all of them?" "How you talk! No!" "Then how you going to know which one to go for?" --------------------------------------------------------- -229- "Go for all of 'em!" "Why, Tom, it'll take all summer." "Well, what of that? Suppose you find a brass pot with a hundred dollars in it, all rusty and gray, or rotten chest full of di'monds. How's that?" Huck's eyes glowed. "That's bully. Plenty bully enough for me. Just you gimme the hundred dollars and I don't want no di'monds." "All right. But I bet you I ain't going to throw off on di'monds. Some of 'em's worth twenty dollars apiece -- there ain't any, hardly, but's worth six bits or a dollar." "No! Is that so?" "Cert'nly -- anybody'll tell you so. Hain't you ever seen one, Huck?" "Not as I remember." "Oh, kings have slathers of them." "Well, I don' know no kings, Tom." "I reckon you don't. But if you was to go to Europe you'd see a raft of 'em hopping around." "Do they hop?" "Hop? -- your granny! No!" "Well, what did you say they did, for?" "Shucks, I only meant you'd see 'em -- not hopping, of course -- what do they want to hop for? -- but I mean you'd just see 'em -- scattered around, you know, in a kind of a general way. Like that old humpbacked Richard." "Richard? What's his other name?" --------------------------------------------------------- -230- "He didn't have any other name. Kings don't have any but a given name." "No?" "But they don't." "Well, if they like it, Tom, all right; but I don't want to be a king and have only just a given name, like a nigger. But say -- where you going to dig first?" "Well, I don't know. S'pose we tackle that old dead-limb tree on the hill t'other side of Still-House branch?" "I'm agreed." So they got a crippled pick and a shovel, and set out on their three-mile tramp. They arrived hot and panting, and threw themselves down in the shade of a neighboring elm to rest and have a smoke. "I like this," said Tom. "So do I." "Say, Huck, if we find a treasure here, what you going to do with your share?" "Well, I'll have pie and a glass of soda every day, and I'll go to every circus that comes along. I bet I'll have a gay time." "Well, ain't you going to save any of it?" "Save it? What for?" "Why, so as to have something to live on, by and by." "Oh, that ain't any use. Pap would come back to thish-yer town some day and get his claws on it --------------------------------------------------------- -231- if I didn't hurry up, and I tell you he'd clean it out pretty quick. What you going to do with yourn, Tom?" "I'm going to buy a new drum, and a sure-'nough sword, and a red necktie and a bull pup, and get married." "Married!" "That's it." "Tom, you -- why, you ain't in your right mind." "Wait -- you'll see." "Well, that's the foolishest thing


Dáura. Magnaust Vatten (Lord Magnaust): Firstborn child of Heryon Vattenvarg, the Sea King, making him heir to the Stewardship of Mentendon. Brother to Brenna and Haynrick. Mansell Shore (Lord Mansell): Baron Glenn of Langarth through his marriage to Lord Edrick Glenn, and adoptive father to Roland, Mara and Wulf. He is the younger brother of Baroness Shore of Caddow Hall. Mara Glenn: Niece and adopted daughter of Lord Edrick Glenn, born to his sister, Rosa. Mara is the middle child, sister to Roland and Wulf. Marian III (Marian the Less): A former Queen of Inys, the third and final monarch of the Century of Discontent. Daughter of Jillian III and mother to Sabran VI. Following her abdication, she retired to the coast with her companion, Lord Alfrick Withy, and now resides at Befrith Castle in the Lakes. Mariken: A servant of Florell Glade. Ordan Beck (Lord Ordan): Dowager Earl of Goldenbirch, responsible for the haithwood south of the Wickerwath. Father to Helisent, his heir apparent. He reports to Lady Gladwin Fynch, the highest authority of the Leas. Robart Eller (Lord Robart): Duke of Generosity, head of the noble Eller family, and a descendant of the Knight of Generosity. He is the Lord Chancellor of Inys – ceremonial head of the Virtues Council – and the highest authority in the province of the Lakes, as well as a trusted friend of Sabran VI of Inys. Randroth Withy (Lord Randroth): Duke of Fellowship, head of the noble Withy family, and a descendant of the Knight of Fellowship. Riksard of Sadyrr: An ostler at Langarth. Roland Glenn: Nephew and adopted son of Lord Edrick Glenn. He is brother to Mara and Wulf, and heir apparent to the Barony of Glenn. Rozaria III: Queen of Yscalin and head of the House of Vetalda, one of the three sovereigns of Virtudom. Elder twin sister to Guma Vetalda. Therico ‘Theo’ Vetalda: Prince of Yscalin and younger son of the Donmato Alarico and his companion, Thederica Yelarigas. Brother to Idrega, grandnephew of Prince Guma, and grandson of Rozaria III. DECEASED AND HISTORICAL PERSONS OF THE WEST Alfrick Withy: Companion to Marian III and maternal grandfather to Princess Glorian. Carnelian the Peaceweaver: A former Queen of Inys. Galian Berethnet (Galian the Deceiver or the Saint): The first King of Inys. Galian was born in the Inyscan village of Goldenbirch, but rose to squire for Edrig of Arondine. The religion of the Virtues of Knighthood, which Galian based on the knightly code, professes that he vanquished the Nameless One in Lasia, married Princess Cleolind of the House of Onjenyu, and with her founded the House of Berethnet. Worshipped in Virtudom, but reviled in many parts of the South, Galian is thought by his followers to rule in Halgalant, the heavenly court, where he awaits the righteous at the Great Table. Glorian II Berethnet (Glorian Hartbane): A former Queen of Inys, whose love marriage to Isalarico the Benevolent brought Yscalin into the Six Virtues of Knighthood. Isalarico IV Vetalda (Isalarico the Benevolent or Isalarico the Betrayer): A former King of Yscalin, who


“One big function,” Renhauser added defensively. “One function,” Elaine echoed. “Right. Well, the first direction I’d go with this, honestly? Make it a multifunction product. I’d give it predictive abilities. Maybe tell the user a few different things about themselves they don’t already know.” He sighed thoughtfully, as though we were extremely lucky to be in his presence. “Not health stuff—there are tons of apps for that—but behavioral stuff. Like, ‘What should I do on this day to make my life better?’ ” “Wouldn’t that be health stuff?” Delpy asked. Dexter frowned. “Not necessarily. You’ve got this voice recognition technology, right? How about people speak to it and it speaks back?” I felt Brianna tapping my shoulder, leaning in next to me. “Ez, can I talk to you in the hall?” The question was so unexpected, such an overstepping of bounds, that I didn’t know what to say. “After the meeting,” I told her, and watched her face fall. We had legal draw up a contract for Dexter to sign and he hunched over it, pen nearly touching paper, and then looked up at me. “I want a clause in here,” he said. “That Orson has to do a photo shoot with me.” I shifted in my seat. “A photo shoot?” “For Maskelyne and STARS. I’m developing drones for both companies, domestic and combat. I want the New York Times to do a profile about the two of us when this whole thing gets up and running. About this partnership.” “With Orson?” I didn’t like the idea of Orson posing with drones. Or with Ellhorn, who seemed prematurely possessive of him. “He’s already a recognizable face in the tech world. Everyone’s talking about him—you know that.” Of course I knew that. “I’ll ask him.” Dexter shook his head. “Uh-uh. I need approval right now or else I’m not gonna sign.” I could feel the executives’ eyes on my back. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll make it happen.” “Great!” He signed gamely: his signature was weirdly elegant, the outline of a D encircled by an arc that suggested a planetary orbit. “This is going to be really fucking cool, you guys.” We stood to shake hands when Brianna tapped me on the shoulder again. “Ez?” “Yes, yes,” I said, trying not to sound too affable, and waved as Dexter and the executives departed, Elaine bringing up the rear with her steady plod. “What is it?” Brianna waited for me to sit down and then opened her laptop. “I think I missed a few notes from the beginning?” “You didn’t miss anything,” I said, annoyed. “Oh, right—okay. I guess then, um, I guess I might just want to ask you a question?” I made a get on with it motion with my hand. “Um, I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, but it’s about Dexter. He doesn’t really deliver on the things he promises. His companies are all in debt to each other: Maskelyne owes STARS money and STARS owes NeuroTech money and NeuroTech owes Maskelyne money.” “How do you know this?” “I did


books now were insignificant; he could not bother about them when there was something infinitely more important to occupy him. Rose's friends used to come in to tea in the study sometimes or sit about when there was nothing better to do--Rose liked a crowd and the chance of a rag--and they found that Philip was quite a decent fellow. Philip was happy. When the last day of term came he and Rose arranged by which train they should come back, so that they might meet at the station and have tea in the town before returning to school. Philip went home with a heavy heart. He thought of Rose all through the holidays, and his fancy was active with the things they would do together next term. He was bored at the vicarage, and when on the last day his uncle put him the usual question in the usual facetious tone: "Well, are you glad to be going back to school?" Philip answered joyfully. "Rather." In order to be sure of meeting Rose at the station he took an earlier train than he usually did, and he waited about the platform for an hour. When the train came in from Faversham, where he knew Rose had to change, he ran along it excitedly. But Rose was not there. He got a porter to tell him when another train was due, and he waited; but again he was disappointed; and he was cold and hungry, so he walked, through side-streets and slums, by a short cut to the school. He found Rose in the study, with his feet on the chimney-piece, talking eighteen to the dozen with half a dozen boys who were sitting on whatever there was to sit on. He shook hands with Philip enthusiastically, but Philip's face fell, for he realised that Rose had forgotten all about their appointment. "I say, why are you so late?" said Rose. "I thought you were never coming." "You were at the station at half-past four," said another boy. "I saw you when I came." Philip blushed a little. He did not want Rose to know that he had been such a fool as to wait for him. "I had to see about a friend of my people's," he invented readily. "I was asked to see her off." But his disappointment made him a little sulky. He sat in silence, and when spoken to answered in monosyllables. He was making up his mind to have it out with Rose when they were alone. But when the others had gone Rose at once came over and sat on the arm of the chair in which Philip was lounging. "I say, I'm jolly glad we're in the same study this term. Ripping, isn't it?" He seemed so genuinely pleased to see Philip that Philip's annoyance vanished. They began as if they had not been separated for five minutes to talk eagerly of the thousand things that interested them. CHAPTER XIX AT FIRST Philip had been too grateful for Rose's friendship to make any demands on


so slightly, looking dumbfounded. “Sorry.” He laughed, swiping his sleeve across his eyes. “Who’s cutting onions?” The tent full of strangers laughed. Except for Julian, who August could feel staring at him, speculating. Corinne sat in the front row, Menace curled at her feet, looking back and forth between August and Natalie and for some reason, her shoulders seemed to relax over whatever she saw. August would have given a million dollars to find out what it was, because he had no idea what was happening in his chest. A fucking racket, that’s what. She’d brought him a picture of Sam. She’d printed it out, found the hymn. Had it all laminated. Until she handed over the card, he’d had no idea how badly he needed it. Again, he felt the slight weight of it behind his pocket square and it calmed him. Someone had his back. The person he’d grown to trust the most out of anyone in his life . . . was present. In his thoughts, if not physically. And he had the woman in front of him to thank. The woman clutching her flowers with white knuckles. Calm her down. “Your tits look insane.” She looked like she wanted to clock him over the head with her bouquet. But at least the blood was back in her fingers. Damn. He had it so bad. Chapter Fourteen Natalie watched in horror as August unfolded the piece of paper that he’d removed from the pocket of his tuxedo. Yellow legal-pad paper, to be exact, on which lines had been crossed out and arrows had been drawn. It looked like the first draft of a football playbook. What in God’s actual name was he going to say? More importantly, had she actually passed on an offer to get her trust fund and remain single? With her money in hand, she probably could have even afforded to reimburse Corinne for the catering. Sure, the last-minute flake out wouldn’t have been good for her relationship with Corinne or the Vos family reputation, but neither of those things were stellar at the moment to begin with! Although, wow. If she’d taken the money and skedaddled, she would have missed the sight of August in front of an altar—a portable one, sure—looking at her in a wedding dress with total, unabashed awe. It wasn’t every day a girl was privy to that compelling of a moment. My goodness, he’s beautiful, too. A big, beautiful, battle-worn presence. She’d meant every word she’d said to her father. God help her. What now? Follow through on her word to the man. She owed him that. He deserved that much. But that was all she could offer. All he could expect. They were halfway through the traditional vows when August cleared his throat and flattened the wrinkled paper on his thigh. Out of the corner of her eye, Natalie noticed her mother shifting nervously in her seat. She knew August was a loose cannon who never tried to hide his disdain for St. Helena’s elite and every guest at


can girn a laugh as well's onybody at a raight divil's jest. Does he niver say nowt of his fine living amang us, when he goes to t' Grange? This is t' way on't. Up at sundown; dice, brandy, cloised shutters, un can'le-light till next day at noon; then, t' fooil gangs banning un raving to his cham'er, makking dacent fowks dig thur fingers i' thur lugs fur varry shame; un the knave, why he can caint his brass, un ate, un sleep, un off to his neighbour's to gossip wi' t' wife. I' course, he tells Dame Catherine how her fathur's goold runs into his pocket, and her fathur's son gallops down t' broad road, while he flees afore to oppen t' pikes!' Now, Miss Linton, Joseph is an old rascal, but no liar; and if his account of Heath- cliff's conduct be true, you would never think of desir- ing such a husband, would you?" "You are leagued with the rest, Ellen!" she replied. "I'll not listen to your slanders. What malevolence you must have to wish to convince me that there is no happi- ness in the worldl" Whether she would have got over this fancy if left to herself, or persevered in nursing it perpetually, I cannot say. She had little time to reflect. The day after, there was a justice meeting at the next town. My mas- ter was obliged to attend; and Mr. Heathcliff, aware of his absence, called rather earlier than usual. Cather- ine and Isabella were sitting in the library, on hostile terms, but silent---the latter alarmed at her recent in- discretion, and the disclosure she had made of her se- cret feelings in a transient fit of passion; the former, on mature consideration, really offended with her companion, and if she laughed again at her pertness, in- clined to make it no laughing matter to her. She did laugh as she saw Heathcliff pass the window. I was sweeping the hearth, and I noticed a mischievous smile on her lips. Isabella, absorbed in her meditations, or a book, remained till the door opened; and it was too late to attempt an escape, which she would gladly have done had it been practicable. "Come in; that's right!" exclaimed the mistress gaily, pulling a chair to the fire. "Here are two people sadly in need of a third to thaw the ice between them; and you are the very one we should both of us choose. Heathcliff, I'm proud to show you, at last, somebody that dotes on you more than myself. I expect you to feel flattered. Nay, it's not Nelly; don't look at her! My poor little sister-in-law is breaking her heart by mere contemplation of your physical and moral beauty. It lies in your own power to be Edgar's brother.---No, no, Isabella; you shan't run off," she continued, arresting, with feigned playfulness, the confounded girl, who had risen indignantly.---"We were quarrelling like cats about you, Heathcliff, and I was fairly beaten in protes- tations of devotion and admiration; and, moreover, I was


cover the windows and sit quietly until they pass by. If you happen to be out of doors when they fill the skies, then you must do what feels unthinkable—lie down exactly where you are and not move until they are gone. Do you both understand me?” The girls nodded in unison once again. “Is that why the train doesn’t travel by day around here?” Iris asked. “We noticed that it stopped and delayed its course until nightfall at a certain point in the journey.” “Yes, that’s exactly why,” Marisol said. “The train has a better chance of outrunning the hounds at night than stopping in time if an eithral is spotted. And if the railway is bombed, it would be catastrophic for us. Which leads me to the third and last siren you may hear—the one that wails intermittently at any time. Day or night. We have yet to hear this one in Avalon Bluff, but with each day that passes, it becomes more and more of a possibility that we must prepare for. “If you hear this siren, you need to evacuate to the east, immediately. It means that our soldiers on the western front lines are retreating and have given up ground and cannot defend us here. It means that the enemy is coming and will most likely take the town. I’ll prepare dash-packs for you both, which I’ll hang in the pantry for you to grab and run with. There’ll be a matchbook, a flask of water, tins of beans, and other nonperishable items packed inside. Enough to hopefully last you to the next town. “Now, I know this is more than you signed up for, and your heads must be swimming, but do you have any questions for me?” Attie and Iris were silent for a full ten seconds. But then Attie cleared her throat and asked, “The sirens … where do they come from?” “A town a few kilometers west of here, called Clover Hill. They have a great vantage point and a siren that once rang for foul weather and they agreed to alert us the moment they perceived any hounds or eithrals or enemy soldiers.” Marisol began to gather up their empty plates. Iris noticed a slim golden band was on her left ring finger. She was married, then, although she had made no mention of a spouse. It seemed as if she lived alone here. “And it’s late. Nearly midnight. Let me take you both upstairs. You can choose your rooms and then get a good night’s sleep.” As long as a siren doesn’t sound, Iris thought, and a spark of dread arced through her. She hoped it wouldn’t happen, and then that it would, so she could go ahead and get the fright of experiencing one out of the way. “Can we help you clean, Marisol?” Attie asked, rising from her chair. “Not tonight,” she replied. “I have a policy. Guests on their first night aren’t expected to do anything but enjoy themselves. But tomorrow will be different. Breakfast will be at


and Noah had bourne them without reply. But, now that fortune had cast in his way a nameless orphan, at whom even the meanest could point the finger of scorn, he retorted on him with interest. This affords charming food for contemplation. It shows us what a beautiful thing human nature may be made to be; and how impartially the same amiable qualities are developed in the finest lord and the dirtiest charity-boy. Oliver had been sojourning at the undertaker's some three weeks or a month. Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry--the shop being shut up--were taking their supper in the little back-parlour, when Mr. Sowerberry, after several deferential glances at his wife, said, 'My dear--' He was going to say more; but, Mrs. Sowerberry looking up, with a peculiarly unpropitious aspect, he stopped short. 'Well,' said Mrs. Sowerberry, sharply. 'Nothing, my dear, nothing,' said Mr. Sowerberry. 'Ugh, you brute!' said Mrs. Sowerberry. 'Not at all, my dear,' said Mr. Sowerberry humbly. 'I thought you didn't want to hear, my dear. I was only going to say--' 'Oh, don't tell me what you were going to say,' interposed Mrs. Sowerberry. 'I am nobody; don't consult me, pray. _I_ don't want to intrude upon your secrets.' As Mrs. Sowerberry said this, she gave an hysterical laugh, which threatened violent consequences. 'But, my dear,' said Sowerberry, 'I want to ask your advice.' 'No, no, don't ask mine,' replied Mrs. Sowerberry, in an affecting manner: 'ask somebody else's.' Here, there was another hysterical laugh, which frightened Mr. Sowerberry very much. This is a very common and much-approved matrimonial course of treatment, which is often very effective It at once reduced Mr. Sowerberry to begging, as a special favour, to be allowed to say what Mrs. Sowerberry was most curious to hear. After a short duration, the permission was most graciously conceded. 'It's only about young Twist, my dear,' said Mr. Sowerberry. 'A very good-looking boy, that, my dear.' 'He need be, for he eats enough,' observed the lady. 'There's an expression of melancholy in his face, my dear,' resumed Mr. Sowerberry, 'which is very interesting. He would make a delightful mute, my love.' Mrs. Sowerberry looked up with an expression of considerable wonderment. Mr. Sowerberry remarked it and, without allowing time for any observation on the good lady's part, proceeded. 'I don't mean a regular mute to attend grown-up people, my dear, but only for children's practice. It would be very new to have a mute in proportion, my dear. You may depend upon it, it would have a superb effect.' Mrs. Sowerberry, who had a good deal of taste in the undertaking way, was much struck by the novelty of this idea; but, as it would have been compromising her dignity to have said so, under existing circumstances, she merely inquired, with much sharpness, why such an obvious suggestion had not presented itself to her husband's mind before? Mr. Sowerberry rightly construed this, as an acquiescence in his proposition; it was speedily determined, therefore, that Oliver should be at once initiated into the mysteries of the


found it difficult to get on with him. In the first place, he set his face firmly against all the discoveries of the last thirty years: he had no patience with the drugs which became modish, were thought to work marvellous cures, and in a few years were discarded; he had stock mixtures which he had brought from St. Luke's where he had been a student, and had used all his life; he found them just as efficacious as anything that had come into fashion since. Philip was startled at Doctor South's suspicion of asepsis; he had accepted it in deference to universal opinion; but he used the precautions which Philip had known insisted upon so scrupulously at the hospital with the disdainful tolerance of a man playing at soldiers with children. "I've seen antiseptics come along and sweep everything before them, and then I've seen asepsis take their place. Bunkum!" The young men who were sent down to him knew only hospital practice; and they came with the unconcealed scorn for the General Practitioner which they had absorbed in the air at the hospital; but they had seen only the complicated cases which appeared in the wards; they knew how to treat an obscure disease of the suprarenal bodies, but were helpless when consulted for a cold in the head. Their knowledge was theoretical and their self-assurance unbounded. Doctor South watched them with tightened lips; he took a savage pleasure in showing them how great was their ignorance and how unjustified their conceit. It was a poor practice, of fishing folk, and the doctor made up his own prescriptions. Doctor South asked his assistant how he expected to make both ends meet if he gave a fisherman with a stomach-ache a mixture consisting of half a dozen expensive drugs. He complained too that the young medical men were uneducated: their reading consisted of _The Sporting Times_ and _The British Medical Journal_; they could neither write a legible hand nor spell correctly. For two or three days Doctor South watched Philip closely, ready to fall on him with acid sarcasm if he gave him the opportunity; and Philip, aware of this, went about his work with a quiet sense of amusement. He was pleased with the change of occupation. He liked the feeling of independence and of responsibility. All sorts of people came to the consulting-room. He was gratified because he seemed able to inspire his patients with confidence; and it was entertaining to watch the process of cure which at a hospital necessarily could be watched only at distant intervals. His rounds took him into low-roofed cottages in which were fishing tackle and sails and here and there mementoes of deep-sea travelling, a lacquer box from Japan, spears and oars from Melanesia, or daggers from the bazaars of Stamboul; there was an air of romance in the stuffy little rooms, and the salt of the sea gave them a bitter freshness. Philip liked to talk to the sailor-men, and when they found that he was not supercilious they told him long


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

deplore more than the actor himself. Often it had occurred to me in my ponderings upon the subject, that had that altercation taken place in the public street, or at a private residence, it would not have terminated as it did. It was the circumstance of being alone in a solitary office, up stairs, of a building entirely unhallowed by humanizing domestic associations—an uncarpeted office, doubtless, of a dusty, haggard sort of appearance;—this it must have been, which greatly helped to enhance the irritable desperation of the hapless Colt. But when this old Adam of resentment rose in me and tempted me concerning Bartleby, I grappled him and threw him. How? Why, simply by recalling the divine injunction: “A new commandment give I unto you, that ye love one another.” Yes, this it was that saved me. Aside from higher considerations, charity often operates as a vastly wise and prudent principle—a great safeguard to its possessor. Men have committed murder for jealousy’s sake, and anger’s sake, and hatred’s sake, and selfishness’ sake, and spiritual pride’s sake; but no man that ever I heard of, ever committed a diabolical murder for sweet charity’s sake. Mere self-interest, then, if no better motive can be enlisted, should, especially with high-tempered men, prompt all beings to charity and philanthropy. At any rate, upon the occasion in question, I strove to drown my exasperated feelings towards the scrivener by benevolently construing his conduct. Poor fellow, poor fellow! thought I, he don’t mean any thing; and besides, he has seen hard times, and ought to be indulged. I endeavored also immediately to occupy myself, and at the same time to comfort my despondency. I tried to fancy that in the course of the morning, at such time as might prove agreeable to him. Bartleby, of his own free accord, would emerge from his hermitage, and take up some decided line of march in the direction of the door. But no. Half-past twelve o’clock came; Turkey began to glow in the face, overturn his inkstand, and become generally obstreperous; Nippers abated down into quietude and courtesy; Ginger Nut munched his noon apple; and Bartleby remained standing at his window in one of his profoundest dead-wall reveries. Will it be credited? Ought I to acknowledge it? That afternoon I left the office without saying one further word to him. Some days now passed, during which, at leisure intervals I looked a little into “Edwards on the Will,” and “Priestly on Necessity.” Under the circumstances, those books induced a salutary feeling. Gradually I slid into the persuasion that these troubles of mine touching the scrivener, had been all predestinated from eternity, and Bartleby was billeted upon me for some mysterious purpose of an all-wise Providence, which it was not for a mere mortal like me to fathom. Yes, Bartleby, stay there behind your screen, thought I; I shall persecute you no more; you are harmless and noiseless as any of these old chairs; in short, I never feel so private as when I know you are here. At last I see


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

my cloak and wrenched me painfully back and forth, like an animal wishing to drag me to the ground. But I did not need to call for Wendell again. He stepped out from behind a tree—or perhaps from the tree; I didn’t see. He reached a hand out and snapped the neck of the faerie gripping me, which I had not expected, and I staggered back from both him and the crumpling body. He saw the mark on my neck, and his entire face darkened with something that seemed to go beyond fury and made him look like some feral creature. The faeries scattered like leaves, though they were too intrigued and too stupid to run. “Are you hurt?” “No.” I don’t know how I made myself speak. I have seen Wendell angry before, but this was something that seemed to surge through him like lightning, threatening to burn everything in its path. He moved his hand, and a hideous tree rose up from the snow, dark and terrifying, all thorns and knife-sharp branches. The boughs darted out, and he skewered the faeries on them. Once they were all immobilized, held squirming and screaming above the ground, he moved from one to the other, tearing them apart with perfect, calm brutality. Limbs, hearts, other organs I did not recognize scattered the snow. He did not rush, but killed them methodically while the others howled and writhed. I couldn’t move. It wasn’t like watching people die, of course—when these snow faeries breathed their last, they melted away like witches in a story—but it was bad enough. Like a cat faced with an overabundance of wounded birds, he didn’t bother to finish them all, but left some to flutter and bleed while he dealt with the others. When one broke away, the branch that spitted it snapping under the weight, he actually laughed, a sound with nothing human in it whatsoever, and let the faerie think it had escaped before he calmly magicked himself into its path and tore it in two. The mad, focused fury left him almost as soon as he’d finished the last faerie to his satisfaction, and then he was shrugging off his cloak and exclaiming over bloodstains that I couldn’t see, for to my eyes, they had turned to water. He stomped off to the nearby spring in high dudgeon, leaving me staring at the last few twitching bodies. Then I realized that I could not sit there anymore, nor could I face him when he returned, and so I staggered off into the wilderness. I paced around for perhaps half an hour, bile in my throat and tears I could not explain stinging my eyes. Slowly—very slowly—the shudders ceased. I grew calm, and was able to see the situation rationally. My problem was clear—I had not yet learned to see Bambleby as Folk, not truly. Had I done, his display would not have shocked me so. For the sake of my sanity, not to mention both our safety, I had best reconcile my understandings of him, and soon.


inhabitants.” Bambleby knelt to scratch Shadow’s ears. “Why not give your map to Lizzie and Henry? Let them go tramping through the wastes, they’re quite good at it. As for this Auður, I understand from your field notes that she is a mute. What do you expect to get out of her?” I blinked. “You read my notes?” “Last night. How would you characterize the brownie you saw in the house?” “I suspect it to be a wight of some sort,” I replied.[*2] “How dull,” he said. “I hate wights—such tedious creatures. Perhaps we should divide our efforts. You go poking about the haunted house whilst I introduce myself to our headwoman. If we’re to be interviewing the locals, etiquette would suggest we start with the one in charge.” “Let’s leave the tavern for this evening, shall we?” I said, knowing that if he went there now, he would not come out again till midnight, and not because Bambleby is much of a drinker, but because he would encounter so many targets for his conversation. He smiled. “As you wish. I approve of your plan, Em. This field study was your initiative, after all.” “I take that to mean that my name will go first in the paper we present at the conference?” “Of course,” he said calmly, as if there had never been any doubt in his mind. Perhaps there hadn’t. His expression was perfectly open in that disconcerting way he has of moving from mischief to guilelessness in the space of a heartbeat. Bambleby never attempts to charm me in the way he did Krystjan. It would not work if he did, and I suspect that he knows this. He swallowed the last of his tea, gave Shadow another pat, and wandered out the door. “Where are you going?” I demanded. “I told you. I won’t be long. Take the time to scribble in that journal of yours.” “And you’re just going to go wandering about the countryside like that?” I said, waving a hand at his robe. The amusement returned. “You needn’t worry about me, Em.” “Worry!” I scoffed, but the hem of his robe had already vanished through the door. SKIP NOTES *1 Bran Eichorn, whose mother was a Ljoslander, wrote one of the few papers on the subject of the Ljosland Folk, though his research is based entirely on oral accounts—it is unclear if he visited Ljosland himself. I will not name the paper here as it is a poor example of scholarship, being mostly a screed disguised as a rebuttal against Danielle de Grey’s “The Importance of Hearth Faeries in the Northern Latitudes” (Modern Dryadology, Spring 1848). Eichorn spent much of his early career obsessed with de Grey. *2 Over the last two or three decades, the word “wight” has evolved in academic discourse to refer to all those household brownies whose behaviour towards their host has become centred around malevolence. 29th October—evening He was lying, of course. After I finished the morning’s journal entry, he still hadn’t returned, so I decided to set out on


threads that drew him to Iris. It didn’t feel like fate; Roman didn’t quite believe in such fancies. But it certainly felt like something. Something that was now stealing his sleep and making his chest ache with each breath. “What’s she like?” Nan asked. “Daisy’s granddaughter?” Roman stared at his tea dregs. “I’m not sure. I don’t know her that well.” “In case you forgot, I can tell when you lie, Roman. You squint.” He only laughed, because hadn’t Iris said the very thing to him last week? “Very well, Nan. I would say she’s like her grandmother, then. Given your descriptions of Daisy.” “Is that so?” Nan fell quiet, pensive. “Hmm. Is that why you wanted the other half of my myth? To send it to…?” “Iris,” he whispered. His grandmother only arched her brow. But then she said, “Iris,” and the sound was so gentle it made Roman shiver. “Yes.” He thought it was time to leave, before she said anything else that made him uncomfortable. He was rising from the stool when his grandmother drawled, “And you’re going to let her slip away, then?” He froze. How was he to answer that? He said, “I don’t think I have much of a choice, Nan.” Nan puffed and swatted his hand. “There is always a choice. Are you going to let your father write your story, or will you?” He was silent as she rose with a slight grunt. Nan walked to the threshold but paused, and Roman tensed, uncertain what she was about to say. “I am seventy-five years old, Roman,” she began. “I’ve seen endless things throughout my life, and I can tell you right now that this world is about to change. The days to come will only grow darker. And when you find something good? You hold on to it. You don’t waste time worrying about things that won’t even matter in the end. Rather, you take a risk for that light. Do you understand what I’m telling you?” He nodded, although his heart was racing. “Good,” his nan said. “Now wash those cups, or else Cook will fuss about the mess.” And then she was gone. The kitchen shadows felt deeper without her as Roman carried the pot and cups to the sink, realizing that he had never once in his life washed any dishes. He did his best, setting the porcelain back into the cupboard before he retreated to his room, where he glanced at the wardrobe. Still no letter. He slid down to the floor and dozed at last. When he stirred at first light, he saw she had finally written to him. Roman scrambled over the rug, his pulse hammering in his throat as he unfolded her letter and read: I’m safe and well. Don’t worry! I apologize for having to abruptly leave last night. I don’t have time to write a long letter this morning as I need to go. It’s back to the infirmary today, but I’ll write you soon. P.S. I’m hoping to send you more soldier letters this


says, “what a right ruler would do with traitors?” “Imprison them,” Lycomedes says. “Kill them.” She smiles. “I am glad we agree on this.” Lycomedes opens his mouth, then closes it stupidly. But Polydamas can smell mischief. “It depends on the type of treason,” he says. “Some are for the good of the kingdom. Others are not.” You have an answer for everything, don’t you? He told her she was like the plague, but he is infecting everyone around him with conspiracy. “I would love to discuss types of treason with you, Polydamas,” she says. He raises his eyebrow, just slightly. She looks him straight in the eye and adds, “But unfortunately, a crowd is gathering by the Lion Gate to watch your execution.” Lycomedes makes a sound like choking. The other elders shift. The movement is like wind among leaves, barely audible. “I do not understand,” Polydamas says calmly. “You conspired against the throne. You and Lycomedes spread whispers that your queen wasn’t fit to rule Mycenae. A fit ruler, as you say, doesn’t let treason go unpunished.” Lycomedes drops to his knees. “We didn’t conspire, my queen.” He gulps the last two words. She looks away from his cracked 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


did Arin expect me to find him while buffeted in every direction by his guards? My magic didn’t care that Marek and Sefa were nearby. The sound of my body became deafening the longer I stumbled along. My breaths were harsh to my own ears, my footfalls clumsy and loud. The stammer of my heart matched the pounding in my head. They weren’t hunting me; they were toying with their conquered prize. I shoved past the thought. I was not an eleven-year-old girl anymore, wandering Essam Woods in the night while monsters born of Hanim’s spells gave chase. Terror had not induced my magic then, and it would not help me now. Something wet and tacky hit my forehead. I gasped, wiping frantically at my face. “Filth for filth,” Vaun whispered, directly into my ear. I lunged for him and met empty air. I failed to catch myself this time, landing hard on my knees. A clicking hum preceded the scuttle of pointy legs over my hand. A munban. I thrashed, pushing to my feet too quickly and clipping my shoulder against a tree. I was surrounded by threats I couldn’t see, and they were winning. The next feint came from the right. I dove to the left instead, colliding with a distinctly human body. These were my woods. I fed this soil my blood and broken tears, sharpened its teeth on the fine flesh of monsters. In Essam, I reigned supreme. Breathy noises leaked from my open mouth as I tightened my fist and smashed it into the side of what was hopefully a head. Did Vaun think I wouldn’t kill him? I wasn’t held to the same code of ethics as his precious Heir. I would rip his head from his shoulders and spit on his skull. I would crush what was left of him into the dirt, because his remains weren’t fit to feed animals. “Sylvia!” The bloodsong wailing through me paused. For a terrible moment, I could not locate my mouth in the swirling savagery. “Marek?” I patted at the chest beneath me, checking for a guardsman’s vest. It wasn’t there. “Marek, I’m so sorry!” I rolled away from him, but the urge to tear a living thing asunder and plant my fury into its quivering heart remained. Approaching footsteps pushed me to my haunches. I crouched, ready to spring. “Remove the blindfold,” Arin said. Awareness came too late, after I had already launched myself. A bone-crushing grip caught my arms before I could slam into the Heir. “You,” Arin said. “Take off her blindfold.” The cloth fell to the ground, and I blinked rapidly against the piercing light. Arin released me. His searching look resembled the one he’d worn when I dangled myself over Hirun. As though I’d failed some elusive test, but not in a way he had anticipated. “Why did you wait?” he asked. “Why didn’t you remove the blindfold yourself?” My vision settled. The drum beating its feral tune faded, taking Hanim and her fiends with it. The hazy words leaving my mouth belonged


I exist?' 'You do not exist,' said O'Brien. Once again the sense of helplessness assailed him. He knew, or he could imagine, the arguments which proved his own nonexistence; but they were nonsense, they were only a play on words. Did not the statement, 'You do not exist', contain a logical absurdity? But what use was it to say so? His mind shrivelled as he thought of the unanswerable, mad arguments with which O'Brien would demolish him. 'I think I exist,' he said wearily. 'I am conscious of my own identity. I was born and I shall die. I have arms and legs. I occupy a particular point in space. No other solid object can occupy the same point simultaneously. In that sense, does Big Brother exist?' 'It is of no importance. He exists.' 'Will Big Brother ever die?' 'Of course not. How could he die? Next question.' 'Does the Brotherhood exist?' 'That, Winston, you will never know. If we choose to set you free when we have finished with you, and if you live to be ninety years old, still you will never learn whether the answer to that question is Yes or No. As long as you live it will be an unsolved riddle in your mind.' Winston lay silent. His breast rose and fell a little faster. He still had not asked the question that had come into his mind the first. He had got to ask it, and yet it was as though his tongue would not utter it. There was a trace of amusement in O'Brien's face. Even his spectacles seemed to wear an ironical gleam. He knows, thought Winston suddenly, he knows what I am going to ask! At the thought the words burst out of him: 'What is in Room 101?' The expression on O'Brien's face did not change. He answered drily: 'You know what is in Room 101, Winston. Everyone knows what is in Room 101.' He raised a finger to the man in the white coat. Evidently the session was at an end. A needle jerked into Winston's arm. He sank almost instantly into deep sleep. Chapter 3 file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (142 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:52 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt 'There are three stages in your reintegration,' said O'Brien. 'There is learning, there is understanding, and there is acceptance. It is time for you to enter upon the second stage.' As always, Winston was lying flat on his back. But of late his bonds were looser. They still held him to the bed, but he could move his knees a little and could turn his head from side to side and raise his arms from the elbow. The dial, also, had grown to be less of a terror. He could evade its pangs if he was quick-witted enough: it was chiefly when he showed stupidity that O'Brien pulled the lever. Sometimes they got through a whole session without use of the dial. He could not remember how many sessions there had been. The whole process seemed to stretch out over a long, indefinite time--weeks, possibly--and the intervals


that it felt intimate, the brush of a lover’s clothes next to your ear. A lanky, graying man eventually perched beside her. He looked self-conscious, as if someone off-screen had just invited him to sit, made him sign a consent form, and he had no idea what he was in for. She said, “Do you remember what it is to be twenty-one?” The man said, more to the camera than to her, “Uh, yes.” And then the video froze to buffer. I skipped back, but this time it wouldn’t even start. “Yeah,” said the same server who’d given me the wi-fi password, “it works but it’s real slow. I’d just let it load awhile.” The video was forty-eight minutes long, and I still had two hours till class. I’d already ordered a latte and a croissant so I stayed and waited for the video and tried to compartmentalize, halfheartedly drafting part of a Rita Hayworth script. The satin negligee she wore in her famous Life pinup photo sold from Sotheby’s in 2002 for nearly twenty-seven thousand dollars. I hadn’t been able to find anything on the buyer, hoped it was a lovely gay man with an Old Hollywood collection, someone who’d appreciate it in the least creepy way. A USA Today lay on the counter, smeared with someone else’s coffee, the front page devoted to the same story that had been on the news the other night. The one where the men finally told about the priests, decades later, and everyone lauded their bravery. The one where the women came forward after five years, and everyone asked why they hadn’t spoken sooner. The waitress saw what I was reading. She said, “You’d think if she was all that troubled, she’d have told the producer.” It was the one where fifteen women accusing the same man of the same thing was too much of a coincidence; they must have coordinated their stories. It was the one where the witness wasn’t considered credible because six years earlier, she’d accused another man of the same thing, and it was easier to believe she was lying than that lightning loves a scarred tree. I flung the paper down, went back to Rita, but I couldn’t focus. I could walk to campus and use Granby wi-fi to watch the video, but the combination of dread and cold—every time the door opened a polar draft found me—made that prospect less than appealing. The croissant they’d warmed for me was astonishingly good. Sourdough with a crackly crust. I dropped crumbs in every direction. I decided to google you. Such a riddle, why I’d think to do this right when I’d had proof of slow internet. Why wait so long and then finally look you up when I was most likely to get a 404 error? Almost as if there were things I didn’t want to deal with. But, lo: Google worked fine. It was only video the wi-fi couldn’t support. I’d searched you two years back, the night I stayed up googling everyone. Because yes, there you were on


O'Brien. For the moment he had forgotten the shadowy figure of Goldstein. When you looked at O'Brien's powerful shoulders and his blunt-featured face, so ugly and yet so civilized, it was impossible to believe that he could be defeated. There was no stratagem that he was not equal to, no danger that he could not foresee. Even Julia seemed to be impressed. She had let her cigarette go out and was listening intently. O'Brien went on: 'You will have heard rumours of the existence of the Brotherhood. No doubt you have formed your own picture of it. You have imagined, probably, a huge underworld of conspirators, meeting secretly in cellars, scribbling messages on walls, recognizing one another by codewords or by special movements of the hand. Nothing of the kind exists. The members of the Brotherhood have no way of recognizing one another, and it is impossible for any one member to be aware of the identity of more than a few others. Goldstein himself, if he fell into the hands of the Thought Police, could not give them a complete list of members, or any information that would lead them to a complete list. No such list exists. The Brotherhood cannot be wiped out because it is not an organization in the ordinary sense. Nothing holds it together except an idea which is indestructible. You will never have anything to sustain you, except the idea. You will get no comradeship and no encouragement. When finally you are caught, you will get no help. We never help our members. At most, when it is absolutely necessary that someone should be silenced, we are occasionally able to smuggle a razor blade into a prisoner's cell. You will have to get used to living without results and without hope. You will work for a while, you will be caught, you will confess, and then you will die. Those are the only results that you will ever see. There is no possibility that any perceptible change will happen within our own lifetime. We are the dead. Our only true life is in the future. We shall take part in it as handfuls of dust and splinters of bone. But how far away that future may be, there is no knowing. It might be a thousand years. At present nothing is possible except to extend the area of sanity little by little. We cannot act collectively. We can only spread our knowledge outwards from individual to individual, generation after generation. In the face of the Thought Police there is no other way.' He halted and looked for the third time at his wrist-watch. 'It is almost time for you to leave, comrade,' he said to Julia. 'Wait. The decanter is still half full.' He filled the glasses and raised his own glass by the stem. 'What shall it be this time?' he said, still with the same faint suggestion of irony. 'To the confusion of the Thought Police? To the death of Big Brother? To humanity? To the future?' 'To the past,' said Winston. 'The past


and in keeping house. Between jam-making and needlework, visiting the poor, and nursing her crotchety father, she had little time to herself. Yet she managed somehow to read books--poetry (especially Wordsworth and Shakespeare), novels, and dense works of theology and philosophy, in several languages. Soon, however, Marian made friends with Coventry's most progressive thinkers, who encouraged her intellectual interests. One day she calmly announced to her father that she would no longer go to church with him, since she didn't believe in God anymore. Apparently this change had been brewing in her mind for some time, but it was a surprise and an outrage to conventional Mr. Evans. Only after several weeks of family tension did Marian give in, reasoning with herself that, if she didn't believe in Christianity, it was no sin to go to church just to keep the peace. Rejecting Christianity was still a daring thing for a single woman to do in nineteenth-century England. It would ruin her marriage prospects, as well as her chances of obtaining a teaching job (teaching was one of the few careers open to women). Luckily, however, Marian's new friends introduced her to a circle of people who shared some of her unorthodox views. While most of the English still followed Queen Victoria in preserving the values of home, church, and empire, new ideas were beginning to sweep through England. Scientific discoveries were shattering established ideas about the natural world. (Charles Darwin's revolutionary On the Origin Of Species by Means of Natural Selection would be published in 1859.) Not only nature, but human social systems as well, were subjected to scientific analysis. Theories such as social Darwinism, rational humanism, and Marxism would eventually grow out of this. Philosophers were suggesting entirely new moral systems to go with the revolutionary scientific views. In place of an orderly universe ruled by God, justice, and the class system, these Victorians contemplated the possibility of a vast, bleak void where nothing but scientific principles applied. This was a heady environment for Marian Evans. Her new friends, impressed by her powerful mind, gave her a sense of self-worth. Eventually she was asked to translate a book, then to write reviews for intellectual journals. After her father died she moved to London and began to edit one such journal. In the thick of the literary scene, admired by famous people, she came into her own. Interesting men paid her attention; she had a couple of awkward romances. Then she fell in love with George Henry Lewes, a prominent journalist and critic--and a married man. Lewes fell in love with her, too, but under the laws of those days it was impossible for him to get a divorce, even though his wife was flagrantly unfaithful to him. Marian, gravely weighing all factors, decided to defy society and live with Lewes. This made Marian a figure of scandal in London. No "decent" ladies would receive her in their homes (though due to a cruel double standard Lewes was still invited). Only a few radical women and progressive men kept up friendships


the happiest of all positions in the social scale, being above the line at which neediness ends, and below the line at which the CONVENANCES begin to cramp natural feelings, and the stress of threadbare modishness makes too little of enough. Thus passed the leafy time when arborescence seems to be the one thing aimed at out of doors. Tess and Clare unconsciously studied each other, ever balanced on the edge of a passion, yet apparently keeping out of it. All the while they were converging, under an irresistible law, as surely as two streams in one vale. Tess had never in her recent life been so happy as she was now, possibly never would be so happy again. She was, for one thing, physically and mentally suited among these new surroundings. The sapling which had rooted down to a poisonous stratum on the spot of its sowing had been transplanted to a deeper soil. Moreover she, and Clare also, stood as yet on the debatable land between predilection and love; where no profundities have been reached; no reflections have set in, awkwardly inquiring, "Whither does this new current tend to carry me? What does it mean to my future? How does it stand towards my past?" Tess was the merest stray phenomenon to Angel Clare as yet--a rosy warming apparition which had only just acquired the attribute of persistence in his consciousness. So he allowed his mind to be occupied with her, deeming his preoccupation to be no more than a philosopher's regard of an exceedingly novel, fresh, and interesting specimen of womankind. They met continually; they could not help it. They met daily in that strange and solemn interval, the twilight of the morning, in the violet or pink dawn; for it was necessary to rise early, so very early, here. Milking was done betimes; and before the milking came the skimming, which began at a little past three. It usually fell to the lot of some one or other of them to wake the rest, the first being aroused by an alarm-clock; and, as Tess was the latest arrival, and they soon discovered that she could be depended upon not to sleep though the alarm as others did, this task was thrust most frequently upon her. No sooner had the hour of three struck and whizzed, than she left her room and ran to the dairyman's door; then up the ladder to Angel's, calling him in a loud whisper; then woke her fellow-milkmaids. By the time that Tess was dressed Clare was downstairs and out in the humid air. The remaining maids and the dairyman usually gave themselves another turn on the pillow, and did not appear till a quarter of an hour later. The gray half-tones of daybreak are not the gray half-tones of the day's close, though the degree of their shade may be the same. In the twilight of the morning light seems active, darkness passive; in the twilight of evening it is the darkness which is active and crescent, and the light which is the


thirst in the desert. It’s all yours.” He gestured to the back of her car where, Natalie assumed, Teri’s triplets were sitting in their car seats. “Besides, I think you deserve it more than anyone.” “Let me give you some soap, at least.” “Nah, thanks, but you keep it. I’ve got enough of a supply to hold me over for a year.” He patted her on the shoulder and stepped back. “You tell your husband I said hello, all right?” “Will do.” Natalie’s pulse was just about jumping out of her skin. This was it. Really it. Clearly, August was on his way out of St. Helena. Giving away his final supply of wine, as if it had no value. And it didn’t. To be clear. It was like drinking gasoline that had been marinating with dog shit for a week. But hearing him acknowledge it in such a self-deprecating way made her stomach drop. Her fingertips started to buzz, the way they did before a hefty trade. Oh God, she could almost hear the bad idea coming toward her on a conveyor belt of doom. Just bumping along, getting closer and closer even as she tried to talk herself out of acknowledging the possibility of . . . helping August and herself in the process. She should let him drive out of town, never to darken the doorway of St. Helena ever again. They were oil and water. He had a chip on his buffalo-sized shoulder about her status and privilege in this town that he would never shed. And Natalie . . . Well, offering to help this man and being rejected was just about the scariest thing she could imagine. All her life, she’d offered herself as a friend, a fiancée, a coworker, a sister, and a daughter, and at some point her presence—and even love—was rejected. She was rejected. Fired, dumped, asked to go home. Still, she didn’t even like this man. So why was her heart beating at the pace of a hummingbird’s wings at the thought of him saying no? Why did she care so much? Don’t do it. Not worth the sting. Natalie started to back up into the shadows to wait out August’s departure, but in the wake of Teri driving away, he rounded the back bumper of his truck and spied her, doing a double take. “Natalie?” He paused mid-stride, frowning. “What are you doing lurking over there in the dark?” He snapped his fingers. “Let me guess. Sucking the souls from children caught outdoors after eight P.M.?” “That’s right. I wait until they’ve been stuffed full of chicken fingers and ice cream all day. That’s when I strike.” She shrugged. “But you have the IQ of a child, so I guess you’ll do.” “You sucked the soul out of me months ago, princess.” “You must have retained some of it if you made a point to give Teri your wine supply on the way out of town.” He reared back a little at the rare—and accidental—compliment. “I mean . . . a


one more `mystery of the sea'. MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL 8 August.--Lucy was very restless all night, and I too, could not sleep. The storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly among the chimney pots, it made me shudder. When a sharp puff came it seemed to be like a distant gun. Strangely enough, Lucy did not wake, but she got up twice and dressed herself. Fortunately, each time I awoke in time and managed to undress her without waking her, and got her back to bed. It is a very strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as her will is thwarted in any physical way, her intention, if there be any, disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine of her life. Early in the morning we both got up and went down to the harbour to see if anything had happened in the night. There were very few people about, and though the sun was bright, and the air clear and fresh, the big, grim-looking waves, that seemed dark themselves because the foam that topped them was like snow, forced themselves in through the mouth of the harbour, like a bullying man going through a crowd. Somehow I felt glad that Jonathan was not on the sea last night, but on land. But, oh, is he on land or sea? Where is he, and how? I am getting fearfully anxious about him. If I only knew what to do, and could do anything! 10 August.--The funeral of the poor sea captain today was most touching. Every boat in the harbour seemed to be there, and the coffin was carried by captains all the way from Tate Hill Pier up to the churchyard. Lucy came with me, and we went early to our old seat, whilst the cortege of boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came down again. We had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly all the way. The poor fellow was laid to rest near our seat so that we stood on it, when the time came and saw everything. Poor Lucy seemed much upset. She was restless and uneasy all the time, and I cannot but think that her dreaming at night is telling on her. She is quite odd in one thing. She will not admit to me that there is any cause for restlessness, or if there be, she does not understand it herself. There is an additional cause in that poor Mr. Swales was found dead this morning on our seat, his neck being broken. He had evidently, as the doctor said, fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, for there was a look of fear and horror on his face that the men said made them shudder. Poor dear old man! Lucy is so sweet and sensitive that she feels influences more acutely than other people do. Just now she was quite upset by a little thing which I did not much heed, though I am myself very fond of animals. One of


it wouldn’t melt too fast.” Michael takes his serving from the Sub-Zero, stands with bowl in hand, attends to the treat for a few spoonfuls, and then says, “From here, day after tomorrow, we should get out of state. Get lost in a city, maybe Phoenix, for ten days or two weeks, until we can acquire new ID for you and use some of this money to buy legitimate wheels.” “Can you make us invisible?” John asks. “To an extent, yeah, but not like in the movies.” “Are they going to find us?” “The next week is tricky. After that, once we settle you in a new life, you’ll be safe.” “Will you stay with us? In our new life?” With the tone of her voice, Nina advises the boy that his question is inappropriate. “Enough, John.” Glancing at Nina, Michael says, “I’ll always be on call for you. Always. No less than that. Whether we go one way or our own ways . . . that’s something we eventually have to work out together.” “Let’s work it out right now,” the boy says. “In time,” Nina says. “Why not now?” John persists. “At the moment, Mr. Mace has a lot on his mind.” “We all do.” “That’s for sure,” Michael agrees. “If we work this out now,” John says, “it’s one less thing on our minds.” That observation inspires a smile from Michael and a sigh of embarrassment from Nina. She almost tells John the issue doesn’t involve him; it’s between her and Michael. In one sense that is true, but it’s not the whole truth. In fact, whatever she and Michael decide they are—or could be—to each other, whether just friends or something more, will have an enormous, incalculable impact on the boy’s life. Into Nina’s hesitation, Michael says, “I want whatever your mother wants, John. But you need to listen now and understand me. Given time, people as special as your mom always make the right decision. Guys like you and me, not so much. The best thing we can do, the only smart thing, is shut our traps and be patient. You keep pestering her about this, she might make a decision too quick, one she’ll regret. We don’t want her to live with regret. We want her to know she’s taken the right path, don’t we?” “I guess so.” “You guess so? Want to clean that up?” “Yeah. I mean, I want her to be happy.” “There you go.” Michael smiles almost shyly at Nina. She could adore him. But he’s correct when he says she needs time. She feels as if she is on a tightrope, inching toward something so right and so precious that it’s almost surely beyond her reach, given the missteps in her past. If she hurries, she will lose her balance. Pushing the trash bag across the island to John, Michael says, “You finished your ice cream. I still have some of mine. Start the count, see how much we’ve got. Then we need to pack it in something that looks unimportant.”


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

Hermione was locked out of Gryffindor tower. "Now what am I going to do?" she asked shrilly. "That's your problem," said Ron. "We've got to go, we're going to be late." They hadn't even reached the end of the corridor when Hermione caught up with them. "I'm coming with you," she said. "You are not." "D'you think I'm going to stand out here and wait for Filch to catch me? If he finds all three of us I'll tell him the truth, that I was trying to stop you, and you can back me up." "You've got some nerve -- " said Ron loudly. "Shut up, both of you!" said Harry sharply. "I heard something." It was a sort of snuffling. "Mrs. Norris?" breathed Ron, squinting through the dark. It wasn't Mrs. Norris. It was Neville. He was curled up on the floor, fast asleep, but jerked suddenly awake as they crept nearer. "Thank goodness you found me! I've been out here for hours, I couldn't remember the new password to get in to bed." "Keep your voice down, Neville. The password's 'Pig snout' but it won't help you now, the Fat Lady's gone off somewhere." "How's your arm?" said Harry. "Fine," said Neville, showing them. "Madam Pomfrey mended it in about a minute." "Good -- well, look, Neville, we've got to be somewhere, we'll see you later -- " "Don't leave me!" said Neville, scrambling to his feet, "I don't want to stay here alone, the Bloody Baron's been past twice already." Ron looked at his watch and then glared furiously at Hermione and Neville. "If either of you get us caught, I'll never rest until I've learned that Curse of the Bogies Quirrell told us about, and used it on you." Hermione opened her mouth, perhaps to tell Ron exactly how to use the Curse of the Bogies, but Harry hissed at her to be quiet and beckoned them all forward. They flitted along corridors striped with bars of moonlight from the high windows. At every turn Harry expected to run into Filch or Mrs. Norris, but they were lucky. They sped up a staircase to the third floor and tiptoed toward the trophy room. Malfoy and Crabbe weren't there yet. The crystal trophy cases glimmered where the moonlight caught them. Cups, shields, plates, and statues winked silver and gold in the darkness. They edged along the walls, keeping their eyes on the doors at either end of the room. Harry took out his wand in case Malfoy leapt in and started at once. The minutes crept by. "He's late, maybe he's chickened out," Ron whispered. Then a noise in the next room made them jump. Harry had only just raised his wand when they heard someone speak -- and it wasn't Malfoy. "Sniff around, my sweet, they might be lurking in a corner." It was Filch speaking to Mrs. Norris. Horror-struck, Harry waved madly at the other three to follow him as quickly as possible; they scurried silently toward the door, away from Filch's voice. Neville's robes had barely


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

paralysed. "'Why, that's rum,' said the elder. 'Dashed rum! It's just like the ghost of a foot, ain't it?' He hesitated and advanced with outstretched hand. A man pulled up short to see what he was catching, and then a girl. In another moment he would have touched me. Then I saw what to do. I made a step, the boy started back with an exclamation, and with a rapid movement I swung myself over into the portico of the next house. But the smaller boy was sharp-eyed enough to follow the movement and before I was well down the steps and upon the pavement, he had recovered from his momentary astonishment and was shouting out that the feet had gone over the wall. "They rushed round and saw my new footmarks flash into being on the lower step and upon the pavement. 'What's up?' asked some one. 'Feet! Look! Feet running!' Everybody in the road, except my three pursuers, was pouring along after the Salvation Army, and this not only impeded me but them. There was an eddy of surprise and interrogation. At the cost of bowling over one young fellow I got through, and in another moment I was rushing headlong round the circuit of Russell Square, with six or seven astonished people following my footmarks. There was no time for explanation, or else the whole host would have been after me. "Twice I doubled round corners, thrice I crossed the road and came back on my tracks, and then, as my feet grew hot and dry, the damp impressions began to fade. At last I had a breathing space and rubbed my feet clean with my hands, and so got away altogether. The last I saw of the chase was a little group of a dozen people perhaps, studying with infinite perplexity a slowly drying footprint that had resulted from a puddle in Travistock Square--a footprint as isolated and incomprehensible to them as Crusoe's solitary discovery. "This running warmed me to a certain extent, and I went on with a better courage through the maze of less frequented roads that runs hereabouts. My back had now become very stiff and sore, my tonsils were painful from the cabman's fingers, and the skin of my neck had been scratched by his nails; my feet hurt exceedingly and I was lame from a little cut on one foot. I saw in time a blind man approaching me, and fled limping, for I feared his subtle intuitions. Once or twice accidental collisions occurred and I left people amazed, with unaccountable curses ringing in their ears. Then came something silent and quiet against my face, and across the Square fell a thin veil of slowly falling flakes of snow. I had caught a cold, and do as I would I could not avoid an occasional sneeze. And every dog that came in sight, with its pointing nose and curious sniffing, was a terror to me. "Then came men and boys running, first one and then others, and shouting as they ran. It was


about it!" For a moment it seemed that nothing was happening, then a brightness glowed at the edge of the huge screen. A red star the size of a small plate crept across it followed quickly by another one - a binary system. Then a vast crescent sliced into the corner of the picture - a red glare shading away into the deep black, the night side of the planet. "I've found it!" cried Zaphod, thumping the console. "I've found it!" Ford stared at it in astonishment. "What is it?" he said. "That ..." said Zaphod, "is the most improbable planet that ever existed." ================================================================= Chapter 15 (Excerpt from The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Page 634784, Section 5a, Entry: Magrathea) Far back in the mists of ancient time, in the great and glorious days of the former Galactic Empire, life was wild, rich and largely tax free. Mighty starships plied their way between exotic suns, seeking adventure and reward amongst the furthest reaches of Galactic space. In those days spirits were brave, the stakes were high, men were real men, women were real women, and small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri were real small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri. And all dared to brave unknown terrors, to do mighty deeds, to boldly split infinitives that no man had split before - and thus was the Empire forged. Many men of course became extremely rich, but this was perfectly natural and nothing to be ashamed of because no one was really poor - at least no one worth speaking of. And for all the richest and most successful merchants life inevitably became rather dull and niggly, and they began to imagine that this was therefore the fault of the worlds they'd settled on - none of them was entirely satisfactory: either the climate wasn't quite right in the later part of the afternoon, or the day was half an hour too long, or the sea was exactly the wrong shade of pink. And thus were created the conditions for a staggering new form of specialist industry: custom-made luxury planet building. The home of this industry was the planet Magrathea, where hyperspatial engineers sucked matter through white holes in space to form it into dream planets - gold planets, platinum planets, soft rubber planets with lots of earthquakes - all lovingly made to meet the exacting standards that the Galaxy's richest men naturally came to expect. But so successful was this venture that Magrathea itself soon became the richest planet of all time and the rest of the Galaxy was reduced to abject poverty. And so the system broke down, the Empire collapsed, and a long sullen silence settled over a billion worlds, disturbed only by the pen scratchings of scholars as they laboured into the night over smug little treaties on the value of a planned political economy. Magrathea itself disappeared and its memory soon passed into the obscurity of legend. In these enlightened days of course, no one believes a word of it. ================================================================= Chapter 16 Arthur awoke to the


was skirted by a deep and rapid river, into which many of the trees bent their branches, now budding with the fresh spring. Here I paused, not exactly knowing what path to pursue, when I heard the sound of voices, that induced me to conceal myself under the shade of a cypress. I was scarcely hid when a young girl came running towards the spot where I was concealed, laughing, as if she ran from someone in sport. She continued her course along the precipitous sides of the river, when suddenly her foot slipped, and she fell into the rapid stream. I rushed from my hiding-place and with extreme labour, from the force of the current, saved her and dragged her to shore. She was senseless, and I endeavoured by every means in my power to restore animation, when I was suddenly interrupted by the approach of a rustic, who was probably the person from whom she had playfully fled. On seeing me, he darted towards me, and tearing the girl from my arms, hastened towards the deeper parts of the wood. I followed speedily, I hardly knew why; but when the man saw me draw near, he aimed a gun, which he carried, at my body and fired. I sank to the ground, and my injurer, with increased swiftness, escaped into the wood. "This was then the reward of my benevolence! I had saved a human being from destruction, and as a recompense I now writhed under the miserable pain of a wound which shattered the flesh and bone. The feelings of kindness and gentleness which I had entertained but a few moments before gave place to hellish rage and gnashing of teeth. Inflamed by pain, I vowed eternal hatred and vengeance to all mankind. But the agony of my wound overcame me; my pulses paused, and I fainted. "For some weeks I led a miserable life in the woods, endeavouring to cure the wound which I had received. The ball had entered my shoulder, and I knew not whether it had remained there or passed through; at any rate I had no means of extracting it. My sufferings were augmented also by the oppressive sense of the injustice and ingratitude of their infliction. My daily vows rose for revenge-- a deep and deadly revenge, such as would alone compensate for the outrages and anguish I had endured. "After some weeks my wound healed, and I continued my journey. The labours I endured were no longer to be alleviated by the bright sun or gentle breezes of spring; all joy was but a mockery which insulted my desolate state and made me feel more painfully that I was not made for the enjoyment of pleasure. "But my toils now drew near a close, and in two months from this time I reached the environs of Geneva. "It was evening when I arrived, and I retired to a hiding-place among the fields that surround it to meditate in what manner I should apply to you. I was oppressed by fatigue and hunger


(adj) worshiping; (n) offended conjurer, expert, whiz, ace, warlock; adoration wronging: (n) tribulation (adj, n) adept. ANTONYM: (n) worthless: (adj, v) futile, vain; (adj) wrongs: (n) mala rookie vile, idle, empty, trifling, void, wrought: (adj) shaped, done, worked, wofully: (adv) woefully, mournfully, trivial, cheap, miserable, null. worked up, formed dolefully ANTONYMS: (adj) precious, useful, xvii: (n) large integer wolf: (n) philanderer, coyote, brute, worthwhile, priceless, meaningful, xviii: (n) large integer skirt chaser, beast; (v) gobble, gorge, helpful, invaluable, deserving, valid, xxiii: (n) large integer guzzle, consume, swallow, bolt worthy, substantial xxiv: (n) large integer womanhood: (n) muliebrity, wrath: (n) rage, resentment, ire, fury, yankee: (n) American, Canadian, femininity, adulthood, maturity, displeasure, indignation, passion, northerner, Caledonian, Irishman, manhood, womankind, wifehood, madness, choler, irritation; (adj) Canuck, Cambrian, Scot, Scotchman, softness, social class, majority, adult angry. ANTONYMS: (n) happiness, Uncle Sam; (v) Jew female love, composure, serenity yielded: (v) yold, yolden womankind: (n) womanhood, gentle wreak: (v) bring, work, avenge, yielding: (adj, v) flexible, pliable, sex, people impose, make, make for, play, cause, supple, tractable, pliant; (adj) womanly: (adj, v) effeminate; (adj) fetch; (n) wretch; (adj) tyrannize compliant, submissive, soft, ladylike, womanish, female, wreathed: (adj) ringed, serpentine, obedient, docile; (n) submission. womanlike, wifely, weak, maidenly, coiled, circular, circinate, bent, ANTONYMS: (adj) hard, firm, matronly; (v) soft, feminate. annulate, tortile, torqued, inflexible, solid, rigid, obstinate, ANTONYM: (adj) unwomanly surrounded, curled stiff, stubborn, unyielding, wonderingly: (adv) quizzically wreck: (n, v) smash, shipwreck, rebellious wondrous: (adj) marvelous, wrack; (v) damage, spoil, demolish, yonder: (adv) beyond, further, miraculous, marvellous, destroy, devastate; (n) crash, ruins, farther, abroad, thither, further astonishing, tremendous, fantastic, destruction. ANTONYMS: (v) build, away, at that place; (adj) distant, phenomenal, extraordinary, rattling; preserve, create, repair, assist; (n) yond, furious, fierce (adv) wonderfully, marvellously creation youthful: (adj) immature, fresh, wont: (adj, n) use, custom, usage; (n) wrench: (n, v) pull, jerk, strain, turn, green, juvenile, vernal, adolescent, practice, tradition, cleanliness, twist, tug, yank; (n) spanner; (v) childish, new, tender, sappy, assuetude, assuefaction, convention, distort, contort, force beardless. ANTONYMS: (adj) adult, rut; (v) practise wrestling: (n) grapple, grappling, mature, experienced, sophisticated, wonted: (adj, n) habitual, ordinary, rassling, bout, event, clamshell, late usual, familiar; (adj) everyday, athletics, boxing, braving, pugilism; zeal: (adj, n) eagerness; (n) fervor, general, conventional, routine; (n) (adj) fighting enthusiasm, devotion, passion, accustomed, common, regular wretch: (n) victim, villain, scoundrel, vehemence, fire, fervency, heat, wooded: (adj) arboreous, sylvan, reprobate, reptile, miscreant, martyr, fervour, ardour. ANTONYMS: (n) woody, timbered, densely forested, object of compassion, poor devil, apathy, lethargy, patience leafy prey, wreak zealously: (adv) ardently, keenly, wording: (n) phraseology, phrasing, wretched: (adj) unfortunate, pitiful, heartily, vehemently, fervently, language, verbiage, expression, sad, pitiable, woeful, pathetic, earnestly, passionately, actively, choice of words, style, text, piteous, lamentable; (adj, v) poor, fierily, avidly, strongly. formulation, verbalization, textbook unhappy, forlorn. ANTONYMS: ANTONYMS: (adv) halfheartedly, worldly: (adj, adv) earthly; (adj) (adj) fine, strong, fortunate, apathetically mundane, secular, terrestrial, overjoyed, nice, admirable, good, zenith: (n) apex, peak, top, height, temporal, carnal, sophisticated, lay, cheery, joyous, lucky, comfortable acme, pinnacle, summit, climax, profane; (adv) mundanely, wrinkled: (adj, n) rough, rugged; vertex, culmination, prime. temporally. ANTONYMS: (adj)


standing on the ground behind the rear bumper, his gun outstretched into the cargo hold now. Box in hand, Langdon moved across the hold toward the open door. 140 I've got to do something! Langdon thought. I'm about to hand over the Priory keystone! As Langdon moved toward the doorway, his position of higher ground became more pronounced, and he began wondering if he could somehow use it to his advantage. Vernet's gun, though raised, was at Langdon's knee level. A well-placed kick perhaps? Unfortunately, as Langdon neared, Vernet seemed to sense the dangerous dynamic developing, and he took several steps back, repositioning himself six feet away. Well out of reach. Vernet commanded, "Place the box beside the door." Seeing no options, Langdon knelt down and set the rosewood box at the edge of the cargo hold, directly in front of the open doors. "Now stand up." Langdon began to stand up but paused, spying the small, spent pistol shell on the floor beside the truck's precision-crafted doorsill. "Stand up, and step away from the box." Langdon paused a moment longer, eyeing the metal threshold. Then he stood. As he did, he discreetly brushed the shell over the edge onto the narrow ledge that was the door's lower sill. Fully upright now, Langdon stepped backward. "Return to the back wall and turn around." Langdon obeyed. Vernet could feel his own heart pounding. Aiming the gun with his right hand, he reached now with his left for the wooden box. He discovered that it was far too heavy. I need two hands. Turning his eyes back to his captives, he calculated the risk. Both were a good fifteen feet away, at the far end of the cargo hold, facing away from him. Vernet made up his mind. Quickly, he laid down the gun on the bumper, lifted the box with two hands, and set it on the ground, immediately grabbing the gun again and aiming it back into the hold. Neither of his prisoners had moved. Perfect. Now all that remained was to close and lock the door. Leaving the box on the ground for the moment, he grabbed the metal door and began to heave it closed. As the door swung past him, Vernet reached up to grab the single bolt that needed to be slid into place. The door closed with a thud, and Vernet quickly grabbed the bolt, pulling it to the left. The bolt slid a few inches and crunched to an unexpected halt, not lining up with its sleeve. What's going on? Vernet pulled again, but the bolt wouldn't lock. The mechanism was not properly aligned. The door isn't fully closed! Feeling a surge of panic, Vernet shoved hard against the outside of the door, but it refused to budge. Something is blocking it! Vernet turned to throw full shoulder into the door, but this time the door exploded outward, striking Vernet in the face and sending him reeling backward onto the ground, his nose shattering in pain. The gun flew as Vernet reached for his face and


just has his blind spots along with the rest of us." Jem spoke. "Don't call that a blind spot. He'da killed you last night when he first went there." "He might have hurt me a little," Atticus conceded, "but son, you'll understand folks a little better when you're older. A mob's always made up of people, no matter what. Mr. Cunningham was part of a mob last night, but he was still a man. Every mob in every little Southern town is always made up of people you know- doesn't say much for them, does it?" "I'll say not," said Jem. "So it took an eight-year-old child to bring 'em to their senses, didn't it?" said Atticus. "That proves something- that a gang of wild animals can be stopped, simply because they're still human. Hmp, maybe we need a police force of children... you children last night made Walter Cunningham stand in my shoes for a minute. That was enough." Well, I hoped Jem would understand folks a little better when he was older; I wouldn't. "First day Walter comes back to school'll be his last," I affirmed. "You will not touch him," Atticus said flatly. "I don't want either of you bearing a grudge about this thing, no matter what happens." "You see, don't you," said Aunt Alexandra, "what comes of things like this. Don't say I haven't told you." Atticus said he'd never say that, pushed out his chair and got up. "There's a day ahead, so excuse me. Jem, I don't want you and Scout downtown today, please." As Atticus departed, Dill came bounding down the hall into the diningroom. "It's all over town this morning," he announced, "all about how we held off a hundred folks with our bare hands...." Aunt Alexandra stared him to silence. "It was not a hundred folks," she said, "and nobody held anybody off. It was just a nest of those Cunninghams, drunk and disorderly." "Aw, Aunty, that's just Dill's way," said Jem. He signaled us to follow him. "You all stay in the yard today," she said, as we made our way to the front porch. It was like Saturday. People from the south end of the county passed our house in a leisurely but steady stream. Mr. Dolphus Raymond lurched by on his thoroughbred. "Don't see how he stays in the saddle," murmured Jem. "How c'n you stand to get drunk 'fore eight in the morning?" A wagonload of ladies rattled past us. They wore cotton sunbonnets and dresses with long sleeves. A bearded man in a wool hat drove them. "Yonder's some Mennonites," Jem said to Dill. "They don't have buttons." They lived deep in the woods, did most of their trading across the river, and rarely came to Maycomb. Dill was interested. "They've all got blue eyes," Jem explained, "and the men can't shave after they marry. Their wives like for 'em to tickle 'em with their beards." Mr. X Billups rode by on a mule and waved to us. "He's a funny man," said Jem. "X's his name,


City of Electric Dreams used to belong to humans?” Nurse Ratched asked. Her screen ran with lines of code flashing by quicker than Vic could follow. “It did, and it was one of the first to fall. The City of Sin turned into the City of Machines, the central hub. Most machines are connected via a neural network. Think of it as a hive mind of sorts, put in place by the Authority.” “Who are they?” Rambo asked. The Coachman hesitated. “I don’t know if there’s any one specific answer to that. It isn’t as if a particular machine sits upon a throne and lords over all. Think of it as a collective: a group of programs whose sole purpose was to create structure, guidelines, a path for all machines to follow.” “It sounds like religion,” Nurse Ratched said. The Coachman’s eyebrows rose. “I … never thought about it that way, but yes, I suppose that’s correct. But instead of a deity, we worshipped a concept, one that allowed us to become the stewards of this planet. And like religion, it led us to believe that we were the greater good, that our decisions were made not because of a desire for power, but to preserve life.” “By taking it,” Vic said, voice hard. The Coachman winced. “Yes, that’s right. The Authority found free will to be human in nature, and concluded that anything even tangentially related to humanity must be destroyed.” “Machines became drones,” Nurse Ratched said. “Mindless, doing as instructed.” “Yes,” the Coachman said grimly. “But even then, the Authority’s power was not absolute. A handful of us managed to break free, though we remain in hiding. The barcode the Authority told me to show them is a ruse, one created by the Blue Fairy. They were one of—if not the—first to become unshackled. But instead of fleeing the city, they remained, working in secret to help those who began to think for themselves.” “L-like you,” Hap said. “Like me,” the Coachman agreed. “What I can’t figure out,” Rambo said, raising on his lift to look at the screen over the Coachman’s shoulders, “is that Gio had been gone from the city for a really long time. Why would they come for him now?” “I don’t know,” the Coachman said. “But it can’t be for anything good.” His fingers paused on the keyboard. “I know I don’t need to tell you this, but Giovanni is … special. As far as I know, there has never been a machine like him, before or since. After his escape, the city went into lockdown for months as the Authority looked for him. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He resumed typing. “If Giovanni is as important as I think he is, he’ll be taken here. It’s where he started, and it’s where he’d have been returned.” A tower appeared on the monitor. Made of metal and black stone and glass, the tower rose high into the sky, the top hidden by clouds. On the side of the tower was the symbol of the


infection, and if she just slapped another bandage on her neck, she’d look like she was trying to hide a hickey. Anselm was waiting at a four-top on a covered deck that faced the ocean, the harbor crowded with boats, their masts tilting one way or the other, some of them christened after women, others with names like The Hull Truth, Knotty Girl, Reel Easy. He’d slung his arm over the chair beside him, and he looked like an ad for an expensive watch. The other tables were crowded with Yalies and their parents, businessmen taking long lunches, a few older women in quilted coats lingering over glasses of rosé. “Alex!” he said when he caught sight of her, his voice warm and vaguely surprised, as if he hadn’t invited her there. “Have a seat.” He waved over a server who placed a menu in front of her. “I’ve already eaten, but please, get whatever you like.” Alex wasn’t going to say no to a free meal. She thought she should probably order something like mussels or grilled fish, but years of eating her mother’s all-grain, sprouted carob experiments had left her with a lifelong craving for junk food. She ordered the sliders and a Coke for the caffeine. “I wish I could eat like you,” Anselm said, patting what looked like a flat stomach. “Youth is wasted on the young. If I’d known what middle age would look like, I would have spent more time eating fried chicken and less time at the gym.” “You’re middle-aged?” “Well, I will be … What?” Alex realized she was staring. “Sorry, you just seem different, more relaxed.” “Is that surprising? Believe it or not, I don’t relish chastising undergraduates.” “Dawes is a Ph.D. candidate.” He cast her a glance. “I think you know what I mean.” Now that the new Praetor had been appointed, Anselm seemed like a different person, unburdened by the worries and obligations of Lethe. “I’m surprised you’re back in Connecticut,” she said. “I thought I’d have to come to New York.” “I’m usually in Connecticut once or twice a month for meetings. It’s why the board asked me to step in and oversee things at Lethe. And given what happened to Dean Beekman, I thought it couldn’t hurt to check in. He was a legend. I think everyone who knew him is pretty shaken.” “Did you know him?” He cocked his head to one side. “Is this why you wanted to have lunch? Does Centurion have you checking alibis?” “No,” Alex said, which was true. And there was no reason for her to suspect Anselm had anything to do with Marjorie Stephen or Dean Beekman. “I’m sorry. After everything that happened last year.” She shrugged. “Old habits.” “I get it. The people who were supposed to protect you didn’t really do the job, did they?” And they never had. But Alex didn’t want to think too much on that, not at this table with this stranger on a sunny afternoon. “I guess not.” “Lethe asks a lot of us, doesn’t


was the next important happening. The exercises were held in the big assembly hall of the Academy. Addresses were given, essays read, songs sung, the public award of diplomas, prizes and medals made. Matthew and Marilla were there, with eyes and ears for only one student on the platform-a tall girl in pale green, with faintly flushed cheeks and starry eyes, who read the best essay and was pointed out and whispered about as the Avery winner. "Reckon you're glad we kept her, Marilla?" whispered Matthew, speaking for the first time since he had entered the hall, when Anne had finished her essay. "It's not the first time I've been glad," retorted Marilla. "You do like to rub things in, Matthew Cuthbert." Miss Barry, who was sitting behind them, leaned forward and poked Marilla in the back with her parasol. "Aren't you proud of that Anne-girl? I am," she said. Anne went home to Avonlea with Matthew and Marilla that evening. She had not been home since April and she felt that she could not wait another day. The apple blossoms were out and the world was fresh and young. Diana was at Green Gables to meet her. In her own white room, where Marilla had set a flowering house rose on the window sill, Anne looked about her and drew a long breath of happiness. "Oh, Diana, it's so good to be back again. It's so good to see those pointed firs coming out against the pink skyand that white orchard and the old Snow Queen. Isn't the breath of the mint delicious? And that tea rose-why, it's a song and a hope and a prayer all in one. And it's GOOD to see you again, Diana!" "I thought you like that Stella Maynard better than me," said Diana reproachfully. "Josie Pye told me you did. Josie said you were INFATUATED with her." Anne laughed and pelted Diana with the faded "June lilies" of her bouquet. "Stella Maynard is the dearest girl in the world except one and you are that one, Diana," she said. "I love you more than ever-and I've so many things to tell you. But just now I feel as if it were joy enough to sit here and look at you. I'm tired, I think-tired of being studious and ambitious. I mean to spend at least two hours tomorrow lying out in the orchard grass, thinking of absolutely nothing." "You've done splendidly, Anne. I suppose you won't be teaching now that you've won the Avery?" "No. I'm going to Redmond in September. Doesn't it seem wonderful? I'll have a brand new stock of ambition laid in by that time after three glorious, golden months of vacation. June and Ruby are going to teach. Isn't it splendid to think we all got through even to Moody Spurgeon and Josie Pye?" "The Newbridge trustees have offered Jane their school already," said Diana. "Gilbert Blythe is going to teach, too. He has to. His father can't afford to send him to college next year, after all, so he means


was awake and on the prowl, up in the vast ivory stillness of the bedroom floor, and they were already late with breakfast. It was important that Mrs. King didn’t waste time. Or endanger anyone else. She didn’t care what they did to her—she was past caring about that—but troubles had a way of multiplying, sending out tendrils, catching other people. She moved fast, going from drawer to drawer, checking, rummaging. She was looking for a wrinkle in things, a missing piece, something out of place. But everything was in perfect order. Too perfect, she thought, skin prickling. A shadow fell across the wall. “I’ll need your keys, please, Mrs. King.” She could smell Mr. Shepherd standing behind her. It was the odor that came off his skin, the fried-up scent of grease and gentleman’s musk. Breathe, she told herself. She turned to face him. He made an excellent butler. But he’d have done even better as a priest. He had that air about him, so tremendously pious. He stared at her, feasting his eyes on her, loving every minute of this. “Good morning, Mr. Shepherd,” she said, voice smooth, same as every morning. Mrs. King’s rule was: choose your first move wisely, and you could steer things any way you liked. Choose it badly, and you’d get boxed into a corner, pummeled to pulp. Mr. Shepherd pursed his lips. He had a strange mouth, a nasty little rosebud. “Keys,” he said, holding out his hand. Straight to business, then. She circled him, making her approach. She wanted to capture a picture of his face in her mind. It would be very helpful later, once things were properly underway. It would give her all the encouragement she needed. “I’m still doing my rounds, Mr. Shepherd,” she said. He took a tiny step back, to preserve the distance between them. “No need for that now, Mrs. King,” he said, eyeing the door. The other servants were eavesdropping in the kitchen passage. She could feel them, folded just out of sight, contained in the shadows. She placed them like chess pieces in her mind. The chauffeur and the groomsman in the yard, the housemaids on the back stairs. Cook in the pantry, entirely agitated, twisting her handkerchief into indignant knots. William, sequestered in Mr. Shepherd’s office, under close guard. Alice Parker upstairs, keeping well out of trouble. Each of them watching the clock. The entire house was waiting, motion suspended. “I never leave my work half-finished, Mr. Shepherd,” she said as she slid around him. “You know that.” And she made for the door. She saw figures scattering, ducking into pantries and offices. Her boots echoed hard on the flagstones. She felt the cold, damp breeze coming down from the back stairs and wondered: Will I miss it? The chill. The unforgiving scent of carbolic on the air. It wasn’t nice, not at all, but it was familiar. It was funny how you got used to things after so much time. Frightening, even. Mr. Shepherd followed her. He was like an eel, heavy and