be sure. Not for me, not for anyone. Not for a jury or a tribunal. Which would mean she got fired. In the movies gangsters throw bodies into the lake, but in real life they swell up and escape unless you get that exactly right. You need a canvas bag and weights and a depth map and buying all those things at once can be hard to explain down the line. On the other hand there’s a natural spa hotel on the far shore called the Alaric where rich lawyers take people they shouldn’t, and kids from the bridge area think they’ll have their honeymoon. It has indoor-outdoor pools in the main garden and wooden hot tubs by the cabins among the trees. Back another three hundred metres there’s a section they don’t put in the brochure where what comes up out of the rock is mostly acid. The pools there look every bit as beautiful, but you really don’t want to bathe in them. A guy named Marlowe keeps the grounds and makes sure no one goes in. Marlowe and I get along fine. I never talk to Musgrave about that night and she never brings it up. Everyone assumes we slept together. Everyone assumes it was bad sex and we didn’t want to do it any more. They mostly assume that last part was my fault. * * * — I drive us to her house. I have only ever been inside that one time. Musgrave has a little remote on the dash and the garage door opens. I drive in. Musgrave heats a tin of soup and we drink it outside on the swing set, wrapped in two separate blankets. She doesn’t want to sit inside. I think maybe she’s worried about surveillance. “So are we going to talk about it?” “Shut up.” “I don’t mind, Musgrave, I’ll sit here and drink soup. But sooner or later I figure you’re going to have to tell me, because that’s why you wanted me here.” “I burned down the lab.” “You said. I thought it was an interesting creative choice.” “Fuck you, Cal.” But she smiles, just a little. I think of Doublewide and the liver. “Any chance you saved Tebbit’s organs?” “Every chance. All the evidence is intact.” “So…what caught fire?” “The assay machine and the off-network drive. I had the results output set to local read, thank god.” “This would be the results of Roddy’s genome scan?” “It would.” “Who is he, for Christ’s sake?” “I have no idea. There’s no record of a previous scan. But what there is, is data.” “What do you mean, data?” “He was a biologist, right?” “Yeah, supposedly. I don’t know what the fuck he really was.” “Well he or someone he trusted jinked his liver DNA. He had an archival hard drive, basically, in his cells. It’s not hard to do, just no one does it because why would you? Unless you’re hiding a stash of documents you really don’t want to get caught with.” “So what does it say?” “It’s encrypted.”


movements with intent eyes. Mr. Dobbins fingered his book absently for a while, then took it out and settled himself in his chair to read! Tom shot a glance at Becky. He had seen a hunted and helpless rabbit look as she did, with a gun levelled at its head. Instantly he forgot his quarrel with her. Quick -- something must be done! done in a flash, too! But the very imminence of the emergency paralyzed his invention. Good! -- he had an inspiration! He would run and snatch the --------------------------------------------------------- -200- book, spring through the door and fly. But his resolution shook for one little instant, and the chance was lost -- the master opened the volume. If Tom only had the wasted opportunity back again! Too late. There was no help for Becky now, he said. The next moment the master faced the school. Every eye sank under his gaze. There was that in it which smote even the innocent with fear. There was silence while one might count ten -- the master was gathering his wrath. Then he spoke: "Who tore this book?" There was not a sound. One could have heard a pin drop. The stillness continued; the master searched face after face for signs of guilt. "Benjamin Rogers, did you tear this book?" A denial. Another pause. "Joseph Harper, did you?" Another denial. Tom's uneasiness grew more and more intense under the slow torture of these proceedings. The master scanned the ranks of boys -- considered a while, then turned to the girls: "Amy Lawrence?" A shake of the head. "Gracie Miller?" The same sign. "Susan Harper, did you do this?" Another negative. The next girl was Becky Thatcher. Tom was trembling from head to foot with excitement and a sense of the hopelessness of the situation. --------------------------------------------------------- -201- "Rebecca Thatcher" [Tom glanced at her face -- it was white with terror] -- "did you tear -- no, look me in the face" [her hands rose in appeal] -- "did you tear this book?" A thought shot like lightning through Tom's brain. He sprang to his feet and shouted -- " I done it!" The school stared in perplexity at this incredible folly. Tom stood a moment, to gather his dismembered faculties; and when he stepped forward to go to his punishment the surprise, the gratitude, the adoration that shone upon him out of poor Becky's eyes seemed pay enough for a hundred floggings. Inspired by the splendor of his own act, he took without an outcry the most merciless flaying that even Mr. Dobbins had ever administered; and also received with indifference the added cruelty of a command to remain two hours after school should be dismissed -- for he knew who would wait for him outside till his captivity was done, and not count the tedious time as loss, either. Tom went to bed that night planning vengeance against Alfred Temple; for with shame and repentance Becky had told him all, not forgetting her own treachery; but even the longing for vengeance had to give


across the bay. Zaphod loved effect: it was what he was best at. He twisted the wheel sharply, the boat slewed round in a wild scything skid beneath the cliff face and dropped to rest lightly on the rocking waves. Within seconds he ran out onto the deck and waved and grinned at over three billion people. The three billion people weren't actually there, but they watched his every gesture through the eyes of a small robot tri-D camera which hovered obsequiously in the air nearby. The antics of the President always made amazingly popular tri-D; that's what they were for. He grinned again. Three billion and six people didn't know it, but today would be a bigger antic than anyone had bargained for. The robot camera homed in for a close up on the more popular of his two heads and he waved again. He was roughly humanoid in appearance except for the extra head and third arm. His fair tousled hair stuck out in random directions, his blue eyes glinted with something completely unidentifiable, and his chins were almost always unshaven. A twenty-foot-high transparent globe floated next to his boat, rolling and bobbing, glistening in the brilliant sun. Inside it floated a wide semi-circular sofa upholstered in glorious red leather: the more the globe bobbed and rolled, the more the sofa stayed perfectly still, steady as an upholstered rock. Again, all done for effect as much as anything. Zaphod stepped through the wall of the globe and relaxed on the sofa. He spread his two arms lazily along the back and with the third brushed some dust off his knee. His heads looked about, smiling; he put his feet up. At any moment, he thought, he might scream. Water boiled up beneath the bubble, it seethed and spouted. The bubble surged into the air, bobbing and rolling on the water spout. Up, up it climbed, throwing stilts of light at the cliff. Up it surged on the jet, the water falling from beneath it, crashing back into the sea hundreds of feet below. Zaphod smiled, picturing himself. A thoroughly ridiculous form of transport, but a thoroughly beautiful one. At the top of the cliff the globe wavered for a moment, tipped on to a railed ramp, rolled down it to a small concave platform and riddled to a halt. To tremendous applause Zaphod Beeblebrox stepped out of the bubble, his orange sash blazing in the light. The President of the Galaxy had arrived. He waited for the applause to die down, then raised his hands in greeting. "Hi," he said. A government spider sidled up to him and attempted to press a copy of his prepared speech into his hands. Pages three to seven of the original version were at the moment floating soggily on the Damogran sea some five miles out from the bay. Pages one and two had been salvaged by a Damogran Frond Crested Eagle and had already become incorporated into an extraordinary new form of nest which the eagle had invented. It was constructed largely of


me the silent treatment until I pulled my head out of my ass. He’s back now.” Natalie breathed in and out very carefully, positive too big of an inhale would snap her in half. “I’m so glad, August,” she whispered unevenly. “I’m glad he’s back.” “I was trying to beat back my guilt for not saving Sam by doing this all myself, but the truth is . . . he never would have wanted that.” He looked around at the interior of the barn, as if seeing it for the first time. “He never would have wanted me to succeed at his dream . . . at the cost of you.” His eyes found their way back to her. “Because you’re my dream. He’d want me to have you as much as he wanted this place. And . . . I’m the one who is still here. He’d tell me to cut the shit, quit feeling guilty, and live this dream with my wife.” It was hard to find words, let alone the right ones in that moment, so she simply spoke from the heart. “You were lucky to have Sam, August. But he was lucky to have you, too.” “Thanks.” Clearing his throat, he shoved the rag into his pocket hastily. “Jesus, I can’t believe I ever asked you to stay out now that I want you in here with me so fucking bad, Natalie.” “Okay, I’m coming,” she said breathlessly, desperate to stop his flow of words before he said something, a final thing that would make her crumble. “Okay.” She cradled her mug against her chest and approached him, her pulse ripping into an unruly rhythm the closer she came to August and his big leather apron. “You don’t have to be so dramatic.” “I’m completely dramatic over you. Deal with it.” She slipped past him into the production facility, the fronts of their bodies brushing together and making their breath catch. “If I have to deal with your drama, you have to deal with my speech about the intricacies of a grape.” “Done.” He followed behind Natalie, leaving her almost no room to breathe. “I’m all ears. And muscles, because obviously. Lay your intricacies on me, princess.” Natalie stopped in front of the racked barrels, noticing immediately that August had spent the morning filtering the ones she hadn’t had time to do on Friday. She looked at August to find a serious expression on his face, arms crossed. He wasn’t just paying her lip service, he was actively following her lead. “Um . . .” She wet her suddenly dry lips. Why was her pulse going so fast? “Well. The character of a grape depends on a lot of factors. Climate, soil, whether the vines were stressed or understressed, the temperature at which they were picked and stored. I’m sure you’re aware by now of tannins. They provide texture. They give the wine structure.” She glanced back at the equipment behind her that was no longer in use. “You appear to have given the wine a short maceration


uh way too, Tea Cake, and Ah thank yuh fuh sayin’ it.” “’Tain’t no trouble tuh say whut’s already so. You’se uh pretty woman outside uh bein’ nice.” “Aw, Tea Cake.” “Yeah you is too. Everytime Ah see uh patch uh roses uh somethin’ over sportin’ they selves makin’ out they pretty, Ah tell ’em ‘Ah want yuh tuh see mah Janie sometime.’ You must let de flowers see yuh sometimes, heah, Janie?” “You keep dat up, Tea Cake, Ah’ll b’lieve yuh after while,” Janie said archly and fixed him back in bed. It was then she felt the pistol under the pillow. It gave her a quick ugly throb, but she didn’t ask him about it since he didn’t say. Never had Tea Cake slept with a pistol under his head before. “Neb’ mind ’bout all dat cleanin’ round de front yard,” he told her as she straightened up from fixing the bed. “You stay where Ah kin see yuh.” “All right, Tea Cake, jus’ as you say.” Their Eyes Were Watching God 213 “And if Mis’ Turner’s lap-legged brother come prowlin’ by heah you kin tell ’im Ah got him stopped wid four wheel brakes. ’Tain’t no need of him standin’ ’round watchin’ de job.” “Ah won’t be tellin’ ’im nothin’ ’cause Ah don’t expect tuh see ’im.” Tea Cake had two bad attacks that night. Janie saw a changing look come in his face. Tea Cake was gone. Some- thing else was looking out of his face. She made up her mind to be off after the doctor with the first glow of day. So she was up and dressed when Tea Cake awoke from the fitful sleep that had come to him just before day. He almost snarled when he saw her dressed to go. “Where are you goin’, Janie?” “After de doctor, Tea Cake. You’se too sick tuh be heah in dis house ’thout de doctah. Maybe we oughta git yuh tuh de hospital.” “Ah ain’t goin’ tuh no hospital no where. Put dat in yo’ pipe and smoke it. Guess you tired uh waitin’ on me and doing fuh me. Dat ain’t de way Ah been wid you. Ah never is been able tuh do enough fuh yuh.” “Tea Cake, you’se sick. You’se takin’ everything in de way Ah don’t mean it. Ah couldn’t never be tired uh waitin’ on you. Ah’m just skeered you’se too sick fuh me tuh han- dle. Ah wants yuh tuh git well, honey. Dat’s all.” He gave her a look full of blank ferocity and gurgled in his throat. She saw him sitting up in bed and moving about so that he could watch her every move. And she was begin- ning to feel fear of this strange thing in Tea Cake’s body. So 214 Zora Neale Hurston when he went out to the outhouse she rushed to see if the pistol was loaded. It was a six shooter and three of the cham- bers were full. She started to unload it but she feared he might break it and


“Drop the canoe and run,” Gabriel said. “Yeah, do that,” Ella said. “Then we won’t have to get in it.” But her grumpiness this morning was almost playful. The woods moved over them and, with them, mosquitoes. “Shithead,” Ella said. She stopped to stomp a mosquito off her leg, and Maud almost dropped her half of the canoe. “Ella,” she said. “Well, they are. And I can’t use my hands because I’m carrying this stupid canoe.” “Yes, yes, we know the canoe is stupid.” “They bite me too,” Gabriel said. “We let off a lot of carbon dioxide, you and me. Let’s move faster, maybe that’ll help.” He started to run, and Ella ran with him, pulling Maud down the hill. At the river, Louise stood on the shore and surveyed the water skeptically before stepping into the canoe. “This river is pretty,” she said, “but it kinda smells like poop.” “It’ll smell better when we get out of the algae,” Maud said, handing her an oar. They rowed through the chartreuse blanket. Ella and Gabriel were in the canoe ahead, Ella paddling hard, jerking her oar through the water. “Who are you trying to impress?” Maud called. “I want to get it over with,” Ella said. “You’re making me look bad,” Gabriel said. Maud had a vague idea of where to find the ruins of the folly. She and Gabriel had figured it out two nights before, during one of those conversations where they got lost in their back-and-forth about her knowledge of Romanticism and the obsession with ruins and jungles and his knowledge of those jungles themselves and the real ruins being replicated. But a problem emerged as they approached the island. The shore was a marsh. When Gabriel got out of the canoe, his feet disappeared to the ankles in muck. “Is this quicksand?” Louise peered over the edge of the canoe. They tried paddling farther down the shore but were met by impenetrable creepers. “I think this expedition is doomed,” Gabriel said. “Explorers often meet with disappointment,” Maud said. “Then maybe they should stay home,” Ella said. “Let’s go there instead.” Gabriel pointed to the opposite shore, where a rope swing dangled from a tree. “It’s probably private property,” Louise said. “The swing is over the river. The Hudson’s not private property.” Five minutes later, as they made their way through the water, Louise’s paddling had been reduced to the occasional halfhearted swipe. Maud hauled them along, listening to the conversation that had started in the canoe ahead. “I hate my school,” Ella told Gabriel. “I feel you. Middle school is the worst. But in another year, you’ll be in high school and have lots of freedom.” He gave Ella an abbreviated, sanitized version of his teenage years, without the drugs and early sex. “That’s crazy,” Ella said after he described his father, who had once tied him to a chair and shaved his head because he wouldn’t get a haircut. “Adults can be crazy.” “You’re an adult.” “But I’m not a parent, so I’m a little better.


of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear sir, you must begin your studies entirely anew." So saying, he stepped aside and wrote down a list of several books treating of natural philosophy which he desired me to procure, and dismissed me after mentioning that in the beginning of the following week he intended to commence a course of lectures upon natural philosophy in its general relations, and that M. Waldman, a fellow professor, would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days that he omitted. I returned home not disappointed, for I have said that I had long considered those authors useless whom the professor reprobated; but I returned not at all the more inclined to recur to these studies in any shape. M. Krempe was a little squat man with a gruff voice and a repulsive countenance; the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in favour of his pursuits. In rather a too philosophical and connected a strain, perhaps, I have given an account of the conclusions I had come to concerning them in my early years. As a child I had not been content with the results promised by the modern professors of natural science. With a confusion of ideas only to be accounted for by my extreme youth and my want of a guide on such matters, I had retrod the steps of knowledge along the paths of time and exchanged the discoveries of recent inquirers for the dreams of forgotten alchemists. Besides, I had a contempt for the uses of modern natural philosophy. It was very different when the masters of the science sought immortality and power; such views, although futile, were grand; but now the scene was changed. The ambition of the inquirer seemed to limit itself to the annihilation of those visions on which my interest in science was chiefly founded. I was required to exchange chimeras of boundless grandeur for realities of little worth. Such were my reflections during the first two or three days of my residence at Ingolstadt, which were chiefly spent in becoming acquainted with the localities and the principal residents in my new abode. But as the ensuing week commenced, I thought of the information which M. Krempe had given me concerning the lectures. And although I could not consent to go and hear that little conceited fellow deliver sentences out of a pulpit, I recollected what he had said of M. Waldman, whom I had never seen, as he had hitherto been out of town. Partly from curiosity and partly from idleness, I went into the lecturing room, which M. Waldman entered shortly after. This professor was very unlike his colleague. He appeared about fifty years of age, but with an aspect expressive of the greatest benevolence; a few grey hairs covered his temples, but those at the back of his head were nearly black. His person was short but remarkably erect and his voice the sweetest I had ever heard. He began his lecture by a recapitulation of the history of chemistry and the various improvements made by different men of


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

take care of himself, but their odd circumstances made her feel almost protective of him. “It wasn’t for Gabe’s benefit at all.” Bastian spun her out, then pulled her back in, close to his black-clad chest. He was shorter than Gabriel, but only just, and Lore’s forehead would’ve knocked into his chin if he didn’t lean gracefully away, making it look like part of the dance. “The Kirythean music was because I like it.” “I’m sure that thrills your father.” His eyes sparked behind his mask, the slight smile on his mouth going sharp. “Nothing I do thrills my father. He’s decided I’m worthless, and I don’t particularly care enough to try and change his mind.” Another spin, under his arm this time, his hand staying on the small of her back to guide her through. “And just so we’re clear,” he murmured as she passed close again, “I wouldn’t taunt Gabe about his family. I know he thinks I’m awful, and he has his reasons, but even I’m not that heartless.” Lore hoped her laugh didn’t sound as false as it felt. “But you’d make sure he doesn’t have a mask, so that everyone here can see his face.” “I wanted the court to know he was here. To give him an opportunity to see what he’s missing, maybe decide to stay instead of slink back to the Presque Mort.” Bastian’s voice was pleasant, but the ridge of his jaw could carve stone. “My uncle has been half mad since his accident, even if everyone wants to pretend like it’s something holy, and he’s controlled Gabe’s life for fourteen years. I saw an opportunity to set him free, at least for a few weeks, and I took it. He should thank me.” Lore wondered what Bastian would think if he knew that Gabe was only in the court because of Anton. That his uncle’s control was still ironclad. “How exactly would making sure the court sees him here make him want to stay?” she asked. Bastian waved a hand at the party. “Stick a man in a den of iniquity after he’s been cloistered for over a decade, and it’s likely he’ll fall into sin. If it was public enough, Anton might not let him come back into the monkish fold. That was the hope, anyway.” The Sun Prince snorted. “Though I’ve probably underestimated Gabe’s piety. He always was predisposed to martyrdom.” They swayed in silence for a moment, the air between them filled with violins and the scent of spilled champagne. “I suppose the fact that Gabe joined the Presque Mort was fortunate for you.” Bastian’s eyes were so dark a brown as to almost be black, and lit with prying curiosity. “As it was your ticket into the Court of the Citadel. I can’t imagine the third cousin of a disgraced duke being invited for the season if said disgraced duke hadn’t become the Priest Exalted’s pet project.” He said it with a purposeful sort of condescension, like he was trying to bait her into disagreeing, and as if


brow. His eyes smoldered, burning a path to her. She had never seen such a fire within him, and it called to her, stirring her blood. “Iris,” he said, his hand outstretched. Four meters. He was almost to her, and she scrounged up the last of her strength. Her hand was trembling, bruised and numb. But she reached for him, the silver ring on her finger catching the light. The ring that bound her to him. And she thought, I’m so close. Just a little farther … She was suddenly hauled backward. Forest swore as the wind blew harder against them. The air began to sting her eyes, her lungs. The distance between her and Roman swelled again. She tried to call his name, but her voice was gone. She was fading. The last thing she remembered seeing was the green cloud spin over the field, swallowing Roman Kitt whole. {42} All the Things I Never Said Iris woke with a splitting headache. Her eyes cracked open; late afternoon light played over her face. Branches swayed in the breeze above her. She watched them for a moment before realizing she was surrounded by trees and the air smelled like evergreen and moss and damp earth. She had no idea where she was, and her hands reached out, passing over pine needles and leaves. The stained linen of her jumpsuit. “Kitt?” she rasped. It hurt to speak, and she tried to swallow the splinter in her throat. “Attie?” She heard someone shifting nearby. They came into her field of vision, hovering over her. She blinked, recognizing the wavy chestnut brown hair, the wide-set hazel eyes, the dusting of freckles. They were so much like her own features. They could have been twins. “Forest,” she whispered, and he reached for her hand, gently helping her sit forward. “Where are we?” Her brother was silent, as if he didn’t know what to say. But then he brought a canteen to her mouth. “Drink, Iris.” She took a few sips. As the water washed through her, she began to remember. She remembered mistaking her brother for Roman and how he had been determined to drag her away from town. “Kitt,” she said, pushing the canteen aside. She was worried, hungry for answers. “Where is he? Where’s my husband?” Forest glanced away. “I don’t know, Iris.” It took everything within her to stay calm, stay calm as she stated through her teeth, “You saw him in the market. He was shouting for me then, wasn’t he?” “Yes.” Forest’s tone was unapologetic. He held her eyes, his face emotionless. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were, Forest? Why didn’t you let Kitt join us?” “It was too much of a liability, Iris. My only plan was to get you out of there safely.” She began to rise. Her legs were shaky. “Sit down, Little Flower. You need to rest.” “Don’t call me that!” she snarled, reaching out to balance herself on the nearest pine. She blinked and studied her surroundings. The woods stretched on and on, and


led her down the dark corridors with her candle and had ended with her opening of the door of the dimly lighted room with the carven four-posted bed in the corner. When she described the small ivory-white face and the strange black-rimmed eyes Dickon shook his head. "Them's just like his mother's eyes, only hers was always laughin', they say," he said. "They say as Mr. Craven can't bear to see him when he's awake an' it's because his eyes is so like his mother's an' yet looks so different in his miserable bit of a face." "Do you think he wants to die?" whispered Mary. "No, but he wishes he'd never been born. Mother she says that's th' worst thing on earth for a child. Them as is not wanted scarce ever thrives. Mester Craven he'd buy anythin' as money could buy for th' poor lad but he'd like to forget as he's on earth. For one thing, he's afraid he'll look at him some day and find he's growed hunchback." "Colin's so afraid of it himself that he won't sit up," said Mary. "He says he's always thinking that if he should feel a lump coming he should go crazy and scream himself to death." "Eh! he oughtn't to lie there thinkin' things like that," said Dickon. "No lad could get well as thought them sort o' things." The fox was lying on the grass close by him, looking up to ask for a pat now and then, and Dickon bent down and rubbed his neck softly and thought a few minutes in silence. Presently he lifted his head and looked round the garden. "When first we got in here," he said, "it seemed like everything was gray. Look round now and tell me if tha' doesn't see a difference." Mary looked and caught her breath a little. "Why!" she cried, "the gray wall is changing. It is as if a green mist were creeping over it. It's almost like a green gauze veil." "Aye," said Dickon. "An' it'll be greener and greener till th' gray's all gone. Can tha' guess what I was thinkin'?" "I know it was something nice," said Mary eagerly. "I believe it was something about Colin." "I was thinkin' that if he was out here he wouldn't be watchin' for lumps to grow on his back; he'd be watchin' for buds to break on th' rose-bushes, an' he'd likely be healthier," explained Dickon. "I was wonderin' if us could ever get him in th' humor to come out here an' lie under th' trees in his carriage." "I've been wondering that myself. I've thought of it almost every time I've talked to him," said Mary. "I've wondered if he could keep a secret and I've wondered if we could bring him here without any one seeing us. I thought perhaps you could push his carriage. The doctor said he must have fresh air and if he wants us to take him out no one dare disobey him. He won't go out for other people and


however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its side and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of the hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair. "It's all clear," he whispered. "Have you the chisel and the bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing for it!" Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes's hunting crop came down on the man's wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor. "It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes blandly. "You have no chance at all." "So I see," the other answered with the utmost coolness. "I fancy that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails." "There are three men waiting for him at the door," said Holmes. "Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must compliment you." "And I you," Holmes answered. "Your red-headed idea was very new and effective." "You'll see your pal again presently," said Jones. "He's quicker at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the derbies." "I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands," remarked our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. "You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness, also, when you address me always to say 'sir' and 'please.'" "All right," said Jones with a stare and a snigger. "Well, would you please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your Highness to the police-station?" "That is better," said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the detective. "Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from the cellar, "I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you. There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most complete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery that have ever come within my experience." "I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John Clay," said Holmes. "I have been at some small expense over this matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways unique, and by hearing


deserted warehouses and abandoned factories where the bodies can rot undiscovered for years, or he surprises them in dark alleyways, or he blasts them from a moving vehicle. He never experiences firefights in which survival depends in part on the ability to quickly deduce the point from which incoming rounds originate. Although he’s seen the pistol that Nina possesses, though he’s searched her house in her absence and knows she doesn’t—or didn’t previously—own a high-powered rifle, he’s seized by the conviction, unlikely as it is, that she’s the shooter and is cutting them down from the cover of Whole Fruit. He crouches and hurries away from the cavernous opening in the gable wall. He turns the corner of the big building, rises to his full height, and races west along a twenty-foot-wide sward of dead grass and mud between Whole Fruit and Specialty Products, away from the killing ground, as the rifle bangs out rounds as fast as the shooter can squeeze the trigger. A PHONE CALL To Nina, the shots sound as if the rounds are powerful enough to penetrate walls, and the board walls of this place are probably already weakened by termites and time. In their rat hole, she and John slide down as low as they can. After the last of the shots and shouts and screams, a silence settles but for the incessant rain. For a minute or so, the absence of shooting is worse than the clatter of it, because she worries that Michael took return fire—five against one—and that he is either dead or badly wounded. Then her phone vibrates in her hand. She takes the call, her voice hushed. He’s all right. He’s not been hit. “Four of them are down,” he says, his voice as quiet as hers. “Dead?” “Or as good as. Plus two I got earlier.” Shaped by hard experience, Nina has become something of a church lady at heart, a homebody, a cookie baker, a tinkerer in the garden, crunching numbers for a living, not a lover of excitement, a seeker of peace and simple pleasures, who values the lives of others hardly less than she values her own. So she is surprised to feel a bloodthirsty thrill travel through her at the news that Michael, amazing Michael, has killed six. Surprised but not in the least dismayed. She’s aware of the original and accurate translation of the commandment—Thou shalt not murder—and it is Aleem and his kind who transgress all interdicts that make civilization possible. If there are none who will stop their kind, kill their kind, then they will murder, murder, murder until no one is left to be their victims. The violent will bear it away. “One ran,” Michael says, “went around the side of Whole Fruit. The eighth man I haven’t seen yet. Stay where you are till I get them.” “Or they get you.” “This isn’t their turf. They don’t know who I am, where I came from. Their cars, their phones, now this—they’re panicked.” “They don’t panic.” “They panicked all their lives. Cowards afraid


a loss what to say or what to do, and before I had made up my mind he picked up his cane and was gone. But when I came to think the matter over my conscience reproached me bitterly for having on any pretext allowed him to go out of my sight. I imagined what my feelings would be if I had to return to you and to confess that some misfortune had occurred through my disregard for your instructions. I assure you my cheeks flushed at the very thought. It might not even now be too late to overtake him, so I set off at once in the direction of Merripit House. I hurried along the road at the top of my speed without seeing anything of Sir Henry, until I came to the point where the moor path branches off. There, fearing that perhaps I had come in the wrong direction after all, I mounted a hill from which I could command a view -- the same hill which is cut into the dark quarry. Thence I saw him at once. He was on the moor path about a quarter of a mile off, and a lady was by his side who could only be Miss Stapleton. It was clear that there was already an understanding between them and that they had met by ap- pointment. They were walking slowly along in deep conversa- tion, and I saw her making quick little movements of her hands as if she were very earnest in what she was saying, while he listened intently, and once or twice shook his head in strong dissent. I stood among the rocks watching them, very much puzzled as to what I should do next. To follow them and break into their intimate conversation seemed to be an outrage, and yet my clear duty was never for an instant to let him out of my sight. To act the spy upon a friend was a hateful task. Still, I could see no better course than to observe him from the hill, and to clear my conscience by confessing to him afterwards what I had done. It is true that if any sudden danger had threatened him I was too far away to be of use, and yet I am sure that you will agree with me that the position was very difficult, and that there was nothing more which I could do. Our friend, Sir Henry, and the lady had halted on the path and were standing deeply absorbed in their conversation, when I was suddenly aware that I was not the only witness of their interview. A wisp of green floating in the air caught my eye, and another glance showed me that it was carried on a stick by a man who was moving among the broken ground. It was Stapleton with his butterfly-net. He was very much closer to the pair than I was, and he appeared to be moving in their direction. At this instant Sir Henry suddenly drew Miss Stapleton to his


again, and the elusive dance rose and fell with the wind. Somewhere a man was taking one of the titles of his clan, with music and dancing and a great feast. The footway had now become a narrow line in the heart of the forest. The short trees and sparse undergrowth which surrounded the men's village began to give way to giant trees and climbers which perhaps had stood from the beginning of things, untouched by the axe and the bush-fire. The sun breaking through their leaves and branches threw a pattern of light and shade on the sandy footway. Ikemefuna heard a whisper close behind him and turned round sharply. The man who had whispered now called out aloud, urging the others to hurry up. "We still have a long way to go," he said. Then he and another man went before Ikemefuna and set a faster pace. Thus the men of Umuofia pursued their way, armed with sheathed machetes, and Ikemefuna, carrying a pot of palm-wine on his head, walked in their midst. Although he had felt uneasy at first, he was not afraid now. Okonkwo walked behind him. He could hardly imagine that Okonkwo was not his real father. He had never been fond of his real father, and at the end of three years he had become very distant indeed. But his mother and his three-year-old sister... of course she would not be three now, but six. Would he recognise her now? She must have grown quite big. How his mother would weep for joy, and thank Okonkwo for having looked after him so well and for bringing him back. She would want to hear everything that had happened to him in all these years. Could he remember them all? He would tell her about Nwoye and his mother, and about the locusts... Then quite suddenly a thought came upon him. His mother might be dead. He tried in vain to force the thought out of his mind. Then he tried to settle the matter the way he used to settle such matters when he was a little boy. He still remembered the song: Eze elina, elina! Sala Eze ilikwa ya Ikwaba akwa ogholi Ebe Danda nechi eze Ebe Uzuzu nete egwu Sala He sang it in his mind, and walked to its beat. If the song ended on his right foot, his mother was alive. If it ended on his left, she was dead. No, not dead, but ill. It ended on the right. She was alive and well. He sang the song again, and it ended on the left. But the second time did not count. The first voice gets to Chukwu, or God's house. That was a favourite saying of children. Ikemefuna felt like a child once more. It must be the thought of going home to his mother. One of the men behind him cleared his throat. Ikemefuna looked back, and the man growled at him to go on and not stand looking back. The way he said it sent cold fear down Ikemefuna's


him. He took to Heathcliff strangely, be- lieving all he said (for that matter, he said precious little, and generally the truth), and petting him up far above Cathy, who was too mischievous and wayward for a favourite. So from the very beginning he bred bad feeling in the house; and at Mrs. Earnshaw's death, which hap- pened in less than two years after, the young master had learned to regard his father as an oppressor rather than a friend, and Heathcliff as a usurper of his parent's affections and his privileges, and he grew bitter with brooding over these injuries. I sympathized a while; but when the children fell ill of the measles, and I had to tend them, and take on me the cares of a woman at once, I changed my ideas. Heathcliff was dangerously sick; and while he lay at the worst he would have me constantly by his pillow. I suppose he felt I did a good deal for him, and he hadn't wit to guess that I was com- pelled to do it. However, I will say this---he was the quietest child that ever nurse watched over. The dif- ference between him and the others forced me to be less partial. Cathy and her brother harassed me ter- ribly; he was as uncomplaining as a lamb, though hard- ness, not gentleness, made him give little trouble. He got through, and the doctor affirmed it was in a great measure owing to me, and praised me for my care. I was vain of his commendations, and softened towards the being by whose means I earned them; and thus Hindley lost his last ally. Still I couldn't dote on Heath- cliff, and I wondered often what my master saw to ad- mire so much in the sullen boy, who never, to my recol- lection, repaid his indulgence by any sign of gratitude. He was not insolent to his benefactor, he was simply insensible, though knowing perfectly the hold he had on his heart, and conscious he had only to speak and all the house would be obliged to bend to his wishes. As an instance, I remember Mr. Earnshaw once bought a couple of colts at the parish fair, and gave the lads each one. Heathcliff took the handsomest, but it soon fell lame, and when he discovered it, he said to Hindley,--- "You must exchange horses with me---I don't like mine; and if you won't, I shall tell your father of the three thrashings you've given me this week, and show him my arm, which is black to the shoulder." Hindley put out his tongue and cuffed him over the ears. "You'd better do it at once," he persisted, escaping to the porch (they were in the stable). "You will have to; and if I speak of these blows, you'll get them again with in- terest." "Off, dog!" cried Hindley, threatening him with an iron weight used for weighing potatoes and hay. "Throw it," he replied, standing still, "and then I'll tell how you boasted that you


a 'war of blame.' If they listen to him I shall leave them and plan my own revenge." The crier's voice had once more become faint, and the distance had taken the harsh edge off his iron gong. Okonkwo turned from one side to the other and derived a kind of pleasure from the pain his back gave him. "Let Egonwanne talk about a 'war of blame' tomorrow and I shall show him my back and head." He ground his teeth. The marketplace began to fill as soon as the sun rose. Obierika was waiting in his obi when Okonkwo came along and called him. He hung his goatskin bag and his sheathed machete on his shoulder and went out to join him. Obierika's hut was close to the road and he saw every man who passed to the marketplace. He had exchanged greetings with many who had already passed that morning. When Okonkwo and Obierika got to the meeting place there were already so many people that if one threw up a grain of sand it would not find its way to the earth again. And many more people were coming from every quarter of the nine villages. It warmed Okonkwo's heart to see such strength of numbers. But he was looking for one man in particular, the man whose tongue he dreaded and despised so much. "Can you see him?" he asked Obierika. "Who?" "Egonwanne," he said, his eyes roving from one corner of the huge marketplace to the other. Most of the men sat on wooden stools they had brought with them. "No," said Obierika, casting his eyes over the crowd. "Yes, there he is, under the silk-cotton tree. Are you afraid he would convince us not to fight?" "Afraid? I do not care what he does to you. I despise him and those who listen to him. I shall fight alone if I choose." They spoke at the top of their voices because everybody was talking, and it was like the sound of a great market. "I shall wait till he has spoken," Okonkwo thought. "Then I shall speak." "But how do you know he will speak against war?" Obierika asked after a while. "Because I know he is a coward," said Okonkwo. Obierika did not hear the rest of what he said because at that moment somebody touched his shoulder from behind and he turned round to shake hands and exchange greetings with five or six friends. Okonkwo did not turn round even though he knew the voices. He was in no mood to exchange greetings. But one of the men touched him and asked about the people of his compound. "They are well," he replied without interest. The first man to speak to Umuofia that morning was Okika, one of the six who had been imprisoned. Okika was a great man and an orator. But he did not have the booming voice which a first speaker must use to establish silence in the assembly of the clan. Onyeka had such a voice, and so he was


brought you here. You are here because you have failed in humility, in self-discipline. You would not make the act of submission which is the price of sanity. You preferred to be a lunatic, a minority of one. Only the disciplined mind can see reality, Winston. You believe that reality is something objective, external, existing in its own right. You also believe that the nature of reality is self-evident. When you delude yourself into thinking that you see something, you assume that everyone else sees the same thing as you. But I tell you, Winston, that reality is not external. Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else. Not in the individual mind, which can make mistakes, and in any case soon perishes: only in the mind of the Party, which is collective and immortal. Whatever the Party file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (135 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:52 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt holds to be the truth, is truth. It is impossible to see reality except by looking through the eyes of the Party. That is the fact that you have got to relearn, Winston. It needs an act of self-destruction, an effort of the will. You must humble yourself before you can become sane.' He paused for a few moments, as though to allow what he had been saying to sink in. 'Do you remember,' he went on, 'writing in your diary, "Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four"?' 'Yes,' said Winston. O'Brien held up his left hand, its back towards Winston, with the thumb hidden and the four fingers extended. 'How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?' 'Four.' 'And if the party says that it is not four but five--then how many?' 'Four.' The word ended in a gasp of pain. The needle of the dial had shot up to fifty-five. The sweat had sprung out all over Winston's body. The air tore into his lungs and issued again in deep groans which even by clenching his teeth he could not stop. O'Brien watched him, the four fingers still extended. He drew back the lever. This time the pain was only slightly eased. 'How many fingers, Winston?' 'Four.' The needle went up to sixty. 'How many fingers, Winston?' 'Four! Four! What else can I say? Four!' The needle must have risen again, but he did not look at it. The heavy, stern face and the four fingers filled his vision. The fingers stood up before his eyes like pillars, enormous, blurry, and seeming to vibrate, but unmistakably four. 'How many fingers, Winston?' 'Four! Stop it, stop it! How can you go on? Four! Four!' 'How many fingers, Winston?' 'Five! Five! Five!' 'No, Winston, that is no use. You are lying. You still think there are four. How many fingers, please?' 'Four! five! Four! Anything you like. Only stop it, stop the pain!' Abruptly he was sitting up with O'Brien's arm round his shoulders. He had perhaps lost consciousness for a few seconds. The bonds that had held his body down were loosened. He felt very cold, he was shaking


FOR SORROW FIVE: IN THE GAME TILT A MOMENT ON THE EARTH WITH SPIDERS I HAD FRIENDSHIP MADE A NAMELESS PLACE WHO RIDES AT NIGHT, WHO RIDES SO LATE? AN ISSUE OF SOME IMPORTANCE THE NIGHT ISN’T DARK; THE WORLD IS DARK FIGHT OR FLIGHT DEEP INTO THE DARKNESS PEERING SIX: NO WAY OUT FIREPOWER BACKUP MAN OF ACTION NOTHING AT ALL AROUND ME BUT THE BEAST THE MYSTERY OF EVIL OLD FRIENDS PRIDE AND ANGER, ALWAYS AND ONLY NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH EVERYTHING THAT RISES MUST CONVERGE HOME IS THE HUNTER OF WHAT IS PAST, OR PASSING, OR TO COME NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR Stand fast therefore in liberty . . . and be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage. —Paul of Tarsus A LITTLE NIGHT WORK The stars are extinguished, and the drowned moon floats just under the surface of a translucent lake of clouds. Rats breed in the crowns of the phoenix palms, flea-tormented trespassers that mostly keep to their high nests and are seldom seen in this illustrious community where the masters of art and industry live sequestered on guarded estates, in denial of vermin. At 3:10 in the morning, as Michael Mace moves briskly through an elegant residential neighborhood, a plump long-tailed rat freezes in its descent of a palm bole, oil-drop eyes filmed with a yellowish reflection of the streetlamp light. He is no threat to the creature, but it decides otherwise and retreats at speed into the cascade of fronds from which it had ventured. Less than ten miles to the south, streets that were once as stately as this one are now dangerous to rat and man alike. The filthy sidewalks and parks are impassable in places, obstructed by ramshackle encampments of the addicts and mentally ill who give an undeserved bad name to the smaller number of sober, sane, genuinely homeless people whose needs authorities ignore. Those farther precincts crawl with feral cats that know where to find rodents, cockroaches, and other delectables in abundance. By contrast, this monied community has no tolerance for such dreary bacchanals. The city council recently added officers to the police department in response to a sharp increase in crime, which spills across borders from adjacent jurisdictions where those in the ruling class see themselves as admirably tolerant and enlightened. A Dodge Charger, the choice of police in this city, turns the corner half a block away. Shadows expand and arc and then contract as headlights sweep the avenue, which once carried frequent traffic at any hour. Now the lanes are deserted. The sidewalks accommodate but one pedestrian. Illuminated, Michael neither seeks the cover of shadows nor breaks his stride. He has an urgent task ahead of him, one that might remain urgent for as long as he walks the Earth. Past midnight, a man alone on foot is inevitably a subject of interest to law enforcement in a city as encrusted with wealth as this one. Yet the lightbar on the roof of the patrol car remains dark. The vehicle gains speed as it approaches him. Perhaps


fling it forth at once, and let the universe take care of it!" "Yet some men bury their secrets thus," observed the calm physician.% "True; there are such men," answered Mr. Dimmesdale. "But not to suggest more obvious reasons, it may be that they are kept silent by the very constitution of their nature. Or--can we not suppose it?--guilty as they may be, retaining, nevertheless, a zeal for God's glory and man's welfare, they shrink from displaying themselves black and filthy in the view of men; because, thenceforward, no good can be achieved by them; no evil of the past be redeemed by better service. So, to their own unutterable torment, they go about among their fellow-creatures, looking pure as new-fallen snow, while their hearts are all speckled and spotted with iniquity of which they cannot rid themselves." "These men deceive themselves," said Roger Chillingworth, with somewhat more emphasis than usual, and making a slight gesture with his forefinger. "They fear to take up the shame that rightfully belongs to them. Their love for man, their zeal for God's service--these holy impulses may or may not coexist in their hearts with the evil inmates to which their guilt has unbarred the door, and which must needs propagate a hellish breed within them. But, if they seek to Thesaurus achieved: (adj) finished, fulfilled. leakage, outburst, effluence, piebald, specked, spotty, freckled, coexist: (v) accompany, keep pace overflow. spotted, multicolored, flecked, with, concur, exist, coexisting, co- propagate: (v) disseminate, spread, brindled, blotchy. ANTONYM: (adj) exist, coincide, be, attend. disperse, procreate, distribute, breed, limited. displaying: (n) advertising. broadcast, diffuse, beget, produce, stifling: (adj) close, oppressive, glancing: (adj) passing. sow. sweltering, stuffy, heavy, hot, torrid, griping: (adj) gripping, dissatisfied, rightfully: (adv) lawfully, legitimately, sticky; (n) crushing, quelling, greedy, ardent, discontented, legally, justifiably, duly, correctly, suppression. ANTONYMS: (adj) covetous, pinching, torminous, properly, deservedly, righteously, fresh, airy, cool, temperate. disgruntled; (n) wring; (v) grudging. fairly, rightly. ANTONYM: (adv) thenceforward: (adv) thereafter. outpouring: (n) outpour, effusion, unduly. unbarred: (adj) unlocked, unlatched, flow, outflow, gush, jet, barrage, speckled: (adj) dotted, mottled, unbolted, open. Nathaniel Hawthorne 125 glorify God, let them not lift heavenward their unclean hands! If they would serve their fellowmen, let them do it by making manifest the power and reality of conscience, in constraining them to penitential self-abasement! Would thou have me to believe, O wise and pious friend, that a false show can be better--can be more for God's glory, or man' welfare--than God's own truth? Trust me, such men deceive themselves!" "It may be so," said the young clergyman, indifferently, as waiving a discussion that he considered irrelevant or unseasonable. He had a ready faculty, indeed, of escaping from any topic that agitated his too sensitive and nervous temperament.--"But, now, I would ask of my well-skilled physician, whether, in good sooth, he deems me to have profited by his kindly care of this weak frame of mine?" Before Roger Chillingworth could answer, they heard the clear, wild laughter of a young child's voice, proceeding from the adjacent burial-ground. Looking instinctively from the open window--for it was


turns my stomach over. “What’s out there?” “The . . . the . . . the owl.” Tasha’s one visible eye rolls back until only the white part is showing. Her breathing becomes shallow. “The owl,” I repeat. “Ms. Keane was talking about an owl,” Javier says. Bezi nods. “What are we going to do?” “We can drive out now, right?” Javier asks. Bezi perks up. “Get my keys out of my bag. We’ll take my car.” Javier rushes to Bezi’s bag and dumps it on the floor. Kyle joins him and helps paw through the stuff. “Where are they?” Kyle asks frantically. “Bezi, the keys. I can’t find them.” Bezi leaves Tasha’s side and searches around in her bag, turning it inside out. “I—I must have left them in the cabin?” she stammers in a haze of confusion. “We cleared the cabins,” I say. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. “Check your pockets,” I say as panic grips me. “Check the bag again!” Unconscious, Tasha whimpers. I squeeze her hand. Something isn’t right, but we don’t have time to figure it out. Tasha doesn’t have time. “Tasha?” I say gently. But it’s no use. She’s completely out of it. “We have to call an ambulance. Everybody, check your phones. Anybody have a signal?” We all check our phones. “I got one bar!” Bezi squeals. She immediately dials 911. I hold my breath, praying that the call will connect. “Hello?” Bezi says frantically as she practically jumps up and down in relief. “Hello? We need help! We’re at Camp Mirror Lake. Please!” She pauses and her brows push together. “What? Hello? No. Mirror Lake. The camp! Please!” She holds the phone away from her face, and tears fill her eyes. “The call dropped.” “Do you think they heard anything you said?” Kyle asks. “Will they send somebody?” “I—I don’t know,” Bezi says. Kyle slumps onto the recliner with his head in his hands. “This cannot be happening.” Javier moves toward the door, slipping on his coat. “I’m going to the office to call an ambulance from the landline.” Kyle looks up. “Whoever did that to her is still out there, and you’re just gonna go for a fuckin’ stroll?” “What else are we supposed to do?” Javier asks angrily. “Just let her die?” Kyle shakes his head. “No. But—” “But nothing,” Javier says. “I’d go look for Bezi’s keys, but I feel like I’d be wasting time. I’m going to the office. You all keep looking. I’ll be right back.” For the first time in the last few days, it seems like he’s genuinely concerned about somebody other than himself. “I’ll go with you,” Bezi says. I start to protest, but Javier beats me to it. “Nah,” he says. “I’ll be okay. Stay with her.” He moves to the front window and peers out into the dark. “I’ll take a flashlight. Once I’m inside with the door locked, I’ll flash the light on and off three times; that way you know I’m safe. I’ll call an ambulance


have no use for it."     "It is nearly four o'clock in the afternoon, sir. Don't you feel hungry?"     "The third day from this must be our wedding-day, Jane. Never mind fine clothes and jewels now; all that is not worth a fillip."     "The sun has dried up all the rain-drops, sir. The breeze is still; it is quite hot."     "Do you know, Jane, I have your little pearl necklace at this moment fastened round my bronze scrag under my cravat? I have worn it since the day I lost my only treasure, as a memento of her;"     "We will go home through the wood; that will be the shadiest way."     He pursued his own thoughts without heeding me.     "Jane! you think me, I dare say, an irreligious dog; but my heart swells with gratitude to the beneficent God of this earth just now. He sees not as a man sees, but far clearer; judges not as a man judges, but far more wisely. I did wrong. I would have sullied my innocent flower-breathed guilt on its purity: the Omnipotence snatched it from me. I, in my stiff-necked rebellion, almost cursed the dispensation; instead of bending to the decree, I defied it. Divine justice pursued its course; disasters came thick on me. I was forced to pass through the valley of the shadow of death.His chastisements are mighty; and one smote me which has humbled me forever. You know I was proud of my strength; but what is it now, when I must give it over to foreign guidance, as a child does its weakness? Of late, Jane only only of late I began to see and acknowledge the hand of God in my doom. I began to experience remorse, repentance; the wish for reconcilement to my Maker. I began sometimes to pray; very brief prayers they were, but very sincere.     "Some days since; nay, I can number them four; it was last Monday night, a singular mood came over me one in which grief replaced frenzy, sorrow, sullenness. I had long had the impression that since I could nowhere find you, you must be dead. Late that night perhaps it might be between eleven and twelve o'clock ere I retired to my dreary rest, I supplicated God, that, if it seemed good to Him, I might soon be taken from this life, and admitted to that world to come, where there was still hope of rejoining Jane.     "I was in my own room, and sitting by the window, which was open: it soothed me to feel the balmy night-air; though I could see no stars, and only by a vague, luminous haze, knew the presence of a moon. I longed for thee, Janet! Oh, I longed for thee both with soul and flesh! I asked of God, at once in anguish and humility, if I had


snow and in. His teeth closed on Spitz's left fore leg. There was a crunch of breaking bone, and the white dog faced him on three legs. Thrice he tried to knock him over, then repeated the trick and broke the right fore leg. Despite the pain and helplessness, Spitz struggled madly to keep up. He saw the silent circle, with gleaming eyes, lolling tongues, and silvery breaths drifting upward, closing in upon him as he had seen similar circles close in upon beaten antagonists in the past. Only this time he was the one who was beaten. There was no hope for him. Buck was inexorable. Mercy was a thing reserved for gender climes. He manoeuvred for the final rush. The circle had tightened till he could feel the breaths of the huskies on his flanks. He could see them, beyond Spitz and to either side, half crouching for the spring, their eyes fixed upon him. A pause seemed to fall. Every animal was motionless as though turned to stone. Only Spitz quivered and bristled as he staggered back and forth, snarling with horrible menace, as though to frighten off impending death. Then Buck sprang in and out; but while he was in, shoulder had at last squarely met shoulder. The dark circle became a dot on the moon-flooded snow as Spitz disappeared from view. Buck stood and looked on, the successful champion, the dominant primordial beast who had made his kill and found it good. Chapter IV Who Has Won to Mastership "Eh? Wot I say? I spik true w'en I say dat Buck two devils." This was Francois's speech next morning when he discovered Spitz missing and Buck covered with wounds. He drew him to the fire and by its light pointed them out. "Dat Spitz fight lak hell," said Perrault, as he surveyed the gaping rips and cuts. "An' dat Buck fight lak two hells," was Francois's answer. "An' now we make good time. No more Spitz, no more trouble, sure." While Perrault packed the camp outfit and loaded the sled, the dog-driver proceeded to harness the dogs. Buck trotted up to the place Spitz would have occupied as leader; but Francois, not noticing him, brought Sol-leks to the coveted position. In his judgment, Sol-leks was the best lead-dog left. Buck sprang upon Sol-leks in a fury, driving him back and standing in his place. "Eh? eh?" Francois cried, slapping his thighs gleefully. "Look at dat Buck. Heem keel dat Spitz, heem t'ink to take de job." "Go 'way, Chook!" he cried, but Buck refused to budge. He took Buck by the scruff of the neck, and though the dog growled threateningly, dragged him to one side and replaced Sol-leks. The old dog did not like it, and showed plainly that he was afraid of Buck. Francois was obdurate, but when he turned his back Buck again displaced Sol-leks, who was not at all unwilling to go. Francois was angry. "Now, by Gar, I feex you!" he cried, coming back with a heavy club in his hand. Buck


and deluded, in every possible way; yet, that all this while, the ruffian - HEEP - was professing unbounded gratitude to, and unbounded friendship for, that much-abused gentleman. This was bad enough; but, as the philosophic Dane observes, with that universal applicability which distinguishes the illustrious ornament of the Elizabethan Era, worse remains behind!"' Mr. Micawber was so very much struck by this happy rounding off with a quotation, that he indulged himself, and us, with a second reading of the sentence, under pretence of having lost his place. '"It is not my intention,"' he continued reading on, '"to enter on a detailed list, within the compass of the present epistle (though it is ready elsewhere), of the various malpractices of a minor nature, affecting the individual whom I have denominated Mr. W., to which I have been a tacitly consenting party. My object, when the contest within myself between stipend and no stipend, baker and no baker, existence and non-existence, ceased, was to take advantage of my opportunities to discover and expose the major malpractices committed, to that gentleman's grievous wrong and injury, by - HEEP. Stimulated by the silent monitor within, and by a no less touching and appealing monitor without - to whom I will briefly refer as Miss W. - I entered on a not unlaborious task of clandestine investigation, protracted - now, to the best of my knowledge, information, and belief, over a period exceeding twelve calendar months."' He read this passage as if it were from an Act of Parliament; and appeared majestically refreshed by the sound of the words. '"My charges against - HEEP,"' he read on, glancing at him, and drawing the ruler into a convenient position under his left arm, in case of need, '"are as follows."' We all held our breath, I think. I am sure Uriah held his. '"First,"' said Mr. Micawber, '"When Mr. W.'s faculties and memory for business became, through causes into which it is not necessary or expedient for me to enter, weakened and confused, - HEEP - designedly perplexed and complicated the whole of the official transactions. When Mr. W. was least fit to enter on business, - HEEP was always at hand to force him to enter on it. He obtained Mr. W.'s signature under such circumstances to documents of importance, representing them to be other documents of no importance. He induced Mr. W. to empower him to draw out, thus, one particular sum of trust-money, amounting to twelve six fourteen, two and nine, and employed it to meet pretended business charges and deficiencies which were either already provided for, or had never really existed. He gave this proceeding, throughout, the appearance of having originated in Mr. W.'s own dishonest intention, and of having been accomplished by Mr. W.'s own dishonest act; and has used it, ever since, to torture and constrain him."' 'You shall prove this, you Copperfield!' said Uriah, with a threatening shake of the head. 'All in good time!' 'Ask - HEEP - Mr. Traddles, who lived in his house after him,' said


indeed; both of which injunctions Oliver promised to obey: the rather as Mr. Bumble threw in a gentle hint, that if he failed in either particular, there was no telling what would be done to him. When they arrived at the office, he was shut up in a little room by himself, and admonished by Mr. Bumble to stay there, until he came back to fetch him. There the boy remained, with a palpitating heart, for half an hour. At the expiration of which time Mr. Bumble thrust in his head, unadorned with the cocked hat, and said aloud: 'Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman.' As Mr. Bumble said this, he put on a grim and threatening look, and added, in a low voice, 'Mind what I told you, you young rascal!' Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble's face at this somewhat contradictory style of address; but that gentleman prevented his offering any remark thereupon, by leading him at once into an adjoining room: the door of which was open. It was a large room, with a great window. Behind a desk, sat two old gentleman with powdered heads: one of whom was reading the newspaper; while the other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr. Limbkins was standing in front of the desk on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were lounging about. The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk. 'This is the boy, your worship,' said Mr. Bumble. The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up. 'Oh, is this the boy?' said the old gentleman. 'This is him, sir,' replied Mr. Bumble. 'Bow to the magistrate, my dear.' Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates' powder, whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on that account. 'Well,' said the old gentleman, 'I suppose he's fond of chimney-sweeping?' 'He doats on it, your worship,' replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly pinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn't. 'And he WILL be a sweep, will he?' inquired the old gentleman. 'If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he'd run away simultaneous, your worship,' replied Bumble. 'And this man that's to be his master--you, sir--you'll treat him well, and feed him, and do all that sort of thing, will you?' said the old gentleman. 'When I says I will, I means I will,' replied Mr. Gamfield doggedly. 'You're a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest, open-hearted man,' said the old


“Okay.” “That’s quite thin for her height. She was significantly underweight.” “In my experience, human bodies are cumbersome.” “So you’d need to be incredibly physically fit to lift a 110-pound girl.” “Yes.” “Can you give me an example of someone who’s fit enough to do that?” “An example?” “What type of person could lift a body of that size?” “An athlete. Someone large. Not your average fifteen-year-old boy.” “Would you say an eighteen-year-old Olympic skiing prospect could lift 110 pounds?” “Perhaps.” “Would you imagine a thirty-year-old English teacher who also coaches football could lift 110 pounds?” “That would depend on the person.” “Would you say my co-counsel here could lift a 110-pound woman?” I assumed she was referring to Hector. “I have no idea.” “I weigh 160 pounds, significantly more than Thalia Keith. She and I are the same height, five foot six. Shall we get him up here and see if he can lift me?” “I’d like to see that,” he said. The state objected and the judge sustained it, but he sounded amused. Amy said, “Hector, I’m afraid we’ll have to test your strength another time. Detective Boudreau, you’re saying that independently of this pointer from Dr. Calahan, you decided a student or faculty member was unlikely able to lift Thalia Keith?” “It would be hard. When I investigated this case, I remember thinking, I couldn’t lift that myself.” “So you allowed your own lack of fitness to guide your decision-making.” There was an objection, and Alder stopped the video and dissolved in laughter. He said, “Okay, so then, they break for recess and after the judge leaves everyone’s trying it out, everyone’s lifting other people up. There’s no way the judge doesn’t try that out on someone, too.” I said, “That was one fantastic kitten video.” “Right?” From what I’d heard of Omar’s defense at his first trial—we’d obtained the audio for the podcast—the Boston lawyer sounded like someone doing an uninspired table read for a dull legal procedural. Amy was a huge improvement. He said, “And I don’t know what got into your boyfriend, but after that video the Denny Bloch thing is finally getting traction.” Instead of answering, I swallowed. Alder and Britt weren’t as fixated on your guilt as I was—Alder had become more focused on Ari Hutson emerging from the woods to kill again—but we all agreed that any suspect besides Omar was a help. “Have you seen this?” He showed me a new Facebook page called “Dennis Bloch Thalia Keith ‘Unsolved’ Murder Reward.” There was one administrator post: Denny Bloch, where are you? Interested parties are willing to pay for a polygraph for both you and your wife Suzanne Hamby Bloch. The world wants to know, what are you hiding Denny Bloch? Relatedly, we are offering a $10,000 reward for any information regarding Dennis Blochs involvement in the death of Thalia Keith. Is your wife Suzanne Bloch hiding information as well? Come Clean Dennis Bloch. DM us with any information regarding the involvement of D Bloch in the 1995 murder of Thalia Keith. There


little winder, when she see the light come, and whispering "Em'ly, Em'ly, for Christ's sake, have a woman's heart towards me. I was once like you!" Those was solemn words, Mas'r Davy, fur to hear!' 'They were indeed, Ham. What did Em'ly do?' 'Says Em'ly, "Martha, is it you? Oh, Martha, can it be you?" - for they had sat at work together, many a day, at Mr. Omer's.' 'I recollect her now!' cried I, recalling one of the two girls I had seen when I first went there. 'I recollect her quite well!' 'Martha Endell,' said Ham. 'Two or three year older than Em'ly, but was at the school with her.' 'I never heard her name,' said I. 'I didn't mean to interrupt you.' 'For the matter o' that, Mas'r Davy,' replied Ham, 'all's told a'most in them words, "Em'ly, Em'ly, for Christ's sake, have a woman's heart towards me. I was once like you!" She wanted to speak to Em'ly. Em'ly couldn't speak to her theer, for her loving uncle was come home, and he wouldn't - no, Mas'r Davy,' said Ham, with great earnestness, 'he couldn't, kind-natur'd, tender-hearted as he is, see them two together, side by side, for all the treasures that's wrecked in the sea.' I felt how true this was. I knew it, on the instant, quite as well as Ham. 'So Em'ly writes in pencil on a bit of paper,' he pursued, 'and gives it to her out o' winder to bring here. "Show that," she says, "to my aunt, Mrs. Barkis, and she'll set you down by her fire, for the love of me, till uncle is gone out, and I can come." By and by she tells me what I tell you, Mas'r Davy, and asks me to bring her. What can I do? She doen't ought to know any such, but I can't deny her, when the tears is on her face.' He put his hand into the breast of his shaggy jacket, and took out with great care a pretty little purse. 'And if I could deny her when the tears was on her face, Mas'r Davy,' said Ham, tenderly adjusting it on the rough palm of his hand, 'how could I deny her when she give me this to carry for her - knowing what she brought it for? Such a toy as it is!' said Ham, thoughtfully looking on it. 'With such a little money in it, Em'ly my dear.' I shook him warmly by the hand when he had put it away again - for that was more satisfactory to me than saying anything - and we walked up and down, for a minute or two, in silence. The door opened then, and Peggotty appeared, beckoning to Ham to come in. I would have kept away, but she came after me, entreating me to come in too. Even then, I would have avoided the room where they all were, but for its being the neat-tiled kitchen I have mentioned more than once. The door opening immediately into it,


inspiration behind the plot of The Spectacular is drawn from the Mad Bomber’s story, in particular a vivid, detailed account of it written by Michael Cannell called Incendiary: The Psychiatrist, the Mad Bomber, and the Invention of Criminal Profiling. However, my story differs significantly from the true events (which is why I’ve changed the fictional perpetrator’s surname, as well as his nickname and other names and details), and I want to take this opportunity to elucidate what actually did happen and give credit where it is due with respect to the expert who helped crack the case. In 1956, with no leads and public outcry mounting, the police turned to James A. Brussel, a psychiatrist and criminologist and the assistant commissioner of the New York State Department of Mental Hygiene, who lived with his wife on the grounds of Creedmoor State Hospital in Queens. Brussel examined the letters from the bomber and the crime scene photos and came up with a “portrait” of the bomber—the very first case of criminal profiling ever. Among his many predictions: that when he was found, the bomber would be wearing a double-breasted suit, buttoned. When Metesky was finally detained, Brussel’s profile proved eerily correct. Metesky had worked for a local electrical power company from 1929 to 1931, when he was injured in a boiler explosion while on the job. In 1956, when asked for access to its old personnel records, the power company told police investigators that records of employees terminated prior to 1940 no longer existed, effectively stymieing the capture of the bomber. In fact, the files had been stored away, with police and Metesky’s attorney later claiming that the company had intentionally hidden files that contained embarrassing information about some employees’ workers’ compensation claims. It wasn’t until mid-January 1957 that the power company initiated an internal review of those files. One of the clerks found letters from Metesky with similar menacing phrases as had been published in the papers, and soon after, Metesky was arrested in his Waterbury, Connecticut, home. The power company denied any wrongdoing concerning those old records. Brussel went on to great career success, working with FBI agents and police around the country and becoming a “folk hero of criminology,” according to Smithsonian Magazine. In my book, Radio City Music Hall is hit three times by the bomber. In actuality, he struck twice. One bomb prematurely exploded in 1953 just as Metesky was heading to the exit. A patron was tossed into the air by the blast, landing a few rows away, but only suffered superficial injuries. The second explosion, in 1954 during a showing of the movie White Christmas, caused deep puncture wounds in two women and contusions in two boys. Metesky served seventeen years in a mental institution and was released in 1973. He returned to his home in Waterbury and died in 1994 at the age of ninety. As I was researching The Spectacular, I was lucky enough to interview a number of Rockettes who danced at Radio City Music Hall over the decades, and I’ve taken some


I came back he looked at me carefully, and then said, "You are not much the worse. Go into the room, and lie on your sofa, and rest awhile, then have much breakfast and come here to me." I followed out his orders, for I knew how right and wise they were. I had done my part, and now my next duty was to keep up my strength. I felt very weak, and in the weakness lost something of the amazement at what had occurred. I fell asleep on the sofa, however, wondering over and over again how Lucy had made such a retrograde movement, and how she could have been drained of so much blood with no sign any where to show for it. I think I must have continued my wonder in my dreams, for, sleeping and waking my thoughts always came back to the little punctures in her throat and the ragged, exhausted appearance of their edges, tiny though they were. Lucy slept well into the day, and when she woke she was fairly well and strong, though not nearly so much so as the day before. When Van Helsing had seen her, he went out for a walk, leaving me in charge, with strict injunctions that I was not to leave her for a moment. I could hear his voice in the hall, asking the way to the nearest telegraph office. Lucy chatted with me freely, and seemed quite unconscious that anything had happened. I tried to keep her amused and interested. When her mother came up to see her, she did not seem to notice any change whatever, but said to me gratefully, "We owe you so much, Dr. Seward, for all you have done, but you really must now take care not to overwork yourself. You are looking pale yourself. You want a wife to nurse and look after you a bit, that you do!" As she spoke, Lucy turned crimson, though it was only momentarily, for her poor wasted veins could not stand for long an unwonted drain to the head. The reaction came in excessive pallor as she turned imploring eyes on me. I smiled and nodded, and laid my finger on my lips. With a sigh, she sank back amid her pillows. Van Helsing returned in a couple of hours, and presently said to me. "Now you go home, and eat much and drink enough. Make yourself strong. I stay here tonight, and I shall sit up with little miss myself. You and I must watch the case, and we must have none other to know. I have grave reasons. No, do not ask the. Think what you will. Do not fear to think even the most not-improbable. Goodnight." In the hall two of the maids came to me, and asked if they or either of them might not sit up with Miss Lucy. They implored me to let them, and when I said it was Dr. Van Helsing's wish that either he or I should sit up, they asked me quite piteously


did not understand him, but my periods of bewilderment were short-lived. This was beyond me. "Please," I pleaded, "can'tcha just think about it for a minute- by yourself on that place-" "Shut up!" "It's not like he'd never speak to you again or somethin'... I'm gonna wake him up, Jem, I swear I am-" Jem grabbed my pajama collar and wrenched it tight. "Then I'm goin' with you-" I choked. "No you ain't, you'll just make noise." It was no use. I unlatched the back door and held it while he crept down the steps. It must have been two o'clock. The moon was setting and the lattice-work shadows were fading into fuzzy nothingness. Jem's white shirt-tail dipped and bobbed like a small ghost dancing away to escape the coming morning. A faint breeze stirred and cooled the sweat running down my sides. He went the back way, through Deer's Pasture, across the schoolyard and around to the fence, I thought- at least that was the way he was headed. It would take longer, so it was not time to worry yet. I waited until it was time to worry and listened for Mr. Radley's shotgun. Then I thought I heard the back fence squeak. It was wishful thinking. Then I heard Atticus cough. I held my breath. Sometimes when we made a midnight pilgrimage to the bathroom we would find him reading. He said he often woke up during the night, checked on us, and read himself back to sleep. I waited for his light to go on, straining my eyes to see it flood the hall. It stayed off, and I breathed again. The night-crawlers had retired, but ripe chinaberries drummed on the roof when the wind stirred, and the darkness was desolate with the barking of distant dogs. There he was, returning to me. His white shirt bobbed over the back fence and slowly grew larger. He came up the back steps, latched the door behind him, and sat on his cot. Wordlessly, he held up his pants. He lay down, and for a while I heard his cot trembling. Soon he was still. I did not hear him stir again. 7 Jem stayed moody and silent for a week. As Atticus had once advised me to do, I tried to climb into Jem's skin and walk around in it: if I had gone alone to the Radley Place at two in the morning, my funeral would have been held the next afternoon. So I left Jem alone and tried not to bother him. School started. The second grade was as bad as the first, only worse- they still flashed cards at you and wouldn't let you read or write. Miss Caroline's progress next door could be estimated by the frequency of laughter; however, the usual crew had flunked the first grade again, and were helpful in keeping order. The only thing good about the second grade was that this year I had to stay as late as Jem, and we usually walked home together at three o'clock. One


you why he won't exhibit your picture. He told me why he wouldn't, and it was a revelation to me." Yes, perhaps Basil, too, had his secret. He would ask him and try. "Basil," he said, coming over quite close, and looking him straight in the face, "we have each of us a secret. Let me know yours, and I will tell you mine. What was your reason for refusing to exhibit my picture?" Hallward shuddered in spite of himself. "Dorian, if I told you, you might like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me. I could not bear your doing either of those two things. If you wish me never to look at your picture again, I am content. I have always you to look at. If you wish the best work I have ever done to be hidden from the world, I am satisfied. Your friendship is dearer to me than any fame or reputation." "No, Basil, you must tell me," murmured Dorian Gray. "I think I have a right to know." His feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity had taken its place. He was determined to find out Basil Hallward's mystery. "Let us sit down, Dorian," said Hallward, looking pale and pained. "Let us sit down. I will sit in the shadow, and you shall sit in the sunlight. Our lives are like that. Just answer me one question. Have you noticed in the picture something that you did not like?-- something that probably at first did not strike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?" "Basil!" cried the lad, clutching the arms of his chair with trembling hands, and gazing at him with wild, startled eyes. "I see you did. Don't speak. Wait till you hear what I have to say. It is quite true that I have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling than a man usually gives to a friend. Somehow, I had never loved a woman. I suppose I never had time. Perhaps, as [57] Harry says, a really 'grande passion' is the privilege of those who have nothing to do, and that is the use of the idle classes in a country. Well, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. I quite admit that I adored you madly, extravagantly, absurdly. I was jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I wanted to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you. When I was away from you, you were still present in my art. It was all wrong and foolish. It is all wrong and foolish still. Of course I never let you know anything about this. It would have been impossible. You would not have understood it; I did not understand it myself. One day I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you. It was to have been my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece. But, as I worked at it, every flake and film of color seemed to


answer only registered after I heard Jillian’s gasp. Daphne A PLAN Subject: Hard Things To: marystuart@capecarolinapr.com My Dearest Songbird, First, I’m sorry. I know I’ve made your life weird, and I didn’t know if I should even send this email—and it feels so strange without Lanier included on it—but… well, you were there for family camp. So you can probably imagine why I’m only sending my hard things to you this week. Thanks for coming to town last night. I’d like to say I feel better about the Huff stuff, but I just miss him, you know? Anyway, on to my hard things: Want to get together with June tomorrow and do some hard-core save-camp strategizing? I know you’re busy, so if you can’t, it’s okay. But I’m still worried about Holly Springs. Like really worried. I know we’ve all been Pollyanna, but we have a lot of money left to raise. The thing that keeps me sleeping at night, though, is knowing that Price Development wants the property. At least June will be okay, even if Holly Springs isn’t. Whatever shakes out, we’ll get through this together. Thanks for being there for me, always. Fair winds and following seas, Daphne Even though I don’t put it in my email, what I really want to ask Mary Stuart is: Do I go to Lanier’s stupid invitation send-off party or not? Especially after all the work Mary Stuart has missed to help Holly Springs, she certainly can’t leave in the middle of the day and drive an hour to be there. Do I, in these final hours before this wedding is truly signed, sealed, and delivered to the rest of the world, tell Lanier the truth about the man she’s marrying? Honestly, I do not feel, after how she has treated me, like I am any longer the one to bear the brunt of Bryce’s—and Lanier’s—mistakes. But I also know that, as hurt as I am right now, Lanier and I will eventually make up, and when we do, I will spend the rest of my life knowing that I didn’t tell her the truth. I’m at a stop sign when I see Mary Stuart’s email notification come through. Subject: Re: Hard Things To: daphne@millerlaw.com Daph, I’m thinking about you constantly. I know how much your heart must hurt. And I know I’ve said this already, but this is Lanier’s problem, not yours. As her friend, I should try to get to the bottom of it, but even though she said those things to you and not me, I can’t quite forgive her yet. I’ve got your back. I’ll see you tomorrow. Hang in there. And, Daph, most of all, I know you’re scared sometimes. Don’t let her words get in there. You are literally the strongest, most stable adult I know. Don’t forget it. Love you the MOST. FWAFS, MS Well, at least someone still loves me. I sigh as I pull into my driveway. I just need a minute. But I won’t be getting that minute because June’s car is in


hadn’t reminded him. Andy doesn’t know if his father simply never bothered to get to know him and therefore can’t see how bad an idea this is, or if he’s so desperate to pass his life’s work on to his only son that he’s refusing to see reason. Either way it’s a depressing thought. “One other thing,” his father says, his face carefully neutral. “Consider how it will look if it comes out that you’ve abandoned your apartment to live with a bachelor friend in a seedy neighborhood.” Andy’s first thought is that he’s never mentioned Nick’s neighborhood, but he shouldn’t be surprised that his father made it his business to check the file of anyone Andy was spending time with. The first part of the decade left its marks on Andrew Fleming Jr.: once he realized that the FBI had a file on him the size of a phone book, he started keeping tabs on everyone around him, because there’s nothing like being accused of being a Soviet spy to make a man a little paranoid that the people around him might be reporting to Uncle Sam. Or Uncle Khrushchev, for that matter. Andy’s second thought isn’t a thought at all, but a bone-deep sense of mortification. “Sir, what are you saying?” His father sighs and takes off his glasses to clean them with his handkerchief. “I’m suggesting that whatever you do, you do it with your eyes open.” “I’m not— Dad.” He squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that when he opens them, he won’t be in a room where his father is accusing him of having a queer affair with his best friend. Or, not accusing so much as being blandly indifferent, which is even more rattling. His father is right that staying with Nick poses a risk: people love jumping to conclusions, especially scandalous conclusions, and that’s exactly what they’ll do even if nobody knows about Nick’s private life. While it’s normal enough for young men to have roommates, it isn’t normal for a man in Andy’s situation—a man who owns his own apartment and whose father has multiple spare rooms. But Andy isn’t going to leave. He hates living alone; he likes living with Nick and Nick likes it, too. Andy’s mother never went in much for motherly advice, but one thing she was fond of saying was that if you want something, you have to grit your teeth and jump in with both feet—that it matters less how you land than that you get there in the first place. Andy had always grimly thought to himself that this was exactly what you’d expect from the life philosophy of a person who went to war zones for a living. Andy was happy shrugging his way through life. Right now, though, there isn’t anything his father could possibly say to dissuade Andy from staying in Nick’s spare room. He remembers his parents hollering at one another, his father shouting that Andy’s mother was going to get herself killed, his mother shouting back that at least she stood for something,


my vision and then left the bathroom to go back downstairs, where the celebrities had moved into the living room. Sasha was sitting on the couch and Orson stood behind her with his hands at her temples, clearly preparing to Synthesize her as everyone looked on. Brianna sat on the sectional apart from them, chastened, her laptop in her lap. “You’re going to feel a slight blissful sensation,” Orson said to Sasha, and everyone laughed. Sasha nodded. “I’m ready,” she said. I walked down from the stairhead, careful to be quiet, watching as Orson Synthesized Sasha. She kept her eyes closed and her hands in her lap. He spoke in the same soft hum he always used, seemingly unconscious of his eager onlookers. His eyes were closed, too, but his brows weren’t knit like Sasha’s were. When he was finished, Sasha’s eyes popped open as the rest of the group applauded. “How do you feel?” Orson asked. Sasha looked from Orson to me to the rest of the group. She seemed briefly stunned, the bearer of a secret too embarrassing to admit. “I—I’m sorry,” she said. “I honestly don’t feel any different.” “You’re not letting it sink in,” one of the celebrities said. “You have to give it a moment,” I said. Sasha looked down at her hands and then over her shoulder at Orson. “I really don’t think anything happened. I don’t think it worked on me.” Orson smiled gently. “It works on everyone, Sasha. You’re just not ready to receive it.” “I’m not ready?” Her voice shook. Orson paced from behind her to the front of the couch. The celebrities’ gaze followed him. Emily put her hand on Sasha’s shoulder and whispered something consoling too quietly to hear. “Synthesis is as much about the recipient as it is about the Synthesizer. If the recipient—the Synthesized—isn’t willing to receive the energy, the essence of their being reflected back at them, then Synthesis will be left with a roadblock. Stopped up, halted. The Synthesized will become the Un-Synthesized, which is a painful thing to be.” Emily looked up at Orson as though he were a doctor who’d just given her friend a poor prognosis. “Is there something she can do?” Orson nodded. “Of course. She just needs to practice willingness.” “What if I can’t?” Sasha asked uneasily, and the room’s attention focused pointedly on her. “Well,” Orson sighed. “You may just never be able to benefit from anything we have to offer. And let me say, that’s a sad, sad place to be in.” Sasha put her head in her hands, trembling with tears, and Emily put her arms around her friend’s shoulders, reassuring her that she wasn’t broken, that there was still hope for her. The rest of the celebrities either rushed to comfort Sasha or stood to pepper Orson with questions. How could they practice willingness? How could they avoid such an—um—unfortunate outcome? I kneeled in front of Sasha, putting a hand on her knee. “Sasha,” I said. “You really don’t have to worry. You can work at this. You


of Mrs. Bone. “You,” Mrs. Bone said. “I want a word.” Her lungs felt too tight. She banged her chest with a fist, trying to knock them into order. “The girls,” she said. “What’s happening to the girls?” Winnie paled. Her eyes widened. Mrs. Bone jabbed Mrs. King’s arm with her finger. “I know a bad business when I see it. I can smell it a mile off. I’m not a fool. Someone’s using these girls. Getting ’em out of bed at all hours. I know what that means.” Mrs. Bone jabbed her again, harder. “You brought me in here under false pretenses.” Winnie sucked in her breath. “No, Mrs. Bone.” “I’ve been making a fool of myself, crawling around on my hands and knees, wiping everyone’s arses. You should have told me what I was getting into. It’s sick; it’s rotten. I’ve never let myself get anywhere near this sort of business.” At first Mrs. King looked entirely nonplussed. But then something moved in her eyes, a slow and creeping fear. It made Mrs. Bone clench her fists. “What sort of house was you running here?” she said. Winnie raised a hand. “Please don’t,” she said, voice constricted. “Don’t put this on Mrs. King. She doesn’t know.” “Doesn’t know what?” said Mrs. King, voice taut. Mrs. Bone let out a short bark of laughter. “What sort of person doesn’t know what’s going on under her own roof?” “Winnie?” said Mrs. King. Winnie sagged against the wall, closing her eyes. “I only found out three years ago.” “Found out what?” “Girls,” said Mrs. Bone. “They’ve been meddling with the girls.” Mrs. King’s face went very still. She took this in, assessed it. Clearly, she understood what that word meant, what meddling was: of course she did. Everyone did. “No,” she said, her voice growing cold. “That’s not correct.” Mrs. Bone snapped her fingers at Winnie. “You. Tell us. What do you know?” Winnie rubbed her hand over her face. Her voice was low, hoarse. “I was here. I mean...here, in the garden. The mews house has a loft above it. There’s a little staircase that comes down to the stables. They used to keep a carriage there, but it’s empty now. I saw a man, someone I didn’t recognize. He had a beautiful coat on. It was... I don’t know. Seal gray. Sealskin.” She took a shuddering breath. “It was very smooth, like silk. I thought: Oh, what a lovely coat.” She paused, frowning. “He was walking a girl down the stairs. I mean, he had his hand on her shoulder. He was pressing her down. Pushing her along. Like he was shoving her out. I knew at once it was wrong. I mean, my whole body felt it.” Mrs. King watched her the whole time she was speaking. Her face changed, grew ashen. “It was Ida,” said Winnie. “One of the kitchen girls. And I didn’t know the man at all.” Mrs. Bone knew that mews house. She’d seen it every time she crossed the yard. Pale gray plasterwork, ivy beginning


the Vale, stealing away from the Red Keep like a thief in the night, and all to snatch her son out of the lion's mouth . . . and now you have brought the lion to her door." "In chains," Catelyn said. A crevasse yawned on her right, falling away into darkness. She reined up her horse and picked her way along step by careful step. "Oh?" Her uncle glanced back, to where Tyrion Lannister was making his slow descent behind them. "I see an axe on his saddle, a dirk at his belt, and a sellsword that trails after him like a hungry shadow. Where are the chains, sweet one?" Catelyn shifted uneasily in her seat. "The dwarf is here, and not by choice. Chains or no, he is my prisoner. Lysa will want him to answer for his crimes no less than 1. It was her own lord husband the Lannisters murdered, and her own letter that first warned us against them." Brynden Blackfish gave her a weary smile. "I hope you are right, child," he sighed, in tones that said she was wrong. The sun was well to the west by the time the slope began to flatten beneath the hooves of their horses. The road widened and grew straight, and for the first time Catelyn noticed wildflowers and grasses growing. Once they reached the valley floor, the going was faster and they made good time, cantering through verdant greenwoods and sleepy little hamlets, past orchards and golden wheat fields, splashing 324 GEORGL R.R. MARTIN across a dozen sunlit streams. Her uncle sent a standard-bearer ahead of them, a double banner flying from his staff; the moon-and-falcon of House Arryn on high, and below it his own black fish. Farm wagons and merchants' carts and riders from lesser houses moved aside to let them pass. Even so, it was full dark before they reached the stout castle that stood at the foot of the Giant's Lance. Torches flickered atop its ramparts, and the horned moon danced upon the dark waters of its moat. The drawbridge was up and the portcullis down, but Catelyn saw lights burning in the gatehouse and spilling from the windows of the square towers beyond. "The Gates of the Moon," her uncle said as the party drew rein. His standard-bearer rode to the edge of the moat to hail the men in the gatehouse. "Lord Nestor's seat. He should be expecting us. Look up." Catelyn raised her eyes, up and up and up. At first all she saw was stone and trees, the looming mass of the great mountain shrouded in night, as black as a starless sky. Then she noticed the glow of distant fires well above them; a tower keep, built upon the steep side of the mountain, its lights like orange eyes staring down from above. Above that was another, higher and more distant, and still higher a third, no more than a flickering spark in the sky. And finally, up where the falcons soared, a flash of white in the moonlight.