versus “Hayward.” No one says explicitly that “Song” might be mistaken for a Chinese name, when really it’s the middle name my mother came up with during her hippie phase in the eighties and I was very nearly named Juniper Serenity Hayward. Emily helps me pitch an article about authorial identities and pen names to Electric Lit, where I explain that I’ve chosen to rebrand myself as Juniper Song to honor my background and my mother’s influence in my life. “My debut, Over the Sycamore, written as June Hayward, was rooted in my grief over my father’s death,” I write. “The Last Front, written as Juniper Song, symbolizes a step forward in my creative journey. This is what I love most about writing—it offers us endless opportunities to reinvent ourselves, and the stories we tell about ourselves. It lets us acknowledge every aspect of our heritage and history.” I never lied. That’s important. I never pretended to be Chinese, or made up life experiences that I didn’t have. It’s not fraud, what we’re doing. We’re just suggesting the right credentials, so that readers take me and my story seriously, so that nobody refuses to pick up my work because of some outdated preconceptions about who can write what. And if anyone makes assumptions, or connects the dots the wrong way, doesn’t that say far more about them than me? THINGS RUN MORE SMOOTHLY ON THE EDITORIAL SIDE. DANIELLA loves what I’ve done in the revisions. All she requests in her third pass are some light line edits, and a suggestion that I add a dramatis personae, which is a fancy term for a list of all the characters accompanied by short descriptions so that readers don’t forget who they are. Then it’s off to a copyeditor, who from my experience are these superhuman, eagle-eyed monsters that catch continuity errors unseen to the naked eye. We only run into one wrinkle, a week before my copyedit pass is due. Daniella emails me out of the blue: Hey June. Hope you’ve been well. Can you believe we’re already six months out from publication? Wanted to bring up something to get your opinion—Candice suggested that we get a Chinese or Chinese diaspora sensitivity reader, and I know it’s late in the process, but do you want us to look into things for you? Sensitivity readers are readers who provide cultural consulting and critiques on manuscripts for a fee. Say, for example, a white author writes a book that involves a Black character. The publisher might then hire a Black sensitivity reader to check whether the textual representations are consciously, or unconsciously, racist. They’ve gotten more and more popular in the past few years, as more and more white authors have been criticized for employing racist tropes and stereotypes. It’s a nice way to avoid getting dragged on Twitter, though sometimes it backfires—I’ve heard horror stories of at least two writers who were forced to withdraw their books from publication because of a single subjective opinion. I don’t see why, I write back. I’m pretty comfortable


experimental enrichment program in the woods, but there’s a scholarship and career connections on offer, and only the best are chosen, so here I am: proving once again that I’m the best. I bear that in mind as I sink—and sink, and sink—into the saggy bed I’ve just been assigned at Sherwood Forest’s Visitor Cabin. This place is basically an old and underfunded dorm with dingy shared bathrooms and decorative logs stuck to the exterior. Across the room, a girl whose name might be Laura, or Aura, or possibly Rory (to say she mumbles would be an understatement) flicks blue eyes at me from beneath her shaggy hair, then looks away. “Be careful,” Mum is saying on the phone. “Behave yourself. And stick with Brad.” Oh, yeah. Bradley got in too. I don’t groan at the reminder because I am very mature, but I do wrinkle my nose down at the dingy brown carpet. “I know what you’re thinking”—Mum laughs like she can see my expression—“but he’s a good boy, and he’s more cautious than you. Take care of each other. Especially while your wrist is still healing!” Yeah…about that “wearing a cast for six to eight weeks” thing? Apparently, it’s eight weeks for me. I’ll be free next Monday, a week after this expedition. Bradley’s fault. Obviously. “I mean it, Celine,” Mum says, turning stern. “I guarantee Maria is telling him the same thing.” Not bloody likely. When we stepped off the coach twenty minutes ago, Bradley was already surrounded by people as always, grinning and relaxed, because he managed to make friends during the coach ride while I sat on my own listening to Frank Ocean’s Blonde and texting Michaela. I bet he’s chatting away to his little ginger roommate right now. My roommate is glued to her phone with an expression that suggests she’s either Googling How to kill your BEP roomie and get away with it or reading really great fanfic. “I’ll be good, Mummy.” By which I mean: I’ll try my best not to get killed in the night. “I have to go now, okay?” “Okay, baby. I love you.” “Love you too.” Laura/Aura/Rory glances up as I put the phone down and mumbles, “Five minutes till we meet outside.” I blink. “Are you watching the time for us?” She shrinks into her gray hoodie. “Um…” So she’s not a murderer; she’s just shy. Now I feel bad. “That’s…nice,” I clarify awkwardly. Her smile has a lot in common with a wince. The BEP has been a whirlwind so far. We hopped on a coach this morning, it took us basically up the road to Sherwood Forest, we were introduced to our supervisors (Zion is an Energizer Bunny with locs, and Holly is basically Kourtney Kardashian), and then we were told to pair off and given fifteen minutes to stow our stuff in our bedrooms and report for duty. I’m not sure how I ended up with Laura/Aura/Rory, but it probably has something to do with her being shy and me being…mutinously silent. In a very confident


face scrunches up. “What?” I ask. “You okay?” “Yeah, I just—You have fake blood all over you, and your skin is sticky as hell.” I look down at myself, and I’m a complete mess. I have a tendency to forget about anything else in Bezi’s presence. “Sorry,” I say. “It’s just a little corn syrup.” I kiss her again. “Well, maybe it’s not such a big deal,” she says against my neck. I wrap my arms around her, kissing her, running my hands along the slopes and curves of her frame, and then there’s a knock at the door. Bezi huffs as I pull away and yank the door open. Paige is standing there, arms crossed, an angry scowl drawing down the corners of her mouth. “This heffa Tasha booted me out of our cabin so that she and Javier can be alone,” she says through gritted teeth. I stick my head out the door to see Tasha staring back at me from the porch of Cabin #1. “Don’t be mad,” she yells. “I won’t be long.” “The hell?” Javier’s voice echoes from inside. “Whatever,” Paige says, turning back to me. “Can I bunk up with you two? I was gonna ask Porter and Kyle, but I don’t really know them like that.” I usher her inside and close the door, making sure it’s locked. Bezi kisses me on the cheek. “Later.” “I know I’m messing up y’all’s plans,” Paige says. “I’m sorry, but I’ll be damned if I sleep in a cabin alone tonight.” I squeeze her arm. “You’re not messing up anything. Tasha is acting real foolish right now. Not judging, but Javi does not discriminate. He runs through random hookups like serial killers run through camp counselors.” Bezi and Paige both grimace. I put my hands up. “Like I said, not judging. I don’t think either of them is really serious about the other. They’re just having fun.” “They put me out like I was supposed to just sleep outside,” Paige says. “They having fun and I’m in the woods. That’s nice.” She rolls her eyes and shoves her hand down on her hip. “We have a more important issue right now,” I say. “We literally only have one bed in here.” Paige’s gaze flits to the bed, then back to me. “I’ll sleep on the floor. It’s not a big deal.” “No,” Bezi says. “Nobody’s sleeping on the floor. Just curl up at the bottom of the bed. I think we’ll all fit.” She smiles wide. “It’ll be like when we were little. Remember how we used to all sleep on that stank-ass futon in my dad’s basement?” “Oh, man,” Paige says. “I’m pretty sure that mutt y’all used to have pissed on that thing.” “Aye,” Bezi says, shaking her head. “Don’t talk like that about Geneva. She was, like, twenty years old, and she couldn’t control her bladder.” “I’m joking,” Paige says. “Rest in peace, Geneva!” “Those were the best sleepovers,” I say. “Just endless pizza and soda and scary movies. We should not have been watching


She could not get over my appearance, and was in the last degree confounded. I said "Good-bye, Miss Pocket;" but she merely stared, and did not seem collected enough to know that I had spoken. Clear of the house, I made the best of my way back to Pumblechook's, took off my new clothes, made them into a bundle, and went back home in my older dress, carrying it - to speak the truth - much more at my ease too, though I had the bundle to carry. And now, those six days which were to have run out so slowly, had run out fast and were gone, and to-morrow looked me in the face more steadily than I could look at it. As the six evenings had dwindled away, to five, to four, to three, to two, I had become more and more appreciative of the society of Joe and Biddy. On this last evening, I dressed my self out in my new clothes, for their delight, and sat in my splendour until bedtime. We had a hot supper on the occasion, graced by the inevitable roast fowl, and we had some flip to finish with. We were all very low, and none the higher for pretending to be in spirits. I was to leave our village at five in the morning, carrying my little hand-portmanteau, and I had told Joe that I wished to walk away all alone. I am afraid - sore afraid - that this purpose originated in my sense of the contrast there would be between me and Joe, if we went to the coach together. I had pretended with myself that there was nothing of this taint in the arrangement; but when I went up to my little room on this last night, I felt compelled to admit that it might be so, and had an impulse upon me to go down again and entreat Joe to walk with me in the morning. I did not. All night there were coaches in my broken sleep, going to wrong places instead of to London, and having in the traces, now dogs, now cats, now pigs, now men - never horses. Fantastic failures of journeys occupied me until the day dawned and the birds were singing. Then, I got up and partly dressed, and sat at the window to take a last look out, and in taking it fell asleep. Biddy was astir so early to get my breakfast, that, although I did not sleep at the window an hour, I smelt the smoke of the kitchen fire when I started up with a terrible idea that it must be late in the afternoon. But long after that, and long after I had heard the clinking of the teacups and was quite ready, I wanted the resolution to go down stairs. After all, I remained up there, repeatedly unlocking and unstrapping my small portmanteau and locking and strapping it up again, until Biddy called to me that I was late. It was a hurried breakfast with no taste


on the blank wall opposite, expressed the surprise of a quiet mind, stirred by unwonted tidings. Seeing me she roused herself; she made a sort of effort to smile, and framed a few words of congratulation; but the smile expired and the sentence was abandoned unfinished. She put up her spectacles, shut the Bible, and pushed her chair back from the table.     "I feel so astonished," she began," I hardly know what to say to you, Miss Eyre. I have surely not been dreaming, have I? Sometimes I half-fall asleep when I am sitting alone and fancy things that have never happened. It has seemed to me more than once when I have been in a doze that my dear husband, who died fifteen years since, has come in and sat down beside me; and that I have even heard him call me by my name, Alice, as he used to do. Now, can you tell me whether it is actually true that Mr. Rochester has asked you to marry him? Don't laugh at me. But I really thought he came in here five minutes ago and said that in a month you would be his wife."     "He has said the same thing to me," I replied.     "He has! Do you believe him? Have you accepted him?"     "Yes."     She looked at me bewildered.     "I could never have thought it. He is a proud man: all the Rochesters were proud; and his father, at least, liked money. He, too, has always been called careful. He means to marry you?"     "He tells me so."     She surveyed my whole person. In her eyes I read that they had there found no charm powerful enough to solve the enigma.     "It passes me!" she continued;" but no doubt it is true since you say so. How it will answer I cannot tell; I really don't know. Equality of position and fortune is often advisable in such cases; and there are twenty years of difference in your ages. He might almost be your father."     "No, indeed, Mrs. Fairfax!" exclaimed I, nettled; "he is nothing like my father! No one who saw us together would suppose it for an instant. Mr. Rochester looks as young, and is as young, as some men at five-and-twenty."     "Is it really for love he is going to marry you?" she asked.     I was so hurt by her coldness and skepticism that the tears rose to my eyes.     "I am sorry to grieve you," pursued the widow; "but you are so young and so little acquainted with men I wished to put you on your guard. It is an old saying that 'all is not gold that glitters;' and in this case I do fear there will be something found to be


of the various positions of clockwise moveable indicators on an unmoving dial, the exactitude of the recurrence per hour of an instant in each hour when the longer and the shorter indicator were at the same angle of inclination, VIDELICET, 5 5/11 minutes past each hour per hour in arithmetical progression. In what manners did she reciprocate? She remembered: on the 27th anniversary of his birth she presented to him a breakfast moustachecup of imitation Crown Derby porcelain ware. She provided: at quarter day or thereabouts if or when purchases had been made by him not for her she showed herself attentive to his necessities, anticipating his desires. She admired: a natural phenomenon having been explained by him to her she expressed the immediate desire to possess without gradual acquisition a fraction of his science, the moiety, the quarter, a thousandth part. What proposal did Bloom, diambulist, father of Milly, somnambulist, make to Stephen, noctambulist? To pass in repose the hours intervening between Thursday (proper) and Friday (normal) on an extemporised cubicle in the apartment immediately above the kitchen and immediately adjacent to the sleeping apartment of his host and hostess. What various advantages would or might have resulted from a prolongation of such an extemporisation? For the guest: security of domicile and seclusion of study. For the host: rejuvenation of intelligence, vicarious satisfaction. For the hostess: disintegration of obsession, acquisition of correct Italian pronunciation. Why might these several provisional contingencies between a guest and a hostess not necessarily preclude or be precluded by a permanent eventuality of reconciliatory union between a schoolfellow and a jew's daughter? Because the way to daughter led through mother, the way to mother through daughter. To what inconsequent polysyllabic question of his host did the guest return a monosyllabic negative answer? If he had known the late Mrs Emily Sinico, accidentally killed at Sydney Parade railway station, 14 October 1903. What inchoate corollary statement was consequently suppressed by the host? A statement explanatory of his absence on the occasion of the interment of Mrs Mary Dedalus (born Goulding), 26 June 1903, vigil of the anniversary of the decease of Rudolph Bloom (born Virag). Was the proposal of asylum accepted? Promptly, inexplicably, with amicability, gratefully it was declined. What exchange of money took place between host and guest? The former returned to the latter, without interest, a sum of money (1-7-0), one pound seven shillings sterling, advanced by the latter to the former. What counterproposals were alternately advanced, accepted, modified, declined, restated in other terms, reaccepted, ratified, reconfirmed? To inaugurate a prearranged course of Italian instruction, place the residence of the instructed. To inaugurate a course of vocal instruction, place the residence of the instructress. To inaugurate a series of static semistatic and peripatetic intellectual dialogues, places the residence of both speakers (if both speakers were resident in the same place), the Ship hotel and tavern, 6 Lower Abbey street (W. and E. Connery, proprietors), the National Library of Ireland, 10 Kildare street, the National Maternity Hospital, 29, 30 and 31 Holles street, a public garden, the


soon; since Granny approves and understands, and has arranged to make her independent of her husband--" She broke off, and Archer, grasping the corner of the mantelpiece in one convulsed hand, and steadying himself against it, made a vain effort to extend the same control to his reeling thoughts. "I supposed," he heard his wife's even voice go on, "that you had been kept at the office this evening about the business arrangements. It was settled this morning, I believe." She lowered her eyes under his unseeing stare, and another fugitive flush passed over her face. He understood that his own eyes must be unbearable, and turning away, rested his elbows on the mantel- shelf and covered his face. Something drummed and clanged furiously in his ears; he could not tell if it were the blood in his veins, or the tick of the clock on the mantel. May sat without moving or speaking while the clock slowly measured out five minutes. A lump of coal fell forward in the grate, and hearing her rise to push it back, Archer at length turned and faced her. "It's impossible," he exclaimed. "Impossible--?" "How do you know--what you've just told me?" "I saw Ellen yesterday--I told you I'd seen her at Granny's." "It wasn't then that she told you?" "No; I had a note from her this afternoon.--Do you want to see it?" He could not find his voice, and she went out of the room, and came back almost immediately. "I thought you knew," she said simply. She laid a sheet of paper on the table, and Archer put out his hand and took it up. The letter contained only a few lines. "May dear, I have at last made Granny understand that my visit to her could be no more than a visit; and she has been as kind and generous as ever. She sees now that if I return to Europe I must live by myself, or rather with poor Aunt Medora, who is coming with me. I am hurrying back to Washington to pack up, and we sail next week. You must be very good to Granny when I'm gone--as good as you've always been to me. Ellen. "If any of my friends wish to urge me to change my mind, please tell them it would be utterly useless." Archer read the letter over two or three times; then he flung it down and burst out laughing. The sound of his laugh startled him. It recalled Janey's midnight fright when she had caught him rocking with incomprehensible mirth over May's telegram announcing that the date of their marriage had been advanced. "Why did she write this?" he asked, checking his laugh with a supreme effort. May met the question with her unshaken candour. "I suppose because we talked things over yesterday--" "What things?" "I told her I was afraid I hadn't been fair to her-- hadn't always understood how hard it must have been for her here, alone among so many people who were relations and yet strangers; who felt


never been tested.’ ‘Why do you say it would be hard for you to have a child?’ ‘I spend all my time here.’ ‘Do you have a partner?’ ‘Not at the moment, no.’ ‘Your partner would be a man?’ ‘A man, yes.’ He thought on this for some time. ‘The two of you would adopt a child.’ ‘We would.’ ‘Would you adopt an ordinary-born child or an ice-adapted one?’ ‘Either, both.’ ‘You are uncomfortable with these questions?’ ‘No. My hesitation is only because they’re difficult questions.’ ‘You live alone?’ ‘I do.’ ‘I live alone, too. But not like you, I think.’ ‘No, not like me.’ ‘You feel something is missing from your life?’ ‘Many things are missing from my life.’ ‘Such as?’ ‘Warmth.’ ‘Is that a joke?’ ‘Yes, a joke. But it’s true, too.’ ‘Why have you not found someone to live with?’ ‘It’s not easy.’ ‘You struggle with life in this place.’ ‘I struggled with life before this place.’ Yotam tried to maintain constant eye contact even when inside the circle of intimate personal space. Eitan never looked away, never closed his eyes, never blinked, never broke eye contact. With growing certainty Yotam was confident that integration would not only be a success but that it should take place as soon as possible. Eitan was ready and eager to play his part in rebuilding their civilization. He’d spent six years in captivity doing little else but study, able to read dense pages of text with a single glance, absorbing as much literature as he could be provided with. Despite having spent his entire existence in solitary confinement, he showed no signs of hostility, no indication of disturbed behavioural patterns. Judging from their interaction there was no question that they should move to a trial integration period where he’d be released like a prisoner on bail, tagged, monitored, allowed to take part in life above the ice. ‘Yotam?’ ‘Yes, Eitan?’ ‘We’re being watched.’ Yotam turned to see scientists, support staff and security officers lined up at the observation tunnels, looking down at them. FINAL STAGE CHAMBERS EITAN’S ENCLOSURE SAME DAY AS YOTAM SAID GOODBYE, EITAN asked: ‘Are you in trouble?’ ‘For what? Talking to you? No. This is my job.’ ‘They’re looking at us strangely.’ ‘How are they looking at us?’ ‘Like we’ve done something wrong.’ Yotam was impressed with his level of perception. ‘I didn’t run it past them, that’s all. I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll do something new.’ ‘I am looking forward to it, Yotam.’ ‘Me, too.’ Yotam left the cage, shutting it behind him. He climbed up the ladder, returning to the office floor of the ice chambers. Leaving Eitan behind and re-entering the world of ordinary-born people, he felt no sense of relief; he didn’t feel safer or less afraid. The truth was that with each step closer to regular people he felt less at ease. In the observation tunnels he stood before his team, separate from them, under the scrutiny of their uncomprehending gaze. ‘What were you doing?’ ‘Testing him.’ ‘You were inside his enclosure.’ ‘That was


would have killed her.” “Literally?” Montoya asked. “Financially,” she said. “And as much as she hated the old man, she sure did love his money.” “So she gave you no clues as to whom she was seeing.” “How many times do I have to tell you? No. We each have our own place, right? We just use the studio for, you know, entertaining clients. We keep to a schedule and don’t interfere with each other.” “But you saw her some of the time.” “Once in a while. We’d catch up for coffee or a drink, but it didn’t happen often. We each have, had, our own lives.” “Did she ever mention a priest?” Bentz asked. “What? A priest? What the hell are you talking about? Oh.” She stopped short. Snapped her glossy-tipped fingers. “I know about this. Saw it on the Internet. A fake priest, right? That’s what you’re talking about. Not a real one. A guy who committed a lot of murders way back when. Oh, Lord.” Her head swiveled, her gaze moving from Montoya to Bentz. “That’s it. You think he killed Helene.” “We don’t know,” Bentz said. “Holy Mother of God.” She blanched. Montoya said, “So it’s important, if you know anything—” “But I don’t. What’s with you two that you don’t understand common English. I don’t know anything about her clients. And that was intentional. We had a deal, Helene and I. No pimps. And we never talked business.” Her eyes were round and she actually looked scared. “I have no idea who she was seeing.” Unfortunately, Bentz believed her. He glanced at Montoya, who had gotten more intense during the interview. It seemed like his partner was finally starting to understand that Father John, the Rosary Killer, was back in New Orleans. And he was back with a vengeance. * * * Try as she might, Kristi couldn’t concentrate on the sequel to her book about Father John, nor could she get her head into her new book, and it wasn’t because Lenore was batting at her bare toes with a tiny paw while hiding under the desk. No. Her agent’s suggestion that she drop everything and concentrate on delving deep into the sequel was still too new of an idea to even think about writing. For God’s sake, the investigation was just starting. However the real problem was that she was too caught up in her own life, the fact that she was now a widow. She’d told herself that she just needed to bury herself in the work to get through the too-long days and harrowing nights that she spent, sleepless, the claw hammer now under her pillow, the kitten usually under the covers with her. She’d checked with the neighbors, several vets and rescue groups, along with posting online. No one yet had laid claim to the cat and, with each day that passed, Kristi hoped more and more that no one did. She eyed her desk where notes, books, newspaper clippings, and magazine articles were scattered. She was still in the research phase


have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite


stroller, a young Portland mom with an undercut and two sleeves of tattoos. Her gaze lingers on Finn before she abruptly looks away, either embarrassed to be caught staring or convincing herself that he’s not who she thinks he is. Maybe she’ll google him later, wonder if she really did spot him. “It’s not that I don’t love discussing the merits of various Northwest cities,” I say. “But if you’re going to fire me, could you just get it over with?” Finn stops walking. “Fire you? Why would I do that?” He glances around us, making sure we’re alone, and I wonder if this is something he’s gotten used to doing over the years. If he’s simply accustomed to not having privacy, even with his relative low level of fame. Back when the show was on, though, it must have been relentless. It strikes me that I’m deeply curious to hear what he’d have to say about that. “The thing is,” he says, voice low. “I’m actually kind of glad you told me the truth.” I’m too stunned to respond, certain I’ve misheard him. “I mean, am I completely fucking embarrassed? Did I want to crawl into a hole last night? Yes, absolutely. But the honesty was . . . I don’t know. Refreshing.” Huh. That was not at all what I expected. “We really can forget about it,” I say, still unsure how to navigate this. “Like we said, it was just a onetime thing between semi-coworkers, and I didn’t want to upset you—” “I’m not upset,” he says calmly. He lets out a long sigh. “After I got back to my room, I did something I’m not proud of. I . . . called one of my exes.” “I don’t need to hear the graphic details of your booty call.” His eyes grow wide. “I called her to talk,” he says, sounding horrified. “We’re still close—we talk all the time. So I swallowed down whatever meager amount of pride I had left and asked her about it. What it had been like, when we were together. And Hallie”—he breaks off with a cough—“hadn’t ever been one hundred percent happy in that department, either.” I’m speechless. He called his ex-girlfriend, Hallie Hendricks, who played his love interest on The Nocturnals, to ask if she was satisfied in bed. And she told him no. “That’s—that’s just two people,” I manage, unsure why he’s sharing this with me. We’ve crossed yet another boundary. “And she’s an actor, in all fairness. She probably made it sound, um, more realistic than most.” “I may have texted a couple others, too.” He rubs at the back of his neck, sheepish. “There also may have been alcohol involved. Not my finest hour, I’m sorry to say. And, well, it only got worse.” He moves his eyes from the sidewalk up to me, that blush back on his cheeks. “The consensus seems to be that no matter who my partner is, I’ve never been able to make it . . . mind-blowing.” It must be intentional, the way


three-year-old sister, and he had moments of sadness and depression But he and Nwoye had become so deeply attached to each other that such moments became less frequent and less poignant. Ikemefuna had an endless stock of folk tales. Even those which Nwoye knew already were told with a new freshness and the local flavour of a different clan. Nwoye remembered this period very vividly till the end of his life. He even remembered how he had laughed when Ikemefuna told him that the proper name for a corn cob with only a few scattered grains was eze-agadi-nwayi, or the teeth of an old woman. Nwoye's mind had gone immediately to Nwayieke, who lived near the udala tree. She had about three teeth and was always smoking her pipe. Gradually the rains became lighter and less frequent, and earth and sky once again became separate. The rain fell in thin, slanting showers through sunshine and quiet breeze. Children no longer stayed indoors but ran about singing: "The rain is falling, the sun is shining, Alone Nnadi is cooking and eating." Nwoye always wondered who Nnadi was and why he should live all by himself, cooking and eating. In the end he decided that Nnadi must live in that land of Ikemefuna's favourite story where the ant holds his court in splendour and the sands dance forever. CHAPTER FIVE The Feast of the New Yam was approaching and Umuofia was in a festival mood. It was an occasion for giving thanks to Ani, the earth goddess and the source of all fertility. Ani played a greater part in the life of the people than any other deity. She was the ultimate judge of morality and conduct. And what was more, she was in close communion with the departed fathers of the clan whose bodies had been committed to earth. The Feast of the New Yam was held every year before the harvest began, to honour the earth goddess and the ancestral spirits of the clan. New yams could not be eaten until some had first been offered to these powers. Men and women, young and old, looked forward to the New Yam Festival because it began the season of plenty--the new year. On the last night before the festival, yams of the old year were all disposed of by those who still had them. The new year must begin with tasty, fresh yams and not the shrivelled and fibrous crop of the previous year. All cooking pots, calabashes and wooden bowls were thoroughly washed, especially the wooden mortar in which yam was pounded. Yam foo-foo and vegetable soup was the chief food in the celebration. So much of it was cooked that, no matter how heavily the family ate or how many friends and relatives they invited from neighbouring villages, there was always a large quantity of food left over at the end of the day. The story was always told of a wealthy man who set before his guests a mound of foo-foo so high that those who sat on one side


not too much saliva was visible or if it was weird to be moaning while giving someone oral. As if the pleasure was hers. Wasn’t it, though? With him? Whoa. Easy, girl. “Call me babe,” she whispered, gently tracing her teeth from root to tip and whirling her tongue around his swollen head. “But only if you want to finish.” “Babe, baby, princess, love of my life, I’ll do and say anything you want. Just don’t stop. Don’t stop for me. I’m so close.” Okay, he did not mean the whole love of my life part, obviously. He was just lost in the moment. So why did it make her nearly swallow him whole, her pulse tapping wildly in her temples? Her lips stretched around his ample length and when the tip of him brushed the back of her throat, his knees jerked up, the hand that had been cupping her cheek sinking in her hair now, ruining her updo in a split second. “Fuck,” he ground out through his teeth. “Natalie. Fuck!” Her fist moved up and down in rapid strokes, sensing the beginning of his peak. Was she still moaning? Get a grip on yourself. He didn’t taste that good. Liar. His taste was singularly incredible. The scent of that grapefruit soap clung to his pubic hair and wires must be getting crossed in her brain, because smelling the fruit while taking him in her mouth made him almost taste like it, and somehow she knew she’d never pass up grapefruit again at the supermarket. “If you don’t want to swallow,” he panted, throat muscles strained, “now would be a good time to stop, but please don’t stop. Please. Babe. But if you have to, please let me roll you over and come on your tits. I’m asking as an upstanding citizen and service member.” There was simply no way she could stop now. Not when he made her smile during a blow job. That had to deserve some kind of award—and she was in the position to give him one. Continuing to rapidly fist him up and down, her mouth followed her hand a little lower each time and she heard his breathing stutter, the groan building in his chest. He alternated between squeezing his eyes shut and watching her mouth bring him deep, skate back to the tip, then go deep again. And finally, the veins on his abdomen turned blunt and . . . he . . . roared. Her name. His spend hit the back of her throat so fast and in such abundance, she had to struggle through swallowing it quickly enough, her hand still busy. Still working his slick shaft. His grip was twisted in her hair, but she could feel him resisting the urge to push her mouth down and hold her in place. And considering the animal state he was in, she found that oddly touching. Was she losing her actual mind? August deflated, his arms falling to his sides. His sex remained at half-mast, sticky and smooth. Somehow still appealing. “I


the light of the sun. Chrysothemis stares at her, clutching the stones, shaking her little head with the rhythm. It has been a while now since she started modeling herself on her sister. When the boy stops playing the lyre and the dance ends, Iphigenia looks around as if waking from a trance. She sees her mother and flings herself at her. “Mother!” she shrieks, throwing her arms around her. “I didn’t know you were coming back so soon! How was Sparta? How is Aunt Helen?” Clytemnestra cups her hands around her daughter’s cheeks, searching her face for any trace of bruises or sadness. But Iphigenia glows like a freshly painted fresco. Behind them, the girls are resting under the trees, pouring water on their sweaty arms. “Everyone is well,” Clytemnestra says. “I saw your cousin Hermione, who is as big as your sister.” “And your brothers? Did they talk about Colchis? Did they say anything about Jason and Medea?” “They did,” Clytemnestra replies, and the light sparkles in her daughter’s eyes. “But now is not the time. I must see your father first.” Chrysothemis looks down at her feet, suddenly sad. “Father spent all his time in the great hall with those soldiers from Crete and Argos. We saw him only at dinner. Now the soldiers are gone, but Father is always with the elders.” “He is discussing the war,” Iphigenia says. “Every city fears Troy, it seems, but no one wants to fight.” Clytemnestra leads her daughters up the steps to the entrance of the palace. Behind them, Aileen follows, her arms filled with tunics and sandals. When they step over the threshold, the air is suddenly fresher. “I will see your father now,” Clytemnestra says. “Find Electra and prepare for dinner.” * * * The courtyard that leads to the megaron is cool and quiet. Clytemnestra half expects to see Electra there, eavesdropping on her father, but there is no one under the shadowy colonnades except the frescoed griffins, sitting proudly by every column. She can hear the whispers coming from the hall in the anteroom, with its bare walls and stone floor. The air there is moist, the light scarce. An older servant approaches to wash her feet. She stands still as the woman unties her sandals and cleans her in the footbath. When her feet have been wiped with a dry cloth, she steps forward into the bright light of the megaron. The hall is richly adorned. Its walls are decorated with frescoes of warriors and lions fighting, their spears flying, chasing the fleeing beasts. The first time she saw the frightened lions, Clytemnestra laughed—no one who ever hunted lions saw the animals in such a state. “This speaks of the power of our city,” Agamemnon had said. “It is a lie,” she replied. “It is a story. Stories draw people together; they lead armies and form alliances.” As much as she hated him, she knew he was right. Four guards stand with their backs to the walls, holding spears and shields. Clytemnestra waits by the columned


The muleteer calculated that they could easily reach Mateau, which was in their present road; but that, if they took a road that sloped more to the south, towards Rousillon, there was a hamlet, which he thought they could gain before the evening shut in. St. Aubert, after some hesitation, determined to take the latter course, and Michael, having finished his meal, and harnessed his mules, again set forward, but soon stopped; and St. Aubert saw him doing homage to a cross, that stood on a rock impending over their way. Having concluded his devotions, he smacked his whip in the air, and, in spite of the rough road, and the pain of his poor mules, which he had been lately lamenting, rattled, in a full gallop, along the edge of a precipice, which it made the eye dizzy to look down. Emily was terrified almost to fainting; and St. Aubert, apprehending still greater danger from suddenly stopping the driver, was compelled to sit quietly, and trust his fate to the strength and discretion of the mules, who seemed to possess a greater portion of the latter quality than their master; for they carried the travellers safely into the valley, and there stopped upon the brink of the rivulet that watered it. Leaving the splendour of extensive prospects, they now entered this narrow valley screened by Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic spell, Here scorch'd by lightnings, there with ivy green. The scene of barrenness was here and there interrupted by the spreading branches of the larch and cedar, which threw their gloom over the cliff, or athwart the torrent that rolled in the vale. No living creature appeared, except the izard, scrambling among the rocks, and often hanging upon points so dangerous, that fancy shrunk from the view of them. This was such a scene as SALVATOR would have chosen, had he then existed, for his canvas; St. Aubert, impressed by the romantic character of the place, almost expected to see banditti start from behind some projecting rock, and he kept his hand upon the arms with which he always travelled. As they advanced, the valley opened; its savage features gradually softened, and, towards evening, they were among heathy mountains, stretched in far perspective, along which the solitary sheep-bell was heard, and the voice of the shepherd calling his wandering flocks to the nightly fold. His cabin, partly shadowed by the cork-tree and the ilex, which St. Aubert observed to flourish in higher regions of the air than any other trees, except the fir, was all the human habitation that yet appeared. Along the bottom of this valley the most vivid verdure was spread; and, in the little hollow recesses of the mountains, under the shade of the oak and chestnut, herds of cattle were grazing. Groups of them, too, were often seen reposing on the banks of the rivulet, or laving their sides in the cool stream, and sipping its wave. The sun was now setting upon the valley; its last light gleamed upon the water, and heightened


prep for a full resus and a needle aspiration?” She puts a hand on Sloane’s arm after slipping the phone back into her pocket. “I better get out there, but I’m glad you and Ethan are doing great. And who knows…?” She spins around when she reaches the door. “Maybe we’ll even be pregnant together!” “Yes,” Sloane says to the empty room. “I think we will.” Chapter 9 Ethan leans toward his computer screen at his cubicle at Seattle Homicide, staring at a satellite photo of the waterfront mansion Sloane visited last night. He forces himself not to think about what she did in the hour she was there. He’s still furious that she lied to him about it. Even so, he wishes he could take back his response to her in the kitchen, knowing he was only pushing her farther away. But he can’t understand how she could be so aloof. He felt so sick after sleeping with Rachel—even after he told her it would never happen again—that he knew he had to come clean. He had never been so scared in his life. Until now. He opens a new window and searches the King County Assessor website for the address. The fifteen-thousand-square-foot home was purchased for twenty-six million dollars four months ago by Pacific Estate Management, LLC. Ethan leaves the assessor website and runs an Internet search for the company. His heart drops in his chest when he reads the headline at the top of the search. BRODY CARR’S MYSTERIOUS NEW COMPANY: PACIFIC ESTATE MANAGEMENT, LLC Sloane’s words on the phone replay in his mind. Thanks, Brody. I’ll let you know how it goes. Ethan skims the first sentence beneath the headline. Pacific Estate Management oversees many of Brody and Chelsea Carr’s personal matters, including the power couple’s real estate holdings. Their names sound familiar, and he drums his fingers against his desk before typing Brody Carr into his Internet search bar. A headshot of a guy around Ethan’s age tops the search. Beside the photo, in bold letters: Brody Carr, entrepreneur and founder of The One. His net worth is listed as 1.4 billion dollars. Ethan has never used the dating app, which had been around for over a decade, but everyone knew what it was. He recalls Sloane mentioning once that the app’s founder had been her chemistry lab partner in college. Beneath Brody’s headshot are several photos of him and a stunning blonde. Ethan’s eyes travel to his biography on the right side of the screen. Brody Carr married Australian model Chelsea Nesbitt in 2016. He sits back in his chair. He wouldn’t have thought it would matter who his wife was having an affair with. But learning he was a billionaire dating app founder somehow made it sting worse. How could this be happening? Ethan examines the photo of Brody, smiling with his arm around his wife. Behind him, his partner’s phone rings as Ethan runs a new search for Chelsea Carr. A headline from last week appears at the top. EX-MODEL CHELSEA CARR STEPS OUT


lips. Polydamas holds his ground. “I follow the orders of the king, not yours.” “That is unfortunate, because the guards do. And even if they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter, because I will kill you myself.” Lycomedes starts sobbing. It is a pitiful sight. Cadmus reaches out and clasps his hunched shoulder, forcing him upward. “You don’t have to do this,” Polydamas says. His voice scratches the air, like nails against stone. She wishes he would beg for mercy, not Lycomedes. But that isn’t Polydamas’s way. “My father always said that a ruler has to effect the punishment himself, or his people won’t respect him.” “Your father was a wise man, I am sure,” he says. “He would have listened to his elders, not killed them.” She scoffs. “You didn’t know Tyndareus. He never listened to the elders. I have listened to you, to your insults and treachery, for nine years. I am tired of listening now.” * * * She has them dragged to the Lion Gate under the cold sun. People are gathered in the streets, watching and whispering, mothers’ hands on their children’s shoulders, men’s eyes on Polydamas and Lycomedes, like a herd looking at its weakest members. She sees an old woman with a chicken under her arm, two boys pushing through the crowd to get a better view. Dogs bark, men yell, women sigh. Outside the Lion Gate, her guards make space, pushing the two prisoners to the middle of the path. People are also coming from the villages at the foot of the mountain, baskets and rags in hand, their heads cocked with curiosity. Clytemnestra stands in front of Polydamas and Lycomedes, Leon on her right, Orestes on her left. Dust from the alleys has clung to Lycomedes’s tunic and he brushes it away. She thinks of Iphigenia, who couldn’t brush sand from her dress before she was murdered. She clears her throat and turns to the people around her. “These men stand accused of treason and conspiracy.” The crowd is quiet, and a hundred eyes watch her, as big as eggs. “They walked around the citadel to spread the word that their queen wasn’t the rightful ruler of this city. They called me a plague upon Mycenae and conspired to make my son king while my husband fights in Troy.” Lycomedes is mumbling, his pale forehead sweating despite the cold. The wind cuts across their cheeks like ice. Polydamas stares at her, his tunic rich and clean. His wife and daughters must be somewhere in the crowd. Still, no one pleads for him. “I believe mercy can be shown to those who repent, but these men had many chances to do so and never took them. Their disrespect shan’t go unpunished.” Polydamas’s face is like stone. She can hear the silence around her and Orestes’s breathing next to her as if it were her own. She is glad Electra and Chrysothemis aren’t here. Her hand goes to her mother’s jeweled dagger as she turns to the elders. “Your treacherous words have caused your own death.” Lycomedes’s


and projectile-vomited all over the intake lady. This whole part of the story, save my idiotic waiting around, took three, maybe four minutes! At the end of an impossibly long hallway, Ashley turned the corner into a shockingly bright room: three surgical lights were mounted above a table with oxygen tanks and a crash cart pushed next to it, plus six people in the middle of doing…I don’t know what, but they all seemed very busy. I’m a loser, so my first thought was “Wow, all this for me?!” and when I stood up to get on the table, I was sheepishly like, “Hi, guys,” as if I was the last person to arrive for a dinner reservation they couldn’t get seated for without me and not a person who was about to lose consciousness. They all turned at once and bum-rushed me, stripping me out of my clothes in less than a second and throwing a gown over me as I climbed up on the table. On my right side, I heard a woman’s voice say, “BIG POKE,” as she stuck me to put an IV port into the crook of my arm, and then a woman next to her said, “ANOTHER POKE,” as she jammed an EpiPen into my thigh. A nurse behind my head was reaching over me to affix a bunch of heart-monitoring electrodes to my chest. On my left side was a doctor in black scrubs (fancy!) who was trying to look in my eyes with a penlight and a doctor in green scrubs with a clipboard who kept repeating, “What did you take? What did you take? What did you take?” while I tried to choke out the word “Zyrtec” in a way he could understand around my enormous tongue. Black Scrubs instructed me to “scooch [my] butt down and open [my] mouth as wide as possible,” and I tried to make a joke like “(HEE HAW) sure but (gasp) you gotta take me (HEE HAW) to dinner first (gasp),” and Black Scrubs looked at me with such kind pity that it broke my heart. He very solemnly said, “Samantha, you are funny, but you are also in anaphylactic shock. I am trying to clear your airway, please stop joking and tilt your head back.” That was not my first time being booed offstage, but it was certainly the most jarring, especially since he didn’t even give me a chance to workshop the one about how my throat was tighter than new leather shoes, so he should use his meat tube to intubate me. “Clear my airway”? “Anaphylactic shock”? Those are death sentences! I think the most upsetting realization I had that night was that when faced with imminent doom, these-could-be-the-last-few-snorting-breaths-you-ever-take kind of doom, I naturally defaulted to joking. I will die, eventually, being a fucking clown. A clown who is desperate to coax even a hint of a smile from the very serious people tasked with making sure she lives to honk her big red nose another day. I think about dying all the time;


her sisters, example. "I'm glad mine is blue," said Amy. and then the rooms were very still while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting. "Where is Mother?" asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for their gifts, half an hour later. "Goodness only knows. some poor creeter came a-beggin', and your ma went straight off to see what was needed. There never was such a woman for givin' away vittles and drink, clothes and firin'," replied Hannah, who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by them all more as a friend than a servant. "She will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything ready," said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a basket and kept under the sofa, ready to be produced at the proper time. "why, where is Amy's bottle of cologne?" she added, as the little flask did not appear. "She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on it, or some such notion," replied Jo, dancing about the room to take the first stiffness off the new army slippers. "How nice my handkerchiefs look, don't they? Hannah washed and ironed them for me, and I marked them all myself," said Beth, looking proudly at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor. "Bless the child! She's gone and put `Mother' on them instead of `M. March'. How funny!" cried Jo, taking one up. "Isn't that right? I thought it was better to do it so, because Meg's initials are M.M., and I don't want anyone to use these but Marmee," said Beth;, looking troubled. "It's all right, dear, and a very pretty idea, quite sensible too, for no one can ever mistake now. It will please her very much, I know," said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth. "There's Mother. Hide the basket, quick!" cried Jo, as a door slammed and steps sounded in the hall. Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters all waiting for her. "Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?" asked Meg, surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so early. "Don't laugh at me, Jo! I didn't mean anyone should know till the time came. I only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and I gave all my money to get it, and I'm truly trying not to be selfish any more." As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap one, and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget herself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her `a trump', while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to ornament the stately bottle. "You see I felt ashamed of


men? Both, says I; and let's have a couple of smoked herring by way of variety. .. <p 67 > .. < chapter xvi 2 THE SHIP > In bed we concocted our plans for the morrow. But to my surprise and no small concern, Queequeg now gave me to understand, that he had been diligently consulting Yojo --the name of his black little god --and Yojo had told him two or three times over, and strongly insisted upon it everyway, that instead of our going together among the whaling-fleet in harbor, and in concert selecting our craft; instead of this, I say, Yojo earnestly enjoined that the selection of the ship should rest wholly with me, inasmuch as Yojo purposed befriending us; and, in order to do so, had already pitched upon a vessel, which, if left to myself, I, Ishmael, should infallibly light upon, for all the world as though it had turned out by chance; and in that vessel I must immediately ship myself, for the present irrespective of Queequeg. I have forgotten to mention that, in many things, Queequeg placed great confidence in the excellence of Yojo's judgment and surprising forecast of things; and cherished Yojo with considerable esteem, as a rather good sort of god, who perhaps meant well enough upon the whole, but in all cases did not succeed in his benevolent designs. Now, this plan of Queequeg's, or rather Yojo's, touching the selection of our craft; I did not like that plan at all. I had not a little relied on Queequeg's sagacity to point out the whaler best fitted to carry us and our fortunes securely. But as all my remonstrances produced no effect upon Queequeg, I was obliged to acquiesce; and accordingly prepared to set about this business with a determined rushing sort of energy and vigor, that should quickly settle that trifling little affair. Next morning early, leaving Queequeg shut up with Yojo in our little bedroom --for it seemed that it was some sort of Lent or Ramadan, or day of fasting, humiliation, and prayer with Queequeg and Yojo that .. <p 68 > day; how it was I never could find out, for, though I applied myself to it several times, I never could master his liturgies and XXXIX Articles --leaving Queequeg, then, fasting on his tomahawk pipe, and Yojo warming himself at his sacrificial fire of shavings, I sallied out among the shipping. After much prolonged sauntering and many random inquiries, I learnt that there were three ships up for three-years' voyages --The Devil-Dam the Tit-bit, and the pequod. devil- dam, i do not know the origin of; tit-bit is obvious; Pequod, you will no doubt remember, was the name of a celebrated tribe of Massachusetts Indians, now extinct as the ancient Medes. I peered and pryed about the Devil-Dam; from her, hopped over to the Tit-bit; and, finally, going on board the Pequod, looked around her for a moment, and then decided that this was the very ship for us. You may have seen many a quaint craft


Anyway, you shouldn’t look to me as an arbiter of what’s appropriate. And I’m actually in (steel yourself for glamour ahead) Kansas City, Missouri. In my childhood bedroom. Living with my 81-year-old stepdad and his beagle Sugar. The glamour never stops! I’m sheepish about being one of those people who fled New York, but after everything shut down, I started to feel like I was losing my mind (like kind of for real, not as a hyperbolic expression). How’s LA? Noodles made out of cheese would be fantastic. You could fry them and dip them in marinara sauce and—oh shit, I think I just invented mozzarella sticks! Btw do random strangers ever write to you after guessing your surprisingly obvious email address? from: Noah Brewster <NoahRBrewster@gmail.com> to: Sally Milz <Smilz@TNOshow.com> date: Jul 22, 2020, 10:36 PM subject: Actually I turn 39 even sooner than you, on 9/5. I’m not sure how someone celebrates a birthday during a “deadly global shitshow” but maybe by using a metal straw and eating noodles made of cheese in the same meal? So many possibilities! OK, speaking of the pandemic…in all seriousness, this brings me to why I first emailed you. Did you wonder? If you did, it was nice of you to act like it wasn’t weird and out of the blue. So…I had Covid in February. First, I will insert a disclaimer about how I shouldn’t complain because of how privileged I am…then I will say it was fucking awful. For almost 3 weeks, I couldn’t catch my breath, had the worst cough of my life, was exhausted, sore all over, constant headache. In addition to feeling like hell, I was terrified that I might never be able to sing again, or at least not like before. I’m lucky that this didn’t prove to be the case, but for someone like me, anything that messes with voice and breath is very scary. As I type this all out, it occurs to me maybe you’ve also had it and are saying to yourself, what a baby! I hope you haven’t had it. But being sick gave me time to think about…to be honest…a lot of things. One was my week at TNO in 2018, specifically working with you, and how things took a kinda bad turn between us at the end. I regret that, and I want to officially say I’m sorry. I think you’re cool and smart and I could have imagined us hanging out after that week and then…well, obviously that didn’t happen. But maybe it should have, you know? To answer your questions: - I did attend a BLM protest. I went back and forth beforehand because I didn’t want to do it in a performative way, but I decided it was more important to just go and let the chips fall in terms of potentially having my motives questioned…it wouldn’t be the first or last time. I told the people that handle my socials not to post about it, although I think some pics did end up online. Did you attend any?


remonstrance at the time you speak of-- was a base menial, one of the things Miles said to you, I find myself guessing, was that you were another." Again her admission was so adequate that I continued: "And you forgave him that?" "Wouldn't YOU?" "Oh, yes!" And we exchanged there, in the stillness, a sound of the oddest amusement. Then I went on: "At all events, while he was with the man--" "Miss Flora was with the woman. It suited them all!" It suited me, too, I felt, only too well; by which I mean that it suited exactly the particularly deadly view I was in the very act of forbidding myself to entertain. But I so far succeeded in checking the expression of this view that I will throw, just here, no further light on it than may be offered by the mention of my final observation to Mrs. Grose. "His having lied and been impudent are, I confess, less engaging specimens than I had hoped to have from you of the outbreak in him of the little natural man. Still," I mused, "They must do, for they make me feel more than ever that I must watch." It made me blush, the next minute, to see in my friend's face how much more unreservedly she had forgiven him than her anecdote struck me as presenting to my own tenderness an occasion for doing. This came out when, at the schoolroom door, she quitted me. "Surely you don't accuse HIM--" "Of carrying on an intercourse that he conceals from me? Ah, remember that, until further evidence, I now accuse nobody." Then, before shutting her out to go, by another passage, to her own place, "I must just wait," I wound up. IX I waited and waited, and the days, as they elapsed, took something from my consternation. A very few of them, in fact, passing, in constant sight of my pupils, without a fresh incident, sufficed to give to grievous fancies and even to odious memories a kind of brush of the sponge. I have spoken of the surrender to their extraordinary childish grace as a thing I could actively cultivate, and it may be imagined if I neglected now to address myself to this source for whatever it would yield. Stranger than I can express, certainly, was the effort to struggle against my new lights; it would doubtless have been, however, a greater tension still had it not been so frequently successful. I used to wonder how my little charges could help guessing that I thought strange things about them; and the circumstances that these things only made them more interesting was not by itself a direct aid to keeping them in the dark. I trembled lest they should see that they WERE so immensely more interesting. Putting things at the worst, at all events, as in meditation I so often did, any clouding of their innocence could only be-- blameless and foredoomed as they were--a reason the more for taking risks. There were moments when, by an irresistible impulse,


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

would lead me to raising the army, all to make the pieces of your vision fall into place. Stringing August along, too, until he decided he wanted a war.” Anton nodded, smooth and unruffled. So used to being used, all of them. “And you?” Tears blurred her vision still; when she looked at Gabe, all she saw was a tall shadow, a shock of red-gold. “Staying with me, being with—being my friend?” She caught herself before she said something else, something more heated. “Was it all an act?” “Gabriel was as unaware as you were,” Anton said. “When he came to me yesterday and told me your plan, he expected me to stop you. He was very reluctant to let you roam the catacombs.” Lore dropped her eyes and concentrated very, very hard on the floor between her feet. “I told him, then, what we needed to happen. What we’d been working toward. Our necromancer raising the dead, and my nephew’s powers being sharpened by yours, so he could step into his rightful place. Now, unfortunately, there is still the matter of the eclipse. Of your Consecration, Lore.” “My Consecration?” “Your power over Mortem will reach its height on your twenty-fourth birthday. Which happens to coincide with the eclipse.” Anton crossed his arms. “August plans to kill you both and take your power at the ball.” “But how would he do that?” She directed her question to the floor; her head felt too heavy to lift. “Steal our power?” The Priest Exalted’s scarred face was nearly pitying. “Killing you at the moment of totality, when the moon fully covers the sun. When the powers of life and death can be wielded together.” His eye glinted. “When chosen vessels are made manifest.” “No.” Bastian and Gabe said it at the same time, their voices harmonizing against the marble walls. Lore’s head came up; the two men looked at each other with naked hatred, all that complicated feeling finally alchemized into something blade-sharp. “He won’t kill Lore.” Gabe tore his gaze away from Bastian to look at Anton instead. “You said—” “Peace, son.” Calm words, but Anton’s voice snapped. Gabe flinched. “Lore will be perfectly safe.” “It still seems like the best course of action would be to hide her until the eclipse is over.” Gabe stepped up, a determined tilt to his chin; he expected another reason to flinch, and wanted to keep it from happening this time. He said nothing about Bastian’s safety. “Keep her here, or send her to her mothers.” Mari and Val. Calling them her mothers, even now that he knew her true origins, felt like some kind of absolution. But Anton shook his head before Gabe finished speaking. “It won’t work. We need things to continue as if we have no idea what August is planning, to keep him from getting suspicious.” “So we go to this damn ball as if nothing has happened,” Bastian said, looking at Lore, “and we trust that you’ll keep my father from killing us and starting a war.” Skepticism ran deep furrows


insidious city, this harbor of violence, this scum of the world, Alante. Faced with the entire world’s anger, the surviving gang leaders, headed by none other than the woman standing now in front of Io, convened and reached an agreement: no one would snitch and provide the identity of the rogue gang to the police. Their names would be lost to history. No retribution sought, no investigations and arrests, no new vendettas born. No leeches, ever. The Silts needed to rebuild. And so they made a vow of Roosters’ Silence. “Yes, I know the term,” said Io. “Do you know what happens to those who break it?” “Yes,” Io whispered. Their larynx carved out of their throats, left to hang from their chin like a chicken’s wattle. “Everyone who works for me knows to keep the Silence. You want to break into the Plaza? Fine. You’ve got old friends in the police? Fine. But if you breathe even a word of me and mine to the leeches, consider yourself a crowing rooster. Do you get what I’m saying, cutter?” Io’s hand clenched into a fist. The clock answered for her: Tick-tock. Tick. Tock. CHAPTER X A CAUTIONARY TALE IO CALLED FORTH the Quilt the moment Bianca left the rooftop, leafing through her bundle of threads. They slipped through her fingers like gossamer hairs, the touch of each wholly distinctive. She knew upon contact what each thread led to: one reminded her of Ava’s voice, the other of the taste of Amos’s coffee, the next of her favorite mosaic in the Artisti District of a beach strewn with beckoning sirens. And there—Rosa’s smirk, the smell of her tobacco, the weight of her arm slung across Io’s shoulders. The thread stretched eastward, which Io hadn’t expected; it was neither the direction of the Plaza, nor of her and Ava’s apartment. She threw back her shoulders and drew in a deep breath. Time for some more sleuthing. Trolleys grunted past her as she took to the roofs, crossing the Silts at a swift pace. Every few minutes she double-checked the direction of Rosa’s thread in the Quilt. Her steps slowed when she neared the giant apartment complex where Rosa and her extended family rented flats. How many times had she walked this same path, to drop Rosa off after school, or pick her up for a night of dancing? She had met Rosa at school, a few blocks away. How exactly, neither of them remembered, though they often tried to coax it out of their brains. “First day, seated next to each other?” Io would guess. “Too corny.” Rosa would shake her head. “Jumping rope during recess?” “Too banal. What about the girls’ bathroom, hiding from the prefect?” “Bah. Too on the nose.” However it had happened, the point was that within a few weeks, they were two inseparable eight-year-old scoundrels devising insidious pranks on the teachers they didn’t like. Throughout the years, they shared everything: homework, clothes, fears, secrets, and dreams. They loved playing make-believe as the Order of the Furies, which later turned


“Then we’ll set them up,” said Mrs. King, not allowing her smile to waver. “We can get messages out to the big buyers in no time. You can pave the way for us. Let everybody know there’s a big seller in town.” “I’m not using my name! I can spread the word, get my men lined up for anything I want, but I need deniability, right up until things kick off. That’s my rules, for you.” “We’ll use a code name, then,” said Mrs. King. “Leave it to me.” Jane-one raised her pencil. “How many rooms in the house, please?” Mrs. King approved of practical questions. “Winnie, bring me the soup tureen.” Winnie nodded and drew out a vast silver bowl from behind the sofa. Mrs. King opened the lid, showed it around the room with a flourish, the light reflecting in their eyes. “Schematics, ladies. Floor plans of the cellar, ground floor, saloon floor, bedroom floor, old nursery and guest chambers, servants’ quarters and attics.” She saw Hephzibah leaning forward, incredulous. There were delicate etchings on the underside of the tureen lid, carved in minute detail. “If you’re lost, make for the dining room. These will set you straight. Winnie has made paper copies, but you’ll need to burn those after reading.” “That’s clever,” said Jane-one, taking her pencil out of her mouth, examining the tureen. Mrs. King nodded. “And necessary. Now, Winnie, tell us about the doors.” Winnie straightened. “There are four entrances to the property.” She looked around, checked they could hear her. “Front door. Tradesmen’s door. Mews door. Garden door. These doors are all double or triple locked. The front door is double bolted, too.” “And who’s got the key, Mrs. King?” said Jane-two. “I had it, once,” said Mrs. King. “But I surrendered my set the day I left. Now the butler holds them. Mr. Shepherd. Until they recruit a new housekeeper, that is.” She glanced at Alice. “We are going to do our level best to impede that, of course.” Hephzibah’s glass clinked on the table. “Shepherd? I’m not going anywhere near him. Repulsive, odious man.” Mrs. King saw Winnie place a hand on Hephzibah’s arm, whether to soothe or silence her she couldn’t say. “Does someone need to charm the butler?” said Mrs. Bone. “Get him onside?” “There’s no use recruiting Mr. Shepherd,” said Mrs. King. “He was Mr. de Vries’s man, utterly loyal.” Mrs. Bone scratched her nose. “But if somebody were to use a little persuasion...” Mrs. King shook her head. “No knuckle-dusting, Mrs. Bone, but thank you for asking. You’ve brought us nicely to a central point. We will not use violence, nor any incapacitating force, on any person, in that house. We will not break or damage any lock, window, entrance, or door frame of any kind.” “It’s a question of insurance, Mrs. Bone,” said Winnie when Mrs. Bone scowled. “The house of de Vries holds a large policy against any act of burglary or theft. The terms of the contract are quite clear. A crime, if it has been committed,


his eyes. He was trying to marshal his arguments for proving that he did not now constitute a mental health hazard himself. He was far from certain about this - his mind seemed to be full of noise, horses, smoke, and the stench of blood. This always happened when he felt miserable and put upon, and he had never been able to explain it to himself. In a high dimension of which we know nothing the mighty Khan bellowed with rage, but Mr Prosser only trembled slightly and whimpered. He began to fell little pricks of water behind the eyelids. Bureaucratic cock-ups, angry men lying in the mud, indecipherable strangers handing out inexplicable humiliations and an unidentified army of horsemen laughing at him in his head - what a day. What a day. Ford Prefect knew that it didn't matter a pair of dingo's kidneys whether Arthur's house got knocked down or not now. Arthur remained very worried. "But can we trust him?" he said. "Myself I'd trust him to the end of the Earth," said Ford. "Oh yes," said Arthur, "and how far's that?" "About twelve minutes away," said Ford, "come on, I need a drink." ================================================================= Chapter 2 Here's what the Encyclopedia Galactica has to say about alcohol. It says that alcohol is a colourless volatile liquid formed by the fermentation of sugars and also notes its intoxicating effect on certain carbon-based life forms. The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy also mentions alcohol. It says that the best drink in existence is the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster. It says that the effect of a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster is like having your brains smashed out by a slice of lemon wrapped round a large gold brick. The Guide also tells you on which planets the best Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters are mixed, how much you can expect to pay for one and what voluntary organizations exist to help you rehabilitate afterwards. The Guide even tells you how you can mix one yourself. Take the juice from one bottle of that Ol' Janx Spirit, it says. Pour into it one measure of water from the seas of Santraginus V - Oh that Santraginean sea water, it says. Oh those Santraginean fish!!! Allow three cubes of Arcturan Mega-gin to melt into the mixture (it must be properly iced or the benzine is lost). Allow four litres of Fallian marsh gas to bubble through it, in memory of all those happy Hikers who have died of pleasure in the Marshes of Fallia. Over the back of a silver spoon float a measure of Qualactin Hypermint extract, redolent of all the heady odours of the dark Qualactin Zones, subtle sweet and mystic. Drop in the tooth of an Algolian Suntiger. Watch it dissolve, spreading the fires of the Algolian Suns deep into the heart of the drink. Sprinkle Zamphuor. Add an olive. Drink ... but ... very carefully ... The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy sells rather better than the Encyclopedia Galactica. "Six pints of bitter," said Ford Prefect to the barman


is full of delicious, home-cooked Middle Eastern meals. I know she’s not on our list, but she is affiliated via her husband and might be open if we approach her, rather than asking her to submit. She doesn’t have an agent or any professional cooking experience, I don’t think, but she might be worth looking into.” Penny walks over to the table and looks at the recipes and screenshots of Afra’s Instagram I’ve laid out on the table. “Hmm,” she says. “Perhaps.” She gives me a friendly smile, then leaves the papers and returns to her desk. She’s back to tapping away in no time. Ouch. Maybe I should have gone to Kris; some management don’t take ideas seriously if it doesn’t come from a peer. I stand up and start gathering the papers. “No, you can leave them there, Maddie,” Penny says. “I’ll take a look later.” I look at her in consternation. “Oh, okay, great.” I leave the room triumphant. Chapter Sixteen Ben Still on for Friday night? Maddie Of course! Ben Look at us. You went from taking a week to reply to under a minute and now we’re going on our third date Maddie ♥ But something about his message jars me. It’s the mention of our third date. Google: Does a third date mean sex? That Dating Life The three-date rule is more of an American invention, so does it apply to those of us across the pond? Well, if it’s a rule you want to follow, it really means that if you don’t want to be considered a whore/slut/fuck buddy, then you need to wait at least three paid dates (so a walk in the park doesn’t count) before having sex. Of course, this rule applies strictly to women. The Girl Next Door There’s only a wrong way to have sex when dating and that’s being pressured into it. The only “rule” you need to stick to is having sex when you want to. Google: How do I know if I’m ready to have sex? Carmen: You just know Tiffany: Unfortunately you tend to find out after you have sex I think I’m ready to have sex. I’m officially closer to thirty than twenty, so I should be ready. I must be almost a decade behind most women. But we’re going to the cinema; we won’t have sex in the cinema. Maybe I should casually suggest going back to his place after. What’s the code word: nightcap? Is it weird there’s a part of me that wants this over with? Probably, but best to save further ruminations on that for when I can afford a therapist. Maybe it’s not that weird. Maybe that time in my life—the rose petals on the bed and lit candles on the floor—is over, or just not me. Will I regret it, though? Ben knows I’m a virgin, so if it is going to happen on our third date, does he have something special planned? How will I feel if he doesn’t? * * * Ben So sorry. I’m running late.


skin,” he murmurs appreciatively and folds me in his arms again. He kisses my shoulder and runs his nose up to my ear. “You smell like heaven, Mrs. Grey.” “So do you, Mr. Grey.” I nuzzle him again and inhale his Christian smell, which is now mixed with the heady scent of sex. I could stay wrapped in his arms like this, sated and happy, forever. It’s just what I need after a full day of back-to-work, arguing, and bitch slapping. This is where I want to be, and in spite of his control freakery, his megalomania, this is where I belong. Christian buries his nose in my hair and inhales deeply. I let out a contented sigh, and I feel his smile. And we sit, arms clasped around each other, saying nothing. Eventually reality intrudes. “It’s late,” Christian says, his fingers methodically stroking my back. “Your hair still needs cutting.” He chuckles. “That it does, Mrs. Grey. Do you have the energy to finish the job you started?” “For you, Mr. Grey, anything.” I kiss his chest once more and reluctantly stand. “Don’t go.” Grabbing my hips, he turns me around. He straightens then un- does my skirt, letting it drop to the floor. He holds his hand out to me. I take it and step out of my skirt. Now I am dressed solely in stockings and garter belt. “You are a mighty fine sight, Mrs. Grey.” He sits back in the chair and crosses his arms, giving me a full and frank appraisal. I hold out my hands and twirl for him. “God, I’m a lucky son of a bitch,” he says admiringly. “Yes, you are.” He grins. “Put my shirt on and you can cut my hair. Like this, you’ll distract me, and we’ll never get to bed.” 177/551 I can’t help my answering smile. Knowing that he’s watching my every move, I sashay over to where we left my shoes and his shirt. Bending slowly, I reach down, pick up his shirt, smell it— hmm—then shrug it on. Christian’s eyes are round. He’s redone his fly and is watching me intently. “That’s quite a floor show, Mrs. Grey.” “Do we have any scissors?” I ask innocently, batting my eyelashes. “My study,” he croaks. “I’ll go search.” Leaving him, I walk into our bedroom and grab my comb from the dressing table before heading to his study. As I enter the main corridor, I notice the door to Taylor’s office is open. Mrs. Jones is standing just beyond the door. I stop, rooted to the spot. Taylor is running his fingers down her face and smiling sweetly at her. Then he leans down and kisses her. Holy shit! Taylor and Mrs. Jones? I gape in astonishment—I mean, I thought . . . well, I kind of suspected. But obviously they are together! I flush, feeling like a voyeur, and manage to get my feet to move. I scamper across the great room and into Christian’s study. Switching on the light, I walk to his desk. Taylor and Mrs.


liar, but he isn't honest enough to come out with the whole truth. He says he gave the money to Dunstan because of "young men's fooleries." This triggers the Squire's prejudices and distracts him. NOTE: FATHERHOOD The Squire seems to relate to his sons only through their need for money or their hope of inheriting his property. In a rage, he threatens to disinherit them and start a new family. He reminds Godfrey that the property isn't entailed (under British law, entailed property had to be passed down to the owner's eldest male successor). He warns Godfrey that Godfrey would benefit from helping the property be run better. The Squire's an insecure father--he compares himself constantly to what "some fathers" do, and he speaks of how his grandfather ran things. In the end, he blames Godfrey's faults on Godfrey's mother, as if disclaiming all fatherhood. Silas, in contrast to Godfrey, seems to have no father. As you read on, look for other examples of good and bad fathers. Often, Eliot doesn't describe her characters physically, because she wants to focus on their inner moral workings. This scene is dramatized to focus on Godfrey. You see the Squire's gestures and expressions, but you feel Godfrey's reactions. What is your opinion of Godfrey here? Some readers point out that he does tell the first half of his story honestly. But his father's reaction is so violent, he loses courage. The more you see of Squire Cass, these readers feel, the more you 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


eighteen-year-old son/man FUCKS within the first five minutes of the first episode. She can wear whatever kind of pants she pleases! DEATH THREATS!!!!! OVER THE TUTU LADY!!!!!!!!! Is this a real thing? Do people really feel this strongly about their imaginary television friends? I mean, on the one hand I get it, I have watched every episode of every season dozens and dozens of times and feel a kinship with each of these women, but on the other hand they are not people. I would not kill on their behalf, mostly because they exist only on paper and inside of my TV. Although I’m not sure that I’d consider homicide for any of my actual homies, the ones who can breathe my same air and talk to me, but maybe that’s just supporting evidence that I’m a shitty friend. Anyway, if I had access to a time machine, here are some ways I would teleport back to my knees’ best years and ruin that would-be assassin’s favorite show. SEASON ONE Episode 1: “Sex and the City” What if “Mister Big” was just “John the Bank Guy”? You know what I mean? Half of this dude’s allure was the fact that he was all smoldering and mysterious and we had no idea what his name was. Also, he was rich and had a driver, which definitely fills the hole where a personality was supposed to be. And, yes, Big had luxurious hair and a gorgeous jaw, but what if he’s just some regular asshole withholding his attention and Carrie moves on by the middle of the season and we never think about his ass ever again? Episode 3: “Bay of Married Pigs” Instead of pretending to be gay for one dinner party in order to make partner at her law firm, Miranda instead dives headfirst into a full-fledged lesbian relationship with Syd, adopting several needy shelter dogs and moving into an exposed-brick apartment together two weeks after they learn each other’s last names. Every episode of every future season, they get into a fight about a different lesbo one or both of them may or may not have fooled around with but never break up, ever. Episode 5: “The Power of Female Sex” Remember when homeboy left that envelope stuffed full of cash on that five-star-hotel nightstand for Carrie? What if she actually becomes a sex worker because having sex for free to write two-dollars-a-word newspaper columns is a fucking drag, especially when she could just get a sick apartment and all her Manolos paid for by a stream of monied, faceless businessmen who her glamorous madam Amalita sets her up with and whose names and quirks she never has to learn??? Episode 6: “Secret Sex” Is it so bad not to meet your man’s stupid-ass friends? Like, have you ever met a man’s friends and felt enriched by that experience? “Oh, thank you so much for introducing me to Tony, babe. Love putting a face to the name of the dude calling me a bird in the group chat!” Who are Big’s


another. Who was I to stand in the way of young love, if that was what this was? Hell, my own love life was nonexistent. I said, “Visitors aren’t allowed back here, Sonya.” “You’re here … And so is Hardy.” “Yeah, well, I’m the captain.” Hardy said, “Nurses did put up a good effort trying to keep me out. But I’m a thousand-pound ChronoBot.” The door suddenly slid open. Doc Viv stood on the threshold. “What’s going on here?” Hardy said, “Captain said it was all right for me to visit.” I ignored the robot, “I was concerned … Heard Sonya was out of surgery.” Looking exasperated, Viv held up a palm, displaying her Jadoo ring. “That’s what these are for, right? You could have called.” As she moved farther into the compartment, Sonya’s holographic health avatar popped into view above her bed. Viv leaned forward, her legs making contact with my own. “Want me to move?” “Uh … No, that’s okay.” She proceeded to review various meta-tag-like readouts, most of which were stemming from Sonya’s surgery site. Just then, oblivious to Viv, with wings fluttering, a tiny Symbio-Poth jetted into the small compartment. Sonya, Hardy, and I all took notice of it—the fairy now circling high above Doc’s head. I glanced over to Hardy. This was a complicated situation. I knew this particular fairy was named Tina, a Symbio-Poth that had been one of a number of fairies on board Adams. Truth was, I couldn’t keep them all straight. They were small, but each looked distinctively different. Hardy had had a budding relationship with the Symbio fairy called Iris. They had been inseparable. In fact, she had taken up residence in his front pocket, back when Hardy wore a too-small-for-his-size biker-style leather vest. Unfortunately, Iris was no more—had died while heroically fighting the Ziu. And while this Tina fairy had relentlessly tried to tell Hardy that she was actually Iris, inhabiting the Tina fairy form, Hardy had yet to accept her as … well, Iris. I told you it was a complicated situation. What can I say? At the moment, Hardy was refusing to look up at the still-circling Symbio fairy. Viv looked down at Sonya, offering up a crooked smile. “You seem to be doing fine. Slightly elevated temperature, but that’s to be expected.” “Good, then can I get out of here?” “Ha ha, no. Ask me again in a week.” “A week! Seriously? I have to stay in this closet of a room for a week?” “How about if we move you out to the general patient compartment sometime tomorrow? But only if you get some rest. And no more visitors.” Viv gave me a disapproving sideways glance. Sonya nodded, her eyes heavy-lidded. “I am getting a little tired.” “You heard her. Both of you, out!” Viv said, making a two-handed scoot gesture toward the exit. I stood and gave Sonya’s leg a couple of pats. “I’ll come see you tomorrow.” But the teenager was already asleep. I said to Hardy, “Head back to the bridge. I’ll be along


for the voyage is up. From the ship's bows, nearly all the seamen now hung inactive; hammers, bits of plank, lances, and harpoons, mechanically retained in their hands, just as they had darted from their various employments; all their enchanted eyes intent upon the whale, which from side to side strangely vibrating his predestinating head, sent a broad band of overspreading semicircular foam before him as he rushed. Retribution, swift vengeance, eternal malice were in his whole aspect, and spite of all that mortal man could do, the solid white buttress of his forehead .. <p 565 > smote the ship's starboard bow, till men and timbers reeled. Some fell flat upon their faces. Like dislodged trucks, the heads of the harpooneers aloft shook on their bull-like necks. Through the breach, they heard the waters pour, as mountain torrents down a flume. The ship! The hearse! --the second hearse! cried ahab from the boat; its wood could only be American! Diving beneath the settling ship, the whale ran quivering along its keel; but turning under water, swiftly shot to the surface again, far off the other bow, but within a few yards of Ahab's boat, where, for a time, he lay quiescent. I turn my body from the sun. What ho, Tashtego! Let me hear thy hammer. Oh! ye three unsurrendered spires of mine; thou uncracked keel; and only god-bullied hull; thou firm deck, and haughty helm, and Pole-pointed prow, --death-glorious ship! must ye then perish, and without me? Am I cut off from the last fond pride of meanest shipwrecked captains? Oh, lonely death on lonely life! Oh, now I feel my topmost greatness lies in my topmost grief. Ho, ho! from all your furthest bounds, pour ye now in, ye bold billows of my whole foregone life, and top this one piled comber of my death! Towards thee I roll, thou all-destroying but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with thee; from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee. Sink all coffins and all hearses to one common pool! and since neither can be mine, let me then tow to pieces, while still chasing thee, though tied to thee, thou damned whale! Thus, I give up the spear! The harpoon was darted; the stricken whale flew forward; with igniting velocity the line ran through the groove; --ran foul. Ahab stooped to clear it; he did clear it; but the flying turn caught him round the neck, and voicelessly as Turkish mutes bowstring their victim, he was shot out of the boat, ere the crew knew he was gone. Next instant, the heavy eye-splice in the rope's final end flew out of the stark-empty tub, knocked down an oarsman, and smiting the sea, disappeared in its depths. For an instant, the tranced boat's crew stood still; then turned. The ship? Great God, where is the ship? Soon they through dim, bewildering mediums saw her sidelong fading phantom, .. <p 566 > as in the gaseous Fata Morgana; only the uppermost masts


was a vegetarian, thanks to him. I said, “I’d buy you a drink, but I wouldn’t know who to pay.” A sweet and flamboyant young English teacher named Ian convinced me to read more Shirley Jackson, but even after I was thoroughly convinced, he kept right on convincing me, splashing gin and tonic on my sweater. I typed my email into his phone so he could check in a month that I’d done my homework. A basketball game was ending—some purple blurs versus some yellow blurs—and the party crowd seemed split in their fandom. More people gathered, more drunkenly, around the TV as the clock ticked down. Two women whose names I’d missed—one was a lawyer, so I assumed they were faculty spouses—were onto the news story again. Mr. Levin joined them, and so did a man with a baby in his arms. The man said, “Did you see they have him on suicide watch?” Mr. Levin said, “Well, sure. They’d better make sure no one murders him, either. Before they can get his testimony.” The lawyer said, “I wouldn’t mind seeing him murdered. Sorry, but we’re talking about decades of—did you see how he controlled her credit cards?” The second woman said, “You know when they cover the body like that it’s personal; they’re showing shame.” Priscilla Mancio sidled into the conversation. She said, “It’s a miracle she survived.” Ian, the English teacher, said, “That thing with the sign language? On the security camera? Like, she’s sitting there spelling out the letters of the dude’s name. That’s—she knows she’s gonna die, and she has the wits to do that?” The lawyer said, “It’s always the husband.” “DC is like that,” Mr. Levin said. “They go through interns like tissues.” “And the children! I wonder what will happen to the children.” “I just can’t stop thinking about the mother. She locks the daughter out of the house, and how on earth would she know there was a predator? The world is usually safe. We can’t forget that.” “Those VHS tapes were in the floorboards for what, twenty years?” Priscilla Mancio said, “I just don’t understand how the girlfriend went along with it. She’s as bad as him, if you ask me.” “The thing about Hollywood,” Mr. Levin said, “is they’ll cover up anything in the name of money. Well, Bodie, you would know. Have you been following the case?” I didn’t manage an answer. The basketball fans were getting loud; and here came someone with, improbably, a tray of pudding shots, and we needed to help clear the counter. The second woman turned out not to be a faculty spouse but an art history teacher. On impulse, I asked, “Did you see that thing about Jerome Wager?” She said, “Who?” “The guy who did the Obama mural in West Hollywood, the one—” “Oh!” she said. “Yeah! I love him. Wait, what’s the thing?” “Nothing.” Utter relief. There was Twitter, and then there was the real world. Mr. Levin said, “Who made the pimiento cheese dip? This is delicious.” I agreed. I needed


took off on foot. Shaking, her brain unable to focus clearly, she was aware enough to know that couldn’t be right. What was his plan? To leave her in the car? Alone? Surely not. She’d recover and break out. He would be back. And soon. The only reason he hadn’t killed her was that he wanted to take his time, to torture her, she was sure of it. In the darkness, she heard crickets and frogs, smelled the deep, dank odor of the swamp. He’d brought her to the bayou, but where? And why? To kill you slowly. To extract his own, sadistic punishment. Don’t let him, Sam. With all her concentration, she tried to set her jaw to steady herself, to get her hands to work, to take control. But her teeth rattled. Her muscles convulsed. Her eyes seemed to wiggle in their sockets. You can do it. You can. You have to. For yourself. For Ty. For the boys. Her heart wrenched at the thought of her sons. She couldn’t imagine not ruffling their hair, or teasing them, or holding them close when they were hurting. And Ty . . . oh, God, she wouldn’t think of not seeing him again, not kissing him or touching him. Tears filled her eyes, but she wouldn’t break down. She couldn’t. She had to find a way to get free, to save herself, to see her family again. She forced back her fear. Seconds ticked by, then minutes. How long had he been gone? Five minutes? Ten? Twenty? She had no way to tell time, but slowly her control was returning. She stretched her fingers and most of them complied. Come on. Come on! Her legs, still twitching, were heavy. Awkward, but she could move them slightly. And her arms . . . yes, they were responding! Sweating from the effort, she fought to steady herself and reach for the rosary. The car beeped. Interior lights flashed on, nearly blinding her. She started, pretended that there were still some tremors in her body. He cast a glance her way, but slammed the door shut, started the car, and hit the gas, rapidly backing up, hitting the brakes, then switching gears, punching the accelerator. Sam was thrown backward and forward and in that moment, her fingers scraped the back of the driver’s seat. The cross caught between her fingers. As the car bumped and shimmied onto the smooth pavement of the parish road, she tugged. Like a snake sliding out of its den, the rosary finally slithered from the pocket to twine through her waiting fingers. CHAPTER 37 I pace. Back and forth, back and forth, over and over again as the television glows, mocking me. I feel the old anxiety building with every passing moment. I’ve been patient, but my patience has worn razor thin. I know it’s risky, but I can’t wait any longer. I click off the television after watching the segment of Bonjour, New Orleans! with Kristi Bentz over and over again. I can nearly recite the personal, provocative questions


shore. There’s a big shelf there that drops to about a hundred feet or so.” Ethan withdraws a pen from his pocket and marks the map after Carr slides it back toward him. “Again, he’s guessing.” Ethan ignores the attorney’s remark. “Did she not have a knife of her own?” “She did.” Carr keeps his eyes on his hands. “But I noticed it wasn’t in her holster at the hospital. She must’ve dropped it trying to free herself.” Ethan casts a sideways glance at his partner. They would need to send divers down from the Harbor Unit to see if they could recover it. Jonah leans forward in his chair. “How much time passed, do you think, between when you last saw her and found her unconscious?” He sighs. When he looks up at the detectives there are tears in his eyes. “I don’t know…. Less than ten minutes. I think. I pulled her to shore as quickly as I could. There was no one on the beach, so I sprinted to my car to get my phone to call 911. I ran back to where I’d left Chelsea as I made the call.” “And you gave her CPR until the medics arrived?” Jonah asks. They’d requested Chelsea’s medical reports from the first responders and Bayside Hospital but hadn’t yet received them when they left to interview Carr. They’d have to check when they returned to the department if the records matched his story. “When I checked, she still had a weak pulse. So, I gave her mouth-to-mouth until the ambulance got there. By the time they got her breathing tube in, her pulse was gone, though.” Carr’s chin quivers, and Ethan admires his acting skills as the billionaire stares out the windows at the lake. “You never stated why you’re opening an investigation into Chelsea’s death,” Carr’s attorney says. Jonah focuses his attention on Carr as he answers. “Chelsea’s parents have come forward saying that Chelsea was planning to file for divorce this week, and that she had photographic evidence of you with Mason Hachette and two underage girls. You had quite the reasons to want her dead.” “That’s enough.” The attorney raises a hand in the air. “My client agreed to be cooperative. Not harassed. I won’t have him respond to wild, unsubstantiated rumors based on hearsay.” Carr scoffs. “Oh, come on! Yeah, I knew Hachette. So did practically everyone in those circles of LA. That doesn’t make me guilty of anything. I wasn’t aware of any underage girls at Hachette’s parties. But maybe you should ask the governor of California? He went to a lot more than I—” “Stop talking!” Carr gapes at his attorney’s outburst, and Ethan wastes no time asking the next question while Carr is seemingly in the mood to share. “How does a former competitive freediver, who could once hold her breath for seven minutes, swim through a thick patch of bull kelp without considering the risks of entanglement, then panic, only to further entangle herself until she passes out?” While he and Jonah waited