be baggy enough to obscure them, but she’d never had the kind of chest that was hidden easily. “Yes,” Lore said, standing up straighter, making her smile wider. “He’s been so upset, I’ve broken too many jars trying to load them one by one, we need the boxes immediately…” She backed up as she spoke, rapid-fire words and smiles, inching the contraband closer to the old storefront. The trapdoor inside would lead to the catacombs, and the uncanny map in her head said the tunnels nearby were empty. If she could just get the boxes through the door— Her foot hit a pebble and slipped sideways, throwing her off balance. The box tumbled from her hands. Mandrake carved a green swath over the cobblestones. For a moment, they all stood in tableau, Jean-Paul and Lore and the bloodcoats and the big, placid horse Val kept only for poison running, the one Lore affectionately called Horse because no one had ever actually named him. Then, a heartbeat, and with a cry of triumph, Curly Mustache charged forward. “Run!” Lore threw herself sideways toward the mouth of the alley where she’d hidden, drawing her dagger. Her foot twisted beneath her, made her fall to her knees, the crack of it whiting out her vision. Gloved hands closed roughly on her shoulders, hauled her up. The bloodcoats were a chaos, and Horse responded, rearing and upsetting the cart, sending it careening toward onlookers. Jean-Paul yelled wordlessly, trying to grab Horse’s bridle. The creature’s whinny sharpened in fear, hooves slicing at the morning sky as bloodcoats surrounded them. Jean-Paul dove for the reins, but he wasn’t fast enough to wheel Horse around and away; a bayonet ripped through the animal’s throat, and it collapsed into a heap of shuddering meat. Lore’s vision was still watery as she tried to throw a punch at the bloodcoat holding her, swiping out with her dagger blade between the fingers of her fist. Another bloodcoat caught her arm and twisted it back hard enough for her to feel the bones grind, a breath away from breaking. A harsh, choked noise erupted from her throat, a cry aborted by the bayonet’s cold muzzle, the pointed end grazing her windpipe. Three of them had her now—two holding her arms, and one with a gun. Not very good odds. The pricking feeling sparked in her palms again, cold awareness slithering through her limbs. “Move and I’ll shoot,” the bloodcoat with the bayonet snarled. “And a shot through the neck doesn’t make for a quick end.” Her fingers trembled, the Mortem seeping out from the catacombs and Horse’s dying body making them itch. Lore hadn’t channeled it in thirteen years, had pressed it all into the back of her mind and left it there to rot. But now, the awareness of it nearly drowned her. Awareness, and instinct. Her hands burned with the desire to call Mortem up from every dead place where it waited, to channel it through her body and make it do her bidding. Resisting made her head light, her breathing


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

pots," suggested Kemp. "That's it! Art pots. Well, I turned at the top step and swung round, plucked one out of a pile and smashed it on his silly head as he came at me. The whole pile of pots went headlong, and I heard shouting and footsteps running from all parts. I made a mad rush for the refreshment place, and there was a man in white like a man cook, who took up the chase. I made one last desperate turn and found myself among lamps and ironmongery. I went behind the counter of this, and waited for my cook, and as he bolted in at the head of the chase, I doubled him up with a lamp. Down he went, and I crouched behind the counter and began whipping off my clothes as fast as I could. Coat, jacket, trousers, shoes were all right, but a lambswool vest fits a man like a skin. I heard more men coming, my cook was lying quiet on the other side of the counter, stunned or scared speechless, and I had to make another dash for it, like a rabbit hunted out of a wood-pile. "'This way, policeman!' I heard some one shouting. I found myself in my bedstead store-room again, and at the end a wilderness of wardrobes. I rushed among them, went flat, got rid of my vest after infinite wriggling, and stood a free man again, panting and scared, as the policeman and three of the shopmen came round the corner. They made a rush for the vest and pants, and collared the trousers. 'He's dropping his plunder,' said one of the young men. 'He must be somewhere here.' "But they did not find me all the same. "I stood watching them hunt for me for a time, and cursing my ill-luck in losing the clothes. Then I went into the refreshment- room, drank a little milk I found there, and sat down by the fire to consider my position. "In a little while two assistants came and began to talk over the business very excitedly and like the fools they were. I heard a magnified account of my depredations, and other speculations as to my whereabouts. Then I fell to scheming again. The insurmountable difficulty of the place, especially now it was alarmed, was to get any plunder out of it. I went down into the warehouse to see if there was any chance of packing and addressing a parcel, but I could not understand the system of checking. About eleven o'clock, the snow having thawed as it fell, and the day being finer and a little warmer than the previous one, I decided that the Emporium was hopeless, and went out again, exasperated at my want of success, with only the vaguest plans of action in my mind." Chapter 23 In Drury Lane "But you begin to realise now," said the Invisible Man, "the full disadvantage of my condition. I had no shelter, no covering. To get clothing was to forego all my advantage, to make of


I’ll take care of it so I know it gets done. Nurse Ratched.” She stopped beside him, taking the plug for the soldering iron from him and inserting it into herself. She said, “Ooh. Yes. That is it.” “Gross,” Rambo muttered. He nudged the side of Vic’s leg. “Is he going to die?” “No,” Vic said, leaning forward, elbows resting on his dad’s legs. “He’s not going to die.” “Because we’re going to be alive forever?” “Impossible,” Nurse Ratched said. “Nothing is immortal. Eventually, our power cell will drain and we will perish because we will be unable to find a replacement.” “But Vic will find one for us,” Rambo said. “Victor is human,” Nurse Ratched said. “He will die long before us. He is soft and spongy. Perhaps it will be cancer, either rectal or bone. Or the plague if he gets bitten by a rat. Or he will get squashed by an Old One like he almost was today.” Her screen blinked with the word OOPS. “Ah,” Dad said. “Is that what Rambo was shouting about before he heard the music?” Vic sighed as he leaned forward, the tip of the soldering iron hot and red. “It was nothing.” “That was a white lie,” Rambo said, sounding proud of himself. Victor groaned as he pressed the soldering iron against the wire connecting the solenoid. Dad grunted, but otherwise stayed still. “It wasn’t even close. I knew what I was doing.” “The expression on your face when the metal heap collapsed suggested otherwise,” Nurse Ratched said. “Would you like to view the reenactment I created right this second?” Vic pulled the soldering iron away from the solenoid as he looked back. On her screen, an eight-bit version of Vic appeared atop a tower of metal. A word bubble sprang from his mouth, filling with OH NO I AM STUPID AND ABOUT TO DIE. The little character fell to the ground with a bloody smack, his eyes turning to X’s. “Womp womp,” Nurse Ratched said as the screen darkened. “That is exactly what happened. Please do not hold your applause. I need validation.” “You fell?” Dad asked, eyes narrowing. Vic went back to the soldering. “Only a little bit.” An odd note filled his father’s voice. “Did you get hurt? Cuts, scrapes? Did you bleed?” “Why?” Vic asked. “You need more?” The heart—while a marvel of engineering unlike anything else that had been created—sometimes needed more than metal or wiring to function: a drop of blood, pressed against the white strip above the gears. It did not happen often—at most, once a year, but Nurse Ratched never failed to remind them that according to lore, a creature known as a vampire subsisted on the same thing. The last time had been four months before, when Dad had started acting more robotic, more like a machine. Dad said, “Victor.” “Not even nicked,” Vic assured him. Dad nodded, obviously relieved. “Good. And the Old Ones?” Vic shrugged. “You know how it is. They forget I even exist as soon as I leave the Scrap


be sacred in my memory forever. I used the most pathetic language I could think of and said `thou' and `thee.' `Thou' and `thee' seem so much more romantic than `you.' Diana gave me a lock of her hair and I'm going to sew it up in a little bag and wear it around my neck all my life. Please see that it is buried with me, for I don't believe I'll live very long. Perhaps when she sees me lying cold and dead before her Mrs. Barry may feel remorse for what she has done and will let Diana come to my funeral." "I don't think there is much fear of your dying of grief as long as you can talk, Anne," said Marilla unsympathetically. The following Monday Anne surprised Marilla by coming down from her room with her basket of books on her arm and hip lips primmed up into a line of determination. "I'm going back to school," she announced. "That is all there is left in life for me, now that my friend has been ruthlessly torn from me. In school I can look at her and muse over days departed." "You'd better muse over your lessons and sums," said Marilla, concealing her delight at this development of the situation. "If you're going back to school I hope we'll hear no more of breaking slates over people's heads and such carryings on. Behave yourself and do just what your teacher tells you." "I'll try to be a model pupil," agreed Anne dolefully. "There won't be much fun in it, I expect. Mr. Phillips said Minnie Andrews was a model pupil and there isn't a spark of imagination or life in her. She is just dull and poky and never seems to have a good time. But I feel so depressed that perhaps it will come easy to me now. I'm going round by the road. I couldn't bear to go by the Birch Path all alone. I should weep bitter tears if I did." Anne was welcomed back to school with open arms. Her imagination had been sorely missed in games, her voice in the singing and her dramatic ability in the perusal aloud of books at dinner hour. Ruby Gillis smuggled three blue plums over to her during testament reading; Ella May MacPherson gave her an enormous yellow pansy cut from the covers of a floral catalogue-a species of desk decoration much prized in Avonlea school. Sophia Sloane offered to teach her a perfectly elegant new pattern of knit lace, so nice for trimming aprons. Katie Boulter gave her a perfume bottle to keep slate water in, and Julia Bell copied carefully on a piece of pale pink paper scalloped on the edges the following effusion: When twilight drops her curtain down And pins it with a star Remember that you have a friend Though she may wander far. "It's so nice to be appreciated," sighed Anne rapturously to Marilla that night. The girls were not the only scholars who "appreciated" her. When Anne went to her


to do anything cool before,” Mark said. “Dad went to bed and we were watching Turner & Hooch, and when it was over you just stood up and were like ‘Come on’ and walked out the back door and jumped the fence. It was the middle of the goddamn night and this was after that Satanic Panic thing where those Albemarle chicks got kidnapped and everyone was all paranoid and we weren’t allowed out after dark. You blew my mind. The whole neighborhood felt different that night. It felt like we were the only two people left in the world. “We looked in the Mitchells’ windows, we moved the garden ornaments at the Everetts’, and then you asked me if I was scared of ghosts and I was like ‘No way,’ even though I was, so you took me to the cemetery. The moon was so bright and all the shadows were so dark and the headstones were, like, glowing white. You dared me to run through it from one side to the other and I dared you back, and then we both started on opposite sides and ran through it and met in the middle. It was the scariest thing I’d ever done. I never told you, but I almost ditched. The only reason I didn’t is I didn’t want to leave you alone in a graveyard with the ghosts.” Someone’s dog barked once down the street. “We couldn’t see each other when we started running,” Mark said. “And I thought maybe the ghosts had gotten you, so when I could finally see you I felt so relieved, and then you tripped over that tombstone and wiped out and farted at the same time and we couldn’t stop laughing.” Louise remembered. She saw them, sitting on the ground, acorns and sticks poking her in the butt, the smell of her fart hanging in the humid air, Mark waving his hand from side to side in front of his face, laughing so hard he actually bounced up and down, and she was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe, and she clamped her mouth shut, and that made her fart again, and that made them laugh even harder. “I’m talking to that sister now when I say don’t sleep here,” Mark told her. “No matter what, I don’t want to ditch you here with a bunch of ghosts. Come back in the morning and get your stuff, then go home. I’m not selling the house. Not for a long time. Whatever energy is here, it’s going to need years to dissipate.” He almost looked like he actually cared, and Louise saw her Kia sitting in the driveway and she knew she could ask him to wait while she went inside and turned off the lights and grabbed her bag and got her keys and she could wash away the smell of egg rolls and tomato sauce in her hotel shower. No. Louise would not let this house be haunted. She would not let Mark be the hero of this made-up story. A puppet


not going.” “But you’ve missed your friends,” Maud said. She was surprised by the intensity of Ella’s reaction. “What do you know? You don’t know anything about me. I can’t believe you’re doing this.” “We both think this is best,” Peter said. “But what about the camp-out?” Louise said. “We have the camp-out next week, Mum.” Maud had forgotten about the “night under the stars” hosted by the camp. As Louise’s mouth trembled, she scrambled for a solution, not finding one. “I didn’t know you cared so much about it, sweetheart,” she said. “I’ll make it up to you.” “You can’t do this,” Ella yelled. “We already got the plane tickets.” “Unget them.” “We’re supposed to make s’mores and sleep in tents,” Louise wailed. “It’s just a little change in the plan,” Maud said. “No, it isn’t.” Louise laid her face on her knees. Maud stroked her hair. This is what it will be like when you tell them that you’re divorcing, she thought. Only even more brutal. “I’ll take you camping back home,” she said. “We’ll go to the Headlands.” “We don’t have a tent.” “We’ll borrow one from Uncle Kevin.” “You don’t know how to put it up.” “I’ll learn.” As Louise cried, Ella stood by, fierce and silent. Peter looked at Maud as if asking her what to do. “I’m sorry you’re both upset,” he said, then moved into repair mode, telling the girls that he would do half-days at the office for the next two weeks for fun activities like the Exploratorium and Ghirardelli Square. “Pick something, Ella,” he said. “No.” “And when I get back, I’ll take you guys to Big Sur,” Maud said. “What do you think? We can stop to see the elephant seals on the way.” Louise’s face was still on her knees, but her shoulders had stopped shaking. “Can we go to the Santa Cruz Boardwalk too?” she said in a small voice. “Sure.” Maud gathered Louise in a hug, feeling slightly better. She and Peter seemed to be working as a team. Maybe it would be all right. He’d calm down and see her perspective, see that he’d be happier without her too. “I’m going to bed,” Ella said. When Maud started to follow her, Peter shook his head, so she let Ella go. They sat with Louise at the kitchen table, playing Old Maid. Together, they tucked her into bed. Ella was asleep, and they kissed her forehead, one after the other. Then they were alone in the living room. “I think that went okay,” Maud said. Peter’s face cracked into a bitter smile. “It was brilliant. Just brilliant.” “It doesn’t have to be awful.” “I already know what it’s like.” “We aren’t your parents.” She touched his hand, and he yanked his arm away. “Do not try to manage me.” He spat out the words. “Do you want help making up the couch?” she said. When he didn’t answer, she told him there were sheets in the closet and left for her room. Lying in bed, she felt emptied and


or alive, but their thin gray or brown branches and sprays looked like a sort of hazy mantle spreading over everything, walls, and trees, and even brown grass, where they had fallen from their fastenings and run along the ground. It was this hazy tangle from tree to tree which made it all look so mysterious. Mary had thought it must be different from other gardens which had not been left all by themselves so long; and indeed it was different from any other place she had ever seen in her life. "How still it is!" she whispered. "How still!" Then she waited a moment and listened at the stillness. The robin, who had flown to his treetop, was still as all the rest. He did not even flutter his wings; he sat without stirring, and looked at Mary. "No wonder it is still," she whispered again. "I am the first person who has spoken in here for ten years." She moved away from the door, stepping as softly as if she were afraid of awakening some one. She was glad that there was grass under her feet and that her steps made no sounds. She walked under one of the fairy-like gray arches between the trees and looked up at the sprays and tendrils which formed them. "I wonder if they are all quite dead," she said. "Is it all a quite dead garden? I wish it wasn't." If she had been Ben Weatherstaff she could have told whether the wood was alive by looking at it, but she could only see that there were only gray or brown sprays and branches and none showed any signs of even a tiny leaf-bud anywhere. But she was inside the wonderful garden and she could come through the door under the ivy any time and she felt as if she had found a world all her own. The sun was shining inside the four walls and the high arch of blue sky over this particular piece of Misselthwaite seemed even more brilliant and soft than it was over the moor. The robin flew down from his tree-top and hopped about or flew after her from one bush to another. He chirped a good deal and had a very busy air, as if he were showing her things. Everything was strange and silent and she seemed to be hundreds of miles away from any one, but somehow she did not feel lonely at all. All that troubled her was her wish that she knew whether all the roses were dead, or if perhaps some of them had lived and might put out leaves and buds as the weather got warmer. She did not want it to be a quite dead garden. If it were a quite alive garden, how wonderful it would be, and what thousands of roses would grow on every side! Her skipping-rope had hung over her arm when she came in and after she had walked about for a while she thought she would skip round the whole garden, stopping when


passing up or down stairs, I always found her close to the room where my mother and her baby lay, and except that she came to me every night, and sat by my bed's head while I went to sleep. A day or two before the burial - I think it was a day or two before, but I am conscious of confusion in my mind about that heavy time, with nothing to mark its progress - she took me into the room. I only recollect that underneath some white covering on the bed, with a beautiful cleanliness and freshness all around it, there seemed to me to lie embodied the solemn stillness that was in the house; and that when she would have turned the cover gently back, I cried: 'Oh no! oh no!' and held her hand. If the funeral had been yesterday, I could not recollect it better. The very air of the best parlour, when I went in at the door, the bright condition of the fire, the shining of the wine in the decanters, the patterns of the glasses and plates, the faint sweet smell of cake, the odour of Miss Murdstone's dress, and our black clothes. Mr. Chillip is in the room, and comes to speak to me. 'And how is Master David?' he says, kindly. I cannot tell him very well. I give him my hand, which he holds in his. 'Dear me!' says Mr. Chillip, meekly smiling, with something shining in his eye. 'Our little friends grow up around us. They grow out of our knowledge, ma'am?' This is to Miss Murdstone, who makes no reply. 'There is a great improvement here, ma'am?' says Mr. Chillip. Miss Murdstone merely answers with a frown and a formal bend: Mr. Chillip, discomfited, goes into a corner, keeping me with him, and opens his mouth no more. I remark this, because I remark everything that happens, not because I care about myself, or have done since I came home. And now the bell begins to sound, and Mr. Omer and another come to make us ready. As Peggotty was wont to tell me, long ago, the followers of my father to the same grave were made ready in the same room. There are Mr. Murdstone, our neighbour Mr. Grayper, Mr. Chillip, and I. When we go out to the door, the Bearers and their load are in the garden; and they move before us down the path, and past the elms, and through the gate, and into the churchyard, where I have so often heard the birds sing on a summer morning. We stand around the grave. The day seems different to me from every other day, and the light not of the same colour - of a sadder colour. Now there is a solemn hush, which we have brought from home with what is resting in the mould; and while we stand bareheaded, I hear the voice of the clergyman, sounding remote in the open air, and yet distinct and plain, saying: 'I am the Resurrection


ungracious sensation she had ever encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him. For herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him. Proud that in a cause of compassion and honour, he had been able to get the better of himself. She read over her aunt's commendation of him again and again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even sensible of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how steadfastly both she and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself. She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one's approach; and before she could strike into another path, she was overtaken by Wickham. ``I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?'' said he, as he joined her. ``You certainly do,'' she replied with a smile; ``but it does not follow that the interruption must be unwelcome.'' ``I should be sorry indeed, if it were. _We_ were always good friends; and now we are better.'' ``True. Are the others coming out?'' ``I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and aunt, that you have actually seen Pemberley.'' She replied in the affirmative. ``I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of me. But of course she did not mention my name to you.'' ``Yes, she did.'' ``And what did she say?'' ``That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had -- not turned out well. At such a distance as _that_, you know, things are strangely misrepresented.'' ``Certainly,'' he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had silenced him; but he soon afterwards said, ``I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other several times. I wonder what he can be doing there.'' ``Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,'' said Elizabeth. ``It must be something particular, to take him there at this time of year.'' ``Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I understood from the Gardiners that you had.'' ``Yes; he introduced us to his sister.'' ``And do you like her?'' ``Very much.'' ``I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year or two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad you liked her. I hope she will turn out well.'' ``I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age.'' ``Did you go by the village of Kympton?'' ``I do not recollect that we did.'' ``I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have had. A most delightful place! -- Excellent Parsonage House! It would have suited me in every respect.'' ``How should


gave me a tight smile, nodded, and went straight to her room. I ordered a takeaway, ignored the calls from Mum and James until my phone’s battery died, and fell asleep on the sofa. Yes, the new Maddie felt great, but it’s a shame she didn’t bother to stay for very long. I wake up at 8:00 A.M. feeling sick, foggy, and anxious. How will I convincingly lie at work today? Please, you’re a pro now. What am I going to say when I finally do have to talk to Mum? Cross that bridge when you get to it. Did I really swear so many times? Yes, yes, you fucking did. Chapter Thirty-five Two hours into work, I realize I should have taken today off too. I’m monosyllabic and on the verge of tears all day. Everyone gives me the look, the one where they glance my way, then at someone else, before nodding in my direction. I ignore them all because I don’t want to be called into Penny’s office. Thankfully, her day is too full of meetings for her to pay any attention to me. I work through lunch and leave at four. Only outside does it feel like I can finally breathe and the relief has me burst into tears on the street. People walk by, throwing me looks but continuing with their day. I understand. They might have plans, which talking to me might delay. I walk back into the OTP building to use the toilet and wipe my face. Alex Still on to meet at 6? I really miss the new Maddie but I don’t have time to lament her recent departure. It was already time for me to be someone else, time to be yet another Maddie. Alex’s Maddie. * * * I’m so glad to see Alex that when I spot him exiting the station, I run up and hug him. So quickly has he become my safety net, my break. “You know what, Maddie?” he says into my neck. “I’ve missed you, too.” The plan is to walk through the park to his flat and watch a film. He asks me about my day and I make it up with ease, with pleasure. I should google if lying to this degree is a skill performed deftly only by the criminally insane. My lies are stretching so far from the truth I can no longer see them. I shiver at the thought of my current family affairs. No, that didn’t happen in this world. Alex’s Maddie simply came home from work last night, had dinner with her flatmates, and went to bed. As he tells me about his day, Subconscious Maddie sits, looking far from impressed. She folds her arms and pushes the twisted braids from her eyes. He thinks Dad is alive! I ignore her and she adds, Ben lied to you. How did that make you feel? I lose my footing, tripping over loose rocks. Alex reaches out in time to grab my hand. “You okay?” I nod, wiping my forehead before looking


by pointing toward the transponder in Nina’s smartphone. He pulls onto the shoulder of the road and puts the sedan in park and switches off the lights and wipers. He shrugs into the thigh-length Helly Hansen rain jacket that belonged to someone at the house in which he’d meant to spend a few days, a respite upended by the mad-dog gangbanger, Aleem. Zippered pockets accommodate the three spare magazines for the rifle as well as a box cutter that he found in a desk drawer in the Corona del Mar residence. He pulls up the hood and secures it under his chin with the Velcro strap. When he checks the mirrors, the road behind him, to the north, is dark and at the moment untraveled. He kills the engine, retrieves the AR-15, and gets out into the storm. The door is open, and he is behind it. When he looks over the top to be sure no traffic is coming from the south, he sees someone approaching, forty or fifty feet away. The guy is tall, wearing a full-length black raincoat with a deep hood concealing his face. He’s a medieval figure, like a mendicant monk on a pilgrimage to ancient Rome, who has crossed half a world and a thousand years from one step to the next. He isn’t on the shoulder of the highway, but he walks in the middle of the southbound lane. He calls out, “Need help there, mister? She break down on you?” It isn’t his shadow self’s high-tech analytic capability that warns Michael of danger. It is the profound intuition with which he was born, an unshakable recognition of evil. This stranger is not a generous Samaritan venturing into foul weather and darkness with the hope of doing a kindness for someone. Nevertheless, Michael isn’t capable of opening fire on the man without being certain of his intentions. Besides, the crack of the rifle will carry far even through the cry of wind and sizzle of rain, announcing his presence to others of Nina’s pursuers sooner than is ideal. He raises his voice above the storm, and by his words he asserts both that he knows what’s happening here and that he has been called to assist. “I’m looking for Aleem.” The apparition halts twenty feet away. Still no face can be discerned in the hood, not even the slightest trace of eyeshine. “What’s an Aleem?” There’s no curiosity in the question, as ought to be the case if this is an average citizen, but only a cold note of challenge, which pretty much identifies the man as one of the gangster’s crew. As he responds, Michael reaches back into the car, feels for the added kill switch on the steering column, finds it, and flicks it, activating the GPS and navigation system. “I was told Aleem needs transportation. Here I am.” “Told how?” “He phoned Brett Bucklin, and Brett phoned me. I live in the area. You know Brett Bucklin, Aleem’s attorney?” “How Aleem phone you?” The longer Michael stands behind the open car door,


Center and Boost Qi.” I don’t know if any of this will matter to Oriole, but I take the time to explain anyway. “This is a classic remedy from a book called Profound Formulas. My grandmother says she has the last copy in existence.” Oriole’s eyes widen as she absorbs this information. “The most important ingredient is one that we women rely on. Astragalus will help your fatigue and Blood prostration. I’m adding my own ideas to your prescription. Skullcap root purges Fire and inflammation. Nut grass rhizome not only has cooling properties, but it is well known to help with moon-water problems, weight loss, and sleep disorders. Japanese thistle is one of the best substances to stop runaway bleeding.” “Will it be expensive?” Oriole asks. “There are no extraordinary ingredients here,” I answer. “You will be fine,” Meiling adds soothingly. “When you’ve finished this remedy, I want you to take Pill to Greatly Supplement Yin,” I go on. “It includes among its many ingredients freshwater turtle shell and cork-tree bark.” “And I’ll get better?” “You will,” I answer. “I’ll send Young Midwife to make sure you’re recovering. If you have other problems, she will bring me here.” I make this offer because I’m confident enough in my treatment plan to be sure I won’t need to return. The pill is one I’ve used before. While it’s known to quell Fire in the yin and supplement the Kidney, it also helps with turbulent emotions. Oriole is polite and hospitable, but her bitterness about her life radiates from her as the entire brickyard radiates heat. Her anger is far more deep-seated and difficult to treat than her weeping womb, but my remedy will work on this too. Meiling and I say goodbye and retrace our steps to her home, where we’re able to sneak back upstairs unobserved. I’m exhausted, and my feet are in more pain than when they were first bound. I bite my lips to keep from moaning as Meiling pulls off the boots. I struggle to compose myself as I change back into my clothes. The layers of underskirt, overskirt, tunic, and leggings feel suffocating. The bearers do not regard me with suspicion when I step out the front door, which relieves my mind. Once we reach the Garden of Fragrant Delights, I step over the threshold and begin threading my way through the compound. I need tea. I need to change my clothes and put on fresh makeup. I need most of all to lie down and rest my throbbing feet. To do any of these things would cast suspicion on me, however. Each step sends streaks of pain up my legs, but I try to keep my expression placid. I find the girls and women of the household in the last courtyard. Some are reading, others embroidering and painting. My mother-in-law sits with wives of her age but below her station. All of them sip rice wine from jade cups to help draw attention away from Lady Kuo’s newfound need to quench the thirsty thing living inside her.


Io said. Thais’s bare toes stretched on the carpet. “I thought you were angry at me. I was harsh with you before I left. I didn’t think you’d forgive me.” Was this . . . an apology? Io had never seen its like on Thais’s lips; she could hardly recognize the shape and timbre of it. It resonated in the arcane hollows of her heart, and from its thrum, a tender hope was born. Things could go back, to the very beginning, when she and Thais and Ava were one soul sharing three bodies, one breath in three chests. She said, her pardon as misshapen as Thais’s apology, “It was a hard time.” “And now?” Thais’s tone was expectant, pleading even. And now—gods, how Io’s heart melted. The two words were an olive branch, extended to mend the past and walk boldly into the future. “Now it’s better,” she replied breathlessly. Her sister squeezed Io’s fingers and pulled her down the stairs. Her voice was singsong, her face beaming. “Let’s make ourselves some coffee, shall we?” Coffee and revani, comfort and safety. Io imagined sitting down and just telling her sister everything: how she had finally met her fate-thread, and he was cute and funny and asked her to wait for him. How she had stood up to Bianca Rossi. How she had argued with Ava. How she had bargained with the Nine, at a terrible cost. Thais had always been good at calming her; perhaps, with Thais by her side, Io could be brave enough to actually think about that mystifying poem and what it might mean: The cutter, the unseen blade, the reaper of fates. They entered the kitchen, filled with the sweet scent of syrup. Io wanted to savor every moment with this new, relaxed, cheerful version of her sister. She was tasked with brewing their coffee Kurkz style, grabbing it out of the fire just before it boiled over, while Thais arranged a large platter of fruits so brightly colorful they must have come straight from the Flying Orchards of the Neraida Plains. The two sisters fell into the easy rhythm of a shared past: carrying the trays to the back porch, arranging porcelain coffee cups and small crystal dishes for the spoon sweets on the patio table. Io was so entranced by the effortless way they had fallen back into their old selves that she only noticed the table when it was set. For six. “I thought,” she said carefully, “that we were having coffee alone.” “Oh, Io, don’t be shy. We have a campaign meeting here in a few minutes, and I’m dying for you to meet Luc. You’ll love him, Io—he’s got Baba’s sweetness and Mama’s humor and Ava’s taste in music and your razor-sharp wits. And have you seen his smile? Just wait, he’s going to charm you off your feet.” Her sister’s whole face beamed. A cold bitterness slithered around Io’s heart, squeezing tighter and tighter. All their life, she had fought and sacrificed to make Thais happy, and here was Saint-Yves, a


and his black lighter and placed them on the green baize at his right elbow. The huissier wiped a thick glass ash-tray with a cloth and put it beside them. Bond lit a cigarette and leant back in his chair. Opposite him, the banker's chair was vacant. He glanced round the table. He knew most of the players by sight, but few of their names. At Number 7, on his right, there was a Monsieur Sixte, a wealthy Belgian with metal interests in the Congo. At Number 9 there was Lord Danvers, a distinguished but weak-looking man whose francs were presumably provided by his rich American wife, a middle-aged woman with the predatory mouth of a barracuda, who sat at Number 3. Bond reflected that they would probably play a pawky and nervous game and be amongst the early casualties. At Number 1, to the right of the bank was a well-known Greek gambler who owned, as in Bond's experience apparently everyone does in the Eastern Mediterranean, a profitable shipping line. He would play coldly and well and would be a stayer. Bond asked the huissier for a card and wrote on it, under a neat question mark, the remaining numbers, 2, 4, 5, 8, 10, and asked the huissier to give it to the chef de partie. Soon it came back with the names filled in. Number 2, still empty, was to be Carmel Delane, the American film star with alimony from three husbands to burn and, Bond assumed, a call on still more from whoever her present companion at Royale might be. With her sanguine temperament she would play gaily and with panache and might run into a vein of luck. Then came Lady Danvers at Number 3 and Numbers 4 and 5 were a Mr and Mrs Du Pont, rich-looking and might or might not have some of the real Du Pont money behind them. Bond guessed they would be stayers. They both had a business-like look about them and were talking together easily and cheerfully as if they felt very much at home at the big game. Bond was quite happy to have them next to him - Mrs Du Pont sat at Number 5 - and he felt prepared to share with them or with Monsieur Sixte on his right, if they found themselves faced with too big a bank. At Number 8 was the Maharajah of a small Indian state, probably with all his wartime sterling balances to play with. Bond's experience told him that few of the Asiatic races were courageous gamblers, even the much-vaunted Chinese being inclined to lose heart if the going was bad. But the Maharajah would probably stay in the game and stand some heavy losses if they were gradual. Number 10 was a prosperous-looking young Italian, Signor Tomelli, who possibly had plenty of money from rackrents in Milan and would probably play a dashing and foolish game. He might lose his temper and make a scene. Bond had just finished his sketchy summing-up of the players when Le Chiffre, with


which he had built amid the encircling seas. Then Varda filled the lamps and Manw hallowed them, and the Valar set them upon high pillars, more lofty far than are any mountains of the later days. One lamp they raised near to the north of Middle-earth, and it was named Illuin; and the other was raised in the south, and it was named Ormal; and the light of the Lamps of the Valar flowed out over the Earth, so that all was lit as it were in a changeless day. Then the seeds that Yavanna had sown began swiftly to sprout and to burgeon, and there arose a multitude of growing things great and small, mosses and grasses and great ferns, and trees whose tops were crowned with cloud as they were living mountains, but whose feet were wrapped in a green twilight. And beasts came forth and dwelt in the grassy plains, or in the rivers and the lakes, or walked in the shadows of the woods. As yet no flower had bloomed nor any bird had sung, for these things waited still their time in the bosom of Yavanna; but wealth there was of her imagining, and nowhere more rich than in the midmost parts of the Earth, where the light of both the Lamps met and blended. And there upon the Isle of Almaren in the Great Lake was the first dwelling of the Valar when all things were young, and new-made green was yet a marvel in the eyes of the makers; and they were long content. Now it came to pass that while the Valar rested from their labours, and watched the growth and unfolding of the things that they had devised and begun, Manw ordained a great feast; and the Valar and an their host came at his bidding. But Aul and Tulkas were weary; for the craft of Aul and the strength of Tulkas had been at the service of an without ceasing fax the days of their labour. And Melkor knew of an that was done, for even then he had secret friends and spies among the Maiar whom he had converted to his cause; and far off in the darkness he was filled with hatred, being jealous of the work of his peers, whom he desired to make subject to himself. Therefore he gathered to himself spirits out of the halls of E that he had perverted to his service, and he deemed himself strong. And seeing now his time he drew near again to Arda, and looked down upon it, and the beauty of the Earth in its Spring filled him the more with hate. Now therefore the Valar were gathered upon Almaren, fearing no evil, and because of the light of Illuin they did not perceive the shadow in the north that was cast from afar by Melkor; for he was grown dark as the Night of the Void. And it is sung that in that feast of the Spring of Arda Tulkas espoused Nessa the sister of Orom, and she


Her eyes narrowed. “Do we get to see the body? You know, like ID it?” Her father’s head swiveled. “What do you mean?” “How do we know it’s even Helene?” she demanded. “It isn’t like she hasn’t run off before and we think something horrible happened to her only to discover that oops, it was all a mistake. She was just off doing some weird thing, ‘taking me time’ or going to the mountains in fucking Kentucky to ‘clear my head,’” Marianne pointed out, making air quotes. “And she was always coming up with some weird disguise, altering her looks so she couldn’t be seen or recognized, like she was some big movie star or something. Give me a break.” She let out a breath and when her father was about to say something, added, “Or . . . or what about that time she chartered a private yacht off Miami because she wanted to experience the Bermuda Triangle? Huh? When there was worry about a damned hurricane! What about that? Every time she left without a word. To do something weird or bizarre, something to get herself noticed! Holy shit, none of us ever knew if she was alive or dead when she took off on one of her head-game trips. That’s what it was, you know. She was always playing head games!” Hugo had the decency to look sad if not grief-stricken. “Helene is a . . . well, she was . . . an independent spirit.” Marianne let out a loud, disgusted breath. “A whacko, that’s what she was!” To the police, she demanded, “I want to see the body! I want to know that she is really and truly dead. It wouldn’t surprise me if the poor dead girl is some kind of body double or something, and in two or three days once the press has sensationalized the story, she waltzes back in here and swears she was just gone on some kind of life-changing journey, a walk-about in Australia or met with some great shaman in India and learned about the true meaning of life or some such bullshit.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And I’ll want to see the body!” “We’ll arrange it,” Bentz said. “Good. And if it is Helene,” Marianne said, glaring at her father, “may she never rest in peace.” * * * “Man oh man, she was just a kid,” Montoya said in the morgue where the stripped-down body of Helene Laroche lay on a metal table. Hugo Laroche and Marianne had already visited, the corpse wheeled into the viewing room, a sheet pulled down from her face. Bentz and Montoya had been there, witnessed the reaction of both father and daughter. “Yes, yes, that’s Helene,” Hugo had said, a catch in his voice, and though he’d remained dry eyed, he’d blinked rapidly. Marianne had wended her arm through her father’s in what Bentz thought was an out-of-character display of comfort. Lips pinched, face a little more wan than earlier, she’d nodded, her messy bun jiggling. “Yeah,” she agreed,


shit,” he said to no one in particular. “This is the life.” The doorbell rang orchestrally and the hall to the foyer bristled with staff. Then there was the sound of boots on marble. Genial Sr. emerged into the dining room in what looked like combat attire. Genial, with his thin face and delicate frame, hardly resembled him: Genial Sr., or what I could make out of him when he got close enough, had fat, clay-like cheeks, eyes so large their whites were visibly gelatinous, and a prominent mustache. His forehead under his army cap was heavily wrinkled, and as he surveyed the gilded china on the dinner table he sniffed deeply as though he were planning to discharge a wad of spit and phlegm. Next to him stood a birdlike bald man in a pair of Ray-Bans, arms folded across his chest in what appeared to be an insufficient imitation of the larger man in front of him. Genial stood, and the three of us followed suit. “Father,” he said. “It’s been long.” Genial Sr. said something in Urmanese, which he promptly translated for our benefit: “Very nice to see a full table.” “These are the people from NuLife.” Genial gestured to us. “Dexter Ellhorn, he is the inventor, and Brianna Voorhees, she is the assistant, and this is the CFO.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Mr. Ezra Green.” Genial Sr. shook hands with each of us, and the birdlike man followed suit. “Manuel Demarco,” Genial Sr. said, angling his chin toward the birdlike man. “The minister of the interior.” Manuel smiled smugly, clearly proud to be the blown-apart minister’s replacement. I saw Genial’s lips tighten: Manuel hadn’t been accounted for, was clearly a fly in the ointment. We all sat and the staff promptly filled our wineglasses. I watched them as they did, recognizing the look of urgency on their faces, the need to fulfill an inconsequential obligation to the powerful and indifferent. It had been a long time since I’d felt that way. “So you’re planning on revamping NuLife,” Genial Sr. said, looking directly at me. “My son tells me you regret this whole thing with the Daroqol.” “That’s right,” I said. “We want NuLife to become whatever you want it to be.” Genial Sr. sat back in his seat and spread his hands across his thighs. “We want it to be for the people,” he said. “We have the power to ban it if you don’t make it for the people,” Manuel said. “Of course,” I said. Genial Sr. said something to Manuel in Urmanese, both of them looking at me as he spoke. “What do you think it means, Mr. Green, to be ‘for the people’?” Genial Sr. asked. “It would mean that the state benefits from the corporation,” I said. It occurred to me that there was no clear path to follow in this conversation. That we could—and probably would—end up talking in circles. “I think your views are fundamentally at odds with what we want to achieve in this country,” Genial Sr. said. “You


our sex!' 'I have deserved this,' said Emily, 'but it's dreadful! Dear, dear lady, think what I have suffered, and how I am fallen! Oh, Martha, come back! Oh, home, home!' Miss Dartle placed herself in a chair, within view of the door, and looked downward, as if Emily were crouching on the floor before her. Being now between me and the light, I could see her curled lip, and her cruel eyes intently fixed on one place, with a greedy triumph. 'Listen to what I say!' she said; 'and reserve your false arts for your dupes. Do you hope to move me by your tears? No more than you could charm me by your smiles, you purchased slave.' 'Oh, have some mercy on me!' cried Emily. 'Show me some compassion, or I shall die mad!' 'It would be no great penance,' said Rosa Dartle, 'for your crimes. Do you know what you have done? Do you ever think of the home you have laid waste?' 'Oh, is there ever night or day, when I don't think of it!' cried Emily; and now I could just see her, on her knees, with her head thrown back, her pale face looking upward, her hands wildly clasped and held out, and her hair streaming about her. 'Has there ever been a single minute, waking or sleeping, when it hasn't been before me, just as it used to be in the lost days when I turned my back upon it for ever and for ever! Oh, home, home! Oh dear, dear uncle, if you ever could have known the agony your love would cause me when I fell away from good, you never would have shown it to me so constant, much as you felt it; but would have been angry to me, at least once in my life, that I might have had some comfort! I have none, none, no comfort upon earth, for all of them were always fond of me!' She dropped on her face, before the imperious figure in the chair, with an imploring effort to clasp the skirt of her dress. Rosa Dartle sat looking down upon her, as inflexible as a figure of brass. Her lips were tightly compressed, as if she knew that she must keep a strong constraint upon herself - I write what I sincerely believe - or she would be tempted to strike the beautiful form with her foot. I saw her, distinctly, and the whole power of her face and character seemed forced into that expression. - Would he never come? 'The miserable vanity of these earth-worms!' she said, when she had so far controlled the angry heavings of her breast, that she could trust herself to speak. 'YOUR home! Do you imagine that I bestow a thought on it, or suppose you could do any harm to that low place, which money would not pay for, and handsomely? YOUR home! You were a part of the trade of your home, and were bought and sold like any other vendible thing your people dealt


dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled `ORANGE MARMALADE', but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it. `Well!' thought Alice to herself, `after such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they'll all think me at home! Why, I wouldn't say anything about it, even if I fell off the top of the house!' (Which was very likely true.) Down, down, down. Would the fall NEVER come to an end! `I wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time?' she said aloud. `I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think--' (for, you see, Alice had learnt several things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this was not a VERY good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over) `--yes, that's about the right distance--but then I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I've got to?' (Alice had no idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either, but thought they were nice grand words to say.) Presently she began again. `I wonder if I shall fall right THROUGH the earth! How funny it'll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downward! The Antipathies, I think--' (she was rather glad there WAS no one listening, this time, as it didn't sound at all the right word) `--but I shall have to ask them what the name of the country is, you know. Please, Ma'am, is this New Zealand or Australia?' (and she tried to curtsey as she spoke--fancy CURTSEYING as you're falling through the air! Do you think you could manage it?) `And what an ignorant little girl she'll think me for asking! No, it'll never do to ask: perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere.' Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began talking again. `Dinah'll miss me very much to-night, I should think!' (Dinah was the cat.) `I hope they'll remember her saucer of milk at tea-time. Dinah my dear!


other man had gotten in the Mortem’s path, somehow, gotten tangled in the strands that tied her to the leak, she couldn’t have stopped it. That part wasn’t her fault, and she didn’t care if the Presque Mort thought otherwise. But if Gabe thought it… That felt like a spear through the gut. Her mind kept spinning up that last image of Anton, looking at her with placid curiosity. Anton, who’d shaped Mortem in a way she’d never seen before her untrained fingers channeled it through her veins. Had he done something to it? To her? She wanted to believe that, but it felt like an excuse. And she knew Gabe would think the same thing. The burning in her chest wasn’t quite sadness, and it wasn’t quite anger, and it had more shame in it than she’d care to admit. But at least it gave her something to concentrate on as she hobbled toward her bedroom door, something other than the voice she’d heard as all that Mortem coursed through her hands, into her heart. They’ll force you to be stronger, and then break you down. Lore shook her head and pushed open the door. Someone sat on the dusty couch, the fire before them teased to roaring. Not Gabe. Bastian. She stood silent and confused in the doorway as the Sun Prince looked over his shoulder, golden-brown eyes reflecting flames. He stood, stretched casually, the hem of his pristine white shirt riding up to reveal an abdomen still bruised from boxing. “Morning,” he said. “Or, evening, as it were. You slept through dinner, which I suppose isn’t a shock, since you slept through a whole week, too. I brought you something to eat.” His voice sparked in her, like the connection she’d always felt in his presence had sunk deeper, insinuated itself into muscle and marrow. An image flashed across her mind, roses and sunlight in a mountaintop garden, but then it was gone. A tray stood on the small table behind the couch, covered with a gleaming silver cloche, wafting a rich scent Lore didn’t immediately recognize. She pulled off the cloche, barely registering what the dish was before shoving a forkful in her mouth. A bird of some kind, roasted with vegetables. “Peahen,” Bastian offered with a flip of his hand, settling on the arm of the couch to watch her eat. “I hate it, but it seems you don’t.” “I’d eat anything right about now,” Lore said around a full mouth. “See, had you not just gone through something rather traumatic, I’d be making an off-color joke about that. As it is, I will let it lie. Please admire my restraint.” Something rather traumatic, indeed. Suddenly the roasted peahen tasted like ash. Lore chewed and swallowed what was still in her mouth, then set down the fork, crossing her arms, staring at a charred ring of onion instead of Bastian. “Did Gabe tell you what happened?” “Of course Gabe didn’t tell me,” Bastian scoffed. “Malcolm did, and only because I was in the South Sanctuary when he


to know I’m telling the truth about Chelsea. But whose fault is that? Yours or mine?” He steps around her. She turns to see him zip his suitcase closed in one angry motion. “It’s yours, Ethan.” He looks up with one hand on his bag. “I’m leaving. Good-bye, Sloane.” Sloane presses her palm against the top of the suitcase. “If you leave, I could tell the police we plotted to kill Brody together. That you helped me lure him to the house, and we staged it to look like self-defense after you shot him.” A shadow moves across Ethan’s face. “You’ll only incriminate yourself.” He keeps his voice steady, but there’s no mistaking the trace of terror in his pupils. She shakes her head. “You’re the one who shot him. You had more reason to want Brody dead than I did. He was sleeping with your wife. When you found out, you were enraged. And when you found your opportunity to take him out of the picture, you did.” His eyes search hers. “You’re not going to turn yourself in for murder.” “That’s where you’re wrong. You keep underestimating me and look where it’s gotten you. I’d rather go to prison than accept less than I deserve. I’ve come too far in life to fall short now of getting everything I want. The family I never had. It’s all or nothing, Ethan. You can stay with me and be happy, or we can go down together.” She straightens her posture, daring him to call her bluff. She studies her husband as he appears to weigh her words. There’s an uncertainty in his demeanor now. He knows that he can’t predict her anymore. “You mean stay and be miserable with you?” She closes the space between them. “You may not love me now, Ethan. But I’m the one for you.” Ethan takes a step back. He snatches his bag off the bed. Sloane braces for him to tell her it’s over. That he’s never coming back. But instead of making for the door, he drops his suitcase on the floor. Without a word, he grabs his pillow and a blanket off their bed and stalks out of the room, with the bedding tucked beneath his arms. Moments later, Sloane hears the door to the guest room slam closed. She sinks onto the bed. Relief seeps through her as she places a hand on her belly. He’s not going anywhere. He’ll be back in their room, eventually. And he’ll never dare to betray her again. Soon, they’ll have the family they both want. Ethan will be the husband and father he desires to be. That she and their child deserve. What other choice does he have? Epilogue Thirty Years Later Sloane climbs the stairs of her forty-two-foot sailboat, berthed at the Elliot Bay Marina, after stocking the fridge with drinks. Her daughter, Harper, and son-in-law, Jay, will be arriving any minute. Across the Sound, the summer sun glistens against Eagle Harbor. Sloane shades her eyes with her hand to take in Bainbridge Island, where


to go sleep in the stables, even though he had been in the rain far longer than she had, on horseback as he’d been. When the rain finally let up sometime in the early-morning hours, the doctor decided Mr. Calloway needed to be sent home, where he could have better care. Lucy was exhausted, and her worry over Mr. Calloway had left her in a state of anxiety and hardly aware of what was happening around her. Would the poor man survive? The physician did not seem hopeful, nor did the innkeeper’s wife as she wrapped a blanket around Lucy’s shoulders and helped her downstairs to a waiting carriage. That didn’t stop the woman from trying to convince Lucy otherwise. “He will be right as rain once he gets home, mark my words, dear. You just keep on looking after him until you arrive, and all will be well.” Lucy chose not to argue, using the woman as a shield to avoid being seen by anyone in the main room downstairs, Rebecca following closely behind them. When the carriage door closed and the driver called the horses to move, she finally breathed a small sigh. She had plenty of problems still to deal with, but at least Mr. Granger would no longer be one of them. “Where do you suppose we are going?” she asked Rebecca, keeping her voice low to avoid waking Mr. Calloway slumped on the other seat. He likely wouldn’t wake during their journey, considering he’d been unconscious all night, but she wanted to be courteous regardless. He had offered his assistance and was continuing to give it even without his knowledge. Rebecca shrugged with a wide yawn. “Mr. Calloway’s home, I suppose.” “But we’re supposed to be in Lowbury tonight.” “We’ll find a coach when we get there. From what I gathered talking to the driver, this one is taking us part of the way already, and it can’t be much farther.” Rebecca yawned again, falling against Lucy’s shoulder and snuggling up. She had never been very good at working without a good night’s rest. Though Lucy had teased her about it over the years, now she wished she had taught her friend how to stay awake when faced with catastrophic circumstances, for surely that was what this was. Lucy was in a strange coach with a strange man, under the guise of being the man’s wife. She had no idea where she was, and all her possessions, few though they were, were back at the inn because she had not had a chance to bring them up to the room she had unwillingly shared with Mr. Calloway. The fever had come on so quickly, and there had been no way to correct her mistaken identity without risking being found by Mr. Granger, and Lucy had no idea what to do now. How would she explain this? If she was lucky, Mr. Calloway lived alone. She could explain to the servants that she had been sent to look after their master, and then she would return to the


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

him along, which was indeed my intention, as nothing could amuse me more than watching Bambleby slog through miles of snow with nary a nap in sight, though I had little interest in arguing with him about it. I left him to his blustering in the cottage, where he was supposed to be drafting our abstract but kept wandering off to make tea or stand by the window and expostulate about the cold. I grow increasingly convinced that he obtained his doctorate by means of faerie enchantment, so difficult is it to imagine him applying himself to anything resembling work. SKIP NOTES * A charming Ljosland term that can be loosely translated as “family,” used to describe a bond formed between mortals and brownies. Brownies in Ljosland, as in other countries, sometimes attach themselves to one household, and exclusively provide magical services to its inhabitants. Often they dwell in a rock feature somewhere on the property. The bond seems to be generational, though further research is needed to determine whether this is a variable thing, as it often is on the continent (cf. Northern Italy, where the brownies choose a favoured mortal with whom to bond, but often abandon any offspring upon his/her death). 14th November Today I went to Groa’s shop to gather supplies for our journey to the tree. By Thora’s estimation, the hike will take about three hours each way. The village is carpeted in snow, partially melted by a storm that came in from the sea; I have been assured by Krystjan that the recent fall is but another clearing of the throat by Old Man Winter; when he truly settles himself over Hrafnsvik, I will know it. Upon exiting the shop with my parcels, I could not help my gaze from straying to the farmhouse across the road. The curtains were drawn as usual, the sheep huddled in a corner of the field. Altogether the place had such an unwholesome air about it that it was hard to look away, dark smoke drifting sluggishly from the chimney like the ooze of an infected wound. Mord was coming round the front of the house, and he gave me a wave before disappearing inside. I stared in astonishment at the side of his head, which was mottled with bruising, and returned to the shop to question Groa. For once, the merriness dimmed in her pale eyes. “He was out rescuing his wife the other night,” she told me. “She nearly took a tumble into the sea. He pulled her back just in time.” “I see,” I replied, and we left unsaid the oddness of a man sustaining such bruises in that scenario. Back at the cottage, I reported the news to Bambleby. “Well, what did you expect?” He had absconded from his notes entirely and was seated by the fire rubbing Shadow’s ears. “The creature is clearly bent on driving both of them insane. I don’t know who the miserable wretch imagines will care for its needs after its guardians have thrown themselves into the sea. They should kill


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

from further demonstrations. Bartleby and I were alone. I remembered the tragedy of the unfortunate Adams and the still more unfortunate Colt in the solitary office of the latter; and how poor Colt, being dreadfully incensed by Adams, and imprudently permitting himself to get wildly excited, was at unawares hurried into his fatal act—an act which certainly no man could possibly deplore more than the actor himself. Often it had occurred to me in my ponderings upon the subject, that had that altercation taken place in the public street, or at a private residence, it would not have terminated as it did. It was the circumstance of being alone in a solitary office, up stairs, of a building entirely unhallowed by humanizing domestic associations—an uncarpeted office, doubtless, of a dusty, haggard sort of appearance;—this it must have been, which greatly helped to enhance the irritable desperation of the hapless Colt. But when this old Adam of resentment rose in me and tempted me concerning Bartleby, I grappled him and threw him. How? Why, simply by recalling the divine injunction: “A new commandment give I unto you, that ye love one another.” Yes, this it was that saved me. Aside from higher considerations, charity often operates as a vastly wise and prudent principle—a great safeguard to its possessor. Men have committed murder for jealousy’s sake, and anger’s sake, and hatred’s sake, and selfishness’ sake, and spiritual pride’s sake; but no man that ever I heard of, ever committed a diabolical murder for sweet charity’s sake. Mere self-interest, then, if no better motive can be enlisted, should, especially with high-tempered men, prompt all beings to charity and philanthropy. At any rate, upon the occasion in question, I strove to drown my exasperated feelings towards the scrivener by benevolently construing his conduct. Poor fellow, poor fellow! thought I, he don’t mean any thing; and besides, he has seen hard times, and ought to be indulged. I endeavored also immediately to occupy myself, and at the same time to comfort my despondency. I tried to fancy that in the course of the morning, at such time as might prove agreeable to him. Bartleby, of his own free accord, would emerge from his hermitage, and take up some decided line of march in the direction of the door. But no. Half-past twelve o’clock came; Turkey began to glow in the face, overturn his inkstand, and become generally obstreperous; Nippers abated down into quietude and courtesy; Ginger Nut munched his noon apple; and Bartleby remained standing at his window in one of his profoundest dead-wall reveries. Will it be credited? Ought I to acknowledge it? That afternoon I left the office without saying one further word to him. Some days now passed, during which, at leisure intervals I looked a little into “Edwards on the Will,” and “Priestly on Necessity.” Under the circumstances, those books induced a salutary feeling. Gradually I slid into the persuasion that these troubles of mine touching the scrivener, had been all predestinated from eternity, and Bartleby was billeted upon me for some mysterious


baby showers…’ Cecily took a deep breath, suddenly emotional. Josie was beside her, holding a cardboard box filled with the wrapped parcels. Minnie took up a position next to her, carrying another box. ‘So, dear Florence…’ Cecily began. ‘Baby showers have become something of a tradition in this country. Of course, they never used to be in my day, but it’s such a good idea, and we’d now like to present you with some goodies for you and the baby.’ ‘Thank you.’ Florence reached out her arms for a hug as Josie passed her a present. With shaky fingers, she opened it and tugged out a cuddle pillow in the shape of a silver baby elephant. She handed it to Adam, excitedly unwrapping a bag of luxury baby toiletries. ‘Thank you so much – oh, I didn’t expect all this,’ Florence gasped as Josie offered her the next package. Lin turned and was surprised to see Neil standing next to her. He’d just arrived, offering an apologetic grin, placing his arm around her shoulders. He kissed her ear. ‘I’m just in time. How are you, Lindy love?’ ‘I’m fine.’ Lin turned away abruptly, just as Florence unwrapped the tiniest pair of baby socks embroidered with rabbits and held them up for the cheering crowd. Brandon moved from the beer table to stand next to Natalie, a frown on his face and a beer glass in his hand. He stretched out to touch her as she edged closer to Finn Toomey. Natalie launched herself at Finn, kissing him as hard as she could. Then she turned to Brandon, her face furious. ‘Just go away, Brandon.’ Brandon tried again. ‘Natalie?’ ‘I told you. We’re done.’ She pulled the ring from her finger and pushed it into his hand. ‘There. Now go away.’ ‘Wait…’ She ignored him, stood on tiptoes and snogged Finn once more. Brandon glanced around to see who was looking. Those who had noticed shifted away and went back to their business. Brandon slunk off through the crowd. Finn extracted himself from the kiss, confused. All attention was on Josie now: she held out another present and the applause rang out as Florence unwrapped a musical mobile in a rainbow design. Neil whispered into Lin’s ear. ‘I thought George’s granddaughter was going to marry that bloke. Did they just split up?’ ‘I’m sure he deserved what he got.’ Lin wrinkled her nose. She inhaled aftershave, not his usual brand, a new one. Neil smelled of something delicious that a man would wear when he wanted to impress a woman, a warm spicy scent that made Lin want to kiss him. She met his eyes and her own were small with contempt. ‘I expect Brandon’s been cheating,’ she said simply. ‘All men who cheat are pigs.’ Then she turned on her heel and, without another word, she tottered away, heading towards the village green, hurrying home as fast as her wobbly legs would carry her. She didn’t want to talk to Neil now. She wasn’t sure what to say. She had no idea


still.” He does, hissing as the needle goes in, and then leaning back. The woman smiles. “All better. For a given value, I know. Lyman, he needs some time on my table soon, so nothing bad happens at the joint.” “Understood, Priscilla. Quite understood, and thank you.” She shrugs, and bustles out. “Barbecue,” Doublewide says, “is the only food apart from lobster where a grown man is permitted to wear a bib without criticism. It is intended to be messy, sweet and bad for you. Wine is hopeless in its company, so we shall have the local beer.” And we do. When we’ve eaten together—even Maurice manages a plate of ribs and slaw—Doublewide leans back and steeples his fingers. “My dear Mr. Tonfamecasca, I’m afraid we must return to the issue at hand. Mr. Sounder is wroth with you for what I take to have been a premeditated but under-planned attempt upon his life. Is that right, Mr. Sounder?” “I don’t know about ‘wroth.’ I’m pissed, I guess. But I’m a working man, Mr. Nugent. I’m tired of getting the runaround, to the point where I just want some answers. I can put my personal issues aside if I get answers. Some assurances, too, of course.” “Indeed. There can be no peace without guarantees of future security. I, on the other hand, have no emotional dog in this fight at all. Saving your presence, Mr. Sounder: I like you, but I can’t just kidnap and murder a person because he offends against someone I like. I’m gregarious! Within my limited circles, at least. There’d be no end to it, sir. This farm would be entirely fertilised with the dead. However.” He looks over at Maurice. “I am private, Mr. Tonfamecasca. Deeply private. I have devoted considerable effort to ensuring your uncle knows little or nothing of my affairs. I have no desire for his close scrutiny. Now our paths have crossed, I am concerned that you will be unable to remain discreet about my existence, my appearance. My name. Like Mr. Sounder, I will require assurances from you. Earnests of goodwill if you are to leave this place. But before we negotiate that, you must satisfy Mr. Sounder, as I have promised.” Maurice goes to say something, but Doublewide, from the other side of the room, holds up a hand in front of his face. Again the mantis articulation, the eerie foreshortening of distance. Doublewide glances over at me. I look at Maurice. “Tell me the true story of Peter and Lillian.” Again I see something flicker in his face. He hides it, but it’s recognition. Guilt, even. “Yeah, there it is. You know. Stefan told me you didn’t know anything, but you obviously do. Now…how would you know something like that? Elaine. Elaine told you, didn’t she? Are you two…dating, by the way? Athena says not.” He glowers, then shakes his head. “So you go where she goes. You’re her walker. And you’re in love with her, but she’s not buying. Is that it?” “She’s cautious. She’s had some bad experiences


Neveu insisted on speaking to you immediately, Captain. I tried to stop her, but she's on her way into the gallery." Fache recoiled in disbelief. "Unacceptable! I made it very clear-" For a moment, Robert Langdon thought Bezu Fache was suffering a stroke. The captain was mid-sentence when his jaw stopped moving and his eyes bulged. His blistering gaze seemed fixated on something over Langdon's shoulder. Before Langdon could turn to see what it was, he heard a woman's voice chime out behind him. "Excusez-moi, messieurs." Langdon turned to see a young woman approaching. She was moving down the corridor toward them with long, fluid strides... a haunting certainty to her gait. Dressed casually in a knee-length, cream-colored Irish sweater over black leggings, she was attractive and looked to be about thirty. Her thick burgundy hair fell unstyled to her shoulders, framing the warmth of her face. Unlike the waifish, cookie-cutter blondes that adorned Harvard dorm room walls, this woman was healthy with an unembellished beauty and genuineness that radiated a striking personal confidence. 36 To Langdon's surprise, the woman walked directly up to him and extended a polite hand. "Monsieur Langdon, I am Agent Neveu from DCPJ's Cryptology Department." Her words curved richly around her muted Anglo-Franco accent. "It is a pleasure to meet you." Langdon took her soft palm in his and felt himself momentarily fixed in her strong gaze. Her eyes were olive-green-incisive and clear. Fache drew a seething inhalation, clearly preparing to launch into a reprimand. "Captain," she said, turning quickly and beating him to the punch, "please excuse the interruption, but-" "Ce n'est pas le moment!" Fache sputtered. "I tried to phone you." Sophie continued in English, as if out of courtesy to Langdon. "But your cell phone was turned off." "I turned it off for a reason," Fache hissed. "I am speaking to Mr. Langdon." "I've deciphered the numeric code," she said flatly. Langdon felt a pulse of excitement. She broke the code? Fache looked uncertain how to respond. "Before I explain," Sophie said, "I have an urgent message for Mr. Langdon." Fache's expression turned to one of deepening concern. "For Mr. Langdon?" She nodded, turning back to Langdon. "You need to contact the U.S. Embassy, Mr. Langdon. They have a message for you from the States." Langdon reacted with surprise, his excitement over the code giving way to a sudden ripple of concern. A message from the States? He tried to imagine who could be trying to reach him. Only a few of his colleagues knew he was in Paris. Fache's broad jaw had tightened with the news. "The U.S. Embassy?" he demanded, sounding suspicious. "How would they know to find Mr. Langdon here?" Sophie shrugged. "Apparently they called Mr. Langdon's hotel, and the concierge told them Mr. Langdon had been collected by a DCPJ agent." Fache looked troubled. "And the embassy contacted DCPJ Cryptography?" "No, sir," Sophie said, her voice firm. "When I called the DCPJ switchboard in an attempt to contact you, they had a message waiting for Mr. Langdon and asked me


to be in readiness to receive the lily maid. For a few minutes Anne, drifting slowly down, enjoyed the romance of her situation to the full. Then something happened not at all romantic. The flat began to leak. In a very few moments it was necessary for Elaine to scramble to her feet, pick up her cloth of gold coverlet and pall of blackest samite and gaze blankly at a big crack in the bottom of her barge through which the water was literally pouring. That sharp stake at the landing had torn off the strip of batting nailed on the flat. Anne did not know this, but it did not take her long to realize that she was in a dangerous plight. At this rate the flat would fill and sink long before it could drift to the lower headland. Where were the oars? Left behind at the landing! Anne gave one gasping little scream which nobody ever heard; she was white to the lips, but she did not lose her self-possession. There was one chance-just one. "I was horribly frightened," she told Mrs. Allan the next day, "and it seemed like years while the flat was drifting down to the bridge and the water rising in it every moment. I prayed, Mrs. Allan, most earnestly, but I didn't shut my eyes to pray, for I knew the only way God could save me was to let the flat float close enough to one of the bridge piles for me to climb up on it. You know the piles are just old tree trunks and there are lots of knots and old branch stubs on them. It was proper to pray, but I had to do my part by watching out and right well I knew it. I just said, `Dear God, please take the flat close to a pile and I'll do the rest,' over and over again. Under such circumstances you don't think much about making a flowery prayer. But mine was answered, for the flat bumped right into a pile for a minute and I flung the scarf and the shawl over my shoulder and scrambled up on a big providential stub. And there I was, Mrs. Allan, clinging to that slippery old pile with no way of getting up or down. It was a very unromantic position, but I didn't think about that at the time. You don't think much about romance when you have just escaped from a watery grave. I said a grateful prayer at once and then I gave all my attention to holding on tight, for I knew I should probably have to depend on human aid to get back to dry land." The flat drifted under the bridge and then promptly sank in midstream. Ruby, Jane, and Diana, already awaiting it on the lower headland, saw it disappear before their very eyes and had not a doubt but that Anne had gone down with it. For a moment they stood still, white as sheets, frozen with horror at the tragedy; then, shrieking


mum. When I was at school, I’d be wishing she’d act like the other mums, pick me up from school, make me dinner, help with homework, and sometimes it looked like she’d changed, but it never lasted ’cos you can’t pretend to be someone you’re not for very long. So don’t waste your time wishing for it, because it’s not anything you’re doing wrong, yeah?” James sighs. “Mum and I really just left you from young and I think about that a lot now. The family and our house would have collapsed years ago if it weren’t for you looking after Dad and paying the bills, and you did all that from the heart, ’cos I know we didn’t act grateful. I could never; I don’t have that in me, man. I’m thankful for you, Mads, and I’m sorry, for … for a lot of things. For everything. But Dad loved you, you know.” “You were barely there,” I say. “How can you be sure?” “It’s like you said—he always smiled at you. When it was just me and him, he was cool, but he’d always ask, ‘Is Maddie home?’ and then not say a lot after. You made him feel safe, maybe—I don’t know. More than I did, anyway.” Hearing James say it like this makes me feel proud, comforted. All the years I spent at home weren’t for nothing. I made Dad happy in a world that likely didn’t make much sense to him. “I hope I can do better for you now, when you need help,” James says. “Help with what?” “Anything,” he says, undeterred. “See what comes up.” There’s one more pause before, “Mum told me about you going to therapy and I think it’s great, Mads. Please keep going. Especially since it’s free.” One more shoulder squeeze, then he looks at his shoes. “I … I love you, yeah?” My lip wobbles and I have to swallow to keep my voice steady. “I love you, too.” * * * When the grave is filled, we put our flowers on top. James lifts the heavy ones and won’t leave until they’re all positioned well on the uneven ground. I’m the last in the line to leave and I turn round for one more look at the mound of flower-adorned earth. “Bye, Dad,” I say. “I love you, okay?” * * * Auntie Mabel calls hours later in the evening when I’m lying on Mum’s bed alone. “What you have to remember, Baaba, is who looked after him when Mum was in Ghana and James was never in the house?” I answer, “Me.” “That’s right,” she says, “and he was grateful. No parent wants to rely on their children, but your father was so grateful to have you. Whenever I mentioned your name, I did not even finish my sentence before he would smile. You were so true about that. It is a sad day, but never forget what I said, do you hear?” “Thank you.” * * * In the living room, I trail a black bin bag


prey to wander by.” “If he’s wounded —” I begin. “It won’t matter,” Peeta breaks in. “If he can move, he’s coming.” With all the rain, the stream has overrun its banks by sev- eral feet on either side. We stop there to replenish our water. I check the snares I set days ago and come up empty. Not sur- prising with the weather. Besides, I haven’t seen many ani- mals or signs of them in this area. “If we want food, we better head back up to my old hunting grounds,” I say. “Your call. Just tell me what you need me to do,” Peeta says. “Keep an eye out,” I say. “Stay on the rocks as much as poss- ible, no sense in leaving him tracks to follow. And listen for both of us.” It’s clear, at this point, that the explosion de- stroyed the hearing in my left ear for good. I’d walk in the water to cover our tracks completely, but I’m not sure Peeta’s leg could take the current. Although the drugs have erased the infection, he’s still pretty weak. My forehead hurts along the knife cut, but after three days the bleeding has 309 stopped. I wear a bandage around my head though, just in case physical exertion should bring it back. As we head up alongside the stream, we pass the place where I found Peeta camouflaged in the weeds and mud. One good thing, between the downpour and the flooded banks, all signs of his hiding place have been wiped out. That means that, if need be, we can come back to our cave. Otherwise, I wouldn’t risk it with Cato after us. The boulders diminish to rocks that eventually turn to peb- bles, and then, to my relief, we’re back on pine needles and the gentle incline of the forest floor. For the first time, I realize we have a problem. Navigating the rocky terrain with a bad leg — well, you’re naturally going to make some noise. But even on the smooth bed of needles, Peeta is loud. And I mean loud loud, as if he’s stomping his feet or something. I turn and look at him. “What?” he asks. “You’ve got to move more quietly,” I say. “Forget about Ca- to, you’re chasing off every rabbit in a ten-mile radius.” “Really?” he says. “Sorry, I didn’t know.” So, we start up again and he’s a tiny bit better, but even with only one working ear, he’s making me jump. “Can you take your boots off?” I suggest. “Here?” he asks in disbelief, as if I’d asked him to walk bare- foot on hot coals or something. I have to remind myself that he’s still not used to the woods, that it’s the scary, forbidden place beyond the fences of District 12. I think of Gale, with his velvet tread. It’s eerie how little sound he makes, even when 310 the leaves have fallen and it’s a challenge to move at all with- out chasing off the game. I feel certain he’s


this trip.” “I’m sure it’s going to be great.” Dan squeezed my hand as we walked through the gate, both of us already on the lookout for my family. At twenty-two and twenty-three, we looked like college kids returning home, though it was the wrong time of year for that. We had married the previous summer, having not so much overcome as outlasted his parents’ objections over how young we were. This was his first trip to Oregon, and I was very aware that we were doing things in the wrong, or at least unexpected, order. Shouldn’t he have been home with me before now? But unlike his home, mine was so far away, and so hard to get back to, even when I wanted to go. My parents were waiting for us on the other side of the security doors. “You made it!” Mom said, as she always did when I landed. She meant you made it through your flights, and also you made it through however long it’s been since your last visit. She looked much the same as she had the last time I’d seen her, though her hair, once copper-red, now reddish-brown, was growing out from the pixie cut she’d had at my wedding. It was my father that I surveyed with an anxiety I tried not to let on. His dark hair had gone gray years ago, like that of all the men in his family, and his blue eyes were alight with happiness as my parents tackled us with hugs, but did he look more careworn than he had the last time we’d seen him? Before this trip, Mom told me that he’d been experiencing some health problems, “complications” from his diabetes—I thought she had mentioned his thyroid, too—but at first glance he seemed all right, steady on his feet as we moved toward the airport’s only baggage carousel. Anyone looking at our group might have assumed that Dan was my parents’ child. Not that he looked much like either of them with his mother’s thick dark hair and easy grin, though at a hair under six feet, he was exactly my dad’s height—it was just that I looked nothing like any of them. I made my habitual survey of the room as we waited for our suitcases. As I’d expected, I was the only Asian in sight. * * * “The Jesuit missionaries didn’t only see themselves as bringing the Catholic faith to Indigenous people, but ‘civilizing’ them. What does that really mean, to ‘civilize’ someone?” our professor asked, looking around the seminar table. After a pause, I said, “To make them more like you.” I was the only freshman in a roomful of upperclassmen, and still found the rapid-fire discussion somewhat intimidating; my papers were well written, the professor had told me, but I should learn to speak up more often in class. Now he nodded at me, and I thought I read a trace of approval in the half smile accompanying his “yes.” In another class, the professor asked each of us to


me. “I think she likes sex already.” Christian frowns. “Really?” he says dryly. He moves so his lips are against my bump. “There’ll be none of that until you’re thirty, young lady.” I giggle. “Oh, Christian, you are such a hypocrite.” “No, I’m an anxious father.” He gazes up at me, his brow furrowed, betraying his anxiety. “You’re a wonderful father, as I knew you would be.” I caress his lovely face, and he gives me his shy smile. “I like this,” he murmurs, stroking then kissing my belly. “There’s more of you.” I pout. “I don’t like more of me.” “It’s great when you come.” “Christian!” “And I’m looking forward to the taste of breast milk again.” “Christian! You are such a kinky—” 511/551 He swoops on me suddenly, kissing me hard, throwing his leg over mine, and grabbing my hands so they are above my head. “You love the kinky fuckery,” he whispers, and he runs his nose down mine. I grin, caught in his infectious, wicked smile. “Yes, I love the kinky fuckery. And I love you. Very much.” I jerk awake, woken by a high-pitched squeal of delight from my son, and even though I can’t see him or Christian, I grin like an idiot with my glee. Ted has woken from his nap, and he and Christian are romping nearby. I lie quietly, still marveling at Christian’s capacity for play. His patience with Teddy is extraordin- ary—much more so than with me. I snort. But then, that’s how it should be. And my beautiful little boy, the apple of his mother and father’s eyes, knows no fear. Christian, on the other hand, is still too overprotective—of both of us. My sweet, mercurial, controlling Fifty. “Let’s find Mommy. She’s here in the meadow somewhere.” Ted says something I don’t hear, and Christian laughs freely, happily. It’s a magical sound, filled with his paternal joy. I can’t resist. I struggle up onto my el- bows to spy on them from my hiding place in the long grass. Christian is swinging Ted around and around, making him squeal once more in delight. He stops, launches him high into the air—I stop breathing—then he catches him. Ted shrieks with childish abandon and I breathe a sigh of relief. Oh my little man, my darling little man, always on the go. “ ‘Gain, Daddy!” he squeals. Christian obliges, and my heart leaps into my mouth once more as he tosses Teddy into the air then catches him again, clutching him close. Christian kisses Ted’s copper-colored hair, and blows a kiss on his 512/551 cheek, then tickles him mercilessly for a moment. Teddy howls with laughter, squirming and pushing against Christian’s chest, wanting out of his arms. Grin- ning, Christian sets him on the ground. “Let’s find Mommy. She’s hiding in the grass.” Ted beams, enjoying the game, and looks around the meadow. Grasping Christian’s hand, he points to somewhere I’m not, and it makes me giggle. I lie back down quickly, delighting in this game. “Ted, I heard Mommy. Did you hear


schizophrenic sister or bipolar mother or uncle they lost to suicide and they decided to find a cure out of their noblesse oblige. Like, fuck being noble, you know?” I nodded. I knew the feeling all too well. “So why are you here?” Orson shouted over the music. “If you don’t mind me asking?” Mack laughed bitterly. “My parents. Typical first-gen shit. I pushed myself to succeed, got in, got here, felt like a complete fucking fool.” He looked up from his stirring with a crooked smile. “But they’re right about one thing: Stanford means money. I figure I mortgage my existence to this place for a few years, drag myself through classes here, and then I coast.” “It’s a good plan,” I said. “I think the hard work’s going to pay off,” Orson said. We talked our way into Mack’s lab, where he showed us biofeedback machines and epidermal heat sensors and MRI scanners. He was investigating transcranial magnetic stimulation, which was essentially the use of magnets to cure depression. He joked that he wanted to strap the magnets to his own head, maybe stimulate some of his own deadbeat cells. “So this is the magic bullet?” Orson asked, inspecting a pair of magnetic coils that looked like old-fashioned film reels stacked close together. “Yeah,” Mack said, switching the wad of gum he was chewing to the other side of his mouth. “You want to try it?” Orson gamely strapped on the little cotton cap and sat back in what could have been a dentist’s chair while Mack positioned the coils over his head, loudly smacking his gum the entire time. “You’re going to feel something,” Mack said, smiling. “Or not.” “Hit me,” Orson said. The machine hummed and Orson closed his eyes. “Does it take long?” I asked. “It takes a little while,” Mack said. “We do it for a lot longer on depressed patients.” Orson was silent, his eyes still closed. After what felt like far too long, Mack switched off the coils and Orson’s eyes popped open. “Damn,” he breathed. “That shit really does work.” “You’ll feel better and better,” Mack said. “Something about electromagnetic induction.” The words “transcranial magnetic stimulation” sounded intelligent and the process was just obscure enough that we could impress outsiders with our knowledge of it. Orson had grown bored of the Palo Alto bars, so I took Mack out for two rounds of drinks and told him about Synthesis and that Orson and I wanted to develop a machine that could deliver what I called “portable intracranial bliss.” “So you want wearable magnets, you’re saying?” Mack asked. “Yes.” I raised my finger for another round. “And we want some kind of user interface that alerts the wearer to the state or quality of their bliss.” “Right, right.” He rubbed his cheeks vigorously, possibly concerned about having lost the feeling in them. “If you could help us with a, um, convincing model? We can pay you.” Mack agreed, so we borrowed $600,000 from Carol and paid him to design the Bliss-Mini. When it came


Ethan taking the case is a good thing. You can help convince him of my innocence, tell him how genuinely distraught I was at the hospital yesterday. You see a lot of grieving spouses.” He steps back. “I mean, it’s not like he suspects anything about us. Right?” Goosebumps form on Sloane’s arms beneath her wet running jacket as she shakes her head. Brody waves his hand through the air. “Of course, he doesn’t. You said he’s never even home. So, here’s what we’ll do.” Sloane glances across the street. Brody closes the small gap between them. “Find out as much as you can about the investigation and keep me informed. We’ll stay one step ahead.” Sloane nods. “Okay. And you’ll make sure Ethan doesn’t find any evidence of our affair?” “Of course. Once they’ve ruled it an accident, you can leave Ethan. And we can be free to start our life together. A family.” He brings his hand to her chin, and it takes all her willpower not to spit in his face. “Don’t call me for now. It’s too risky; Ethan might see it. I’ll get another phone. Send you a text so you have the number.” She braces for Brody to kiss her, but he backs away. “Everything’s going to be fine, love.” Sloane wants to scoff at his words as she watches him stride through the rain toward his Maserati. “Brody?” He looks over his shoulder when he reaches his driver’s door. “Stay safe.” A smile plays at his lips as repulsion slithers down her spine. “They’re not going to get me, Sloane. I love you.” After he climbs into his car, Sloane breaks into a run. In the street beside her, the Maserati makes a U-turn before speeding away down the neighborhood street. Sloane watches Brody’s car disappear around a bend and picks up her pace. Brody might think he’s invincible, but he doesn’t know Ethan. There’s no way he’s going to let Brody get away with Chelsea’s murder. Sloane has no doubt Ethan is already sure of Brody’s guilt. But is he sure of hers? Chapter 26 Ethan’s leg jiggles beneath his desk. He clicks through photos of Brody Carr with Mason Hachette that were attached to a recent news article, while he waits for the FBI investigator who brought charges against Hachette to return his call. Carr denied knowing the passcode for Chelsea’s phone, so they’d had to use her fingerprint to unlock it before sending it to TESU, their technical electronic support unit. No incriminating photos of Carr were found after the initial data extraction of Chelsea’s phone and laptop, which Ethan suspects Carr deleted after Chelsea died. TESU was still in the process of trying to recover any deleted files from her cloud storage account. After Ethan went home to see Sloane’s reaction to the investigation into Chelsea’s death, he and Jonah conducted a search of Chelsea’s Belltown apartment, along with a CSI team, which hadn’t yielded much. Contrary to her husband’s claims, there were no drugs. Thinking about Carr carrying on an


take action. How would the men of your neighborhood act if a local eccentric came running to them wildly for help? Of course, the men get bogged down in another silly quarrel, over whether the farrier can serve as a deputy. (As a veterinarian, he usually puts on airs of being a doctor, and doctors are traditionally excused from constables' duties.) Imagine Silas sitting there, shivering and waiting for them to resolve this dispute. How would you feel in his place? ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 8 The other side of Raveloe--the gentry's world--seems unconnected to the goings-on at the Rainbow. Eliot briefly mentions Godfrey, returning from his party to find that Dunstan hasn't come home. This doesn't seem very important. In the morning, however, Godfrey is swept up in the news about Silas, just as everyone else in town is. Think about hometown crime cases that are covered on your local television news. They unfold with new evidence daily. This is what happens in Raveloe. A tinder-box is discovered near the stonepit, and people argue over whether it's a useful piece of evidence. Eliot reports the tides of gossip with irony. Everyone has his or her own theory of the case. Mr. Macey thinks the Devil stole the gold, but when Mr. Tookey says constables shouldn't investigate the Devil's crimes, Macey has to defend the authority of constables. Mr. Snell's theory is that a gypsy peddler he saw a month ago was the thief. The other constables respond to this theory eagerly--aliens like gypsies are logical criminal suspects to them. Somehow, the question of whether the gypsy was wearing earrings becomes crucial. Everybody in town has a different opinion; they all feel it's their duty to solve the mystery. And of course all this discussion takes place at the Rainbow, giving the men an excuse to congregate there. Silas would like to believe the peddler is the thief, but he's too honest to invent incriminating stories as everybody else has. The villagers, however, ignore Silas' testimony clearing the peddler, preferring their own stories. How do you think Silas regards all this activity? At this point, Godfrey appears at the Rainbow. Like Silas, he's out of key with the Raveloe mania--he recalls that the peddler wasn't evil at all. Then he rides away from the village. While there's a public uproar over Silas' robbery, Godfrey investigates his own robbery privately. Eliot switches from ironic commentary to direct dramatization now, recording Godfrey's restless thoughts as he rides along. When Godfrey meets Dunstan's friend Bryce, Bryce tells him what happened the other day at the hunt. Bryce is surprised to hear that Dunstan hasn't come home, but he doesn't seem concerned. (Compare this to how seriously the Raveloe villagers take Silas' mishap.) Godfrey isn't as cool and controlled as Bryce, though he tries to be. Because you're inside his thoughts, you can feel his sense of impending doom. NOTE: LUCK Bryce tells Godfrey that Dunstan is a "lucky" fellow--meaning, ironically, that Dunsey's unlucky because he killed Wildfire. Yet Godfrey sees Dunstan as lucky, because he