and me.” “I spoke at length with Mr. Grey this morning. He’s very relieved. Interesting man, your husband.” You have no idea. “Yes, I think so.” I offer him a polite smile, and he knows he’s being dismissed. “If you think of anything, you can call me. Here’s my card.” He wrestles a card out of his wallet and hands it to me. “Thank you, detective. I’ll do that.” 225/551 “Good day to you, Mrs. Grey.” “Good day.” As he leaves, I wonder exactly what Hyde has been charged with. No doubt Christian won’t tell me. I purse my lips. We ride in silence to Escala. Sawyer is driving this time, Prescott at his side, and my heart grows heavier and heavier as we head back. I know Christian and I are going to have an almighty fight, and I don’t know if I have the energy. As I ride in the elevator from the garage with Prescott beside me, I try to mar- shal my thoughts. What do I want to say? I think I said it all in my e-mail. Perhaps he’ll give me some answers. I hope so. I can’t help my nerves. My heart is pound- ing, my mouth is dry, and my palms are sweaty. I don’t want to fight. But some- times he’s so difficult, and I need to stand my ground. The elevator doors slide open, revealing the foyer, and it’s once more neat and tidy. The table is upright and a new vase is in place with a gorgeous array of pale pink and white peonies. I quickly check the paintings as we wander through—the Madonnas all look to be intact. The broken foyer door is fixed and operational once more, and Prescott kindly opens it for me. She’s been so quiet today. I think I prefer her this way. I drop my briefcase in the hall and head into the great room. I stop. Holy fuck. “Good evening, Mrs. Grey,” Christian says softly. He’s standing by the pi- ano, dressed in a tight black T-shirt, and jeans . . . those jeans—the ones he wore in the playroom. Oh my. They are over washed pale-blue denim, snug, ripped at the knee and hot. He saunters over to me, his feet bare, the top button of the jeans undone, his smoldering eyes never leaving mine. “Good to have you home. I’ve been waiting for you.” “Have you now?” I whisper. My mouth goes drier still, my heart pounding in my chest. Why’s he dressed like this? What does it mean? Is he still sulking? “I have.” His voice is kitten soft, but he’s smirking as he strolls closer to me. Holy crap he looks hot—his jeans hanging that way from his hips. Oh no, I’m not going to be distracted by Mr. Sex-on-Legs. I try to gauge his mood as he stalks toward me. Angry? Playful? Lustful? Gah! It’s impossible to tell. “I like your jeans,” I murmur. He grins a disarming wolfish grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. Shit—he’s still mad. He’s wearing


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

have a choice. They knew about Cedric.” Her fingers were already numb from being tied behind her. But Val’s words were enough to make that numbness spread up her spine, through her chest. Val finally looked at her. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “Mouse, I—” “Don’t call me that.” Tunnel mouse, Val had called her when she was young, for her hair that couldn’t decide whether it was brown or blond and landed somewhere indiscriminate, for the place where Mari had found her, at the mouth of the catacombs. Even after Lore grew up, she was still mouse. “Does Mari know? Did she decide that a contract was worth killing me for, too?” Val’s chapped lips pressed flat, her eyes blinking closed before opening again. “I’ll explain to Mari,” she said quietly. “She’ll understand.” “Good for her.” The break in Lore’s voice was too raw to hide. “Because I sure as fuck don’t.” Val sighed. A pause, then she walked over, crouched next to the chair. She raised a hand like she would smooth Lore’s hair away, but Lore jerked her head back. “I know what this looks like,” Val said softly. “But, Lore, this could be an opportunity. This will keep you safer than Mari and I ever could.” Lore didn’t say anything. She stared straight ahead, until the colors in the tapestry whirled together in her wet eyes. Finally, Val stepped away. The door shut softly behind her. “For what it’s worth,” the Priest Exalted said, coming to sit before her in the chair Gabriel hastily provided, “none of us have lied to you. We don’t want to hurt you, Lore.” “Then what do you want?” Her voice still sounded scraped-up, like her throat was made of rock. Lore swallowed. A smile crinkled the handsome side of Anton’s face. “We need assistance,” he said. “And it appears you’re the only one who can provide it.” CHAPTER FOUR The one who can stab you quickest is the one to whom you give a knife. —Kirythean proverb Lore paused. Then she laughed. It was a rough and rasping sound, her mouth still dry from the cotton gag. Lore hung her head and laughed until it ran the risk of becoming a sob. “My help?” She shook her head, though it made her temples throb. The chloroform had knocked loose a bitch of a headache, worse than any hangover. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, priest, but wanting help from an unsanctioned Mortem wielder is more than a little light heresy.” Anton’s expression was almost amused, at least on the side of his face that could show expression. “Heresy can be forgiven, when it’s for the greater good.” Behind Anton, Malcolm still stood with his scarred arms crossed, face unreadable. But at the word heresy, the line of Gabriel’s mouth went flat. “The Bleeding God knows our plight and gives us benediction to do as we must in His service.” All this in a low, pleasing baritone, as if Anton was reciting a prayer. Maybe he was; the Book of Prayer


citing personal, religious, and business reasons, claiming he would be financially ruined as well as publicly embarrassed. In truth, Aldo had come out of it well, his brand of canned oysters catching national attention and distribution. Now, according to Kristi’s research, he was worth over ten times what he had been at the time of the messy divorce. Nonetheless he, like his ex-wife and her new husband, had been livid at the thought of a book being written putting his family in a bad light, and the scandal of his wife’s infidelity had been brutal enough without Kristi writing a book about it. A lifelong resident whose ancestors had immigrated to New Orleans centuries earlier, Aldo was adamant that no one, including Kristi Bentz, besmirch the Lucerno name. “Don’t even think about it,” he’d warned when she’d tried to interview him at his home, a huge, sprawling, plantation-style house on manicured grounds hidden behind a wall of a fence and a gate that only opened by electronic command. She’d been forced to stay in her car at the gate, but Aldo, at five foot ten or eleven with clipped dark hair, had emerged from the home, walked stiff-backed down the brick drive, and stared at her through the elaborate wrought iron gate. “If you print anything about my family,” he’d said, “I’ll have my attorneys ensure that not one word of your book ever gets published.” Kristi had refused to be intimidated. “We’ll see about that.” After a short exchange, she’d driven off and written what she’d seen as the truth driven by the facts of the case. All the threatened lawsuits never materialized. The book had been published and became a best seller. Of course Reggie had remarried quickly. Now she and Hamilton made their residence in a historic three-story home built by a famous architect in the 1880s. Completely renovated, but keeping all of its original charm, it claimed a private courtyard, pool, five bedrooms and five baths, and had been featured in several architectural and cultural magazines, the spreads including shots of the loving couple who owned the prestigious home. And it was only a few blocks from Kristi’s cottage, in a more prestigious part of the Garden District. She hadn’t realized he lived so close to her and the thought was disconcerting, but she shoved it aside. For now. So, what about his daughter? Lindsay? She’d been a child, preteen when she’d discovered her mother’s body. Kristi searched the Internet. After the second trial, Lindsay Cooke was barely mentioned in the press and seemed to be in college at a small school in the Midwest and avoiding the limelight that her father so adored. Kristi spent the next couple of hours reading articles about both Hamilton and Reggie Cooke, scrolling through one after another on her computer screen. She also checked out Hamilton Cooke’s social media accounts and Reggie Lucerno Cooke’s law firm’s Web site. Clicking through all the information on the couple, she saw photographs and watched short videos, all of which seemed slick and polished, as


market is at its worst, and you don’t know if there’ll be openings next year. Believe me, I can relate —” “Oh really? You can relate? With your long and arduous trek into STEM academia as a white, wealthy man?” He leans forward. His hand closes around my upper arm. “Do you think I’m happy about this?” “You got exactly what you wanted!” “I did.” His face hardens. “And a bunch of things I did not want, too.” “Oh yeah? Like what? Humiliating another theoretical physicist? Installing your girlfriend down the hall so you can get laid between classes —” “Enough.” I recoil. His voice is harsh, and it gives just enough pause to process the words that just tumbled out of me. Oh God. Oh my God. I know Georgina Sepulveda. I know her work. I know how incredibly shitty academia has always been to me, a woman in physics, and I just did the same to another woman in physics. A woman in physics whom I’ve admired for years. What the hell did I just do? Who the fuck is this person inside me? “I’m so sorry.” My hand flies to my mouth to muffle a sob. “I—I’m so, so sorry. It’s not even true. None of it. I’ve read her articles. She’s amazing and—” “It’s okay.” Jack’s expression is back to soft. Like I’m not the protocluster of all assholes. “No.” I shake my head. “No, she doesn’t deserve any of it, and—fuck. Fuck.” My throat burns with guilt and something that feels a lot like shame. My cheeks are icy and wet. Very wet. I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, but the tears keep coming. “Elsie, it’s okay. You have every right to be upset—” “No. It’s not okay. I’m being unreasonable and none of this is Georgina’s fault, and as terrible as you are, it’s not your fault, either. I’m the one who fucked up the interview, and—” Another sob. He heard this time. No way he didn’t. “You shouldn’t let me talk to you like this.” He is silent for a moment. Then I feel him take a step closer. He doesn’t touch me, but his coat brushes against mine, a muted, swishing sound. “I like it, actually.” I look up. There’s a faint smile on his lips. “You like being yelled at?” “I like to see you. When you’re not trying to be someone else.” I’m actually hiccuping, like a three-year-old with a bruised elbow at the monkey bars. I bite the inside of my cheek to make it stop, but it’s a lost battle. Like my entire stupid life. “I can’t imagine why.” “I like rare occurrences.” I need to leave. I can’t stand here, shivering, being snowed on in the middle of the sidewalk. With Jonathan Smith-Turner. Bawling like I’m on an onion farm. But crying my heart out and thoroughly humiliating myself in front of a professional rival takes up all my energy, which means I can’t leave. “It’s cold,” he says, like he’s reading my mind. “I


“Engaging in sexual intercourse?” “No. But as I said, their ankles were touching at the fountain.” It sounded so feeble. “Have your ankles ever touched the ankles of anyone you were not sexually involved with?” “Not in that particular way,” I managed. “And what was that particular way?” “Their legs were . . . entangled. And they were leaning together.” “And based on this one incident of their ankles touching—which you perceived from across a crowded public space—you assumed a sexual relationship?” “That was one of many indicators.” My voice was thin. It dawned on me, sickeningly, that my saying your name in court might make absolutely nothing happen. Whatever fire I started might be immediately squelched. “So based on this assumption, and based on your theory of these small marks in Thalia’s planner, you feel you could have contributed more to the initial investigation?” Could I have? Would I have managed, at eighteen, to say any of this to investigators—about periods, about sex with a teacher? Would I have implicated you, my favorite teacher, in a murder? But I knew the correct answer: “Yes.” “In fact this hearing has a lot to do with your intervention in the case, does it not?” “I can’t speak to that.” “You’ve certainly spoken plenty about the case publicly, haven’t you?” Liz was leaning into this, to the point that I was starting to think she genuinely hated me, that she’d never believed a word I’d said. “What I’ve spoken about publicly, and here in court, are the same things I knew in 1995, and these are the things I would have told investigators had I been asked.” I said this with a good show of the certainty I lacked. “That’s good,” Hector said. “Remember how you phrased that.” “But you were not asked,” Liz said. “Did you approach investigators with the information?” “No. I was sent to meet with them because I’d been Thalia’s roommate the previous year. But they didn’t ask about her love life. And I never saw the planner. Their focus was entirely on whether I knew anything about the night she died. And I hadn’t seen her that night, except onstage.” Hector nodded vigorously. Liz said, “It was on your suggestion that Britt Gwynne instigated the search of the athletic equipment shed on the Granby campus, was it not?” “Yes.” “That’s awfully specific. Did you suggest any other place to search?” “I suggested the equipment shed, the press box on top of that same building, and the bleachers serving the track and the lacrosse field, which used to be the football field.” “Those are all quite close together. You just happened to suggest that they look in the one place where there was indeed blood evidence?” My mouth fell open. I said, “Are they really going to do that?” Liz shrugged. “They could.” “But if they imply that I had some knowledge of what happened, wouldn’t that mean they definitely should have questioned me back in ’95?” “They could imply that the evidence was planted there later. Staged.” “That makes


everything but a sort of passion of tenderness for him was swept away by his presence. What I then and there took him to my heart for was something divine that I have never found to the same degree in any child-- his indescribable little air of knowing nothing in the world but love. It would have been impossible to carry a bad name with a greater sweetness of innocence, and by the time I had got back to Bly with him I remained merely bewildered--so far, that is, as I was not outraged-- by the sense of the horrible letter locked up in my room, in a drawer. As soon as I could compass a private word with Mrs. Grose I declared to her that it was grotesque. She promptly understood me. "You mean the cruel charge--?" "It doesn't live an instant. My dear woman, LOOK at him!" She smiled at my pretention to have discovered his charm. "I assure you, miss, I do nothing else! What will you say, then?" she immediately added. "In answer to the letter?" I had made up my mind. "Nothing." "And to his uncle?" I was incisive. "Nothing." "And to the boy himself?" I was wonderful. "Nothing." She gave with her apron a great wipe to her mouth. "Then I'll stand by you. We'll see it out." "We'll see it out!" I ardently echoed, giving her my hand to make it a vow. She held me there a moment, then whisked up her apron again with her detached hand. "Would you mind, miss, if I used the freedom--" "To kiss me? No!" I took the good creature in my arms and, after we had embraced like sisters, felt still more fortified and indignant. This, at all events, was for the time: a time so full that, as I recall the way it went, it reminds me of all the art I now need to make it a little distinct. What I look back at with amazement is the situation I accepted. I had undertaken, with my companion, to see it out, and I was under a charm, apparently, that could smooth away the extent and the far and difficult connections of such an effort. I was lifted aloft on a great wave of infatuation and pity. I found it simple, in my ignorance, my confusion, and perhaps my conceit, to assume that I could deal with a boy whose education for the world was all on the point of beginning. I am unable even to remember at this day what proposal I framed for the end of his holidays and the resumption of his studies. Lessons with me, indeed, that charming summer, we all had a theory that he was to have; but I now feel that, for weeks, the lessons must have been rather my own. I learned something-- at first, certainly--that had not been one of the teachings of my small, smothered life; learned to be amused, and even amusing, and not to think for the morrow. It was the first time, in


was too exhausted to remember any name but her own. “I understand that you’re praying,” she said. “But your voice gets too loud.” She waited, but the man did not protest. He stood still. He did not say a word or shut his mouth. There was nothing defiant in his stance, and it was clear to her that there would be no arguments, no need for threats about calling security to haul him out. This man was not standing his ground; he simply could not remember what to do with his body when he was not on his knees. “I’ve warned you several times.” In a whisper that she strained to hear, the praying man said, “Yèyé mi.” Wúràọlá was not sure if he was appealing to her with this honorific, or if he was indeed calling for his dead mother. Reaching for the comforts she might have given him once, asking her implicitly to save him, his brother or both of them. “I have to think about the other patients too,” Wúràọlá said. The man nodded, let go of the bed rail and began to walk away. She watched him amble towards the door, noticing for the first time that he favoured his left leg. Wúràọlá turned to the patient. Pulse—80 bpm. At the point where his wrist, wreathed with wrinkles that blended into his lifelines, was almost indistinguishable from his palm, the man’s skin was paper thin, flaking. She reached into her ward coat’s pocket—stick of gum, pen, gum, backup pen, notepad, more gum, hair ruffle—yes! She fished out the tiny bottle of hand sanitiser and squeezed some into her palm. As she massaged it into her skin, she noticed the praying man’s silver-rimmed spectacles by his brother’s feet. He must have taken them off while he was praying. Their lenses refracted light from a nearby bulb towards her. The rays hit her face, sharp like a rebuke. Maybe she should have let him stay. She imagined him wandering through hospital corridors, stumbling into walls, knocking over dustbins, falling into a gutter as he tried to find his way to the car park. She could have let him stay, but she suspected, even as she picked up the glasses and headed towards the door, that he never let his voice rise above a whisper when the doctor on call was a man. He probably would not have referred to any of the guys as “my dear.” She was almost sure. At the nurses’ station, the sleeping nurse had woken up and was yawning. “I am—” Wúràọlá pointed the glasses towards the door. “Call me if—” The nurses nodded. The corridor was empty, but dawn was still a couple of hours away, and even with the glasses, he probably would not have been able to leave the hospital yet. Most neighbourhoods, at least the type she imagined the praying man lived in, had self-imposed curfews that began after midnight and ended at dawn. Movement was allowed only in the intervening hours if there was a medical emergency. Several streets would be


I found that I was saving considerable sums of money. I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could earn 700 pounds a year--which is less than my average takings--but I had exceptional advantages in my power of making up, and also in a facility of repartee, which improved by practice and made me quite a recognized character in the City. All day a stream of pennies, varied by silver, poured in upon me, and it was a very bad day in which I failed to take 2 pounds. "As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country, and eventually married, without anyone having a suspicion as to my real occupation. My dear wife knew that I had business in the City. She little knew what. "Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw, to my horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street, with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the Lascar, entreated him to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and wig. Even a wife's eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But then it occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and that the clothes might betray me. I threw open the window, reopening by my violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was weighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it from the leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the window, and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would have followed, but at that moment there was a rush of constables up the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my relief, that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his murderer. "I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I was determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the Lascar at a moment when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear." "That note only reached her yesterday," said Holmes. "Good God! What a week she must have spent!" "The police have watched this Lascar," said Inspector Bradstreet, "and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter unobserved. Probably he handed it to some


Ocean View. A directory just inside the door helps me get my bearings. Waves wing on the left, Dunes wing on the right, common area straight ahead. I go right, moving down a hallway that smells like bleach, lemon air freshener, and just a hint of urine. At Room 111, I slow my pace. At Room 112, I adjust my nurse’s cap and smooth the skirt of my uniform. I then plaster a smile on my face and step into Room 113. The room is small but tidy. Decent enough to visit, but not a place you want to spend much time in. Berniece Mayhew, though, has spent years here. And it shows. Propped up by pillows and wearing a terrycloth robe, she has the look of someone who doesn’t get out much. Her hair is a shock of white, which stands in contrast to a face darkened by age spots. She’s got a flat nose, chubby cheeks, and a chin that’s nonexistent. In its place is a flap of loose skin that droops like a wet rag on a hook. It sways when she turns to glare at me. “Who are you?” “My name’s Kit.” The time for lying ended in the hallway. Now I have no choice but to tell her the truth. “I work for Lenora Hope.” “Are you her nurse?” “Something like that, yes.” Berniece turns back to the small TV sitting opposite the bed. Wheel of Fortune is on. My mother loved that show. “How’s Lenora doing?” she says. “Fine, all things considered.” She huffs with disappointment. “That’s a damn shame.” “Would it make you happy to know her whole body’s paralyzed except for her left hand?” Berniece Mayhew looks my way again, delight dancing in her eyes. “Is she suffering?” “I don’t think so,” I say. “I’d be happier if she was.” A wooden chair sits just inside the door. I drop onto it and place my medical bag on the floor. “That’s an interesting thing to say about the woman whose generosity keeps you here.” “Is that what you think it is?” Berniece says bitterly. “Generosity?” “The only other thing I can think of is hush money. My best guess is it’s so you wouldn’t tell anyone Lenora Hope was having an affair with your husband. Or is it because you saw something you weren’t supposed to see the night most of the Hope family was murdered?” Berniece Mayhew gives me a squinty-eyed look, as if seeing me for the very first time. “You’re a shrewd one, I’ll give you that. Bold, too. Just waltzing in here and saying something like that.” “It’s true, isn’t it?” “I didn’t say it wasn’t,” Berniece snaps. “Which one do you want to tell me about first?” “I’ve stayed silent since 1929. What makes you think I’m going to start blabbing now?” “Because someone else is dead.” Berniece’s eyes narrow. “Who?” “Lenora’s previous nurse,” I say. “A worker. Just like me. Just like you. I think she was murdered. And I think it has something to do with what


Muad'Dib who denied the conventions of his ducal past with a wave of the hand, saying merely: "I am the Kwisatz Haderach. That is reason enough. " -from "Arrakis Awakening" by the Princess Irulan It was to the Arrakeen governor's mansion, the old Residency the Atreides had first occupied on Dune, that they escorted Paul-Muad'Dib on the evening of his victory. The building stood as Rabban had restored it, virtually untouched by the fighting although there had been looting by townspeople. Some of the furnishings in the main hall had been overturned or smashed. Paul strode through the main entrance with Gurney Halleck and Stilgar a pace behind. Their escort fanned out into the Great Hall, straightening the place and clearing an area for Muad'Dib. One squad began investigating that no sly trap had been planted here. "I remember the day we first came here with your father," Gurney said. He glanced around at the beams and the high, slitted windows. "I didn't like this place then and I like it less now. One of our caves would be safer." "Spoken like a true Fremen," Stilgar said, and he marked the cold smile that his words brought to Muad'Dib's lips. "Will you reconsider, Muad'Dib?" "This place is a symbol," Paul said. "Rabban lived here. By occupying this place I seal my victory for all to understand. Send men through the building. Touch nothing. Just be certain no Harkonnen people or toys remain." "As you command," Stilgar said, and reluctance was heavy in his tone as he turned to obey. Communications men hurried into the room with their equipment, began setting up near the massive fireplace. The Fremen guard that augmented the surviving Fedaykin took up stations around the room. There was muttering among them, much darting of suspicious glances. This had been too long a place of the enemy for them to accept their presence in it casually. "Gurney, have an escort bring my mother and Chani," Paul said. "Does Chani know yet about our son?" "The message was sent, m'Lord." "Are the makers being taken out of the basin yet?" "Yes, m'Lord. The storm's almost spent." "What's the extent of the storm damage?" Paul asked. "In the direct path -- on the landing field and across the spice storage yards of the plain -- extensive damage," Gurney said. "As much from battle as from the storm." "Nothing money won't repair, I presume," Paul said. "Except for the lives, m'Lord," Gurney said, and there was a tone of reproach in his voice as though to say: "When did an Atreides worry first about things when people were at stake?" But Paul could only focus his attention on the inner eye and the gaps visible to him in the time-wall that still lay across his path. Through each gap the jihad raged away down the corridors of the future. He sighed, crossed the hall, seeing a chair against the wall. The chair had once stood in the dining hall and might even have held his own father. At the moment, though, it was


sake of lying. The other men, Bryce and Keating, however, understand what Dunstan's up to--they don't seem any better than he is. Maybe his vices are typical of this social class. Do you think Dunsey's an interesting Villain? Why? Dunstan wangles a high price for the horse, as he expected. But this good luck goes to his head. He doesn't do the sensible thing, which would be to deliver the horse safely right away. Instead, he takes Wildfire on the hunt. When he falls behind the other hunters, he rides recklessly. He pushes the horse to jump over a hedge, and Wildfire falls onto a sharp stake. The horse is killed, yet Dunstan doesn't even seem upset about this accident--he's just glad that no one was watching. He doesn't reflect that his luck has turned bad, or that he's to blame. All of his reasoning centers on what he can do next. He figures Godfrey won't be too angry because Dunstan has another plan--borrowing money from Silas--to offer him. He'd like to rent another horse to ride home, but since he hasn't got enough money, he convinces himself that it's a shorter route to go straight home. With a cocky air, he sets off, thinking about how he'll make people at the pub admire him when he boasts of how he walked all the way home. NOTE: WEATHER Notice the mist gathering here. It may remind you of scenes in movies in which swirling mist creates a sense of imminent danger. The mist in this chapter, however, also symbolizes Dunstan's confused sense of right and wrong. Eliot often uses weather to express a moral environment. This chapter, for example, started on a cold, wet morning, attuned to Dunstan's malicious mind. Watch the role that weather plays as the story moves on. Typically, Dunstan still thinks he's a lucky fellow, just because he's getting home without being seen. Yet he's surrounded by mist, rain, and darkness, and he stumbles along the road until a light shines out. (Note the darkness and light imagery again.) He realizes that it's Silas' cottage. Dunsey's half-baked plan for borrowing money from Silas has been growing in his dim mind as he walked. He decides to get started on it right now. Dunstan is surprised that the old weaver isn't home and that his door's unlocked. The brightness and warmth inside are inviting, though, so Dunstan walks in and makes himself at home. Dunstan, with upperclass prejudice, is surprised that Silas has pork roasting for dinner. Of course, this is out of character for Silas' reputation as a miser, but most poor folks back then couldn't afford meat more than once a week. Remember this when you see how the gentry eat. Eliot traces Dunstan's thinking step by step. He notices the pork roasting slowly, hung over the fire from a string attached to a door-key. Silas obviously has stepped out only for a moment. Dunstan thinks of the nearby stone-pit and leaps to the conclusion that Silas has fallen in. That would make it easy for him


it passed. The Hound did not touch the world. It carried its silence with it, so you could feel the silence building up a pressure behind you all across town. Montag felt the pressure rising, and ran. He stopped for breath, on his way to the river, to peer through dimly lit windows of wakened houses, and saw the silhouettes of people inside watching their parlour walls and there on the walls the Mechanical Hound, a breath of neon vapour, spidered along, here and gone, here and gone! Now at Elm Terrace, Lincoln, Oak, Park, and up the alley toward Faber's house. Go past, thought Montag, don't stop, go on, don't turn in! On the parlour wall, Faber's house, with its sprinkler system pulsing in the night air. The Hound paused, quivering. No! Montag held to the window sill. This way! Here! The procaine needle flicked out and in, out and in. A single clear drop of the stuff of dreams fell from the needle as it vanished in the Hound's muzzle. Montag held his breath, like a doubled fist, in his chest. The Mechanical Hound turned and plunged away from Faber's house down the alley again. Montag snapped his gaze to the sky. The helicopters were closer, a great blowing of insects to a single light source. With an effort, Montag reminded himself again that this was no fictional episode to be watched on his run to the river; it was in actuality his own chess-game he was witnessing, move by move. He shouted to give himself the necessary push away from this last house window, and the fascinating seance going on in there! Hell! and he was away and gone! The alley, a street, the alley, a street, and the smell of the river. Leg out, leg down, leg out and down. Twenty million Montags running, soon, if the cameras caught him. Twenty million Montags running, running like an ancient flickery Keystone Comedy, cops, robbers, chasers and the chased, hunters and hunted, he had seen it a thousand times. Behind him now twenty million silently baying Hounds ricocheted across parlours, three-cushion shooting from right wall to centre wall to left wall, gone, right wall, centre wall, left wall, gone ! Montag jammed his Seashell to his ear. "Police suggest entire population in the Elm Terrace area do as follows: Everyone in every house in every street open a front or rear door or look from the windows. The fugitive cannot escape if everyone in the next minute looks from his house. Ready! " Of course! Why hadn't they done it before! Why, in all the years, hadn't this game been tried! Everyone up, everyone out! He couldn't be missed! The only man running alone in the night city, the only man proving his legs! "At the count of ten now! One! Two!" He felt the city rise. Three . He felt the city turn to its thousands of doors. Faster! Leg up, leg down ! "Four ! " The people sleepwalking in their hallways. "Five! " He felt their hands


Last Front is entirely my original work, inspired by my conversations with Athena.” My voice keeps steady. I’m still terrified, but I feel like I’m on more solid footing, now that I know I’m not getting dropped by my publisher. They’re trying to help me. I just have to give them the right spin, and we can make this work. “And Mother Witch takes the first paragraph from one of Athena’s unpublished drafts, but otherwise it is entirely original to me as well. I write my own stuff, you guys. I promise.” A brief pause. Daniella glances at Todd, her left eyebrow arched high. “All right, then,” Todd says. “We’ll want this in writing, of course, but if that’s all you did, then . . . this is fairly containable.” “So can we make this go away?” Brett asks. Todd hesitates. “That’s really a question for publicity . . .” “Maybe I could put out a statement,” I say. “Or do, like, an interview. Clear everything up. Most of this is all misunderstandings—maybe if I just . . .” “I think what’s best for you right now is to focus on your next work,” Daniella says crisply. “Eden will put out a statement on your behalf. We’ll send it over for your approval this afternoon.” Emily chips in. “We all feel that in the meantime, it’s best that you, personally, stay off social media. But if you wanted to announce a new project, something you’re currently working on . . .” She trails off. I get the idea. Shut up, stay out of the spotlight, and prove you’re capable of writing your own books. Preferably something that has nothing to do with Athena fucking Liu. “What are you working on now?” Daniella prods. “Brett, I know it’s not under contract with us, but we do have the first look, so if there’s anything you can share with us . . .” “I’m working on it,” I say hoarsely. “Obviously this whole thing has been very distressing, so I’ve been distracted . . .” “But she’ll have something new soon,” Brett jumps in. “I’ll be in touch when she does. Does that sound good, everyone? Junie will fix that first paragraph ASAP, and I’ll circle back next week when we’ve got something shaped like a pitch?” Todd shrugs; his part in this is over. Daniella nods. We all exchange some niceties about how it’s good we could get on the line and clear all this up in person, and then Daniella kills the Zoom room. Brett rings me right after for a follow-up. “Do they hate me?” I ask miserably. “Is Daniella done with me?” “No, no.” He pauses. “Actually, it’s not as bad as it seems. Controversy of any sort is pretty good for free marketing. We’re expecting your royalties to go up in the next payment period.” “What, seriously?” “Well—so here’s the thing. We didn’t want to tell you over Zoom, but it seems like this whole fiasco got picked up by a lot of, um, well, right-wing commentators. Probably not


preserved his dignity without assuming importance, and Quesnel was depressed by his presence without exactly knowing wherefore. After some general conversation, St. Aubert requested to speak with him alone; and Emily, being left with Madame Quesnel, soon learned that a large party was invited to dine at the chateau, and was compelled to hear that nothing which was past and irremediable ought to prevent the festivity of the present hour. St. Aubert, when he was told that company were expected, felt a mixed emotion of disgust and indignation against the insensibility of Quesnel, which prompted him to return home immediately. But he was informed, that Madame Cheron had been asked to meet him; and, when he looked at Emily, and considered that a time might come when the enmity of her uncle would be prejudicial to her, he determined not to incur it himself, by conduct which would be resented as indecorous, by the very persons who now showed so little sense of decorum. Among the visitors assembled at dinner were two Italian gentlemen, of whom one was named Montoni, a distant relation of Madame Quesnel, a man about forty, of an uncommonly handsome person, with features manly and expressive, but whose countenance exhibited, upon the whole, more of the haughtiness of command, and the quickness of discernment, than of any other character. Signor Cavigni, his friend, appeared to be about thirty--inferior in dignity, but equal to him in penetration of countenance, and superior in insinuation of manner. Emily was shocked by the salutation with which Madame Cheron met her father--'Dear brother,' said she, 'I am concerned to see you look so very ill; do, pray, have advice!' St. Aubert answered, with a melancholy smile, that he felt himself much as usual; but Emily's fears made her now fancy that her father looked worse than he really did. Emily would have been amused by the new characters she saw, and the varied conversation that passed during dinner, which was served in a style of splendour she had seldom seen before, had her spirits been less oppressed. Of the guests, Signor Montoni was lately come from Italy, and he spoke of the commotions which at that period agitated the country; talked of party differences with warmth, and then lamented the probable consequences of the tumults. His friend spoke with equal ardour, of the politics of his country; praised the government and prosperity of Venice, and boasted of its decided superiority over all the other Italian states. He then turned to the ladies, and talked with the same eloquence, of Parisian fashions, the French opera, and French manners; and on the latter subject he did not fail to mingle what is so particularly agreeable to French taste. The flattery was not detected by those to whom it was addressed, though its effect, in producing submissive attention, did not escape his observation. When he could disengage himself from the assiduities of the other ladies, he sometimes addressed Emily: but she knew nothing of Parisian fashions, or Parisian operas; and her modesty, simplicity, and correct manners


check himself, but drove in upon Spitz, shoulder to shoulder, so hard that he missed the throat. They rolled over and over in the powdery snow. Spitz gained his feet almost as though he had not been overthrown, slashing Buck down the shoulder and leaping clear. Twice his teeth clipped together, like the steel jaws of a trap, as he backed away for better footing, with lean and lifting lips that writhed and snarled. In a flash Buck knew it. The time had come. It was to the death. As they circled about, snarling, ears laid back, keenly watchful for the advantage, the scene came to Buck with a sense of familiarity. He seemed to remember it all,--the white woods, and earth, and moonlight, and the thrill of battle. Over the whiteness and silence brooded a ghostly calm. There was not the faintest whisper of air--nothing moved, not a leaf quivered, the visible breaths of the dogs rising slowly and lingering in the frosty air. They had made short work of the snowshoe rabbit, these dogs that were ill-tamed wolves; and they were now drawn up in an expectant circle. They, too, were silent, their eyes only gleaming and their breaths drifting slowly upward. To Buck it was nothing new or strange, this scene of old time. It was as though it had always been, the wonted way of things. Spitz was a practised fighter. From Spitzbergen through the Arctic, and across Canada and the Barrens, he had held his own with all manner of dogs and achieved to mastery over them. Bitter rage was his, but never blind rage. In passion to rend and destroy, he never forgot that his enemy was in like passion to rend and destroy. He never rushed till he was prepared to receive a rush; never attacked till he had first defended that attack. In vain Buck strove to sink his teeth in the neck of the big white dog. Wherever his fangs struck for the softer flesh, they were countered by the fangs of Spitz. Fang clashed fang, and lips were cut and bleeding, but Buck could not penetrate his enemy's guard. Then he warmed up and enveloped Spitz in a whirlwind of rushes. Time and time again he tried for the snow-white throat, where life bubbled near to the surface, and each time and every time Spitz slashed him and got away. Then Buck took to rushing, as though for the throat, when, suddenly drawing back his head and curving in from the side, he would drive his shoulder at the shoulder of Spitz, as a ram by which to overthrow him. But instead, Buck's shoulder was slashed down each time as Spitz leaped lightly away. Spitz was untouched, while Buck was streaming with blood and panting hard. The fight was growing desperate. And all the while the silent and wolfish circle waited to finish off whichever dog went down. As Buck grew winded, Spitz took to rushing, and he kept him staggering for footing. Once Buck went over, and the whole circle of


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

Felicity’s bio is frustratingly lacking in personal details. Wikipedia isn’t any more helpful. “Is she single?” “If you date her and break her in some way and I don’t get her next book, I may have to kill you.” “I don’t want to date her, Nat.” “Do you want to date anyone? You don’t have to live like a monk, you know.” “This again.” “The thing with Stevie walking in—” I stick two fingers in my mouth and let out a sharp whistle. “Yellow card, Garcia.” Nat bursts out laughing. This little troublemaker knows I am legitimately scarred after four-year-old Stevie walked in on me going fully at it with a date’s ankles on my shoulders. It was the first and last time I had someone over while Stevie was staying at my place, and I’m not sure I’ll ever recover. I swear I am only waiting for the day that memory surfaces and my daughter can never look me in the eye again. “Sorry,” Nat says, sounding not sorry at all. “Just put a bell on her door. Works like a charm.” I hook a thumb over my shoulder at the computer monitor. “Can we focus?” Her eyes drift past me to Felicity’s face on the screen. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure she’s single. She’s talked about dating in past interviews. Why?” “I want her for a show.” Nat’s eyebrows drift upward. “Like a documentary on romance and feminism or something?” I laugh. “No.” “What’s the laugh about?” she asks, scowling. Careful, I think. Nat has busted me in the past for giving her shit about the kind of books she reads. I don’t want to step on a land mine here when I need her help. “Sorry, no, it’s just that I might be making a dating show.” Her eyes widen. “A—what? What is North Star’s brand? Sitcoms and Lifetime movies, to environmental documentaries, and now dating shows?” “It’s Blaine,” I say by way of explanation, and Natalia requires nothing more. Blaine bounces from one thing to another, depending on who’s currently got his ear, and right now—understandably—it’s the executives holding the purse strings. Odds are good I was hired because a now-ex-wife was worried about marine mammals. “And nothing’s set in stone yet, just exploring some options.” I don’t want both of us worrying about this, so I change the subject. “How’s Insu?” “Wonderful,” she says, draping herself across the couch in the exact way our daughter would. “He’s taking me to dinner tomorrow night for our anniversary.” “Oh cool, did he get his driver’s license?” I grin at her. “They grow up so fast.” In truth, I like Insu—he’s far more mature than I was at that age, he adores Natalia, and Stevie likes him, too—but I’m not going to pass up a chance to take the piss a bit. “You know he’s only seven years younger than you.” “Which would also make him eight years younger than you. I hope you’re locking up the drinks cupboard.” A cushion connects with the side of my head just as Stevie


stripped, and striped from head to heel with black mud, like so many zebras -- all of them chiefs, of course -- and then they went tearing through the woods to attack an English settlement. --------------------------------------------------------- -172- By and by they separated into three hostile tribes, and darted upon each other from ambush with dreadful war-whoops, and killed and scalped each other by thousands. It was a gory day. Consequently it was an extremely satisfactory one. They assembled in camp toward supper-time, hungry and happy; but now a difficulty arose -- hostile Indians could not break the bread of hospitality together without first making peace, and this was a simple impossibility without smoking a pipe of peace. There was no other process that ever they had heard of. Two of the savages almost wished they had remained pirates. However, there was no other way; so with such show of cheerfulness as they could muster they called for the pipe and took their whiff as it passed, in due form. And behold, they were glad they had gone into savagery, for they had gained something; they found that they could now smoke a little without having to go and hunt for a lost knife; they did not get sick enough to be seriously uncomfortable. They were not likely to fool away this high promise for lack of effort. No, they practised cautiously, after supper, with right fair success, and so they spent a jubilant evening. They were prouder and happier in their new acquirement than they would have been in the scalping and skinning of the Six Nations. We will leave them to smoke and chatter and brag, since we have no further use for them at present. --------------------------------------------------------- -173- Chapter XVII BUT there was no hilarity in the little town that same tranquil Saturday afternoon. The Harpers, and Aunt Polly's family, were being put into mourning, with great grief and many tears. An unusual quiet possessed the village, although it was ordinarily quiet enough, in all conscience. The villagers conducted their concerns with an absent air, and talked little; but they sighed often. The Saturday holiday seemed a burden to the children. They had no heart in their sports, and gradually gave them up. In the afternoon Becky Thatcher found herself moping about the deserted schoolhouse yard, and feeling very melancholy. But she found nothing there to comfort her. She soliloquized: "Oh, if I only had a brass andiron-knob again! But I haven't got anything now to remember him by." And she choked back a little sob. Presently she stopped, and said to herself: "It was right here. Oh, if it was to do over again, I wouldn't say that -- I wouldn't say it for the whole world. But he's gone now; I'll never, never, never see him any more." --------------------------------------------------------- -174- This thought broke her down, and she wandered away, with tears rolling down her cheeks. Then quite a group of boys and girls -- playmates of Tom's and Joe's -- came by, and stood looking over the paling fence


by the closed door, they hear him announce them: “Queen Clytemnestra, my king.” “What are you waiting for? Let her in.” Menelaus’s voice, mocking the man. “Bring food and wine.” The door opens again and a servant runs outside, an empty platter in her hands. She nods quickly to Clytemnestra and disappears in the kitchen’s direction. Menelaus is seated in what was Tyndareus’s throne near the hearth. At his feet, two house dogs eat a long bone. The queen’s chair next to him, draped with lambskins, is empty. Thanks to the many lit torches that illuminate the frescoes, the room is even warmer than the rest of the palace. Clytemnestra walks toward the hearth, Leon close behind her. She stops by the images of running men, their bodies the color of hazelnut, and waits for her brother-in-law to speak. For what feels like a very long time, Menelaus keeps silent. He looks at her, pensive. His bronze hair has grown grayer with the years, but his face is still handsome. Finally, the servant comes back to the room, breathless and with a full platter, and Menelaus seems to wake from his trance. “Please, eat,” he says, smiling. “I am glad to have you here.” Clytemnestra picks up a piece of goat cheese and accepts the cup of wine the girl is offering her. “And I am glad to be back.” Menelaus smirks, as though her response was a jest. “You have a very strange family, Clytemnestra,” he says. She sips the wine. She doesn’t know where he is leading. Menelaus stretches in his throne and she notices the precious rings on his fingers, not the kind of jewelry a true Spartan would wear. “A sister who fucks women but then deserts her husband for another man. Two brothers who kidnap girls promised to their cousins. My wife, who refuses to talk to her husband.” He is not speaking with anger; rather, he seems confused by the situation he is in, like a child who asks his mother why the world works in a certain way. “Phoebe and Philonoe seem to be the only sane members of your family. Married off to useless kings. At least I hear they make them happy.” He winks, gulping his wine. “What about your family?” Clytemnestra asks. “What about your father and your uncle? A son killed and cooked, a daughter raped by her father. Your line is cursed.” Menelaus waves her away, as he would an irksome fly. “We knew the gods cursed our grandfather the moment we were born. But our fortunes have changed. The days of family feuds are over. Mycenae and Sparta prosper, and we have no more enemies.” Clytemnestra laughs. “That is because you killed them all.” “Not all,” Menelaus corrects her. “Aegisthus still lives. But he will be found.” Clytemnestra thinks about the elders’ whispers in Mycenae—“Aegisthus must be dead. No man can live alone in the woods for so long”—but she keeps quiet. “And you have to remember,” Menelaus adds, “you are family too now.” To avoid speaking, Clytemnestra takes


Nkechi came in, bringing the third dish. Nkechi was the daughter of Okonkwo's third wife. In the distance the drums continued to beat. CHAPTER Six The whole village turned out on the ilo, men, women and children. They stood round in a huge circle leaving the centre of the playground free. The elders and grandees of the village sat on their own stools brought there by their young sons or slaves. Okonkwo was among them. All others stood except those who came early enough to secure places on the few stands which had been built by placing smooth logs on forked pillars. The wrestlers were not there yet and the drummers held the field. They too sat just in front of the huge circle of spectators, facing the elders. Behind them was the big and ancient silk-cotton tree which was sacred. Spirits of good children lived in that tree waiting to be born. On ordinary days young women who desired children came to sit under its shade. There were seven drums and they were arranged according to their sizes in a long wooden basket. Three men beat them with sticks, working feverishly from one drum to another. They were possessed by the spirit of the drums. The young men who kept order on these occasions dashed about, consulting among themselves and with the leaders of the two wrestling teams, who were still outside the circle, behind the crowd. Once in a while two young men carrying palm fronds ran round the circle and kept the crowd back by beating the ground in front of them or, if they were stubborn, their legs and feet. At last the two teams danced into the circle and the crowd roared and clapped. The drums rose to a frenzy. The people surged forward. The young men who kept order flew around, waving their palm fronds. Old men nodded to the beat of the drums and remembered the days when they wrestled to its intoxicating rhythm. The contest began with boys of fifteen or sixteen. There were only three such boys in each team. They were not the real wrestlers,-they merely set the scene. Within a short time the first two bouts were over. But the third created a big sensation even among the elders who did not usually show their excitement so openly. It was as quick as the other two, perhaps even quicker. But very few people had ever seen that kind of wrestling before. As soon as the two boys closed in, one of them did something which no one could describe because it had been as quick as a flash. And the other boy was flat on his back. The crowd roared and clapped and for a while drowned the frenzied drums. Okonkwo sprang to his feet and quickly sat down again. Three young men from the victorious boy's team ran forward, carried him shoulder high and danced through the cheering crowd. Everybody soon knew who the boy was. His name was Maduka, the son of Obierika. The drummers stopped for a brief


needs desperately. If I had to bet, Cato headed out after Thresh, not me. Still I don’t slow down when I reach the water. I plunge right in, boots still on, and flounder downstream. I pull off Rue’s socks that I’ve been using for gloves and press them into my forehead, trying to staunch the flow of blood, but they’re soaked in minutes. Somehow I make it back to the cave. I squeeze through the rocks. In the dappled light, I pull the little orange backpack from my arm, cut open the clasp, and dump the contents on the ground. One slim box containing one hypodermic needle. Without hesitating, I jam the needle into Peeta’s arm and slowly press down on the plunger. My hands go to my head and then drop to my lap, slick with blood. The last thing I remember is an exquisitely beautiful green- and-silver moth landing on the curve of my wrist. 285 The sound of rain drumming on the roof of our house gent- ly pulls me toward consciousness. I fight to return to sleep though, wrapped in a warm cocoon of blankets, safe at home. I’m vaguely aware that my head aches. Possibly I have the flu and this is why I’m allowed to stay in bed, even though I can tell I’ve been asleep a long time. My mother’s hand strokes my cheek and I don’t push it away as I would in wakefulness, nev- er wanting her to know how much I crave that gentle touch. How much I miss her even though I still don’t trust her. Then there’s a voice, the wrong voice, not my mother’s, and I’m scared. “Katniss,” it says. “Katniss, can you hear me?” My eyes open and the sense of security vanishes. I’m not home, not with my mother. I’m in a dim, chilly cave, my bare feet freezing despite the cover, the air tainted with the unmis- takable smell of blood. The haggard, pale face of a boy slides into view, and after an initial jolt of alarm, I feel better. “Pee- ta.” “Hey,” he says. “Good to see your eyes again.” “How long have I been out?” I ask. 286 “Not sure. I woke up yesterday evening and you were lying next to me in a very scary pool of blood,” he says. “I think it’s stopped finally, but I wouldn’t sit up or anything.” I gingerly lift my hand to my head and find it bandaged. This simple gesture leaves me weak and dizzy. Peeta holds a bottle to my lips and I drink thirstily. “You’re better,” I say. “Much better. Whatever you shot into my arm did the trick,” he says. “By this morning, almost all the swelling in my leg was gone.” He doesn’t seem angry about my tricking him, drugging him, and running off to the feast. Maybe I’m just too beat-up and I’ll hear about it later when I’m stronger. But for the mo- ment, he’s all gentleness. “Did you eat?” I ask. “I’m sorry to say I gobbled down


pity Godfrey. In the midst of this scene, he wishes his father had disciplined him more. Other readers, however, think Godfrey has no excuse. The Squire hasn't even punished him for losing the money, yet as soon as his father comes close to guessing his deeper secret--his marriage--Godfrey turns coward. These readers say it's easy for Godfrey to blame his father for indulging him, just as it's easy for Squire Cass to blame his dead wife for his son's weakness, but people should accept responsibility for their own mistakes. Ironically, the Squire mentions Nancy Lammeter, not knowing how closely she relates to Godfrey's other problems. In this dialogue, you learn more about Godfrey's courtship of Nancy--there's been an understanding between them for a while, and Nancy has already turned down a proposal from her cousin. You learn that she's pretty, and her home is probably more refined than the Casses'. Read this scene twice--from the Squire's point of view and then from Godfrey's. In the Squire's eyes, Godfrey isn't acting like a man. But feel the pressure Godfrey is under, from his father and from his own desire for Nancy, while he can only evade the issue. The Squire ends this discussion abruptly, ordering Godfrey around like a servant. Casually, he disowns Dunstan--for the time being, at least. Godfrey escapes from the room, but is his position improved? He hasn't been punished, but he hasn't cleared his conscience, either. What's more, he has a new fear--that the Squire will speak to Mr. Lammeter about Nancy. He hopes, however, that good fortune will keep him out of trouble. Eliot asks you to look at this impulse as a universal human reflex. In a series of parallel sentences, each structured with the phrases "Let him... and he will," she gives everyday examples of this impulse at work. But such a faith in Fortune, she declares, ignores the fact that a natural chain of events follows from every human action--"the orderly sequence by which the seed brings forth a crop after its kind." ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 10 Eliot switches to a tone of irony as she returns to the more public Raveloe scene. Mockingly, she describes the vain efforts to find the gypsy peddler. Meanwhile, she says, nobody seems concerned that Dunstan still hasn't come home. NOTE: THE MYSTERY For you, unlike the villagers, the real mystery here is Dunstan's disappearance. You know Dunstan disappeared after robbing Silas. Why hasn't anyone in Raveloe made the connection? To some readers, this is a flaw in the plot. Yet Eliot explains that Godfrey is too blinded by an image of Dunstan off enjoying himself. And the villagers simply can't imagine that a member of the gentry would be involved with sordid theft. Some other readers suggest that Eliot has kept these two Raveloe worlds so far apart that it's easy to forget they ever connect with one another. Do you find this part of the plot believable? People in town still speculate about Silas' robbery, but interest has died down. Eliot focuses your attention now on


more transformative than I ever thought possible. Hold on to it, the pair of you. Never forget what beats in your chest. It will be your guide, and with a little luck, you’ll find what you’re looking for.” CHAPTER 19 The Coachman called it luck they had found each other. Victor wasn’t sure if he agreed, but he didn’t know what else to call it. After all, the Coachman was right: What were the chances that he—a machine obsessed with humanity—would find the one human left? Victor walked through the house, looking at the walls covered in photographs and posters, all worn and decaying, their edges curled behind protective glass. Smiling, happy people stared back at him. They ate food, their white teeth bared as they prepared to bite down. Some stood in front of houses, holding signs that said SOLD! ANOTHER DREAM REALIZED! Still others were on a boat, glass bottles in their hands, cigarettes stuck between their teeth, the words underneath promising THE FRESHEST FLAVOR! IT GOES DOWN SMOOTH LIKE REAL TOBACCO SHOULD! He felt haunted, surrounded by the ghosts of his people from a time when machines did not think, did not act without being told how. They looked like him, or he looked like them. They had human hair and human skin. Some were tall, some short. Some had curly red hair, freckles like flecks of rust. One was old—ancient, really—sitting in a chair with wheels, a checkered blanket on his lap, a little girl with pink ribbons in her hair beaming up at him. They wore pants and dresses and held hands and smiled. Victor tried to smile like them. It felt like his lips were about to tear. “Victor.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head against a picture of a family at a picnic, the strange, ominous legend underneath reading: SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING! “Can we do this?” he whispered. Nurse Ratched beeped once, twice. Then, “Are you asking me for the probabilities of our success?” No. Yes. He didn’t know. He said nothing. Nurse Ratched said, “Because if you are, I would tell you not to worry about such things. The answer would only cause you distress, and I do not like it when you are distressed. Your blood pressure elevates, and it could lead to a stroke or a heart attack. I do not want you to experience either if it can be helped. Though I would assist you as best I could, the house is not sterile. You run the risk of infection.” “That … doesn’t make me feel any better.” “I did not know I was supposed to be making you feel better. Engaging Empathy Protocol. There, there, Victor. Of course we will succeed. We have a flimsy plan with no real resolution in place, but I am sure we will overcome the odds and—” “Forget I asked,” Vic muttered, stepping away from the wall. “Disengaging Empathy Protocol. Victor?” “Yeah?” He didn’t have time to react as one of her tentacles extended, smacking him upside the head. “Ow! Why did


to try. We get to our feet and walk back toward my restaurant. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS First, I want to thank you, the reader. The Drowning Woman is my twelfth published novel, and it is such a privilege to be able to bring my words to an audience. I am forever grateful to all the librarians, bloggers, Bookstagrammers, BookTokers, and bookstore employees who help bring books and readers together. To my editor, Karen Kosztolnyik. What a pleasure to work with you again! Thank you for your calm wisdom and insight. I am so glad you connected with this story. Thank you to Rachael Kelly for being so supportive, organized, and responsive. Thank you to Sara Wood for this gorgeous cover design. Thanks to my production editor, Carolyn Kurek; my publicists, Staci Burt and Alli Rosenthal; and marketer, Theresa DeLucci. My gratitude to the entire team at Grand Central/Hachette in New York and to Donna Nopper and everyone at Hachette Canada. To my agent, Joe Veltre. Thank you for standing by me while I meandered off into screenwriting, quit writing to open an ice cream shop, and switched genres several times (sometimes successfully, sometimes not). You have been such a wise and steady support through all the ups and downs (and now I am wondering why I didn’t dedicate a book to you earlier). Thanks also to the amazing Olivia Johnson and the rest of the team at Gersh. Thank you to my friend Noel MacDonald for sharing his years of experience as an outreach worker with the homeless population on Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside. Noel gave me so much insight into the struggle of living on the streets: the daily traumas and indignities; the physical and psychological toll; and the cycle of poverty that is so difficult to break. To my friend Tanya Shklanka: Thank you for our many conversations about the good, the bad, and the ugly of having your own restaurant. (Zocalo was the best!) Thank you to my brother Joel Gook and my brother-in-law Charlie Chin for sharing your Panama travels with me. Thanks to Nora Harmsworth, for having such a great name for a character, and for supporting Christianne’s Lyceum of Literature and Art and their scholarship program. Thank you to the incredible author community. I feel like I have so many supportive writer friends, far and wide. A special thanks to my blurbers: Ashley Audrain, Mary Kubica, Chevy Stevens, Marissa Stapley, Samantha M. Bailey, Ashley Winstead, Liz Nugent, and Laurie Elizabeth Flynn. I am such huge a fan of your work and your endorsement means the world. And shout-out to my writer crew here in BC: Eileen Cook (for providing her genius insights on an early draft, and for meeting regularly to talk writing over Brussel sprouts); Roz Nay for the brainstorming, and for making me laugh daily via voice memos; Chevy Stevens for always being available for support, advice, and an animal video; and Daniel Kalla for the twist-sharing and brunches. And to John, who is surprisingly creative despite his analytical career. You are always my first brainstorming partner


This is Andy being smart about people, as usual. Nick tells himself that he ought to be grateful that Andy knows how to handle this gracefully. He hasn’t lost anything. He isn’t any worse off than he was yesterday morning, and he tells himself this very sternly as he gets dressed. If he’s disappointed, that’s on him, not on Andy. His feelings are his own problem, and he has plenty of practice keeping his feelings to himself. Chapter Eleven On Tuesday morning, after Monday has come and gone without a word from Andy, Nick gets himself to the Chronicle offices early and does something he hasn’t ever done before: he takes the elevator to the seventh floor. The seventh floor is sandwiched between the bustle of the newsroom and the commotion of the top-floor composing room. It’s where the Chronicle brass have their offices. Technically the managing editor’s office is here, too, but Lou Epstein spends most of his day on his feet in the newsroom. When the elevator doors open and Nick steps out, he’s assaulted by the quiet. It’s not the quiet of emptiness, like downstairs in the morgue files or the semi-abandoned fifth floor, but rather the quiet of a deliberate hush, and that flies in the face of everything Nick has ever experienced at a newspaper. Nobody is shouting for a copyboy or shouting at their editor or shouting at all, which is just disturbing. The carpet is about twice as thick as any carpet has a right to be and isn’t littered with a single cigarette butt or pencil shaving. No phones are ringing. The handful of secretaries, stationed at desks outside their bosses’ offices, are even typing quietly. It’s unnerving. Nick can’t imagine Andy up here, can’t imagine Andy anywhere so quiet and sterile and slow. Off to the side he spots a woman who’s been pointed out to him before as Mr. Fleming’s secretary. She’s about fifty and looks like she could moonlight as a nun: hair scraped back, plain dark clothes, general air of not being interested in your bullshit. Nick unconsciously straightens his tie. His theory is that Mr. Fleming’s secretary will know what hotel Andy is staying at in Washington. He approaches her desk, unable to shake the sense that he’s about to get a demerit or learn that he’s failing chemistry. “Good morning,” he says, and at least his voice doesn’t crack. “Do you happen to know which hotel Andy—which is to say, Mr. Fleming the, ah, younger, is staying at?” She blinks at him, and Nick hadn’t known a blink could contain that much disappointment. The nuns at Nick’s elementary school could have learned a thing or two. “Send him in,” comes a deep voice from within the office. Nick freezes. She blinks again, and this time the blink means that Nick better hurry if he knows what’s good for him. Nick hurries. Inside the office, the carpet is somehow even softer than in the reception area. At a desk the approximate size of a cathedral door sits a man


days of the extinct red-waistcoated police - were about the house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighbourhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it. Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wine-glasses instead of the realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped down-stairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between them, which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes. However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment. It may have been about a month after my sister's reappearance in the kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, "Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!" Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy, Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now


they still at school? I mean, at least Ella is bright, she’s got a brain, she’s sensible. But Caleb? Why on earth would a seventeen-year-old boy want to study drama?’ ‘He’s very talented.’ Violet cleared her plate. ‘And why photography? He should take some pictures of rosy cider apples for your new website, whatever a website is.’ She gazed up as Jeannie lifted her plate. ‘Nice egg, that, Jeannie. Not too runny. I always said you cook a good egg.’ Jeannie was tempted to kiss her mum’s cheek, soft, crumpled with furrows. Instead, she said, ‘Do you want another piece of toast?’ ‘Oh, yes, I have to have more toast, Jeannie. I’m lack-toast-intolerant.’ Violet sniggered. ‘One piece or two?’ ‘None at all.’ Violet opened her eyes wide. ‘I’m ninety-five – I’ve lost my appetite.’ She lifted a stiff hand. ‘Another cup of tea would be nice, though. You make the best tea, strong, just the right amount of milk.’ Jeannie brought the teapot over and began to pour into Violet’s cup. She thought briefly about her morning walk in the orchard, the calm peacefulness, sunlight filtering through leaves and the sweet scent of the blossom. Then Violet broke the silence. ‘You should have married again.’ Jeannie gave a single laugh. It was not the first time Violet had made this remark: she’d made it just a week ago, and the one before. ‘I’ve had offers, Mum,’ Jeannie replied crisply. ‘I have offers every January during the wassailing – lots of men drink too much and ask me to marry them. The idea of a woman who owns a cider farm is a bit of a temptation after a few jars. But that’s not really a compliment.’ ‘I suppose it’s too late now you’re old.’ Violet snorted. ‘You should have married Barney. He knows the meaning of hard graft. He’s been here since he was fifteen. That must be sixty years ago.’ ‘Fifty-seven years ago. He’s the same age as I am – we were in the same class at school.’ Jeannie suddenly remembered that she had toast on her plate and lifted the slice to nibble. ‘Barney’s marvellous. I don’t know what I’d do without him. But he’s not the marrying type. He’s very set in his ways.’ ‘His father, Jerome, was just like him, loyal to a fault. He worked here all his life, just like his son, but he didn’t make it to retirement age. He had a weak heart, high blood pressure.’ Violet turned glittering eyes towards Jeannie. ‘Barney should retire before he keels over in his tracks. You should do the same.’ ‘I never think about retiring, unless you bring it up,’ Jeannie lied. ‘Sharrocks’ Cider has been a huge part of this village for generations.’ ‘Well, it’s the end of the line now,’ Violet said. ‘Drama and photography indeed. No one ever ran a farm by learning how to prance about on a stage taking photos.’ Jeannie glanced towards the stairs as footsteps hammered with increasing volume, like drumbeats. Caleb Yarcombe appeared in the room, tall, slim,


it like it was a baseball, his eyes still on his work as one hand continued to type. “Is there any chance of a third, do you think?” “Perhaps. But it’ll come with a fee.” “I’ll pay whatever you want.” He stopped typing to look at her. “Tell me your price.” Iris bit her lip, wondering what she should ask for. “Are you sure about that, Kitt? What if I want you to wash my laundry for the rest of the war? What if I want you to massage my feet every night? What if I want you to make me a cup of tea every hour?” “I can do all of that and more if you like,” he said, deadly serious. “Simply tell me what you want.” She breathed, slow and deep, trying to dim the fire that seemed so eager to burn within her. That blue-hearted fire that Roman sparked. He was watching, waiting, and she dropped her eyes to where she had left her sentence hanging on the page. The explosion. His hand being ripped from hers. The smoke that rose. Why had she been unscathed, when so many others hadn’t? Men and women who had given so much more than her, who would never get to return home to their families, their lovers. Who would never see their next birthday, or kiss the person they least expected, or grow old and wise, watching flowers bloom in their garden. “I don’t deserve this,” she whispered. She felt like she was betraying her brother. Lieutenant Lark. The Sycamore Platoon. “I don’t deserve to be this happy. Not when there’s so much pain and terror and loss in the world.” “Why would you say that?” Roman replied, his voice gentle but urgent. “Do you think we could live in a world made only of those things? Death and pain and horror? Loss and agony? It’s not a crime to feel joy, even when things seem hopeless. Iris, look at me. You deserve all the happiness in the world. And I intend to see that you have it.” She wanted to believe him, but her fear cast a shadow. He could be killed. He could be wounded again. He could choose to leave her, like Forest. She wasn’t prepared for another blow like that. She blinked away her tears, hoping Roman couldn’t see them. She cleared her throat and said, “That seems like quite a bit of trouble, doesn’t it?” “Iris,” said Roman, “you are worthy of love. You are worthy to feel joy right now, even in the darkness. And just in case you’re wondering … I’m not going anywhere, unless you tell me to leave, and even then, we might need to negotiate.” She nodded. She needed to trust him. She had doubted him before, and he had proven her wrong. Again and again. Iris gave him a hint of a smile. Her chest felt heavy, but she wanted this. She wanted to be with him. “A cup of tea,” she said. “That’s my fee for today.” Roman returned her


rooms in the King's Tower-so-called, though no king had visited it for a hundred yearsand Lannister dined at Mormont's own table and spent his days riding the Wall and his nights dicing and drinking with Ser Alliser and Bowen Marsh and the other high officers. "Oh, I learn things everywhere I go." The little man gestured up at the Wall with a gnarled black walking stick. "As I was saying . . . why is it that when one man builds a wall, the next man immediately needs to know what's on the other side?" He cocked his head and looked at A GAME OF THRONES 165 Jon with his curious mismatched eyes. "You do want to know what's on the other side, don't you?" "It's nothing special," Jon said. He wanted to ride with Benjen Stark on his rangings, deep into the mysteries of the haunted forest, wanted to fight Mance Rayder's wildlings and ward the realm against the Others, but it was better not to speak of the things you wanted. "The rangers say it's just woods and mountains and frozen lakes, with lots of snow and ice." "And the grumkins and the snarks," Tyrion said. "Let us not forget them, Lord Snow, or else what's that big thing for?" "Don't call me Lord Snow." The dwarf lifted an eyebrow. "Would you rather be called the Imp? Let them see that their words can cut you, and you'll never be free of the mockery. If they want to give you a name, take it, make it your own. Then they can't hurt you with it anymore." He gestured with his stick. "Come, walk with me. They'll be serving some vile stew in the common hall by now, and I could do with a bowl of something hot." Jon was hungry too, so he fell in beside Lannister and slowed his pace to match the dwarf's awkward, waddling steps. The wind was rising, and they could hear the old wooden buildings creaking around them, and in the distance a heavy shutter banging, over and over, forgotten. Once there was a muffled thump as a blanket of snow slid from a roof and landed near them. "I don't see your wolf," Lannister said as they walked. "I chain him up in the old stables when we're training. They board all the horses in the east stables now, so no one bothers him. The rest of the time he stays with me. My sleeping cell is in Hardin's Tower." "That's the one with the broken battlement, no? Shattered stone in the yard below, and a lean to it like our noble king Robert after a long night's drinking? I thought all those buildings had been abandoned." Jon shrugged. "No one cares where you sleep. Most of the old keeps are empty, you can pick any cell you want." Once Castle Black had housed five thousand fighting men with all their horses and servants and weapons. Now it was home to a tenth that number, and parts of it were falling into ruin. Tyrion


for you to leave St Agnes’s.’ ‘I-I …’ I was so confused. I reached into my pocket and pulled out Jane’s letter. Checking the date, I saw that it was written over a week ago. ‘Why wasn’t I informed?’ ‘Oh, were you not? I’m sure I told Nurse Patricia to pass the message along.’ I looked down at the letter, the words swimming in front of me. My hands began to shake with a rage that boiled inside of me. Not for my mother, but my last chance of escape. I couldn’t take it any more. I jumped up and grabbed the knife off the table, pressing it to the artery in my neck. ‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ he said, scrambling to get out of his chair. ‘Don’t move or I’ll kill myself, I swear!’ I shouted. He froze, halfway off the chair, and raised his hands in surrender. ‘And don’t shout for the nurse.’ He shook his head and kept showing me the palms of his hands as he sat back down on the chair. ‘You see, the thing is, Dr Lynch, I no longer care if I live or die.’ I surprised myself by meaning every word I said. It would have been a sweet relief to end it all. St Agnes’s had been like entering a sort of purgatory, with no hope of redemption. All of my humanity had been stripped from me. And yet some part of me must have subconsciously kept up the search for a way out, for the words that came out of my mouth next sounded as though they had been waiting inside of me for a very long time. ‘But I think you do.’ ‘Of course I care, Opaline, now put the knife down—’ ‘Yes, of course you care, because as long as I live, you receive a handsome stipend from my brother. Isn’t that correct, Dr Lynch?’ ‘That is to pay for your care—’ I pointed the knife as sharply as I could bear it against my skin. ‘Come now, doctor, it’s just us here. We are half-starved and barely clothed, with no heat to speak of. You pocket that money for yourself, don’t you?’ ‘I resent the implic—’ ‘Oh, shut up. SHUT UP!’ I screamed at him. Standing there in a ragged, stained dress, unwashed hair sticking out from my head, dark circles around my eyes and a knife at my throat, I had never felt more clarity of mind. He was scared. I could see it. ‘If I die, you stop receiving Lyndon’s payments.’ He looked rattled and his eyes searched the room. I knew I didn’t have much time to convince him. ‘We can help each other. If you let me leave, right now, I will never tell Lyndon and you can keep getting your money. You will never hear from me again. I’ll change my name, I’ll go to Europe. I have friends there.’ I could see him thinking about it. ‘No one ever has to find out.’ He wiped his face roughly with his


and [science words] and steroids and [collections agency words], and all I could think was: “Is this brick shithouse gonna be the one who looks inside my butt?” If we’d sold the show to a network that allows full-frontal and ass play, this would be the time where we flash-forward to a fantasy scene in which Future Sam is lying on her side in the outpatient surgery wing, drowsy on propofol, and the camera pans over her hospital gown to the back where it hangs open. Then we’d watch the doctor lift one moist, heavy-ass cheek in slow motion (the sound effect: hot, sticky summer skin peeling off a plastic deck chair) to insert the scope into her anus. But we didn’t, so instead, Sam gives the doctor a rundown, and the doctor leaves to order bloodwork. Sam asks if he knows if there’s a payment plan. INT. HOSPITAL ER—LATER Sam is lying in bed, smiling peacefully and watching Judge Mathis, which I still can’t believe we almost got to digitally insert into the show. The doctor returns, and Sam mutes the television, and they have a long conversation that would probably be both boring for you to read and annoying for me to copy and paste. Dr. Mehta goes through a partial, yet still terrifying, list of illnesses and disorders Sam could be experiencing, including: ulcerative colitis, a bowel obstruction, celiac disease, diverticulitis, Crohn’s disease, bacterial infection, and polyps, although Sam can’t get the thought that this happened because she tried a goop cleanse out of her mind. I wanted the list to be comically long, maybe even slowed down, chopped and screwed style, because that’s what it feels like when you’re on morphine and a medical professional is rattling off all the things they have to rule out in the limited amount of time you have until someone figures out your insurance is expired. I remember lying there wanting to laugh because if he’d known that the only test I could afford for him to run was an imaginary one, he would’ve snatched all those tubes out of my various holes and wheelchaired me out to the parking lot. But this Sam doesn’t know how much endoscopies cost, so she nods gratefully as the doctor tells her it’s gonna be a few days for them to get her sorted out. SAM So, what you’re saying is…I should stay at the hospital…overnight…for a few nights? The doctor nods: unfortunately, yes. Sam looks around and takes in the large flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, thinking about the dude passed out outside her padlocked room. She sees the large private bathroom while thinking about standing in line outside the communal one at her place. She glances at the pitcher full of fresh ice chips on the table and smooths the soft, clean blankets over her legs. Finally, she looks back at the doctor. SAM If you say so, I guess I have to? I mean, if it’s for my health. INT. HOSPITAL ROOM—LATE NIGHT Sam has a bulky oxygen monitor clamped on


what Lieutenant James has coined them. Captain out.” My Jadoo ring came alive with a Sonya projected 3D image. Annoyed, I said, “It’s polite to at least let me answer the call before you pop into view like that.” She scoffed, “Like that’s going to happen. Look, I’ve accessed Lincoln’s primary ship’s MATHR AI.” “More like hacked the MATHR AI.” “Tomato, tomahto … The ship’s still half asleep. Didn’t Hardy say he was waking her up?” “He said it takes time.” “Fine, whatever. I’m powering up the rest of that bridge for you. Once I dig deeper, I’ll start amalgamating the two ships’ AI databases.” “So, you’ll be able to tell me what happened here?” “Maybe. Maybe not. Just keep your pants on; it’ll take a while. And remember, dear uncle-guy, I’m still sitting in a hospital bed … so I’m a bit limited here.” “Understood.” Before I could speak again, an overhead klaxon began to squawk. “Smoke!” Wanda shouted, pointing toward a partially opened hatch door, one I had assumed led into the captain’s ready room. Rarely was a ship’s auto-open/auto-close hatch door found to be partially open like this. In this case, though, it just might have been a blessing in disguise. Black smoke was now billowing out from the opening. Wanda had moved fast; having released a fire extinguisher from its brackets beneath a console, she sprinted toward the ready room. She rushed in as soon as the hatch door slid open. We all heard the swoosh of chemical retardant being deployed. As quickly as it had begun, the smoke was now dissipating. I now stood within the ready room hatch door’s threshold, looking in. “What the hell happened in here?” Wanda, still holding the extinguisher in one hand, made a face. “Uh, not really sure, boss. Flames were coming from that overhead vent. I’ve asked MATHR to do a systems check.” Sonya’s projected image appeared above the captain’s desk. It was beyond creepy how she could do that. “Don’t tell me you had something to do with this, Sonya. Maybe bringing ship systems up too quickly?” “Sorry. Maybe … my bad … There is a slight incompatibility between the ship systems. But still …” “Yeah, well, you need to be more careful, Sonya.” “Hey, I said I’m sorry. It’s probably not that big of a deal. A subpower conduit overload, maybe.” I heard her tapping at her tablet. “Ship systems seem to be powering up just fine … I still don’t get it.” I chinned toward the bulkhead behind her. “And that?” Wanda followed my sightline, then shrugged again. “Someone, I presume Lincoln’s captain, was forced to leave in a hurry … And he left the safe open in all the mayhem.” There was blood on the deck, and signs that someone might have been dragged out of the compartment. I approached, waving away errant tendrils of smoke in the air. The safe was large, large enough for a full-grown man to walk into without ducking his head. I swung the door all the way open. Wanda joined


by the arguments she had with Bradley’s mum, the ones I overheard by lurking on the staircase. “He has twins now, Maria. Babies aren’t cheap.” “That’s his problem! All of his children are his problem, so make him pay.” “We don’t need that much—” “Don’t be proud, Neneh.” But that’s how Bangura women are: proud. So, she proudly accepted the absolute minimum from my so-called dad, and she proudly worked herself to the bone while studying full-time. She proudly bulk-bought our necessities with carefully cut-out coupons and she proudly worked her way up from a trainee teacher’s salary to her school’s assistant head. We’re not poor anymore. But it’s too late. She looks tired in a way rest can’t fix and it’s because of us, because of me and Giselle and…him. I can tell Mum’s extra exhausted today; her usually glowing skin is dull, and she’s thrown a green and blue headwrap over her hair instead of styling it. Glasses sit on her broad nose in place of her usual contacts. When I’m an adult, when I’m successful, when I’m rich, she can lie in bed all day eating Godiva chocolates instead of dragging herself to work. But I’m not rich yet, so all I can say is, “What time did you go to bed last night?” “Bed?” She blinks theatrically. “Oh! After a lifetime of sleeping, I forgot it was necessary. Must be my old lady brain acting up again.” “Isn’t there something in the Bible about sarcasm being a sin?” “No,” Mum says primly. “There should be.” “Pot,” my sister shouts from across the hall, “meet kettle.” “Go away, Giselle,” I shout back. Mum snorts, then arranges her features into a carefully neutral expression. “So. Bradley was concerned about your health, I see? How nice. He is such a sweet boy. You know—” Ah. Here we go: the What happened to you and Bradley being best friends? spiel. “He was just bringing me my textbook,” I cut in, nodding to where it sits on the bedside table. Mum practically pouts. “Oh. Well.” She has this sick and twisted dream that Bradley and I will get married so she and Maria Graeme can be even more like sisters. I’m trying not to vomit at the thought when Mum says, “Oh, what’s this?” and pulls the leaflet out of my textbook. “Private property,” I tell her, “that’s what it is.” “Not in my house.” Mum snorts. Light bounces off the back of the shiny paper and hits the printed logo of Dad’s firm. My heart drops into my stomach. Crap. “Katharine Breakspeare,” Mum says, skimming the page. “You’re going to do this?” Awkwardly, I squeak, “I’m…going to apply.” How the hell do I get that leaflet out of her hand? She can’t see Dad’s name. She’ll get the wrong idea and assume I’m interested in the program because I’m, like, upset about his abandonment or something cringey like that when, in reality, I just want to grind my future success in his traitorous face and possibly ruin his life a little bit.


Citadel to their suite. The shock was still there, and the fear, but she’d managed to smother it under a burning layer of fury. “Nothing like confirmation via dead horse.” Disgust twisted Gabe’s face as he shook his head. “How in all the myriad hells is that horse still… still…” “Walking?” Cold seized the back of her neck, as if someone had laid their freezing palm on her skin. “Acting like it’s alive?” “It’s not someone else channeling,” Gabe said. “I’d be able to tell. We’d be able to tell. Wouldn’t we?” Lore shrugged nervously, still pacing. He was right, as far as she knew— the few times she’d been around one of the Presque Mort when they were channeling Mortem, it’d felt like an uncomfortable pull in her veins, as if her blood had coagulated and her heart hadn’t caught up to the fact. It was hard to miss. Her teeth broke through her nail, sending a wave of pain shooting up into her gums. She cursed lightly, frowned at the now-jagged nail. “Yes, we’d be able to feel it.” Gabe’s doublet rasped over the brocade couch as he turned to look at her. “If it’s not anyone actively channeling,” he said slowly, “then it has to be something left over from when you did it.” “No.” The denial came quick. “Mortem doesn’t work that way. It only—” “I am well aware of how Mortem works.” He rose from the couch, towering over her even though she stood at least a yard away. There was something different in his tone, his stance. He looked like the Mort who’d cornered her in the alley, prepared for violence if necessary, not the man she’d started counting as something like a friend. “And I’m well aware that the way you use it has no precedent, not since they killed all the necromancers.” His one eye narrowed, fingers curling into a fist to hide the candle inked on his palm. “Even then, nothing dead could stay risen on its own.” Lore narrowed her eyes to match his. Straightened, found the spine that belonged in the Harbor District, not the Citadel. “If you’re accusing me of something, Gabriel, say it plain. Don’t dance around it like you’re at another one of Bastian’s parties.” Something about the other man’s name seemed to startle him. Shake him out of the Presque Mort and back into the man. A reminder of a common enemy, a common goal; a reminder that he and Lore couldn’t afford to be on opposite sides. Gabe ran a weary hand over his face. “I’m not,” he said finally. Snorted. “You seem just as confused about how your magic works as the rest of us.” “I’m glad that’s comforting to you.” Lore leaned against the wall, tipped her head back. The chandelier hanging in the center of the ceiling was dull with dust. “I find it rather terrifying, myself.” He made a noise she couldn’t interpret. When she looked away from the chandelier, Gabe was sitting again, elbows on his knees. “That might be our


ardour of my nature, but that she was there to subdue me to a semblance of her own gentleness. And Clerval--could aught ill entrench on the noble spirit of Clerval? Yet he might not have been so perfectly humane, so thoughtful in his generosity, so full of kindness and tenderness amidst his passion for adventurous exploit, had she not unfolded to him the real loveliness of beneficence and made the doing good the end and aim of his soaring ambition. I feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood, before misfortune had tainted my mind and changed its bright visions of extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self. Besides, in drawing the picture of my early days, I also record those events which led, by insensible steps, to my after tale of misery, for when I would account to myself for the birth of that passion which afterwards ruled my destiny I find it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost forgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded, it became the torrent which, in its course, has swept away all my hopes and joys. Natural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my fate; I desire, therefore, in this narration, to state those facts which led to my predilection for that science. When I was thirteen years of age we all went on a party of pleasure to the baths near Thonon; the inclemency of the weather obliged us to remain a day confined to the inn. In this house I chanced to find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I opened it with apathy; the theory which he attempts to demonstrate and the wonderful facts which he relates soon changed this feeling into enthusiasm. A new light seemed to dawn upon my mind, and bounding with joy, I communicated my discovery to my father. My father looked carelessly at the title page of my book and said, "Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not waste your time upon this; it is sad trash." If, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains to explain to me that the principles of Agrippa had been entirely exploded and that a modern system of science had been introduced which possessed much greater powers than the ancient, because the powers of the latter were chimerical, while those of the former were real and practical, under such circumstances I should certainty have thrown Agrippa aside and have contented my imagination, warmed as it was, by returning with greater ardour to my former studies. It is even possible that the train of my ideas would never have received the fatal impulse that led to my ruin. But the cursory glance my father had taken of my volume by no means assured me that he was acquainted with its contents, and I continued to read with the greatest avidity. When I returned home my first care was to procure the whole works of this author, and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read and studied the


But ain’t shit sweet. It’s a pretty messed up movie.” She clears her throat and continues. “So The Curse of Camp Mirror Lake comes out in 1983. It’s a worthy addition to the slasher genre. But it does something the other slasher flicks don’t do.” She pauses for dramatic effect, and Tasha rolls her eyes so hard, she’s gotta be looking at the inside of her own skull. “Continue,” Tasha says. “Damn.” Paige grins. “The Curse of Camp Mirror Lake makes it clear that the masked, machete-wielding serial killer Scott Addison gained strength from his victims. Every time he cuts down one of the nine people who die in that movie, he gets stronger, and not just physically.” Porter tilts his head to the side. “He’s swinging camp counselors around by their ankles by the time he’s three or four bodies in.” “Exactly. And that’s what I mean,” Paige continues, her voice raising in pitch as excitement takes hold of her. “He’s stronger after each kill, but he also starts to do things he couldn’t do in the beginning. By midway through the movie, he’s faster. He’s stealthier. It’s almost like he can move without being seen or heard. He gains some kind of supernatural ability as the film goes on, and it’s directly related to how many people he kills.” “I remember that,” Kyle says. “He always kills them outside too. Like they have to be on the ground or something.” “Right!” Paige says. “Spilling the blood directly on the ground and dumping the bodies in the lake is how the killer gains his power and is able to mow down so many people without anyone knowing until the very end.” “What does any of this have to do with following the horror-movie rules?” I ask. Paige stares at me like it should be obvious. “People got killed in the movie because they were distracted. Sex, pranks, general recklessness, they’re all a distraction. The killer took advantage of the counselors being distracted. You don’t get distracted if you want to live.” I put my hand on Paige’s shoulder. “I hate to break it to you, but this whole thing”—I gesture to the surrounding woods and cabins—“it’s all fake. It’s not a movie, Paige. It’s just a little fun for people who like to be scared.” Something turns in my gut as I say the words. Like, I know they’re not entirely true. Images of the figure in the water flood my mind, and I look out over the lake. Paige crosses her arms hard over her chest. “Whatever. It’s all fun and games until you’re dead.” “Don’t worry,” Javier says against Tasha’s neck. “I’ll protect you.” Tasha smiles way too hard and loops her arm around his waist. “Well, I’m going to bed,” Porter says dramatically, clapping his hands together. “Kyle, you bunking with me tonight, ’cause I’m scared and I’m not afraid to admit that.” Kyle shrugs. “Fine, but you’re sleeping next to the door.” “The hell I am,” Porter grumbles. I take Bezi’s hand and pull her down the