fire Calpurnia. Jem said it might work if I cried and flung a fit, being young and a girl. That didn't work either. But when he noticed us dragging around the neighborhood, not eating, taking little interest in our normal pursuits, Atticus discovered how deeply frightened we were. He tempted Jem with a new football magazine one night; when he saw Jem flip the pages and toss it aside, he said, "What's bothering you, son?" Jem came to the point: "Mr. Ewell." "What has happened?" "Nothing's happened. We're scared for you, and we think you oughta do something about him." Atticus smiled wryly. "Do what? Put him under a peace bond?" "When a man says he's gonna get you, looks like he means it." "He meant it when he said it," said Atticus. "Jem, see if you can stand in Bob Ewell's shoes a minute. I destroyed his last shred of credibility at that trial, if he had any to begin with. The man had to have some kind of comeback, his kind always does. So if spitting in my face and threatening me saved Mayella Ewell one extra beating, that's something I'll gladly take. He had to take it out on somebody and I'd rather it be me than that houseful of children out there. You understand?" Jem nodded. Aunt Alexandra entered the room as Atticus was saying, "We don't have anything to fear from Bob Ewell, he got it all out of his system that morning." "I wouldn't be so sure of that, Atticus," she said. "His kind'd do anything to pay off a grudge. You know how those people are." "What on earth could Ewell do to me, sister?" "Something furtive," Aunt Alexandra said. "You may count on that." "Nobody has much chance to be furtive in Maycomb," Atticus answered. After that, we were not afraid. Summer was melting away, and we made the most of it. Atticus assured us that nothing would happen to Tom Robinson until the higher court reviewed his case, and that Tom had a good chance of going free, or at least of having a new trial. He was at Enfield Prison Farm, seventy miles away in Chester County. I asked Atticus if Tom's wife and children were allowed to visit him, but Atticus said no. "If he loses his appeal," I asked one evening, "what'll happen to him?" "He'll go to the chair," said Atticus, "unless the Governor commutes his sentence. Not time to worry yet, Scout. We've got a good chance." Jem was sprawled on the sofa reading Popular Mechanics. He looked up. "It ain't right. He didn't kill anybody even if he was guilty. He didn't take anybody's life." "You know rape's a capital offense in Alabama," said Atticus. "Yessir, but the jury didn't have to give him death- if they wanted to they could've gave him twenty years." "Given," said Atticus. "Tom Robinson's a colored man, Jem. No jury in this part of the world's going to say, 'We think you're guilty, but not very,' on a charge like that.


have a key. If her husband comes home—which he won’t—I’ll just say I was meeting Hazel. He’s not going to call the cops on me.” “What if he hurts you?” “He won’t,” I say quickly, though my mind flits to that soundproof room where Hazel has been abused and tortured. “I have to help her. He could seriously injure her. Or even kill her.” “You really care about her, don’t you?” My voice is husky. “Yeah, I do.” He sips his wine. “When are you doing this?” “Tomorrow.” “Christ.” He sets the glass on the coffee table. “Why so soon?” “When I saw her yesterday, she had a black eye.” Jesse winces, but I continue. “And she’s ready. She has her documents and cash.” I swallow. “She’s leaving money for me.” “Really?” He cocks an eyebrow. “How much?” “Fifty grand.” He lets out a low whistle. “That’s not why I’m doing it, though. Hazel has been a really good friend to me.” My only friend, I do not say. My only comfort, companionship, and support. “I know.” He squeezes my socked feet in his lap. “You’re a good person.” I am not a good person, but Jesse doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know that helping Hazel is an attempt to atone for past sins. The money is nice, I’d be a fool to turn it down, but this is about saving my friend. And it is about my karma. “It’s a lot of money,” he says. “She must be really rich.” “She is. Her husband’s a criminal lawyer.” “Promise me you’ll be careful.” “I’ll be careful.” He pulls me toward him for a kiss. It’s gentle at first, but as always, it escalates quickly. Ever since that night in the alley, Jesse’s hunger for me seems almost rabid. Our first night together had been tentative and tender, but as our relationship has developed, our sex life has become more… athletic. I’m fine with it. I enjoy it. But I can’t help but miss the tender, romantic lovemaking of that first time. “Let’s go to bed,” he growls in my ear. We get up off the couch, and I grab the canvas bag near my feet. In it, I have a toothbrush, some makeup, a clean T-shirt, and panties. I never know when Jesse will be waiting for me after a shift, when I’ll end up following him home in my car and spending the night. All my belongings are stuffed in the trunk, but I’ve taken to being prepared with my mini overnight bag. The sack feels suspiciously light, and I peer inside. My keys. I was sure I’d dropped them in here after I’d parked on the street. I root around in my belongings, but they’re not there. “What’s wrong?” Jesse asks, sidling up beside me. “I thought I put my keys in here.” He buries his face in my neck while his hands explore my body. “We can look for them after.” “I’d rather find them now.” I try to sound casual, but my voice is tight. I can’t admit


closed, almost catching his finger. Hap came up next to him, glaring at the door. It didn’t have a handle, and there didn’t seem to be a way to force it open. That didn’t stop Hap from banging a fist against it. “Maybe they’re closed,” Rambo said. “We could always come back tomorrow.” “They took the coin,” Nurse Ratched said. “We will not be able to get in without it.” “Through the front, then?” “Only Hap has a barcode. We don’t know what they will find if they scan it. It needs to be a last resort. Move to the side. I will see if I can—” A lock clicked, the sound startling all of them. Hap shoved Vic behind him, shoulders squared as his hands curled into fists. The screen on the door turned white. And then the door opened. Hap tensed as Vic stood on his tiptoes to look over his shoulder, pushing back the helmet as it tried to slide down his face. Even with all that he’d seen since leaving the safety of the forest, the machine that stepped out of Heaven still surprised Vic. He’d been sure the gatekeeper of the back entrance to Heaven would be a large monstrosity with blinking lights and many, many arms capable of crushing them all. Its face would be twisted and angry, demanding to know who they were, and what they thought they were doing. But the figure that came from Heaven wasn’t like that at all. It was a diminutive machine, only as tall as Hap’s chest. It looked human, its black hair slicked back over its head, its jawline severe, its eyes large. It wore a black suit, a thin tie down the middle of its chest. It cocked its head at them. In its hand, it held the coin. “Where did you get this?” it—he—asked, voice crisp, professional. “What’s it t-to you?” Hap growled. He twirled the coin. “This isn’t something I see very often, not these days. Tell me. Did you steal it? There are only a handful of machines you could have taken it from. If that’s the case, you should tell me now before I get … physical.” Hap snorted. “You? I’m b-bigger than you.” The man smiled, though his eyes remained oddly cold. Vic saw the hint of small teeth underneath. “So you are. However, I think you’ll find that you are extremely outmatched, even for a HARP.” Hap froze. His gaze flickered over Hap’s shoulder to Vic before returning to Hap. “I would ask why you felt the need to come here, but you don’t appear to be like any HARP I’ve met before.” He squinted at them, pursing his lips. “You have piqued my curiosity.” His smile faded into something harder. “That’s not necessarily a good thing. I am the Doorman of Heaven. I’m not to be trifled with. I’ll ask you one more time, HARP. Where did you get this coin?” “The Coachman,” Vic said before Hap could reply. “He gave it to us.” The Doorman didn’t react, blandly replying,


won’t suit my current purposes—there’s nothing there that I could turn into a sellable manuscript now. But they’ll remind me, whenever I need it, that writing didn’t used to be so miserable. God, I miss my high school days, when I could flip my notebook open to an empty page and see possibility instead of frustration. When I took real pleasure in stringing words and sentences together just to see how they sounded. When writing was an act of sheer imagination, of taking myself away somewhere else, of creating something that was only for me. I miss writing before I met Athena Liu. But enter professional publishing, and suddenly writing is a matter of professional jealousies, obscure marketing budgets, and advances that don’t measure up to those of your peers. Editors go in and mess around with your words, your vision. Marketing and publicity make you distill hundreds of pages of careful, nuanced reflection into cute, tweet-size talking points. Readers inflict their own expectations, not just on the story, but on your politics, your philosophy, your stance on all things ethical. You, not your writing, become the product—your looks, your wit, your quippy clapbacks and factional alignments with online beefs that no one in the real world gives a shit about. And once you’re writing for the market, it doesn’t matter what stories are burning inside you. It matters what audiences want to see, and no one cares about the inner musings of a plain, straight white girl from Philly. They want the new and exotic, the diverse, and if I want to stay afloat, that’s what I have to give them. MOM ORDERS DINNER FROM GREAT WALL, THE LOCAL CHINESE PLACE. “They’re new,” she informs me as I sit down. “Horrible service; I wouldn’t go back there in person. It took me three tries just to get some water. But delivery is fast, and I like their orange chicken.” She opens a carton of rice and sets it before me. “You like Chinese food, right?” I don’t have the heart to tell her that it was Rory who liked Chinese, and that Chinese food makes my stomach roil, especially now, since that horrible club meeting in Rockville. “Yeah, it’s fine.” “I got you the Triple Buddha. Are you still vegetarian?” “Oh, only sort of, but that’s fine.” I split my chopsticks open. “Thanks.” Mom, nodding, spoons some pork fried rice onto her plate and begins to eat. We don’t talk much. It’s always been like this between us—either placid silence, or vicious fighting. There’s no casual in-between, no common interests we can shoot the shit about. Whatever wildness Mom once possessed seems to have evaporated back in the eighties, when she was smoking pot and following bands around and naming her children things like Juniper Song and Aurora Whisper. She went back to work after Dad died, and since then has molded herself entirely into the American ideal of a working single mother: perfect attendance at her office job, perfect attendance at our parent-teacher meetings, just enough savings to put Rory


observed, came from our stock, and I could see the ern shoulder of the Spy-glass and rising again towards the truth of Silver’s words the night before. Had he not struck a south into the rough, cliffy eminence called the Mizzen-mast bargain with the doctor, he and his mutineers, deserted by Hill. The top of the plateau was dotted thickly with pine- the ship, must have been driven to subsist on clear water and trees of varying height. Every here and there, one of a differ- the proceeds of their hunting. Water would have been little ent species rose forty or fifty feet clear above its neighbours, to their taste; a sailor is not usually a good shot; and besides and which of these was the particular “tall tree” of Captain all that, when they were so short of eatables, it was not likely Flint could only be decided on the spot, and by the readings they would be very flush of powder. of the compass. Contents Well, thus equipped, we all set out—even the fellow with Yet, although that was the case, every man on board the the broken head, who should certainly have kept in shadow— boats had picked a favourite of his own ere we were half-way Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 262 263 over, Long John alone shrugging his shoulders and bidding We had thus proceeded for about half a mile and were them wait till they were there. approaching the brow of the plateau when the man upon the We pulled easily, by Silver’s directions, not to weary the farthest left began to cry aloud, as if in terror. Shout after hands prematurely, and after quite a long passage, landed at shout came from him, and the others began to run in his the mouth of the second river—that which runs down a woody direction. cleft of the Spy-glass. Thence, bending to our left, we began “He can’t ‘a found the treasure,” said old Morgan, hurry- to ascend the slope towards the plateau. ing past us from the right, “for that’s clean a-top.” At the first outset, heavy, miry ground and a matted, Indeed, as we found when we also reached the spot, it was marish vegetation greatly delayed our progress; but by little something very different. At the foot of a pretty big pine and little the hill began to steepen and become stony under and involved in a green creeper, which had even partly lifted foot, and the wood to change its character and to grow in a some of the smaller bones, a human skeleton lay, with a few more open order. It was, indeed, a most pleasant portion of shreds of clothing, on the ground. I believe a chill struck for the island that we were now approaching. A heavy-scented a moment to every heart. broom and many flowering shrubs had almost taken the place “He was a seaman,” said George Merry, who, bolder than of grass. Thickets of green nutmeg-trees were dotted here the rest, had gone up close and was examining


jump. It was only . . . I was just telephoning to Mathis. To Mathis,' she repeated. 'I wondered if he could get me another frock. You know, from that girl-friend I told you about. The vendeuse. You see,' she talked quickly, her words coming out in a persuasive jumble, 'I've really got nothing to wear. I thought I'd catch him at home before he went to the office. I don't know my friend's telephone number and I thought it would be a surprise for you. I didn't want you to hear me moving and wake you up. Is the water nice? Have you bathed? You ought to have waited for me.' 'It's wonderful,' said Bond, deciding to relieve her mind, though irritated with her obvious guilt over this childish mystery. 'You must go in and we'll have breakfast on the terrace. I'm ravenous. I'm sorry I made you jump. I was just startled to see anyone about at this hour of the morning.' He put his arm round her, but she disengaged herself, and moved quickly on up the stairs. 'It was such a surprise to see you,' she said, trying to cover the incident up with a light touch. 'You looked like a ghost, a drowned man, with the hair down over your eyes like that.' She laughed harshly. Hearing the harshness, she turned the laugh into a cough. 'I hope I haven't caught cold,' she said. She kept on patching up the edifice of her deceit until Bond wanted to spank her and tell her to relax and tell the truth. Instead he just gave her a reassuring pat on the back outside her room and told her to hurry up and have her bathe. Then he went on to his room. * That was the end of the integrity of their love. The succeeding days were a shambles of falseness and hypocrisy, mingled with her tears and moments of animal passion to which she abandoned herself with a greed made indecent by the hollowness of their days. Several times Bond tried to break down the dreadful walls of mistrust. Again and again he brought up the subject of the telephone call, but she obstinately bolstered up her story with embellishments which Bond knew she had thought out afterwards. She even accused Bond of thinking she had another lover. These scenes always ended in her bitter tears and in moments almost of hysteria. Each day the atmosphere became more hateful. It seemed fantastic to Bond that human relationships could collapse into dust overnight and he searched his mind again and again for a reason. He felt that Vesper was just as horrified as he was and, if anything, her misery seemed greater than his. But the mystery of the telephone conversation which Vesper angrily, almost fearfully it seemed to Bond, refused to explain was a shadow which grew darker with other small mysteries and reticences. Already at luncheon on that day things got worse. After a breakfast which was an effort for both of them, Vesper said she had


the throat. “Well, he’s a lot more selfless than I am.” “No.” Hallie shook her head. “He’s just in a better position to help at this moment.” “I would help if they asked. If I thought they wanted my help—” She cut herself off with a wave of her hand, forcing a smile. “I appreciate your offer to help, crazy pants. I accept. I will feed your need for chaos as long as you keep my secret among family.” Hallie closed her eyes slowly, hands pressing together between her breasts. “Thank you. I hereby declare myself your secret minion.” “Just don’t ask me to call you that.” Natalie switched off the coffee maker and sauntered toward the hallway, half a cup in hand. Before exiting, she stopped in front of Hallie, who was all but quivering in excitement. “My brother has no idea what he’s gotten into, does he?” “Actually, he does.” The gardener’s eyes sparkled. “He’s fully aware that I’m capable of destruction and he loves me anyway. Maybe he’s the crazy one.” “Maybe so,” Natalie muttered, shaking her head. “I’ve mentioned I like you, haven’t I?” “I like you, too.” Hallie winked and melted back into the darkness, whispering, “Let’s fuck shit up,” as she vanished into the black. Natalie stared into the dark for long moments, guilt beginning to tickle her throat. Now she’d dragged her entire family and Hallie into her scheme? Was this going to be the lie that multiplied into a thousand more, when the whole charade could potentially be avoided with one humbling phone call to her father in Italy? Yeah. Her head fell back on her shoulders, a silent groan issued at the ceiling. One phone call. She could do it. Preferably before she did any more damage—or implicated any more loved ones. But man, was it going to suck. * * * Natalie doodled furiously on a notepad, dragging the tip of the ballpoint pen back and forth in a blue trench that slowly turned black. In her ear, the sound of a call connecting to Europe buzz-buzzed. She broke out in a cold sweat, glanced at the clock, and did the time-difference math again. Eight hours ahead in Italy. It would be early evening. She had no idea what her father’s schedule was like, no idea if this was still his phone number, even. But she didn’t want to look back in ten years and wish she’d made this attempt to avert catastrophe. “Hello.” Brisk. Gave nothing away. That was her father. God, there was no one on earth more intimidating, and she’d come across some giants while in finance. Dalton Vos had judgmental eyes and no time. Always rushing, on to the next best thing, as if he had a fear of leaving the world without putting his mark on it. He’d been frantic in his desire for his to be the most lucrative winery in Napa. As soon as that was accomplished, he’d gotten . . . bored. With St. Helena. His family. The fire four years ago seemed almost


June could go? I hate missing school pickup, but there’s somewhere I need to be.” He nods and I walk down the porch steps, turning back to him. “You have your key, right?” He nods and smiles again. “How about I make dinner?” “You can do that?” He laughs, but I’m kind of serious. I’ve underestimated him. But maybe I’ve underestimated myself too. As I begin walking down the sidewalk, I realize that no matter what Lanier said, she deserves to know the truth. Even though she broke my heart, I couldn’t live with myself if I willingly broke hers. It feels impossible to face her. But hard things are something we know. Hard things are what best friends do. Some friends swear that they will walk through fire for each other. Lanier actually has. Lanier ACCORDING TO EMILY POST I HAD PICTURED THE DAY my wedding invitations would go out about a thousand times. I know. So lame. But I had always imagined that Daphne and I would make some big to-do about the whole thing because no one could make even the most mundane things feel as fun as Daphne. But Daphne wasn’t here. Because I had ruined her life. Again. Mom, Bryce, and I were standing at the front of the store. Customers were milling in and out, and I was enthusiastically, heartily, waiting on them because it bought us some time, a few more minutes where I could at least pretend that Daphne was going to come. I don’t know why I hoped she’d show up. I still hadn’t apologized. After the last customer was checked out, Mom turned to us. “Well, kids, I think it’s time to pop the champagne!” She was trying to be cheery, but it felt forced. “Okay, Mom, fine. Just say it. The afternoon is ruined because Daphne isn’t here and it’s all my fault.” She looked taken aback. “Um, I’m just standing here popping champagne thinking about this big moment, not Daphne.” I rolled my eyes and leaned against the counter. “Fine. I don’t know if I can do this without her.” “Honey,” Bryce chimed in, rubbing my shoulder. “Our wedding is about us, you and me. We are taking the first step toward our happy ending today, and whether Daphne is here or not, it’s going to be extraordinary.” He was being so sweet. Guilt welled up in me again. I had texted Rich to say I was sorry. No response. That kind of irked me, because he knew I was engaged. I mean, yes, I was perhaps a little more affirmative about the unraveling of the engagement than I should have been. But still, it’s not like I’d been pretending I was single. And I’d meant what I said in the sailing hut: I’d never loved anyone like I loved him. But then Bryce apologized and he was so great when we got back home, and… This was just cold feet, right? Wasn’t that what was really behind this whole freak-out about Daphne not being here? “We can wait,” Mom


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

the woodcutter’s wife had taken the woodcutter’s money in secret and gambled it away, the cat had chased her out of the house. And every time the woodcutter had gone into the woods, the cat had protected him from the tall ones, muffling their song with its purring. But now the cat was dead, and it could no longer protect him. The woodcutter was never heard from again. Though the faerie tree still stands, the path that is sometimes there and sometimes not has closed to mortals, and it may never be found again. The Tree’s Bones A successful whaler lived alone at the edge of a bay. Much of his success came from his fjolskylda,[*] who had sworn to protect him from the tall ones and other wicked faeries in exchange for habitation of his house during the new moon. The whaler found this an advantageous bargain, for he needed to travel to town once a month anyway to sell his catch. The whaler’s path into town ran through a forest inhabited by a great many Folk, who never gave him a lick of trouble. One day, though, as he neared the halfway point of his journey, he came upon a strange white wolf, larger than any he had ever seen, standing in his path. The wolf gave a howl, and more wolves appeared, each one larger than the last. Terrified, the whaler mounted his horse and fled back home. He was so afraid that he forgot all about his bargain with his fjolskylda and ran inside just as they were sitting down to dinner at his table. Instantly, the faeries vanished. From the shadows, a voice scolded him: “Never again will we dine here, and never again will you have our protection. You need not have run from the wolves, and thus you have betrayed us twice over—in distrusting our promise to you, and interrupting a fine banquet.” The whaler cursed his mistake. He delayed his next visit into town, and delayed it again, until he had to choose between taking the forest path and starvation. So, he set off along the path, full of weariness and worry, and sure enough, as he neared the halfway point, he met the white wolves again. This time, they chased him into the forest along a faerie path until they came to a huge tree. Its bark was as white as the wolves, and it was fat with blossoms and green leaves, though it was then nearing the start of winter. The whaler gave a cry. Hanging from the branches was a gruesome assembly of corpses—the skeletons of other travellers, as well as animals and birds. The wolves threw off their wolf skins, revealing themselves as Folk, and commanded the whaler to bring them the bones of his next catch. The whaler went away weeping. He knew that the faeries must have some terrible reason for what they were doing, but without his fjolskylda, he was powerless to deny them. The next month, he brought them the bones of three whales. The faeries


other card he would be defeated. The odds were on Bond's side, but now it was Le Chiffre who looked across into Bond's eyes and hardly glanced at the card as he flicked it face upwards on the table. It was, unnecessarily, the best, a four, giving the bank a count of nine. He had won, almost slowing up. Bond was beaten and cleaned out. CHAPTER 12 - THE DEADLY TUBE Bond sat silent, frozen with defeat. He opened his wide black case and took out a cigarette. He snapped open the tiny jaws of the Ronson and lit the cigarette and put the lighter back on the table. He took a deep lungful of smoke and expelled it between his teeth with a faint hiss. What now? Back to the hotel and bed, avoiding the commiserating eyes of Mathis and Leiter and Vesper. Back to the telephone call to London, and then tomorrow the plane home, the taxi up to Regent's Park, the walk up the stairs and along the corridor, and M's cold face across the table, his forced sympathy, his 'better luck next time' and, of course, there couldn't be one, not another chance like this. He looked round the table and up at the spectators. Few were looking at him. They were waiting while the croupier counted the money and piled up the chips in a neat stack in front of the banker, waiting to see if anyone would conceivably challenge this huge bank of thirty-two million Francs, this wonderful run of banker's luck. Leiter had vanished, not wishing to look Bond in the eye after the knock-out, he supposed. Yet Vesper looked curiously unmoved, she gave him a smile of encouragement. But then, Bond reflected, she knew nothing of the game. Had no notion, probably, of the bitterness of his defeat. The huissier was coming towards Bond inside the rail. He stopped beside him. Bent over him. Placed a squat envelope beside Bond on the table. It was as thick as a dictionary. Said something about the caisse. Moved away again. Bond's heart thumped. He took the heavy anonymous envelope below the level of the table and slit it open with his thumbnail, noticing that the gum was still wet on the flap. Unbelieving and yet knowing it was true, he felt the broad wads of notes. He slipped them into his pockets, retaining the half-sheet of note-paper which was pinned to the topmost of them. He glanced at it in the shadow below the table. There was one line of writing in ink: 'Marshall Aid. Thirty-two million francs. With the compliments of the USA.' Bond swallowed. He looked over towards Vesper. Felix Leiter was again standing beside her. He grinned slightly and Bond smiled back and raised his hand from the table in a small gesture of benediction. Then he set his mind to sweeping away all traces of the sense of complete defeat which had swamped him a few minutes before. This was a reprieve, but only a reprieve. There could be no more miracles.


Mr. Watson swept into the room. To Philip he seemed gigantic. He was a man of over six feet high, and broad, with enormous hands and a great red beard; he talked loudly in a Jovial manner; but his aggressive cheerfulness struck terror in Philip's heart. He shook hands with Mr. Carey, and then took Philip's small hand in his. "Well, young fellow, are you glad to come to school?" he shouted. Philip reddened and found no word to answer. "How old are you?" "Nine," said Philip. "You must say sir," said his uncle. "I expect you've got a good lot to learn," the headmaster bellowed cheerily. To give the boy confidence he began to tickle him with rough fingers. Philip, feeling shy and uncomfortable, squirmed under his touch. "I've put him in the small dormitory for the present.... You'll like that, won't you?" he added to Philip. "Only eight of you in there. You won't feel so strange." Then the door opened, and Mrs. Watson came in. She was a dark woman with black hair, neatly parted in the middle. She had curiously thick lips and a small round nose. Her eyes were large and black. There was a singular coldness in her appearance. She seldom spoke and smiled more seldom still. Her husband introduced Mr. Carey to her, and then gave Philip a friendly push towards her. "This is a new boy, Helen, His name's Carey." Without a word she shook hands with Philip and then sat down, not speaking, while the headmaster asked Mr. Carey how much Philip knew and what books he had been working with. The Vicar of Blackstable was a little embarrassed by Mr. Watson's boisterous heartiness, and in a moment or two got up. "I think I'd better leave Philip with you now." "That's all right," said Mr. Watson. "He'll be safe with me. He'll get on like a house on fire. Won't you, young fellow?" Without waiting for an answer from Philip the big man burst into a great bellow of laughter. Mr. Carey kissed Philip on the forehead and went away. "Come along, young fellow," shouted Mr. Watson. "I'll show you the school-room." He swept out of the drawing-room with giant strides, and Philip hurriedly limped behind him. He was taken into a long, bare room with two tables that ran along its whole length; on each side of them were wooden forms. "Nobody much here yet," said Mr. Watson. "I'll Just show you the playground, and then I'll leave you to shift for yourself." Mr. Watson led the way. Philip found himself in a large play-ground with high brick walls on three sides of it. On the fourth side was an iron railing through which you saw a vast lawn and beyond this some of the buildings of King's School. One small boy was wandering disconsolately, kicking up the gravel as he walked. "Hulloa, Venning," shouted Mr. Watson. "When did you turn up?" The small boy came forward and shook hands. "Here's a new boy. He's older and bigger than you, so


Lucy asked, trying not to picture the man dragging her from a coach in the middle of nowhere. She failed, and the thought made her shudder again. Rebecca shrugged. “I didn’t hear anything about that, but . . . you know Mr. Granger. What he wants, he gets.” As much as Lucy wanted to disregard that thought, she couldn’t find an argument. Yes, he had remained within propriety over the years, but that had been when she was employed in his brother’s house. In his business boastings, he had made it clear he was a man who didn’t often take no for an answer. If she finally found her way to the Winthrops’ home, would he be there waiting for her? “Are you sure?” she whispered. Rebecca nodded. “Robert Granger and his wife are decent people, but his brother . . . none of us belowstairs liked him. Us maids, in particular. He always looked at us like . . .” Lucy didn’t want to know how he looked at them; she had been on the receiving end of plenty of his looks, and she didn’t like it at all. “What am I to do?” she asked. “Without a recommendation, finding employment anywhere else will be difficult, if not impossible. You know that.” Rebecca took hold of her hand. “We can stay here a while longer.” Jaw dropping, Lucy tore her hand free. “We can’t—” “Only until Mr. Granger has tried finding you, as I know he will. It shouldn’t take him more than a day or two to arrive at the Winthrops’ and find you missing. Then he’ll move on.” “But—” “Where else can you go?” As harsh as the question sounded, Lucy knew it was a good one. Rebecca knew well the difficulties of living without money, and seeing as Lucy had little, she couldn’t afford a journey of any considerable length. Remaining nearby without some sort of place to hide, like here with the Calloways, would make it easier for Mr. Granger to find her. She didn’t want to believe she was in as much danger as Rebecca said she was, but she had little proof to back an argument. She had never felt safe around Mr. Granger. But could she really lie to this family? They had been so kind to her so far, and perhaps if she told them the truth, they might help her. As if she knew what Lucy was thinking, Rebecca shook her head. “I don’t think you can tell them, miss. Everyone downstairs says the Calloways don’t like trouble; they’d sooner throw you out than get mixed up with something of this sort.” Well, that couldn’t possibly be true, but Lucy didn’t know the family well enough to say with confidence how they might react if she told them she was being pursued, particularly because she would have to admit to her lie in doing so. What reason would they have to trust her at that point? They didn’t have any reason now, and surely Lord Calloway would care more about his family’s


and mud-crusted boots and then crossed her legs. Her right side felt stiff and swollen; she should ask Amos for bandages and medicine. She began massaging the tender flesh between her ribs, pain and relief rocking through her in waves. After a long time, Ava spoke again. “The Initiative is just the kind of equality moonshine Thais usually falls for. It wouldn’t be the first time she got a little too caught up in ‘the cause’ and didn’t see the truth of the people surrounding her.” The two sisters gazed at each other, the silence filled with shared memories: Malena Silnova, a sweet-talking artist who had hired Thais as a personal assistant, then convinced her to weave threads of loyalty between her and gallery owners; Thomas Mutton, a charming con man who set up a pyramid scheme around exploiting other-born powers for freelance jobs. “She can’t possibly know the truth about him,” Ava said, “and those murders.” “I never said she did!” Gods, did Ava think that Io was an actual villain? “You know,” Ava continued, unfazed, “I’ve been thinking that’s why she left two years ago. She signed up for another grand movement, was afraid we would try and stop her, so she snuck out. And when I kept following her thread, tracking her across the Wastelands, I was probably threatening to wreck her mission, and that’s why she left that note.” Leave me alone. Haven’t you done enough? “Maybe it was Saint-Yves who convinced her to leave in the first place,” Ava said raptly. “He used to visit Alante all the time when he was a prosecutor.” “Maybe,” Io whispered, trying not to squirm. Her instinct told her to bolt for the door, this conversation barking at her heels. She remembered the day Ava had come back to Alante, wearing one of those old-timey plastic raincoats, hued from top to bottom in orange. Dust clouds had stormed up from the south, and auburn rain coated the entire Neraida Plains. The note, however, was pristine white, folded neatly in Ava’s bralette. She’s not coming back, Ava had said before locking herself in her room for the rest of the week. And Io . . . she had read Thais’s note, and she had been relieved. How could she ever tell Ava that? She cleared her throat. “Whatever is happening, we need to warn Thais. Edei won’t tell Bianca who she is, but Nico and Chimdi heard her last name onstage, too. Eventually, they’ll put two and two together.” The Ora legacy: a death mark. Ava was shaking her head. “Bianca wouldn’t go after my sister.” “She had no issue going after me,” Io said through her clenched jaw. “But ultimately, she let you go. Thais is from the Silts, and Bianca has spent her life protecting the Silts.” Io scoffed. “Doesn’t look like it from where I’m standing. A series of women from the Silts are being turned into monsters and then slain—and she just told me to leave it be.” “Perhaps you should.” Io started. “You can’t be serious.” “Finally,


Edei: sooner or later, you will need to cast off your morals and fight with your damned fists.” Then, with no warning whatsoever, Bianca tossed her hand at Edei, and the red mist swallowed him out of Io’s sight. “Edei!” Io screamed. All around her, the blood picked up speed, hiding everything else from sight. And Io felt, in her chest, something ripping. Like a ship’s sail against a gale or a page snatched from a book. Like a life-thread severing. “I told you, little cutter,” Bianca hissed, “what happens to crowing roosters.” Their larynxes torn out to hang like a chicken’s wattle. Desperately, Io swiped at Bianca with a fist, but the woman was faster. Bianca maneuvered her arms behind her back; the red plumed brighter, coming for Io’s face. Io felt—Io knew—this was it. Bianca would force that blood-red wind inside her lungs and use her as a serrated knife. Was this how the wraiths had been made? Death poured in their chests, little by little, until they screamed for release? Their remnants manipulated like the strings of a puppet to do Bianca’s bidding? Bianca’s killing? The particles sneaked into Io’s nostrils, her mouth, her eyes. A freezing cold, a hand on her cheek, a scream—Io was jerked awake. * * * The giant, round bed was drenched. Drops lingered on Io’s skin and hair as she came upright, gasping for air. Her robe had opened, the wet nightgown sticking to her chest. Rosa was standing over the bed, a pitcher hanging empty in one hand. The moment she noticed Io’s eyes were open, she breathed a sigh of relief, dragged Io up, and backed them both against the wall. Her eyes bulged with fear. Room number eight of the Mister Hypnos dream palace was in chaos. Officers were coming in, pointing their guns at Io and Rosa first, then at the struggling bodies on the bed. Three figures wrestled on the silk coverlets: Edei, Bianca, and . . . Aris Lefteriou. Next to Io, her friend was shaking uncontrollably. “Rosa, are you all right?” “He—gods.” Rosa was trembling. “He barged in, forced me to put him in Bianca’s dream. I don’t know what you guys were seeing, but moments after he joined you, you all started convulsing, eyes rolling back. I couldn’t wake you. I had to—” She raised the pitcher. She had to jolt them awake with the freezing water. “Lefteriou woke first and gave out some call. I guess the other cops must have been waiting in the corridor outside the room, because next thing I knew they were breaking down the door and—shit!” Io glimpsed the shimmer of a gun raised to the ceiling. A shot followed, cracking through their skulls. Everyone in the room froze, Edei and Aris and Bianca in a tangled mess on the bed. At the door stood Luc Saint-Yves, his arm still raised. A lit cigar hung from his mouth, curling smoke into the room. The Police Commissioner’s gaze slid to Io. “We had an inkling you might be planning something,


floor quickly. Loud banging noises filled the chamber. “Without objection, the chair declares the House in recess,” the presiding officer announced hastily, banging the gavel. The live feed was cut. I switched back to CNN. Barely focusing on the road, I watched as the mob swarmed into the U.S. Capitol Building. * * * That night, a curfew was imposed across the nation’s capital. I returned from Virginia as everything began to shut down. The TSCM sweep found nothing unusual in my car, so I parked it back at the apartment and quickly ran to the grocery before the stores closed. The streets were empty of people, like the desolate European boulevards you see in war movies. Instead Washington was filled with haunting sounds. Screeching tires in the distance. Helicopters. The guttural howling of the Earth, as cold wind took over the roadways. Much as I’d done on 9/11, I rewatched the footage when I got home and saw new pictures. The scene on the House floor was horrifying. Plainclothes officers with earpieces had scurried to move furniture—a desk and benches—in front of the main entrance, creating a makeshift barricade as legislators and staff were rushed to the exits. “The whole country hates you! We hate you!” voices yelled from beyond the doors. The sound of broken windowpanes signaled a partial breach. A half-dozen officers in suits drew their pistols and aimed at the entrance, as would-be intruders peered through jagged glass. From the gallery, a photographer snapped a photo of the moment that defined the whole day. I squinted at the computer screen. Was that what I thought it was? Something unusual about the scene caught my eye. There was a person I wanted to see about the image. I reached out, and he agreed to dinner the following night. Hannah worked on Capitol Hill. In the emotional aftermath—of her friends and colleagues sheltering in place and fearing for their lives—she was on the verge of quitting. This wasn’t a protest gone wrong, which is what her boss was already saying. The Republican Party she worked for had instigated it by promoting Trump’s lies, right up until the moment the barbarians were at the gates. “I hope people finally realize this is more than the president,” she said. “Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s not over. I feel like this is just beginning somehow.” “You should say that.” “How do you mean?” “Like you should get back out there, publicly.” I told Hannah I’d been wrestling with it. Earlier in the day, my friend Evan McMullin—the former GOP official who’d been opposing Trump since the very beginning—called to urge me to “stay in the fight.” “There will be a time to retreat to the private sector,” he said. “It’s not now.” Evan put a proposal on the table. He wanted me to consider joining his nonprofit organization, which was focused on reducing political extremism. Specifically, he was looking at ways to counter MAGA forces after the president left the White House. I was torn. Entering the fray again would be triggering, resurfacing the


amazing family. I have Lanier. So losing her would be like losing everything and everyone.” He wraps me in a hug. “You have me, Daphne,” he whispers. “You always have.” He pulls back and kisses me. “You are all I care about. I’m not going to lose you again.” I look up into his sad eyes, and I start to feel that same thing I have always felt for him. And I realize: As much as I’m trying to deny it, I’ve already made my decision. “We’ll wait to tell Lanier?” I whisper. He nods. “As long as you want.” He kisses me, and despite how things ended last time, I know—have always known—that we belong to each other. Like sand and the ocean. Like flowers and the soil. Like songbirds and the sky. * * * Huff and I stagger our times leaving the bathroom. After he leaves, I fix my hair in the mirror, reapply gloss to my swollen lips. All the while, I’m smiling. I can’t wipe the huge, Huff-imposed grin off my face. When I pass Bryce walking through the front hallway, I can’t even be ruffled because I am so filled with this wonderful feeling. I glide outside to the patio to stand next to June. Do I look different? Can everyone see how finding where I’m supposed to be—and who I’m supposed to be with—has changed me? The beautiful, and, well, a little sweaty bride throws her arms around June and me. I can tell she is tipsy. As we watch people start to clear out, she focuses her attention on Bryce, who is schmoozing some cute waitress a few steps down on the pool deck. I want to throw my glass at him. “I just don’t think he’s right for her,” Mary Stuart says abruptly, gaze slightly unfocused. Then she gasps, as if realizing she didn’t mean to say that out loud. Sometimes I underestimate Mary Stuart. She is tall with this long blond hair that always falls perfectly into place and these adorable bangs that perfectly frame her face. This glittering life force—half Zen master, half golden retriever—surrounds her. She is one of those people who just makes everything better. She is the go-to publicist for local celebs: authors, up-and-coming bands, famous chefs. And, I’m seeing now, she’s a better judge of character than I am. “Really?” June asks. “Why?” Mary Stuart shakes her head. “I shouldn’t say this, but I just worry. I’ve always felt like he’s distracting her or something. Whisking her away on all those fancy trips and building her that amazing house and I don’t know…” “Yes, what a jerk,” June says, rolling her eyes at me. I shrug, but I soften toward him then. Because while, yes, I do think Bryce is trying to make Lanier happy, I also think he’s underestimated his fiancée. Lanier’s happiest moments are in her tiny condo with her book and her tea. For him to think he has to impress her with big displays makes me realize he doesn’t know her as well


is time we stopped killing off our best men and started killing our real enemies -- the Harkonnens!" In one blurred motion, Stilgar had his crysknife out and pointed over the heads of the throng. "Long live Duke Paul-Muad'Dib!" he shouted. A deafening roar filled the cavern, echoed and re-echoed. They were cheering and chanting: "Ya hya chouhada! Muad'Dib! Muad'Dib! Muad'Dib! Ya hya chouhada!" Jessica translated it to herself: "Long live the fighters of Muad'Dib!" The scene she and Paul and Stilgar had cooked up between them had worked as they'd planned. The tumult died slowly. When silence was restored, Paul faced Stilgar, said: "Kneel, Stilgar." Stilgar dropped to his knees on the ledge. "Hand me your crysknife," Paul said. Stilgar obeyed. This was not as we planned it, Jessica thought. "Repeat after me, Stilgar," Paul said, and he called up the words of investiture as he had heard his own father use them. "I, Stilgar, take this knife from the hands of my Duke." "I, Stilgar, take this knife from the hands of my Duke," Stilgar said, and accepted the milky blade from Paul. "Where my Duke commands, there shall I place this blade," Paul said. Stilgar repeated the words, speaking slowly and solemnly. Remembering the source of the rite, Jessica blinked back tears, shook her head. I know the reasons for this, she thought. I shouldn't let it stir me. "I dedicate this blade to the cause of my Duke and the death of his enemies for as long as our blood shall flow," Paul said. Stilgar repeated it after him. "Kiss the blade," Paul ordered. Stilgar obeyed, then, in the Fremen manner, kissed Paul's knife arm. At a nod from Paul, he sheathed the blade, got to his feet. A sighing whisper of awe passed through the crowd, and Jessica heard the words: "The prophecy -- A Bene Gesserit shall show the way and a Reverend Mother shall see it." And, from farther away: "She shows us through her son!" "Stilgar leads this tribe," Paul said. "Let no man mistake that. He commands with my voice. What he tells you, it is as though I told you." Wise, Jessica thought. The tribal commander must lose no face among those who should obey him. Paul lowered his voice, said: "Stilgar, I want sandwalkers out this night and cielagos sent to summon a Council Gathering. When you've sent them, bring Chatt, Korba and Otheym and two other lieutenants of your own choosing. Bring them to my quarters for battle planning. We must have a victory to show the Council of Leaders when they arrive." Paul nodded for his mother to accompany him, led the way down off the ledge and through the throng toward the central passage and the living chambers that had been prepared there. As Paul pressed through the crowd, hands reached out to touch him. Voices called out to him. "My knife goes where Stilgar commands it, Paul-Muad'Dib! Let us fight soon, Paul-Muad'Dib! Let us wet our world with the blood of Harkonnens!" Feeling the emotions of the


only get one bar. “Office,” the voice says. “Office . . . office phone.” The call drops. Bezi glances at me. “Who was it?” “I’m not sure. I think they wanted me to go to the office phone. Everybody stay here.” I glance at Tasha and then at Javier. “Especially you two.” Tasha grins, and Javier leans back in the recliner and puts up his feet. I jog down Path #1, past the boathouse and the campfire site. The lake is murky in the light of day, and I turn away from it as I pass by. I can hear the phone inside the main office ringing before I get inside. I race up the steps and get the door open just as the ringing stops. I snatch up the receiver, pressing it to my ear. “Hello?” The sound of the dial tone greets me, and I set the receiver back down. I check my cell phone again. Still only one bar and even that keeps appearing and disappearing. The office phone rings again, and I scramble to grab it before whoever it is hangs up. “Hello?” “Charity,” a rough voice answers. “You hear me?” Now that the connection is clear, I know exactly who it is . . . Mr. Lamont. “Hey, boss,” I say. “Sheriff Lillard called me. Says you were making trouble.” “Excuse me?” A little stab of anger courses through me. “Sheriff Lillard is an asshole. Some woman came up here with a gun and was threatening me and the guests. I wanna know how that makes me the bad guy?” Mr. Lamont sighs into the phone. “He told me what happened. He and I have never seen eye to eye. I’m not surprised he’s blaming you for it.” “Sheriff Lillard says the woman lives close by. I didn’t know there was anybody that close—did you?” “No. And I think I would have noticed if somebody was that close. She’s never come around before.” There’s a long pause. “Charity, listen to me. I need you to shut everything down up there.” “I am,” I say. “I invited some friends up to help me because Felix, Jordan, and Heather are no-shows. We’ll have everything locked up and shut down in a few days.” “No,” he says gruffly. “I mean right now. No final game tonight, Charity. Shut it down until I figure out how to handle this.” “What?” My heart sinks. I really want my shot at being the final girl in the last game. I’ve been looking forward to it all season. “What do you mean? We’re shutting it down because some crazy old lady showed up here?” Mr. Lamont grumbles something unintelligible into the phone before continuing. “The sheriff is not so subtly hinting that I could be sued.” “For what?” I ask, anger bubbling up. “We have waivers in place so people can’t sue us.” “This woman wasn’t a guest,” Mr. Lamont says. “I don’t know if I believe what Sheriff Lillard is saying, but he’s made it clear that he doesn’t mind making things difficult


Marko went away, did some research, came back to me and said: Lesotho.

Never heard of it, I confessed.

He educated me. Landlocked country. Lovely country. Bordering South

Africa. Lots of need, loads of work to be done.

I was overjoyed. A plan—at last.

Soon after, I visited Henners. A weekend in Edinburgh. Autumn 2002.

We went to a restaurant and I told him all about it. Good for you, Haz! He

was taking a gap year as well, in East Africa. Uganda, as I recall. Working in

a rural school. At the moment, however, he was working a part-time job—at

Ludgrove. Working as a stooge. (The Ludgrovian word for “handyman.”) It

was a very cool job, he said. He got to be with kids, got to fix things all over

the grounds.

Plus, I teased him: All the free strawberries and carrots you can eat!

But he was quite serious about it. J like teaching, Haz.

Oh.

We talked excitedly about Africa, made plans to meet up there. After

Uganda, after college, Henners too would probably go into the Army. He

was going to be a Green Jacket. It wasn’t really a decision; his family had

been in uniform for generations. We talked about meeting up there too.

Maybe, we said, we’ll find ourselves side by side one day, marching into

battle or helping people on the other side of the world.

The future. We wondered aloud what it held. I worried about it, but not

Henners. He didn’t take the future seriously, didn’t take anything seriously.

Life as it comes, Haz. That was Henners, always and forever. I envied his

tranquility.

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For now, however, he was heading to one of Edinburgh’s casinos. He

asked if I wanted to come along. Ah, can’t, I said. I couldn’t possibly be seen

in a casino. It would cause a huge scandal.

Too bad, he said.

Cheers, we both said, promising to talk


grip so the shadow looks bigger than it was. But probably—and this is where the ceiling falls in—most probably a human hand as big as, or bigger than, Roddy’s. Which would mean another Titan. Bang. * * * — Musgrave still has plenty of cutting to do, and I leave her to it. I take the waterbus across town and step out at the Reddington jetty, smelling mud and water freight, and something down by the bank that died. From one corpse stink to another, and this one’s cleaner. In my pocket there’s an address written down on paper, the organ service Roddy Tebbit was signed up to. The building is a square redbrick, a converted customs barn from fifty years gone, and likely a smuggler’s den or a shooting gallery a decade later. Now it’s commercial, owned by a company in Nassau, so exactly that much has changed. There’s a main door on the front but the one I want is round the side, the loading dock where the drones are lined up with cooler boxes, and the pilots—kids, mostly, and one or two old lags from the Afghan Raptor crews—are vaping bubblegum flavours and telling one another stories about that time when: Once I saw a woman naked on a rooftop, or a man. Once I crashed a movie star’s pool party. Once I flew a MOP bomb right into the mouth of a bunker and you better believe no one got out. Once I was a hero, or a joker. Once I was a pilot. Now I’m here. I walk through them without stopping. They don’t try to stop me. It’s not clear who cares less. I hop up onto the concrete dock and walk in. The stuff on the floor only looks like sawdust. It’s a synthetic. They sweep it up at the end of each day and wash it, then lay it out again. When it gets wet, it leaks menthol, so the place smells cold and crisp, not bloody. There’s a mixed production line: robot arms packing and despatching, sorting and passing to the drones. The actual harvesting—I’m sure they don’t call it that—is done by humans, because however efficient the hardware is, nobody wants to imagine themselves, however deceased, being xystered and guillotined by a thing with a hundred tiny mechanical hands and empty silver eyes like a bead of mercury. I read where they bring cadavers here from all over. One of the many things the city is good at: the upcycling of the dead. I raise my voice to call out. “Doug Krechmer?” A man in red scrubs puts down something with a rotating blade and says: “How did you get in here?” “Yeah, it’s a regular fortress.” I point back to the loading dock. He comes out from behind the operating table so I can’t see what’s on it. Fine by me. I like to keep my dismembered bodies to one per afternoon, and even then, only if they’re professionally relevant. “Need to talk to you.” “We don’t allow—” “I can come


are wild. She has never seen him so angry. “He would have killed me if I hadn’t fought back.” How many times had he endured this while he was growing up, young men taunting him, forcing him to fight back? It must be exhausting. “My son would never do such a thing,” she says, walking inside the hall. He follows close behind. She can feel the air around them thickening with his fury. “He is jealous of our relation,” he blurts out. “He is poisoning everyone in the citadel against me!” “You are bleeding,” she says. He touches the trickle of blood that runs down his temple and wipes it away carelessly. “You must send him away,” he says. “Or it will be the end for me when Agamemnon comes.” “I won’t.” “So you would choose him instead of me?” “He is my son. There is no choice to be made.” His face turns cold, his eyes bitter. “But you must make a choice. What happens if Orestes stays here when your husband comes home?” Your husband. He must really be angry to refer to Agamemnon so. “What happens when you put a blade in his heart? A son must avenge his father. It is the law.” She knows he speaks the truth. A son’s highest duty is to honor and avenge the father, no matter how cruel the father. Aegisthus is living proof of that. A wanderer, born to kill his father’s enemies, bound to bring ruin to his house—the words the elders had used all those years ago as they sent spies across the mainland to look for Aegisthus. “Aegisthus’s father was a monster,” Clytemnestra had said, but the elders had shaken their heads. “You are a woman. You cannot understand loyalty to the father.” They were wrong, as always. She understands Justice, the ancient spirit that lives inside each of them, ready to burst forth for every crime. It is a web, each thread stained with the blood of mothers and fathers, daughters and sons. It grows and grows, the Furies always weaving more traps. Yet would Orestes really side with a father who had murdered his sister like an animal bred for slaughter? Would he gather an army against his own mother? She has taught him everything he knows. She has shown him the other boys’ weaknesses and told him that mercy never helps one win. She was there when he wielded his first sword, when he rode his first horse. She wanted him to grow into a strong and decent man, fierce but not savage. Maybe she has gone too far. Maybe she should have taught him to be loyal, first and foremost. Do good men make good warlords? Orestes asked her with a smirk. Unease floods her, a warning. She looks up. Aegisthus is staring at her, like a wolf stalking a sheep. “Orestes is promised to Hermione,” Clytemnestra says. “He will go to Sparta before the Atreidai come back from the war. That way, he will start to build his web of alliances. He will


of Maud, while Ella—the only one with hair—towered over both of them, Louise in her arms like a misshapen potato. “You handle all this better than I do,” Maud said. She was sitting in a chair made with two pieces of leather stretched on a steel frame. “You handle it fine,” Peter said. “It’s hard.” She sighed. “Will she ever stop hating me?” “She doesn’t hate you.” Peter swiveled in his chair and moved closer. “She’s so cold to me,” Maud said. “You should have seen the way she looked at me today. I think some part of her will never forgive me for failing her.” “We both failed her,” Peter said. They’d discussed their guilt in marriage counseling, wondering if their problems had contributed to Ella’s self-harm, although Ella never brought up their relationship. “I failed her more,” Maud said. “I was right there.” And I’m failing you now, she thought. I’m failing this marriage. “It’s not a competition,” Peter said. She imagined getting out of the chair and going to him, unbuttoning his shirt, unfastening his belt. When they were young, before the girls, they spent weekend afternoons on the couch. She read novels as he worked. An open window. Dimming London traffic. The roar from across the street when the pub door opened. Her head on a pillow on Peter’s lap. “I’ll let you work,” she said. In the kitchen, she opened her laptop to her latest design of the garden at Tennessee Hollow. She added the bed of native herbs that she wanted to include, a triangle next to a square. Then her hand moved to the mouse and to the internet browser, and she typed the words “Gabriel Crews archaeologist.” She clicked on a link that had appeared since she last looked a year before. He was now a lecturer at the University of Nevada. There was that same photo from his faculty page at Ithaca College. He taught two courses at the Las Vegas campus and directed a summer program in archaeology near Death Valley. Why was he there? He’d said he didn’t like teaching. She made her hand drag the mouse, erase the history, and put the laptop to sleep. 14 The morning the pomegranate tree arrived at the archaeology center, Maud drove it straight to Tennessee Hollow. She’d left the stump of the original tree exposed, to be marked with a plaque. A few feet away, she dug a hole in the earth. What a labor it must have been, she thought, plunging the shovel into clay, to garden in such intolerant ground through summer fogs, erratic sun, salty ocean wind. Every plant that thrived and grew and fruited must have seemed like a miracle. She dug as fast as she could, as if Maria might arrive at the site and tell her she had to stop because there was no more money. Despite another visit to the Presidio, Alice still hadn’t committed to funding the project. She’d been back this morning to go over the budget, and Maria had texted Maud a string


and not suffer continually a new grief, and unreasonable pang of remorse, at every fitful sigh of her fellow sufferer. But Clifford, it seemed, though he did not make his appearance below stairs, had, after all, bestirred himself in quest of amusement. In the course of the forenoon, Hepzibah heard a note of music, which (there being no other tuneful contrivance in the House of the Seven Gables) she knew must proceed from Alice Pyncheon's harpsichord. She was aware that Clifford, in his youth, had possessed a cultivated taste for music, and a considerable degree of skill in its practice. It was difficult, however, to conceive of his retaining an accomplishment to which daily exercise is so essential, in the measure indicated by the sweet, airy, and delicate, though most melancholy strain, that now stole upon her ear. Nor was it less marvellous that the long-silent instrument should be capable of so much melody. Hepzibah involuntarily thought of the ghostly harmonies, prelusive of death in the family, which were attributed to the legendary Alice. But it was, perhaps, proof of the agency of other than spiritual fingers, that, after a few touches, the chords seemed to snap asunder with their own vibrations, and the music ceased. But a harsher sound succeeded to the mysterious notes; nor was the easterly day fated to pass without an event sufficient in itself to poison, for Hepzibah and Clifford, the balmiest air that ever brought the humming-birds along with it. The final echoes of Alice Pyncheon's performance (or Clifford's, if his we must consider it) were driven away by no less vulgar a dissonance than the ringing of the shop-bell. A foot was heard scraping itself on the threshold, and thence somewhat ponderously stepping on the floor. Hepzibah delayed a moment, while muffling herself in a faded shawl, which had been her defensive armor in a forty years' warfare against the east wind. A characteristic sound, however,--neither a cough nor a hem, but a kind of rumbling and reverberating spasm in somebody's capacious depth of chest; --impelled her to hurry forward, with that aspect of fierce faint-heartedness so common to women in cases of perilous emergency. Few of her sex, on such occasions, have ever looked so terrible as our poor scowling Hepzibah. But the visitor quietly closed the shop-door behind him, stood up his umbrella against the counter, and turned a visage of composed benignity, to meet the alarm and anger which his appearance had excited. Hepzibah's presentiment had not deceived her. It was no other than Judge Pyncheon, who, after in vain trying the front door, had now effected his entrance into the shop. "How do you do, Cousin Hepzibah?--and how does this most inclement weather affect our poor Clifford?" began the Judge; and wonderful it seemed, indeed, that the easterly storm was not put to shame, or, at any rate, a little mollified, by the genial benevolence of his smile. "I could not rest without calling to ask, once more, whether I can in any manner promote his comfort, or your own." "You


the waleema, one of the greatest sources of income for the village. “Soldiers disappear frequently,” Marek murmured. I flinched, surprised to find him openly watching me. “They will not waste resources on a middling Omalian village until they are certain he was killed.” “They have plenty of resources.” “Not with the Alcalah only a few months away. They divert a massive retinue of soldiers into the woods to protect the Nizahl Heir while he searches for a Champion.” I stared at Marek. I had the scars on my back to testify to the thoroughness of Hanim’s education. She had ensured I studied the dialects of each kingdom, the common language shared between them, their habits and history. Yet I had less than a cup’s worth of knowledge about the Nizahl Heir. Hanim hadn’t talked about him beyond telling me he’d kill me without losing his breath unless I made my magic work. Given her fervent hatred for my grandparents and Supreme Rawain, I imagined it stung to see the ways the Supreme succeeded where she had failed. He raised a warrior, and she… she raised the person who’d be spotted from a watchtower fleeing the battlefield with the other soldiers’ food. Some of my regret subsided. If I’d gone running into the woods and encountered Arin of Nizahl, the question of my fate would have been instantly decided. Jasadis did not leave an encounter with the Nizahl Heir alive. How did Marek know how many soldiers Nizahl diverted while its Heir chose his Champion for the Alcalah? My earlier suspicions returned with a vengeance. “You certainly seem familiar with Nizahlan customs.” His raised eyebrow was pointed. “As do you.” “You’re sure they will not raise the alarms unless they find a body?” I badly wanted to believe him. “Sure enough.” “Will one of you take a handle?” Sefa wheezed. Hamada had filled the pot to the brim with fūl. Sefa staggered, and some of the beans dribbled over the side. Marek and I snatched the handles, and we returned to the keep unscathed. Raya shouted at us for ten minutes about the filthy state of our clothes. As soon as she finished, the three of us split up. Me to bathe, Sefa to help with breakfast, and Marek to change for a day of hard labor. As I dragged the towel over my body, I wished I could rub the tension from my limbs through sheer force. I was strung tight in a way I hadn’t been since my first few months in Mahair. I wrapped my wet curls in linen pants, tying the ends at the nape of my neck. Not even dropping onto my bed helped me relax. Outside my door, a flurry of footsteps and conversation signaled the start of the new day. The younger girls in the keep did not like me much. I lacked the gentle, nurturing touch that came so naturally to Sefa. Though I tried to be softer with them, I possessed the maternal instincts of a bloodthirsty cockroach. Yet for some unfathomable reason, I


Charley, to be lagged at his time of life!' 'Well, it is a honour that is!' said Charley, a little consoled. 'He shall have all he wants,' continued the Jew. 'He shall be kept in the Stone Jug, Charley, like a gentleman. Like a gentleman! With his beer every day, and money in his pocket to pitch and toss with, if he can't spend it.' 'No, shall he though?' cried Charley Bates. 'Ay, that he shall,' replied Fagin, 'and we'll have a big-wig, Charley: one that's got the greatest gift of the gab: to carry on his defence; and he shall make a speech for himself too, if he likes; and we'll read it all in the papers--"Artful Dodger--shrieks of laughter--here the court was convulsed"--eh, Charley, eh?' 'Ha! ha! laughed Master Bates, 'what a lark that would be, wouldn't it, Fagin? I say, how the Artful would bother 'em wouldn't he?' 'Would!' cried Fagin. 'He shall--he will!' 'Ah, to be sure, so he will,' repeated Charley, rubbing his hands. 'I think I see him now,' cried the Jew, bending his eyes upon his pupil. 'So do I,' cried Charley Bates. 'Ha! ha! ha! so do I. I see it all afore me, upon my soul I do, Fagin. What a game! What a regular game! All the big-wigs trying to look solemn, and Jack Dawkins addressing of 'em as intimate and comfortable as if he was the judge's own son making a speech arter dinner--ha! ha! ha!' In fact, Mr. Fagin had so well humoured his young friend's eccentric disposition, that Master Bates, who had at first been disposed to consider the imprisoned Dodger rather in the light of a victim, now looked upon him as the chief actor in a scene of most uncommon and exquisite humour, and felt quite impatient for the arrival of the time when his old companion should have so favourable an opportunity of displaying his abilities. 'We must know how he gets on to-day, by some handy means or other,' said Fagin. 'Let me think.' 'Shall I go?' asked Charley. 'Not for the world,' replied Fagin. 'Are you mad, my dear, stark mad, that you'd walk into the very place where--No, Charley, no. One is enough to lose at a time.' 'You don't mean to go yourself, I suppose?' said Charley with a humorous leer. 'That wouldn't quite fit,' replied Fagin shaking his head. 'Then why don't you send this new cove?' asked Master Bates, laying his hand on Noah's arm. 'Nobody knows him.' 'Why, if he didn't mind--' observed Fagin. 'Mind!' interposed Charley. 'What should he have to mind?' 'Really nothing, my dear,' said Fagin, turning to Mr. Bolter, 'really nothing.' 'Oh, I dare say about that, yer know,' observed Noah, backing towards the door, and shaking his head with a kind of sober alarm. 'No, no--none of that. It's not in my department, that ain't.' 'Wot department has he got, Fagin?' inquired Master Bates, surveying Noah's lank form with much disgust. 'The cutting away when there's anything wrong, and the eating all the wittles


snippets of conversation during the day, transmitting compressed audio files at night to avoid detection. After transmitting, the hard drive erased itself and prepared to do it all over again the next day. Collet's gaze moved now to a shelf on which were stacked several hundred audio cassettes, all labeled with dates and numbers. Someone has been very busy. He turned back to the agent. "Do you have any idea what target is being bugged?" "Well, Lieutenant," the agent said, walking to the computer and launching a piece of software. "It's the strangest thing...." 246 CHAPTER 88 Langdon felt utterly spent as he and Sophie hurdled a turnstile at the Temple tube station and dashed deep into the grimy labyrinth of tunnels and platforms. The guilt ripped through him. I involved Leigh, and now he's in enormous danger. Rmy's involvement had been a shock, and yet it made sense. Whoever was pursuing the Grail had recruited someone on the inside. They went to Teabing's for the same reason I did. Throughout history, those who held knowledge of the Grail had always been magnets for thieves and scholars alike. The fact that Teabing had been a target all along should have made Langdon feel less guilty about involving him. It did not. We need to find Leigh and help him. Immediately. Langdon followed Sophie to the westbound District and Circle Line platform, where she hurried to a pay phone to call the police, despite Rmy's warning to the contrary. Langdon sat on a grungy bench nearby, feeling remorseful. "The best way to help Leigh," Sophie reiterated as she dialed, "is to involve the London authorities immediately. Trust me." Langdon had not initially agreed with this idea, but as they had hatched their plan, Sophie's logic began to make sense. Teabing was safe at the moment. Even if Rmy and the others knew where the knight's tomb was located, they still might need Teabing's help deciphering the orb reference. What worried Langdon was what would happen after the Grail map had been found. Leigh will become a huge liability. If Langdon were to have any chance of helping Leigh, or of ever seeing the keystone again, it was essential that he find the tomb first. Unfortunately, Rmy has a big head start. Slowing Rmy down had become Sophie's task. Finding the right tomb had become Langdon's. Sophie would make Rmy and Silas fugitives of the London police, forcing them into hiding or, better yet, catching them. Langdon's plan was less certain-to take the tube to nearby King's College, which was renowned for its electronic theological database. The ultimate research tool, Langdon had heard. Instant answers to any religious historical question. He wondered what the database would have to say about "a knight a Pope interred." He stood up and paced, wishing the train would hurry. At the pay phone, Sophie's call finally connected to the London police. "Snow Hill Division," the dispatcher said. "How may I direct your call?" "I'm reporting a kidnapping." Sophie knew to be concise. "Name please?" Sophie paused. "Agent Sophie


smithy, blood lust, cruelty, bloodiness undeceive, hide, defend, withhold smith bloom: (adj, n, v) flower; (v) prosper, betraying: (adj) treacherous, blameless: (adj) irreproachable, flourish, thrive, burgeon; (adj, v) revealing, Judas perfect, faultless, unimpeachable, blow, fructify; (n) prime, blush, betwixt: (n) midst; (prep) among, pure, spotless, innocent, guiltless, flush, bud. ANTONYMS: (v) shrivel, amid; (adv) atwixt inculpable, not guilty, clean. struggle, wane, die, deteriorate, beware: (v) look out, caution, be ANTONYMS: (adj) culpable, decrease; (n) pallor, withering careful, guard, pay attention, take blameworthy, responsible, wrong, blooming: (adj) rosy, thriving, care, watch out, mind, keep, care, bad, sinful, shameful, flawed flourishing, healthy, prosperous, careful. ANTONYMS: (v) risk, blasphemous: (adj, v) profane, ruddy, booming, blossoming, disregard, invite irreverent, sacrilegious; (adj) cherry, verdant, green. bewildered: (adj) bemused, confused, ungodly, impious, irreligious, ANTONYMS: (adj) arid, pale confounded, perplexed, befuddled, unconsecrated, godless, unholy, blossom: (adj, n, v) flower, blow; (n, puzzled, dumbfounded, taken wicked; (v) desecrate. ANTONYMS: v) bud; (n) blooming, heyday, aback, addled, disoriented; (adj, v) (adj) reverent, devout, godly, efflorescence; (v) prosper, flourish, lost. ANTONYMS: (adj) religious thrive, progress, unfold. unimpressed, clear, oriented, blasted: (adj) cursed, infernal, ANTONYMS: (v) wither, Nathaniel Hawthorne 263 deteriorate, struggle, shrivel, shrink, bounding: (n) jumping, confinement; latitude, extent, area, broadness, fade, die; (n) withering (v) confine, salient; (adj) terminal, stretch. ANTONYMS: (n) length, blush: (n, v) glow, color; (v) redden, moving, subsultory longitude, emptiness, thinness crimson; (n) red, bloom, rosiness, boundless: (adj) limitless, endless, breastplate: (n) corselet, armour ruddiness, redness; (adj) bashful; unlimited, infinite, bottomless, plate, armor plating, armor plate; (n, (adv) blushingly. ANTONYMS: (v) incalculable, immense, v) shield, bulletproof vest; (v) blanch, pale, blench; (n) paleness immeasurable, interminable, cuirass, mask, gauntlet, apron, blushing: (adj) rosy, coy, blushful, unbounded, vast. ANTONYMS: armored vest flushed, red, shy, bashful, (adj) limited, restricted, confined, breathed: (adj) unvoiced, inaudible, overmodest, ruddy; (adv) finite, incomplete, negligible, small breathing, aphonic blushingly, ablush. ANTONYM: bounty: (adj, n) largesse; (n) breathless: (adj, adv) out of breath; (adj) pale abundance, bounteousness, (adj) panting, inanimate, bodice: (n) corsage, stays, corset, premium, blessing, prize, breathtaking, winded, choking, brassiere, top, slip, waist, corselet munificence, beneficence, puffing; (v) all agog, aghast; (adj, n) boldly: (adj, adv) courageously, generosity; (v) benefaction; (n, v) eager; (n) in hysterics. ANTONYMS: valiantly, heroically; (adv) gift. ANTONYMS: (n) miserliness, (adj) dull, expected, boring fearlessly, daringly, bravely, fine, insufficiency, penalty, brethren: (n) congregation, assembly, intrepidly, impudently, audaciously, meanness brother, people, laity, family, flock, shamelessly, brashly. ANTONYMS: bout: (n, v) round; (n) attack, spell, fold (adv) discreetly, modestly, turn, competition, fight, battle, brig: (n) barque, hermaphrodite brig, nervously, hesitantly, shyly, fighting, effort, game, fit snow, jail, bridge, prison, big house, fearfully, meekly, submissively, bowed: (adj) arched, curved, inclined, penal institution, ship secretly, respectfully, diffidently crooked, arciform, arching, arced, brightening: (n) blooming, polishing, boldness: (n) prowess, face, daring, bandy, arcuate, twisted, bended. limb, illumination, first blush, break valor, nerve, assurance, heroism, ANTONYMS: (adj) straight, of day audaciousness, spirit, cheek, valour. concave, plucked brightly: (adv) vividly, luminously, ANTONYMS: (n) cowardice, bowing: (n) obeisance, playing, radiantly, gaily, clearly, shiningly, shyness, timidity, meekness, gesticulation, capitulation, intensely, cheerfully, smartly, reticence genuflection, scraping, submission; bright, lustrously. ANTONYMS:


(STEPHEN TURNS AND SEES BLOOM.) STEPHEN: A time, times and half a time. (REUBEN I ANTICHRIST, WANDERING JEW, A CLUTCHING HAND OPEN ON HIS SPINE, STUMPS FORWARD. ACROSS HIS LOINS IS SLUNG A PILGRIM'S WALLET FROM WHICH PROTRUDE PROMISSORY NOTES AND DISHONOURED BILLS. ALOFT OVER HIS SHOULDER HE BEARS A LONG BOATPOLE FROM THE HOOK OF WHICH THE SODDEN HUDDLED MASS OF HIS ONLY SON, SAVED FROM LIFFEY WATERS, HANGS FROM THE SLACK OF ITS BREECHES. A HOBGOBLIN IN THE IMAGE OF PUNCH COSTELLO, HIPSHOT, CROOKBACKED, HYDROCEPHALIC, PROGNATHIC WITH RECEDING FOREHEAD AND ALLY SLOPER NOSE, TUMBLES IN SOMERSAULTS THROUGH THE GATHERING DARKNESS.) ALL: What? THE HOBGOBLIN: (HIS JAWS CHATTERING, CAPERS TO AND FRO, GOGGLING HIS EYES, SQUEAKING, KANGAROOHOPPING WITH OUTSTRETCHED CLUTCHING ARMS, THEN ALL AT ONCE THRUSTS HIS LIPLESS FACE THROUGH THE FORK OF HIS THIGHS) IL VIENT! C'EST MOI! L'HOMME QUI RIT! L'HOMME PRIMIGENE! (HE WHIRLS ROUND AND ROUND WITH DERVISH HOWLS) SIEURS ET DAMES, FAITES VOS JEUX! (HE CROUCHES JUGGLING. TINY ROULETTE PLANETS FLY FROM HIS HANDS.) LES JEUX SONT FAITS! (THE PLANETS RUSH TOGETHER, UTTERING CREPITANT CRACKS) RIEN VA PLUS! (THE PLANETS, BUOYANT BALLOONS, SAIL SWOLLEN UP AND AWAY. HE SPRINGS OFF INTO VACUUM.) FLORRY: (SINKING INTO TORPOR, CROSSING HERSELF SECRETLY) The end of the world! (A FEMALE TEPID EFFLUVIUM LEAKS OUT FROM HER. NEBULOUS OBSCURITY OCCUPIES SPACE. THROUGH THE DRIFTING FOG WITHOUT THE GRAMOPHONE BLARES OVER COUGHS AND FEETSHUFFLING.) THE GRAMOPHONE: Jerusalem! Open your gates and sing Hosanna ... (A ROCKET RUSHES UP THE SKY AND BURSTS. A WHITE STAR FILLS FROM IT, PROCLAIMING THE CONSUMMATION OF ALL THINGS AND SECOND COMING OF ELIJAH. ALONG AN INFINITE INVISIBLE TIGHTROPE TAUT FROM ZENITH TO NADIR THE END OF THE WORLD, A TWOHEADED OCTOPUS IN GILLIE'S KILTS, BUSBY AND TARTAN FILIBEGS, WHIRLS THROUGH THE MURK, HEAD OVER HEELS, IN THE FORM OF THE THREE LEGS OF MAN.) THE END OF THE WORLD: (WITH A SCOTCH ACCENT) Wha'll dance the keel row, the keel row, the keel row? (OVER THE POSSING DRIFT AND CHOKING BREATHCOUGHS, ELIJAH'S VOICE, HARSH AS A CORNCRAKE'S, JARS ON HIGH. PERSPIRING IN A LOOSE LAWN SURPLICE WITH FUNNEL SLEEVES HE IS SEEN, VERGERFACED, ABOVE A ROSTRUM ABOUT WHICH THE BANNER OF OLD GLORY IS DRAPED. HE THUMPS THE PARAPET.) ELIJAH: No yapping, if you please, in this booth. Jake Crane, Creole Sue, Dove Campbell, Abe Kirschner, do your coughing with your mouths shut. Say, I am operating all this trunk line. Boys, do it now. God's time is 12.25. Tell mother you'll be there. Rush your order and you play a slick ace. Join on right here. Book through to eternity junction, the nonstop run. Just one word more. Are you a god or a doggone clod? If the second advent came to Coney Island are we ready? Florry Christ, Stephen Christ, Zoe Christ, Bloom Christ, Kitty Christ, Lynch Christ, it's up to you to sense that cosmic force. Have we cold feet about the cosmos? No. Be on the side of the angels. Be a prism. You have that something within, the higher self. You can


SFO or SEA, I could be the one to carry the virus to her and compromise this fragile, hard-won stability. It also feels as though I’d be abandoning a household in shambles if I left. While Dan and I are both working from home now, as a scientist he is considered essential personnel and expects he’ll need to go back in eventually, and it’s not easy for either of us to get a full day’s work done with schools closed. It gets harder still when remote learning begins in earnest; our kids are grieving, isolated, irritable, and bored, and the last thing they want is to be assigned hours of busywork on a Chromebook. Our younger daughter’s Individualized Education Program—all the supports and accommodations we spent years advocating for and hammering out at stressful meetings with her school team—has essentially disappeared overnight. At school, she has a one-to-one aide; at home, she has us: Dan takes the math block, I take language arts, and we split the other subjects. If one of us didn’t sit with her for every lesson, she’d be unable to manage the multiple online platforms or access her schoolwork at all. There are always dozens of tabs open on my phone: flights home, a smaller number every day; articles about virus transmissibility; articles analyzing (guessing at) the risks of flying; tables showing infection rates where I live, and in the cities I might have to fly through, and in my mother’s county. One morning, while struggling to pay attention to my daughter’s reading-group Zoom lesson, I think about how responsibly attempting a solo trip at this moment would mean two weeks of quarantine at either end, in addition to however long I spent with my mom. I have never left Dan and the kids for that long, not even for my book tour, and it doesn’t feel like an option now. Our home life, our jobs, our routines—none of this is set up for one of us to parent alone, for weeks or months, while working remotely and dealing with anxious, homebound children. And what if I somehow gave the virus to my mother? What if I came back and gave it to my family? What if I passed it to someone far more vulnerable, whose name I would never know, whose illness or death I would never be aware of causing? I can’t afford to wallow or be idle while juggling work and virtual school, and yet a part of me remains ever still and watchful, as if I were holding my breath, waiting for something it feels too risky to name. Surely, I think, in quiet moments, we’re bound to get a reprieve soon. We will remember our responsibilities to one another. Those who are able to stay home will stay home, everyone will start wearing masks in public spaces, caseloads will drop, and it will feel safe—safer—to go see my mom. Instead, as the weeks go by, mask wearing is politicized, public health experts are frequently ignored, and people who look like me are scapegoated


crept up-stairs. As he unlocked the door, a smile of joy flitted across his young face and [99] lingered for a moment about his lips. Yes, he would be good, and the hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terror to him. He felt as if the load had been lifted from him already. He went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and dragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain and indignation broke from him. He could see no change, unless that in the eyes there was a look of cunning, and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite. The thing was still loathsome,--more loathsome, if possible, than before,--and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed brighter, and more like blood newly spilt. Had it been merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or the desire of a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking laugh? Or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things finer than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these? Why was the red stain larger than it had been? It seemed to have crept like a horrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. There was blood on the painted feet, as though the thing had dripped,--blood even on the hand that had not held the knife. Confess? Did it mean that he was to confess? To give himself up, and be put to death? He laughed. He felt that the idea was monstrous. Besides, who would believe him, even if he did confess? There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere. Everything belonging to him had been destroyed. He himself had burned what had been below-stairs. The world would simply say he was mad. They would shut him up if he persisted in his story. Yet it was his duty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to make public atonement. There was a God who called upon men to tell their sins to earth as well as to heaven. Nothing that he could do would cleanse him till he had told his own sin. His sin? He shrugged his shoulders. The death of Basil Hallward seemed very little to him. He was thinking of Hetty Merton. It was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soul that he was looking at. Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy? Had there been nothing more in his renunciation than that? There had been something more. At least he thought so. But who could tell? And this murder,--was it to dog him all his life? Was he never to get rid of the past? Was he really to confess? No. There was only one bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself,--that was evidence. He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? It had given him pleasure once to watch it changing and growing old. Of late he had felt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at night. When


in her eyes. "Do the gentlemen say so?" "They go into no particulars. They simply express their regret that it should be impossible to keep him. That can have only one meaning." Mrs. Grose listened with dumb emotion; she forbore to ask me what this meaning might be; so that, presently, to put the thing with some coherence and with the mere aid of her presence to my own mind, I went on: "That he's an injury to the others." At this, with one of the quick turns of simple folk, she suddenly flamed up. "Master Miles! HIM an injury?" There was such a flood of good faith in it that, though I had not yet seen the child, my very fears made me jump to the absurdity of the idea. I found myself, to meet my friend the better, offering it, on the spot, sarcastically. "To his poor little innocent mates!" "It's too dreadful," cried Mrs. Grose, "to say such cruel things! Why, he's scarce ten years old." "Yes, yes; it would be incredible." She was evidently grateful for such a profession. "See him, miss, first. THEN believe it!" I felt forthwith a new impatience to see him; it was the beginning of a curiosity that, for all the next hours, was to deepen almost to pain. Mrs. Grose was aware, I could judge, of what she had produced in me, and she followed it up with assurance. "You might as well believe it of the little lady. Bless her," she added the next moment--"LOOK at her!" I turned and saw that Flora, whom, ten minutes before, I had established in the schoolroom with a sheet of white paper, a pencil, and a copy of nice "round o's," now presented herself to view at the open door. She expressed in her little way an extraordinary detachment from disagreeable duties, looking to me, however, with a great childish light that seemed to offer it as a mere result of the affection she had conceived for my person, which had rendered necessary that she should follow me. I needed nothing more than this to feel the full force of Mrs. Grose's comparison, and, catching my pupil in my arms, covered her with kisses in which there was a sob of atonement. Nonetheless, the rest of the day I watched for further occasion to approach my colleague, especially as, toward evening, I began to fancy she rather sought to avoid me. I overtook her, I remember, on the staircase; we went down together, and at the bottom I detained her, holding her there with a hand on her arm. "I take what you said to me at noon as a declaration that YOU'VE never known him to be bad." She threw back her head; she had clearly, by this time, and very honestly, adopted an attitude. "Oh, never known him-- I don't pretend THAT!" I was upset again. "Then you HAVE known him--?" "Yes indeed, miss, thank God!" On reflection I accepted this. "You mean that a boy who never is--?" "Is no boy


the feeling of being back in a nightmare which had recurred from time to time throughout his life. It was always very much the same. He was standing in front of a wall of darkness, and on the other side of it there was something unendurable, something too dreadful to be faced. In the dream his deepest feeling was always one of self-deception, because he did in fact know what was behind the wall of darkness. With a deadly effort, like wrenching a piece out of his own brain, he could even have dragged the thing into the open. He always woke up without discovering what it was: but somehow it was connected with what Julia had been saying when he cut her short. 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'it's nothing. I don't like rats, that's all.' 'Don't worry, dear, we're not going to have the filthy brutes in here. I'll stuff the hole with a bit of sacking before we go. And next time we come here I'll bring some plaster and bung it up properly.' Already the black instant of panic was half-forgotten. Feeling slightly ashamed of himself, he sat up against the bedhead. Julia got out of bed, pulled on her overalls, and made the coffee. The smell that rose from the saucepan was so powerful and exciting that they shut the window lest anybody outside should notice it and become inquisitive. What was even better than the taste of the coffee was the silky texture given to it by the sugar, a thing Winston had almost forgotten after years of saccharine. With one hand in her pocket and a piece of bread and jam in the other, Julia wandered about the room, glancing indifferently at the bookcase, pointing out the best way of repairing the gateleg table, plumping herself down in the ragged arm-chair to see if it was comfortable, and examining the absurd twelve-hour clock with a sort of tolerant amusement. She brought the glass paperweight over to the bed to have a look at it in a better light. He took it out of her hand, fascinated, as always, by the soft, rainwatery appearance of the glass. 'What is it, do you think?' said Julia. 'I don't think it's anything--I mean, I don't think it was ever put to any use. That's what I like about it. It's a little chunk of history that they've forgotten to alter. It's a message from a hundred years ago, if one knew how to read it.' file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (80 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt 'And that picture over there'--she nodded at the engraving on the opposite wall--'would that be a hundred years old?' 'More. Two hundred, I dare say. One can't tell. It's impossible to discover the age of anything nowadays.' She went over to look at it. 'Here's where that brute stuck his nose out,' she said, kicking the wainscoting immediately below the picture. 'What is this place? I've seen it before somewhere.' 'It's a church, or at least it used to be. St Clement Danes its name was.'


being afraid of people." Beth's bundle was such a funny one that everybody wanted to laugh, but nobody did, for it would have hurt her feelings very much. "Let us do it," said Meg thoughtfully. "It is only another name for trying to be good, and the story may help us, for though we do want to be good, it's hard work and we forget, and don't do our best." "We were in the Slough of Despond tonight, and Mother came and pulled us out as Help did in the book. We ought to have our roll of directions, like Christian. What shall we do about that?" asked Jo, delighted with the fancy which lent a little romance to the very dull task of doing her duty. "Look under your pillows Christmas morning, and you will find your guidebook," replied Mrs. March. They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared the table, then out came the four little work baskets, and the needles flew as the girls made sheets for Aunt March. It was uninteresting sewing, but tonight no one grumbled. They adopted Jo's plan of dividing the long seams into four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, and in that way got on capitally, especially when they talked about the different countries as they stitched their way through them. At nine they stopped work, and sang, as usual, before they went to bed. No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano, but she had a way of softly touching the yellow keys and making a pleasant accompaniment to the simple songs they sang. Meg had a voice like a flute, and she and her mother led the little choir. Amy chirped like a cricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always coming out at the wrong place with a croak or a quaver that spoiled the most pensive tune. They had always done this from the time they could lisp . . . Crinkle, crinkle, 'ittle 'tar, and it had become a household custom,, for the mother was a born singer. The first sound in the morning was her voice as she went about the house singing like a lark, and the last sound at night was the same cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar lullaby. -------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Chapter" I.2 A Merry Christmas Jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. No stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down because it was crammed so full of goodies. Then she remembered her mother's promise and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a little crimson-covered book. She knew it very well, for it was that beautiful old story of the best life ever lived, and Jo felt that it was a true guidebook for any pilgrim going on a long journey. She woke Meg with a


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

it into a bucket of ice-cold water. He could see the High Table properly now. At the end nearest him sat Hagrid, who caught his eye and gave him the thumbs up. Harry grinned back. And there, in the center of the High Table, in a large gold chair, sat Albus Dumbledore. Harry recognized him at once from the card he'd gotten out of the Chocolate Frog on the train. Dumbledore's silver hair was the only thing in the whole hall that shone as brightly as the ghosts. Harry spotted Professor Quirtell, too, the nervous young man from the Leaky Cauldron. He was looking very peculiar in a large purple turban. And now there were only three people left to be sorted. "Thomas, Dean," a Black boy even taller than Ron, joined Harry at the Gryffindor table. "Turpin, Lisa," became a Ravenclaw and then it was Ron's turn. He was pale green by now. Harry crossed his fingers under the table and a second later the hat had shouted, "GRYFFINDOR!" Harry clapped loudly with the rest as Ron collapsed into the chair next to him. "Well done, Ron, excellent," said Percy Weasley Pompously across Harry as "Zabini, Blaise," was made a Slytherin. Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll and took the Sorting Hat away. Harry looked down at his empty gold plate. He had only just realized how hungry he was. The pumpkin pasties seemed ages ago. Albus Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was beaming at the students, his arms opened wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than to see them all there. "Welcome," he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! "Thank you!" He sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered. Harry didn't know whether to laugh or not. "Is he -- a bit mad?" he asked Percy uncertainly. "Mad?" said Percy airily. "He's a genius! Best wizard in the world! But he is a bit mad, yes. Potatoes, Harry?" Harry's mouth fell open. The dishes in front of him were now piled with food. He had never seen so many things he liked to eat on one table: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and, for some strange reason, peppermint humbugs. The Dursleys had never exactly starved Harry, but he'd never been allowed to eat as much as he liked. Dudley had always taken anything that Harry really wanted, even if It made him sick. Harry piled his plate with a bit of everything except the peppermints and began to eat. It was all delicious. "That does look good," said the ghost in the ruff sadly, watching Harry cut up his steak, "Can't you -- ?" "I haven't eaten for nearly four hundred years," said the ghost. "I don't need to, of course, but one does miss it. I don't think I've introduced myself? Sir