and down the Arizona ballot. Normally the state GOP apparatus stayed out of hotly contested primaries, letting voters decide the party’s direction. That wasn’t the case anymore, Gates said. “Now the party is putting its thumb on the scales,” he explained at the time, noting that the Arizona Republican Party was openly favoring pro-Trump figures over centrist alternatives. “Even the people who aren’t endorsed by Trump… are still falling all over themselves to be MAGA. The movement is permeating the entire party.” Is the intimidation working? I asked. He thought for a beat and looked out the window, as if expecting someone to show up when I said it. “Anyone who would dare speak the truth to these people is in danger.” Third, much of the GOP base is now radicalized. The state-by-state MAGA takeover of the Republican Party machinery will make it easier for the Next Trump to emerge. But the transformation of the GOP base is what will actually propel such a volatile figure into the White House. The increasingly reactionary views of grassroots Republicans virtually guarantee that the movement will maintain its dominant influence on the party for the foreseeable future. A yard sign I saw in rural Pennsylvania tells the story. Driving through the Midwest during the 2020 presidential campaign, I saw planted in front of a house a homemade poster with the words RONALD REAGAN IS A LOSER written on it in bold. Former President Reagan’s face was crossed out with an X, with Donald Trump’s smiling face next to it. Presumably this was a Trump supporter, but why attack Reagan? The fortieth president was beloved by Republicans, not on the ballot, long dead, and certainly not a threat to Trump. The last assumption is where I was wrong. Trump fixated on his predecessors and so did his supporters. “You go around Pennsylvania and you see Trump signs everywhere,” he once tweeted, proceeding to quote a supporter. “The Donald Trump situation is bigger than the Reagan Revolution. Donald Trump has inspired us.” The same year: “94% Approval Rating in the Republican Party, an all time high. Ronald Reagan was 87%. Thank you!” And again: “Wow, highest Poll Numbers in the history of the Republican Party. That includes Honest Abe Lincoln and Ronald Reagan. There must be something wrong, please recheck that poll!” To be seen as powerful enough to restore the country to what it was—to Make America Great Again—his identity requires that others see him as equal to, or greater than, those who came before him. I used to think such comparisons were a farcical insecurity. Now I believe Donald Trump was understating the comparison. In truth, there is no comparison. He created a cult unlike any of his predecessors, inspiring throngs of supporters to create deeply personal—sometimes spiritual—connections with his movement. Tribalism is as strong as it’s ever been within the Republican Party. Whether or not Trump remains the tribal leader, the power of group loyalty has radicalized the base. Tens of millions of people now believe conspiracy theories that are provably false, a reality


when the garage shut down, receipts still pinned to the bulletin board, the wall calendar turned to October 2000. Annette was in the office, perched on the desk with a pack of cigarettes and a Playboy lighter abandoned by a mechanic. “Kevin and company just got here,” Maud said. Annette flicked the lighter and sucked the flame through a cigarette. “We might need to upgrade to pot,” she said in a whirl of smoke. “Although I already had some this morning to recover from last night.” She had texted Maud at midnight: Did not go well, a message that came as no surprise. Annette had planned to talk to her Match.com date about becoming more serious. “He wants to go slow,” she said now. “Any slower than this, and we’ll be going backward.” “Do you even like him that much?” Thus far, Maud had only heard about the man’s habit of clicking his tongue when he and Annette had sex and the fact that he might be a Libertarian in Democrat clothing. “I don’t know.” Annette sighed. “You think it’s me, but the pickings are seriously slim out there.” She funneled out another cloud of smoke, then handed the cigarette to Maud. “I should just give up. Get fat. Let my hair go gray. Stop pulverizing my poor face.” “You might meet nicer men if you stopped all that.” “No, I’d meet the same kind of men but twenty years older.” Annette brushed ash from her blouse. “Maybe I should look forward to the Change,” she said. “Maybe once I lose all my estrogen I won’t give a shit about men anymore. I’ll get a cat and commit to my vibrator. Speaking of which, I think you—” “Don’t,” Maud said. “My finger works fine.” It had been months, though, since she’d used it. When they went back inside, they found that card tables now filled the living room, kitchen, and dining room, sprinkled with the shamrock confetti that Maud’s mother would carefully scoop back into a plastic bag for next year. As Maud and Annette brought out the three platters of corned beef and cabbage, the Clancy Brothers sang from the stereo about the wild colonial boy and sweet Molly Malone, all the sufferings brought on by the English. Mandy’s five-month belly pressed against Maud when they hugged. “How are you feeling?” Maud asked. Mandy’s pregnancies were usually a safe topic. “Enormous,” Mandy said. Her T-shirt read “Leprechaun Inside.” “She’s got me doing the freaking laundry,” Kevin said. “How awful for you,” Maud said. They passed around mustard, tartar sauce, and ketchup to perk up the bland, boiled food. Teetering at the head of the table, Maud’s father made his usual toast about the road rising to meet them all. “Tell the one about the man who painted his donkey green,” someone shouted at Maud’s maternal uncle, who stood on his chair to deliver the joke as the women cleared the table and brought out a porter cake that Maud’s mother had made, along with Annette’s chocolate-covered strawberries, which their mother eyed


punished. If I refused him, he’d end our marriage. He’d kick me out of the house with nothing. And he’d throw my mother out of her nursing home and onto the street.” Empathy flits across her features, but her voice remains professional. “We’re going to need to see this contract. Where is it?” “It will be in his safe,” I say. When I’d grabbed the money for Lee, my gloved hands shaking with nerves, I’d noted the stack of documents, but I’d been too afraid to sift through them. Too worried that Benjamin or Nate would catch me in the act. I’d quickly grabbed the money buried under the pile of papers and shut the door. “It’s in his study.” “Do you have the combination?” “No,” I lie, thinking about that slip of paper hidden behind the picture frame. I can’t admit that I know about it. Or that I know what’s inside. “I was never allowed access.” She nods, writes something down, though I am being recorded. “You said that Benjamin punished you. Physically?” “Sometimes.” “I’m sure this is difficult, but can you tell me how?” “He would whip me with a cat-o’-nine-tails. And I had to spend hours alone in a basement room.” My throat feels thick. “But the emotional abuse was worse.” “What did that look like?” “He insulted me. He made me feel stupid and worthless.” A tear slips from my eye. “He didn’t let me see my own mother.” “And yet, you stayed with him?” I bristle. This detective has drifted into interrogation mode. “Why do abused women stay?” I retort. “Fear. Shame. Lack of options… All of the above.” She realizes her mistake, opens her mouth to correct it, but I cut her off. “You don’t understand the kind of power Benjamin has over me. I don’t have my own money or bank accounts. I’m not allowed to choose my own friends. Or order my own meals in restaurants.” A shudder rips through my chest. “He controlled my body. He made me get breast implants.” “I’m sorry, Hazel.” French’s voice is conciliatory. “That’s awful.” “My mother is a hostage.” I’m crying now, fat tears falling onto the table. “If I don’t do what he wants, she’s as good as dead.” French reaches behind her for a box of tissues. She waits as I dry my tears, blow my nose. And then she continues. “Did your husband have other lovers?” “I don’t know.” And it is true. “He worked a lot. And he traveled. It’s possible.” “And you?” she prods. “Did you find comfort in anyone else?” Her expression is soft, nonjudgmental. But I won’t fall for it. “No.” My face is hot and I hope she thinks it’s outrage. “I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere without his permission. Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t have had an affair.” “You must have left the house on occasion?” Does she know something? Is she trying to catch me out? “I was allowed to go to the grocery store,” I say, my voice steady. “Sometimes for lunch with


soon as she comes in I've repented." "That's right-that's right, Anne. But don't tell Marilla I said anything about it. She might think I was putting my oar in and I promised not to do that." "Wild horses won't drag the secret from me," promised Anne solemnly. "How would wild horses drag a secret from a person anyhow?" But Matthew was gone, scared at his own success. He fled hastily to the remotest corner of the horse pasture lest Marilla should suspect what he had been up to. Marilla herself, upon her return to the house, was agreeably surprised to hear a plaintive voice calling, "Marilla" over the banisters. "Well?" she said, going into the hall. "I'm sorry I lost my temper and said rude things, and I'm willing to go and tell Mrs. Lynde so." "Very well." Marilla's crispness gave no sign of her relief. She had been wondering what under the canopy she should do if Anne did not give in. "I'll take you down after milking." Accordingly, after milking, behold Marilla and Anne walking down the lane, the former erect and triumphant, the latter drooping and dejected. But halfway down Anne's dejection vanished as if by enchantment. She lifted her head and stepped lightly along, her eyes fixed on the sunset sky and an air of subdued exhilaration about her Marilla beheld the change disapprovingly. This was no meek penitent such as it behooved her to take into the presence of the offended Mrs. Lynde. "What are you thinking of, Anne?" she asked sharply. "I'm imagining out what i must say to Mrs. Lynde," answered Anne dreamily. This was satisfactory-or should have been so. But Marilla could not rid herself of the notion that something in her scheme of punishment was going askew. Anne had no business to look so rapt and radiant. Rapt and radiant Anne continued until they were in the very presence of Mrs. Lynde, who was sitting knitting by her kitchen window. Then the radiance vanished. Mournful penitence appeared on every feature. Before a word was spoken Anne suddenly went down on her knees before the astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly. "Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry," she said with a quiver in her voice. "I could never express all my sorrow, no, not if I used up a whole dictionary. You must just imagine it. I behaved terribly to you-and I've disgraced the dear friends, Matthew and Marilla, who have let me stay at Green Gables although I'm not a boy. I'm a dreadfully wicked and ungrateful girl, and I deserve to be punished and cast out by respectable people forever. It was very wicked of me to fly into a temper because you told me the truth. It WAS the truth; every word you said was true. My hair is red and I'm freckled and skinny and ugly. What i said to you was true, too, but I shouldn't have said it. Oh, Mrs. Lynde, please, please, forgive me. If you refuse it will be a lifelong


she and Brody got into a huge argument over the phone, and she let it slip that he could be looking at prison time.” His jaw goes slack as fresh tears well in his eyes. Tanya looks at Jonah. “We didn’t know she agreed to see him yesterday. We would’ve tried to stop her if we did. We know how manipulative Brody can be. Conniving. Smooth. He’s so used to getting what he wants.” Like my wife. Ethan notes Tanya’s chin quivers as she purses her lips. “Chelsea was always too trusting.” Her father covers his eyes with his hand. “I knew it was going to get her into trouble someday. Just not like this.” His voice breaks. His wife reaches for his hand. “Even after everything, I think in some strange way, she was still in love with the sick bastard.” Ethan tears his gaze from the grieving couple and stares out at the lights of the Seattle waterfront through the windows beyond them. Maybe Chelsea wasn’t the only one. Chapter 28 Sloane meets Ethan in the kitchen after she hears him come through the garage. He never returned her calls. The hours passed like years since she got back from her run. Ethan pulls a beer from the fridge and leans against the counter. “Hey,” she says. He looks exhausted. She’s dying to press him about the investigation, to know Brody was telling the truth about the phone records. He opens his beer and locks his tired eyes with hers. “Tell me you had nothing to do with Chelsea’s death.” “What do you mean?” His face hardens. “You were having an affair with a man who killed his wife.” “We don’t know that for su—” “He killed her, Sloane!” Ethan raises his hands in the air. “And then, out of all the doctors in Seattle, you were the one who pronounced his wife dead.” “I tried to revive her! I had no idea Brody was going to do that. I obviously had no idea who he really was!” “It’s not me you should be worried about convincing.” Sloane’s blood runs cold. “What are you talking about?” Had Brody lied about the phone records? “Has our affair already come up?” “Not yet.” Ethan moves around the kitchen island. “But it would look better if you come forward before it comes to light.” Brody’s threat echoes in her mind as Sloane leans against the fridge. If we’re found out, we’ll both look guilty. “It’s going to look bad, whether I come forward or not at this point.” He grips the back of one of the barstools, lowering his gaze to the counter. “Did anyone see you when you went to his house after your award gala? Like his staff?” She shakes her head. “No.” “What about his house in the San Juans?” “We were alone.” “He has security cameras at his home. Probably at his San Juan property too. I don’t see us checking it now, but it’s possible—” “I could ask Brody to erase it. I’m sure he—” “No!” Ethan swipes


with her and concentrate, soothing the darkness until sleep could come peacefully, without those strange dreams. There’d been no death that night. But Anton shook his head, mindless of the blade still against his neck. Gabe tried to move it; he didn’t in time, and a thin line of crimson creased the old man’s skin. “It won’t last,” he rasped. “These roles are fixed. To let the girl live is to invite oblivion, for the world, but for yourselves most of all.” “Spare us your religious bullshit,” Bastian hissed. Another braying laugh from the Priest Exalted. “Oh, nephew, that’s the one thing you can’t be spared. You’ll learn.” “Lore.” The Night Priestess’s voice was quiet; still, it echoed. Her face was emotionless, though something like resignation lurked at the corner of her mouth, in the shine of her eyes. “Things have progressed more than we thought,” she said softly. “I see that now. I can’t make you choose death.” “Damn right,” Bastian snarled, shouldering in front of Lore. “I was too weak before,” the Night Priestess continued, ignoring Bastian. “And for that, I’m sorry.” “Sorry for letting me live?” Lore’s voice came out ragged. “Sorry for saving me?” Her mother lowered her chin, her long, pale hair almost covering her face. “But you can be strong now,” she said, as if Lore hadn’t spoken at all. “You can make the right choice.” “You’re asking her to die, and you think you’re in the right?” Gabe nearly spat it. But the Night Priestess didn’t respond. She looked only at Lore, only at her daughter. “It all springs from this choice,” she murmured. “You are the seed of the apocalypse.” And it was true. Lore didn’t know how, not yet, didn’t understand the intricacies. But she felt the truth. But it was also true what she’d told her mother. Lore was selfish. If it came down to her or the world, Lore chose herself. The Night Priestess sighed. Nodded, knowing Lore’s answer though she didn’t speak. Then, in a quick movement that the flickering flames bisected into strange jerks, she climbed up onto the lip of the well and descended the spinning stairs into the dark. Bastian moved forward, as if he’d follow and extract some kind of revenge, but Lore put her hand on his chest. “No,” she murmured, and had nothing else to add. “No.” He listened. “You’ve chosen your path, the three of you,” Anton murmured. “Woe betide us when the rest follow.” Bastian looked at Gabe. Flicked his hand. “The old man will live, Gabe.” Shoulders slumped in relief, Gabe finally took his dagger from Anton’s throat. He stepped back, letting the Priest Exalted stand on his own. Bastian’s hand moved, twisting in a graceful motion that looked near impossible. Golden swirls carved through the air, coalescing around his fingers, threads spun from the sun itself. Then Bastian thrust his handful of gold toward Anton. The strands attached to the ground around the Priest Exalted, and it erupted. Thick green vines grew rapidly through the stone, thorn-studded, the ends opening


hills and the sea was filled with a clamour as of voices in anguish. The cry of Morgoth in that hour was the greatest and most dreadful that was ever heard in the northern world; the mountains shook, and the earth trembled, and rocks were riven asunder. Deep in forgotten places that cry was heard. Far beneath the rained halls of Angband, in vaults to which the Valar in the haste of their assault had not descended, Balrogs lurked still, awaiting ever the return of their Lord; and now swiftly they arose, and passing over Hithlum they came to Lammoth as a tempest of fire. With their whips of flame they smote asunder the webs of Ungoliant, and she quailed, and turned to flight, belching black vapours to cover her; and fleeing from the north she went down into Beleriand, and dwelt beneath Ered Gorgoroth, in that dark valley that was after called Nan Dungortheb, the Valley of Dreadful Death, because of the horror that she bred there. For other foul creatures of spider form had dwelt there since the days of the delving of Angband, and she mated with them, and devoured them; and even after Ungoliant herself departed, and went whither she would into the forgotten south of the world, her offspring abode there and wove their hideous webs. Of the fate of Ungoliant no tale tells. Yet some have said that she ended long ago, when in her uttermost famine she devoured herself at last. And thus the fear of Yavanna that the Silmarils would be swallowed up and fall into nothingness did not come to pass; but they remained in the power of Morgoth. And he being freed gathered again all his servants that he could find, and came to the ruins of Angband. There he delved anew his vast vaults and dungeons, and above their gates he reared the threefold peaks of Thangorodrim, and a great reek of dark smoke was ever wreathed about them. There countless became the hosts of his beasts and his demons, and the race of the Orcs, bred long before, grew and multiplied in the bowels of the earth. Dark now fell the shadow on Beleriand, as is told hereafter, but in Angband Morgoth forged for himself a great crown of iron, and he called himself King of the World. In token of this he set the Silmarils in his crown. His hands were burned black by the touch of those hallowed jewels, and black they remained ever after; nor was he ever free from the pain of the burning, and the anger of the pain. That crown he never took from his head, though its weight became a deadly weariness. Never but once only did he depart for a while secretly from his domain in the North; seldom indeed did he leave the deep places of his fortress, but governed his armies from his northern throne. And once only also did he himself wield weapon, while his realm lasted. For now, more than in the days of Utumno ere his pride


he drew the back of his hand across his nose with his usual conciliatory air on such occasions, and looked at her. "Well?" said my sister, in her snappish way. "What are you staring at? Is the house a-fire?" " - Which some individual," Joe politely hinted, "mentioned - she." "And she is a she, I suppose?" said my sister. "Unless you call Miss Havisham a he. And I doubt if even you'll go so far as that." "Miss Havisham, up town?" said Joe. "Is there any Miss Havisham down town?" returned my sister. "She wants this boy to go and play there. And of course he's going. And he had better play there," said my sister, shaking her head at me as an encouragement to be extremely light and sportive, "or I'll work him." I had heard of Miss Havisham up town - everybody for miles round, had heard of Miss Havisham up town - as an immensely rich and grim lady who lived in a large and dismal house barricaded against robbers, and who led a life of seclusion. "Well to be sure!" said Joe, astounded. "I wonder how she come to know Pip!" "Noodle!" cried my sister. "Who said she knew him?" " - Which some individual," Joe again politely hinted, "mentioned that she wanted him to go and play there." "And couldn't she ask Uncle Pumblechook if he knew of a boy to go and play there? Isn't it just barely possible that Uncle Pumblechook may be a tenant of hers, and that he may sometimes - we won't say quarterly or half-yearly, for that would be requiring too much of you - but sometimes - go there to pay his rent? And couldn't she then ask Uncle Pumblechook if he knew of a boy to go and play there? And couldn't Uncle Pumblechook, being always considerate and thoughtful for us - though you may not think it, Joseph," in a tone of the deepest reproach, as if he were the most callous of nephews, "then mention this boy, standing Prancing here" - which I solemnly declare I was not doing - "that I have for ever been a willing slave to?" "Good again!" cried Uncle Pumblechook. "Well put! Prettily pointed! Good indeed! Now Joseph, you know the case." "No, Joseph," said my sister, still in a reproachful manner, while Joe apologetically drew the back of his hand across and across his nose, "you do not yet - though you may not think it - know the case. You may consider that you do, but you do not, Joseph. For you do not know that Uncle Pumblechook, being sensible that for anything we can tell, this boy's fortune may be made by his going to Miss Havisham's, has offered to take him into town to-night in his own chaise-cart, and to keep him to-night, and to take him with his own hands to Miss Havisham's to-morrow morning. And Lor-a-mussy me!" cried my sister, casting off her bonnet in sudden desperation, "here I stand talking to mere Mooncalfs, with


you came highly recommended, but that would be a lie. I was told next to nothing about you.” I take a deep breath. This could be a good thing. Then again, maybe not. Because it means I’ll have to explain everything myself if asked. Please don’t ask, I think. “I’ve been with Gurlain Home Health Aides for twelve years,” I say. “That’s quite a long time.” Mrs. Baker holds my gaze, her face unreadable. “I assume you learned a lot in those twelve years.” “I did, yes.” I start listing all the things I know how to do, ranging from the pedestrian—light cooking, light cleaning, changing sheets with a person still in the bed—to the professional. Giving sponge baths and inserting catheters, drawing blood and injecting insulin, checking shoulder blades and buttocks for bedsores. “Why, you’re practically a nurse,” Mrs. Baker interrupts when I’ve droned on too long. “Do you have much experience caring for stroke victims?” “Some,” I say, thinking of Mrs. Plankers and how I cared for her less than two months before her poor husband ran out of money to pay for the agency’s services. Mrs. Plankers was moved to a state-funded nursing home, and I was assigned to another patient. “Miss Hope’s condition might require more attention than you’re accustomed to,” Mrs. Baker says. “She’s been plagued by bad health most of her life. A bout of polio in her twenties weakened her legs so much that she’s been unable to walk since. Over the past twenty years, she’s suffered a series of strokes. They left her unable to speak and the right side of her body paralyzed. She can move her head and neck, but it’s sometimes difficult for her to control them. All she has, really, is limited use of her left arm.” I flex my own left arm, unable to imagine only having control of that single, small part of my body. At least now I know why Lenora never left Hope’s End. She couldn’t. “Is that why the previous nurse left?” “Mary?” Mrs. Baker says, seemingly flustered. The first genuine emotion I’ve seen from her. “No, she was quite good at her job. She’d been with us for more than a year. Miss Hope adored her.” “Then why did she leave so suddenly?” “I wish I knew. She didn’t tell anyone why she was leaving, where she was going, or even that she was leaving at all. She simply left. In the middle of the night, no less. Poor Miss Hope was left unattended all night, during which time something terrible could have occurred. As you well know, considering what happened to the last person in your care.” My breath hitches in my chest. She knows. Of course she does. Squirming beneath Mrs. Baker’s withering gaze, all I’m able to say is, “I can explain.” “Please do.” I break eye contact, ashamed. I feel exposed. So completely naked that I start to smooth my skirt over my legs, trying to cover as much of myself as the fabric will allow. “I had a—” My


the hips, on legs that bent at the knees. About his body there was a peculiar springiness, or resiliency, almost catlike, and a quick alertness as of one who lived in perpetual fear of things seen and unseen. At other times this hairy man squatted by the fire with head between his legs and slept. On such occasions his elbows were on his knees, his hands clasped above his head as though to shed rain by the hairy arms. And beyond that fire, in the circling darkness, Buck could see many gleaming coals, two by two, always two by two, which he knew to be the eyes of great beasts of prey. And he could hear the crashing of their bodies through the undergrowth, and the noises they made in the night. And dreaming there by the Yukon bank, with lazy eyes blinking at the fire, these sounds and sights of another world would make the hair to rise along his back and stand on end across his shoulders and up his neck, till he whimpered low and suppressedly, or growled softly, and the half-breed cook shouted at him, "Hey, you Buck, wake up!" Whereupon the other world would vanish and the real world come into his eyes, and he would get up and yawn and stretch as though he had been asleep. It was a hard trip, with the mail behind them, and the heavy work wore them down. They were short of weight and in poor condition when they made Dawson, and should have had a ten days' or a week's rest at least. But in two days' time they dropped down the Yukon bank from the Barracks, loaded with letters for the outside. The dogs were tired, the drivers grumbling, and to make matters worse, it snowed every day. This meant a soft trail, greater friction on the runners, and heavier pulling for the dogs; yet the drivers were fair through it all, and did their best for the animals. Each night the dogs were attended to first. They ate before the drivers ate, and no man sought his sleeping-robe till he had seen to the feet of the dogs he drove. Still, their strength went down. Since the beginning of the winter they had travelled eighteen hundred miles, dragging sleds the whole weary distance; and eighteen hundred miles will tell upon life of the toughest. Buck stood it, keeping his mates up to their work and maintaining discipline, though he, too, was very tired. Billee cried and whimpered regularly in his sleep each night. Joe was sourer than ever, and Sol-leks was unapproachable, blind side or other side. But it was Dave who suffered most of all. Something had gone wrong with him. He became more morose and irritable, and when camp was pitched at once made his nest, where his driver fed him. Once out of the harness and down, he did not get on his feet again till harness-up time in the morning. Sometimes, in the traces, when jerked by a sudden stoppage of the sled,


it for the third time. The room was cold but nonetheless he felt he could not breathe. He did not wish to open the curtains and open the french windows, for he did not want the moon to come into the room. So, with the feeling of a man who will die in the next hour for lack of air,.he felt his way toward his open, separate, and therefore cold bed. An instant before his foot hit the object on the floor he knew he would hit such an object. It was not unlike the feeling he had experienced before turning the corner and almost knocking the girl down. His foot, sending vibrations ahead, received back echoes of the small barrier across its path even as the foot swung. His foot kicked. The object gave a dull clink and slid off in darkness. He stood very straight and listened to the person on the dark bed in the completely featureless night. The breath coming out of the nostrils was so faint it stirred only the furthest fringes of life, a small leaf, a black feather, a single fibre of hair. He still did not want outside light. He pulled out his igniter, felt the salamander etched on its silver disc, gave it a flick.... Two moonstones looked up at him in the light of his small hand-held fire; two pale moonstones buried in a creek of clear water over which the life of the world ran, not touching them. "Mildred ! " Her face was like a snow-covered island upon which rain might fall; but it felt no rain; over which clouds might pass their moving shadows, but she felt no shadow. There was only the singing of the thimble-wasps in her tamped-shut ears, and her eyes all glass, and breath going in and out, softly, faintly, in and out of her nostrils, and her not caring whether it came or went, went or came. The object he had sent tumbling with his foot now glinted under the edge of his own bed. The small crystal bottle of sleeping-tablets which earlier today had been filled with thirty capsules and which now lay uncapped and empty in the light of the tiny flare. As he stood there the sky over the house screamed. There was a tremendous ripping sound as if two giant hands had torn ten thousand miles of black linen down the seam. Montag was cut in half. He felt his chest chopped down and split apart. The jet-bombs going over, going over, going over, one two, one two, one two, six of them, nine of them, twelve of them, one and one and one and another and another and another, did all the screaming for him. He opened his own mouth and let their shriek come down and out between his bared teeth. The house shook. The flare went out in his hand. The moonstones vanished. He felt his hand plunge toward the telephone. The jets were gone. He felt his lips move, brushing the mouthpiece of the phone. "Emergency


down. Then he continued less vehemently: 'The first thing for you to understand is that in this place there are no martyrdoms. You have read of the religious persecutions of the past. In the Middle Ages there was the Inquisitlon. It was a failure. It set out to eradicate heresy, and ended by perpetuating it. For every heretic it burned at the stake, thousands of others rose up. Why was that? Because the Inquisition killed its enemies in the open, and killed them while they were still unrepentant: in fact, it killed them because they were unrepentant. Men were dying because they would not abandon their true beliefs. Naturally all the glory belonged to the victim and all the shame to the Inquisitor who burned him. Later, in the twentieth century, there were the totalitarians, as they were called. There were the German Nazis and the Russian Communists. The Russians persecuted heresy more cruelly than the Inquisition had done. And they imagined that they had learned file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (138 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:52 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt from the mistakes of the past; they knew, at any rate, that one must not make martyrs. Before they exposed their victims to public trial, they deliberately set themselves to destroy their dignity. They wore them down by torture and solitude until they were despicable, cringing wretches, confessing whatever was put into their mouths, covering themselves with abuse, accusing and sheltering behind one another, whimpering for mercy. And yet after only a few years the same thing had happened over again. The dead men had become martyrs and their degradation was forgotten. Once again, why was it? In the first place, because the confessions that they had made were obviously extorted and untrue. We do not make mistakes of that kind. All the confessions that are uttered here are true. We make them true. And above all we do not allow the dead to rise up against us. You must stop imagining that posterity will vindicate you, Winston. Posterity will never hear of you. You will be lifted clean out from the stream of history. We shall turn you into gas and pour you into the stratosphere. Nothing will remain of you, not a name in a register, not a memory in a living brain. You will be annihilated in the past as well as in the future. You will never have existed.' Then why bother to torture me? thought Winston, with a momentary bitterness. O'Brien checked his step as though Winston had uttered the thought aloud. His large ugly face came nearer, with the eyes a little narrowed. 'You are thinking,' he said, 'that since we intend to destroy you utterly, so that nothing that you say or do can make the smallest difference--in that case, why do we go to the trouble of interrogating you first? That is what you were thinking, was it not?' 'Yes,' said Winston. O'Brien smiled slightly. 'You are a flaw in the pattern, Winston. You are a stain that must be wiped out. Did I not tell you just now that


he spots me, giving me a nudge of his chin in hello but never quite making eye contact. “Thanks for inviting me over.” I don’t love the way my stomach swoops when I see him, with his shaggy black hair that hangs to his shoulders, full lips that are now intimately acquainted with my body. I spent so many years dreaming of him—this guy who was just as passionate about journalism as I was. Or at least, as I thought I was. He was even laid off from The Catch at the same time, then managed to snag a coveted reporter job at the Tacoma News Tribune. I thought that shared layoff would bring us closer together. And I guess it eventually did, before what happened in August pushed us all the way apart. I can’t deny that’s some of the appeal of skipping town. Instead of confronting this mess of awkward, I’ll simply put a couple thousand miles between us. By the time I come back, I won’t be hung up on him at all. “Yeah, no, of course.” I force a laugh as Wyatt scratches at his elbow. Yeah, no: the mantra of the chronically anxious. See also: no, yeah. “It’s good to see you.” Noemie shoos us out of the kitchen, so we make our way to the living room, where Wyatt pretends to be deeply entranced by the gallery wall above the couch and I spend far too much time selecting carrots and celery sticks from the platter on the coffee table. It feels like the night we slept together happened months ago with how much distance it’s created. I was just so convinced we were a good fit. Sophomore year, when there was an outbreak of lice on my floor but he’d promised to quiz me for our journalism ethics class—I kept mixing up court cases—he told me he didn’t care, that he’d come by my room to help anyway. Of course, he wound up infested, too. There is nothing that bonds you quite like having nits picked out of your hair together at a treatment center called Lice Knowing You, and maybe that shouldn’t have made me like him more, listening to him crack jokes while we tried our best not to scratch at our scalps, but somehow it did. He was selfless and he was smart, and I dreamed of us becoming the next journalism power couple. An Ephron and Bernstein for the modern age. Minus the affair. He knows my past, my whole past, and he’s never judged me for it. When I had an abortion junior year, he dropped off a heating pad and takeout gift card at my apartment. I’ve never had to explain it to him, the way I want to in new relationships, which means no worrying over the right timing. Because even though it’s a choice I’m glad I made, it doesn’t make me any less anxious about telling someone for the first time. Part of me has always been scared that I won’t find someone who knows me


the Ethan Underwood show.” A low chuckle to himself, one that indicates he doesn’t find it funny at all. “Haven’t had anything like that happen in a while. Guess I didn’t miss it.” “I can imagine.” And I try to, picturing the four of them mobbed by adoring fans, Ethan shimmering in the spotlight the way only a leading man can. Again I wonder if Finn has ever wanted that for himself. “Please tell me your evening was a little less self-indulgent?” I shrug. “I video-chatted with my parents and read a bit.” And the first half of the advance hit my bank account, which prompted a celebratory slice of cheesecake via room service. “And how are your parents?” I lift my eyebrows at him, because somehow it sounds like he’s genuinely interested. “They’re good. I swear, they’ve picked up five new hobbies each year since they’ve been retired. My mom just joined a pinochle league, and my dad is getting really into birds. And they’re missing me desperately, of course, but they’ll survive.” “Of course.” And he gives me this little half smile as he unbuttons his black canvas jacket, folding it over the back of a chair. Then, it’s as though he’s unsure what to do with his body. He glances over at the bed before he settles for standing, crossing one leg over the other. “You did great today. By the way.” I exaggerate a groan. “Mood killer. If there was a mood left after talking about my parents.” “I’m serious! It’s not easy to get up there and do that, especially if you haven’t been prepped. And League Loup-Garou—that was a secret French werewolf-hunting agency from season three— that’s a hard word.” “I have a feeling hard-core Nocturnals fans might feel differently, but thank you.” I clear my throat, toying with a button on my cardigan. “So. Tonight’s lesson.” “Ah yes. I see you called this one”—he pulls up his phone—“ ‘Intermediate Foreplay: Turn a Touch into a Tingle.’ ” “I was trying to be creative.” His eyes crinkle at the corners as he grins. “I’m just proud to be in the intermediate class.” I smirk at him as I move over to the bed. “Only because you’re sleeping with the teacher.” He sits down next to me, triangling an ankle on his knee. Then he laces his fingers together, the perfect image of an adult man waiting for sexual enlightenment. If he’s nervous, he’s great at hiding it. The next time I enter into an educational sex pact, I’m not doing it with an actor. Or at least, a much less talented actor. Because that’s one thing I’ve learned, watching The Nocturnals and Lucky Us and even his Hallmark Christmas movie. Finnegan Walsh is a good actor. It’s the way he’s aware of his scene partners, his body language attuned to everyone in the room. The subtleties of his expression, how he’s able to convey joy or sadness or fear in a single tilt of his head or curve of his brows. And his eyes, those lovely


strong when there’s a downturn, and a little bit saves the whales too. Ostby can afford to be cautious for his good family clients because he has five or six other clients whose money comes in a little dusty, maybe grey, even a little shady, and he helps it wash off that grime and make itself presentable in polite society. In amongst the sheep: wolves in casual knitwear. Murder cops have to talk to financial cops about money when they need to know something and financial crime is frustrating and intangible. Right now Felton is sitting with his eyes closed, wishing he was dead, half listening to Wade Kinsella and Joanie Fontana from Forensic Fiscal Division go through money flows and Roddy Tebbit’s legitimate expenditure. But me, I like to talk to Ostby, because if you want to know money laundering you want to know a money launderer. Which is why I make it my business to know Ostby’s business. Not the money and certainly not the clients. But I know Floyd Ostby has a little issue with pills and I know where he goes to enjoy those pills, and what and who he does when he gets there. The last Mrs. Ostby paid for some really great recording equipment. Ostby knows I know this but today he’s not buying. “Maybe I don’t care any more.” “Maybe you don’t.” “Maybe I’ve got new friends, Cal. The kind of friends can make that kind of problem go away.” “It’s been tried occasionally. It didn’t stick. You threatening me, Floyd?” He shakes his head, but it’s interesting he’d get that close to it. That’s not Floyd Ostby’s home ground at all. He’s strictly a gym bunny, not a thug. “What’s got into you, man? You find yourself a shiny new client from the cartels? I didn’t think you liked that action.” “Someone—” he smirks a little bit. “Bigger.” “I can just call Stefan and ask who it is, Floyd. You know that.” “Damn it, Cal! How long you going to try to hold this shit over me?” “Pretty much until one of us dies, Floyd. And if it’s me pegs out? I’m going to bequeath it all to Gratton.” “Screw you.” But he sits down again. Another way he’s not like a Titan. They don’t talk about it much but I’m pretty sure Titans get stubborn when they get dosed. I’m not sure if it’s a chemical thing or just having your body get tougher than everyone else’s and spending time exclusively with the mega-rich. When a Titan says “no” they mean it, and if you push, they push back. There’s no meeting you halfway. I toss him the little drive with Roddy Tebbit’s numbers on it. “I need to know what’s happening there.” “I’m sorry, Cal, I’m all kinds of busy this week. Why don’t you have your people call me…” He sits down, flicks through a calendar, “no, that’s not good…no…yep. Here we go. Call on the sixth of go fuck yourself and we’ll set something up.” “First blush I’ll take right


Her fingers were gentle. “Listen. I don’t like interfering in people’s business. And I won’t be used as a go-between.” “All right. Where is he?” Mrs. Bone tilted her head, a quick sideways jerk, and Mrs. King looked over her shoulder. She felt her heart expanding. “Good. Clear off for a bit, would you?” She raised a hand, a solemn gesture, and William—at a distance, hat pulled low over his eyes, raised his slowly in return. “Let me know, won’t you?” Mrs. Bone said, squinting up at the de Vries residence. A worried look entered her eyes. “What you decide.” William came across the grass toward her: straight, purposeful strides. Mrs. Bone scuttled away, her bicycle jolting as she went, and disappeared into the trees. Mrs. King spoke first. “I didn’t put a call out for any hired hands.” William tipped his hat. “How about sweethearts?” “Not advertising for those, either.” “Well, fair enough.” “Look at it,” she said, pointing to the house. He followed her gaze. White plasterwork, pillars. The great bow windows, the awnings. The huge heft and height of it. “Smartest house in London,” Mrs. King said. “They do say that.” “And up for sale, too.” The auctioneers were fanning themselves in the heat. William’s voice was cautious. “Right.” Mrs. King felt the warm breeze coming across the park, heard the roar and grind of the traffic coming around the bend. Saw the fierce glitter of the windows. Then William said, “I thought we’d meet sooner.” “I told you: I had to take myself out of circulation.” She smiled through her veil. “Temporarily.” He touched her arm, and her heartbeat accelerated. She’d taken care, such enormous care, to stay away from him. She did it to preserve her safety, and his. But now, at last, she felt herself bending. She had missed him, and she let herself feel it, the tingle as it passed through her chest, her skin. “Hmm.” There were questions William could ask, whole barrel loads of them, but he didn’t. She loved him for that. He said only, “I don’t want you to think I’m coming for your money.” Mrs. King folded her hands. “Money? Who says I’ve got money?” She felt the weight of her hat, piled high with roses. The expensive lace at her throat, the ruby on her little finger. His expression narrowed. “Dinah. What they’re saying about the girls...” He studied her face. “Did you know?” “Did you?” He considered this. “No. But I don’t feel any better for it.” “Then you’d better repent, same as me. Let’s talk to the vultures.” For the first time she could remember, a whole crowd of gentlemen lifted their hats as she approached. She had an appointment, after all. She imagined she looked strange to them. A lady, but an anomaly. Tightly buckled. Lips the color of garnets. She’d given them a false name, of course. She tightened her veil. The house was calm and still. It seemed to her that something made of brick and white plaster and sandstone couldn’t really harm anyone.


council, Sansa?" the queen asked from the council table. "I do." She knelt on the cloak, so as not to spoil her gown, and looked up at her prince on his fearsome black throne. "As it please Your Grace, I ask mercy for my father, Lord Eddard Stark, who was the Hand of the King." She had practiced the words a hundred times. The queen sighed. "Sansa, you disappoint me. What did I tell you about traitor's blood?" "Your father has committed grave and terrible crimes, my lady," Grand Maester Pycelle intoned. "Ah, poor sad thing," sighed Varys. "She is only a babe, my lords, she does not know what she asks." Sansa had eyes only for Joffrey. He must listen to me, he must, she A GAME OF THRONES 549 thought. The king shifted on his seat, "Let her speak," he commanded. "I want to hear what she says." "Thank you, Your Grace." Sansa smiled, a shy secret smile, just for him. He was listening. She knew he would. "Treason is a noxious weed," Pycelle declared solemnly. "It must be torn up, root and stem and seed, lest new traitors sprout from every roadside." "Do you deny your father's crime?" Lord Baelish asked. "No, my lords." Sansa knew better than that. "I know he must be punished. All I ask is mercy. I know my lord father must regret what he did. He was King Robert's friend and he loved him, you all know he loved him. He never wanted to be Hand until the king asked him. They must have lied to him. Lord Renly or Lord Stannis or . . . or somebody, they must have lied, otherwise . . ." King Joffrey leaned forward, hands grasping the arms of the throne. Broken sword points fanned out between his fingers. "He said I wasn't the king. Why did he say that?" "His leg was broken," Sansa replied eagerly. "It hurt ever so much, Maester Pycelle was giving him milk of the poppy, and they say that milk of the poppy fills your head with clouds. Otherwise he would never have said it." Varys said, "A child's-faith . . . such sweet innocence . . . and yet, they say wisdom oft comes from the mouths of babes." "Treason is treason," Pycelle replied at once. Joffrey rocked restlessly on the throne. "Mother?" Cersei Lannister considered Sansa thoughtfully. "If Lord Eddard were to confess his crime," she said at last, "we would know he had repented his folly." Joffrey pushed himself to his feet. Please, Sansa thought, please, please, be the king I know you are, good and kind and noble, please. "Do you have any more to say?" he asked her. "Only . . . that as you love me, you do me this kindness, my prince," Sansa said. King Joffrey looked her up and down. "Your sweet words have moved me," he said gallantly, nodding, as if to say all would be well. "I shall do as you ask . . . but first your father has to confess.


with me. He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the business up and started off for the address that was given us in the advertisement. "I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in his hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope's Court looked like a coster's orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so many in the whole country as were brought together by that single advertisement. Every shade of color they were--straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real vivid flame-colored tint. When I saw how many were waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up to the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream upon the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could and soon found ourselves in the office." "Your experience has been a most entertaining one," remarked Holmes as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of snuff. "Pray continue your very interesting statement." "There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that was even redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he came up, and then he always managed to find some fault in them which would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy matter, after all. However, when our turn came the little man was much more favorable to me than to any of the others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that he might have a private word with us. "'This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,' said my assistant, 'and he is willing to fill a vacancy in the League.' "'And he is admirably suited for it,' the other answered. 'He has every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so fine.' He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly on my success. "'It would be injustice to hesitate,' said he. 'You will, however, I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.' With that he seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the pain. 'There is water in your eyes,' said he as he released me. 'I perceive that all is as it should be. But we have to be careful, for we have twice been


from me these past years, I still think of them like my own. If good comes to them, it is for my own good. The Bible that I read every day says that I should not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in my power. Why would I allow you to be the reason I offend my God? And anyway, let’s say God forgives me for withholding this money from you, will alajobi forgive me? Won’t the ancestral spirits that roam this compound haunt me until the day I die for being so mean to you? If I had the power, Ìyá Ẹniọlá—look at my face, ehen—if I had the power to help you, I would.” “Please, I want…I want these children to go to school. It’s their only chance in life. I don’t have any property I’m going to leave them. I have nothing else to give them that can—” “You think I am happy to see you suffer like this? Why do you think I am angry with your husband? God has not blessed this family with wealth, but were you ever hungry? Look at the wells in your neck. If he knew he could not take care of you, why did he marry you? You too look at what you are wearing—were you not better dressed when you lived here?” Ìyá Ẹniọlá looked down at her washed-out ankara dress. The hem had come apart, and if you stared long enough, you could see that it had been patched at the hip. “Let me stop talking about your husband before this becomes another fight.” “Okay sir.” “But, Ìyá Ẹniọlá, I can’t afford to give you more than one thousand five hundred naira. Me too, I just finished paying school fees last week. My purse is still recovering from that.” Ìyá Ẹniọlá leaned forward. Surely she’d misheard. “You just finished paying what?” “School fees, I said school fees.” “For?” “My children.” “Children? It’s okay, Alàgbà, you don’t want to give me the money. No problem.” “Well, our God did not abandon me where you left me.” He gestured towards the door. “You might have seen them outside when you were coming in, my wife has two children from her first marriage.” “Wife?” “Yes, because the sun never sets on God’s mercies, I got married last year. My wife’s first husband died after the last child was born, and since then, she was shouldering the responsibilities of those children alone. That is until last year when we got married. Now they are my responsibility too.” This was joyful news, but Ìyá Ẹniọlá could not even force herself to smile. She let her chin sink into her chest. Alàgbà was the only person she could always turn to at the last minute, certain that he would give her the last cup of gaàrí in his house. There were times when he’d assured her that he would rather starve than allow Bùsọ́lá and Ẹniọlá to go without food. And now she realised that, somewhere in her mind, she


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

prettily and cast her eyes away. The man next to Cecelia glanced at Lore with a long-suffering expression. “You’re always distracted, Bastian.” “You wound me, Olivier.” Bastian put a hand to his heart. “Don’t be cross; you distract me just as much as your lovely sister.” Olivier rolled his eyes, but high flags of color rose in his cheeks. The blush made him and Cecelia look obviously related, highlighting bright-blue eyes and dark hair. “Save your flirting for after the game.” Alie marched forward, headed for the doors that led to the green. “I am focused on a different kind of conquest.” “Gods spare us all,” Gabe muttered. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE What’s the difference between a poison runner and a god? If you pray, the poison runner might hear you. —Overheard in an Caldienan tavern, 306 AGF An hour into their game, Gabe had fortunately managed to refrain from hitting Bastian with a mallet. Lore had, too. However, she’d also managed to refrain from hitting the ball through the wicket. “It’s your right arm, I think,” Alie said. She’d made Lore stand still, bent over and ready to take a whack at the black ball on the grass, so she could inspect her form. “You’re holding it too stiffly, so when you swing, you’re hitting the ball with the side of the mallet instead of the front.” “So I should bend it?” In the past hour, Lore had discovered that while she held no real love for croquet, she especially didn’t hold any love for losing. She stuck out her elbow, taking it from straight to nearly a right angle. “Not that much.” Alie pushed her arm in slightly. “There. Now give it a go.” Lore did. The ball missed the nearest arch, but curved enough to inch through another. “Finally!” She straightened, beaming, and resisted pumping the mallet over her head in victory. Bastian, leaning on his own mallet at the edge of the playing field, gave her a gleaming grin. “Wrong wicket, dearest.” Well, shit. “That makes the score ten for us and four for you.” When Cecelia had first started keeping score, she’d sounded excited that she, Bastian, and Olivier were winning so handily. Now she almost sounded embarrassed. Olivier, however, smothered a laugh in his palm. Cecelia smacked her brother’s shoulder. She really wasn’t that bad, when she wasn’t sipping belladonna tea. Next to Lore, Gabe sighed and hefted his own mallet. It seemed he hated losing just as much as Lore did. Alie watched him line up his shot, her lip between her teeth. Lore picked up her mallet and came to stand next to her. “Sorry I’m making you lose.” “Oh, don’t be silly.” Alie waved a hand. “Last week, I beat Olivier in all three rounds we played on singles, so now he’s just trying to save face and show off for Bastian.” Her words were light, but her eyes still tracked Gabe. Lore couldn’t quite read the other woman’s expression. It was too complicated to be longing, too soft to really be regret. Gabe, for


expected me to ask how his touch came to be its own weapon. And indeed, I should have asked that. The mechanics of how he drained magic did not affect me; my cuffs prevented him from doing more than pulling my magic to the surface. Damn it to the tombs. The stupid moving wall had thrown me off-balance. Affected my judgment. “Jasadi magic is not a bottomless well. Every Jasadi has a finite supply from which to draw. Imagine one uses their magic sparingly, easing the drudgeries of daily chores. Another spends their allotment on some spectacular display. For the first Jasadi, replenishing their magic is not an issue, because they never reached the bottom of the well. The one who drained their magic by commanding a horse to fly or rain to fall must wait, helpless, until time renews their supply.” He raised his gloved hand to his temple, brushing it with a featherlight touch. “I possess the ability to drain the well temporarily. Time will still replenish their magic, but by then—” “You will have already caught or killed them.” My cuffs throttled my wrists, so urgently did my magic beat against my veins. Was it reacting to Arin or to Arin’s words? “Yes.” He remained composed in the face of my loathing. Had I not heard the hatred in his voice last night, I might have believed his indifference. But at least now I had an answer for why my magic reacted so strongly to his touch. He couldn’t drain my magic, but he could bring it surging to my cuffs. He removed a handkerchief from his coat and brushed it over the spiderweb. “Your turn.” I wanted him to choke on his intestines as I fed them to him in pieces. He did not deserve my secrets. Then do not give them to him, Hanim urged. She seemed buoyed I had chosen to ask a question on the Jasadis’ behalf instead of my own. Escape again and join the Jasadis he is hunting. Cold water splashed over my rage at the very notion. No, I had made my decision. My best route to freedom was through the Nizahl Heir. I hadn’t forgotten what Arin said yesterday. The Mufsids and Urabi chased the same Jasadi only if they had held an important post in Jasad. They either suspected who I was… or they somehow already knew. “I do not remember a time when my magic flowed free.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Can it be fixed?” I shook my head. If he pressed, I did not know if I could devise a lie capable of withstanding his scrutiny. “It is an unusual cruelty. Your magic feels strong.” I almost laughed. If only he knew. My grandparents would not have cuffed an average magic, nor would Hanim have been so desperate to unleash it. Abnormal magic defined my life. “You would know. Unusual cruelty is your specialty.” Arin moved on without comment, though I was sure the matter of what suppressed my magic would be revisited. He seemed


following a few too many G&Ts on the Ryanair flight, I took a taxi straight to Ha'penny Lane. I was fully expecting to find a bookshop, and that is exactly what I found. Even the taxi driver must have seen it. I think. I remember getting out of the car, handing him the money and walking up to the door. The lights were on inside and there was a golden glow from within, dispersed through the stained-glass windows. It was warm and comfortable inside, with that distinct bookshop smell of old musty covers and something spicy, like cinnamon. The walls were lined with shelves full of colourful book covers and I felt the tips of my fingers itching to touch them. But I wanted to speak to the owner first – show them the letter I had found and see if they could shed any light on its contents. I heard the bell ringing over the door and as I turned to see who had walked in behind me, I found myself outside on the pavement again. Just like that. I hadn’t moved my feet and yet there I was. I turned back to where the shop had been and found nothing but the darkness of night, as though it had swallowed the shop whole. For some reason I patted myself down, maybe to see if I was still there when the shop I was just standing in so clearly wasn’t. I did that ridiculous thing where you turn around and around on the spot, like a dog chasing its tail, in case the thing you lost is right behind you. But how could anyone lose a bookshop? The only logical explanation was that I had been very, very drunk. That is what I kept telling myself. A drunken haze, and the shop was a mirage. But I had been drunk many times before that and never conjured up a building, let alone walked into one. Now I had a corroborator. Someone else had seen the shop. The question now was: what had caused it to disappear and how could I get it back? Chapter Nineteen OPALINE Dublin, 1922 My first few weeks at Mr Fitzpatrick’s Nostalgia Shop were punctuated by a string of strange occurrences. It seemed the building itself did not exactly welcome me with open arms, but I was determined to prove myself a worthy custodian. I ventured up the spiral staircase that led to the attic, where he had kept the overflow from the shop. At the top was a tiny door that required me to bend a little and when I pushed against it, I found that the wood seemed to push back. I stood back in order to take something of a run at it and on the third go I burst through and fell flat on my face. ‘I see,’ I said aloud. ‘Like that, is it?’ I got up and dusted myself down, trying not to take the idiosyncrasies of an old building personally. A tiny window with a circular pane, opaque with green


We would love to host you at one of our club meetings. We usually do a Q&A with an invited guest, followed by a buffet dinner (free of charge to you, of course). Please let me know if that would be of interest. Thank you, Susan I almost delete the email. At this point, I delete most event invitations that don’t offer honorariums unless they’re truly prestigious. Susan Lee’s tone reads as formal and stilted in a way that makes me suspicious, though I can’t quite put my finger on why. (I always briefly worry, before accepting any invitations, whether the organizers are really setting a trap to hold me hostage or kill me.) Besides, Rockville is all the way in Maryland; it’s a pain to get out to from central DC if you don’t feel like spending a hundred bucks on an Uber round trip or sitting on the red line for an hour, and it’s not a paid gig. I should have said no and saved myself the humiliation. But Lily Wu’s words echo in my mind—“disingenuous, self-interested faux ally,” “oblivious White woman with no real ties to the community.” Aside from the Asian American Writers’ Collective, which I donate to and which can’t exactly shun me, this is the first Asian organization that’s wanted to host me since the Cambridge debacle. This could be good for me. This could prove, to the Twitter conspiracy theorists, that my support for Asian Americans isn’t an act. That I wrote The Last Front because I’ve studied the history, and because I care about the community. Maybe I’ll even make some new friends. I imagine the optics of an Instagram post of me eating catered Chinese food, surrounded by admiring Chinese fans. I look up the Chinese American Social Club of Rockville. Their website is a dinky little single page featuring Comic Sans text against a bright red background. I scroll down past the giant header to find several badly lit photos of club functions—a buffet dinner with a local business leader, a New Year’s banquet where everyone is wearing red, a karaoke night illuminated by garish flash. From what I can tell, the club members range from middle-aged to elderly. They look harmless. Adorable, even. Oh, what the hell? I wait a respectable few hours so that I don’t come off as desperate, and then I email Susan back. Hi, Susan. I would be happy to come speak to the club. April is quite open for me. Which dates work best for you? SUSAN LEE GREETS ME AT THE PARKING LOT OF THE SHADY GROVE metro station. I’m not so comfortable with my new wealth that I can just fling money at Ubers, so I’ve taken the red line all the way to the end, and she’s offered to drive me the rest of the way to the club. She’s a short, petite woman wearing a very crisp suit jacket. Kim Jong Un’s girlboss propagandist sister immediately comes to mind, only because I’d once seen a news photograph of her wearing a


Something deep in Ralph spoke for him. "I'm chief. I'll go. Don't argue." He turned to the others. "You. Hide here. Wait for me." He found his voice tended either to disappear or to come out too loud. He looked at Jack. "Do you--think?" Jack muttered. "I've been all over. It must be here." "I see." Simon mumbled confusedly: "I don't believe in the beast." Ralph answered him politely, as if agreeing about the weather. "No. I suppose not." His mouth was tight and pale. He put back his hair very slowly. "Well. So long." He forced his feet to move until they had carried him out on to the neck of land. He was surrounded on all sides by chasms of empty air. There was nowhere to hide, even if one did not have to go on. He paused on the narrow neck and looked down. Soon, in a matter of centuries, the sea would make an island of the castle. On the right hand was the lagoon, troubled by the open sea; and on the left-- Ralph shuddered. The lagoon had protected them from the Pacific: and for some reason only Jack had gone right down to the water on the other side. Now he saw the landsman's view of the swell and it seemed like the breathing of some stupendous creature. Slowly the waters sank among the rocks, revealing pink tables of granite, strange growths of coral, polyp, and weed. Down, down, the waters went, whispering like the wind among the heads of the forest. There was one flat rock there, spread like a table, and the waters sucking down on the four weedy sides made them seem like cliffs. Then the sleeping leviathan breathed out, the waters rose, the weed streamed, and the water boiled over the table rock with a roar. There was no sense of the passage of waves; only this minute-long fall and rise and fall. Ralph turned away to the red cliff. They were waiting behind him in the long grass, waiting to see what he would do. He noticed that the sweat in his palm was cool now; realized with surprise that he did not really expect to meet any beast and didn't know what he would do about it if he did. He saw that he could climb the cliff but this was not necessary. The squareness of the rock allowed a sort of plinth round it, so that to the right, over the lagoon, one could inch along a ledge and turn the corner out of sight. It was easy going, and soon he was peering round the rock. Nothing but what you might expect: pink, tumbled boulders with guano layered on them like icing; and a steep slope up to the shattered rocks that crowned the bastion. A sound behind him made him turn. Jack was edging along the ledge. "Couldn't let you do it on your own." Ralph said nothing. He led the way over the rocks, inspected a sort of half-cave that held nothing more terrible than a


Newland Archer walked straight home again that afternoon. It was a winter evening of transparent clearness, with an innocent young moon above the house- tops; and he wanted to fill his soul's lungs with the pure radiance, and not exchange a word with any one till he and Mr. Letterblair were closeted together after dinner. It was impossible to decide otherwise than he had done: he must see Madame Olenska himself rather than let her secrets be bared to other eyes. A great wave of compassion had swept away his indifference and impatience: she stood before him as an exposed and pitiful figure, to be saved at all costs from farther wounding herself in her mad plunges against fate. He remembered what she had told him of Mrs. Welland's request to be spared whatever was "unpleasant" in her history, and winced at the thought that it was perhaps this attitude of mind which kept the New York air so pure. "Are we only Pharisees after all?" he wondered, puzzled by the effort to reconcile his instinctive disgust at human vileness with his equally instinctive pity for human frailty. For the first time he perceived how elementary his own principles had always been. He passed for a young man who had not been afraid of risks, and he knew that his secret love-affair with poor silly Mrs. Thorley Rushworth had not been too secret to invest him with a becoming air of adventure. But Mrs. Rushworth was "that kind of woman"; foolish, vain, clandestine by nature, and far more attracted by the secrecy and peril of the affair than by such charms and qualities as he possessed. When the fact dawned on him it nearly broke his heart, but now it seemed the redeeming feature of the case. The affair, in short, had been of the kind that most of the young men of his age had been through, and emerged from with calm consciences and an undisturbed belief in the abysmal distinction between the women one loved and respected and those one enjoyed--and pitied. In this view they were sedulously abetted by their mothers, aunts and other elderly female relatives, who all shared Mrs. Archer's belief that when "such things happened" it was undoubtedly foolish of the man, but somehow always criminal of the woman. All the elderly ladies whom Archer knew regarded any woman who loved imprudently as necessarily unscrupulous and designing, and mere simple- minded man as powerless in her clutches. The only thing to do was to persuade him, as early as possible, to marry a nice girl, and then trust to her to look after him. In the complicated old European communities, Archer began to guess, love-problems might be less simple and less easily classified. Rich and idle and ornamental societies must produce many more such situations; and there might even be one in which a woman naturally sensitive and aloof would yet, from the force of circumstances, from sheer defencelessness and loneliness, be drawn into a tie inexcusable by conventional standards. On reaching home he wrote a


and friends. The timber cross that had once stood in memory of explorer Robert Scott had been taken down and replaced with six stone tablets, one for each lost continent, North America, South America, Europe, Africa, Asia and Australia, each engraved with the names of every former country, the one hundred and ninety-five former sovereign states once recognized by the United Nations and the six countries with partial recognition to avoid any needless controversy. There’d been a discussion about whether to erect the flag of Antarctica, a simple outline of the continent set against a blue background, to make this the flag for all survivors, but the idea had been abandoned with an acknowledgement that the era of flags was over. Standing at the summit, Yotam looked out at the view of mankind’s last capital city. The original McMurdo Station sat at the foot of this volcanic dome. Established in 1956, seventy years before the alien occupation, it had been intended as a permanent year-round scientific base, a human foothold on the continent, one hundred and sixty acres in size, akin to the remote mining settlements in the far reaches of Alaska. These original base buildings were now the historic centre of McMurdo City, the Old Town of an Antarctic metropolis that sprawled far across rock, ice and ocean, a city unlike any other in human history tasked with a goal unlike any other – the survival of the species. To the north filling this ice-locked coastline, was a stationary fleet of ships far larger than the one at Pearl Harbor or the Battle of Midway, a staggering sight to behold, every surviving naval vessel anchored side by side and back to back, arranged like puzzle pieces, bound together with their anchors down, never to sail again, a flotilla without precedent, an archipelago of steel glinting in the sun – the sprawling harbour quarter of McMurdo City. Nearest to the historic base were the most important ships, aircraft carriers with the paint of their illustrious names fading, the Kennedy, the Enterprise, the Nimitz, the Reagan, the Stennis, the Truman, the Washington and the Lincoln. Behind them were the destroyers, with the civilian cargo ships and oil tankers on the outer edge. Encased in ice during the winter, free to float in the looser pack ice during the summer, they were connected by a series of steel wire bridges so that a person could walk for miles, from ship to ship, without ever descending to the ice. Stripped of their weapons, the interior spaces had been converted into high-tech laboratories, power stations, furnaces and factories, the last hub of human innovation. Since the world’s military forces had been disbanded, the people who lived on these ships were scientists, doctors, inventors and assembly-line workers. These ships were the industrial heartland – the Rhineland and the rustbelt of McMurdo society. South of Observation Hill was the Ross Ice Shelf – a permanent expanse of ice, six hundred kilometres wide, fed by ancient valley glaciers the Byrd and Beardmore, tethered to the mainland continent of Antarctica,


leftmost entrance to the stage, where the phobos-born stood with his hands in his pockets. “Should we surround him?” asked Chimdi. “Catch him when the play starts?” “No, let’s wait. Watch who he speaks to.” A murmur swept over the crowd as the lights of the chandelier dimmed. In the faint glow, Io saw the phobos-born stepping aside as the door behind him opened. A man came in; the phobos-born whispered something into his ear; the other man nodded, planted a firm smile on his face, and climbed onto the stage. The Teatro Blanco erupted in applause as the spotlights came on, illuminating him in white. Io clamped her mouth to stifle her gasp. She knew those high cheekbones, those thin lips, that shiny black hair and vibrant smile. It had been plastered on every major billboard in Alante for the past few months. The man that the phobos-born had just reported to was Luc Saint-Yves. “Hello, ladies and gentlemen.” Saint-Yves spun in a circle, arms out in welcome. “We are here today to introduce the Initiative for the New Order and all it has to offer you.” Another round of applause, Saint-Yves mouthing thank you throughout. “First, let me introduce myself. Most of you know me as Alante’s Police Commissioner or Mayoral candidate, and I don’t doubt you’ve heard the rumors about my past. Yes, I do come from a rich family from Nanzy. Yes, I did join the Iceberg Corps against my family’s wishes. And yes, I did come back with a horrible spinal injury and an addiction to opioid medicine. After a hard two years of rehabilitation, I enrolled in law school, graduated with honors, and, at age thirty-four, was appointed Commissioner of Alante. Many say being sent to the Sunken City was a test from my superiors, and I agree; this is the kind of city that can destroy you. It certainly destroyed the fury-born.” Deep in her seat, arms crossed over her chest, Io scowled. All those fancy Nanzy folks thought they knew Alante, but more often than not they knew the newsies’ malformed version of it. “In the year since I was appointed Commissioner, we have managed to shut down more than half of the city’s chimerini betting fights, pleasure houses, dream palaces, and gambling dens. Dozens of outlier gangs have been disbanded. Our fine police officers and judges have managed to prosecute and win against factories breaking pollution laws, companies mistreating employees, notable city officials mismanaging city funds.” A pointed silence followed, a reference to something Io had missed. Hill politics rarely reached Silts ears. Who cared about upper-class riffraff when the Aeneas gang was tolling the Rosemary Bridge again? With the election in just a couple of days, rumor was that every mob boss in the Silts was throwing all the spare coin they had in supporting Saint-Yves’s opponent, the conservative but more pliable current Mayor. “For centuries,” Saint-Yves continued, “we have trusted the other-born to police their own. The fury-born could spot crimes on your skin like dirt. They could extract a confession


am no better than the men who have to labor for their bread. I may have been born to privilege, but I am merely a man, the same as them.” Lucy smiled, sending a bolt of lightning through him because it was a smile without any hesitation to it. She wore no mask of pretend—not that she had really done so before—and she wasn’t laughing at him or mocking him for adding yet another oddity to his repertoire. She offered that smile solely for him. “What a lovely thought,” she said. “If only more men were like you, Simon.” And Simon knew he had to get to the bottom of things once and for all. He refused to spend any more time wondering if she was going to betray him and his family. He refused to go any longer wondering whether she truly was engaged or whether she was more available than she’d led him to believe. No matter the risk to their friendship, he couldn’t live any longer in uncertainty. But he would need to be delicate about this. The family was already hanging by a thread, and it would be best to get her away from the house and any potential prying ears. He cleared his throat. “Have you been to William’s estate yet?” Her smile dropped immediately, something Simon did not much like. It was only proof that he was on the right track. She shuffled her feet, no longer meeting his eyes. “No, not yet.” “Would you like me to show it to you? It’s not far, and perhaps it would make you feel more at home to know what will be yours.” “I would like that,” she replied, though her expression said the opposite. She looked like she was going to be sick. “Only, I should check on William before I am gone for any length of time. I should have done that first thing in the morning. I should . . . excuse me, Lord Calloway.” She picked up her skirts and hurried back to the house, leaving Simon with a stone settling in his stomach. Whatever he learned at William’s house would be the end of it all, and at this point, he still couldn’t decide which outcome he wanted more. Either she was lying about her relationship and was entirely unattached, or she would truly marry William and forever be off-limits to Simon as his sister-in-law. Forester and Olivia returned to his side a moment later, both of them looking for Lucy. “Did she go back inside?” Forester asked, a little wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. That only made its appearance when he was judgmental of something or someone. “Oh, thank goodness,” Olivia breathed. “I was not looking forward to our walk, though I was sure Lucy needed it. It was the only reason I asked her. Do you think she will return, or . . . ?” Simon tried to smile. “Your afternoon is free, dear sister.” Olivia bounced with excitement. “I’m going to go practice for our race! I’ve not forgotten, Simon.


anyone, like lost treasure does. But after all, the ship did belong to our family. Nobody bothered much about it when it was down under the sea- but do you suppose people will still let me have it for my own now it's thrown up?" "Well, don't let's tell anyone!" said Dick. "Don't be silly," said George. "One of the fishermen is sure to see it when his ship goes slipping out of the bay. The news will soon be out." "Well then, we'd better explore it thoroughly ourselves before anyone else does!" said Dick, eagerly. "No one knows about it yet. Only us. Can't we explore it as soon as the waves go down a bit?" "We can't wade out to the rocks, if that's what you mean," said George. "We might get there by boat- but we couldn't possibly risk it now, while the waves are so big. They won't go down today, that's certain. The wind is still too strong." "Well, what about tomorrow morning, early?" said Julian. "Before anyone has got to know about it? I bet if only we can get into the ship first, we can find anything there is to find!" "Yes, I expect we could," said George. "I told you divers had been down and explored the ship as thoroughly as they could- but of course it is difficult to do that properly under water. We might find something they've missed. Oh, this is like a dream. I can't believe it's true that my old wreck has come up from the bottom of the sea like that!" The sun was now properly out, and the children's wet clothes dried in its hot rays. They steamed in the sun, and even Tim's coat sent up a mist too. He didn't seem to like the wreck at all, but growled deeply at it. "You are funny, Tim," said George, patting him. "It won't hurt you! What do you think it is?" "He probably thinks it's a whale," said Anne with a laugh. "Oh, George- this is the most exciting day of my life! Oh, can't we possibly take the boat and see if we can get to the wreck?" "No, we can't," said George. "I only wish we could. But it's quite impossible, Anne. For one thing I don't think the wreck has quite settled down on the rocks yet, and maybe it won't till the tide has gone down. I can see it lifting a little still when an extra big wave comes. It would be dangerous to go into it yet. And for another thing I don't want my boat smashed to bits on the rocks, and us thrown into that wild water! That's what would happen. We must wait till tomorrow. It's a good idea to come early. I expect lots of grown-ups will think it's their business to explore it." The children watched the old wreck for a little time longer and then went all round the island again. It was certainly not very large, but it really was exciting, with its


myself, but also Greg. Yes, Jack and Greg are close. No, Greg did not tell Jack about Faux, and it’s not my place to do so. I could avoid saying why Greg has decided to hire me, but would that matter? Jack would know that Greg is hiding something. That there’s something to prod, to investigate, and . . . “It’s just—I don’t know how my family would take it.” Greg rubs his palm in his eye, looking like he could use a deep-tissue massage and forty hours of sleep. “They might be complete assholes about it or be great or try to be nice and instead end up being massively invasive and . . . I’d rather not tell them, for now. I’d rather they not know that there’s something to tell.” I can hear Greg’s words as I glance up. Jack’s dark eyes are stern. Expectant. Inflexible. I’d rather lick the urinals than tell this guy any of my secrets. “Actually, I can’t explain, but—” Two voices—male laughter, loafer steps right outside the bathroom. We both wheel around to the entrance. “Someone’s coming,” I say unnecessarily. Shit. What if it’s someone from our party? I shoot Jack a panicked look, fully expecting to find him gloating. Instead his face takes on an urgent, calculating look, and things I do not expect happen. His huge hand lifts. Splays across the small of my back. Pushes me toward the closest stall. He wants to hide me? “What are you—” “Go,” he orders. “No! I can’t just—” I must hesitate too long, because Jack’s hands close around my waist. He lifts me effortlessly, like I weigh less than a Higgs boson, and carries me inside the stall, depositing my feet on the rim of the toilet. My brain blanks —no thoughts, head empty—and I don’t have the faintest idea what’s going on. What is he— The stall door closes. The bathroom door opens. Two men enter, discussing quantum advantage. “—scale the error correction by the number of qubits?” “You don’t. Scaled-up system behavior is erratic. How do you account for that?” Shit. Shit, shit— “Calm down,” Jack murmurs against the shell of my ear, like he knows that I’m on the verge of popping an aneurysm. “They’re from the MIT table,” I whisper under my breath. “Shh.” His giant paws tighten around me, as if to contain me and my panic. They span my waist. Our size difference sits somewhere between absurd and obscene. “Settle down.” I feel dizzy. “Why am I standing on the toilet?” “I figured you’d rather Dr. Pereira and Dr. Crowley keep on chatting about superpolynomial speedups and not see your heels under the stall. Was I wrong?” I close my eyes, mortified. This is not my life. I’m a discerning scientist with insightful opinions on spintronic tech, not this blighted creature clinging to Jonathan Smith-Turner’s shoulders on top of a latrine. Oh, who am I kidding? This is exactly my brand. Improbable. Cringeworthy. Botched. “Settle down,” Jack repeats, gruffly reassuring. We’re way too close. I want his breath


joined the soccer team ’cause I needed to make friends over here, and look: I have friends.” That’s a great point. Why did I start playing football? Because Dr. Okoro said getting out of my head and into my body would be helpful, and she was right. So, who cares if Donno won’t play me? Maybe I’ll jog after all. While I’m having Very Important Realizations, Jordan’s still ranting. “Anyway, you had nothing to do with me finally telling him about himself. He can’t speak to people like he speaks to Celine. You know, she’s basically my homegirl now.” My eyebrows fly north. “How is Celine your homegirl? She barely says two words to you.” “Yeah, and? She’s shy.” I want to bust up laughing at the idea of Celine as shy, only…she kind of is. In a really weird way. She’ll cuss out a complete stranger if she thinks it’s warranted, but it usually takes her thirty business days of acquaintance to feel comfortable with the question, Hey, how are you? I catch myself smiling and realize that I find her suspicious nature dreamy and adorable. This crush is a sickness. A sickness, I tell you! “Plus,” Jordan continues, oblivious to the steady degradation of my brain cells, “she’s best friends with Minnie, and I like Minnie.” Oh yeah; it turns out Michaela Digby is indeed gay, so Jordan has transformed his interest into general hero worship. The past month or so, it’s usually me and him and Minnie and Celine hanging out between classes. Sometimes Sonam and Peter are there, chattering about a New Year’s party; sometimes a few guys from the team come over and Celine glares at them like they might be hiding deadly weapons in their socks. It works pretty well. “And then,” Jordan finishes grandly, “there’s the fact that my best friend is in love with her—” I swallow my spit the wrong way and come very, very close to choking to death on a Sunday afternoon with my bedroom door wide open. My obituary would be tragic. “What?” I croak, sitting bolt upright. “I am not— What are you—” “Man,” he says. “Come on. What do you think I am, stupid?” “Jordan,” I say. “Jordan, Jordan, Jordan. I don’t…It’s not…” I glance furtively at the door because Mason’s home, for once, and he has ears like a bat. “I’m not in love with—” Celine, I mouth. “What?” Jordan says. “I think you’re breaking up.” “I just…have the teeniest, tiniest crush on her,” I say. “That’s all. It’s so small. Sooo small. It’s microscopic!” “Oh, really?” “Yes,” I say, relieved that he’s being so reasonable about this. “Absolutely, yes.” “Huh. See, usually when you have a crush on someone, you’re mad obvious about it,” Jordan says, “and you tell me right away—you don’t shut up about it—and then you spend a couple months spacing out while you daydream about your converted loft and your kitchen garden and your seventy-five adopted children—” “Jordan,” I groan, flopping back onto the bed. What is he, a bloody modern history


and not let her go. Sitting across from Rita’s desk, she knotted her hands and waited. “Ella’s written things down to make it easier for her,” Rita said. Ella took a folded piece of paper from the pocket of her sweatshirt. “I thought Gabriel was my friend,” she read aloud. “But then I started to think that you were telling him stuff about me behind my back. You acted strange with him. All jokey and smiley. And I woke up one night to go to the bathroom and you two were sitting outside. I knew you were probably doing that all the time. Then one day when I was at his place, he was in the shower, and he got a text and I read it. It was from you. About meeting by the hedge.” She paused and glanced up at Maud. The room grew close. “That afternoon, after you dropped me off from camp and left, I went down there and hid behind a tree, where I could see. I was going to tell you and Gabriel that I knew you were meeting each other in secret. I was mad at him too. I saw him waiting then you got there and I was going to do it. But you went into the forest and I didn’t understand why. So I went too.” Her face blanched. “And I saw.” “Do you want to take a minute?” Rita asked. Ella shook her head. She turned back to the paper. “After, I ran to the house. I just wanted to stop it. I didn’t want Dad to know. And he was coming that night. I hated Gabriel.” Ella’s mouth trembled. “Then when Dad came, you two said that you were staying and Louise and I were going back with him. I knew you and Gabriel would do that again. You’d fuck each other again.” Her voice rose. “That’s why you wanted Louise and me gone. So I thought, I’ll run away. It was dark, though, and I got scared, so I went to Gabriel’s because I knew he wasn’t there. I was going to wait until there was more light and go back on the road. I don’t know where. But I fell asleep. And then it all went so fast. I didn’t think all those things would happen. I didn’t think I’d have to go to the hospital and that they’d give me those drugs. And do that exam. And that they’d think I was doing something awful with Gabriel.” She folded the paper, eyes on the floor. “Something like what you did. That whole summer.” It wasn’t the whole summer, Maud thought. But this wasn’t a moment to protest. And she wanted the answer to another question. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me?” she asked, her body growing hot. Ella nodded. “It was my idea to use Gabriel’s Wi-Fi. I went over there to ask, and he let me. I told him not to tell you. He wanted to. He said he was going to if I didn’t. And


her straight through the gates of hell. Pamela Dawes, who came from a nice family with a nice house in Westport, who had a kind sister to come pick her up at the hospital and pay her to watch the kids. Pamela Dawes, who had no idea what it meant to hurt so much to live you might wake up one morning ready to die. And Alex was glad of that. People shouldn’t have to march through the world fighting all the time. But there was no way Alex was going to pressure Michelle Alameddine to do a job like this, not after she’d seen that tattoo on her wrist. “We’ll find someone else,” Alex said. But she didn’t know who. They couldn’t just grab somebody off the street and offer to pay them, and they couldn’t ask someone from the societies without risking that person going straight to the Lethe board. “We could use magic,” Dawes said tentatively. She was making slow spirals with her pen in the margin of her notes. “Bring someone on and then compel them so they can’t remember—” “Don’t do that.” Alex and Dawes nearly jumped out of their seats. Mercy was sitting on a couch just behind their table. “How long have you been there?” Alex demanded. “I followed you from the courtyard. If you need someone to help, I can do it, but not if you’re going to mess with my mind.” “No way are you getting involved.” Alex said. “Absolutely not.” Dawes looked horrified. “Wait, who … what does she know?” “Most of it.” “You told her about—” Dawes’s voice dropped to an angry whisper. “About Lethe?” “Yes,” Alex snapped. “And I’m not going to apologize for it. She’s the one who fished me out of my own misery last year. She’s the one who called my mom and made sure I was okay when you were holed up at your sister’s house watching old sitcoms and hiding under the blankets.” Dawes ducked her chin into her sweatshirt and Alex felt instantly terrible. “I can help,” Mercy said, breaking the silence. “You said you need someone to watch over you. I can do that.” “No.” Alex cut her hand through the air as if she were slicing the thought in half. “You have no idea what you’re signing up for. No.” Mercy crossed her arms. She was wearing a bright blue granny sweater today, crocheted roses gathered around the neck. She looked like a disapproving kindergarten teacher. “You can’t just say no, Alex.” “You could be killed.” Mercy scoffed. “Do you really think that will happen?” “No one knows what will happen!” “Can you give me a weapon?” Alex pinched the bridge of her nose. At least Mercy was asking the right questions. “You kind of don’t get to say no, right?” Mercy continued. “You don’t have anyone else. And you owe me for all the magical stuff.” “I don’t want you to get hurt.” “Because you’d feel guilty.” “Because I like you!” Alex shouted. She forced herself to lower her voice. “And


lapsed into the improbable--came up and smelt of Pearl's robe, and offered his savage head to be patted by her hand. The truth seems to be, however, that the mother-forest, and these wild things which it nourished, all recognised a kindred wilderness in the human child.% And she was gentler here than in the grassy-margined streets of the settlement, or in her mother's cottage. The Bowers appeared to know it, and one and another whispered as she passed, "Adorn thyself with me, thou beautiful child, adorn thyself with me!" --and, to please them, Pearl gathered the violets, and anemones, and columbines, and some twigs of the freshest green, which the old trees held down before her eyes. With these she decorated her hair and her young waist, and became a nymph child, or an infant dryad, or whatever else was in closest sympathy with the antique wood. In such guise had Pearl adorned herself, when she heard her mother's voice, and came slowly back. Slowly--for she saw the clergyman! Thesaurus adorned: (adj) decorated, ornate, doubts, distrusting. ANTONYM: naiad, Daphne, caterpillar, Aurelia, bedecked, decked out, fancy, (adj) credulous. Ariel, maiden, wench, staddle. garnished, ornamented, decked, dryad: (n) hamadryad, Ariel, Dryas, partridge: (n) grouse, bobwhite, beautiful, inscribed, festooned. seamaid, sprite, peri, wood nymph, bobwhite quail, wildfowl, phasianid, choleric: (adj) angry, irascible, fairy, Nereid, Napaea, banshee. quail, game bird, tinamou, ruffed passionate, peppery, fiery, inquisitively: (adv) pryingly, nosily, grouse. cantankerous, quick-tempered, inquiringly, questioningly, streets: (n) street. quarrelsome, cross, snappish, meddlesomely, speculatively, threateningly: (adv) sinisterly, hotheaded. searchingly, meddlingly, ominously, seriously, warningly, doubting: (adj) doubtful, distrustful, interestedly, interrogatively, eagerly. perilously, gloomily, dangerously, disbelieving, incredulous, doubt, nourished: (adj) fostered. minatorily, grimly, minaciously, skeptical, suspicious, sceptical, wary, nymph: (n) dryad, houri, cocoon, loweringly. Nathaniel Hawthorne 199 CHAPTER XIX. THE CHILD AT THE BROOKSIDE "Thou will love her dearly," repeated Hester Prynne, as she and the minister sat watching little Pearl. "Dost thou not think her beautiful? And see with what natural skill she has made those simple flowers adorn her! Had she gathered pearls, and diamonds, and rubies in the wood, they could not have become her better! She is a splendid child! But I know whose brow she has!"% "Dost thou know, Hester," said Arthur Dimmesdale, with an unquiet smile, "that this dear child, tripping about always at thy side, hath caused me many an alarm? Methought--oh, Hester, what a thought is that, and how terrible to dread it!--that my own features were partly repeated in her face, and so strikingly that the world might see them! But she is mostly thine!" "No, no! Not mostly!" answered the mother, with a tender smile. "A little longer, and thou needest not to be afraid to trace whose child she is. But how strangely beautiful she looks with those wild flowers in her hair! It is as if one of the fairies, whom we left in dear old England, had decked her out to meet us." It was with a feeling which neither of them had ever before experienced, that they sat and watched Pearl's slow advance. In her was


for the moment when I should put them in practice and make myself useful to my fellow beings. Now all was blasted; instead of that serenity of conscience which allowed me to look back upon the past with self-satisfaction, and from thence to gather promise of new hopes, I was seized by remorse and the sense of guilt, which hurried me away to a hell of intense tortures such as no language can describe. This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had perhaps never entirely recovered from the first shock it had sustained. I shunned the face of man; all sound of joy or complacency was torture to me; solitude was my only consolation--deep, dark, deathlike solitude. My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in my disposition and habits and endeavoured by arguments deduced from the feelings of his serene conscience and guiltless life to inspire me with fortitude and awaken in me the courage to dispel the dark cloud which brooded over me. "Do you think, Victor," said he, "that I do not suffer also? No one could love a child more than I loved your brother"--tears came into his eyes as he spoke--"but is it not a duty to the survivors that we should refrain from augmenting their unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a duty owed to yourself, for excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment, or even the discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for society." This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case; I should have been the first to hide my grief and console my friends if remorse had not mingled its bitterness, and terror its alarm, with my other sensations. Now I could only answer my father with a look of despair and endeavour to hide myself from his view. About this time we retired to our house at Belrive. This change was particularly agreeable to me. The shutting of the gates regularly at ten o'clock and the impossibility of remaining on the lake after that hour had rendered our residence within the walls of Geneva very irksome to me. I was now free. Often, after the rest of the family had retired for the night, I took the boat and passed many hours upon the water. Sometimes, with my sails set, I was carried by the wind; and sometimes, after rowing into the middle of the lake, I left the boat to pursue its own course and gave way to my own miserable reflections. I was often tempted, when all was at peace around me, and I the only unquiet thing that wandered restless in a scene so beautiful and heavenly--if I except some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and interrupted croaking was heard only when I approached the shore--often, I say, I was tempted to plunge into the silent lake, that the waters might close over me and my calamities forever. But I was restrained, when I thought of the heroic and suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly loved, and whose