“I’d stop and pick off another three had gone down with the boat. man.” To add to our concern, we heard voices already drawing But it was plain that they meant nothing should delay near us in the woods along shore, and we had not only the their shot. They had never so much as looked at their fallen danger of being cut off from the stockade in our half-crippled comrade, though he was not dead, and I could see him trying state but the fear before us whether, if Hunter and Joyce were Contents to crawl away. attacked by half a dozen, they would have the sense and con- “Ready!” cried the squire. duct to stand firm. Hunter was steady, that we knew; Joyce Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 142 143 was a doubtful case—a pleasant, polite man for a valet and to brush one’s clothes, but not entirely fitted for a man of war. With all this in our minds, we waded ashore as fast as we could, leaving behind us the poor jolly-boat and a good half of all our powder and provisions. Chapter 18. Narrative Continued by the Doctor: End of the First Day’s Fighting. WE made our best speed across the strip of wood that now divided us from the stockade, and at every step we took the voices of the buccaneers rang nearer. Soon we could hear their footfalls as they ran and the cracking of the branches as they breasted across a bit of thicket. I began to see we should have a brush for it in earnest and looked to my priming. “Captain,” said I, “Trelawney is the dead shot. Give him your gun; his own is useless.” Contents They exchanged guns, and Trelawney, silent and cool as he had been since the beginning of the bustle, hung a mo- ment on his heel to see that all was fit for service. At the same Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 144 145 time, observing Gray to be unarmed, I handed him my cut- The captain and Gray were already examining him, and I lass. It did all our hearts good to see him spit in his hand, saw with half an eye that all was over. knit his brows, and make the blade sing through the air. It I believe the readiness of our return volley had scattered was plain from every line of his body that our new hand was the mutineers once more, for we were suffered without fur- worth his salt. ther molestation to get the poor old gamekeeper hoisted over Forty paces farther we came to the edge of the wood and the stockade and carried, groaning and bleeding, into the log- saw the stockade in front of us. We struck the enclosure house. about the middle of the south side, and almost at the same Poor old fellow, he had not uttered one word of surprise, time, seven mutineers—Job Anderson, the boatswain, at their complaint, fear, or even acquiescence from the very beginning head—appeared in full cry at the


the idea of talking about the soldiers within earshot of them. As if reading my mind, Genial dropped his voice to a whisper. “My father says he wants no more foreign business here. He wants no capitalism here.” “No capitalism?” “Yes, he told me that this foreign business I brought, it is what radicalized the Daroqol.” He dropped his voice even lower. “He does not know, Ezra, that I am on the side of the Daroqol. But I am worried he expects it.” “Suspects it?” He ignored me, his voice shaking. “The right are mad about NuLife—they say Orson is trying to colonize us like Spain in the sixteenth century. My father wants NuLife out of the country, but many of the left love it. So now the Daroqol go to the centers and get the teaching and use it for—it is their philosophy of combat.” I raised my eyebrows. “What?” “Yes, Synthesis? The good and the bad? They see all the videos of what Orson does on the Farm. This is what they are doing every day before they fight the Urmanese National Army. It is their spiritual anthem. They think of Orson as the leader.” “Holy fuck.” “Yes, holy fuck. And the UNA, they will go to the centers and shoot the Daroqol and the bystanders. They will bomb them.” “They’re destroying the NuLife centers?” I must have spoken too loudly, because Genial dropped his voice even lower. “Yes, it is bad, I know—I did not think this would happen.” If the Urmanese NuLife centers weren’t turning a profit, we couldn’t afford to pay back the Deutsche Bank loan, much less with interest. “Genial,” I said. But he was still deep in his own thought. “Ezra, you are my friend, yes?” “Yes, but—” “Then I will tell you this secret. In my home, I am hiding many Daroqol.” He looked at me wild-eyed. “We have a plan to kill my father.” “Genial.” “Listen, Ezra—we will do it quickly, it will be a coup, and then I will become president, and the country will be free.” “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He squinted upward suspiciously, as though the sky itself were bugged. “We must do it soon, before my father finds out, Ezra, and before there is any more war.” He turned from the sky back to me: the crease at the corner of his mouth seemed to have grown deeper. “It will be very good for us. And very good for NuLife.” “But from what you’re saying the centers have already been destroyed.” “Yes, maybe some of them, but when I am president, they will be allowed to build even bigger and grow, and the people will love them. If you can put a little more money in, then you can get even more return from them, Ezra.” “And this would be if the coup is successful?” Genial nodded. “It is not as difficult as it seems.” I squinted down at my sneakers, too boxy and thick for the heat. “I can’t just, like, cosign an assassination.” “No,


would probably stop entirely by New Year’s Festival, but I hate for you to suffer from these aggravating symptoms.” Widow Bao’s complaints are normal for a woman her age, which is why I have the necessary pills on my shelf. I pour some of them into a silk bag and pull the ribbon to secure them inside. “These will alleviate your troubles. You’ll sleep better, and soon your monthly moon-water days will be behind you.” Widow Bao tucks the satchel inside her gown. “We mentioned we had double business to conduct on this trip. Let us discuss the second matter now. My daughter-in-law and I are also looking for midwives to bring to the capital. Your husband told us you have a friend who is a midwife. That surprised us.” “And made us curious,” Lady Liu says. “She must be special to move comfortably around, and be accepted by, someone such as you.” “My grandmother recognized this quality in Meiling at a young age.” After a moment, I add, “Would you like to meet her?” “We would be grateful for that,” Lady Liu says. We walk to the last courtyard and into a room where we can see Doctor Wong positioned behind a screen to the left and a young wife perched on a kang, with Meiling on her knees before her, to the right. The doctor sees us, stands, then falls to the floor to perform obeisance. “Welcome. Welcome” comes his muffled voice. “You may rise,” Lady Liu says. “We’ve come to observe, if you don’t mind.” “Mind?” The doctor scrambles to his feet. “It’s an honor to have such esteemed ladies in Wuxi.” Lady Liu and Widow Bao must be accustomed to this sort of obsequiousness, because in synchronized movement they dismiss his words with the backs of their hands. They watch as Meiling pulls up three chairs next to the kang. She’s dressed simply but elegantly today in one of my old gowns. She has tried to copy my walk since childhood, so her steps are delicate and graceful. I make the introductions, and the three of us sit across from the young wife, who is pale with nervousness. I touch her hand. “Don’t worry. We’re only here to listen.” Meiling serves as the go-between, bringing Doctor Wong’s questions from behind the screen and sending the young wife’s detailed answers back to him. I’m proud of Meiling. Not only does she do a much better job at transmitting the messages than an embarrassed husband ever could, but she also carries herself well—showing equal respect to the doctor and to the patient. The young wife recently gave birth. She suffers from severe itching on her ears, cheeks, and the nape of her neck. She sobs, hiding her tears with her sleeves. “I’m lonely. My husband doesn’t listen to me. He pays no attention to my advice.” Meiling disappears behind the screen to pass on these words. Since Doctor Wong can’t see the patient, Meiling also describes the young woman’s red and scaled face and the patches where she’s scratched so


Then he added, "You may take that one little kiss whiles I bring over the table. Friend John, help to me!" So neither of us looked whilst he bent over her. Van Helsing, turning to me, said, "He is so young and strong, and of blood so pure that we need not defibrinate it." Then with swiftness, but with absolute method, Van Helsing performed the operation. As the transfusion went on, something like life seemed to come back to poor Lucy's cheeks, and through Arthur's growing pallor the joy of his face seemed absolutely to shine. After a bit I began to grow anxious, for the loss of blood was telling on Arthur, strong man as he was. It gave me an idea of what a terrible strain Lucy's system must have undergone that what weakened Arthur only partially restored her. But the Professor's face was set, and he stood watch in hand, and with his eyes fixed now on the patient and now on Arthur. I could hear my own heart beat. Presently, he said in a soft voice, "Do not stir an instant. It is enough. You attend him. I will look to her." When all was over, I could see how much Arthur was weakened. I dressed the wound and took his arm to bring him away, when Van Helsing spoke without turning round, the man seems to have eyes in the back of his head, "The brave lover, I think, deserve another kiss, which he shall have presently." And as he had now finished his operation, he adjusted the pillow to the patient's head. As he did so the narrow black velvet band which she seems always to wear round her throat, buckled with an old diamond buckle which her lover had given her, was dragged a little up, and showed a red mark on her throat. Arthur did not notice it, but I could hear the deep hiss of indrawn breath which is one of Van Helsing's ways of betraying emotion. He said nothing at the moment, but turned to me, saying, "Now take down our brave young lover, give him of the port wine, and let him lie down a while. He must then go home and rest, sleep much and eat much, that he may be recruited of what he has so given to his love. He must not stay here. Hold a moment! I may take it, sir, that you are anxious of result. Then bring it with you, that in all ways the operation is successful. You have saved her life this time, and you can go home and rest easy in mind that all that can be is. I shall tell her all when she is well. She shall love you none the less for what you have done. Goodbye." When Arthur had gone I went back to the room. Lucy was sleeping gently, but her breathing was stronger. I could see the counterpane move as her breast heaved. By the bedside sat Van Helsing, looking at her intently. The velvet band


face, he would only laugh if he were drunk, and if old Admiral Benbow in a second, and I seemed to hear the he were sober deny solemnly that he ever tasted anything but voice of the captain piping in the chorus. But soon the an- water. chor was short up; soon it was hanging dripping at the bows; He was not only useless as an officer and a bad influence soon the sails began to draw, and the land and shipping to flit amongst the men, but it was plain that at this rate he must by on either side; and before I could lie down to snatch an soon kill himself outright, so nobody was much surprised, hour of slumber the HISPANIOLA had begun her voyage nor very sorry, when one dark night, with a head sea, he dis- to the Isle of Treasure. appeared entirely and was seen no more. I am not going to relate that voyage in detail. It was fairly “Overboard!” said the captain. “Well, gentlemen, that saves prosperous. The ship proved to be a good ship, the crew were the trouble of putting him in irons.” capable seamen, and the captain thoroughly understood his But there we were, without a mate; and it was necessary, business. But before we came the length of Treasure Island, of course, to advance one of the men. The boatswain, Job two or three things had happened which require to be known. Anderson, was the likeliest man aboard, and though he kept Mr. Arrow, first of all, turned out even worse than the his old title, he served in a way as mate. Mr. Trelawney had captain had feared. He had no command among the men, followed the sea, and his knowledge made him very useful, and people did what they pleased with him. But that was by for he often took a watch himself in easy weather. And the Contents no means the worst of it, for after a day or two at sea he began coxswain, Israel Hands, was a careful, wily, old, experienced to appear on deck with hazy eye, red cheeks, stuttering tongue, seaman who could be trusted at a pinch with almost any- Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 82 83 thing. dishes hanging up burnished and his parrot in a cage in one He was a great confidant of Long John Silver, and so the corner. mention of his name leads me on to speak of our ship’s cook, “Come away, Hawkins,” he would say; “come and have a Barbecue, as the men called him. yarn with John. Nobody more welcome than yourself, my Aboard ship he carried his crutch by a lanyard round his son. Sit you down and hear the news. Here’s Cap’n Flint— neck, to have both hands as free as possible. It was something I calls my parrot Cap’n Flint, after the famous buccaneer— to see him wedge the foot of the crutch against a bulkhead, here’s Cap’n Flint predicting success to our v’yage. Wasn’t and propped against it, yielding to


uh pimp and you done wasted too much time talkin’ wid me.” “Why, Tea Cake! Whut ever put dat notion in yo’ head?” “De way you looked at me when Ah said whut Ah did. Yo’ face skeered me so bad till mah whiskers drawed up.” “Ah ain’t got no business bein’ mad at nothin’ you do and say. You got it all wrong. Ah ain’t mad atall.” “Ah know it and dat’s what puts de shamery on me. You’se jus’ disgusted wid me. Yo’ face jus’ left here and went off somewhere else. Naw, you ain’t mad wid me. Ah be glad if you was, ’cause then Ah might do somethin’ tuh please yuh. But lak it is—” “Mah likes and dislikes ought not tuh make no difference wid you, Tea Cake. Dat’s fuh yo’ lady friend. Ah’m jus’ uh sometime friend uh yourn.” Janie walked towards the stairway slowly, and Tea Cake sat where he was, as if he had frozen to his seat, in fear that once he got up, he’d never get back in it again. He swal- lowed hard and looked at her walk away. “Ah didn’t aim tuh let on tuh yuh ’bout it, leastways not right away, but Ah ruther be shot wid tacks than fuh you tuh act wid me lak you is right now. You got me in de go-long.” At the newel post Janie whirled around and for the space Their Eyes Were Watching God 125 of a thought she was lit up like a transfiguration. Her next thought brought her crashing down. He’s just saying anything for the time being, feeling he’s got me so I’ll b’lieve him. The next thought buried her under tons of cold futility. He’s trading on being younger than me. Getting ready to laugh at me for an old fool. But oh, what wouldn’t I give to be twelve years younger so I could b’lieve him! “Aw, Tea Cake, you just say dat tuhnight because de fish and corn bread tasted sort of good. Tomorrow yo’ mind would change.” “Naw, it wouldn’t neither. Ah know better.” “Anyhow from what you told me when we wuz back dere in de kitchen Ah’m nearly twelve years older than you.” “Ah done thought all about dat and tried tuh struggle aginst it, but it don’t do me no good. De thought uh mah youngness don’t satisfy me lak yo’ presence do.” “It makes uh whole heap uh difference wid most folks, Tea Cake.” “Things lak dat got uh whole lot tuh do wid convenience, but it ain’t got nothin’ tuh do wid love.” “Well, Ah love tuh find out whut you think after sun-up tomorrow. Dis is jus’ yo’ night thought.” “You got yo’ ideas and Ah got mine. Ah got uh dollar dat says you’se wrong. But Ah reckon you don’t bet money, neither.” “Ah never have done it so fur. But as de old folks always say, Ah’m born but Ah ain’t dead. No tellin’ whut Ah’m liable tuh do yet.” 126 Zora Neale Hurston He got


were picked, Philip with the news in his pocket that he had got the appointment as assistant house-physician at St. Luke's, accompanied the Athelnys back to London. He took modest rooms in Westminster and at the beginning of October entered upon his duties. The work was interesting and varied; every day he learned something new; he felt himself of some consequence; and he saw a good deal of Sally. He found life uncommonly pleasant. He was free about six, except on the days on which he had out-patients, and then he went to the shop at which Sally worked to meet her when she came out. There were several young men, who hung about opposite the `trade entrance' or a little further along, at the first corner; and the girls, coming out two and two or in little groups, nudged one another and giggled as they recognised them. Sally in her plain black dress looked very different from the country lass who had picked hops side by side with him. She walked away from the shop quickly, but she slackened her pace when they met, and greeted him with her quiet smile. They walked together through the busy street. He talked to her of his work at the hospital, and she told him what she had been doing in the shop that day. He came to know the names of the girls she worked with. He found that Sally had a restrained, but keen, sense of the ridiculous, and she made remarks about the girls or the men who were set over them which amused him by their unexpected drollery. She had a way of saying a thing which was very characteristic, quite gravely, as though there were nothing funny in it at all, and yet it was so sharp-sighted that Philip broke into delighted laughter. Then she would give him a little glance in which the smiling eyes showed she was not unaware of her own humour. They met with a handshake and parted as formally. Once Philip asked her to come and have tea with him in his rooms, but she refused. "No, I won't do that. It would look funny." Never a word of love passed between them. She seemed not to desire anything more than the companionship of those walks. Yet Philip was positive that she was glad to be with him. She puzzled him as much as she had done at the beginning. He did not begin to understand her conduct; but the more he knew her the fonder he grew of her; she was competent and self controlled, and there was a charming honesty in her: you felt that you could rely upon her in every circumstance. "You are an awfully good sort," he said to her once _a propos_ of nothing at all. "I expect I'm just the same as everyone else," she answered. He knew that he did not love her. It was a great affection that he felt for her, and he liked her company; it was curiously soothing; and he had a


sharp and antiseptic. My right arm has several tubes that extend into the wall behind me. I’m naked, but the bedclothes arc soothing against my skin. I ten- tatively lift my left hand above the cover. Not only has it been scrubbed clean, the nails are filed in perfect ovals, the scars from the burns are less prominent. I touch my cheek, my lips, the puckered scar above my eyebrow, and am just running my fingers through my silken hair when I freeze. Apprehensively I 342 ruffle the hair by my left ear. No, it wasn’t an illusion. I can hear again. I try and sit up, but some sort of wide restraining band around my waist keeps me from rising more than a few inch- es. The physical confinement makes me panic and I’m trying to pull myself up and wriggle my hips through the band when a portion of the wall slides open and in steps the redheaded Avox girl carrying a tray. The sight of her calms me and I stop trying to escape. I want to ask her a million questions, but I’m afraid any familiarity would cause her harm. Obviously I am being closely monitored. She sets the tray across my thighs and presses something that raises me to a sitting position. While she adjusts my pillows, I risk one question. I say it out loud, as clearly as my rusty voice will allow, so nothing will seem secretive. “Did Peeta make it?” She gives me a nod, and as she slips a spoon into my hand, I feel the pressure of friend- ship. I guess she did not wish me dead after all. And Peeta has made it. Of course, he did. With all their expensive equipment here. Still, I hadn’t been sure until now. As the Avox leaves, the door closes noiselessly after her and I turn hungrily to the tray. A bowl of clear broth, a small serv- ing of applesauce, and a glass of water. This is it? I think grou- chily. Shouldn’t my homecoming dinner be a little more spec- tacular? But I find it’s an effort to finish the spare meal before me. My stomach seems to have shrunk to the size of a chest- nut, and I have to wonder how long I’ve been out because I had no trouble eating a fairly sizable breakfast that last morn- 343 ing in the arena. There’s usually a lag of a few days between the end of the competition and the presentation of the victor so that they can put the starving, wounded, mess of a person back together again. Somewhere, Cinna and Portia will be creating our wardrobes for the public appearances. Haymitch and Effie will be arranging the banquet for our sponsors, re- viewing the questions for our final interviews. Back home, District 12 is probably in chaos as they try and organize the homecoming celebrations for Peeta and me, given that the last one was close to thirty years ago. Home! Prim and my mother! Gale! Even the thought


were a wish that I had the hanging of every being belonging to her, ex- cept one. Possibly she took that exception for herself. But no brutality disgusted her. I suppose she has an innate admiration of it, if only her precious person were secure from injury. Now, was it not the depth of ab- surdity, of genuine idiocy, for that pitiful, slavish, mean-minded brach to dream that I could love her? Tell your master, Nelly, that I never, in all my life, met with such an abject thing as she is. She even disgraces the name of Linton; and I've sometimes relented, from pure lack of invention, in my experiments on what she could endure and still creep shamefully cringing back. But tell him also to set his fraternal and magisterial heart at ease; that I keep strictly within the limits of the law. I have avoided, up to this period, giving her the slightest right to claim a separation; and, what's more, she'd thank nobody for dividing us. If she desired to go, she might; the nuisance of her presence outweighs the gratification to be derived from tormenting her." "Mr. Heathcliff," said I, "this is the talk of a mad- man. Your wife, most likely, is convinced you are mad, and for that reason she has borne with you hitherto; but now that you say she may go, she'll doubtless avail herself of the permission.---You are not so bewitched, ma'am, are you, as to remain with him of your own accord?" "Take care, Ellen!" answered Isabella, her eyes sparkling irefully. There was no misdoubting, by their expression, the full success of her partner's endeavours to make himself detested. "Don't put faith in a single word he speaks. He's a lying fiend---a monster, and not a human being! I've been told I might leave him be- fore, and I've made the attempt, but I dare not repeat it. Only, Ellen, promise you'll not mention a syllable of his infamous conversation to my brother or Cather- ine. Whatever he may pretend, he wishes to provoke Edgar to desperation. He says he has married me on purpose to obtain power over him; and he shan't ob- tain it. I'll die first! I just hope---I pray--that he may forget his diabolical prudence and kill me! The single pleasure I can imagine is to die or to see him dead!" "There--that will do for the present!" said Heath- cliff.----"If you are called upon in a court of law you'll remember her language, Nelly. And take a good look at that countenance; she's near the point which would suit me--No; you're not fit to be your own guardian, Isabella, now; and I, being your legal protector, must retain you in my custody, however distasteful the obligation may be. Go upstairs; I have something to say to Ellen Dean in private. That's not the way. Upstairs, I tell you! Why, this is the road upstairs, child." He seized and thrust her from the room, and returned muttering,--- "I have no pity! I have no pity! The more


of the Dublin drop?’ Josie put her hands to her hips. ‘Do you have relatives in Dublin, Fergal?’ ‘My mother was a Dublin girl… my da came from Blanchardstown.’ Fergal was inches away, his face creased with laughter. ‘I haven’t been to the place myself since I was a teenager…’ Josie could smell whisky on his breath. ‘You can come inside, have a cup of coffee, then you go back to the barge, all right?’ ‘Ah, you’re a good woman.’ Fergal suddenly looked as if he might cry. ‘I need a friendly shoulder. It would have been her birthday today, my Ros. I always have a drink or two on her birthday.’ Josie held the door wide. ‘Come in, Fergal – we’ll go into the kitchen, it’s cosy there.’ She watched him sashay in front of her, noticing the soil and leaves clinging to the seat of his jeans, and she smiled sadly. They wandered into the kitchen and Fergal dropped down at the table, resting on his arms like a tired child. Josie busied herself with the kettle, clanking cups. ‘I’ll make you a strong coffee.’ ‘Make it sweet…’ Fergal mumbled. ‘Sweet as yourself, Josie.’ Josie rolled her eyes – she had no intention of putting up with Fergal’s nonsense. She placed a mug in front of him and for a moment she felt the urge to ruffle his tousled hair. Instead, she said, ‘Don’t burn your mouth – it’s hot.’ He turned grateful eyes towards her. ‘It’s a superstar that you are…’ Josie noted that his accent was stronger now he was the worse for wear; his light Irish burr had been replaced by a stronger twang. She took a coffee and sat down opposite him. ‘How are you feeling?’ He slurped from the cup. ‘Not so good.’ ‘Have you drunk much today?’ ‘I started early – on an empty stomach.’ Fergal winked. ‘Never a clever idea, Josie.’ Josie sighed. ‘You must miss Ros very much.’ Fergal beat a fist against his heart. ‘There’s a big hole here.’ Tears filled his eyes. ‘Ah, but hark at me, the miserable moaning one, when you’ve lost your own beloved Harry.’ Josie patted his hand once. ‘It’s always difficult, but I suppose there are times when it’s even harder.’ Fergal put his head down on his hands for a while, breathing deeply. Then he looked up, his eyes intense. ‘I came round here to kiss you.’ Josie moved back. ‘I sincerely suggest you don’t.’ He grinned. ‘Ah, I’m a gentleman and that would be disrespectful. It’s just the loneliness of it all. Don’t you feel lonely?’ ‘I do. But I’d never want to replace Harry.’ ‘I don’t want to replace my Ros. I’d never love another woman like I loved her.’ Fergal’s face had a kind of primitive fierceness around the mouth. ‘But at times I wish someone would just hug me or hold me in their arms while I fall asleep at night. The loneliness is crippling, it’s a kind of death in itself when you’ve lost someone you love, hanging in


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

marched up the steps, marched straight to the door of the parlour and flung it open. "Constable," he said, "do your duty." Jaffers marched in, Hall next, Wadgers last. They saw in the dim light the headless figure facing them, with a gnawed crust of bread in one gloved hand and a chunk of cheese in the other. "That's him!" said Hall. "What the devil's this?" came in a tone of angry expostulation from above the collar of the figure. "You're a damned rum customer, mister," said Mr. Jaffers. "But 'ed or no 'ed, the warrant says 'body,' and duty's duty--" "Keep off!" said the figure, starting back. Abruptly he whipped down the bread and cheese, and Mr. Hall just grasped the knife on the table in time to save it. Off came the stranger's left glove and was slapped in Jaffers' face. In another moment Jaffers, cutting short some statement concerning a warrant, had gripped him by the handless wrist and caught his invisible throat. He got a sounding kick on the shin that made him shout, but he kept his grip. Hall sent the knife sliding along the table to Wadgers, who acted as goal-keeper for the offensive, so to speak, and then stepped forward as Jaffers and the stranger swayed and staggered towards him, clutching and hitting in. A chair stood in the way, and went aside with a crash as they came down together. "Get the feet," said Jaffers between his teeth. Mr. Hall, endeavoring to act on instructions, receiving a sounding kick in the ribs that disposed of him for a moment, and Mr. Wadgers, seeing the decapitated stranger had rolled over and got the upper side of Jaffers, retreated towards the door, knife in hand, and so collided with Mr. Huxter and the Siddermorton carter coming to the rescue of law and order. At the same moment down came three or four bottles from the chiffonier and shot a web of pungency into the air of the room. "I'll surrender," cried the stranger, though he had Jaffers down, and in another moment he stood up panting, a strange figure, headless and handless--for he had pulled off his right glove now as well as his left. "It's no good," he said, as if sobbing for breath. It was the strangest thing in the world to hear that voice coming as if out of empty space, but the Sussex peasants are perhaps the most matter-of-fact people under the sun. Jaffers got up also and produced a pair of handcuffs. Then he started. "I say!" said Jaffers, brought up short by a dim realisation of the incongruity of the whole business. "Darm it! Can't use 'em as I can see." The stranger ran his arm down his waistcoat, and as if by a miracle the buttons to which his empty sleeve pointed became undone. Then he said something about his shin, and stooped down. He seemed to be fumbling with his shoes and socks. "Why!" said Huxter, suddenly, "that's not a man at all. It's just empty clothes. Look!


his head had been cut off and only his body lay there. Something inside had jerked him to a halt and flopped him down. He lay where he had fallen and sobbed, his legs folded, his face pressed blindly to the gravel. Beatty wanted to die. In the middle of the crying Montag knew it for the truth. Beatty had wanted to die. He had just stood there, not really trying to save himself, just stood there, joking, needling, thought Montag, and the thought was enough to stifle his sobbing and let him pause for air. How strange, strange, to want to die so much that you let a man walk around armed and then instead of shutting up and staying alive, you go on yelling at people and making fun of them until you get them mad, and then .... At a distance, running feet. Montag sat up. Let's get out of here. Come on, get up, get up, you just can't sit! But he was still crying and that had to be finished. It was going away now. He hadn't wanted to kill anyone, not even Beatty. His flesh gripped him and shrank as if it had been plunged in acid. He gagged. He saw Beatty, a torch, not moving, fluttering out on the grass. He bit at his knuckles. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, oh God, sorry .... He tried to piece it all together, to go back to the normal pattern of life a few short days ago before the sieve and the sand, Denham's Dentifrice, moth-voices, fireflies, the alarms and excursions, too much for a few short days, too much, indeed, for a lifetime. Feet ran in the far end of the alley. "Get up!" he told himself. "Damn it, get up!" he said to the leg, and stood. The pains were spikes driven in the kneecap and then only darning needles and then only common, ordinary safety pins, and after he had dragged along fifty more hops and jumps, filling his hand with slivers from the board fence, the prickling was like someone blowing a spray of scalding water on that leg. And the leg was at last his own leg again. He had been afraid that running might break the loose ankle. Now, sucking all the night into his open mouth, and blowing it out pale, with all the blackness left heavily inside himself, he set out in a steady jogging pace. He carried the books in his hands. He thought of Faber. Faber was back there in the steaming lump of tar that had no name or identity now. He had burnt Faber, too. He felt so suddenly shocked by this that he felt Faber was really dead, baked like a roach in that small green capsule shoved and lost in the pocket of a man who was now nothing but a frame skeleton strung with asphalt tendons. You must remember, burn them or they'll burn you, he thought. Right now it's as simple as that. He searched his pockets, the money was there, and


to matchwood. then there was a wonderful shot of a child's arm going up up up right up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose must have followed it up and there was a lot of applause from the party seats but a woman down in the prole part of the house suddenly started kicking up a fuss and shouting they didnt oughter of showed it not in front of kids they didnt it aint right not in front of kids it aint until the police turned her turned her out i dont suppose anything happened to her nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction they never---- Winston stopped writing, partly because he was suffering from cramp. He did not know what had made him pour out this stream of rubbish. But the curious thing was that while he was doing so a totally different memory had clarified itself in his mind, to the point where he almost felt equal to writing it down. It was, he now realized, because of this other incident that he had suddenly decided to come home and begin the diary today. file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (8 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt It had happened that morning at the Ministry, if anything so nebulous could be said to happen. It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records Department, where Winston worked, they were dragging the chairs out of the cubicles and grouping them in the centre of the hall opposite the big telescreen, in preparation for the Two Minutes Hate. Winston was just taking his place in one of the middle rows when two people whom he knew by sight, but had never spoken to, came unexpectedly into the room. One of them was a girl whom he often passed in the corridors. He did not know her name, but he knew that she worked in the Fiction Department. Presumably--since he had sometimes seen her with oily hands and carrying a spanner--she had some mechanical job on one of the novel-writing machines. She was a bold-looking girl, of about twenty-seven, with thick hair, a freckled face, and swift, athletic movements. A narrow scarlet sash, emblem of the Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times round the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the shapeliness of her hips. Winston had disliked her from the very first moment of seeing her. He knew the reason. It was because of the atmosphere of hockey-fields and cold baths and community hikes and general clean-mindedness which she managed to carry about with her. He disliked nearly all women, and especially the young and pretty ones. It was always the women, and above all the young ones, who were the most bigoted adherents of the Party, the swallowers of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers-out of unorthodoxy. But this particular girl gave him the impression of being more dangerous than most. Once when they passed in the corridor she gave him a quick sidelong glance which seemed to pierce right into him and for


know that there is a level of happiness even deeper, one so intense it hurts, almost like loss or grief. A happiness so bright and hot you feel like it could incinerate you. That comes later that night, when Wyn goes out to pick up Chinese food, comes back drenched from the rain. At the sound of the door clicking shut, I look up from the crossword I’ve gone back to, jump up from the couch, and pad over to help him with the rain-speckled paper bags. I flick the stove on to make tea and take the bags from his arms, and as I’m setting them on the counter, he catches me by the wrist and looks down at me with such softness and vulnerability that I’m afraid, sure something terrible has happened. Quietly, then, a murmur, he says, “Marry me, Harriet.” “Yes,” I say on a breath. He stills. He blinks, like he’s trying to puzzle out what I just said. The teakettle has started to whistle. I catch his jaw. “Wyn, yes.” His brow tenses. “Wait.” “I don’t want to wait,” I say. He fumbles in his jacket. “Shit. Give me a second. Don’t move.” He turns and runs back to the bedroom, and I stand there shivering, listening to the scrape of dresser drawers. When he comes back, he’s holding out a blue velvet box, his hand quivering. It’s an old white gold ring with a square sapphire mounted in its center. “I thought it looked like you,” he says hesitantly, “but it wasn’t expensive. So if you don’t like it, we’ll replace it, as soon as I can afford—” His face blurs behind my tears. “You just had this?” “I was trying to wait for the perfect moment,” he says, almost apologetic. “Now,” I say. “Now is the perfect moment.” “I just couldn’t keep waiting,” he says, still a little rueful. The tiniest bit of doubt creeps in. I whisper, “What if you get sick of me?” “Harriet,” he says, gently chiding and tender all at once. “What if you get bored with me?” My laugh is so teary it sounds like a sob. “Never.” He cradles my face in his hands, his mouth soft and brow stern. “Then marry me.” “Done,” I say. He kisses me, all teeth and tongue and raw emotion, our hands scraping over each other in eager fits, bodies pulling together, determined to become one thing. I never pictured my proposal, but if I had, it would’ve looked nothing like this. It wouldn’t have ended with us eating the same Chinese takeout we get once a week and making love on the rickety Ikea couch, laughing every time his head collided with the wall but not moving to the bed. This is better. Everything is better with him. When we go back to Maine that summer, Sabrina, Parth, and Cleo—who’s managed to get back from Belize—throw us an engagement party, complete with a slideshow covering our relationship (largely illustrated by stick figures Parth drew in MS Paint). It doesn’t matter how busy


and all the tints of gold, with here and there masses not large, but of seemingly absolute blackness, in all sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal silhouettes. The experience was not lost on the painters, and doubtless some of the sketches of the `Prelude to the Great Storm' will grace the R. A and R. I. walls in May next. More than one captain made up his mind then and there that his `cobble' or his `mule', as they term the different classes of boats, would remain in the harbour till the storm had passed. The wind fell away entirely during the evening, and at midnight there was a dead calm, a sultry heat, and that prevailing intensity which, on the approach of thunder, affects persons of a sensitive nature. There were but few lights in sight at sea, for even the coasting steamers, which usually hug the shore so closely, kept well to seaward,and but few fishing boats were in sight. The only sail noticeable was a foreign schooner with all sails set, which was seemingly going westwards. The foolhardiness or ignorance of her officers was a prolific theme for comment whilst she remained in sight, and efforts were made to signal her to reduce sail in the face of her danger. Before the night shut down she was seen with sails idly flapping as she gently rolled on the undulating swell of the sea. "As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean." Shortly before ten o'clock the stillness of the air grew quite oppressive,and the silence was so marked that the bleating of a sheep inland or the barking of a dog in the town was distinctly heard, and the band on the pier, with its lively French air, was like a dischord in the great harmony of nature's silence. A little after midnight came a strange sound from over the sea, and high overhead the air began to carry a strange, faint, hollow booming. Then without warning the tempest broke. With a rapidity which, at the time, seemed incredible,and even afterwards is impossible to realize, the whole aspect of nature at once became convulsed. The waves rose in growing fury, each over-topping its fellow, till in a very few minutes the lately glassy sea was like a roaring and devouring monster. White-crested waves beat madly on the level sands and rushed up the shelving cliffs. Others broke over the piers, and with their spume swept the lanthorns of the lighthouses which rise from the end of either pier of Whitby Harbour. The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such force that it was with difficulty that even strong men kept their feet, or clung with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. It was found necessary to clear the entire pier from the mass of onlookers, or else the fatalities of the night would have increased manifold. To add to the difficulties and dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog came drifting inland. White, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly fashion, so dank and


then--" Indignation took away Ralph's control. "I was talking about smoke! Don't you want to be rescued? All you can talk about is pig, pig, pig!" "But we want meat!" "And I work all day with nothing but Simon and you come back and don't even notice the huts!" "I was working too--" "But you like it!" shouted Ralph. "You want to hunt! While I--" They faced each other on the bright beach, astonished at the rub of feeling. Ralph looked away first, pretending interest in a group of littluns on the sand. From beyond the platform came the shouting of the hunters in the swimming pool. On the end of the platform, Piggy was lying flat, looking down into the brilliant water. "People don't help much." He wanted to explain how people were never quite what you thought they were. "Simon. He helps." He pointed at the shelters. "All the rest rushed off. He's done as much as I have. Only--" "Simon's always about." Ralph stared back to the shelters with Jack by his side. "Do a bit for you," muttered Jack, "before I have a bathe." "Don't bother." But when they reached the shelters Simon was not to be seen. Ralph put his head in the hole, withdrew it, and turned to Jack. "He's buzzed off." "Got fed up," said Jack, "and gone for a bathe." Ralph frowned. "He's queer. He's funny." Jack nodded, as much for the sake of agreeing as anything, and by tacit consent they left the shelter and went toward the bathing pool. "And then," said Jack, "when I've had a bathe and something to eat, I'll just trek over to the other side of the mountain and see if I can see any traces. Coming?" "But the sun's nearly set!" "I might have time---" They walked along, two continents of experience and feeling, unable to communicate. "If I could only get a pig!" "I'll come back and go on with the shelter." They looked at each other, baffled, in love and hate. All the warm salt water of the bathing pool and the shouting and splashing and laughing were only just sufficient to bring them together again. Simon was not in the bathing pool as they had expected. When the other two had trotted down the beach to look back at the mountain he had followed them for a few yards and then stopped. He had stood frowing down at a pile of sand on the beach where somebody had been trying to build a little house or hut. Then he turned his back on this and walked into the forest with an air of purpose. He was a small, skinny boy, his chin pointed, and his eyes so bright they had deceived Ralph into thinking him delightfully gay and wicked. The coarse mop of black hair was long and swung down, almost concealing a low, broad forehead. He wore the remains of shorts and his feet were bare like Jack's. Always darkish in color, Simon was burned by the sun to a deep tan


puppet shows, loading puppet cases into their car, unloading puppet cases out of their car. If you slowed down from a fast run around Louise’s mom, she’d have you loading the car. The focal point of the table was a green marble Kleenex box and Louise realized it was the urn she’d picked out. Mark had insisted that their mom and dad wanted to be cremated and no one could find any instructions to the contrary, and when Louise had called Stuhr’s and they’d told her that the contract Mark had signed was nonrefundable, she’d Googled it and discovered that plenty of families interred cremains in a burial plot. So, cremation it was. Behind the urn stood two framed caricatures of her parents. Her cartoon dad peered through thick glasses at blackboards displaying equations clearly written by someone who didn’t know math. His bristly mustache hung down to his chin, and it must’ve been a recent drawing because he wore the ankle boot on one foot. A bunch of bears dressed like gangsters posed in the background and Louise figured the artist meant them to be the Chicago Bears. “Wrong bears,” she said to herself. Her mom’s caricature sported a crazed grin, and on her right hand, of course, she wore Pupkin with his matching smile. Louise wondered if he should have gone to the crematorium with her mom, but the thought of forcing her dad to share an urn with Pupkin’s ashes for eternity made her breath feel tight in her chest. Pupkin was hopefully in the back of a garbage truck by now on his way to the dump. She felt a pang of guilt about what she’d done, then smothered it. She never wanted to see his creepy grinning face again. Behind her mom and Pupkin, the caricaturist had drawn every single one of her mom’s puppets. Forty years of puppetry filled the frame: Monty the Dog from A Stray in the Manger, Danny the Imagination Dragon, Cosmic Starshine, Meow Meow and Rogers, the Inside-Out Man, Judge Goodsense, Flossy Bossypants, Mr. Don’t, Pizzaface, Sister Whimsical, Deuteronomy the Donkey . . . “Louise,” a man said behind her. She turned to face the only other person who looked like he wasn’t about to lead a chorus of “Puff the Magic Dragon.” He wore a white cassock and had a red heatstroke face, and he squinted at her through tiny glasses. He thrust out his hand. “Reverend Mike. This is certainly a change from our usual congregation.” He smiled at the mayhem. “Thank you for having us,” Louise said, scanning the crowd. “I’m sorry about the craziness, but my mom . . .” “Wonderful craziness,” Reverend Mike said, clutching her hand in his sweaty paw. “Just like your mother. It’s what she would have wanted.” Then Louise saw Mark stride up the aisle wearing seersucker shorts, a seersucker jacket, and a red tie. To Louise’s horror, he also wore sandals. “The man of the hour!” Reverend Mike said, and scuttled off to greet Mark. Everyone seemed to know him. Louise saw


pull himself together as we ran down the south steps. Mr. Link Deas was a lonely figure on the top step. "Anything happenin', Scout?" he asked as we went by. "No sir," I answered over my shoulder. "Dill here, he's sick." "Come on out under the trees," I said. "Heat got you, I expect." We chose the fattest live oak and we sat under it. "It was just him I couldn't stand," Dill said. "Who, Tom?" "That old Mr. Gilmer doin' him thataway, talking so hateful to him-" "Dill, that's his job. Why, if we didn't have prosecutors- well, we couldn't have defense attorneys, I reckon." Dill exhaled patiently. "I know all that, Scout. It was the way he said it made me sick, plain sick." "He's supposed to act that way, Dill, he was cross-" "He didn't act that way when-" "Dill, those were his own witnesses." "Well, Mr. Finch didn't act that way to Mayella and old man Ewell when he cross-examined them. The way that man called him 'boy' all the time an' sneered at him, an' looked around at the jury every time he answered-" "Well, Dill, after all he's just a Negro." "I don't care one speck. It ain't right, somehow it ain't right to do 'em that way. Hasn't anybody got any business talkin' like that- it just makes me sick." "That's just Mr. Gilmer's way, Dill, he does 'em all that way. You've never seen him get good'n down on one yet. Why, when- well, today Mr. Gilmer seemed to me like he wasn't half trying. They do 'em all that way, most lawyers, I mean." "Mr. Finch doesn't." "He's not an example, Dill, he's-" I was trying to grope in my memory for a sharp phrase of Miss Maudie Atkinson's. I had it: "He's the same in the courtroom as he is on the public streets." "That's not what I mean," said Dill. "I know what you mean, boy," said a voice behind us. We thought it came from the tree-trunk, but it belonged to Mr. Dolphus Raymond. He peered around the trunk at us. "You aren't thin-hided, it just makes you sick, doesn't it?" 20 "Come on round here, son, I got something that'll settle your stomach." As Mr. Dolphus Raymond was an evil man I accepted his invitation reluctantly, but I followed Dill. Somehow, I didn't think Atticus would like it if we became friendly with Mr. Raymond, and I knew Aunt Alexandra wouldn't. "Here," he said, offering Dill his paper sack with straws in it. "Take a good sip, it'll quieten you." Dill sucked on the straws, smiled, and pulled at length. "Hee hee," said Mr. Raymond, evidently taking delight in corrupting a child. "Dill, you watch out, now," I warned. Dill released the straws and grinned. "Scout, it's nothing but Coca-Cola." Mr. Raymond sat up against the tree-trunk. He had been lying on the grass. "You little folks won't tell on me now, will you? It'd ruin my reputation if you did." "You mean all you drink in that sack's


assured him our son would become master of the Garden of Fragrant Delights. Now Manzi never will.” She begins to weep as only a mother who has lost a son can. I know I should comfort her, but I am too distracted by what she has said. Her words have turned a key in my mind and opened a door. Manzi never looked like Master Yang. If my unborn son died, Manzi would have eventually become the new master, according power to Manzi and his natal family. Spinster Aunt had something to tell me after Manzi’s birth but her death came before she could tell me… It has taken me many years to stitch these pieces together. Now I realize Manzi’s father could be only one person. And that person schemed and plotted from the day his son was born, which also means… Spinster Aunt’s death was not an accident. The Washing Away of Wrongs After the heavenly flowers disease disappears completely from the Garden of Fragrant Delights, the last survivors return to their families or, in the case of concubines and servants, to their masters, and I’m free to go back to my rooms. I’m determined to visit Meiling, since the suspicions that arose from Miss Chen’s utterance directly concern my friend and the herbs that were meant for me, but I need to get settled with my family before I do anything else. I also have much that I’m eager to discuss with my husband, but my first night home he doesn’t come to my bedchamber. A disappointment. I fall asleep feeling exhausted and dispirited. The next morning, when Poppy pours my tea, she brings the gossip that Master Yang is going to remove Miss Chen and her sole surviving child, Fifth Daughter, from the Garden of Fragrant Delights. I dress and then rush to find my husband. He’s in his library. “Is it true your father is casting off his concubine and her daughter?” I ask. Perhaps this is not the correct approach as Maoren and I have not been alone together since I left for Beijing seven months ago. So much has happened, including the birth of our son, but I haven’t given my husband a chance to express his joy or thank me for doing what I could during the smallpox outbreak. “Since when have the hens begun to crow?” he asks, squinting his disapproval. I take a breath and remind myself that I’m a wife before anything else. “I’m sorry,” I say, bowing my head. “I spoke sharply.” Maoren stands up and walks toward me. He reaches out and brushes a loose strand of hair from my cheek. “You look tired.” “I’m tired to my marrow.” I raise my eyes to meet his. “Maoren, why is your father expelling Miss Chen?” “She is no longer a beauty,” he states. It’s true, but I can’t let this go. “Don’t let your father turn her out. She helped me during the sickness. She was courageous when—” “The concubine has already been dismissed,” he says, swiveling away from me.


way we never were. I don’t mean this on some profound spiritual level. It took a few minutes, but then I had it: It was their skin and teeth. Not an acne mark among them. No one wore braces, but their teeth were straight, already aligned in middle school. The dermatologists and orthodontists have finally solved it. We went around the table doing names and pronouns and hometowns and aspirations, but I couldn’t stop fixating on their youth. Unlike my UCLA students, these were children. Seniors, all but one (the guy in the Bowie shirt, an ebullient half-Ghanaian, half-Irish junior from Connecticut, wanted to work in public radio), but so dough-faced, so unformed. You would have loved these kids, Mr. Bloch. They would’ve been yours for the molding. The Bowie kid was named Alder (“like the tree,” he clarified) and he kept apologizing for his sneezing, getting up to grab Kleenex from the chalkboard ledge. Eventually I handed him the whole box, and he looked mortified. “I want to make something about the 1930s,” he said. We were going around a second time, spitballing podcast ideas. “But I want to do it like it is the 1930s.” In the email I’d sent the week before, I’d asked them to brainstorm topics related to the past or present of Granby. This way, I wrote, you’ll have easy access to interview sources and archives. It also meant I wouldn’t have to deal with video game fancasts or vampires. I included a list of ideas, with links. The fire that destroyed the original gymnasium in 1940. The 1975 murder of a Granby teacher by her drug-addled boyfriend in her apartment in Kern, a story I’d been obsessed with as a student. The hazing situation in the late aughts, and the resulting expulsions. The recent fallout from the school ending its football team. The debate about AP classes. The 1995 death of Thalia Keith. If you’d asked me at the time why I included Thalia I’d have said I was just trying to get them thinking, trying to lay out as many different points on the Granby timeline as I could. I’d have believed it, too. Alder said, “My concept is, like, what if they’d had podcasts back then, so, sort of a cross between old radio and podcasts. So I’m a Granby student from the ’30s, talking about life. I’m basically the only Black kid at Granby and then there’s the Great Depression and, like, Roosevelt—” A girl named Jamila interrupted. “You’d have to pick a year,” she said. “There’s a huge difference between 1930 and 1939.” Alder nodded slowly, rolling a tissue to a point in his hand. “1938,” he said. “It’s 1938, and I’m a podcasting kid sending messages into the void, and I’m inventing podcasts as I go.” “1938 was the year that War of the Worlds—” I started, but Alder slapped the table, grinned, pointed at me. “Yes!” he said. “You get it!” Jamila planned to do a series on financial aid and race at Granby. That sounded like a tough


had brought them home. Iris sifted through them now, until she found the flash of gold. The chain and the locket that her mother had worn every day since Forest left. Iris clasped it around her neck, tucking it beneath the fabric of her blouse. It was cold against her skin, and she laid her palm over it. She knew what hid within the locket: a small portrait of her, and a small portrait of Forest. She could care less about her own face, but her brother’s … she prayed it would guide her to him, now. And Iris hadn’t prayed in a very long time. The last thing she needed was her typewriter. She found its box in her wardrobe, carefully stepping around the letter that still sat on the floor, and she packed the typewriter and the remaining paper and ink ribbons she had. The box was a hard case, with two brass locks and a wooden handle. She carried it in one hand, her valise in the other, surveying her bedroom for the final time. Her gaze caught on that letter again. She was curious to know what he had written to her, but she had this strange feeling that if she read it, she would encounter nothing more than his insistence that she reply. And if he knew she was striking out to become a war correspondent, he would try to talk her out of it. Iris had made up her mind; there was no changing it, and she was too tired to argue with him. She quit the flat. She left his letter lying in a pool of sunlight on the floor. PART TWO News from Afar {15} The Third Alouette The Oath Gazette was quiet. Roman sat at his desk, notes spread before him. He stared at the blank page curling from his typewriter. He should be thrilled. He had solidified himself as the new columnist. He no longer had to worry about the things on his desk being rearranged. He no longer had to race to the bulletin board for assignments. He no longer had to pretend he was too busy for sandwiches. If this was the life he wanted, then why did it feel so hollow? He rose to get another cup of tea, avoiding the temptation to glance at Iris’s empty desk. But while he was spooning honey into his cup, one of the editors joined him at the sideboard. “Feels strange here without her, doesn’t it?” she asked. Roman arched his brow. “Who?” The editor only smiled, as if she knew something Roman didn’t. He was the last to leave the office that evening. He shrugged on his coat and turned off his lamp. He hadn’t written a word, and he was irritated. On the tram ride home, he considered his options. His fingers thrummed over his thigh, anxious as he thought about the best way to handle the dilemma he was caught within. If he didn’t show any emotion, his father should hear him. As soon as he reached home, he


to make peace with the Greeks.” “Ah, I don’t know about that,” Paris says, smiling. It is a cheeky smile. Helen claps her hands and young men enter, flutes and lyres in hand. They play, each note unfolding quietly like wings in the darkness. “In Troy, they never eat without music,” Helen explains. Paris smiles at her and Helen smiles back. She doesn’t touch her food; the honey on her plate spreads, soaking the cheese. “Has your stay in Sparta been pleasurable?” Clytemnestra asks Paris, because the way the prince stares at her sister makes her uncomfortable. “The most pleasurable,” Paris says. “I have always heard Sparta was no more than a small palace on a rocky mount. It is far richer and its people far more welcoming than I could have imagined.” “Surely it must seem nothing compared to your home,” Clytemnestra replies. From what she has heard, Troy is bigger than any Greek city, a huge, impregnable citadel built on a hill in front of the sea. “A palace with walls the color of wheat,” an envoy had told her once, “its buildings inside so high that the people there are closer to the gods.” Paris shrugs. “Compared to Troy, yes. Our city has walls and towers higher than mountains. From the ramparts, you can see the land stretching around the city. It is like molten gold.” He pauses, sipping his wine, and a strand of hair falls on his face. “But I didn’t grow up in Troy. When I was born, my mother dreamed she gave birth to a flaming torch. A warning, the seer at court said, a sign foretelling the downfall of Troy.” He smirks, as if mocking the seer. “He declared that the only way to spare the kingdom was to kill me, and my father believed him. Our people are deeply religious . . . They would cut off their own arms rather than disappoint the gods.” The music is quieter now, and Paris’s voice rolls on it as if he were singing. “My mother couldn’t kill me. She couldn’t ignore the seer, but she couldn’t kill her son. So she left me on Mount Ida, sure that I would die there.” A shadow passes over his face, but he quickly covers it with his bright smile. “But who knows what plans the gods have for us? A herdsman found me on the rocky outcrop where my mother left me. He could have killed me, thrown me into the river, but he took me in as his own.” Clytemnestra gazes at his dazzling face. He doesn’t look like a man who lived among sheep and goats. Any other prince would be ashamed to speak so, but not him. Paris seems prouder of his upbringing than of his birthright. But perhaps that is his way into people’s hearts—not his beauty, not his wealth, but his story. “If you didn’t grow up in Troy,” Clytemnestra asks, “why were you sent here?” “I didn’t want to grow old as a shepherd,” he says as if stating the obvious.


call himself? Did he mistrust de Vries at the very end? She didn’t care to know. She had no desire to understand him anymore, at all. She breathed out. “Leave it,” she said. Mrs. Bone grabbed her by the arm. “You won’t get a thing without proof, Dinah.” Mrs. King turned from the mausoleum. She heard Mr. Shepherd’s ragged breathing. The house was empty. The most important things had been corrected. “I don’t need anything else,” she said. 42 Nine months later “It’s her,” said Winnie. “Sure?” said Mrs. King. Mrs. King and Winnie were standing on Bond Street, outside a dressmaker’s shop. Winnie didn’t answer. Her expression said it all. Yes. “Mind yourself,” said a flash-looking woman, crashing through the door, barging into Winnie. Mrs. King peered through the glass. One of the seamstresses was coming out of the back room, carrying a bolt of fabric in her arms. Yes, it was her. It didn’t matter what she wore, or how she disguised herself; it was undoubtedly and absolutely Miss de Vries. Or whatever she’d transformed herself into, with her hair cropped and dyed and pinned so that you could see the whole stiff line of her neck. “Wait here,” said Mrs. King. And she opened the door. Miss de Vries looked up at the sound of the bell. Her eyes were flat. She didn’t recognize Mrs. King at first. It wasn’t play-acting: she really had no idea who Mrs. King was. I’ve transformed, thought Mrs. King, with interest. She was wearing a bright mustard-colored coat, something cheerful for the winter, trimmed with furs and lace. It was a bit much, she admitted, glancing at herself in the glass. “Yes?” Miss de Vries said. She didn’t say, Madam. Evidently, that was beyond her. She was wearing a dull green dress, with some rather weary-looking embroidery along the sleeves, strangely shapeless and unbound. “Look where you’ve ended up,” Mrs. King said with a smile. “Who’d have thought it?” It hadn’t been easy, tracking down Miss de Vries. Mrs. King read the newspapers, which told her nothing, and Mrs. Bone talked to every servant she knew, which told her even less. They were all agog about Park Lane, loving a salacious story, talking of filthy perversions, girls being squirreled from house to house. It exhausted Mrs. King. It missed the point altogether. They assumed she must have left London, perhaps even England. Mrs. King could picture her on the Continent, propping up the gaming tables. She was still her father’s daughter, after all, no matter what side of the sheets. But then Winnie caught word from her old contacts in the garment business: there was a queer, hoity-toity girl making trouble in a shop on Bond Street. “They told me she’s a devilish hard worker,” said Winnie. “A seamstress?” said Mrs. King. “Not likely.” “Apprentice,” said Winnie. “I think it’s worth a look.” And so they came. The shop was on the south side of Bond Street. Remarkably close to Park Lane. A ten-minute walk, if you cut through the side streets. But


too.” She brushes a hand over Sabrina’s elbow. “I mean, how often do two of your best friends get married?” Sabrina grins now too, irritation apparently forgotten. “Well, in this case, at least twice, since we’ll still have to do a big family wedding next year. Plus, if Parth has his way, there will probably be three or four more sprinkled in there somewhere.” “Well, of course,” I say. “You’ve got to make sure it sticks.” From the far end of the shop, I can hear Kimmy barking orders at Wyn and Parth like she’s a musher. Their strategy in this pseudo-game is always to go as fast as possible, which means they end up having to circle the whole store like three times, while Cleo, Sabrina, and I lazily meander, testing fruit and sorting through the impressive imported cheese fridge. There are usually even a couple of Cleo’s favorite nut cheeses. The game’s gotten more elaborate over the years. We are now to the point where Sabrina makes the list, cuts it into tiny one-line strips, folds the strips, puts them in a bowl, and has each of us take turns pulling random grocery items out until both “teams” have an even number. Another reason I know this is not a real game: Sabrina clearly does not give one single shit about winning, and she is always hypercompetitive. “Hold on a sec.” Cleo ducks down the row of fridges and returns with three large coconut waters. She drops two into our cart and pushes the other at me. “You’re green.” Sabrina examines me. “More like chartreuse.” A flash of memory: Parth shoving green drinks with paper umbrellas into our sweaty hands as we danced around the patio. I wince. “Don’t say that word.” Sabrina cackles. “What about puce?” “Puce is more like a dark red,” Cleo puts in helpfully. “Like if one were to puke up red wine?” Sabrina asks. I grab a loose Maine blueberry and throw it at her. At the front of the store, someone is whooping. “We Are the Champions” starts to play over phone speakers. “Wow,” Sabrina says, tossing a couple of blueberries into her mouth. “They win again. Who would’ve thought?” “How is Kimmy even alive,” I ask, “let alone whooping and cheering?” “I don’t know, dude. She’s superhuman,” Cleo says. “Plus, she woke me up to tell me about the body shots, and I took the opportunity to pour three gallons of water into her mouth.” Her brow arches. “Kind of surprised Wyn didn’t think to do that for you. He was totally sober when I went to bed.” I busy myself with another package of blueberries. “Aha!” I spin back. “See that? Mold.” “Every rose has its thorn,” Sabrina says, angling our cart back toward the front of the shop. “Just like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song.” Another flash of memory: me, kneeling on the ground, atop the comforter Wyn’s dragged to the floor. Arms up, baby, he says gently. He peels the ruined white T-shirt over my head, runs a


luck that I’d returned. And he wasn’t the only one feeling lucky. Because the only face I’d seen since the surgery just happened to be my very favorite one. All to say, something about the feel of him—the softness of his fur, his salty, doggy smell, the unconditional love—made me start to cry right there in the waiting room. Yeah. It was an emotional time. I got started crying, and then … I couldn’t stop. Just stood there smiling and crying and cradling my little pal while he licked the salty tears off my cheeks over and over. “Missed you, buddy,” I whispered, nuzzling his fur. That’s when I looked up to see someone watching me. A man. A vet, from the looks of it. A tall, white-coated, tie-wearing vet with an up-and-back Ivy League haircut. He had his hands in his lab-coat pockets and just stood there, staring right at Peanut and me, taking in the sight. And once again, Dr. Nicole was right because I could tell you without even putting his face pieces together that this guy was seriously handsome. That must be its own brain system right there. It was the way he stood there. The way he held himself. That haircut—so professional and competent. I’d always thought handsomeness must be all about facial features and shapes and mathematical proportions. And maybe it was. But this guy also just had a way about him—like he was commanding the room without even doing anything. Just standing there generating handsomeness like a sexy, living light-up statue. Most people nowadays made me want to avert my eyes. The intensity of those puzzle-piece faces—the impossibility of it all—was physically uncomfortable, like a buzzing in my body. But this guy? I couldn’t make myself look away. I took in the sight of him, and he did the same right back to me, for a good minute. Finally he turned and walked off down the hallway—hands in pockets and coattail trailing jauntily behind him like a male model on a runway—forcing me to note that Dr. Nicole was right yet again. Because that man had one hell of a gait. Holy shit. It was love at first sight—and I couldn’t even see him. Okay, I take it back. It wasn’t love. Love requires actually having spoken to a person. At the minimum. Maybe it was infatuation at first sight. Or preoccupation. Or obsession. Whatever it was, I wasn’t complaining. All along, I’d been classifying leaving my textbook narcissist boyfriend Ezra and then running out of money and then almost dying in a crosswalk and then getting surprise brain surgery and then having to board my dog at an unfamiliar clinic and then going face-blind … as bad things. But now? I was all good. The sight of that vet—for a minute there, anyway—seemed to fix everything. I stopped crying, at least. I turned to the receptionist to see if her world had also been rocked by the appearance of that mystery veterinarian across the room. But nope. She was checking her Instagram. “Was that


listening ears, he understood that, by means as yet unknown to him, the separation between himself and the partner of his guilt had been achieved, and that now the whole tribe had rallied about his wife on the tacit assumption that nobody knew anything, or had ever imagined anything, and that the occasion of the entertainment was simply May Archer's natural desire to take an affectionate leave of her friend and cousin. It was the old New York way of taking life "without effusion of blood": the way of people who dreaded scandal more than disease, who placed decency above courage, and who considered that nothing was more ill-bred than "scenes," except the behaviour of those who gave rise to them. As these thoughts succeeded each other in his mind Archer felt like a prisoner in the centre of an armed camp. He looked about the table, and guessed at the inexorableness of his captors from the tone in which, over the asparagus from Florida, they were dealing with Beaufort and his wife. "It's to show me," he thought, "what would happen to ME--" and a deathly sense of the superiority of implication and analogy over direct action, and of silence over rash words, closed in on him like the doors of the family vault. He laughed, and met Mrs. van der Luyden's startled eyes. "You think it laughable?" she said with a pinched smile. "Of course poor Regina's idea of remaining in New York has its ridiculous side, I suppose;" and Archer muttered: "Of course." At this point, he became conscious that Madame Olenska's other neighbour had been engaged for some time with the lady on his right. At the same moment he saw that May, serenely enthroned between Mr. van der Luyden and Mr. Selfridge Merry, had cast a quick glance down the table. It was evident that the host and the lady on his right could not sit through the whole meal in silence. He turned to Madame Olenska, and her pale smile met him. "Oh, do let's see it through," it seemed to say. "Did you find the journey tiring?" he asked in a voice that surprised him by its naturalness; and she answered that, on the contrary, she had seldom travelled with fewer discomforts. "Except, you know, the dreadful heat in the train," she added; and he remarked that she would not suffer from that particular hardship in the country she was going to. "I never," he declared with intensity, "was more nearly frozen than once, in April, in the train between Calais and Paris." She said she did not wonder, but remarked that, after all, one could always carry an extra rug, and that every form of travel had its hardships; to which he abruptly returned that he thought them all of no account compared with the blessedness of getting away. She changed colour, and he added, his voice suddenly rising in pitch: "I mean to do a lot of travelling myself before long." A tremor crossed her face, and leaning over to Reggie Chivers, he


grill, put in a bag, and throw in the trash. A man with plastic iguanas sewn onto the shoulders of his green plaid jacket got up and began to tell a story about him and Louise’s mother filling in for two drunk puppeteers at a convention without a script. People laughed a lot at that one. When Mom and Dad had moved back to Charleston they’d had to raise a two-year-old and a newborn on a research assistant’s salary. Their mom had been an actress for seven years so she didn’t have any savings, and any help from Dad’s family caused more problems than it solved. Their only asset was the house Nancy had inherited from her family, and it was almost twenty-five years old. Their baby clothes were hand-me-downs from Constance and Mercy, their plates and glasses came from Goodwill, their meals mostly came out of boxes, they didn’t go to movies, they didn’t own a TV, so their mom made do with what she had, which was Pupkin. He was the only thing she brought to the marriage besides the house. Pupkin told them stories about his adventures in Tickytoo Woods, and their mom built backdrops for his tales out of tissue-paper trees with eggcarton mountains and rivers made from recycled plastic wrap. She created friends for Pupkin out of paper bags, and for years, every pair of white socks they owned had faces drawn on the toes because they doubled as puppets. Someone told Nancy she should do her puppets at the church’s kindergarten, so she got a book about ventriloquism out of the library and developed an act where she explained Bible stories to Pupkin, who always repeated them back wrong. Soon they were paying her ten bucks for a day’s worth of story times, then she took over the Children’s Sermon, then other churches began hiring her, and she started buying supplies to make more puppets, which allowed her to charge real fees, which let her hit the puppet convention circuit, which led to more shows, which led to bigger puppets, which led, eventually, to here. Every single person in this room, every story, every song, every memory, it all started on the floor of a house without enough furniture, with her mom desperately trying to entertain two little kids with nothing but a threadbare glove puppet she’d had all her life and whatever she could find in the trash. Suddenly, Louise wanted to tell Mark how she felt, she wanted to see if he felt the same way, she wanted to share this feeling with the only other person in the world who would get it. She turned to look for him in the pews, which is when Reverend Mike said his name. “And now Mark Joyner, son of Nancy and Eric, would like to end our service with a special moment of song.” Mark stood, and somehow he’d found a guitar. He walked to the front of the church, noodled with the strings, and said, “My mom and dad loved this song. I know they’d


I earned them; and thus Hindley lost his last ally. Still I couldn't dote on Heath- cliff, and I wondered often what my master saw to ad- mire so much in the sullen boy, who never, to my recol- lection, repaid his indulgence by any sign of gratitude. He was not insolent to his benefactor, he was simply insensible, though knowing perfectly the hold he had on his heart, and conscious he had only to speak and all the house would be obliged to bend to his wishes. As an instance, I remember Mr. Earnshaw once bought a couple of colts at the parish fair, and gave the lads each one. Heathcliff took the handsomest, but it soon fell lame, and when he discovered it, he said to Hindley,--- "You must exchange horses with me---I don't like mine; and if you won't, I shall tell your father of the three thrashings you've given me this week, and show him my arm, which is black to the shoulder." Hindley put out his tongue and cuffed him over the ears. "You'd better do it at once," he persisted, escaping to the porch (they were in the stable). "You will have to; and if I speak of these blows, you'll get them again with in- terest." "Off, dog!" cried Hindley, threatening him with an iron weight used for weighing potatoes and hay. "Throw it," he replied, standing still, "and then I'll tell how you boasted that you would turn me out of doors as soon as he died, and see whether he will not turn you out directly." Hindley threw it, hitting him on the breast, and down he fell, but staggered up immediately, breathless and white; and had I not prevented it, he would have gone just so to the master, and got full re- venge by letting his condition plead for him, intimating who had caused it. "Take my colt, gipsy, then!" said young Earnshaw. "And I pray that he may break your neck. Take him, and be damned, you beggarly inter- loper; and wheedle my father out of all he has. Only afterwards show him what you are, imp of Satan. And take that! I hope he'll kick out your brains!" Heathcliff had gone to loose the beast and shift it to his own stall. He was passing behind it, when Hindley finished his speech by knocking him under its feet, and without stopping to examine whether his hopes were fulfilled, ran away as fast as he could. I was surprised to witness how coolly the child gathered himself up, and went on with his intention---exchanging saddles and all, and then sitting down on a bundle of hay to over- come the qualm which the violent blow occasioned, be- fore he entered the house. I persuaded him easily to let me lay the blame of his bruises on the horse. He minded little what tale was told, since he had what he wanted. He complained so seldom, indeed, of such stirs as these, that I really thought him not vindictive. I was


evidence story. There’s been a cop outside our building for weeks, ever since—shit.” “Ever since what?” “Ever since we ran into that cop at the fire in Gowanus.” Andy remembers the way the cop’s eyes had narrowed when he realized that the Nick Russo who was writing the stories about the missing police evidence was the same Nick Russo he had once arrested. Andy hadn’t put it together at the time, and Nick had probably been too shaken up to realize, but now it seems all too clear. Something happens to Nick’s face, and Andy knows he’s watching the last shreds of denial get whisked away. He wants to take Nick in his arms, but they’re in the middle of the newsroom. Instead the best he can do is squeeze Nick’s shoulder and tell him to talk to Jorgensen. One of the photographs catches his eye. It’s the one where they’re each carrying two sacks of groceries. Andy’s caught mid-laugh, his face turned to Nick. It’s a good picture, and that might make Andy angriest of all, because under any other circumstances he’d want to keep it. But he can’t keep it, because it’s sordid. It’s a weapon. He and Nick laughing and buying groceries is now an ugly, dangerous thing. * * * “Are you going to drop that story?” Andy asks mildly that night while they’re clearing the table after dinner. “What? Hell no.” Andy forces himself to sound calm. “Why not?” “Those photographs are just more proof that they have something to cover up. They wouldn’t have bothered otherwise.” “Did you tell Jorgensen?” Andy asks, already fearing the answer. “If I showed those pictures to anyone, it would be as good as admitting that I’m queer, and that you are, too. Jorgensen’s smart enough that he’d figure it out right away.” He’s right. The fact of the photographs is an announcement that whoever took them knows Nick has something to hide. Even if Jorgensen doesn’t have any problems with a queer reporter working for him, the news would get around. There’s nowhere in the world gossip travels faster than at a newspaper. “You’re right,” Andy concedes. “Okay. You can find a pretense to drop the story, then.” “I already said no.” Andy’s known for over a year that Nick is stubborn, but this is ridiculous. “Listen, Nick. They’re not going to be able to hurt you with those photographs, right? You haven’t been doing anything incriminating in public lately. So they’re going to try something else. How do you know those kids who mugged you weren’t put up to it by the same people who took those photographs? And even if they weren’t, the next people who hurt you will be.” “You’re overreacting.” “Nick. I can’t stand the idea of you getting hurt. I can’t.” “This is my job,” Nick says, something grim and closed off in the way he says it. For as long as Andy’s known Nick, he’s understood that Nick keeps people at arm’s length, and for good reason. This is how Nick stays safe—or thinks


he is? He hasn’t done the work or put in the time. He hasn’t given everything he has to—” He stops short, pursing his lips and grunting angrily. “Doesn’t matter now.” “But you’re not with them? You’re not with the Owl Society?” I ask, setting aside the seething hatred I have for Rob to deal with what’s in front of me right at this moment. “Why are you holding us at gunpoint?” Mr. Lamont looks to each of us as if he’s weighing how much he wants to say. He finally sighs and continues but keeps the gun pointed at me. “The Owl Society has run their dubious little social club from the Mirror Lake area for generations. But by the sixties, they got greedy. Stopped letting new folks into the society so they could hold on to the power for themselves. Then one of their leaders up and died, and everybody who was left took what they wanted and left. A few of them sold off the land to turn a quick profit. My father stepped in and bought it but, being the visionary he was, he saw an opportunity.” Mr. Lamont shifts the gun from one hand to the other. “My father and the remaining members of the Owl Society made a deal. My daddy would start a camp, bring up vulnerable kids, kids nobody cared about. Kind of like you, Charity.” I’m so taken aback by his abrupt departure from the story that I gasp. “Your mama doesn’t take good care of you, does she?” Mr. Lamont asks. “Don’t really call to check up on you. I think that’s what Rob saw in you—a girl whose own mama doesn’t even care about her. Hell, you could turn up missing and maybe she wouldn’t even notice, isn’t that right, Final Girl? Is that why you didn’t think about calling her first? Because you know she won’t care?” I stare into the fire, and the tears spill down my cheeks. I hate everything he’s saying because it’s true. “So my daddy sets up shop,” Mr. Lamont continues like he’s telling a bedtime story and not like he’s spilling the most heinous details of this entire operation. “He builds the camp and lets the Owl Society pick off campers at will. Each body in the lake is a little bit like a toll you pay to get access to something you want, except this isn’t a fairy tale. There’s no three-wish limit. The only thing keeping them in check was how secretive they were. Too many missing folks would be too obvious.” Mr. Lamont smiles coldly. “They kept the money coming and my father never asked questions. He was happy with cold hard cash, but he should have demanded that they share their secrets with him. He could have done so much more. He could have been so much more.” His eyes are like voids as he continues rambling. “I went to their lodge out there in those woods. I watched them kill campers, hikers, anyone really. But their incantations weren’t anything


famished and wanted nothing more than to meet the men for tea at the local inn and tea shop. She took Lucy by the hand, told the modiste to send the bill for the dresses to Calloway Park, then pulled her out into the sunlit street. “Strangely sunny lately, isn’t it?” Olivia said as she pulled a mute Lucy through town. Lucy would have felt far better if the sky had been pouring rain, seeing as that was how she felt inside. Besides, she was too busy searching the street for a familiar face. She hadn’t expected Mr. Granger to discover her in a dress shop, but if Rebecca was right about him being in town, he could be anywhere. Olivia and Nick must have agreed on a time to meet while they were talking; he and Simon arrived at the tearoom nearly the same time as the ladies did. Lucy prepared herself, knowing her time as William’s fiancée was quickly coming to an end. With Mr. Granger so close, she wasn’t sure if she would have a choice in when the truth came out. “Have you managed to squander your brother’s fortune yet?” Nick asked as they settled at a table. Olivia giggled. “Hardly. Besides, I haven’t ordered any gowns for the Season next year, and those will certainly cost a pretty penny. I can’t very well show up in London in anything but the latest fashions, can I?” “Certainly not. Just this year I witnessed a new debutante get thrown out of a dinner party because her dress was in vogue two years ago.” Olivia gasped. “You’d best start practicing your flirting now, Miss Calloway, or you’ll find yourself without any proper suitors, whether your gowns are in fashion or not.” Lucy thought she might explode from her secret building up inside her, so she tried to distract herself with the conversation at hand, pretending all of this was real. If she were a part of this family, she could go to London for the Season and watch Olivia flirt with all the eligible gentlemen. She could experience the balls and musicales and the theater instead of remaining at home with children who were not even her own. She could wear pretty gowns and have fancy hair and dance the night away until her feet ached, and then she could go back home with a man who loved her, whom she could call her own and keep forever. Why was Simon looking at her that way? He hadn’t even touched his tea, and despite the fact that Nick was giving Olivia detailed advice on how to catch a husband, Simon’s hazel eyes were fixed on Lucy with that searching look again, only now there was a hint of something else in there as well. Something familiar, as if he were mirroring her, aching for something he could never have. Lucy swallowed and lifted her teacup to her lips, except her hands were shaking so badly that she quickly set the cup back down on the table before anyone noticed. But


Frost’s mobile number on it, showing the time and place of their date. Neil insisted on taking her for lunch in The Sun, but she’d been uncomfortable the whole time. She felt others’ eyes on her: she was sure Jimmy knew; Dickie Junior knew. He insisted on taking her for trips out in the Sharan for picnics, shopping, drives in the countryside. He held her hand, asked her what was bothering her, but she offered the same blank expression and said that she was fine. A voice inside her head told her she should talk to her husband; perhaps he’d put her mind at rest. But a second voice asked: why give him the opportunity to lie again? No, she knew he’d slip up soon, she’d catch him red-handed, and then he wouldn’t be able to weasel his way out of it. The truth would be out. Then, one morning after breakfast, Neil kissed her cheek and pulled on his best jacket, asking her if she’d mind if he took a walk through the woods and called into The Sun afterwards to see Jimmy and Kenny for a pint. Lin watched him go, clenching her fists in frustration. Familiar tears filled her eyes and she wondered momentarily if she was depressed. She rushed to her handbag and pulled out the piece of paper, staring at the number. Perhaps Carole Frost wasn’t a person – perhaps it was the name of a shop or a café. Lin knew she was clutching at straws, but she was suddenly filled with determination: she would ring the phone number and find out once and for all. Her hand shook as she picked up her mobile, pressed the buttons and listened to the ringing in her ear. Then a woman answered. ‘Hello, this is Carole.’ Lin froze. She had no idea what to say. ‘Hello?’ The voice became louder. ‘Hello…?’ ‘Sorry – wrong number,’ Lin garbled and ended the call. She was immediately relieved that she hadn’t just cut herself off – Carole Frost might have phoned her back. At least she’d said ‘wrong number’ – Carole wouldn’t think of her again. Lin’s heart was thumping; she was shaking with fear and her mind raced. She had been brave, she’d phoned. Now she knew that Carole was real, she had spoken to Neil’s mistress and she was so close to accusing him face to face. Lin reached for her bag and door keys. She’d go and see Josie. She needed her friend’s advice and she’d held back too long, not wanting to upset anyone. By saying nothing, Lin had hoped it might not be real, but Carole Frost was a real person on the phone, she had a strong, confident voice. Lin wanted to tell Josie straight away, she’d know what to do. It was almost eleven o’clock and the air was sticky as Lin rushed past the allotments. Tina was too busy to notice her wave. There was a woman walking a dog on the rec, another with a child on the swings, but no one


closer. But while I wondered, the driver suddenly appeared again, and without a word took his seat, and we resumed our journey. I think I must have fallen asleep and kept dreaming of the incident, for it seemed to be repeated endlessly, and now looking back, it is like a sort of awful nightmare. Once the flame appeared so near the road, that even in the darkness around us I could watch the driver's motions. He went rapidly to where the blue flame arose, it must have been very faint, for it did not seem to illumine the place around it at all, and gathering a few stones, formed them into some device. Once there appeared a strange optical effect. When he stood between me and the flame he did not obstruct it, for I could see its ghostly flicker all the same. This startled me, but as the effect was only momentary, I took it that my eyes deceived me straining through the darkness. Then for a time there were no blue flames, and we sped onwards through the gloom, with the howling of the wolves around us, as though they were following in a moving circle. At last there came a time when the driver went further afield than he had yet gone, and during his absence, the horses began to tremble worse than ever and to snort and scream with fright. I could not see any cause for it, for the howling of the wolves had ceased altogether. But just then the moon, sailing through the black clouds, appeared behind the jagged crest of a beetling, pine-clad rock, and by its light I saw around us a ring of wolves, with white teeth and lolling red tongues, with long, sinewy limbs and shaggy hair. They were a hundred times more terrible in the grim silence which held them than even when they howled. For myself, I felt a sort of paralysis of fear. It is only when a man feels himself face to face with such horrors that he can understand their true import. All at once the wolves began to howl as though the moonlight had had some peculiar effect on them. The horses jumped about and reared, and looked helplessly round with eyes that rolled in a way painful to see. But the living ring of terror encompassed them on every side, and they had perforce to remain within it. I called to the coachman to come, for it seemed to me that our only chance was to try to break out through the ring and to aid his approach, I shouted and beat the side of the caleche, hoping by the noise to scare the wolves from the side, so as to give him a chance of reaching the trap. How he came there, I know not, but I heard his voice raised in a tone of imperious command, and looking towards the sound, saw him stand in the roadway. As he swept his long arms, as though brushing aside some impalpable obstacle, the wolves fell


things.’ Glorian drew herself up. ‘Mother retires after eventide. I will need to be at the spyhole by then.’ She grimaced. ‘Let’s not tell Jules. She’ll only worry.’ They looked at one another. ‘Or Adela,’ they agreed in unison. **** After the evening meal, she and Helisent changed and walked to the Royal Sanctuary. Sir Bramel and Dame Erda closed the doors behind them, leaving Glorian to her supposed reflection. ‘Take this.’ Helisent took a fire pouch from under her cloak. ‘Do you know how to use it?’ ‘Of course.’ When Helisent canted an eyebrow, Glorian sighed. ‘I am aware I lack certain practical skills as a royal, but do you truly think a princess of the North can’t light a fire?’ ‘I sometimes forget you’ve a claim to two thrones.’ Helisent presented her with a set of iron pincers. ‘For the nails.’ They had worn cloaks of different colours, which they now traded. Helisent drew up her hood and knelt in prayer, while Glorian slipped through the sanctarians’ door. Helisent had discovered the secret when she was fifteen. Since she had a sharp eye for detail, her father had asked her to find some coroners’ rolls in the castle archives. During the search, she had come across an old plan of Drouthwick and noticed two windows she had never seen from the outside, adjacent to the room that was now the royal bedchamber. Combing the castle, she had found a dusty nook, bricked up at one end. The stonemasons must have grown lazy and not filled it in all the way. Content that no one was using it to spy on Queen Sabran – there was no sign of disturbance, save mouse droppings – Helisent had burned the plan and told Glorian. Now it was theirs. The entrance lay in a passage behind a rusty iron grate. Glorian knelt beside it and used the pincers to pluck out its nails, revealing an opening. She slid through the gap. In the dark, she unpacked the firesteel and flint. When she had a candle lit, she pulled the grate back into place, a thread of fearful excitement winding through her. In sixteen years, she had never eluded her guards. The steps were cramped. Helisent thought the Malkin Queen must have used them to bring lovers to her bed, but the tyrant had paraded her adultery. More likely all of this was just unwanted space, sealed up to strengthen the castle. Glorian had never dared to visit it before. Her slippers made little sound. She curled her hand around her candle, her shadow wavering. When she heard voices, she blew it out and crawled until she saw a faint light. A fracture in the brickwork let her see straight into the Great Chamber. Her mother was sitting on her bed in a flowing ivory shift. ‘—never dare resist the Vatten. They have milk in their blood and feathers in the lining of their bellies.’ ‘Now Heryon is appeased, I agree,’ her mother said. ‘But we have other things to fear.’ She watched her consort


but I forgive you. Remember when the time comes that I forgive you. But please don't ask me to eat anything, especially boiled pork and greens. Boiled pork and greens are so unromantic when one is in affliction." Exasperated, Marilla returned to the kitchen and poured out her tale of woe to Matthew, who, between his sense of justice and his unlawful sympathy with Anne, was a miserable man. "Well now, she shouldn't have taken the brooch, Marilla, or told stories about it," he admitted, mournfuly surveying his plateful of unromantic pork and greens as if he, like Anne, thought it a food unsuited to crises of feeling, "but she's such a little thing-such an interesting little thing. Don't you think it's pretty rough not to let her go to the picnic when she's so set on it?" "Matthew Cuthbert, I'm amazed at you. I think I've let her off entirely too easy. And she doesn't appear to realize how wicked she's been at all-that's what worries me most. If she'd really felt sorry it wouldn't be so bad. And you don't seem to realize it, neither; you're making excuses for her all the time to yourself-I can see that." "Well now, she's such a little thing," feebly reiterated Matthew. "And there should be allowances made, Marilla. You know she's never had any bringing up." "Well, she's having it now" retorted Marilla. The retort silenced Matthew if it did not convince him. That dinner was a very dismal meal. The only cheerful thing about it was Jerry Buote, the hired boy, and Marilla resented his cheerfulness as a personal insult. When her dishes were washed and her bread sponge set and her hens fed Marilla remembered that she had noticed a small rent in her best black lace shawl when she had taken it off on Monday afternoon on returning from the Ladies' Aid. She would go and mend it. The shawl was in a box in her trunk. As Marilla lifted it out, the sunlight, falling through the vines that clustered thickly about the window, struck upon something caught in the shawl-something that glittered and sparkled in facets of violet light. Marilla snatched at it with a gasp. It was the amethyst brooch, hanging to a thread of the lace by its catch! "Dear life and heart," said Marilla blankly, "what does this mean? Here's my brooch safe and sound that I thought was at the bottom of Barry's pond. Whatever did that girl mean by saying she took it and lost it? I declare I believe Green Gables is bewitched. I remember now that when I took off my shawl Monday afternoon I laid it on the bureau for a minute. I suppose the brooch got caught in it somehow. Well!" Marilla betook herself to the east gable, brooch in hand. Anne had cried herself out and was sitting dejectedly by the window. "Anne Shirley," said Marilla solemnly, "I've just found my brooch hanging to my black lace shawl. Now I want to know what that rigmarole you told me