they waited. “Subtle car,” Jonah says as a tall man with slicked-back hair steps out of the Ferrari. The attorney smooths his suit before striding toward the house. Ethan folds a stick of gum into his mouth before climbing out of the car. The same housekeeper opens the door after Carr’s attorney rings the bell. This time, she holds the door open for Ethan and Jonah to follow. Ethan eyes the security camera above the front entry before going inside, thinking of Sloane’s visit after her award gala. The detectives move behind the attorney through the mansion’s main level, following in a trail of his strong cologne. While Jonah appears to take in the home’s opulent surroundings, Ethan’s thoughts are consumed with Sloane, envisioning her in this house—with Carr. An image of Sloane laughing in Carr’s arms before they stripped off each other’s clothes inundates his mind when Ethan enters a formal dining room with views of Lake Washington. Carr stands from the table and shakes hands with his attorney. Ethan stares at the app founder. He’s dressed in a button-down shirt with his brown wavy hair neatly combed back. Despite his wife dying yesterday, the billionaire’s eyes look fresh—more well-rested than Ethan’s. Jonah extends his hand. “I’m Detective Nolan from Seattle Homicide.” Carr accepts his handshake. “Brody Carr.” He swings his hand toward Ethan. Ethan clears his throat and encloses his grip around the billionaire app founder’s, wanting to throw a punch at his jaw. “And I’m Detective Marks.” Carr sits beside his attorney at the twelve-seat dining table. If he’s aware of Ethan being Sloane’s husband, his face shows no recognition of it. Ethan and Jonah sit opposite. Carr is bigger than he looked in his online photos. His muscular chest and arms protrude beneath his fitted shirt. Ethan pictures them wrapped around Sloane before forcing the image from his mind. “We’re very sorry for your loss,” Jonah starts. Ethan eyes Carr’s broad shoulders. It would have been easy for him to overpower his wife beneath the water, no matter how strong a swimmer she was. Carr nods. “Thank you.” Beyond the bay windows at the end of the table, Ethan spots a float plane beside a huge yacht on Brody’s dock. Was it Carr’s money Sloane was drawn too? But he knows that’s not it. Sloane is the most fiercely independent person he’s ever known and despises how her mother was always financially dependent on men. Ethan returns his attention to Carr across the table. Knowing Sloane wasn’t wooed by his wealth only makes him feel worse. It means there was something deeper between them. “We’re here because we’re opening an investigation into your wife’s death,” Jonah says. Carr glances at his attorney. “Why is that?” “How was your relationship with your wife? You were separated, correct?” Carr waits for his lawyer to give him a nod of approval. “Yes, we’ve been separated for two months. But we were working things out.” By sleeping with my wife. Ethan feels the urge to flip the table over and take Carr’s


“All right. The patient coming in is a thirty-two-year-old female found unresponsive while diving near Alki Beach.” “Diving?” Evelyn nods. “That’s what the medic said. Actually, he called it freediving. She still had a weak pulse after her husband dragged her to shore but lost it shortly after the medics arrived.” The room suddenly feels cold. “She’s intubated,” Evelyn adds. “And they’re running a full code. At least the water is cold; it should give her a chance. Anyway, thank you, I could really use a Sprite.” “Hey, Logan,” Evelyn says as she moves past the treatment room. “Sloane is taking the new one for me. I’m going on break.” “Okay.” He heads toward the ambulance entrance. “You coming, Dr. Marks?” She follows him without a word. When she reaches the sliding doors, she hears the ambulance in the distance. Logan turns. “So, Evelyn told you what happened to the patient coming in?” “She said she was…freediving?” He nods. “Evelyn said she got caught in some kelp, apparently. By the time her husband untangled her, she’d been underwater for several minutes.” A knot forms in Sloane’s stomach as she pictures Brody pulling his wife’s limp body ashore. It can’t be. “And get this. When I checked to see if the patient’s been admitted to our system, I saw her name is Chelsea Carr.” Sloane fights the urge to vomit as Logan steps toward her. “Oh, yeah.” Logan waves a hand through the air. “I forgot you don’t keep up with celebrity news. Chelsea Carr’s a model who married that guy who created The One,” he continues. “I saw online they recently moved to Seattle. You think it’s her?” The sirens grow louder. Sloane stares at the lights pulling into the parking lot beyond the glass doors. Sloane feels numb. This cannot be happening. Logan shrugs when Sloane doesn’t respond. “I know, probably not.” The ambulance pulls to a stop, and Logan presses a button to open the doors. Sloane stands frozen in place as the medics pull the stretcher out of the back of the ambulance, relieved to see Brody Carr is nowhere in sight. “We’re taking her to treatment room six,” Logan says as they wheel her inside. One of the medics bags a breath through her endotracheal tube in between compressions. Two IV bags hang from a metal pole attached to the stretcher, pumping fluid into a vein in her arm. “When we arrived and hooked her up to the cardiac monitor, she was in bradycardia with a heart rate of ten,” one of the medics tells Sloane. “But by the time we got her intubated, it was gone. We started compressions and gave three rounds of code meds and a saline bolus on the way here.” He continues to recap their resuscitation efforts as Sloane compares the lifeless woman before her to the image on the wall of Brody’s bedroom. She follows alongside as the medics maneuver the stretcher swiftly through the hallway, unable to tear her eyes from Chelsea’s long blonde hair and mottled, pale-gray skin. She recalls


head. O'Brien had sat down beside the bed, so that his face was almost on a level with Winston's. 'Three thousand,' he said, speaking over Winston's head to the man in the white coat. Two soft pads, which felt slightly moist, clamped themselves against Winston's temples. He quailed. There was pain coming, a new kind of pain. O'Brien laid a hand reassuringly, almost kindly, on his. 'This time it will not hurt,' he said. 'Keep your eyes fixed on mine.' At this moment there was a devastating explosion, or what seemed like an explosion, though it was not certain whether there was any noise. There was undoubtedly a blinding flash of light. Winston was not hurt, only prostrated. Although he had already been lying on his back when the thing happened, he had a curious feeling that he had been knocked into that position. A terrific painless blow had flattened him out. Also something had happened inside his head. As his eyes regained their focus he remembered who he was, and where he was, and recognized the face that was gazing into his own; but somewhere or other there was a large patch of emptiness, as though a piece had been taken out of his brain. 'It will not last,' said O'Brien. 'Look me in the eyes. What country is Oceania at war with?' Winston thought. He knew what was meant by Oceania and that he himself was a citizen of Oceania. He also remembered Eurasia and Eastasia; but who was at war with whom he did not know. In fact he had not been aware that there was any war. 'I don't remember.' 'Oceania is at war with Eastasia. Do you remember that now?' 'Yes.' 'Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia. Since the beginning of your file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (140 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:52 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt life, since the beginning of the Party, since the beginning of history, the war has continued without a break, always the same war. Do you remember that?' 'Yes.' 'Eleven years ago you created a legend about three men who had been condemned to death for treachery. You pretended that you had seen a piece of paper which proved them innocent. No such piece of paper ever existed. You invented it, and later you grew to believe in it. You remember now the very moment at which you first invented it. Do you remember that?' 'Yes.' 'Just now I held up the fingers of my hand to you. You saw five fingers. Do you remember that?' 'Yes.' O'Brien held up the fingers of his left hand, with the thumb concealed. 'There are five fingers there. Do you see five fingers?' 'Yes.' And he did see them, for a fleeting instant, before the scenery of his mind changed. He saw five fingers, and there was no deformity. Then everything was normal again, and the old fear, the hatred, and the bewilderment came crowding back again. But there had been a moment--he did not know how long, thirty seconds, perhaps--of luminous certainty, when each new suggestion of O'Brien's


to take leave. "I shall hear about you all," said he; that is my chief consolation. I shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have engaged Mrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise it. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really interested in the absent!--she will tell me every thing. In her letters I shall be at dear Highbury again." A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest "Good-bye," closed the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had been the notice--short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too much. It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to the last two weeks--indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation of seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his attentions, his liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy fortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common course of Hartfield days. To complete every other recommendation, he had almost told her that he loved her. What strength, or what constancy of affection he might be subject to, was another point; but at present she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all the rest, made her think that she must be a little in love with him, in spite of every previous determination against it. "I certainly must," said she. "This sensation of listlessness, weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself, this feeling of every thing's being dull and insipid about the house!-- I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world if I were not--for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to others. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes." Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable kindness added, "You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!" It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball taken


Every man’s honor, every woman’s life belongs to him. Yes, I was powerful. Yes, I ruled with your father, but I wasn’t free. None of us are.” “What about my honor?” Clytemnestra snarls. “You can’t begin to contemplate the things I have endured because of the king’s wishes. There is no honor in being raped, no honor in being beaten. If you think there is, you are a fool.” Leda draws a deep breath. Cold air seeps into their bones, and Clytemnestra waits for her mother to ask for forgiveness, even though she knows it wouldn’t be enough. But Leda says, “I never told you how I came to marry your father.” I do not care, Clytemnestra wants to say. It is too late for your stories. But her tongue feels heavy in her mouth, like a stone. “You remember when I told you about Hippocoon and how he overthrew your father? Before Heracles helped him retake the throne, Tyndareus ran away with Icarius. They begged many kings for hospitality until they were welcomed by your grandfather Thestius, my father. Thestius fed and treated Tyndareus as if he were his own, but he asked for something in return.” “A marriage,” Clytemnestra says. “Yes, a marriage. I was young, disobedient, and my father’s favorite. I thought myself hard to love, but Thestius liked that I was rebellious. When he came to me to propose the marriage, I said yes. I thought it my chance to make him proud and happy. “Our winter festival came, when the girls had to dance for the goddess Rhea. It was my favorite moment of the year—we wore dresses and masks of feathers and ran in the forest where the spirits hide. We sang to the stars, asking for warmth in the winter and rains in the summer. Your father watched me. His skin was dark and warm, and I thought that was a taste of the sunny land he came from. I let him touch the feathers of my dress, and he said I was the most beautiful bird he had ever seen. The forest heard him, because soon nightingales were singing. I followed the sound, leading Tyndareus away from the torches into the thick part of the forest where long branches make everything a secret. The morning after, he asked me to marry him.” Leda doesn’t look at her as she talks. Her eyes are fixed outside the window, on the woods in the distance, the trees swaying with the wind. Clytemnestra looks at her hands. “Your marriage was the result of a political alliance, but that doesn’t mean you know how I felt.” “That is true.” Her hand grabs Clytemnestra’s wrist and she feels the strength her mother once had, the boldness. “If I could go back, I would change everything. I would stand beside you and defy your father.” Her eyes brim with sadness. “But if you are truly like me and you find it hard to forgive, I hope you will come to understand that it has been hard for me too.” The


170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt 'What was it?' he said in surprise. 'A rat. I saw him stick his beastly nose out of the wainscoting. There's a hole down there. I gave him a good fright, anyway.' 'Rats!' murmured Winston. 'In this room!' 'They're all over the place,' said Julia indifferently as she lay down again. 'We've even got them in the kitchen at the hostel. Some parts of London are swarming with them. Did you know they attack children? Yes, they do. In some of these streets a woman daren't leave a baby alone for two minutes. It's the great huge brown ones that do it. And the nasty thing is that the brutes always----' 'DON'T GO ON!' said Winston, with his eyes tightly shut. 'Dearest! You've gone quite pale. What's the matter? Do they make you feel sick?' 'Of all horrors in the world--a rat!' She pressed herself against him and wound her limbs round him, as though to reassure him with the warmth of her body. He did not reopen his eyes immediately. For several moments he had had the feeling of being back in a nightmare which had recurred from time to time throughout his life. It was always very much the same. He was standing in front of a wall of darkness, and on the other side of it there was something unendurable, something too dreadful to be faced. In the dream his deepest feeling was always one of self-deception, because he did in fact know what was behind the wall of darkness. With a deadly effort, like wrenching a piece out of his own brain, he could even have dragged the thing into the open. He always woke up without discovering what it was: but somehow it was connected with what Julia had been saying when he cut her short. 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'it's nothing. I don't like rats, that's all.' 'Don't worry, dear, we're not going to have the filthy brutes in here. I'll stuff the hole with a bit of sacking before we go. And next time we come here I'll bring some plaster and bung it up properly.' Already the black instant of panic was half-forgotten. Feeling slightly ashamed of himself, he sat up against the bedhead. Julia got out of bed, pulled on her overalls, and made the coffee. The smell that rose from the saucepan was so powerful and exciting that they shut the window lest anybody outside should notice it and become inquisitive. What was even better than the taste of the coffee was the silky texture given to it by the sugar, a thing Winston had almost forgotten after years of saccharine. With one hand in her pocket and a piece of bread and jam in the other, Julia wandered about the room, glancing indifferently at the bookcase, pointing out the best way of repairing the gateleg table, plumping herself down in the ragged arm-chair to see if it was comfortable, and examining the absurd twelve-hour clock with a sort of tolerant amusement. She brought the glass paperweight


and I let him have it. “Mr. Nugent, I may or may not know where that item you are looking for is, but I will tell you up-front that I do know why you want it. I know what it means.” Silence. “Your friend Mr. Zoegar, he was of the opinion that you and I could not trust one another. I took that to mean you would never trust me, but now it seems you sought to have me do something with consequences far beyond what you led me to believe. That is not the act of a friend, sir. Now, this situation we are all in is complex and delicate, and right now I feel a broad disaffection with almost all parties to the negotiation. We can proceed on that basis into the next stage, or you and I can step together a little more. I’m right here offering you the opportunity to restore the goodwill between us. What do you say?” “Mr. Zoegar would use the word ‘consilience’ to describe what you propose, Mr. Sounder. A jumping together of destinies.” “Well, for the next half hour, I won’t make any firm decisions about which way my destiny is going to jump. After that, I’ll figure I’m on my own, and things could get untidy.” There’s a pause during which I assume Lyman Nugent considers the state of my affairs before they become untidy: a scientist murdered under an alias, a cage match, a gunshot wound, a dead lounge singer, a dead police officer, an exploded police station, stolen internal organs containing encrypted nuclear grade kompromat, and now my would-be murderer, my ex-girlfriend’s cousin and by definition one of the most powerful men in the world, mutilated, bleeding and pissed off on my office carpet. Figure Nugent likes all that even less than I do. “I shall be delighted to accept your kind invitation, Mr. Sounder. See you in twenty minutes or so.” “See you then.” He hangs up, and I turn and look down at Maurice Tonfamecasca. “Fuck you, Sounder.” “Maurice, you came to my house. Now you’ve got nineteen minutes to persuade me we can forge an eternal friendship. After that it’s out of my hands.” Maurice smack-talks me for eighteen straight minutes and ten seconds. When Zoegar and a few friends arrive with a stretcher and carry him down the stairs, he smack talks them, too. When he sees Lyman Nugent in the backseat of the car, for a moment I think he’s not going to react at all, and then he looks at me, at Nugent, at me again, then he stares at Nugent and he starts to make a weird noise, like a bull choking. I figure that is the sound of a man who is used to counting his lifespan in centuries remembering what it feels like to be ephemeral. There’s no room for Maurice in the car, and in any case the lowing noise he’s making doesn’t sit well with Doublewide, so they put Maurice in a trailerbox, and Zoegar offers me the front


the exact words of the quarrel they had had. He had to force himself back to his book. He went out for a walk. The streets on the South side of the river were dingy enough on week-days, but there was an energy, a coming and going, which gave them a sordid vivacity; but on Sundays, with no shops open, no carts in the roadway, silent and depressed, they were indescribably dreary. Philip thought that day would never end. But he was so tired that he slept heavily, and when Monday came he entered upon life with determination. Christmas was approaching, and a good many of the students had gone into the country for the short holiday between the two parts of the winter session; but Philip had refused his uncle's invitation to go down to Blackstable. He had given the approaching examination as his excuse, but in point of fact he had been unwilling to leave London and Mildred. He had neglected his work so much that now he had only a fortnight to learn what the curriculum allowed three months for. He set to work seriously. He found it easier each day not to think of Mildred. He congratulated himself on his force of character. The pain he suffered was no longer anguish, but a sort of soreness, like what one might be expected to feel if one had been thrown off a horse and, though no bones were broken, were bruised all over and shaken. Philip found that he was able to observe with curiosity the condition he had been in during the last few weeks. He analysed his feelings with interest. He was a little amused at himself. One thing that struck him was how little under those circumstances it mattered what one thought; the system of personal philosophy, which had given him great satisfaction to devise, had not served him. He was puzzled by this. But sometimes in the street he would see a girl who looked so like Mildred that his heart seemed to stop beating. Then he could not help himself, he hurried on to catch her up, eager and anxious, only to find that it was a total stranger. Men came back from the country, and he went with Dunsford to have tea at an A. B. C. shop. The well-known uniform made him so miserable that he could not speak. The thought came to him that perhaps she had been transferred to another establishment of the firm for which she worked, and he might suddenly find himself face to face with her. The idea filled him with panic, so that he feared Dunsford would see that something was the matter with him: he could not think of anything to say; he pretended to listen to what Dunsford was talking about; the conversation maddened him; and it was all he could do to prevent himself from crying out to Dunsford for Heaven's sake to hold his tongue. Then came the day of his examination. Philip, when his turn arrived, went forward to the examiner's


I haven’t been together 24/7, I haven’t felt truly alone in a while. If we’re not in the same room, then I’m usually working on his book. Whether he’s next to me or not, he’s always in my head. That has to be the explanation for why I’m feeling this odd attachment to him. I simply haven’t talked to another single guy in weeks. When he doesn’t join me and doesn’t send any texts, I head back, picking up two mugs of hot cocoa in the lobby before going up to our room. I knock once, just to make sure he knows I’m coming in. And nothing in the world could prepare me for what I see next. Finn’s sitting in one of the armchairs, grinning into his laptop camera and holding up a peace sign. “What up, Mason, this is Finn Walsh, and I just wanted to say that you’re going to absolutely crush your Spanish exam next week, just like Caleb, Meg, Alice, and I crushed that horde of banshees that—” “What are you doing?” I’ve never seen a grown man look so frightened. He jumps a literal half foot before smashing his laptop shut with more force than is necessary. “Oh god,” he says, burying his head in his hands. “You weren’t supposed to see that.” My eyes flick between him and the closed laptop. Trying to hold back a laugh, I ask, “Are you filming a Cameo?” Finn nods miserably. “It’s embarrassing. I don’t get that many requests, but I try to do a decent job with the ones that do come in.” “I’m sure they’re great.” “You’re trying really hard not to laugh right now, aren’t you?” “So hard.” When he opens his laptop back up, I notice he’s wearing gray sweatpants. I don’t know what it is about them, but they can instantly take a guy from a six to a ten, and Finn was already far beyond a six. “Come out in the snow with me,” I say. “We can at least take some cute photos of you hauling firewood for your Instagram to fawn over.” We bundle in the warmest coats we brought, Finn’s red hair spiking out from beneath a wool beanie. “This is real snow.” There’s some amount of awe in my voice as we traipse through it. The inn is surrounded by a forest, the snow still mostly untouched by footsteps. It’s too beautiful to mind the cold. “As opposed to?” “We don’t get this in the Northwest,” I explain. “One year, I went up to Whistler with an ex, and I spent all this time planning the perfect winter outfits. Then we got there and . . . nothing. It was, like, a low of fifty-two. I was devastated.” “An ex.” Finn sounds intrigued. “Tell me more about Chandler Cohen’s dating history.” “As you know, it’s been mostly defined by all the pining.” I hug my coat tighter. “I had my first boyfriend in high school—we broke up after graduation because we were going to different schools. Then in college,


I clasp my arms around his neck. “You wouldn’t.” I say breathlessly, trying to stifle my giggling. He grins. “Oh, Ana, baby, have you learned nothing in the short time we’ve known each other?” He kisses me, and I seize my opportunity, running my fingers through his hair, grasping two handfuls and kissing him back while invading his mouth with my tongue. He inhales sharply and leans back, eyes smoky but wary. “I know your game,” he whispers and slowly sinks into the cool, clear water, taking me with him as his lips find mine once more. The chill of the Mediter- ranean is soon forgotten as I wrap myself around my husband. “I thought you wanted to swim,” I murmur against his mouth. 15/551 “You’re very distracting.” Christian grazes his teeth along my lower lip. “But I’m not sure I want the good people of Monte Carlo to see my wife in the throes of passion.” I run my teeth along his jaw, his stubble tickly against my tongue, not caring a dime for the good people of Monte Carlo. “Ana,” he groans. He wraps my ponytail around his wrist and tugs gently, tilting my head back, exposing my throat. He trails kisses from my ear down my neck. “Shall I take you in the sea?” he breathes. “Yes,” I whisper. Christian pulls away and gazes down at me, his eyes warm, wanting, and amused. “Mrs. Grey, you’re insatiable and so brazen. What sort of monster have I created?” “A monster fit for you. Would you have me any other way?” “I’ll take you any way I can get you, you know that. But not right now. Not with an audience.” He jerks his head toward the shore. What? Sure enough, several sunbathers on the beach have abandoned their indiffer- ence and now regard us with interest. Suddenly, Christian grabs me around my waist and launches me into the air, letting me fall into the water and sink beneath the waves to the soft sand below. I surface, coughing, spluttering and giggling. “Christian!” I scold, glaring at him. I thought we were going to make love in the sea . . . and chalk up yet another first. He bites his lower lip to stifle his amusement. I splash him, and he splashes me right back. “We have all night,” he says, grinning like a fool. “Laters, baby.” He dives beneath the sea and surfaces three feet away from me, then in a fluid, graceful crawl, swims away from the shore, away from me. Gah! Playful, tantalizing Fifty! I shield my eyes from the sun as I watch him go. He’s such a tease . . . what can I do to get him back? While I swim back to the shore, I contemplate my options. At the sun loungers our drinks have arrived, and I take a quick sip of Coke. Christian is a faint speck in the distance. Hmm . . . I lie down on my front and, fumbling with the straps, take my bikini top off and


Mason shouts. “Brad’s having sex!” Great: my brother has arrived, right on schedule, to ruin my life. I jerk away from Celine, stomp over to the slightly ajar door (that absolute pervert freak), and shove it wide open. Mason’s already running downstairs. I turn around. Celine’s eyes are wide and unfocused, her chest is heaving, and for a second, I forget to be pissed because I’m very pleased with myself. “Hey,” I murmur. She blinks hard, presses her lips together, and stands up. “Crap. We should…go downstairs.” “Probably.” I’m going to creep into Mason’s room tonight and smother him while he sleeps. As we head out onto the landing, our elbows touch. Something zips up my stomach. Cel slides me a scandalized sideways look and rubs her arm like I just bit her. My own arm tingles. “I really like you.” “Shhh.” She widens her eyes meaningfully at me and leads the way downstairs. “I don’t want your dad to hear!” Aw. She’s so easily embarrassed but trust me; Dad’s going to love this. Celine is one of his favorite people. Still, I keep my mouth shut because she’s spooked, and I know feelings aren’t her thing. We just had a moment and now she needs space. (God, I’m so mature. Someone should make a note of this.) We reach the kitchen in adult silence and find Dad chopping spring onions at the island while staring at us with raised eyebrows (which is very poor kitchen safety; eyes on the knife, Dad). “Hi,” I say. His eyebrows somehow get higher. “Obviously,” I announce, “Mason is a liar.” Mason, who is eating a rice cake over the sink, says, “Mo am mot.” Crumbs spray across the front of his red Notts Forest shirt. I eye him in disgust. “How are we related?” He flips black curls out of his narrowed eyes. “You’re afopded.” Dad sighs heavily. “Mason, don’t talk with your mouth full, stop tormenting your brother, and go upstairs.” Mason snorts and heads for the door. “By the way,” Dad calls after him, “you’re not going to no party tonight.” Mason whirls around. “What?” “Remember our discussion,” Dad reminds him, “about what good men do and do not say about ladies?” Aha! Yes! I remember this! He is so screwed. “I wasn’t talking about Celine!” Mason wails. “I was talking about Brad!” “But you were talking about Celine,” I say solemnly. “You were violating her bodily autonomy with misogynistic lies for your own ends, Mason. You were treating her as collateral damage in a war between brothers. Mum is going to be so disappointed in you when she gets home.” Mason sputters. Celine looks very much like she is biting her tongue bloody, trying not to laugh. Dad seems amused, but he rolls his eyes and says, “That’s enough, thank you, Bradley. Mason, go upstairs.” Mason huffs and stomps away. “Now,” Dad says seriously, doing that I Am Being Parental thing he does with his face. “You two. What’s going on?” He’s asking a direct question and meeting my eyes. I try


for the Yeehats. They scattered far and wide over the country, and it was not till a week later that the last of the survivors gathered together in a lower valley and counted their losses. As for Buck, wearying of the pursuit, he returned to the desolated camp. He found Pete where he had been killed in his blankets in the first moment of surprise. Thornton's desperate struggle was fresh-written on the earth, and Buck scented every detail of it down to the edge of a deep pool. By the edge, head and fore feet in the water, lay Skeet, faithful to the last. The pool itself, muddy and discolored from the sluice boxes, effectually hid what it contained, and it contained John Thornton; for Buck followed his trace into the water, from which no trace led away. All day Buck brooded by the pool or roamed restlessly about the camp. Death, as a cessation of movement, as a passing out and away from the lives of the living, he knew, and he knew John Thornton was dead. It left a great void in him, somewhat akin to hunger, but a void which ached and ached, and which food could not fill, At times, when he paused to contemplate the carcasses of the Yeehats, he forgot the pain of it; and at such times he was aware of a great pride in himself,--a pride greater than any he had yet experienced. He had killed man, the noblest game of all, and he had killed in the face of the law of club and fang. He sniffed the bodies curiously. They had died so easily. It was harder to kill a husky dog than them. They were no match at all, were it not for their arrows and spears and clubs. Thenceforward he would be unafraid of them except when they bore in their hands their arrows, spears, and clubs. Night came on, and a full moon rose high over the trees into the sky, lighting the land till it lay bathed in ghostly day. And with the coming of the night, brooding and mourning by the pool, Buck became alive to a stirring of the new life in the forest other than that which the Yeehats had made, He stood up, listening and scenting. From far away drifted a faint, sharp yelp, followed by a chorus of similar sharp yelps. As the moments passed the yelps grew closer and louder. Again Buck knew them as things heard in that other world which persisted in his memory. He walked to the centre of the open space and listened. It was the call, the many- noted call, sounding more luringly and compellingly than ever before. And as never before, he was ready to obey. John Thornton was dead. The last tie was broken. Man and the claims of man no longer bound him. Hunting their living meat, as the Yeehats were hunting it, on the flanks of the migrating moose, the wolf pack had at last crossed over from the land of streams and


the elbow. And I could snap you in two pieces and all. Mrs. Bone grinned like an idiot, and matched Cook’s pace: slow, slow, slow. * * * “And here’s your room,” said Cook, banging the door open. “You’ll be sharing with Sue.” Mrs. Bone could see an urchin peering at her from the shadows, wide-eyed and holding on to the washbasin for dear life. She looked pale and scaly, wracked by storms. Mrs. Bone felt her skin crawling. She hated sharing a bed. “All right, Sue?” said Cook. “All right,” replied the girl, voice husky. Mrs. Bone disliked the name Sue. It always made her feel edgy, as if there were static in her hair. Her own little girl had been called Susan. She tried to breathe it away. Cook fiddled with the water jug and the pail, straightening them, then straightening them again. “It’s lights-out at eleven, once you’ve put away the irons. Then we lock up.” Mrs. Bone frowned. “Lock up?” Cook was serene, halfway out the door. “We’ll be locking your bedroom doors at night.” Mrs. Bone banged her bag down on the bed. It managed a sorrowful sort of half bounce. “Nobody’s locking me in anywhere,” she said before she could help it. Mrs. Bone could hear bodies moving next door, girls coming in and out of their rooms. The light paused at the tiny window, unwilling to cross the threshold. She looked down at the purple-stained boards and saw grooves in the paintwork, nicks and cuts and spoiled varnish, as if someone had been dragging the furniture across the floor, barring the door. “We’ve had a lot of unpleasantness this month,” said Cook. “And it’s Madam’s orders.” Mrs. Bone could feel her heart thumping slowly, steadily. Madam. She repeated the name in her head. It made her feel the nearness of her own flesh and blood, the presence of Danny in the walls. She looked at the door and thought, He’s got me in a cage. “Well,” she said, with a monumental effort, “if them’s the rules.” Cook wrinkled her nose. “Good. Now put your things away, and report downstairs. Any questions?” Mrs. Bone imagined her prize, the vast booty glittering and clinking in the house beneath her. She pictured herself standing on top of Aladdin’s cave, filled to the brim with treasures. That was all that mattered: not her own memories, her own feelings. She sucked in her cheeks and practically curtseyed. “Oh, no, Cook,” she said. “Everything’s lovely.” 9 On the other side of town, Mrs. King and Hephzibah were holding rehearsals. Rather, Hephzibah was holding them. Mrs. King was there to keep the doors locked and a keen eye out for blabbers. She was glad of the distraction. Knowing Mrs. Bone was inside Park Lane, poking holes in the plan, making up her mind whether to invest or not, was putting Mrs. King on edge. She didn’t like loose threads. “Thank heavens you’re going with Hephzibah,” Winnie had said. “Why?” said Mrs. King. “You’d have a marvelous time. Hephzibah adores showing off for


herself from Cook, and the other servants, and make an immediate examination of the house. The lower offices were sufficiently warren-like that she could sneak upstairs without being observed. She entered the front hall first. It felt satisfying to start somewhere forbidden. There was a cathedral-like hush, light coming down through a glass dome above. Palms and ferns in great vases. A floor made of white marble. Gold on the door panels and crystal in the doorknobs. A lot of very disgusting and expensive things that Mrs. Bone rather liked: paintings of nude ladies, foxes stuffed till their eyes popped, stags screaming silently from their plinths. It wasn’t exactly the size of the place that caught her breath. It was the curve to it, the way it flowed upward, all glass and iron and light. It seemed frosted, iced, a lickable, kissable house. Her envy made her skin grow hot. The hall was connected to the gardens by a long, colonnaded passage and several glass-fronted doors. She remembered it from the schematics engraved on the soup tureen. Good, she thought. Easy access. But she wanted to inspect the garden exits properly. Remembering the maps Winnie had drawn up for her, she crept back downstairs. She sidled through the kitchen passage, passed the sculleries, pantries, laundry rooms, larders, still rooms, dry rooms, inched around the edge of the kitchen and into the mews, and scuttled straight for the mews door. She tested the handle. Not locked. She glanced back at the house. This was a clear run from the gardens. Helpful. Gently, keeping her eyes peeled for onlookers, she opened the mews door, and backed out into the lane. “Mrs. Bone.” Mrs. Bone’s heart jumped. “Christ alive.” Winnie Smith was hidden in the ivy. “I beg your pardon. Did I startle you?” Winnie peered at her, her cabbage-colored dress covered in detritus from the wall. “Nobody startles me,” said Mrs. Bone, catching her breath. “What d’you want?” “I come here to collect Alice’s daily report. I thought you might wish to share your first remarks.” “Oh, it’s remarks you want, is it? Heavens, let me just fetch my magnifying glass and look at my notes.” Mrs. Bone tutted. “I’ve only been here five minutes. Give me a whole day at least.” Winnie frowned, and Mrs. Bone sighed, lowering her voice. “Look, the way I see it, I’m going to be cooped up in the kitchens, shoved up the back stairs, or locked in the attics. If I’m going to assess this place, then you need to find me a reason to get into the good part of the house.” Winnie hesitated. “I’m sure you’ll find a way,” she said. Mrs. Bone gripped Winnie’s wrist. “I’m not going to be boiled like a load of old petticoats in the laundry room. You can find the way.” Winnie shook her off. “Very well,” she said, voice hardening. She paused to consider it. “They’d allow the daily woman upstairs if there was a cleaning job that the other girls couldn’t manage. Rough work, you know.” “I’m


in the night,' said Peggotty, 'when she asked me for some drink; and when she had taken it, gave me such a patient smile, the dear! - so beautiful! 'Daybreak had come, and the sun was rising, when she said to me, how kind and considerate Mr. Copperfield had always been to her, and how he had borne with her, and told her, when she doubted herself, that a loving heart was better and stronger than wisdom, and that he was a happy man in hers. "Peggotty, my dear," she said then, "put me nearer to you," for she was very weak. "Lay your good arm underneath my neck," she said, "and turn me to you, for your face is going far off, and I want it to be near." I put it as she asked; and oh Davy! the time had come when my first parting words to you were true - when she was glad to lay her poor head on her stupid cross old Peggotty's arm - and she died like a child that had gone to sleep!' Thus ended Peggotty's narration. From the moment of my knowing of the death of my mother, the idea of her as she had been of late had vanished from me. I remembered her, from that instant, only as the young mother of my earliest impressions, who had been used to wind her bright curls round and round her finger, and to dance with me at twilight in the parlour. What Peggotty had told me now, was so far from bringing me back to the later period, that it rooted the earlier image in my mind. It may be curious, but it is true. In her death she winged her way back to her calm untroubled youth, and cancelled all the rest. The mother who lay in the grave, was the mother of my infancy; the little creature in her arms, was myself, as I had once been, hushed for ever on her bosom. CHAPTER 10 I BECOME NEGLECTED, AND AM PROVIDED FOR The first act of business Miss Murdstone performed when the day of the solemnity was over, and light was freely admitted into the house, was to give Peggotty a month's warning. Much as Peggotty would have disliked such a service, I believe she would have retained it, for my sake, in preference to the best upon earth. She told me we must part, and told me why; and we condoled with one another, in all sincerity. As to me or my future, not a word was said, or a step taken. Happy they would have been, I dare say, if they could have dismissed me at a month's warning too. I mustered courage once, to ask Miss Murdstone when I was going back to school; and she answered dryly, she believed I was not going back at all. I was told nothing more. I was very anxious to know what was going to be done with me, and so was Peggotty; but neither she nor I could pick up


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

know how,” Lilja said, and I went red and began to sputter, to hear it all spelled out so bluntly. “Oh! Don’t be silly,” Aslaug said simply, and gave me a hug. “We are as good as family now.” Then she went back to bustling about as if nothing had changed. As if it was nothing, what she’d said. Lilja smiled and squeezed my arm. “Some cake?” I nodded dumbly. Lilja pushed me into a chair and passed me a plate of cake, and I ate it. It was very good. The bottle of wine was polished off by Mord, who had spent most of the evening quietly beaming at everyone, particularly when they asked after his son, and telling the same story over and over, about how Ari had taken to putting unexpected objects into his mouth, including the tail of their longsuffering cat. No one seemed to mind. By the time all the hvitkag was gone, I was quite weary, and the clamour of so much company was not helping matters. To my relief, Wendell chose that moment to begin herding everyone out of the cottage, and one by one they went, donning cloaks and boots and wading out cheerfully into the blowy weather, curls of snowflakes spinning through the cottage in their wakes. Wendell glared at the snow and pressed the door closed with a grimace. “One more,” he said grimly, and I didn’t have to ask what he meant. Though I was not as relieved to be leaving Ljosland as he was—what I felt was a complicated tangle of things, topmost of which was melancholy. I would miss Lilja and Margret and the others. When had that ever happened before? I was beginning to wonder if the faerie king had changed me somehow. “Wendell,” I said as he neurotically adjusted the doormat, “I believe I know why the king’s spell—why it took when it did.” He raised his eyebrows. It was interesting—he was not exactly unattractive in this form, when you actually stopped to parse his appearance. It was mostly that he was muted, yet this did nothing to affect his natural grace, or indeed his ego. “Well.” I fumbled the words as I thought back to that night. “I was going to— After you asked me about—well—” “After I asked you to marry me,” he said in a tone I thought louder than necessary. “Yes,” I said, trying my hardest to keep my voice ordinary, as if we were talking about our research. I felt ridiculous. Any sane person would have already turned down his proposal. If there is one thing about which the stories, regardless of origin, agree, it is that marrying the Folk is a very bad idea. Romance generally is a bad idea where they are concerned; it hardly ever ends well. And what about my scientific objectivity? It is looking very tattered of late. “I—that night—I was thinking about it. And I suppose that’s my answer. That I would like to—well, continue thinking about it.” He gazed at me with an unreadable expression.


in the sanctuary for burial in Askrdal. Wulf said, ‘Was I really the only one who lived?’ ‘It appears so. The rest were burned, drowned or frozen. I sent divers and ships to look.’ He closed his eyes. ‘The Plague of Ófandauth is spreading,’ Einlek said. ‘The Nameless One brought a sickness from the Womb of Fire, a plague that beset the people of Yikala. It must have returned. Whatever attacked our king, we can be sure it serves our enemy. We will fight.’ ‘Nothing could defeat it, sire. No blade could have pierced its hide.’ ‘And no Hróthi dies a feather death,’ Einlek said firmly. ‘You were my uncle’s retainer. Now he is dead, you may leave with honour – or you can swear to me. A son of Hróth deserves a hall.’ Wulf clenched his jaw, his eyes aching. ‘If you accept, sail to Ascalun,’ Einlek said. ‘My cousin has relinquished her birthright to me, and for that, I owe her succour. You were on the Conviction. You can swear that Queen Sabran is dead, which will strengthen Glorian’s legitimacy. You can help her, Wulf.’ ‘You want me to go back on the Ashen Sea.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Sire, I don’t know if I can.’ ‘Don’t let that fear take root, or you’ll never move again.’ Einlek leaned forward, his knuckles blanching on the throne. ‘Hear me. Glorian is only sixteen, and she is now the divine head of Virtudom. She must have iron in her bones, and I must make it clear to those who circle her that Hróth will defend its beloved princess. You and your lith can help me do that.’ Glorian could wield a sword. She was strong. But Wulf had seen her gentleness, her hunger for approval. The nobles would smell opportunity in a young queen, yet to find her voice. ‘You can go home, tell your family you’re alive. Lift their sorrow,’ Einlek said. ‘First, will you pledge to me, and to the Queen of Inys?’ Wulf took several moments to restrain a violent shudder – a shudder with deep, tangled roots, born of a feeling still unnamed. Keeping hold of the crutch, he bent to one knee. ‘My king,’ he whispered, ‘as the Saint is my witness, I will.’ **** The ship did not look seaworthy; nothing in the harbour did. Grey waves crashed against weak hulls, and sails threatened to catch afire. Wulf hirpled towards a birling, the Wave Steed. The tastes of salt and bile swashed in his mouth. A Hróthi fighter could not fear the sea. Yet his palms sweated, and his stomach clenched. ‘Wulf?’ He looked up in a haze. Three people were waiting to board the Wave Steed, bundled in heavy furs. Karlsten, Thrit and Sauma – all that remained of his lith. It was Thrit who had called out to him. When Sauma saw, she stared, her lips parting. ‘Wulf,’ she breathed. Karlsten turned. His face ripened with anger, but Wulf was too weary to care. Before either of them could speak, Thrit stepped forward. His expression was guarded,


counsel of Trin the Noldor built a mighty bridge over the Narog from the Doors of Felagund, for the swifter passage of their arms. Then the servants of Angband were driven out of all the land between Narog and Sirion eastward, and westward to the Nenning and the desolate Falas; and though Gwindor spoke ever against Trin in the council of the King, holding it an ill policy, he fell into dishonour and none heeded him, for his strength was small and he was no longer forward in arms. Thus Nargothrond was revealed to the wrath and hatred of Morgoth; but still at Trin's prayer his true name was not spoken, and though the fame of his deeds came into Doriath and to the ears of Thingol, rumour spoke only of the Black Sword of Nargothrond. *** In that time of respite and hope, when because of the deeds of the Mormegil the power of Morgoth was stemmed west of Sirion, Morwen fled at last from Dor-lmin with Nienor her daughter, and adventured the long journey to Thingol's halls. There new grief awaited her, for she found Trin gone, and to Doriath there had come no tidings since the Dragon-helm had vanished from the lands west of Sirion; but Morwen remained in Doriath with Nienor as guests of Thingol and Melian, and were treated with honour. Now it came to pass, when four hundred and ninety-five years had passed since the rising of the Moon, in the spring of the year, there came to Nargothrond two Elves, named Gelmir and Arminas; they were of Angrod's people, but since the Dagor Bragollach they dwelt in the south with Crdan the Shipwright. From their far journeys they brought tidings of a great mustering of Orcs and evil creatures under the eaves of Ered Wethrin and in the Pass of Sirion; and they told also that Ulmo had come to Crdan, giving warning that great peril drew nigh to Nargothrond. 'Hear the words of the Lord of Waters!' said they to the King. 'Thus he spoke to Crdan the Shipwright: 'The Evil of the North has defiled the springs of Sirion, and my power withdraws from the fingers of the flowing waters. But a worse thing is yet to come forth. Say therefore to the Lord of Nargothrond: Shut the doors of the fortress and go not abroad. Cast the stones of your pride into the loud river, that the creeping evil may not find the gate."' Orodreth was troubled by the dark words of the messengers, but Trin would by no means hearken to these counsels, and least of all would he suffer the great bridge to be cast down; for he was become proud and stern, and would order all things as he wished. Soon afterwards Handir Lord of Brethil was slain, for the Orcs invaded his land, and Handir gave them battle; but the Men of Brethil were worsted, and driven back into their woods. And in the autumn of the year, biding his hour, Morgoth loosed upon the people of Narog


had to turn it down. The girl I’d be sharing with was too pretty.” A man with a worryingly lifelike parrot on his shoulder edges past me, but it’s central London on the weekend, so I don’t bat an eyelid. “You’ll have to walk me through that reasoning, Shu.” “She won’t admit it, but Lydia’s got a … what’s the British way to say it? My gran would say ‘sticky eye.’” “Wandering eye?” “Yeah, maybe. Anyway, I don’t want to feel insecure in my own home when my girlfriend’s round,” she says. “If only you were ready to move out, then we could find a nice two-bed place and have a good time from the start. You know to take your shoes off when you come in and I already know why your hair’s a hundred times shorter after you wash it.” I stop in the street. “Are you saying I’m not threateningly pretty?” “When you make an effort, yeah, but I got nothing to worry about ’cos you’re so innocent. When Lyd was looking at your chest, you told her where you got your jumper from.” “I thought she liked the button design.” “She did not.” “Maybe she did.” Shu sighs, which means she’s rolling her eyes. “Are you ready to move out or what?” I pause outside the church building. A warm, jealous pang hits my chest as I briefly think about what it would be like being responsible for only myself, for spending my time however I want. I immediately feel guilty and shake my head; it’s not Dad’s fault he needs me. “I like being at home. I don’t think that’ll change any time soon,” I say. Shu knows Dad has Parkinson’s, but she’s unaware of how serious it is. She regularly asks how Dad is and I always respond “Fine” and she hears the silent “… you know, considering,” but she doesn’t ask for specifics. Not because she doesn’t care, but because she’s just as private as I am—maybe more so. I think she asks herself, if the roles were reversed, would she want someone asking all the time? The answer is no. Shu sighs again. “Fine, fair. Enjoy church.” “Thanks. Love you.” She laughs and it’s a burst of energy. “You always gotta say it,” she says. “Why can’t you end a conversation without saying it?” “Just say you love me too and hang up.” “Yeah, you too.” * * * When Mum’s here, I join her at a small Pentecostal church in Croydon. There the pastor can easily make eye contact with any person from the pulpit and everyone knows too much about each other. When Mum’s in Ghana, I go to a church in central London. I found out about it because Shu goes here, not weekly, but “when I can, innit.” I liked that they called themselves a contemporary Christian church and that hundreds attend each sermon, guaranteeing anonymity. I attended one Sunday, alone because I preferred mornings whilst Shu preferred the evenings, and liked it enough to keep returning. The sermons are


trying to keep straight when we’re supposedly friends and when we’re not. At least when we get into the arena, I’ll know where we stand. “Don’t. Don’t let’s pretend when there’s no one around.” 99 “All right, Katniss,” he says tiredly. After that, we only talk in front of people. On the third day of training, they start to call us out of lunch for our private sessions with the Gamemakers. District by dis- trict, first the boy, then the girl tribute. As usual, District 12 is slated to go last. We linger in the dining room, unsure where else to go. No one comes back once they have left. As the room empties, the pressure to appear friendly lightens. By the time they call Rue, we are left alone. We sit in silence until they summon Peeta. He rises. “Remember what Haymitch said about being sure to throw the weights.” The words come out of my mouth without per- mission. “Thanks. I will,” he says. “You . . . shoot straight.” I nod. I don’t know why I said anything at all. Although if I’m going to lose, I’d rather Peeta win than the others. Better for our district, for my mother and Prim. After about fifteen minutes, they call my name. I smooth my hair, set my shoulders back, and walk into the gymnasium. In- stantly, I know I’m in trouble. They’ve been here too long, the Gamemakers. Sat through twenty-three other demonstrations. Had too much to wine, most of them. Want more than any- thing to go home. There’s nothing I can do but continue with the plan. I walk to the archery station. Oh, the weapons! I’ve been itching to get my hands on them for days! Bows made of wood and plas- tic and metal and materials I can’t even name. Arrows with feathers cut in flawless uniform lines. I choose a bow, string it, 100 and sling the matching quiver of arrows over my shoulder. There’s a shooting range, but it’s much too limited. Standard bull’s-eyes and human silhouettes. I walk to the center of the gymnasium and pick my first target. The dummy used for knife practice. Even as I pull back on the bow I know some- thing is wrong. The string’s tighter than the one I use at home. The arrow’s more rigid. I miss the dummy by a couple of inch- es and lose what little attention I had been commanding. For a moment, I’m humiliated, then I head back to the bull’s-eye. I shoot again and again until I get the feel of these new wea- pons. Back in the center of the gymnasium, I take my initial posi- tion and skewer the dummy right through the heart. Then I sever the rope that holds the sandbag for boxing, and the bag splits open as it slams to the ground. Without pausing, I shoulder-roll forward, come up on one knee, and send an ar- row into one of the hanging lights high above the gymnasium floor. A shower of sparks bursts


very moment the words I seem to be having tremendous difficulty with my lifestyle drifted across the conference table. Unfortunately, in the Vl'hurg tongue this was the most dreadful insult imaginable, and there was nothing for it but to wage terrible war for centuries. Eventually of course, after their Galaxy had been decimated over a few thousand years, it was realized that the whole thing had been a ghastly mistake, and so the two opposing battle fleets settled their few remaining differences in order to launch a joint attack on our own Galaxy - now positively identified as the source of the offending remark. For thousands more years the mighty ships tore across the empty wastes of space and finally dived screaming on to the first planet they came across - which happened to be the Earth - where due to a terrible miscalculation of scale the entire battle fleet was accidentally swallowed by a small dog. Those who study the complex interplay of cause and effect in the history of the Universe say that this sort of thing is going on all the time, but that we are powerless to prevent it. "It's just life," they say. A short aircar trip brought Arthur and the old Magrathean to a doorway. They left the car and went through the door into a waiting room full of glass-topped tables and perspex awards. Almost immediately, a light flashed above the door at the other side of the room and they entered. "Arthur! You're safe!" a voice cried. "Am I?" said Arthur, rather startled. "Oh good." The lighting was rather subdued and it took him a moment or so to see Ford, Trillian and Zaphod sitting round a large table beautifully decked out with exotic dishes, strange sweetmeats and bizarre fruits. They were stuffing their faces. "What happened to you?" demanded Arthur. "Well," said Zaphod, attacking a boneful of grilled muscle, "our guests here have been gassing us and zapping our minds and being generally weird and have now given us a rather nice meal to make it up to us. Here," he said hoiking out a lump of evil smelling meat from a bowl, "have some Vegan Rhino's cutlet. It's delicious if you happen to like that sort of thing." "Hosts?" said Arthur. "What hosts? I don't see any ..." A small voice said, "Welcome to lunch, Earth creature." Arthur glanced around and suddenly yelped. "Ugh!" he said. "There are mice on the table!" There was an awkward silence as everyone looked pointedly at Arthur. He was busy staring at two white mice sitting in what looked like whisky glasses on the table. He heard the silence and glanced around at everyone. "Oh!" he said, with sudden realization. "Oh, I'm sorry, I wasn't quite prepared for ..." "Let me introduce you," said Trillian. "Arthur this is Benji mouse." "Hi," said one of the mice. His whiskers stroked what must have been a touch sensitive panel on the inside of the whisky-glass like affair, and it moved forward slightly. "And this is Frankie mouse." The


forsaken as we are, some pew-door will be opened to us!" So Hepzibah and her brother made themselves, ready--as ready as they could in the best of their old-fashioned garments, which had hung on pegs, or been laid away in trunks, so long that the dampness and mouldy smell of the past was on them,--made themselves ready, in their faded bettermost, to go to church. They descended the staircase together,--gaunt, sallow Hepzibah, and pale, emaciated, age-stricken Clifford! They pulled open the front door, and stepped across the threshold, and felt, both of them, as if they were standing in the presence of the whole world, and with mankind's great and terrible eye on them alone. The eye of their Father seemed to be withdrawn, and gave them no encouragement. The warm sunny air of the street made them shiver. Their hearts quaked within them at the idea of taking one step farther. "It cannot be, Hepzibah!--it is too late," said Clifford with deep sadness. "We are ghosts! We have no right among human beings,--no right anywhere but in this old house, which has a curse on it, and which, therefore, we are doomed to haunt! And, besides," he continued, with a fastidious sensibility, inalienably characteristic of the man," it would not be fit nor beautiful to go! It is an ugly thought that I should be frightful to my fellow-beings, and that children would cling to their mothers' gowns at sight of me!" They shrank back into the dusky passage-way, and closed the door. But, going up the staircase again, they found the whole interior of the house tenfold, more dismal, and the air closer and heavier, for the glimpse and breath of freedom which they had just snatched. They could not flee; their jailer had but left the door ajar in mockery, and stood behind it to watch them stealing out. At the threshold, they felt his pitiless gripe upon them. For, what other dungeon is so dark as one's own heart! What jailer so inexorable as one's self! But it would be no fair picture of Clifford's state of mind were we to represent him as continually or prevailingly wretched. On the contrary, there was no other man in the city, we are bold to affirm, of so much as half his years, who enjoyed so many lightsome and griefless moments as himself. He had no burden of care upon him; there were none of those questions and contingencies with the future to be settled which wear away all other lives, and render them not worth having by the very process of providing for their support. In this respect he was a child, --a child for the whole term of his existence, be it long or short. Indeed, his life seemed to be standing still at a period little in advance of childhood, and to cluster all his reminiscences about that epoch; just as, after the torpor of a heavy blow, the sufferer's reviving consciousness goes back to a moment considerably behind the accident that stupefied him. He sometimes told


walked faster, wanting to get home. Something inside her was healing at a rapid rate, not only because of this love stampede that had totally trampled her beneath its hooves. But because she’d pushed for exactly what she needed and deserved. She’d accepted nothing less and the reward . . . It reminded her of the wild blooms that burst from all corners of the road-side stand. Colorful. Beautiful. Every time she looked at one of the bouquets, she saw something new, something different. She’d spent a long time on one side of a wall, with her fear of rejection, and August had been behind a different one. They couldn’t see each other until they’d both climbed over and met in the middle. In a sea of flowers. Or grapes, as it were. “What’ll it be? The roses or the lilies?” Natalie’s head came up, a puzzled expression on her face. She hadn’t narrowed it down to two options yet. Was the flower vendor speaking to her? A gentleman she hadn’t noticed before had approached from the opposite end of the shoulder. Wait . . . she recognized the man. It was August’s CO. Commander Zelnick. What was he doing back in St. Helena? The commander glanced at Natalie from the corner of his eye and nodded politely, but he obviously didn’t recognize her—and no wonder. Last time she met the man, she’d been in a skirt and blouse with perfectly coiffed hair and makeup. Currently, she was in a loose pair of boyfriend jeans, a tank top, and no bra, with sunburned cheeks, and she looked like she’d just been through a wind tunnel. She approached the CO slowly, intending to reintroduce herself and ask what had brought him back to St. Helena, but he spoke to the vendor first. “I’m not sure. I met her only once, but I think she’s more the roses type.” Was it possible . . . he was here to visit August and those flowers were for her? More than possible. It was likely. Who else could this man know in a town where he didn’t reside? As the flower salesman went about wrapping the roses in paper, Natalie approached, clearing her throat softly. “Excuse me, Commander Zelnick. It’s me. Natalie. August’s wife.” There was no way to stop the smile that spread across her mouth after saying those words, so she simply let it grow and held out her hand for a shake. “I think you’re buying me flowers?” After a moment of clear confusion, he merely looked chagrined. “I’m sorry.” He shook her hand once, firmly. “I didn’t recognize you.” I don’t recognize myself these days. At least all the new, good parts. Natalie nodded. “I thought as much.” She gestured to her dusty jeans. “We’ve spent some time out working in the vineyard today, cultivating the soil. I ran to the store to grab some ingredients for dinner—more than enough for three. I assume you’re on your way to see August?” “I am. Have to keep a soldier on his toes.” He


again, and I will remove your legs entirely.” The android glared at the ceiling. “It’ll be the l-last thing you d-do.” “Do you make such promises to all the pretty girls you meet?” Nurse Ratched asked. “I am not interested. Perhaps we could have had something, but I have since reassessed my opinion of you. Would you like to hear what I think?” “N-no.” “Oh. That is too bad because I am going to tell you anyway. You are—” “We’re not going to hurt you,” Vic said quietly. His knuckles popped as he squeezed his hands together. “My broom,” Rambo said. He beeped sadly as he nudged the two pieces on the ground. “You monster. What did it ever do to you besides hit you?” “Wh-where am I?” Vic glanced at him before looking away. The eyes, once dead and unseeing, were now trained on him, filled with a spark Vic had never seen before. “The forest.” “Wh-wh-what forest?” Vic frowned. “The big one. The one near the Scrap Yards.” He didn’t know how else to explain it. Surely, that would tell the android all he needed to know. It was just the forest. It should have been enough. It wasn’t. “Where is this f-forest?” “It does not have a name,” Nurse Ratched said. “At least not one I could find. Though, if my calculations are correct, the forest is located in a place that used to be known as Ory-Gone. Such a strange name. Speaking of strange names, you do not remember yours.” The android’s mouth tightened. “N-no.” “I expected as much. Your memories were wiped when you were decommissioned.” “He’s like us,” Rambo said nervously. He circled the table, giving it a wide berth as if he thought the android would come after him once more. “He doesn’t remember before coming to the forest.” “He is not like us,” Nurse Ratched said. “We are wonderful. He is a terrible patient. Stay still.” The android gave up struggling as Nurse Ratched loomed over him. “This will not hurt,” she said. “I need to make sure you are not going to explode and kill us all.” Her scanner came to life, the light starting at the android’s head and working its way down his body. It paused at his chest before continuing to his hips, legs, and feet. “There. See? That was not so bad. Here. Have a lollipop. Error. Lollipop distributor is—my word. We really need to fix that. Victor. I demand that you find me treats so that I may give them to my patients.” “Victor,” the android said, and Vic felt a chill run down his spine. “Your d-designation is V-victor.” “He can retain information,” Nurse Ratched said. “Good. That means the processing through his biochip is still mostly intact. Yes, he is Victor. I am Nurse Ratched. My main function is to provide medical care to preserve life at any cost. The tiny shrieking annoyance below us is Rambo. He assists by keeping everything clean.” Rambo waves his arms. “We’re all equally important. Hooray!” “Decommissioned,” the android said,


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

back through the wall, back through the Leaky Cauldron, now empty. Harry didn't speak at all as they walked down the road; he didn't even notice how much people were gawking at them on the Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-shaped packages, with the snowy owl asleep in its cage on Harry's lap. Up another escalator, out into Paddington station; Harry only realized where they were when Hagrid tapped him on the shoulder. "Got time fer a bite to eat before yer train leaves," he said. He bought Harry a hamburger and they sat down on plastic seats to eat them. Harry kept looking around. Everything looked so strange, somehow. "You all right, Harry? Yer very quiet," said Hagrid. Harry wasn't sure he could explain. He'd just had the best birthday of his life -- and yet -- he chewed his hamburger, trying to find the words. "Everyone thinks I'm special," he said at last. "All those people in the Leaky Cauldron, Professor Quirrell, Mr. Ollivander...but I don't know anything about magic at all. How can they expect great things? I'm famous and I can't even remember what I'm famous for. I don't know what happened when Vol-, sorry -- I mean, the night my parents died." Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard and eyebrows he wore a very kind smile. "Don' you worry, Harry. You'll learn fast enough. Everyone starts at the beginning at Hogwarts, you'll be just fine, just be yerself. I know it's hard. Yeh've been singled out, an' that's always hard. But yeh'll have a great time at Hogwarts -- I did -- still do, 'smatter of fact." Hagrid helped Harry on to the train that would take him back to the Dursleys, then handed him an envelope. "Yer ticket fer Hogwarts, " he said. "First o' September -- King's Cross -- it's all on yer ticket. Any problems with the Dursleys, send me a letter with yer owl, she'll know where to find me...See yeh soon, Harry." The train pulled out of the station. Harry wanted to watch Hagrid until he was out of sight; he rose in his seat and pressed his nose against the window, but he blinked and Hagrid had gone. CHAPTER SIX -- THE JOURNEY FROM PLATFORM NINE AND THREE-QUARTERS Harry's last month with the Dursleys wasn't fun. True, Dudley was now so scared of Harry he wouldn't stay in the same room, while Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon didn't shut Harry in his cupboard, force him to do anything, or shout at him -- in fact, they didn't speak to him at all. Half terrified, half furious, they acted as though any chair with Harry in it were empty. Although this was an improvement in many ways, it did become a bit depressing after a while. Harry kept to his room, with his new owl for company. He had decided to call her Hedwig, a name he had found in A History of Magic. His school books were very interesting. He lay on his bed reading


that method of plotting a course for one’s life any more correct? I recalled something Lucinda had said to me before I left; that it didn’t matter whether the decision you made was right or wrong, as long as you made it. That’s what moved you along in life. In fact she had used the word ‘journey’ because she was still in her earth mother phase. Buying gifts was never exactly a forte of mine. A horrible panic always set in, followed by a gaping realisation that I knew absolutely nothing about the interior life of the person I was buying the present for. So I stuck to books as a rule. You couldn’t go wrong with a book. That wasn’t strictly true. I once bought my father a book about problem drinking, which he chose to use as kindling for the fire. But this time, I knew exactly what gift to get. ‘Would you like it gift-wrapped?’ the shop assistant asked. I nodded and took my debit card from my wallet, slotting it into the handheld machine. ‘Oh, can you just try popping it in again? Sometimes it does this,’ he said graciously. I popped it in again. Again it was declined. ‘Actually, I think I’ll put this on my credit card instead,’ I said, as if it was a choice. They’d wasted no time in cutting my funding, I realised. But as I watched him wrap the box in black paper with gold flourishes, I knew I would have robbed a bank (well, metaphorically) to get her this. I arrived at the house just after eight and, like I always did, I took a quick check around the side, just in case. Just in case what, Henry? That the bookshop with the manuscript inside has suddenly reappeared? I threw my eyes heavenward and shook my head. ‘Utter fantasist,’ I muttered to myself as I walked up the steps to the front door. I stopped mid-stride as I saw movement in the window. It was Martha in a sapphire blue evening gown cut low at the back, framing the large tattoo on her skin. Her bright blonde hair was styled in a braid that she wore like a crown around her head. I felt my knees weaken. It was no use. No matter how much I talked myself out of it when I was alone, as soon as I saw her, all of the feelings came flooding back. Then I saw him, the same guy I’d seen with her at Trinity. He was telling some anecdote that had everyone in stitches. He was older and balding, but clearly he had something I didn’t. ‘Reliability?’ a voice said, reading my mind. I looked up to find Madame Bowden standing in the front doorway, walking stick in one hand, cigarette in the other. ‘How long have you been there?’ She didn’t answer. ‘Are you coming inside, Mr Field?’ ‘Actually, I don’t think I can,’ I said. ‘I’ve just realised, um, I have a previous engagement. Perhaps you could give her this?’ I asked,


Sucking lightly, and then harder as he fills me with a finger. After a few pumps, he slides upward again, stroking and rubbing and tracing and Jesus. Christ. I clutch him tighter because it’s all so good, even when he stumbles. Especially when he hears my breath catch and starts moving faster. Especially when he reaches over to the nightstand for the vibrator. But he doesn’t place it between my thighs right away. Instead, he flicks the ON switch and gives me a wicked smile. He leans in, lowering it to my mouth, holding it there for a few moments. The vibrations humming through me are a pleasant sensation, if a little ticklish. Then he sweeps it down to my neck. The silicone pulses across my skin in slow, increasingly satisfying bursts. “That’s—that’s really nice,” I say, and he grins like he knew just how nice it would feel. When he reaches my breasts, he teases them for a few moments before pressing the vibrator hard against one nipple, and then the other. My back arches, every muscle in my core clenching. Lower. Please. There’s a slight tickle as he moves the vibrator along my stomach, but it’s not nearly as strong as the anticipation. My body wants pleasure from him so badly, wants to shiver and tighten against him before exploding. My hips thrust forward, trying my best to urge him a little farther south. He sees exactly what I’m doing but doesn’t take the bait. “You said to go slow,” he whispers, drawing it upward, away from the one place I want it. A whine slips from my throat. “Fuck slow. Don’t make me beg you.” He just laughs, continuing his teasing. My stomach. Back up to my breasts. Down to my navel. I love it. I hate it. I want to throttle him and push his head between my thighs at the same time. “I might like to hear you beg,” he says. Finally, finally, he takes a break only to slick the vibe with lube, and when he settles it between my legs, I let out a sigh of relief. Followed immediately by a gasp. He kicks the speed up a notch. A stream of obscenities falls from my mouth as he alternates speed, pressure, location. All of it incredible. “Don’t stop,” I say when he finds exactly the right spot. “God— please—” “No way in hell,” he’s quick to reassure me, his own breaths coming faster. Shallower. I feel it, the heat building at the base of my spine. It’s going to happen this time, with him—I’m certain of it. I bury a fist in the sheets. He seems to read my mind and ups the speed once more, until nothing exists except my body and this feeling and the way his brow furrows with determination as he adjusts his weight so he can lean into me harder. Faster. Yes. Something rips open inside me, a moan tearing from my chest. It’s an exquisite release, one that makes me shake and whimper and clutch his hair. He


singled out Trillian from the crowd. Trillian was a gird that Zaphod had picked up recently whilst visiting a planet, just for fun, incognito. She was slim, darkish, humanoid, with long waves of black hair, a full mouth, an odd little nob of a nose and ridiculously brown eyes. With her red head scarf knotted in that particular way and her long flowing silky brown dress she looked vaguely Arabic. Not that anyone there had ever heard of an Arab of course. The Arabs had very recently ceased to exist, and even when they had existed they were five hundred thousand light years from Damogran. Trillian wasn't anybody in particular, or so Zaphod claimed. She just went around with him rather a lot and told him what she thought of him. "Hi honey," he said to her. She flashed him a quick tight smile and looked away. Then she looked back for a moment and smiled more warmly - but by this time he was looking at something else. "Hi," he said to a small knot of creatures from the press who were standing nearby wishing that he would stop saying Hi and get on with the quotes. He grinned at them particularly because he knew that in a few moments he would be giving them one hell of a quote. The next thing he said though was not a lot of use to them. One of the officials of the party had irritably decided that the President was clearly not in a mood to read the deliciously turned speech that had been written for him, and had flipped the switch on the remote control device in his pocket. Away in front of them a huge white dome that bulged against the sky cracked down in the middle, split, and slowly folded itself down into the ground. Everyone gasped although they had known perfectly well it was going to do that because they had built it that way. Beneath it lay uncovered a huge starship, one hundred and fifty metres long, shaped like a sleek running shoe, perfectly white and mindboggingly beautiful. At the heart of it, unseen, lay a small gold box which carried within it the most brain-wretching device ever conceived, a device which made this starship unique in the history of the galaxy, a device after which the ship had been named - The Heart of Gold. "Wow", said Zaphod Beeblebrox to the Heart of Gold. There wasn't much else he could say. He said it again because he knew it would annoy the press. "Wow." The crowd turned their faces back towards him expectantly. He winked at Trillian who raised her eyebrows and widened her eyes at him. She knew what he was about to say and thought him a terrible showoff. "That is really amazing," he said. "That really is truly amazing. That is so amazingly amazing I think I'd like to steal it." A marvellous Presidential quote, absolutely true to form. The crowd laughed appreciatively, the newsmen gleefully punched buttons on their Sub-Etha News-Matics and the


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

raised his hat in acknowledgement. --Freedom! Cranly repeated. But you are not free enough yet to commit a sacrilege. Tell me would you rob? --I would beg first, Stephen said. --And if you got nothing, would you rob? --You wish me to say, Stephen answered, that the rights of property are provisional, and that in certain circumstances it is not unlawful to rob. Everyone would act in that belief. So I will not make you that answer. Apply to the jesuit theologian, Juan Mariana de Talavera, who will also explain to you in what circumstances you may lawfully Kill your king and whether you had better hand him his poison in a goblet or smear it for him upon his robe or his saddlebow. Ask me rather would I suffer others to rob me, or if they did, would I call down upon them what I believe is called the chastisement of the secular arm? --And would you? --I think, Stephen said, it would pain me as much to do so as to be robbed. --I see, Cranly said. He produced his match and began to clean the crevice between two teeth. Then he said carelessly: --Tell me, for example, would you deflower a virgin? --Excuse me, Stephen said politely, is that not the ambition of most young gentlemen? --What then is your point of view? Cranly asked. His last phrase, sour smelling as the smoke of charcoal and disheartening, excited Stephen's brain, over which its fumes seemed to brood. --Look here, Cranly, he said. You have asked me what I would do and what I would not do. I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it call itself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use-- silence, exile, and cunning. Cranly seized his arm and steered him round so as to lead him back towards Leeson Park. He laughed almost slyly and pressed Stephen's arm with an elder's affection. --Cunning indeed! he said. Is it you? You poor poet, you! --And you made me confess to you, Stephen said, thrilled by his touch, as I have confessed to you so many other things, have I not? --Yes, my child, Cranly said, still gaily. --You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake, and perhaps as long as eternity too. Cranly, now grave again, slowed his pace and said: --Alone, quite alone. You have no fear of that. And you know what that word means? Not only to be


Don't make more mischief. My brother is coming; be quiet!---Hush, Isabella! Has anybody hurt you?" "There, there, children; to your seats," cried Hind- ley, bustling in. "That brute of a lad has warmed me nicely. Next time, Master Edgar, take the law into your own fists; it will give you an appetite." The little party recovered its equanimity at sight of the fragrant feast. They were hungry after their ride, and easily consoled, since no real harm had befallen them. Mr. Earnshaw carved bountiful platefuls, and the mistress made them merry with lively talk. I waited behind her chair, and was pained to behold Catherine, with dry eyes and an indifferent air, commence cutting up the wing of a goose before her. "An unfeeling child," I thought to myself; "how lightly she dismisses her old playmate's troubles! I could not have imagined her to be so selfish." She lifted a mouthful to her lips, then she set it down again; her cheeks flushed, and the tears gushed over them. She slipped her fork to the floor, and hastily dived under the cloth to conceal her emotion. I did not call her unfeeling long, for I perceived she was in purgatory throughout the day, and wearying to find an opportunity of getting by herself, or paying a visit to Heathcliff, who had been locked up by the master, as I discovered, on endeavouring to introduce to him a private mess of victuals. In the evening we had a dance. Cathy begged that he might be liberated then, as Isabella Linton had no partner. Her entreaties were vain, and I was appointed to supply the deficiency. We got rid of all gloom in the excitement of the exercise, and our pleasure was in- creased by the arrival of the Gimmerton band, muster- ing fifteen strong---a trumpet, a trombone, clarionets, bassoons, French horns, and a bass viol, besides singers. They go the rounds of all the respectable houses, and receive contributions every Christmas, and we esteemed it a first-rate treat to hear them. After the usual carols had been sung, we set them to songs and glees. Mrs. Earnshaw loved the music, and so they gave us plenty. Catherine loved it too, but she said it sounded sweet- est at the top of the steps, and she went up in the dark; I followed. They shut the house door below, never noting our absence, it was so full of people. She made no stay at the stairs' head, but mounted farther to the garret where Heathcliff was confined, and called him. He stubbornly declined answering for a while; she per- severed, and finally persuaded him to hold communion with her through the boards. I let the poor things con- verse unmolested, till I supposed the songs were going to cease, and the singers to get some refreshment; then I clambered up the ladder to warn her. Instead of find- ing her outside, I heard her voice within. The little monkey had crept by the skylight of one garret, along the roof, into the skylight of


without reservation, without hesitation, but Louise wasn’t born knowing how to do that for someone else. These stuffed animals were how she had first learned to love something that couldn’t always love you back. They were how she had learned to take care of something that relied on you completely. They had been training wheels for her heart, and now it was Poppy’s turn. It was up to Poppy to keep them clean and loved and warm and, one day, maybe Poppy would pass them on to her children, or her godchildren, or her best friend’s children, or maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d get tired of them before then. But no matter what, Louise had done her part. It was up to Poppy now. — They had Uncle Freddie’s funeral in October. Louise and Poppy flew in for it and stayed with Aunt Honey, which thrilled her to no end. At first, Louise thought Aunt Honey’s warmth was all an act, so she waited until one night after Poppy had gone to bed and poured them both another glass of wine. “I want to apologize for what happened in your room that night at the hospital,” Louise started. Aunt Honey blew a raspberry. “I don’t even remember,” she said, waving one hand in front of her face. “I was doped up on drugs. Let’s talk about something that’s actually interesting. Do you think Constance is having another baby? Does she look pregnant to you? She’s not drinking.” It had taken forever to get a judge to sign an exhumation license to dig up Freddie’s empty casket and rebury his remains, and there had been a lot of other legal hurdles to clear, but finally, sixty-eight years after his death, the Joyner-Cook-Cannon family gathered in the graveyard at Stuhr’s and laid Uncle Freddie to rest beside his sister. They gathered around the green open-sided tent in the cemetery, standing by the newly dug hole in the family plot, and everyone had a blast. Aunt Gail led the prayers, and Mark hired a bagpiper to play “Amazing Grace” for reasons no one could comprehend, and even Barb showed up. “Look at her, she’s like a delicious miniature muffin!” Barb said, lifting Poppy in her arms and mashing their cheeks together. “I want to eat her up!” Louise could tell Poppy had no clue who Barb was, but she liked the attention, so she accepted the hug and treated her like another aunt. It reminded Louise of the way her mom had so easily accepted other people’s attention. She remembered how at ease that had always seemed to make them feel. Each of them threw a handful of dirt on Freddie’s coffin, and somehow Brody managed to slip and fall in the hole, although, fortunately, he didn’t break anything, and as the service wound down, it turned out that Constance happened to have a bunch of cans of hard seltzer and two bottles of wine in her minivan, and people poured one into the other, and the funeral home didn’t seem to be telling them


this time it was a background to a news announcement. The news was always heavily edited to fit the rhythms of the music. "... and news brought to you here on the sub-etha wave band, broadcasting around the galaxy around the clock," squawked a voice, "and we'll be saying a big hello to all intelligent life forms everywhere ... and to everyone else out there, the secret is to bang the rocks together, guys. And of course, the big news story tonight is the sensational theft of the new Improbability Drive prototype ship by none other than Galactic President Zaphod Beeblebrox. And the question everyone's asking is ... has the big Z finally flipped? Beeblebrox, the man who invented the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, ex-confidence trickster, once described by Eccentrica Gallumbits as the Best Bang since the Big One, and recently voted the Wort Dressed Sentinent Being in the Known Universe for the seventh time ... has he got an answer this time? We asked his private brain care specialist Gag Halfrunt ..." The music swirled and dived for a moment. Another voice broke in, presumably Halfrunt. He said: "Vell, Zaphod's jist zis guy you know?" but got no further because an electric pencil flew across the cabin and through the radio's on/off sensitive airspace. Zaphod turned and glared at Trillian - she had thrown the pencil. "Hey," he said, what do you do that for?" Trillian was tapping her fingers on a screenful of figures. "I've just thought of something," she said. "Yeah? Worth interrupting a news bulletin about me for?" "You hear enough about yourself as it is." "I'm very insecure. We know that." "Can we drop your ego for a moment? This is important." "If there's anything more important than my ego around, I want it caught and shot now." Zaphod glared at her again, then laughed. "Listen," she said, "we picked up those couple of guys ..." "What couple of guys?" "The couple of guys we picked up." "Oh, yeah," said Zaphod, "those couple of guys." "We picked them up in sector ZZ 9 Plural Z Alpha." "Yeah?" said Zaphod and blinked. Trillian said quietly, "Does that mean anything to you?" "Mmmmm," said Zaphod, "ZZ 9 Plural Z Alpha. ZZ 9 Plural Z Alpha?" "Well?" said Trillian. "Er ... what does the Z mean?" said Zaphod. "Which one?" "Any one." One of the major difficulties Trillian experienced in her relationship with Zaphod was learning to distinguish between him pretending to be stupid just to get people off their guard, pretending to be stupid because he couldn't be bothered to think and wanted someone else to do it for him, pretending to be outrageously stupid to hide the fact that he actually didn't understand what was going on, and really being genuinely stupid. He was renowned for being amazingly clever and quite clearly was so - but not all the time, which obviously worried him, hence the act. He proffered people to be puzzled rather than contemptuous. This above all appeared to Trillian to be genuinely stupid, but she


expecting Finn to have such a strong reaction, but his eyes instantly light up. “Yes! I love that.” My fingers fly across the keyboard as we talk more about his transition from Reno to LA, and he tells me about the first time he got recognized in public. “I was at a Ralphs in the Valley, waiting in line to buy an absolutely horrific array of groceries,” he says. “Pop-Tarts, frozen Red Robin onion rings, a whole tray of fancy cheeses I was going to eat by myself—that’s what happens when you’re twenty and living alone for the first time. These two girls who couldn’t have been more than a few years younger than I was couldn’t stop staring, and I was convinced they were judging me for what I was buying, so I kept trying to shield my basket from them. It wasn’t until we were out in the parking lot that they asked if I was Finn Walsh, and I was so shocked that I forgot where I’d parked my car. Walked around in a daze for fifteen minutes, just trying to find it.” “What was that like?” I ask, grinning at the mental image. “The getting recognized, and the living alone for the first time.” “Surreal. To be honest, I’m still not used to it. And not just because it’s less frequent these days. When the show was on, I had to go incognito just about everywhere—sunglasses, a hat, the works. Now I don’t bother with any of it. The rare times it happens, I’m always convinced, like, one of the Stranger Things kids is behind me and that’s who they’re really staring at.” That seems accurate, based on what I’ve observed so far. No one seems to know him unless they know him, unless they’re in that world. “And I guess I should clarify—I had a couple roommates at first, but they worked restaurants in the evenings and auditioned during the day, so I almost never saw them. At the end of season one, I moved into my own apartment. And I loved it. I’d already been fairly self-sufficient for a while, so once I got all the Pop-Tarts out of my system, I was cooking pretty regularly. And I went back to Reno to see my mom whenever I could.” The sound of my keyboard continues to fill the space between us. “I’d love to hear more about your family,” I say tentatively, because I haven’t forgotten what he said about his dad, and the fact that he doesn’t mention going back to see him. Another few taps of his pen along the table. “Let’s see . . . you already know they got divorced when I was in high school. My mom used to do hospital billing, but now she’s a rabbi.” I gasp. “Are you serious? That’s amazing. We can put that in the book, right? Please don’t tell her I eat pork.” “She wouldn’t judge,” he says. “And you’ll actually meet her in a few weeks. We’ll spend some time at my old house


formerly passed some years of her life, and where they were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of her curiosity, as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovedale, or the Peak. Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on seeing the Lakes; and still thought there might have been time enough. But it was her business to be satisfied -- and certainly her temper to be happy; and all was soon right again. With the mention of Derbyshire, there were many ideas connected. It was impossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its owner. ``But surely,'' said she, ``I may enter his county with impunity, and rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me.'' The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away before her uncle and aunt's arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and sweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every way -- teaching them, playing with them, and loving them. The Gardiners staid only one night at Longbourn, and set off the next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One enjoyment was certain -- that of suitableness as companions; a suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear inconveniences -- cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure -- and affection and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were disappointments abroad. It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenelworth, Birmingham, &c. are sufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner's former residence, and where she had lately learned that some acquaintance still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen all the principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of Lambton, Elizabeth found from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not in their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In talking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation. ``My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so much?'' said her aunt. ``A place too, with which so many of your acquaintance are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you know.'' Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She must own that she was tired of great houses; after


the compartment and tipped it onto an empty seat. "Hungry, are you?" "Starving," said Harry, taking a large bite out of a pumpkin pasty. Ron had taken out a lumpy package and unwrapped it. There were four sandwiches inside. He pulled one of them apart and said, "She always forgets I don't like corned beef." "Swap you for one of these," said Harry, holding up a pasty. "Go on -- " "You don't want this, it's all dry," said Ron. "She hasn't got much time," he added quickly, "you know, with five of us." "Go on, have a pasty," said Harry, who had never had anything to share before or, indeed, anyone to share it with. It was a nice feeling, sitting there with Ron, eating their way through all Harry's pasties, cakes, and candies (the sandwiches lay forgotten). "What are these?" Harry asked Ron, holding up a pack of Chocolate Frogs. "They're not really frogs, are they?" He was starting to feel that nothing would surprise him. "No," said Ron. "But see what the card is. I'm missing Agrippa." "What?" "Oh, of course, you wouldn't know -- Chocolate Frogs have cards, inside them, you know, to collect -- famous witches and wizards. I've got about five hundred, but I haven't got Agrippa or Ptolemy." Harry unwrapped his Chocolate Frog and picked up the card. It showed a man's face. He wore half-moon glasses, had a long, crooked nose, and flowing silver hair, beard, and mustache. Underneath the picture was the name Albus Dumbledore. "So this is Dumbledore!" said Harry. "Don't tell me you'd never heard of Dumbledore!" said Ron. "Can I have a frog? I might get Agrippa -- thanks -- " Harry turned over his card and read: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling. Harry turned the card back over and saw, to his astonishment, that Dumbledore's face had disappeared. "He's gone!" "Well, you can't expect him to hang around all day," said Ron. "He'll be back. No, I've got Morgana again and I've got about six of her...do you want it? You can start collecting." Ron's eyes strayed to the pile of Chocolate Frogs waiting to be unwrapped. "Help yourself," said Harry. "But in, you know, the Muggle world, people just stay put in photos." "Do they? What, they don't move at all?" Ron sounded amazed. "weird!" Harry stared as Dumbledore sidled back into the picture on his card and gave him a small smile. Ron was more interested in eating the frogs than looking at the Famous Witches and Wizards cards, but Harry couldn't keep his eyes off them. Soon he had not only Dumbledore and Morgana, but Hengist of Woodcroft, Alberic Grunnion, Circe, Paracelsus, and Merlin. He finally tore his eyes away from the druidess Cliodna,