their women . . . and soon. "This was a song of a friend of mine," Paul said. "I expect he's dead now, Gurney is. He called it his evensong." The troop grew still, listening as Paul's voice lifted in a sweet boy tenor with the baliset tinkling and strumming beneath it: "This clear time of seeing embers-- A gold-bright sun's lost in first dusk. What frenzied senses, desp'rate musk Are consort of rememb'ring." Jessica felt the verbal music in her breast--pagan and charged with sounds that made her suddenly and intensely aware of herself, feeling her own body and its needs. She listened with a tense stillness. "Night's pearl-censered requi-em . . . "Tis for us! What joys run, then-- Bright in your eyes-- What flower-spangled amores Pull at our hearts . . . What flower-spangled amores Fill our desires." And Jessica heard the after-stillness that hummed in the air with the last note. Why does my son sing a love song to that girl-child? she asked herself. She felt an abrupt fear. She could sense life flowing around her and she had no grasp on its reins. Why did he choose that song? she wondered. The instincts are true sometimes. Why did he do this? Paul sat silently in the darkness, a single stark thought dominating his awareness: My mother is my enemy. She does not know it, but she is. She is bringing the jihad. She bore me; she trained me. She is my enemy. =========================== The concept of progress acts as a protective mechanism to shield us from the terrors of the future. -from "Collected Sayings of Muad'Dib" by the Princess Irulan On his seventeenth birthday, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen killed his one hundredth slave-gladiator in the family games. Visiting observers from the Imperial Court--a Count and Lady Fenring--were on the Harkonnen homeworld of Giedi Prime for the event, invited to sit that afternoon with the immediate family in the golden box above the triangular arena. In honor of the na-Baron's nativity and to remind all Harkonnens and subjects that Feyd-Rautha was heir-designate, it was holiday on Giedi Prime. The old Baron had decreed a meridian-to-meridian rest from labors, and effort had been spent in the family city of Harko to create the illusion of gaiety: banners flew from buildings, new paint had been splashed on the walls along Court Way. But off the main way, Count Fenring and his lady noted the rubbish heaps, the scabrous brown walls reflected in the dark puddles of the streets, and the furtive scurrying of the people. In the Baron's blue-walled keep, there was fearful perfection, but the Count and his lady saw the price being paid--guards everywhere and weapons with that special sheen that told a trained eye they were in regular use. There were checkpoints for routine passage from area to area even within the keep. The servants revealed their military training in the way they walked, in the set of their shoulders . . . in the way their eyes watched and watched and watched. "The pressure's on," the Count


humbly think I do. I do not, as you know, take sufficient interest in dress to be able to describe the new fashions. Dress is a bore. That is slang again, but never mind. Arthur says that every day. There, it is all out, Mina, we have told all our secrets to each other since we were children. We have slept together and eaten together, and laughed and cried together, and now, though I have spoken, I would like to speak more. Oh, Mina, couldn't you guess? I love him. I am blushing as I write, for although I think he loves me, he has not told me so in words. But, oh, Mina, I love him. I love him! There, that does me good. I wish I were with you, dear, sitting by the fire undressing, as we used to sit, and I would try to tell you what I feel. I do not know how I am writing this even to you. I am afraid to stop, or I should tear up the letter, and I don't want to stop, for I do so want to tell you all. Let me hear from you at once, and tell me all that you think about it. Mina, pray for my happiness. Lucy P.S.--I need not tell you this is a secret. Goodnight again. L. LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY 24 May My dearest Mina, Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter. It was so nice to be able to tell you and to have your sympathy. My dear, it never rains but it pours. How true the old proverbs are. Here am I, who shall be twenty in September, and yet I never had a proposal till today, not a real proposal, and today I had three. Just fancy! Three proposals in one day! Isn't it awful! I feel sorry, really and truly sorry, for two of the poor fellows. Oh, Mina, I am so happy that I don't know what to do with myself. And three proposals! But, for goodness' sake, don't tell any of the girls, or they would be getting all sorts of extravagant ideas, and imagining themselves injured and slighted if in their very first day at home they did not get six at least. Some girls are so vain! You and I, Mina dear, who are engaged and are going to settle down soon soberly into old married women, can despise vanity. Well, I must tell you about the three, but you must keep it a secret, dear, from every one except, of course, Jonathan. You will tell him, because I would, if I were in your place, certainly tell Arthur. A woman ought to tell her husband everything. Don't you think so, dear? And I must be fair. Men like women, certainly their wives, to be quite as fair as they are. And women, I am afraid, are not always quite as fair as they should be. Well, my dear, number One came just before lunch. I told you of him,


Clark. Fell in love. Met his vet. Fell in love.” “And lived quietly ever after,” Maud said. “Yeah, I guess. Until this bigmouthed garden historian came along.” Esperanza reappeared, its silver roofs glinting. Clark waited at the trailhead with his muzzle resting on his front paws. “You don’t miss sculpting?” Maud said. “You don’t miss that feeling?” “It doesn’t matter if I miss it,” Alice said. Clark nosed her leg, and she scratched his ears. You do, Maud thought, watching her still face. That’s why those barn windows are whitewashed. But you don’t know how to have it without all the rest. “Want lunch?” Alice said. “Yes, please,” Maud said. “And I want to go on that hike with you again.” “Then I guess you’re coming back next Wednesday.” Monday morning, while Maud was running irrigation lines at Tennessee Hollow, her phone rang. It was the nurse at Ella’s school. “There’s been an incident,” she said, and Maud’s body seized. “The cut isn’t deep,” the nurse added. On her way out of the Presidio, Maud called Rita’s office at Lone Pines. She left a message for Peter, who was at a conference. She called the mother of one of Louise’s friends to ask if she’d take Louise home, and then called Annette to ask her to get Louise from the friend’s house after work. Under all of this management, she shook and screamed. In the nurse’s office, Ella sat on a vinyl bed. She leaned into Maud’s hug and didn’t resist when Maud took her hand in the parking lot. Maud waited until they got to the car to ask, “Where?” Ella lifted her T-shirt, then a bandage. A line—about an inch and a half, still eking blood—skirted the side of her belly button. She’d never cut there before. Was that significant? Why had she done it again? “What did you use?” Maud said, evening out her words. Ella took the scissors out of her pencil case and handed them to Maud. “I self-reported, Mom.” “I’m glad you did, sweetie.” Maud put the scissors in her purse. “But why did you do it in the first place?” She regretted asking the question. She had shown how upset she was. “I want to talk about it with Rita first.” Maud let out the parking brake. “Your appointment isn’t for three hours. Are you okay going to work with me? I left in the middle of something.” “Yeah, sure,” Ella said. Maud wanted to grab her and shout into her ear, Why? Instead, she started the car and drove onto the road. At Tennessee Hollow, Ella sat under the pomegranate tree while Maud finished running irrigation lines. She checked her phone, but Peter still hadn’t texted back. She felt horribly alone and afraid. She will never get better, she thought. This will never end. “We still have an hour,” she told Ella. “I want to show you something.” She didn’t want to go to Lone Pines early and sit in that office. A half-mile toward the ocean, she parked on the side of the


a robber any more. So they all made fun of him, and called him cry- baby, and that made him mad, and he said he would go straight and tell all the secrets. But Tom give him five cents to keep quiet, and said we would all go home and meet next week, and rob somebody and kill some people. Ben Rogers said he couldn't get out much, only Sundays, and so he wanted to begin next Sunday; but all the boys said it would be wicked to do it on Sunday, and that settled the thing. They agreed to get to- gether and fix a day as soon as they could, and then we elected Tom Sawyer first captain and Jo Harper second captain of the Gang, and so started home. I clumb up the shed and crept into my window just before day was breaking. My new clothes was all greased up and clayey, and I was dog-tired. CHAPTER III. WELL, I got a good going-over in the morning from old Miss Watson on account of my clothes; but the widow she didn't scold, but only cleaned off the grease and clay, and looked so sorry that I thought I would behave awhile if I could. Then Miss Watson she took me in the closet and prayed, but nothing come of it. She told me to pray every day, and whatever I asked for I would get it. But it warn't so. I tried it. Once I got a fish-line, but no hooks. It warn't any good to me without hooks. I tried for the hooks three or four times, but somehow I couldn't make it work. By and by, one day, I asked Miss Watson to try for me, but she said I was a fool. She never told me why, and I couldn't make it out no way. I set down one time back in the woods, and had a long think about it. I says to myself, if a body can get anything they pray for, why don't Deacon Winn get back the money he lost on pork? Why can't the widow get back her silver snuffbox that was stole? Why can't Miss Watson fat up? No, says I to my self, there ain't nothing in it. I went and told the widow about it, and she said the thing a body could get by praying for it was "spiritual gifts." This was too many for me, but she told me what she meant -- I must help other people, and do everything I could for other people, and look out for them all the time, and never think about myself. This was including Miss Watson, as I took it. I went out in the woods and turned it over in my mind a long time, but I couldn't see no advantage about it -- except for the other peo- ple; so at last I reckoned I wouldn't worry about it any more, but just let it go. Sometimes the widow would take me one side and


Liturgical Manual and the Commentaries -- in many respects a more remarkable work, not only because of its brevity (less than half the size of the O.C. Bible), but also because of its candor and blend of self-pity and self-righteousness. The beginning is an obvious appeal to the agnostic rulers. "Men, finding no answers to the sunnan [the ten thousand religious questions from the Shari-ah] now apply their own reasoning. All men seek to be enlightened. Religion is but the most ancient and honorable way in which men have striven to make sense out of God's universe. Scientists seek the lawfulness of events. It is the task of Religion to fit man into this lawfulness." In their conclusion, though, the Commentaries set a harsh tone that very likely foretold their fate. "Much that was called religion has carried an unconscious attitude of hostility toward life. True religion must teach that life is filled with joys pleasing to the eye of God, that knowledge without action is empty. All men must see that the teaching of religion by rules and rote is largely a hoax. The proper teaching is recognized with ease. You can know it without fail because it awakens within you that sensation which tells you this is something you've always known." There was an odd sense of calm as the presses and shigawire imprinters rolled and the O.C. Bible spread out through the worlds. Some interpreted this as a sign from God, an omen of unity. But even the C.E.T. delegates betrayed the fiction of that calm as they returned to their respective congregations. Eighteen of them were lynched within two months. Fifty-three recanted within the year. The O.C. Bible was denounced as a work produced by "the hubris of reason." It was said that its pages were filled with a seductive interest in logic. Revisions that catered to popular bigotry began appearing. These revisions leaned on accepted symbolisms (Cross, Crescent, Feather Rattle, the Twelve Saints, the thin Buddha, and the like) and it soon became apparent that the ancient superstitions and beliefs had not been absorbed by the new ecumenism. Halloway's label for C.E.T.'s seven-year effort -- "Galactophasic Determinism" -- was snapped up by eager billions who interpreted the initials G.D. as "God-Damned." C.E.T. Chairman Toure Bomoko, an Ulema of the Zensunnis and one of the fourteen delegates who never recanted ("The Fourteen Sages" of popular history), appeared to admit finally the C.E.T. had erred. "We shouldn't have tried to create new symbols," he said. "We should've realized we weren't supposed to introduce uncertainties into accepted belief, that we weren't supposed to stir up curiosity about God. We are daily confronted by the terrifying instability of all things human, yet we permit our religions to grow more rigid and controlled, more conforming and oppressive. What is this shadow across the highway of Divine Command? It is a warning that institutions endure, that symbols endure when their meaning is lost, that there is no summa of all attainable knowledge." The bitter double edge in this "admission" did not escape Bomoko's


a public uproar and limit her options. It was true that I thought the Justice Department plan appeared incredibly stupid and clearly needed more discussion to be made feasible, but I didn’t leak the document. I knew little about immigration and assumed the concept would die, like other misguided Trump border ideas. I told her it wasn’t me. In hindsight, I wish I had been the person who leaked the memo and sounded the public alarm. Kirstjen didn’t know who to trust because it seemed like people on both sides of the debate were going behind her back. And they were. Kirstjen was called to the White House for a surprise meeting on the subject. After a contentious discussion, Trump’s aides asked for a show of hands on whether to move forward with “zero tolerance,” which eventually became known as “family separation” at the U.S. southern border. Kirstjen was reportedly the only one to vote no. She was outgunned by Jeff Sessions and his immigration team at DOJ, which—ironically—was being led by our former colleague Gene Hamilton. With that, the most immoral policy of the Trump era went into effect. A slow-moving train wreck, the preventable humanitarian disaster took weeks to become a full-blown national crisis. By the time it did, there was no mistaking the fact that the government policy had resulted in migrant families separated for days, weeks, months, and—in some cases—forever. There were no excuses. It never should have happened. The White House went into panic mode as the public outcry grew. Trump demanded Kirstjen take to the podium to defend it, even though it wasn’t her policy to defend. John Kelly and DHS chief of staff Chad Wolf, who were with her that day, told her not to. Stephen Miller and Sarah Sanders pressured her to speak. “We can’t have Sessions do it,” Sarah insisted. “He sounds like a fucking idiot.” Kirstjen relented. In doing so, one of the few people who had fought inside the administration to delay family separation wound up becoming the face of it. Morale in the DHS front office plummeted. The secretary returned from the White House shell-shocked from the briefing. While she spoke, the press had played audio of crying children being ripped from the arms of their parents. Afterward Kirstjen was furious, protesting that DHS agencies weren’t telling her how bad the situation on the ground really was. She raged from her office, “This is fucked!” That day she resolved to get Trump to shut down the program immediately, or to leave. Stephen Miller didn’t want Trump to back down. But by reaching out to people around the president—including family members—the secretary persuaded Trump to “pause” the policy or the courts would do it for him. Again, fear of judges came in handy. Trump conceded. The secretary called from the White House to let staff know the news. She asked for my help. So, working with department lawyers, I codrafted an executive order that overruled the DOJ policy and effectively ended family separation. But the damage was already done. The debacle


the words had left in his heart, said very coldly: --I am not thinking of the offence to my mother. --Of what then? Buck Mulligan asked. --Of the offence to me, Stephen answered. Buck Mulligan swung round on his heel. --O, an impossible person! he exclaimed. He walked off quickly round the parapet. Stephen stood at his post, gazing over the calm sea towards the headland. Sea and headland now grew dim. Pulses were beating in his eyes, veiling their sight, and he felt the fever of his cheeks. A voice within the tower called loudly: --Are you up there, Mulligan? --I'm coming, Buck Mulligan answered. He turned towards Stephen and said: --Look at the sea. What does it care about offences? Chuck Loyola, Kinch, and come on down. The Sassenach wants his morning rashers. His head halted again for a moment at the top of the staircase, level with the roof: --Don't mope over it all day, he said. I'm inconsequent. Give up the moody brooding. His head vanished but the drone of his descending voice boomed out of the stairhead: AND NO MORE TURN ASIDE AND BROOD UPON LOVE'S BITTER MYSTERY FOR FERGUS RULES THE BRAZEN CARS. Woodshadows floated silently by through the morning peace from the stairhead seaward where he gazed. Inshore and farther out the mirror of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. White breast of the dim sea. The twining stresses, two by two. A hand plucking the harpstrings, merging their twining chords. Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the dim tide. A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay in deeper green. It lay beneath him, a bowl of bitter waters. Fergus' song: I sang it alone in the house, holding down the long dark chords. Her door was open: she wanted to hear my music. Silent with awe and pity I went to her bedside. She was crying in her wretched bed. For those words, Stephen: love's bitter mystery. Where now? Her secrets: old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with musk, a gaud of amber beads in her locked drawer. A birdcage hung in the sunny window of her house when she was a girl. She heard old Royce sing in the pantomime of TURKO THE TERRIBLE and laughed with others when he sang: I AM THE BOY THAT CAN ENJOY INVISIBILITY. Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed. AND NO MORE TURN ASIDE AND BROOD. Folded away in the memory of nature with her toys. Memories beset his brooding brain. Her glass of water from the kitchen tap when she had approached the sacrament. A cored apple, filled with brown sugar, roasting for her at the hob on a dark autumn evening. Her shapely fingernails reddened by the blood of squashed lice from the children's shirts. In a dream, silently, she had come to him, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, bent over him with mute secret words, a faint odour of wetted ashes. Her glazing eyes, staring out of death, to


Hamilton Cooke. She thought about it as she pushed back her chair and walked down the stairs and into Jay’s office, which remained nearly the same as it had been when he’d last sat in the chair with the creaking roller. The police had taken his laptop and a few other items for their investigation, but the pictures and awards remained, the books in the case, the tie he’d left slung over the back of his chair. She’d never put it away and now she stopped, running her fingers over the silk fabric. Her throat grew thick and she blinked rapidly. The horrible words she’d flung at him, “I don’t know why I ever married you,” echoed through her brain. She imagined him huddled over the desk, books scattered around him, reading glasses on the end of his nose reflecting tiny images of his computer screen. “But I do know,” she whispered now, fighting tears. “Because I loved you, Jay. I still do.” “I know.” Jay’s voice sounded so much clearer in here—in his room—and if she closed her eyes she could imagine the scent of his aftershave and the faint sound of his laughter. “Oh, baby,” she whispered, and sniffed, her emotions so suddenly raw again. She had to pull herself together. Maybe Bella had been right when she’d suggested a grief counselor. Maybe . . . But now she knew that she had to move forward. And that meant ending this reign of terror that had her in its grip. Whoever was behind Jay’s death had to pay. Newly resolved, she dropped his tie over the back of his chair again and walked to the closet, where she pulled the gun case down from the top shelf, set it on the corner of the desk, and snapped it open. The SIG Sauer was waiting. She pulled the pistol from the case and felt its weight, remembering balking when Jay had brought it home. “No firearms,” she’d said. “We’re going to have kids someday and—” “—and we’ll keep it locked and safe. Promise.” He’d flashed a little smile. “Look, Kris, we probably won’t ever use it, never take it out of the case. But just in case we have to, it’ll be here. I don’t like some of the letters you’ve been getting and there are just so many nuts around.” “Nuts who can break in and steal it or use it on us.” “That’s not going to happen.” In that respect, he’d been right. So now she was here, in his office, gun in hand, ready for battle. The irony of the situation didn’t elude her. As she felt the heft of the gun and practiced aiming it, she planned her next move. First off, she planned to have a conversation with Hamilton Cooke. Of all the people who could be behind the attack, she couldn’t dismiss the skilled surgeon. Cooke was precise. He liked to play head games. And he hated Kristi. She located the extra clips for Jay’s pistol on the upper closet shelf. But would Hamilton Cooke


at the very end, she sang ‘Joy to the World,’ and fake snow fell from the rafters. The cast was standing behind her singing along, and Nigel came out with a reindeer that had antlers and everything. I knew it was corny, but I almost couldn’t contain my happiness.” “Were you onstage?” “Oh, God, no. Never. I was on the studio floor.” “I somehow missed that episode, but it sounds awesome. And I’m not even a person who wore out her Supremes’ Greatest Hits tape in grade school.” I laughed—although we’d discussed it less than three days ago, I certainly wouldn’t have expected him to remember that detail from my life—and he added, “My greatest show was in Glasgow, during a crazy summer storm. For the entire last hour, there was a torrential downpour, and everyone and everything got soaked. Me, my band, the instruments, the stage, the audience. I ruined my guitar, and it was so completely worth it.” “I guess the common denominator for epic live performances is a weather event involving precipitation,” I said, and he grinned again. “And it doesn’t even have to be natural,” he said. “It can be man-made. Have you really never appeared onstage here?” “Yes,” I said. “I really never have. I prefer lurking in the shadows like a goblin.” He made a concerned expression, and I said, “I don’t mean goblin in a bad way. It’s a point of pride.” His expression shifted to something warmer as he said, “Goblin definitely isn’t the word I’d have picked for you.” Surely, if I were a person adept at banter in real life, I’d have batted my eyelashes and said, “What word would you pick?” But I was adept at banter only on the page, and I said, “Anyway, about the panther, if you’re into the idea, great, and if you’re not, just say so to Elliot.” “Where’s the fun in that?” And then Autumn materialized at his elbow and said, “Noah, it’s time for your tux fitting.” Looking at me, Noah said, “Aren’t I fancy? See you at the Blabbermouth rehearsal.” Before I could reply, he’d been whisked away. I pulled out my phone and texted Viv, Where’d u go She responded with a photo of herself sitting in the armchair in her dressing room, making a festive expression and holding aloft a can of Diet Coke the way a person might hold up a champagne flute. Within a minute, I was knocking on her dressing room door. “Bad news,” I said as I entered. “I realized Noah Brewster is hot.” She laughed. “Welcome to 2001.” “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” “That an aging white boy heartthrob walks among us? Sally, there are certain insights a woman has to have on her own.” “Do you think he’s a cocky jerk?” “Probably.” “But based on working with him so far?” “At the dinner on Monday, he was pretty down-to-earth. He told a story about spraining his ankle while doing parkour with his agent.” I wanted to convey that it seemed as if there was some


deck, they entered the hangar bay, an enclosed space stretching the entire length of the ship. Formerly a garage for fighter jets, it was now a primitive industrial complex devoted to smelting steel, the manufacture of tools such as ice picks and snow shovels, reminiscent of a nineteenth-century community of blacksmiths and ironmongers. Amid the sparks and smog, Tetu caught up with Echo, observing how much discomfort she was in, unable to tolerate these higher temperatures: ‘Can you cope with this heat?’ ‘Not for long.’ Sensitive to anything which made her feel more out of place, he suggested: ‘Why don’t we wait on deck?’ ‘Yes. After I hear what the leaders of McMurdo have to say.’ In the smoke-filled town square, the Senate had regrouped after the attack, the most erudite minds struggling to process the speed with which their new society had fallen apart. Each of the senators had been appointed to leadership roles because the challenges of survival in Antarctica were practical and scientific, requiring unpopular decisions unburdened by democratic elections, but none of them had ever fought a war. Understanding that they were no longer a suitable match for the upcoming conflict, they’d summoned every surviving general and commander, men and women from once opposing armies who’d been working as teachers and tailors, forced to recollect their old ways, hastily patching together a military command to wage a war unlike any other. Yotam was the focus of fierce recriminations, much of which was intensely personal. These were his creatures, people claimed. He was too close to them; his relationship with them was unnatural. Why couldn’t he see that they despised us? There was deep suspicion that secretly he’d wanted them to escape, that this was the outcome both he and Song Fu had desired all along, that they were so besotted with the ingenuity of their creation they’d deliberately disregarded the dangers to ordinary people. Some went further, believing that this great escape wasn’t an accident, it was wilful – a conspiracy, the deliberate replacement of one species for another. Yotam was a traitor: the first to betray his own species. Despite the exceptional nature of the circumstances, the disgust directed at him felt familiar, the rhythm of it reminded him of his childhood when he’d been positioned as someone outside his community, a man with no stake in it, more interested in his own warped affections for other men than the needs of the many, polluted with an anarchic self-destructive streak willing to burn down society rather than play his part in it. Even though the genetic computations had nothing to do with him, nonetheless, people saw these creatures as manifestations of his psyche, seeking revenge against a society he’d never been truly invested in. Only President Mues’ support had kept him from facing a barbarous mob justice, being tossed overboard into the freezing ocean or strung up as a warning to all who wondered which side they should pick. Standing in the assembly as both a prisoner and an expert witness, since he understood their enemy better


filled with a sharp bouncing line, a circadian rhythm keeping time with the music. They rolled back and forth, Rambo apologizing profusely when he bumped into her. Nurse Ratched didn’t seem to mind. And on and on it went. Until the machines came. CHAPTER 10 One week after Hap awoke in the laboratory of a creator named Victor Lawson, they returned to the Scrap Yards. Vic said he wanted to see if the Old Ones had brought anything new worth salvaging. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the complete truth, either. What Vic really wanted to do was return to where they’d found Hap, to see if there was anything else they’d missed. He doubted there would be; Nurse Ratched hadn’t found any other signs of life. They’d left Hap with Dad. Or at least they thought they had. They were halfway to the Scrap Yards when Nurse Ratched stopped and said, “We’re being followed.” Vic glanced over his shoulder. Nothing moved in the trees that he could see. “Where?” Before she could speak again, he saw Hap peek his head from behind a tree before pulling it back sharply. Vic sighed. “I can see you.” “No, you c-can’t,” Hap replied. “Hap.” Hap scowled as he stepped out from behind the tree. “Why were you hiding?” Rambo asked. “I w-wasn’t,” Hap said. “I was inspecting the t-tree trunk.” “Really?” Rambo rolled toward him, stopping at the base of the tree. “What are you inspecting it for? Is there something wrong with it?” He raced around the trunk before stopping where he started. “I don’t see anything.” “He is making sure Vic does not die,” Nurse Ratched said, matter-of-fact. “I believe he is showing concern.” “I am n-not.” He sneered at them. “I was j-just walking this way.” “In the same direction as us?” Rambo asked. “That’s awesome. Vic. Hey, Vic! What are the chances that Hap would be here too? He should come with us!” Vic said, “You can, you know. Come with us.” Hap grunted as Rambo tried to push him toward the others. He tried to kick Rambo, but the vacuum was faster than he was. Hap almost lost his footing but managed to stay upright. His wooden leg—while still stiff— caught him at the last second. “Squishy,” Hap muttered, not looking at any of them. “So that is what this is about,” Nurse Ratched said. “Fear not, Hap. We would never let anything happen to Victor. While he is squishy, yes, we are not.” Hap’s scowl deepened. “I d-don’t care.” “Of course you do not,” Nurse Ratched said. “Why would you? Since we are going in the same direction, we might as well go together. Victor?” Vic tore his gaze away from Hap. “What?” “Hap will be joining us,” she said. “The more the merrier, as I always say.” “I’ve never heard you say that,” Rambo said, and squealed when she whipped one of her tentacles at him. “What? I haven’t.” “Do you want to come with us?” Vic asked. He didn’t know why Hap would. From the


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

in me I confess, but his manner on this occasion nettled me. Not only did there seem to lurk in it a certain calm disdain, but his perverseness seemed ungrateful, considering the undeniable good usage and indulgence he had received from me. Again I sat ruminating what I should do. Mortified as I was at his behavior, and resolved as I had been to dismiss him when I entered my offices, nevertheless I strangely felt something superstitious knocking at my heart, and forbidding me to carry out my purpose, and denouncing me for a villain if I dared to breathe one bitter word against this forlornest of mankind. At last, familiarly drawing my chair behind his screen, I sat down and said: “Bartleby, never mind then about revealing your history; but let me entreat you, as a friend, to comply as far as may be with the usages of this office. Say now you will help to examine papers to-morrow or next day: in short, say now that in a day or two you will begin to be a little reasonable:—say so, Bartleby.” “At present I would prefer not to be a little reasonable,” was his mildly cadaverous reply. Just then the folding-doors opened, and Nippers approached. He seemed suffering from an unusually bad night’s rest, induced by severer indigestion then common. He overheard those final words of Bartleby. “Prefer not, eh?” gritted Nippers—”I’d prefer him, if I were you, sir,” addressing me—”I’d prefer him; I’d give him preferences, the stubborn mule! What is it, sir, pray, that he prefers not to do now?” Bartleby moved not a limb. “Mr. Nippers,” said I, “I’d prefer that you would withdraw for the present.” Somehow, of late I had got into the way of involuntarily using this word “prefer” upon all sorts of not exactly suitable occasions. And I trembled to think that my contact with the scrivener had already and seriously affected me in a mental way. And what further and deeper aberration might it not yet produce? This apprehension had not been without efficacy in determining me to summary means. As Nippers, looking very sour and sulky, was departing, Turkey blandly and deferentially approached. “With submission, sir,” said he, “yesterday I was thinking about Bartleby here, and I think that if he would but prefer to take a quart of good ale every day, it would do much towards mending him, and enabling him to assist in examining his papers.” “So you have got the word too,” said I, slightly excited. “With submission, what word, sir,” asked Turkey, respectfully crowding himself into the contracted space behind the screen, and by so doing, making me jostle the scrivener. “What word, sir?” “I would prefer to be left alone here,” said Bartleby, as if offended at being mobbed in his privacy. “That’s the word, Turkey,” said I—”that’s it.” “Oh, prefer? oh yes—queer word. I never use it myself. But, sir, as I was saying, if he would but prefer—” “Turkey,” interrupted I, “you will please withdraw.” “Oh certainly, sir, if you prefer that I


I have seen more than that,' said he, 'for Hugo Baskerville passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels.' So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd and rode onward. But soon their skins turned cold, for there came a galloping across the moor, and the black mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing bridle and empty saddle. Then the revellers rode close together, for a great fear was on them, but they still followed over the moor, though each, had he been alone, would have been right glad to have turned his horse's head. Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last upon the hounds. These, though known for their valour and their breed, were whim- pering in a cluster at the head of a deep dip or goyal, as we call it, upon the moor, some slinking away and some, with starting hackles and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them. "The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you may guess, than when they started. The most of them would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest, or it may be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal. Now, it opened into a broad space in which stood two of those great stones, still to be seen there, which were set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old. The moon was shining bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of fear and of fatigue. But it was not the sight of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of Hugo Baskerviile lying near her, which raised the hair upon the heads of these three dare- devil roysterers, but it was that, standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon. And even as they looked the thing tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still screaming, across the moor. One, it is said, died that very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were but broken men for the rest of their days. "Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound which is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever since. If I have set it down it is because that which is clearly known hath less terror than that which is but hinted at and guessed. Nor can it be denied that many of the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which have been sudden, bloody, and mysterious. Yet may we shelter ourselves in the infinite goodness of Providence, which would not for- ever punish the


evidence of a now forgotten art, not to be discovered even by the process of picking out the threads. This rag of scarlet cloth--for time, and wear, and a sacrilegious moth had reduced it to little other than a rag--on careful examination, assumed the shape of a letter.% It was the capital letter A. By an accurate measurement, each limb proved to be precisely three inches and a quarter in length. It had been intended, there could be no doubt, as an ornamental article of dress; but how it was to be worn, or what rank, honour, and dignity, in by-past times, were signified by it, was a riddle which (so evanescent are the fashions of the world in these particulars) I saw little hope of solving. And yet it strangely interested me. My eyes fastened themselves upon the old scarlet letter, and would not be turned aside. Certainly there was some deep meaning in it most worthy of interpretation, and which, as it were, streamed forth from the mystic symbol, subtly communicating itself to my sensibilities, but evading the analysis of my mind. When thus perplexed--and cogitating, among other hypotheses, whether the letter might not have been one of those decorations which the white men used to contrive in order to take the eyes of Indians--I happened to place it on my breast. It seemed to me--the reader may smile, but must not doubt my word--it seemed to me, then, that I experienced a sensation not altogether physical, yet almost so, as of burning heat, and as if the letter were not of red cloth, but red-hot iron. I shuddered, and involuntarily let it fall upon the floor. In the absorbing contemplation of the scarlet letter, I had hitherto neglected to examine a small roll of dingy paper, around which it had been twisted. This I now opened, and had the satisfaction to find recorded by the old Surveyor's pen, Thesaurus cogitating: (n) conception; (adj) bright, neat, brilliant, interesting, mysterious, occult, cryptical, cryptic, reflective. smart. esoteric, inscrutable, weird, magical; contrive: (v) plan, invent, design, drew: (n) move, John Drew. (adj, n) psychic. concoct, devise, cast, concert, evading: (n) avoidance, escaping, needlework: (n) stitchery, sewing, excogitate, frame, formulate; (n, v) dodging; (v) evade; (adj) intangible, needlecraft, stitching, knitwork, manage. ANTONYMS: (v) demolish, fugitive. crochet, crocheting, knit, knitting, destroy, ruin, waste, wreck, fail. frayed: (adj) threadbare, shabby, fancywork, creation. defaced: (adj) marred. ragged, tattered, thin, torn; (adj, v) sacrilegious: (adj) blasphemous, dingy: (adj) dark, black, drab, dull, dilapidated; (v) secondhand, wilted, impious, disrespectful, heretical, muddy, impure, dim, seedy, dowdy, shaken, stale. ANTONYMS: (adj) irreligious, ungodly, godless, unclean, grimy. ANTONYMS: (adj) pristine, new, smart. hardened, heterodox, wicked; (adj, v) immaculate, spotless, sparkling, mystic: (adj, v) secret, recondite; (adj) irreverent. ANTONYM: (adj) pious. 32 The Scarlet Letter a reasonably complete explanation of the whole affair. There were several foolscap sheets, containing many particulars respecting the life and conversation of one Hester Prynne, who appeared to have been rather a noteworthy personage in the view of our ancestors. She had flourished during the period between the


telephone me to ask for advice?” “Well, yes.” “Andy. Son. I— Of course you can.” It’s really only then that Andy realizes what he’s asking for. He’s asking for his father to be a father. And it feels like the biggest favor he’s ever asked of anyone. He nearly apologizes, nearly explains that he doesn’t make a habit of asking for things, that he hates being a bother. But he thinks his father just figured that out. His father is still looking at him, shocked and a little ashamed. Andy has to say something. “I think it’ll be fun,” Andy says, bringing his glass to his mouth. “I have all kinds of ideas.” “I always thought it was,” his father agrees, and raises his glass. * * * After his father goes to bed, Andy checks his watch. Somehow, despite having been awake for what feels like forty-eight hours, it’s not even ten o’clock. He kneels in front of the television, searching for something to watch. A detective show, a police show, another detective show. No thanks. What Andy really wants to watch is the sort of sitcom that revolves around impish kids who get into minor scrapes, their well-dressed parents, and the adorable family dog. Obviously, he knows nobody’s life is that perfect; obviously, he knows the reason he likes those shows so much is because they’re a glimpse into a kind of stable family life he’s never known, but neither of those facts stop him from wanting to watch them. It occurs to him, though, that hardly anybody he knows grew up that way, either. Nick certainly didn’t. Emily and Jeanne went to boarding school. Linda’s parents got divorced when she was a kid. Andy had always figured he’d have that kind of life when he grew up, but now that he knows queer people aren’t allowed it, he doesn’t want it. He feels cheated, like he’s gotten to the last page of a book and it turns out the whole story was a dream. The dog dies in the last chapter. You never find out who stole the diamond necklace. The fact that this thing that’s been a source of such comfort to him probably never existed in any meaningful way makes him feel rattled. Everyone he knows is trying to assemble some kind of life from the spare parts they have lying around, just like Andy. And, fuck it, that’s what Andy’s going to do. He doesn’t care if the world wants to give him space to make a life. He’s going to push and shove until he and Nick have the space they need and then he’s going to build the kind of life they want. If he wants someone to come home to, and if Nick wants to be that person, then Andy’s going to make sure they have it. Part V Nick Chapter Twenty-Four It’s only after Nick gets off the phone with his brother that he notices how thoroughly Andy has scrubbed the apartment of all traces of himself. Sure, his fancy dishes are


shrugged. I didn’t know what to say. “I do, buddy. I really, really love your mommy.” Henry turned to me. “Aunt Lanier, do you love my mommy?” I thought of that night, of that Newport, of that match. “I love your mommy almost as much as I love you.” “I love her too,” he said. “She’s easy to love,” Huff chimed in. I got up and dusted the dirt off my pants. “Speaking of your mommy, I’m going to go find her and then how about you and I watch a movie, huh?” Henry nodded. As I got ready to leave, Henry said to Huff, “She always wants to watch baby movies like The Little Rascals.” “Oh yeah? Well, how about if you and I watch The Sandlot together next time I see you?” “What’s that?” “Oh, you’re going to love it. It’s about baseball.” As I walked across the field and out into the open expanse of grass, I thought about how I almost prevented all of this. I almost kept my brother from being the stepfather to my favorite kid. I almost stood in the way of my best friend’s happiness and my brother’s fully realized life. I was glad I wouldn’t have to look back one day and regret all of it. I was grateful that it wasn’t too late. As happy as I was, though, it did sting a little that my best friend and brother were getting their happily ever after as my world was going up in flames. People would talk about me; there was no way around it. Some would think I knew about Bryce. Some would think I was an idiot for not knowing. And the reality was probably somewhere in between. I knew something weird was going on, but I never could have predicted this. And starting over again seemed too hard, too scary. I was better off alone, I decided. But even so, my mind couldn’t help but wander a few minutes up the road, to the man who had stolen my heart first. I had made too many mistakes with him. I knew I had. But, then again, if Daphne could forgive me, maybe Rich could, too. Daphne ON BRAND AS STEVEN AND I WALK across the camp that has been my home for so long, I feel something I never, ever am around him: nervous. I squeeze his arm tighter as I say, “Do you know that I told Lanier I was pregnant before I told you?” He looks down at me. “I want to be offended, but I guess I kind of get why the twenty-three-year-old surfer you’d been hanging out with wasn’t your first call.” I laugh. “I was terrified. Steven, I thought you were going to bail. Not just bail. Move to Mexico. Change your name.” His turn to laugh. “Again, I want to be offended, but that seems on brand. I mean, I thought about it.” I stop, looking out over the river. The sun is just beginning to set, and it looks like fire spreading


season. Scoundrel! He is not altogether guiltless in this illness of mine, and that I had a great mind to tell him; but, alas! how could I offend a man who was charitable enough to sit at my bedside a good hour, and talk on some other subject than pills and draughts, blisters, and leeches? This is quite an easy in- terval. I am too weak to read, yet I feel as if I could enjoy something interesting. Why not have up Mrs. Dean to finish her tale? I can recollect its chief incidents as far as she had gone. Yes; I remember her hero had run off, and never been heard of for three years; and the heroine was married. I'll ring. She'll be delighted to find me capable of talking cheerfully. Mrs. Dean came. "It wants twenty minutes, sir, to taking the medi- cine," she commenced. "Away, away with it!" I replied. "I desire to have------" "The doctor says you must drop the powders." "With all my heart! Don't interrupt me. Come and take your seat here. Keep your fingers from that bitter phalanx of vials. Draw your knitting out of your pocket ---that will do; now continue the history of Mr. Heath- cliff, from where you left off to the present day. Did he finish his education on the Continent, and come back a gentleman? or did he get a sizar's place at college, or escape to America, and earn honours by drawing blood from his foster-country, or make a fortune more promptly on the English highways?" "He may have done a little in all these vocations, Mr. Lockwood, but I couldn't give my word for any. I stated before that I didn't know how he gained his money, neither am I aware of the means he took to raise his mind from the savage ignorance into which it was sunk; but, with your leave, I'll proceed in my own fashion, if you think it will amuse and not weary you. Are you feeling better this morning?" "Much." "That's good news.-----I got Miss Catherine and myself to Thrushcross Grange, and, to my agreeable dis- appointment, she behaved infinitely better than I dared to expect. She seemed almost over-fond of Mr. Linton, and even to his sister she showed plenty of affection. They were both very attentive to her comfort, certainly. It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn. There were no mutual concessions---one stood erect and the others yielded; and who can be ill-natured and bad-tempered when they encounter neither opposition nor indiffer- ence? I observed that Mr. Edgar had a deep-rooted fear of ruffling her humour. He concealed it from her; but if ever he heard me answer sharply, or saw any other servant grow cloudy at some imperious or- der of hers, he would show his trouble by a frown of dis- pleasure that never darkened on his own account. He many a time spoke sternly to me about my pertness, and averred that the stab of a knife could


knees, pulled back by its arms, its mutilated and mud-stained torso pointed in her direction. A macabre sight, to be sure. “At least we do not plan on eating him,” I grumbled to myself. Marek shot me a bewildered glance. Keeping a firm grip on the body’s elbows, I planted my boot at the base of his back. Sefa scurried into the trees, covering her ears. Marek watched with a skeptical frown. A sinister voice bloomed in my mind. In a matter of hours, you may have destroyed the identity you spent years building. You cannot even protect your own pathetic, pointless life, Hanim whispered in my ear. My darkest thoughts always spoke in her voice. Years had passed since I last heard my former captor. That I heard her now could not signify anything good. I heaved the body’s arms toward myself. Breaking a grown man’s back at this angle required a significant amount of force. Hanim had compared it to pretending I was trying to shove my foot through the person and toward the ground just ahead of them. The arms needed to be pulled back far and held fast. Otherwise, the shoulders would pop loose, and the back would remain undamaged. I slammed my boot downward against his back. The thunderous crack sent Marek’s brows disappearing into his hair. Satisfied, I dropped the body onto its broken bones and pointed at the gash on the soldier’s belly. “This cut is too clean. I need you to make it seem as though he sustained the damage from the boulders in Hirun.” Marek accepted my dagger with a slow smile. “I can’t break a grown man’s back, but I can certainly whittle a messier wound.” I left him crouched beside the soldier and went to find Sefa. I stumbled on her apologizing to a colony of ants for stealing the rocks they were hiding behind. “I am almost finished,” she said. Suspicion thickened into a brick in my chest. Aside from her spat of superstitious paranoia, she seemed utterly nonchalant. So did Marek. I had dragged them out of the village in the middle of the night to help me mangle a soldier’s corpse and carry it to the river. I’d seen them react with more horror to the discovery that I routinely forgot to water my fig plant. I slid into a crouch, grimacing at the sight of my cloak dragging against the ground. It swallowed Sefa’s small frame. “Speak plainly. Why are you doing this for me?” Undeterred by my harsh tone, she blew gently on the rocks in her palm, flaking away the loose debris. “Despite your strong resistance to the concept, we are friends.” “Friendship has its limits.” “Perhaps.” “I wouldn’t do this for you or Marek.” The corner of her mouth lifted like I had said something amusing. “I know.” “If I’m caught, I will be executed. You would be thrown to the mercy of a Nizahlan tribunal for helping me.” “If you are hoping to light a fire of fear in me, you are too


oddly gentle, “what happened to you, Elsie?” “Seriously? What happened to—” My hand is still under his. I lift my chin, bringing our faces that much closer. “This is what happened to me, Jack: a little over six months ago, I go meet my date’s family for the first time. And maybe we aren’t really together, but you know what? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that since the very start, my date’s brother is an absolute prick. He keeps staring at me like I’m Ginger Spice crashing the royal wedding. He asks his brother questions about me because he thinks I’m inferior and unworthy. He acts unfriendly and suspicious whenever I’m around. I think we can both agree that given the opportunity, he’d want to change the shit out of me.” The last part comes out more aggressively than I meant, but—whatever. I’m mad now, growing exponentially madder as I watch Jack nod slowly, as though considering my words. “Well, that’s an interpretation.” Heat radiates through me from his grip. It warms my belly, licks up my spine, reminds me how close we’ve somehow gravitated. “It’s facts,” I hiss. “You’re a physicist, Elsie. You should know better than to throw around the word fact when quantum mechanics exists.” “What’s your interpretation, then?” He says nothing for a long moment, as if collecting his thoughts or deciding whether I’m worth his words. Then something shifts. The air in the room becomes thicker. His Adam’s apple bobs, his eyes fix on mine, and he starts talking. “A little over six months ago, I go to a family birthday expecting the usual night of misery. I’m only there for my brother, because I can count on two fingers the relatives I care about, and he’s one of them. We usually stick together, but this dinner is different. My brother brings a date. A woman he’s never spoken about—weird, since we talk nearly every day. The family, especially his mom, are thrilled.” Jack’s grip on my hand shifts. Softens. My fingers are still on his chest, half-pressed against his heart. My own has begun to thump in a hesitant, bracing way. “She’s beautiful, the girl. Really beautiful. There are lots of beautiful women in the world, and if you can believe it, it’s not something I usually notice, but I’m paying more attention to her than I otherwise would. Someone pulls Greg away before he has a chance to introduce me yet. But I watch her touch my grandmother’s Go board and pick up one of the stones the traditional way, index and middle finger. I watch her sneak a bite of cheese. At some point, I’m almost sure she says something that no one but me understands as a Heisenberg principle joke. And then, when my brother comes back . . . that’s when it starts for me. Because I watch her run interference between him and my family in a way I’ve never managed—and believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve spent thirty years of my life trying to protect him from their bullshit, and


could feel a giggle slowly erupting from my ribcage but tried to suppress it … until I saw him wringing water out of the ends of his shirt. He looked so ridiculous, my shoulders began to shake with laughter. He looked up at me then, his cross expression melting into a broad smile. ‘Amusing you, am I?’ he said, as I bent over with laughter. ‘I-I’m sorry,’ I said, turning my back to him so that I might stop. When I turned around he was taking the wet shirt off and wringing it properly into the sink. He had a vest underneath, which was also wet through. ‘Might I hang this in front of the stove for a while?’ ‘Of course,’ I said, and quickly added more wood to the fire. I hung his shirt on the back of the chair and moved it closer to the heat. He could have simply returned home, he only lived next door, but there was a silent understanding that the explanation that would have been required was too complicated. My clothes were wet also, but I couldn’t change while he was there, so I merely wrapped a shawl around my shoulders and stood beside him, watching the flames. ‘I’ll have someone come and fix it first thing tomorrow.’ His tone of voice had changed again. I knew I wasn’t imagining it, this closeness that he would temporarily allow, an intimacy, before pulling up the drawbridge again. I had to snap myself out of this silly attraction. It was some jumble of homesickness and loneliness – a misplaced focus for all of my mixed-up feelings. He was kind to me at a time when I needed comfort, but I knew this was dangerous and had to stop. ‘Thank you, Mr Fitzpatrick.’ A moment passed and as though he had heard some distant noise calling him, he grabbed his still damp shirt and put it on. I responded and jumped to action, picking up his jacket from the floor and handing it to him. Our fingertips brushed as he took it from my hands. I did not look him in the eye but kept my head level with the hollow where his neck met his chest. I did not think about touching him but found my hand was already on his chest, above his heart. The rise and fall of his breathing grew heavier and in one movement, he pulled me close to him and our lips collided – clumsily at first, then passionately, desperately. His mouth was soft and yet eager. The sudden realisation of how he felt about me set fireworks off behind my eyelids. Knowing that it shouldn’t, couldn’t ever happen again, neither of us wanted it to end. I don’t know how long we stood like that, buried in our embrace. We did not speak. Occasionally his hands would caress the back of my neck, but for the most part, he simply held me, enveloping me closer and tighter. I didn’t want to move. Or think. Or wonder what it meant. The intimacy


to find you there." "But not more so than I to find you." "I came to find a friend." "And I to find an enemy." "An enemy?" "Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clew in the incoherent ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now. Had I been recognized in that den my life would not have been worth an hour's purchase; for I have used it before now for my own purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has sworn to have vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of that building, near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell some strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless nights." "What! You do not mean bodies?" "Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had 1000 pounds for every poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair has entered it never to leave it more. But our trap should be here." He put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly--a signal which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses' hoofs. "Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side lanterns. "You'll come with me, won't you? "If I can be of use." "Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one." "The Cedars?" "Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair's house. I am staying there while I conduct the inquiry." "Where is it, then?" "Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us." "But I am all in the dark." "Of course you are. You'll know all about it presently. Jump up here. All right, John; we shall not need you. Here's half a crown. Look out for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her head. So long, then!" He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat beside him, curious to learn what this


least my connections to you were a convenient excuse for her to say your name. That fall, there was a joint choir concert with Northfield Mount Hermon in New Chapel. A mass, or something else long and classical, and for whatever reason—maybe because, as Priscilla Mancio pointed out, there was always a dearth of singing boys—you not only conducted half the concert but also performed as a soloist when the NMH guy conducted. You swayed your whole height with the music, an oscillation that started at your wide-open mouth and ended at your feet. You were so lost in it, so exaggerated in your rapture, that I thought at first it was a joke. But Thalia, behind you in the soprano section—I saw the look on her face. It wasn’t just admiration; she looked nervous for you, deeply invested in your success. Naturally, the rumors about Thalia and some teacher transferred onto you. They also transferred onto Mr. Dar, and onto Mr. Wysockis, her tennis coach. Perhaps because Thalia was the kind of person to touch any man she was talking to on the shoulder. We believed it all, if only so we’d have gossip. (I certainly contributed to it, sharing with Fran and Carlotta every time I came to your classroom and found her already there, sprawled on the couch with her shoes off.) It was for the social clout of gossip that we also spread—and even believed—stories about teachers with crushes on students, teachers who’d check out girls’ legs. But they couldn’t all be true, and as the years passed I came to understand they’d been immature fantasies, related to our certainty that the world revolved around us. I thought of the Follies rehearsal senior year when we were all called out of the theater by Bendt Jensen, our Danish exchange student. You might not remember Bendt, who was only there one year; the reason I remember him myself is that he was gorgeous, an unquestioned fact. A swoop of blond hair that looked drawn on, a chin cleft. Bendt was late to rehearsal that night, and when you asked why, he’d stood there, embarrassed and wide-eyed, and explained that there were, he didn’t quite know how to say, but there were . . . lots of little UFOs outside? And as soon as the words were out he reddened, but everyone was ready to believe him, already out of their seats, already jumping off the stage, you calling after us with fake upset that masked your real upset. We tumbled outside and stood on the steps, on the sidewalk below, staring out at the empty hill behind the theater, the one where the off-season baseball boys would play Wiffle ball. It was still the tail end of summer, but late enough that full New Hampshire dark had descended. “There were—” Bendt said, and he seemed to try, unsuccessfully, to laugh at himself. “There were like a hundred little—I don’t know what—there!” And he pointed in triumph to the sudden illumination of dozens of tiny flickering lights at the forest’s


the truth is that it’s difficult and I’m struggling. But I’ll get there. And if it takes a while, that’s fine, because if there’s anything my father’s smiles taught me, it’s that it’s not too late to start again. It’s not too late to be the person you want or were always meant to be. “I … Sometimes I think of love as pieces of one heart. When I love someone, I break off a piece and give it to them. There are not so many because that way each piece is substantial, but without a doubt, my dad has one of the biggest pieces I have and will ever give. It cannot be replaced. It is his forever. God bless my father and may he rest in peace.” I don’t like my eulogy because I don’t feel it encapsulates everything, but how could it? How can I, in front of my family, describe that I’m not only mourning my dad but the life I lost when he became sick and the life I’ve lost now that’s he’s gone? Dad’s immediate family sprinkle earth onto his coffin, we sing hymns and Pastor prays again. I stare into the deep rectangle of earth carved into the ground, where, at the bottom, in a box, my father’s body will remain forever. Auntie Mabel sings a Ghanaian burial song and then we watch the grave being filled. It takes a forklift, a truck, and a man with a shovel. I rest my head on James’s shoulder, my cheeks hard and dried. He pulls me into a side hug. He smells expensive, not of acrid body spray or heavy aftershave, but light and reminiscent of gummy sweets. “Sorry I was never there, Mads.” He sniffs and when I look up, he’s crying. “After what you said the other day in the kitchen, I see what we did to you. I don’t even know what to say.” He nods toward Dad. “And there’s nothing I can do for him now, either. I missed all my chances.” I could say something soothing, but I don’t have anything to offer. I’ve run out of lies. Dad’s gone and the chance to help him has gone with him. I could say it’s fine and that it no longer matters, but that won’t negate how much it did matter at the time. I decide not to say anything at all. One day we’ll be orphans; one day I’ll be faced with the question of: who am I without my parents? I know I will never live at home again; that home as I know it may cease to exist. Mum will likely sell the house, and in a few months, she’ll go back to Ghana. James will continue to be reachable only after the second call. Then there will be me. Maddie. Madeleine Baaba Wright, twenty-five. Nothing else about me as definitive as those facts. “What’s your job, Mads?” James asks. “Huh? I’m an editorial assistant.” “And that’s what you want to do, in life, I mean?” “I think so. Why


he was too tired to talk for long, it was good to hear his voice, each of us striving to sound cheerful for the other’s sake. Relieved, I let my parents draw me into conversation about the kids. I had been so focused on getting my father to see a doctor, any doctor, that it was difficult for me to think beyond the promised appointment. Even after all I’d heard about how sick he was, I couldn’t imagine that he might be facing anything like his mother’s illness, one that would render him a permanent patient and change my parents’ lives yet again. He needed help to better manage his diabetes, I thought, or maybe he needed a different medication. The community clinic was the first step; soon, we’d learn how to make him well again. 6 Several years ago, when I knew I was about to be laid off from an indie website that was shuttering, I received a statement from Discover claiming that Dan and I owed them more than fourteen hundred dollars. Neither of us had ever had a Discover card. The first customer service representative I spoke with clearly didn’t believe me when I told her this, though she did feel sorry for me. “Is there any chance that you might have opened the account and forgotten about it?” she asked gently. I assured her there was no chance of that. We were living as frugally as we could with two children, finally beginning to recover from our combined years of graduate school, but we had nothing to spare, and I was soon to be unemployed. The rational part of my brain knew the card wasn’t ours, and neither were the charges, and we probably couldn’t be forced to pay fourteen hundred dollars plus interest if we hadn’t been the ones to spend it. Still, I had grown up hearing my parents’ warnings about credit card debt, and now felt myself edging closer to panic: What if the unexplained charges kept coming and we had to pay all of them? What if we were victims of identity theft and couldn’t prove it and our credit was ruined and we were never able to rent a house or buy a car again? By the time Dan got home, I was talking to another Discover representative, my agitation mounting. It took two minutes for my husband to get the story from me, take the phone, and confirm that we had received the statement in error. The company had no idea why or how our information had been associated with the account, which did belong to someone, just not to us. They promised to send us something in writing verifying that we didn’t owe them anything. Sorry for the inconvenience. Have a great evening. Dan handed my phone back to me, greeted the kids, and started making dinner, as usual. I expect that he forgot about the bill by the next morning. For days, I watched the mail, looking for the promised written confirmation that our errant debt had been cleared.


in all its debauchery. Knots of revelers stood drinking between dances, gathered in bursts of bright clothes, as ornate as the golden frescoes they stood before. Those who weren’t kissing or drinking were gossiping—heads bowed as close together as elaborate hairstyles would allow, whispering and then breaking into whoops of laughter. Cosmetic-lined eyes scanned the room, as if making sure their mirth was marked, and hopefully envied. A man wearing a sea-green mask with golden scales turned his eyes lazily to Gabe, then away. A moment, and his gaze snapped back, disinterest becoming openmouthed surprise. He leaned to the ear of the person next to him, their hair coiled into something resembling a beehive, whispering furiously. “And thus our new faces are noticed,” Lore said. They still stood by the door, neither of them keen on venturing into the sparkling milieu. “Mine isn’t new, which seems to be the problem.” Gabriel sighed. “I’d hoped that ten years and one less eye would make recognizing me more difficult.” “You’re hard not to notice,” Lore murmured, then clamped her lips shut. “And you say I need to work on my compliments.” Gabe shook out his shoulders. “Well. Into the breach.” He tugged them into the party. Dancers spun past them, their costumes wearable displays of wealth. Jewels encrusted bodices; clouds of gold-threaded tulle swept the ground. The dancers paid no mind to the iron bars crossing the floor, the reminders of holy responsibility covered in sweat and spilled champagne. Lore’s heart thrummed, and not just from nerves. This reminded her of the wilder venues down by the docks, though it felt more dangerous than those ever had. Money and power gave it weight, made it heady. Made it exciting, and part of her hated herself for that. The part that kept thinking of those people drinking brewed belladonna in the corner. In the scents of whirling dancers and strong perfume, there was also the scent of food. Lore’s stomach twisted in her too-tight bodice. “Any idea where the buffet is?” she asked Gabriel, pitching her voice to carry over music and laughter. “On the right side, I think,” he said, eyes shifting like prey in a predator’s den. Other courtiers had noticed them now, gazes flickering their direction and then away with practiced nonchalance. The ebb and flow of the party revealed a table set up before the golden depiction of a fox hunt, baying dogs and howling hunters chasing the rubyencrusted animal across the wall. Two fountains in the center of the table flowed with wine, red and white, with crystal goblets set in precarious gleaming pyramids next to them. Bowls of bright fruit sat beside artfully stacked pastries, jewels on an expensive necklace. Her stomach rumbled. Lore stepped forward, ready to weave her way through to the table, but the parting crowd revealed the throne at the front of the room, and for the first time, she noticed someone was on it. One leg was tossed over the arm, booted foot swinging in the air, and an elbow was propped on the


that isn't everything! Of course YOU know a lot--" "But you hint that you know almost as much?" I risked as he paused. "Not half I want to!" Miles honestly professed. "But it isn't so much that." "What is it, then?" "Well--I want to see more life." "I see; I see." We had arrived within sight of the church and of various persons, including several of the household of Bly, on their way to it and clustered about the door to see us go in. I quickened our step; I wanted to get there before the question between us opened up much further; I reflected hungrily that, for more than an hour, he would have to be silent; and I thought with envy of the comparative dusk of the pew and of the almost spiritual help of the hassock on which I might bend my knees. I seemed literally to be running a race with some confusion to which he was about to reduce me, but I felt that he had got in first when, before we had even entered the churchyard, he threw out-- "I want my own sort!" It literally made me bound forward. "There are not many of your own sort, Miles!" I laughed. "Unless perhaps dear little Flora!" "You really compare me to a baby girl?" This found me singularly weak. "Don't you, then, LOVE our sweet Flora?" "If I didn't--and you, too; if I didn't--!" he repeated as if retreating for a jump, yet leaving his thought so unfinished that, after we had come into the gate, another stop, which he imposed on me by the pressure of his arm, had become inevitable. Mrs. Grose and Flora had passed into the church, the other worshippers had followed, and we were, for the minute, alone among the old, thick graves. We had paused, on the path from the gate, by a low, oblong, tablelike tomb. "Yes, if you didn't--?" He looked, while I waited, at the graves. "Well, you know what!" But he didn't move, and he presently produced something that made me drop straight down on the stone slab, as if suddenly to rest. "Does my uncle think what YOU think?" I markedly rested. "How do you know what I think?" "Ah, well, of course I don't; for it strikes me you never tell me. But I mean does HE know?" "Know what, Miles?" "Why, the way I'm going on." I perceived quickly enough that I could make, to this inquiry, no answer that would not involve something of a sacrifice of my employer. Yet it appeared to me that we were all, at Bly, sufficiently sacrificed to make that venial. "I don't think your uncle much cares." Miles, on this, stood looking at me. "Then don't you think he can be made to?" "In what way?" "Why, by his coming down." "But who'll get him to come down?" "_I_ will!" the boy said with extraordinary brightness and emphasis. He gave me another look charged with that expression and then marched off alone into church. XV The


the same as that of the men, and they could not manage to get any very big stones across. They put three smaller ones, and Julian hoped the men would find them too difficult to move from below. "If only Dick has managed to bolt them into that room!" he said to the others. "Gome on, back to the well now. Dick will have to come up there, because he won't be able to get out of the entrance." They all went to the well. Dick had removed the old wooden cover, and it was lying on the ground. The children leaned over the hole of the well and waited anxiously. What was Dick doing? They could hear nothing from the well and they longed to know what was happening. There was plenty happening down below! The two men, and another, had gone down into the dungeons, expecting, of course, to find Julian, George and the dog still locked up in the store-room with the ingots. They passed the well-shaft not guessing that an excited small boy was hidden there, ready to slip out of the opening as soon as they had passed. Dick heard them pass. He slipped out of the well-opening and followed behind quietly, his feet making no sound. He could see the beams made by the men's powerful torches, and with his heart thumping loudly he crept along the smelly old passages, between great caves, until the men turned into the wide passage where the storecave lay. "Here it is," Dick heard one of the men say, as he flashed his torch on to the great door. "The gold's in there- so are the kids!" The man unbolted the door at top and bottom. Dick was glad that he had slipped along to bolt the door, for if he hadn't done that before the men had come they would have known that Julian and George had escaped, and would have been on their guard. The man opened the door and stepped inside. The second man followed him. Dick crept as close as he dared, waiting for the third man to go in too. Then he meant to slam the door and bolt it! The first man swung his torch round and gave a loud exclamation. "The children are gone! How strange! Where are they?" Two of the men were now in the cave- and the third stepped in at that moment. Dick darted forward and slammed the door. It made a crash that went echoing round and round the caves and passages. Dick fumbled with the bolts, his hand trembling. They were stiff and rusty. The boy found it hard to shoot them home in their sockets. And meanwhile the men were not idle! As soon as they heard the door slam they spun round. The third man put his shoulder to the door at once and heaved hard. Dick had just got one of the bolts almost into its socket. Then all three men forced their strength against the door, and the bolt gave way! Dick stared


thinks we are enemies." Tarzan dropped into a walk, and together he and D'Arnot advanced toward the white man by the gate. The latter eyed them in puzzled bewilderment. "What manner of men are you?" he asked, in French. "White men," replied D'Arnot. "We have been lost in the jungle for a long time." The man had lowered his rifle and now advanced with outstretched hand. "I am Father Constantine of the French Mission here," he said, "and I am glad to welcome you." "This is Monsieur Tarzan, Father Constantine," replied D'Arnot, indicating the ape-man; and as the priest extended his hand to Tarzan, D'Arnot added: "and I am Paul D'Arnot, of the French Navy." Father Constantine took the hand which Tarzan extended in imitation of the priest's act, while the latter took in the superb physique and handsome face in one quick, keen glance. Chapter 26 145 And thus came Tarzan of the Apes to the first outpost of civilization. For a week they remained there, and the ape-man, keenly observant, learned much of the ways of men; meanwhile black women sewed white duck garments for himself and D'Arnot so that they might continue their journey properly clothed. Chapter 26 The Height of Civilization Another month brought them to a little group of buildings at the mouth of a wide river, and there Tarzan saw many boats, and was filled with the timidity of the wild thing by the sight of many men. Gradually he became accustomed to the strange noises and the odd ways of civilization, so that presently none might know that two short months before, this handsome Frenchman in immaculate white ducks, who laughed and chatted with the gayest of them, had been swinging naked through primeval forests to pounce upon some unwary victim, which, raw, was to fill his savage belly. The knife and fork, so contemptuously flung aside a month before, Tarzan now manipulated as exquisitely as did the polished D'Arnot. So apt a pupil had he been that the young Frenchman had labored assiduously to make of Tarzan of the Apes a polished gentleman in so far as nicety of manners and speech were concerned. "God made you a gentleman at heart, my friend," D'Arnot had said; "but we want His works to show upon the exterior also." As soon as they had reached the little port, D'Arnot had cabled his government of his safety, and requested a three- months' leave, which had been granted. He had also cabled his bankers for funds, and the enforced wait of a month, under which both chafed, was due to their inability to charter a vessel for the return to Tarzan's jungle after the treasure. During their stay at the coast town "Monsieur Tarzan" became the wonder of both whites and blacks because of several occurrences which to Tarzan seemed the merest of nothings. Once a huge black, crazed by drink, had run amuck and terrorized the town, until his evil star had led him to where the black-haired French giant lolled upon the veranda of the hotel.


was so amazingly intelligent that even before the data banks had been connected up it had started from I think therefore I am and got as far as the existence of rice pudding and income tax before anyone managed to turn it off. It was the size of a small city. Its main console was installed in a specially designed executive office, mounted on an enormous executive desk of finest ultramahagony topped with rich ultrared leather. The dark carpeting was discreetly sumptuous, exotic pot plants and tastefully engraved prints of the principal computer programmers and their families were deployed liberally about the room, and stately windows looked out upon a tree-lined public square. On the day of the Great On-Turning two soberly dressed programmers with brief cases arrived and were shown discreetly into the office. They were aware that this day they would represent their entire race in its greatest moment, but they conducted themselves calmly and quietly as they seated themselves deferentially before the desk, opened their brief cases and took out their leather-bound notebooks. Their names were Lunkwill and Fook. For a few moments they sat in respectful silence, then, after exchanging a quiet glance with Fook, Lunkwill leaned forward and touched a small black panel. The subtlest of hums indicated that the massive computer was now in total active mode. After a pause it spoke to them in a voice rich resonant and deep. It said: "What is this great task for which I, Deep Thought, the second greatest computer in the Universe of Time and Space have been called into existence?" Lunkwill and Fook glanced at each other in surprise. "Your task, O Computer ..." began Fook. "No, wait a minute, this isn't right," said Lunkwill, worried. "We distinctly designed this computer to be the greatest one ever and we're not making do with second best. Deep Thought," he addressed the computer, "are you not as we designed you to be, the greatest most powerful computer in all time?" "I described myself as the second greatest," intoned Deep Thought, "and such I am." Another worried look passed between the two programmers. Lunkwill cleared his throat. "There must be some mistake," he said, "are you not a greatest computer than the Milliard Gargantubrain which can count all the atoms in a star in a millisecond?" "The Milliard Gargantubrain?" said Deep Thought with unconcealed contempt. "A mere abacus - mention it not." "And are you not," said Fook leaning anxiously forward, "a greater analyst than the Googleplex Star Thinker in the Seventh Galaxy of Light and Ingenuity which can calculate the trajectory of every single dust particle throughout a five-week Dangrabad Beta sand blizzard?" "A five-week sand blizzard?" said Deep Thought haughtily. "You ask this of me who have contemplated the very vectors of the atoms in the Big Bang itself? Molest me not with this pocket calculator stuff." The two programmers sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment. Then Lunkwill leaned forward again. "But are you not," he said, "a more fiendish disputant than the Great Hyperlobic Omni-Cognate Neutron


last mount to my ultimate destination. Let me make a clean breast of it here, and frankly admit that I kept but sorry guard. With the problem of the universe revolving in me, how could I--being left completely to myself .. <p 156 > at such a thought-engendering altitude, --how could I but lightly hold my obligations to observe all whale-ships' standing orders, Keep your weather eye open, and sing out every time. And let me in this place movingly admonish you, ye ship-owners of Nantucket! Beware of enlisting in your vigilant fisheries any lad with lean brow and hollow eye; given to unseasonable meditativeness; and who offers to ship with the phaedon instead of Bowditch in his head. Beware of such an one, I say; your whales must be seen before they can be killed; and this sunken-eyed young Platonist will tow you ten wakes round the world, and never make you one pint of sperm the richer. Nor are these monitions at all unneeded. For nowadays, the whale-fishery furnishes an asylum for many romantic, melancholy, and absent-minded young men, disgusted with the carking cares of earth, and seeking sentiment in tar and blubber. Childe Harold not unfrequently perches himself upon the mast-head of some luckless disappointed whale-ship, and in moody phrase ejaculates: -- Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll! Ten thousand blubber-hunters sweep over thee in vain. Very often do the captains of such ships take those absent-minded young philosophers to task, upbraiding them with not feeling sufficient interest in the voyage; half-hinting that they are so hopelessly lost to all honorable ambition, as that in their secret souls they would rather not see whales than otherwise. But all in vain; those young Platonists have a notion that their vision is imperfect; they are short-sighted; what use, then, to strain the visual nerve? They have left their opera-glasses at home. Why, thou monkey, said a harpooneer to one of these lads, we've been cruising now hard upon three years, and thou hast not raised a whale yet. Whales are scarce as hen's teeth whenever thou art up here. Perhaps they were; or perhaps there might have been shoals of them in the far horizon; but lulled into such an opium-like listlessness of vacant, unconscious reverie is this absent-minded youth by the blending cadence of waves with thoughts, that at last he loses his identity; takes the mystic .. <p 157 > ocean at his feet for the visible image of that deep, blue, bottomless soul, pervading mankind and nature; and every strange, half-seen, gliding, beautiful thing that eludes him; every dimly-discovered, uprising fin of some undiscernible form, seems to him the embodiment of those elusive thoughts that only people the soul by continually flitting through it. In this enchanted mood, thy spirit ebbs away to whence it came; becomes diffused through time and space; like Cranmer's sprinkled Pantheistic ashes, forming at last a part of every shore the round globe over. There is no life in thee, now, except that rocking life imparted by a gently rolling


the triangle. This indicated that he wished to listen, but would not speak; and Piggy intended it as a gesture of disapproval. "The thing is: we need an assembly." No one said anything but the faces turned to Ralph were intent. He flourished the conch. He had learnt as a practical business that fundamental statements like this had to be said at least twice, before everyone understood them. One had to sit, attracting all eyes to the conch, and drop words like heavy round stones among the little groups that crouched or squatted. He was searching his mind for simple words so that even the littluns would understand what the assembly was about. Later perhaps, practiced debaters--Jack, Maurice, Piggy--would use their whole art to twist the meeting: but now at the beginning the subject of the debate must be laid out clearly. "We need an assembly. Not for fun. Not for laughing and falling off the log"--the group of littluns on the twister giggled and looked at each other--"not for making jokes, or for"--he lifted the conch in an effort to find the compelling word--"for cleverness. Not for these things. But to put things straight." He paused for a moment. "I've been alone. By myself I went, thinking what's what. I know what we need. An assembly to put things straight. And first of all, I'm speaking." He paused for a moment and automatically pushed back his hair. Piggy tiptoed to the triangle, his ineffectual protest made, and joined the others. Ralph went on. "We have lots of assemblies. Everybody enjoys speaking and being together. We decide things. But they don't get done. We were going to have water brought from the stream and left in those coconut shells under fresh leaves. So it was, for a few days. Now there's no water. The shells are dry. People drink from the river." There was a murmur of assent. "Not that there's anything wrong with drinking from the river. I mean I'd sooner have water from that place-- you know, the pool where the waterfall is--than out of an old coconut shell. Only we said we'd have the water brought. And now not. There were only two full shells there this afternoon." He licked his lips. "Then there's huts. Shelters." The murmur swelled again and died away. "You mostly sleep in shelters. Tonight, except for Samneric up by the fire, you'll all sleep there. Who built the shelters?" Clamor rose at once. Everyone had built the shelters. Ralph had to wave the conch once more. "Wait a minute! I mean, who built all three? We all built the first one, four of us the second one, and me 'n Simon built the last one over there. That's why it's so tottery. No. Don't laugh. That shelter might fall down if the rain comes back. We'll need those shelters then." He paused and cleared his throat. "There's another thing. We chose those rocks right along beyond the bathing pool as a lavatory. That was sensible too. The tide cleans the place up. You littluns


unless you need the input of a senior detective—in which case I’ll come in—you can assume neither of them needs to know anything you’re doing. You can lean on them to detail a rookie or two if you have scut work. But don’t waste time. I want you to bring me answers, not questions. Understood?” “What about paper?” “You mean warrants?” “And such.” “If you need one, you need one. There are sensitivities around this case, that’s why you’re here. We apply and see what happens.” I make a note not to ask if I don’t want to be told “no.” “Cal?” “Giles?” “Bring it in. Quiet as you can, but bring it in.” He locks eyes with me until I nod. Then he pushes the buzzer on his desk. “Brief him on the ballistics, please.” Felton’s voice says “Yes, sir.” He sounds as happy as I am. “He’s really going to be nice?” “Sure, Cal, he actually won a charm contest in Scotia last year. He’s going to make pikelets with conserve.” The shine on his sallow head says I’m dismissed. * * * — Felton, instead, tells me about ballistics and forensics for what feels like the better part of an hour, which he does to his credit with a minimum of bullshit. There are no prints on the gun except Roddy’s. The apartment has the usual load of assorted DNA traces, but all the analysis team can say for sure right now is that it has been visited by several humans and—until Felton explained about the aquarium—apparently also a cuttlefish. There are no crucially revealing follicles, secretions or giveaway boot prints. Felton’s nose looks like it hurts a lot. I ask a few questions. He answers them. I ask more, trying to sound as smart and respectful as possible, as professional. We are polite as hell. Finally: “Hey, Sounder?” “Yeah?” “She ever tase you like that?” “Oh, Musgrave?” “Yes fucking Musgrave. You got a list of other people who— Never mind, don’t answer that. But she ever—” “No, but we have history.” “I can work with you. I don’t have to like you. But how do I go in her office now?” “You just go in. She doesn’t care.” “I honestly thought she liked me.” “Probably does.” “How can you tell?” “It’s Musgrave. I don’t mean to be a pain in your ass, you know.” “Sure, you do.” “Okay, yeah, I kinda do. But it’s not personal.” “What you said back there that made me mad? I never realised it before, but Gratton made me think it through. It’s true, isn’t it? You’re the fall guy. You do okay with detective work—actually pretty good—but the reason you’re there is so cops don’t get fired over Titans.” “You coulda said it a little nicer, but yeah, that’s a big part of it.” “What’s another part of it?” “Very occasionally I get to stop something bad happening before it happens, rather than after.” “Well, that’s nice.” “Very occasionally.” “But other than that it’s a shitty job.” “Yeah.” “Why d’you do it?”


I am sure you are well able to understand me, as many older persons would be.' 'Oh, don't tell you are going to send me away, sir, pray!' exclaimed Oliver, alarmed at the serious tone of the old gentleman's commencement! 'Don't turn me out of doors to wander in the streets again. Let me stay here, and be a servant. Don't send me back to the wretched place I came from. Have mercy upon a poor boy, sir!' 'My dear child,' said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth of Oliver's sudden appeal; 'you need not be afraid of my deserting you, unless you give me cause.' 'I never, never will, sir,' interposed Oliver. 'I hope not,' rejoined the old gentleman. 'I do not think you ever will. I have been deceived, before, in the objects whom I have endeavoured to benefit; but I feel strongly disposed to trust you, nevertheless; and I am more interested in your behalf than I can well account for, even to myself. The persons on whom I have bestowed my dearest love, lie deep in their graves; but, although the happiness and delight of my life lie buried there too, I have not made a coffin of my heart, and sealed it up, forever, on my best affections. Deep affliction has but strengthened and refined them.' As the old gentleman said this in a low voice: more to himself than to his companion: and as he remained silent for a short time afterwards: Oliver sat quite still. 'Well, well!' said the old gentleman at length, in a more cheerful tone, 'I only say this, because you have a young heart; and knowing that I have suffered great pain and sorrow, you will be more careful, perhaps, not to wound me again. You say you are an orphan, without a friend in the world; all the inquiries I have been able to make, confirm the statement. Let me hear your story; where you come from; who brought you up; and how you got into the company in which I found you. Speak the truth, and you shall not be friendless while I live.' Oliver's sobs checked his utterance for some minutes; when he was on the point of beginning to relate how he had been brought up at the farm, and carried to the workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a peculiarly impatient little double-knock was heard at the street-door: and the servant, running upstairs, announced Mr. Grimwig. 'Is he coming up?' inquired Mr. Brownlow. 'Yes, sir,' replied the servant. 'He asked if there were any muffins in the house; and, when I told him yes, he said he had come to tea.' Mr. Brownlow smiled; and, turning to Oliver, said that Mr. Grimwig was an old friend of his, and he must not mind his being a little rough in his manners; for he was a worthy creature at bottom, as he had reason to know. 'Shall I go downstairs, sir?' inquired Oliver. 'No,' replied Mr. Brownlow, 'I would rather you remained here.' At this moment, there walked


my stomach across the dirt and dead leaves. After a few minutes, I have a clear view of the opening among the trees. It’s a large open airspace. A wooden platform in the shape of a crescent stands beneath a massive oak tree. It reminds me of an outdoor amphitheater. Opposite the stagelike platform are three tiers of wooden risers—seating for at least a hundred people. I press myself flat against the ground as Bezi crawls up beside me. “What is this place?” I ask. Bezi shrugs and sinks lower in the brush. We watch in complete silence for several long minutes. There is no movement, no sound, and after a while, I slowly stand up. “What are you doing?” Bezi whisper-yells. “Get down!” I’m only thinking about how much time we’ve already wasted by hiding in the bushes. Porter and Paige can’t wait around for us to work up the courage to find them. “Come on.” The flashlight stays off as I lead Bezi out of the brush and into the open space ahead. The path leads us right into it. The blazing torch casts a hazy orange glow all around. I scan the area again, listening. There’s no one here, but somebody had to have been, and recently. The torch snaps and crackles as the fire consumes the end of it. “Charity,” Bezi says, her voice nothing more than a whisper. “We shouldn’t be here. This is all wrong.” I climb onto the crescent-shaped platform and walk from one side to the other. The trunk of the giant oak that stands directly behind it is carved—a pattern of overlapping triangular eaves. The torchlight illuminates only the very bottom part of the tree, so I switch on my flashlight and swing the light up where a pair of shining black eyes stares back at me. I stumble back and Bezi gasps. The tree trunk has been carved into the likeness of a giant owl. It looms over us. Set in its eye sockets are polished black stones, and the firelight reflected in them gives them a lifelike appearance. Part of me wonders if it’s alive, if this is the figure Ms. Keane spoke of. I picture it opening its pointed beak, grasping me in its taloned claws. A shudder runs through my body, and as I step back to take in the entirety of the massive carving, my foot nearly slips out from under me. I steady myself and point my flashlight at the wooden planks beneath my sneakers. “It’s wet,” I say. “This whole area right here.” I crouch down and touch the damp planks, a watery substance coating my fingers, and as I examine it in the light, I’m almost 100 percent sure it’s blood that somebody has tried to clean up by flooding the area with water. “Look,” Bezi says. She’s got her light pointed at another path that snakes off the opposite side of the outdoor amphitheater. I wipe my hands on my jeans and march toward the path with Bezi at my heel. This pathway is


oars striking in unison at water. Every head on the ship turned. Bardholt placed a hand on the side. ‘Archers,’ he called. Along with half the seafarers, Regny nocked an arrow. ‘Steady.’ ‘Sire, what comes?’ a voice said. ‘Let us see.’ Bardholt narrowed his eyes. ‘It has been a long time since I last heard drums.’ Not drums, Wulf thought at first, but Bardholt would know better. After all, he had been to war. It could be the Ments. Perhaps even the Vatten. The wedding might have been their chance to lure Bardholt to the sea, where they were strong. Perhaps they were tired of being his stewards, and even an Yscali princess could not temper their ambition. With those possibilities loud in his head, Wulf looked into the fog, one hand on his sax. What emerged from that fog was no enemy ship. It came not from the water, but the sky. A dark bird of prey, soaring on the wind. A sea hawk, Wulf thought distantly – except its wings were wider than the ship was long. They sheared the waves. In those first moments of seeing it, as his mind grasped for a touchstone and his senses slowed to a trickle, he recalled tapestries, sanctuary windows, prayer books, and the monster that haunted their borders. Its eyes were firepits, each slashed with a pupil as black as its scales. Eyes both empty and ferociously alive. The beast loomed above the Conviction, held aloft by those dread wings. And Wulf remembered he was flesh. He was skin papered on sinew, wrapped around bone, sprouting nails and teeth and hair, and all of it could be consumed. The wyrm – for wyrm it was – did not utter a word. Instead, it opened its mouth wide, showing rows of teeth (Saint, save us, save us), and from its abyss of a throat, light rose. Bardholt did not baulk. Neither did the Queen of Inys. It could have been courage; it could have been the numbness of fear, a fright that stole the voice and bound the limbs. They never cried for mercy. Nor did they try to fight or flee. Instead, with their last breaths of life, the king and queen reached for each other. Wulf saw Bardholt move in front of Sabran, as if he had even a faint hope of saving her – saw the stark flash of his face, her long hair streaming in the wind – before the fire devoured them both. It did not stop at the prow. Though Wulf had no time to escape the red death, some instinct made him lunge for the mast, the only protection. He shouted as his cloak went up. Scarlet flame roared across the deck, sparks blistering his knuckles and nape, strokes of searing metal on his skin. The top of the mast crumbled away, and scraps of sail came loose, on fire. All was red. All was white, all was black. The screams of the dying shredded the air. Everywhere, they were burning, and he could smell the