was diagnosed with severe chronic fatigue syndrome and he realized he needed to stay with her, take care of their daughter, live in the house. Her illness put us on hold, turning a legitimate relationship into an illegitimate one. I found myself in an affair


you liked it when I kept my mouth shut.” All my amusement from making fun of her drains away like water down the plughole. She’s said something like that to me before. Maybe she thinks I don’t remember. Maybe she doesn’t remember, and I’m the only one who’s replayed that day in the cafeteria over and over in my head a thousand times. Probably not, though. When Celine was a kid, her dad went missing for a few days and she decided he’d been abducted by aliens. When he came back, announced that his mistress had given birth to twins, and divorced Neneh to go be with his new family, Celine concluded it was due to alien mind control. She had willful delusions and I had obsessive compulsions—that’s probably how we became best friends. Who was I to judge? But as we got older, I learned to fold myself up nice and neat so no one would notice I was different. Celine never did. She talked about aliens to anyone who’d listen. Especially when she was nervous. “I thought you liked it when I kept my mouth shut.” The quiet rush of rain against leaves fills the space between us like a swollen balloon. Her jaw is tight; I wish it wasn’t. My chest is tight, but there’s not much I can do about that. Just ignore it. Don’t say anything. There’s no point— Except I’ve always struggled to let thoughts and feelings go. They gnaw at me until I give in. “I told you I was sorry.” She snorts, and just like that, I know there’s nothing coincidental about this conversation. Celine hasn’t forgotten why she hates me. Maybe she sits beside me in Philosophy remembering things the same way I do. “It’s not my fault, you know,” I blurt out, “that we got separated. Back then.” Her expression is incredulous. “Our classes, you mean?” I shrug, already uncomfortable, wondering why I’m digging deeper instead of shutting this conversation down— “Of course that wasn’t your fault, Bradley,” she says sharply. “Everyone’s schedule changes eventually.” Her jaw shifts as she bites some part of herself I can’t see—her tongue? The inside of her cheek? She’s talking again. “The problem was, you made it worse.” I have to put plasters over all my scabs because if I can see them, I’ll pick them until they bleed. Maybe things would be easier if I could put a nice, beige tarp entirely over Celine, but I can’t, so I ask, “How?” “You had to go and…” She waves a hand. Her nails are glossy and black. “Make new friends. And join the football team, and—” Righteous outrage roars to life in my chest. It turns out that after almost four years of quiet seething, I am so ready for this argument. “Because that was such a crime,” I bite out. “Wanting to do new things without you. I was the bad guy for joining a new club and quitting Latin? Okay, Celine.” She presses her raindrop-studded eyelashes together, breathes deep, and says the last thing


the extra one square foot of space is a huge relief.” “If you put yourself into a smaller space, inside this room,” I say, “then you’ll know you can get out of that space whenever you want.” “But we still can’t get out of the room,” he says. “It’s not a perfect science,” I say. “But it’s something. And honestly, no matter what, we’re not trapped. Worst case, we call the fire department. But let’s try this first—I can’t afford an Armas-approved door, and I don’t want you to have to return that coffee-table book.” A huff of laughter as he swings his leg over. That’s a good sign. I sidestep to make room for him, but with the angle of the stairs, stooping isn’t enough this far back. I lower myself to the ground and scoot into the corner. “Now what?” he grumbles. “Now? Now we put our heads together and try to solve the Zodiac murders,” I say. “Sit down, Wyn.” He promptly obeys. At this point, I think he’s in the exact right headspace that I could tell him to stand on his hands and sing “Ave Maria” and he might do it. “Pretend you’re playing the game,” I say. “Pretend we need to be as quiet and still as possible until they find us.” Raggedly, he says, “That’s not going to work.” “Wyn.” His neck bows, his shoulders rising and falling with his shallow breaths. “Wyn.” “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m trying not to freak out.” “Don’t apologize.” Without thinking, I reach for his hand. After the initial spark of surprise, of recognition, I realize his fingers are ice-cold and shaking. I flatten his palm between mine. “Look at me. Talk to me.” He keeps his head down. “Talk to me,” I press again. “About what?” he asks. “Anything,” I say. “The first thing that comes to mind.” “Getting trapped under the armoire,” he says. “That’s all I can think about. Being sure I was going to die before anyone found me. Losing feeling in my leg, and then the pain coming back worse when the shock wore off.” “Okay, anything other than that,” I amend. I think about my meditation app, the visualization exercise I’ve been relying on these past five months. “Tell me about a place you love.” He gives one firm shake of his head. “I’m sorry.” “Hey.” I scoot closer. Our knees bump. “You don’t have to apologize. Not for this.” “I thought I was over this shit,” he huffs. “I’m doing so much better. Everything is so much better—I thought this would be better too.” It stings, hearing that: Everything is so much better. I brush the thought aside, clear my throat again. “Tell me about when we played that game.” I don’t mean to say it. Or I don’t know, maybe I do. Maybe I need to know that he remembers, that he hasn’t totally forgotten what it felt like to love me, while I’m trapped with him burned onto my heart, my brain, my lungs, my skin. Finally, his gaze lifts.