fruits of Yavanna from the Earth, which under Eru they had made. Therefore Yavanna set times for the flowering and the ripening of all things mat grew in Valinor; and at each first gathering of fruits Manw made a high feast for the praising of Eru, when all the peoples of Valinor poured forth their joy in music and song upon Taniquetil. This now was the hour, and Manw decreed a feast more glorious than any that had been held since the coming of the Eldar to Aman. For though the escape of Melkor portended toils and sorrows to come, and indeed none could tell what further hurts would be done to Arda ere he could be subdued again, at this time Manw designed to heal the evil that had arisen among the Noldor; and all were bidden to come to his halls upon Taniquetil, there to put aside the griefs that lay between their princes, and forget utterly the lies of their Enemy. There came the Vanyar, and there came the Noldor of Tirion, and the Maiar were gathered together, and the Valar were arrayed in their beauty and majesty; and they sang before Manw and Varda in their lofty halls, or danced upon the green slopes of the Mountain that looked west towards the Trees. In that day the streets of Valmar were empty, and the stairs of Tirion were silent; and all the land lay sleeping in peace. Only the Teleri beyond the mountains still sang upon the shores of the sea; for they recked little of seasons or times, and gave no thought to the cares of the Rulers of Arda, or the shadow that had fallen on Valinor, for it had not touched them, as yet. One thing only marred the design of Manw. Fanor came indeed, for him alone Manw had commanded to come; but Finw came not, nor any others of the Noldor of Formenos. For said Finw: 'While the ban lasts upon Fanor my son, that he may not go to Tirion, I hold myself unkinged, and I will not meet my people.' And Fanor came not in raiment of festival, and he wore no ornament, neither silver nor gold nor any gem; and he denied the sight of the Silmarils to the Valar and the Eldar, and left them locked in Formenos in their chamber of iron. Nevertheless he met Fingolfin before the throne of Manw, and was reconciled, in word; and Fingolfin set at naught the unsheathing of the sword. For Fingolfin held forth his hand, saying: 'As I promised, I do now. I release thee, and remember no grievance.' Then Fanor took his hand in silence; but Fingolfin said: 'Half-brother in blood, full brother in heart will I be. Thou shalt lead and I will follow. May no new grief divide as.' 'I hear thee,' said Fanor. 'So be it.' But they did not know the meaning that their words would bear. It is told that even as Fanor and Fingolfin stood before Manw there came the mingling of the lights,


her thin. She craved a respite from the perpetual chaos. Yet, even as she pondered leaving, she questioned her own resolve. Could she truly walk away from him, from this life she had forged here? “Sir Calvin, resume the message.” “I’ll just leave you with this, Vivian. No matter what you do, I am so proud of you … how hard you’ve worked and how you’ve followed your dreams.” Griffin’s go-to smile was replaced with a wistful smirk. “Talk soon.” “Sir Calvin, stop the transmission.” As the holo-image of Griffin began to melt away, the blue light gave way to the soft amber glow emanating from a crystal dome-light positioned in the middle of the deckhead—the diffused illumination matching her somber mood. Closing her eyes, relaxing, Viv let the silence envelop her. She knew that whatever choice she made, it would carry profound consequences. It wasn’t just a matter of choosing between two men; it was about deciding who she wanted to become, the life she yearned to lead. The minutes ticked by, each second laden with the weight of her indecision. Finally, Viv opened her eyes. Rolled out of bed and teeter-tottered to a stand. She’d take a hot shower. Water had a way of making the convoluted clear, like untangling a giant knot of cables. So, shower—then decide, she thought. As her dear departed mother used to say when she was agonizing over a decision, “Come on, Vivian—make a sandwich or get out of the kitchen.” Chapter 43 Liquilid Empire Star System USS Adams Captain Galvin Quintos The hour was late, the weight of exhaustion settling upon my shoulders. Yet, I couldn’t surrender to the enticing embrace of slumber just yet. Not when there was unfinished business, that haunting story waiting to unfold before my eyes. The captain’s ready room enveloped me in a cocoon of dim light, the soft glow of the halo display casting an ethereal glow across the compartment. My gaze was fixed upon the three-dimensional projection, a window into the past, as it played the fateful log entries of Captain Glenn Stone, commander of the ill-fated USS Lincoln. The lost ship, adrift here in the merciless expanse of space, held the secrets of a tragedy that only now was becoming evident. Glenn Stone’s weathered face appeared before me, his voice filled with a mix of resignation and determination. “The red ships, colossal monstrosities of alien origin, have descended upon us … an overwhelming force. The magnitude of their presence, their sheer size dwarfing any vessel in our own fleet, is a testament to the danger that lurked beyond the stars.” My eyes traced the haunted contours of Stone’s features, the evidence of his desperate struggle etched into every line on his face. Stained and tattered, his uniform bore witness to the relentless battles fought on Lincoln. The weariness in his eyes mirrored my own, a shared burden of responsibility and loss. As Stone’s raspy voice filled the room, a shiver coursed down my spine. “The Liquilids, the alien menace, have breached Lincoln’s hull. Now, beetle-like nanite


and riven; the trunk, split down the center, gasped ghastly. The cloven halves were not broken from each other, for the firm base and strong roots kept them unsundered below; though community of vitality was destroyed the sap could flow no more; their great boughs on each side were dead, and next winter's tempests would be sure to fell one or both to earth; as yet, however, they might be said to form one tree a ruin, but an entire ruin.     "You did right to hold fast to each other," I said; as if the monster-splinters were living things, and could hear me. "I think, scathed as you look, and charred and scorched, there must be a little sense of life in you yet, rising out of that adhesion at the faithful, honest roots; you will never have green leaves more never more see birds making nests and singing idyls in your boughs; the time of pleasure and love is over with you; but you are not desolate: each of you has a comrade to sympathize with him in his decay." As I looked up at them, the moon appeared momentarily in that part of the sky which filled their fissure; her disk was blood-red and half overcast; she seemed to throw on me one bewildered, dreary glance, and buried herself again instantly in the deep drift of cloud. The wind fell, for a second, round Thornfield; but far away over wood and water, poured a wild, melancholy wail; it was sad to listen to, and I ran off again.     Here and there I strayed through the orchard, gathered up the apples with which the grass round the tree-roots was thickly strewn; then I employed myself in dividing the ripe from the unripe; I carried them into the house and put them away in the store-room. Then I repaired to the library to ascertain whether the fire was lit; for, though summer, I knew on such a gloomy evening Mr. Rochester would like to see a cheerful hearth when he came in; yes, the fire had been kindled some time, and burned well. I placed his arm-chair by the chimney-corner; I wheeled the table near it; I let down the curtain, and had the candles brought in ready for lighting. More restless than ever, when I had completed these arrangements I could not sit still, nor even remain in the house; a little timepiece in the room and the old clock in the hall simultaneously struck ten.     "How late it grows!" I said; "I will run down to the gates; it is moonlight at intervals; I can see a good way on the road. He may be coming now, and to meet him will save some minutes of suspense."     The wind roared high in the great trees which embowered the gates; but the road as far as I could see, to the right hand and the left, was all still and solitary, save for the shadows


Sir Lewis de Bourgh's family. -- Do you play and sing, Miss Bennet?'' ``A little.'' ``Oh! then -- some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our instrument is a capital one, probably superior to -- You shall try it some day. -- Do your sisters play and sing?'' ``One of them does.'' ``Why did not you all learn? -- You ought all to have learned. The Miss Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income as your's. -- Do you draw?'' ``No, not at all.'' ``What, none of you?'' ``Not one.'' ``That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters.'' ``My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates London.'' ``Has your governess left you?'' ``We never had any governess.'' ``No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home without a governess! -- I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must have been quite a slave to your education.'' Elizabeth could hardly help smiling, as she assured her that had not been the case. ``Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess you must have been neglected.'' ``Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as wished to learn, never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to read, and had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be idle, certainly might.'' ``Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if I had known your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage one. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is wonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that way. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and it was but the other day that I recommended another young person, who was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalfe's calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. "Lady Catherine," said she, "you have given me a treasure." Are any of your younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?'' ``Yes, Ma'am, all.'' ``All! -- What, all five out at once? Very odd! -- And you only the second. -- The younger ones out before the elder are married! -- Your younger sisters must be very young?'' ``Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ is full young to be much in company. But really, Ma'am, I think it would be very hard upon younger sisters, that they should not have their share of society and amusement because the elder may not have the means or inclination to marry early. -- The last born has as good a right


and he feeds her chocolate. She’s devoted to him. She comes indoors at night-time and sits on the rug by the fireside.’ Lin was confused. ‘The pig?’ ‘Yes. I’m not exaggerating, Lin, he’ll have her sleeping in our bed soon.’ ‘A pig in the bed?’ Lin wasn’t listening properly – she wasn’t sure if Penny was joking. Penny was still ranting. ‘It’s so difficult up at the farmhouse. My son Tom just does the accounts all day, shirking all the hard farm work. His wife’s the worst cook in the world; Natalie talks of nothing but wedding dresses; Bobby is out every evening and now George is in love with a pig.’ ‘No, I’m the worst cook in the world,’ Lin mumbled sadly. Penny frowned. ‘Goodness knows what will happen when we take Nadine to the slaughterhouse. It’s never a good idea to give an animal a name, especially when it will eventually end up on the butcher’s slab.’ Lin shook her head. ‘You’re going to kill Nadine?’ ‘She’s a pig, Lin.’ ‘Yes, but…’ Lin was suddenly full of sympathy. ‘That will be so hard for poor George.’ ‘It will teach him not to get so attached,’ Penny announced, then it was her turn to be served at the till. Lin sighed; she was looking forward to seeing Josie. There was a lot she needed to confide in her. Ten minutes later, she was wandering down Orchard Way, the neat rows of allotments on one side. She could see Tina Gilchrist, Minnie’s sister, weeding the soil, her pale hair over her face. Lin called out a cheery hello, but Tina was out of earshot. She passed the recreation ground, where an older man sat on a swing drinking something from a can. Lin was sure it was Kenny Hooper. She raised a hand in a wave, but he didn’t see her. She wondered if she was invisible. Then she arrived level with Gerald Harris’s house. Devlin and Finn Toomey were working in the garden, raking and digging, sorting out the mess, while Gerald rushed around flapping his hands anxiously. Devlin raised a hand. ‘Mornin’, Lin. How are ye?’ Finn looked up and grinned. ‘Full of the joys of spring?’ ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Lin nodded. Both Toomeys were without shirts, their skin glistening as they worked. Gerald was red faced and anxious. He turned to Lin. ‘George Ledbury has offered to pay for the garden. I told him it’s all very well but that pig ought to be locked up.’ ‘Nadine,’ Lin said. ‘I beg your pardon?’ Gerald asked, puffing out his cheeks. ‘Nadine – after a Chuck Berry song.’ ‘Ah, we know the one, don’t we, Dev?’ Finn laughed and he and his brother joined in a jig, miming playing a guitar, kicking out a leg Chuck Berry-style, screaming, ‘Na-deeeeen!’ Gerald was perplexed. ‘I told George I want the garden just as it was before the pig attacked it.’ ‘It’ll be lovely when the lads have finished,’ Lin soothed, then she was on her way. She was still thinking about George’s pig


only his silhouette visible. "Good evening," Langdon called up. "Sir Leigh, may I present Sophie Neveu." "An honor." Teabing moved into the light. "Thank you for having us," Sophie said, now seeing the man wore metal leg braces and used crutches. He was coming down one stair at a time. "I realize it's quite late." "It is so late, my dear, it's early." He laughed. "Vous n'tes pas Amricaine?" Sophie shook her head. "Parisienne." "Your English is superb." "Thank you. I studied at the Royal Holloway." "So then, that explains it." Teabing hobbled lower through the shadows. "Perhaps Robert told you I schooled just down the road at Oxford." Teabing fixed Langdon with a devilish smile. "Of course, I also applied to Harvard as my safety school." Their host arrived at the bottom of the stairs, appearing to Sophie no more like a knight than Sir Elton John. Portly and ruby-faced, Sir Leigh Teabing had bushy red hair and jovial hazel eyes that seemed to twinkle as he spoke. He wore pleated pants and a roomy silk shirt under a paisley vest. Despite the aluminum braces on his legs, he carried himself with a resilient, vertical dignity that seemed more a by-product of noble ancestry than any kind of conscious effort. Teabing arrived and extended a hand to Langdon. "Robert, you've lost weight." Langdon grinned. "And you've found some." Teabing laughed heartily, patting his rotund belly. "Touch. My only carnal pleasures these days seem to be culinary." Turning now to Sophie, he gently took her 153 hand, bowing his head slightly, breathing lightly on her fingers, and diverting his eyes. "M'lady." Sophie glanced at Langdon, uncertain whether she'd stepped back in time or into a nuthouse. The butler who had answered the door now entered carrying a tea service, which he arranged on a table in front of the fireplace. "This is Rmy Legaludec," Teabing said, "my manservant." The slender butler gave a stiff nod and disappeared yet again. "Rmy is Lyonais," Teabing whispered, as if it were an unfortunate disease. "But he does sauces quite nicely." Langdon looked amused. "I would have thought you'd import an English staff?" "Good heavens, no! I would not wish a British chef on anyone except the French tax collectors." He glanced over at Sophie. "Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle Neveu. Please be assured that my distaste for the French extends only to politics and the soccer pitch. Your government steals my money, and your football squad recently humiliated us." Sophie offered an easy smile. Teabing eyed her a moment and then looked at Langdon. "Something has happened. You both look shaken." Langdon nodded. "We've had an interesting night, Leigh." "No doubt. You arrive on my doorstep unannounced in the middle of the night speaking of the Grail. Tell me, is this indeed about the Grail, or did you simply say that because you know it is the lone topic for which I would rouse myself in the middle of the night?" A little of both, Sophie thought, picturing the cryptex hidden beneath the couch. "Leigh," Langdon said, "we'd


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

demanded. “Dear Emily,” he said, stretching like a cat and rubbing Shadow’s ears. “How was your day?” “Delightful.” As he showed no evidence of bestirring himself, I grudgingly seated myself on the grass. “Our friend in the village was no wight, but a changeling of the courtly fae. I had to interrogate the creature with iron. Unassisted.” “I’m sure you held your own, as you always do.” The hat slid back down his forehead. I took it from him, and he blinked in the sudden sunlight. “Oh dear. What have I done to earn that basilisk stare?” “We have agreed to work together. Yet now I hear that you have seen fit to trample on my research. The brownie by the spring, whose trust I have spent days in cultivating, would barely speak to me after your visit.” “What?” He looked genuinely baffled. “I brought the little one peppermints and asked a few questions. Nothing more.” “He seemed frightened of you.” I added quickly, “Though he would not say why. In any case, you cannot go there again.” “Your wish is my command, Em.” He regarded me with amusement. “Is that all that has upset you? Surely there are other brownies in this wood for you to pester if that one has soured on you.” I thought quickly, hiding it behind a frown. It had become clear to me, in a way that it never had before, that it would be wise for me to be frightened of Bambleby. And if I could not muster fear—a dubious proposition, to be sure—I should at least attempt wariness, if for no reason other than that he is Folk. My suspicion is suspicion no more, but fact. “You have done nothing since your arrival but laze about,” I told him. “As well as jeopardize the only meaningful connection I have established with the Hidden Ones. You don’t realize how hard I have been working, Wendell, or how important this is to me.” “I do, though,” he said, and I was alarmed by how earnest he became. “And I’m sorry, Em, if I’ve given you reason to think otherwise. I assure you that I have been working quite hard today.” He looked down at his sprawled self. “More or less. I walked a great deal of the Karrðarskogur. I even discovered a small lake high upon the mountain with evidence of kelpie habitation. Well, whatever they call such creatures in this blasted cold country.” “Kelpie?” My mouth fell open. “What lake? I saw no lakes.” He looked far too pleased with himself. “That’s because you missed it, my dear. It was about half a mile beyond the extent of your map.” “Show me.” He groaned. “But I just came from there. You are far too vigorous for a scholar. Another day, please. Why don’t you tell me about your interview with our new changeling friend?” He was changing the subject, but I admit I had little energy for climbing up into the peaks after the day I’d had, and so gave him a summary of my


bothered by it. Most of his friends were in constant conflict with their fathers, and not having one in the picture seemed to be a net gain. It hadn’t ever occurred to Andy that his father might want more to do with him. It’s too late for that, isn’t it? Andy’s sure that he ought to think so, that if his father really wants to open this door, then Andy ought to shut it in his face, just on principle. But he already knows that he won’t do that. His father is the only family he has, and while Andy isn’t sure he ought to care about that, the fact is that he does. * * * When Andy gets back to his desk, there’s a manila interoffice mail envelope sitting on it. Absently, he unwinds the cord and pulls out the paper within. How are you feeling? the sheet of yellow-lined paper reads. It isn’t signed, but it doesn’t need to be. On the same paper, Andy writes fine, crosses off his name on the envelope and writes Nick’s, then puts the note inside before handing it to his secretary. Maybe half an hour later the envelope returns, this time brought by a copyboy who’s carrying a brown paper bag. “Mr. Russo said you’re to eat this,” says the copyboy, plopping the bag onto Andy’s desk. “Let me guess,” Andy says, opening the bag to reveal a white cardboard container of soup. He’s too congested to smell what kind of soup. “He also told you to stick around until I’ve finished it.” He gestures expansively at his barely furnished office. “Make yourself at home.” He opens the envelope. This time there isn’t anything written on the paper, but it’s been folded up small. When he unfolds it, two chalky white aspirins spill out. It’s just like Nick to assume that Andy doesn’t have his own bottle of aspirin in his desk—he doesn’t, of course, but Nick can’t possibly know that. He swallows the tablets and opens the container of soup—it’s chicken noodle, boiling hot, and likely from the deli downstairs. Along with a plastic spoon, there’s a little cellophane packet of oyster crackers, which he opens and crumbles into the soup. Even before his first mouthful, the heat and steam from the broth seem to work some kind of magic on his poor abused sinuses, and he momentarily feels like he can breathe a little. As he eats, he writes a reply to Nick. Thanks. Do you want me to stay at my old apartment tonight so you don’t catch whatever this is? Later, when the empty soup container is in the trash and Andy’s sinuses are stuffed up again, a reply comes. Don’t be stupid. I’d only worry that you were lying dead in a pool of your own snot. Besides, I’m already going to catch whatever you’ve got. Nick’s probably right. They spent the weekend in bed together, and even if they hadn’t, they’re forever taking bites of one another’s food and stealing sips of one another’s coffee. Suddenly


horus-born,” said Io. “When we arrived in Alante, the lady at immigration insisted on listing Samiya as asclepies-born and not horus-born. Told us it’d help her land a job. They do the same thing, she said, but Alantians like their own word better.” Io wanted to keep this conversation going but was unsure what the right questions were. Tentatively, she asked, “Why would your father throw a fit?” He spoke in a whisper, bent over the kitchen counter. “He is against intermixing. Thinks cultures should keep themselves separate, that other-born should stay in their home city-nation. He believes the gods punish defectors by taking away their powers.” “Is he other-born?” Edei replied bluntly, “No. He’s a Separatist.” Sometime after the Kinship Treaty, when the civil rights of other-born were established, people started migrating across the city-nations in search of a better job and living conditions. At the same time, a wave of conservatism swept through the world: people like Edei’s father who believed other-born should remain in their city-nation of origin to honor and serve the gods that gifted them with powers. It was called Other-Born Separatism. “My father’s beliefs,” Edei went on, “are part of the reason we had to leave Sumi. His sect wanted Samiya to stop performing abortions. She refused.” “That’s very brave.” “For a while, it was. But then her family started receiving death threats. Things escalated so badly that we were forced to leave Sumi and seek entry to another city-nation.” Sadness swept over his features, shadowing his eyes. Then his lips curved in a soft smile. “At least my exile gave me the chance to experience little yellow legends buzzing all around me.” Io’s heart melted a little bit at his lovely face, his lovely words, his smile that glimmered like starlight breaking through a raging night storm. She wanted to go to him, pinch his chin between her fingers and bring his lips down to meet hers— The thought startled her. Not just the intimate nature of it, but the easiness with which it had arrived. Like it had been lodged in the conduits of her mind for a long time, and it had finally loosened free, a plop followed by a current of longing. Edei cleared his throat and returned to the stove. Io realized, too late, that she had been staring at him. Heat bloomed on her cheeks; she pulled her damp hair over one shoulder, forming a curtain between them. Get it together. He had a girlfriend. Samiya wasn’t here now, but there was evidence of her everywhere. The combs and beauty products in the bathroom. The delicate shoes by the door. A silver ring on the short table in front of Io. The encyclopedias and anatomy books, the bees on the shelf, the sweetness in Edei’s voice when he spoke of her. Edei had followed her halfway across the world. Gods, Io was making herself feel even worse. Settle, Thais always said when a bout of anxiety overwhelmed Io. Name your feeling. Find the thought behind it, the reason. Breathe in


her why we had never talked about her cancer. She and I talked about most everything else, after all. I don’t know what I expected her to say. Perhaps it wasn’t fair of me to ask, even after a year. My mother was rarely cold and never aloof, so I knew it was something else that made her instantly withdraw, her expression a firmly closed door. Even before she spoke, I understood that my question was an intrusion on her hard-won peace, a knock she wasn’t ready to answer. “I don’t need to talk about having cancer, Nicole,” she told me. “I lived through it.” She did live through it. The breast cancer never returned. But her illness, the first serious one of her life, was a turning point for our family, an upheaval from which there would be no lasting recovery. * * * Once, while visiting my parents, I asked my father what he was proudest of in life. “You,” he said. I’d walked right into that one. “Besides me.” When he paused, I wondered if he would say something sarcastic, or tell me that he couldn’t think of anything. But the answer he gave was confident, his face as serious as I’d ever seen it. “I’m pretty proud,” he said, “of getting out of Ohio.” Dad was thirteen years old when he was told that his mother’s kidneys were failing. The first successful living kidney transplant had been performed a decade earlier, in 1954, but the procedure was risky and far from common. Hemodialysis treatment for patients with acute renal failure had recently become available, and a home dialysis machine was soon installed in his mother’s bedroom. His parents enjoyed entertaining, and their home in Euclid had been a gathering place for parties and family holiday celebrations. Now the household settled into a state of hushed anxiety. Their father’s habitual jokes, usually made at someone else’s expense, took on a hard, cutting edge. Dad, his brother, and his three sisters all quickly learned what was expected of them: They couldn’t play or roughhouse after school. They couldn’t invite friends over. The first hint of an argument would land all of them in trouble. What the hell’s the matter with you? They walked themselves to school and to church on Sunday and kept the house as tidy as they could. My father’s most deeply loathed chore was cleaning the dialysis machine. His grades were never stellar—my mother used to wonder whether he had undiagnosed dyslexia—but he was a hard worker, adept at solving technical problems. He also found it easy to talk with people and make them laugh; his sense of humor, unlike his father’s, was warm and rarely bitter. He won graphic arts and lithography awards for his work in his high school print shop, and by his senior year he’d secured a part-time training-with-pay job in the city printing department, where he spent fifteen hours a week generating interdepartmental memos, civic work orders, and official town correspondence for $1.49 an hour. He wasn’t sure that college was for


growing louder, as the people in the courtyard celebrated. She wondered, momentarily, if Thais was among the crowd, bleary-eyed and ecstatic at the impossibility of her dreams coming true. Saint-Yves had just won the elections. * * * Io heaved under Bianca’s weight, her back and neck drenched with sweat. They had woken Bianca as gently as they could, with soothing words and explanations of their plan to help her. It made no difference. The mob queen thrust like a frenzied leviathan, kicking, elbowing, and screaming nonsense at the top of her lungs. It took both Io and Edei to get her wrists bound and her mouth gagged. “I hate this,” Edei mumbled, looking miserably at his former boss, as they slipped through the abandoned northern gates—every police officer in the Plaza must be celebrating Saint-Yves’s success at the police headquarters. “I should have helped the gang break her out of here. It’s my fault.” “We’ll fix it,” Io answered through her silent sniffles. She wasn’t sure when she had started crying. She had been focused on putting one foot in front of the other, on holding the whip-thread securely, on keeping Bianca from escaping—when, suddenly, she felt the neckline of her sweater sticking to her neck, soaked by the constant flow of soundless tears down her cheeks. The world used to be ten blocks wide—her apartment, Amos’s café, the rest of the Silts—and now it had bubbled in all directions: dark cities and fury-born, severed threads and sinister manipulators. She was terrified. The House of Nine appeared through the smog like a beautiful mirage. There were no admirers gathered around it now, no paparazzi; they must all be covering the election. The security guards were having a cigarette, perched on the gate steps. Above them, the garden lights of the house were lit, a constellation of rectangle-shaped stars through the gray haze. A hare-serpent chimerini dashed by, paws pattering and tail slithering across the street. Io stopped a safe distance away from the guards, who were pointedly ignoring her. Her voice came out like a croak in the deserted district. “Tell the Nine that Io Ora is here to see them. Tell them I’ll do anything they ask.” A security woman with a swirly tattoo sleeve retreated to the small cubicle by the gates and spoke in hushed whispers to whatever device linked them to the main house. A few moments later, she beckoned for the three other security guards to fall around Io, Edei, and Bianca, and the seven of them started on an awkward procession to the mansion. A gravel path curved around the building and ended in a domed greenhouse overlooking the West Canal. A dozen lamps bathed the greenhouse in white light, which reflected like snowfall on the indigo marble floor and indigo-and-gold furniture. Dark blue gossamer curtains embroidered with stars mushroomed in the soft breeze coming through the open panels. The Nine were positioned statuesquely around the room in their elegant gowns and gleaming brown skin, fuzzy chimerini furs draped on their necks and arms. Calliope


in the comfortable way she said it that made me feel easier. I split the log in only two strokes. I managed to hit one of the cracks in the next piece, and it divided with a single blow. Margret clapped. “Well done!” Lilja exclaimed, beaming as if I’d completed a marathon. In truth, I did feel rather proud of myself. It’s funny how the practice of such simple, ancient skills can put one at ease. My progress, though, was rather uneven. My aim began to improve under Lilja’s instruction, but I did not have her strength, and I could not be comfortable swinging something so deadly about, particularly after the fiasco with Wendell. After we’d accumulated a little pile between us, she and Margret helped me cart it inside, and I found myself inviting them to stay for tea, though my notes scowled accusingly at me from the table. “How cosy!” Margret said, and they both looked around the cottage admiringly. For some reason, I did not inform them that the cosiness was all Wendell’s making. Not once have I been complimented on my apartments at Cambridge. Well, I spend most of my time in the library or my office, so what does it matter? Lilja asked if Wendell was in, and both looked relieved when I shook my head. “Surely you aren’t frightened of him?” I enquired. “Oh, no!” Margret said a little too quickly. “We’re very grateful to him for helping us.” “Yes,” Lilja said, and I understood then that they were afraid of Wendell, very much so, and eager to avoid offending him. I sensed Margret wanted to pursue the subject of Wendell somehow, but she said nothing more as I made tea. I was relieved they hadn’t mentioned the tavern again—I doubt I will ever be easy in such places, particularly when all in attendance insist on approaching you for a warm-hearted sort of chat, full of praise and gratitude that I have no more idea what to do with than one of Thora’s skeins of yarn and some knitting needles. We chatted about my research and my forthcoming ICODEF presentation with Bambleby, and then as I poured the tea, Margret said in a bit of a rush, “Then you and Wendell are not—an item?” I blinked at her. “I—no. Of course not. We are colleagues. And friends, I suppose,” I added grudgingly. “I didn’t think so,” Lilja said, giving Margret a just as I said sort of look. “What with how he carries on with the village girls.” But Margret’s brow was furrowed. “I only thought— The way he looks at you—” The way he looks at me? I thought about the way Wendell looked at me sometimes, particularly when he thought I wasn’t aware of it, and then I felt hot, then cold, then hot again. “I don’t know what you mean,” I said, turning away to conceal my blush. Good grief, you’d think I was a girl of sixteen. Lilja kicked Margret. “She probably has someone back home, you goose.” “Do you?” Margret said.


her face. “You never had any intention of that, did you?” She purses her lips together. “Brody wasn’t ever going to leave me alone. He would’ve ruined our lives.” Ethan recalls the look in Carr’s eyes in his final moments. Sloane screaming at Ethan to shoot. Carr’s final words as he swung the pistol toward Ethan, before Ethan silenced him with a bullet to the head. She’s the one. Carr was trying to defend himself is all. His jaw falls open. “So, you killed him?” She frowns. “No, Ethan. You did.” A fresh wave of horror flows through his veins. “You tricked me into believing I was saving your life.” She sighs as if the conversation is irritating her. Ethan feels his eyes narrow. “You let him take the gun from you.” He steps toward the island. “You wanted me to shoot him. You planned it.” She slides off her barstool. “I knew you would never go along with it if I told you.” Ethan throws his hands in the air. “Because it’s murder!” Her face hardens. “It was what needed to be done.” Ethan stares at her in disbelief. “He was a murderer, Ethan. He killed his wife and used his wealth to prey on young girls and get away with it. He was going to ruin us.” Sloane moves around the island. “Us, Ethan. I did it for us. Our marriage.” She reaches for him, but Ethan pulls his arm away. “You knew it was Brody Carr coming down the aisle at the Kirkland Market on our anniversary. You ran into him on purpose. You planned that, too.” Sloane stiffens. “I had to take action, Ethan. I couldn’t stay with you as the poor, pitied wife who got cheated on. We would never have made it if I hadn’t done what I did.” “I don’t even know you.” He marches past her and storms up the stairs, hearing Sloane trailing behind him when he pulls a suitcase out of the storage closet in the upstairs hallway. After tossing the suitcase onto their bed, he moves to the closet. When he comes out with an armful of clothes, Sloane stands at the edge of their bed, looking between him and the suitcase. “What are you doing?” “I’m leaving.” He tosses the clothes into the suitcase. “No, you’re not.” “Oh, no?” He takes a step toward her. “What are you going to do? Kill me, too?” Her lips meld into a hard line. “That’s not fair.” He closes the suitcase. “It’s not?” The sound of his voice shakes the windows. He’s breathing like he needs to escape the room. “I’ve been trying to tell you something ever since you came home.” She lays a pregnancy test on top of his bag. Ethan stares at the blue cross in the middle of the stick. Chapter 52 Ethan’s eyes remain fixed on the pregnancy test for nearly a minute before he lifts his gaze to meet hers. “Is it mine?” “Of course, it is.” He looks unconvinced. “I got my period after getting back


diner. Her ex-fiancé’s Instagram. She hesitated briefly before tapping enter—and then there he was in all his suited, boyish charm. Her stomach turned sour at the memory of him calmly asking for her engagement ring back. He’d been even calmer while explaining that while he might love her, he couldn’t let their relationship cost him a career he’d worked so hard for. Calmer still while he asked her to leave. August wouldn’t break up with her that way—that is, if they were actually together, instead of merely pretending. There would be shouting and door slamming and insults from both of them. They would bring the house down. Why was she even thinking about this? Moreover, why was she suddenly taking note of Morrison’s shoulders and musing that they could fit into her fake fiancé’s shoulders three times? It wasn’t a competition— Natalie drew in a breath as a new image popped up on the screen. Just posted. A picture of Morrison on the balcony where she used to have her coffee overlooking Central Park South. Beside him was a familiar blonde in a white bathrobe sipping green juice from a glass, rolling her eyes over having the photo taken. That blonde . . . Krista, right? Natalie knew her. One of their board member’s daughters. He’d traded up. Feeling out of breath, Natalie smacked the laptop shut. She stood up and walked a half circle around the bed. Her heart wasn’t breaking. That damage had already been done and, if she was being honest, it had been the easiest part to mend. But her confidence? That was a different story—and it took another pounding now, an invisible mallet flattening her like a chicken cutlet between two sheets of wax paper. “Deep breath,” she murmured to herself, stretching her arms up over her head and letting them float down slowly. Back up, back down. She could spin this jarring discovery that her fiancé was already moving on into something positive. What didn’t kill her would make her stronger. The fact that her ex was sleeping with a billionaire’s beautiful daughter would only make her comeback more satisfying. She’d belong again. Not exactly as before, but with a similar life. She’d get back that sense of . . . being wanted. Being seen. Deciding to grab a cup of coffee before getting in the shower, Natalie opened the guest room door as quietly as possible and crept out, not wanting to disturb Julian and Hallie, who were sleeping on the other side of the kitchen. God forbid she wake them up. The bed would be creaking in ten seconds flat and honestly, bearing witness to someone else’s orgasm quest was the last thing she needed this morning. She stuck a pod in the coffee maker, placed a mug under the spout, and pulled the lever down, selecting the strongest setting. And waited. Why was August’s face the first image to pop into her head literally five minutes after finding out her ex was dating someone new? She didn’t know. But it was definitely a


red hair, do you think he blushes everywhere? chapter fifteen DENVER, CO Finn with you? Just got a call from con staff and he was supposed to check in twenty minutes ago. Not picking up his phone, either. I frown down at the text from Joe Kowalczyk, Finn’s manager. I’m in the hotel lobby, waiting for Finn to come downstairs so we can head to the convention center for Rocky Mountain Expo. He hasn’t answered the text I sent earlier this morning, either, the one about how apparently at this hotel, continental breakfast means plain yogurt and an unripe banana. I just assumed he ignored it because it wasn’t exactly thrilling commentary. Despite my debilitating millennial fear of phone calls, I call him. No answer. That’s odd. When we checked in last night, his room was right across the hall from mine. He seemed tired, which was fair, given we’d opted to go up five flights of stairs to our floor. A reasonable trade-off for waiting behind a family getting onto the elevator with their eight suitcases. He said he was turning in early, and I guess it wouldn’t be strange if he slept in, even unintentionally. Although my anxiety helpfully informs me there are a number of accidents that could befall him alone in a hotel room, several of which are now parading through my mind. The elevator isn’t fast enough, so I take the stairs again. Out of breath, I knock on the door gently at first. Probably too gently. “Finn?” I say, and then wait. Nothing. Surely, he’s just in the bathroom. Or still sleeping. Definitely not lying on the floor unconscious. No need to panic. Except the not-panic pitches my voice even higher as I start banging on the door. “Finn? Are you in there?” I must be knocking so loudly that I don’t hear anyone come to the door, and when it gives beneath me, I stumble forward. It takes a few moments for me to regain my balance as I bring my eyes up to his. And there he is, face half-hidden by the comforter he’s draped around himself like some kind of sad wizard. “Just need a few more minutes,” he rasps out before turning around and plodding back to the bed. The room is a mess, his suitcases spilling over in the middle of it. “Oh—you’re sick,” I say quietly. “I’m fine. Like I said, I just need a few more minutes.” At that, he lets out a full-body shiver. “Is it cold in here, or is it just me?” A laugh gets stuck in my throat because he is very much not fine. “Yeah, no. We’re going to cancel. You should get some rest.” He glances back at me, hair askew, face ashen. He really does look miserable. Stars: they’re just like us! “But all those people . . . they’re counting on me. I made a commitment.” “They’ll understand,” I say. “These things happen. Don’t tell me you’ve never taken a sick day before.” The way he looks at me, I wonder


deep condition, then detangle it. I’m sans hair dryer in the summer months, so I pack on a bunch of leave-in and let it air-dry. I feel like a brand-new person as I swap places with Bezi and Paige so they can wash up. Soon as we’re all done, I make a beeline to the edge of Mirror Lake. I lead Bezi and Paige all the way around the east side of the lake. “They were right here,” I say, glancing back at the distance to my cabin. “I swear we saw something.” “Maybe it was a bear?” Bezi says. “No. No way,” I say. “It was standing up.” “Bears stand up sometimes,” Bezi says. “You serious?” I ask. “We were looking right at it.” “I didn’t have the best view,” Bezi says. “And it was dark.” I huff and move closer to the murky water. I peer down into it. I’d heard footsteps and a distinct splash not once but twice. I saw someone. I know I did. “Check it out,” Paige says. She’s wandered a little way from us and is staring down at the ground. I join her and peer at the path that circles the lake. There is a long track in the dirt like something heavy was dragged across its surface. The marks in the dirt stop at the lake’s edge. “You really did see something, didn’t you?” Paige asks. I nod. I know Paige believes me. It goes against all her rules to try and make an excuse for this. Bezi crouches low to the ground. “You see this?” she asks. She grabs a stick from the nearby brush and pokes around in the dirt, uncovering a wide piece of gnarled gray plastic. On the ends are reinforced holes, and looped through each one is a short length of rusted chain, caked with dirt. “What is it?” Paige asks. “Trash?” Bezi shakes her head. “I think it’s a swing seat. Like the kind we used to have on the playground in elementary school.” I take the beat-up piece of plastic from her and turn it over in my hands. “Was there a playground out here?” Bezi asks. I shake my head. “No. Never. You can’t even be up here if you’re younger than sixteen.” Mr. Lamont had relayed that information to me at some point, but I can’t remember the specifics. A high-pitched clang cuts through the air. I glance across the lake and see Kyle standing on the front steps of the Western Lodge. He’s banging a wooden spoon against a pot lid and waving at us. “Breakfast!” he calls. I toss the shard of plastic and rusty chains into a trash can as we make our way back to the lodge. Kyle put together some waffles—the frozen kind—and Porter is setting out orange juice and sliced apples on the big wooden coffee table. Everybody looks as exhausted as I feel. I think I got fifteen minutes of sleep after what we’d seen on the shoreline, and when I woke up with Paige’s foot in


muleteer to stop. St. Aubert bade him proceed as fast as possible; but either Michael, or his mules were obstinate, for they did not quit the old pace. Horses' feet were now heard; a man rode up to the carriage, still ordering the driver to stop; and St. Aubert, who could no longer doubt his purpose, was with difficulty able to prepare a pistol for his defence, when his hand was upon the door of the chaise. The man staggered on his horse, the report of the pistol was followed by a groan, and St. Aubert's horror may be imagined, when in the next instant he thought he heard the faint voice of Valancourt. He now himself bade the muleteer stop; and, pronouncing the name of Valancourt, was answered in a voice, that no longer suffered him to doubt. St. Aubert, who instantly alighted and went to his assistance, found him still sitting on his horse, but bleeding profusely, and appearing to be in great pain, though he endeavoured to soften the terror of St. Aubert by assurances that he was not materially hurt, the wound being only in his arm. St. Aubert, with the muleteer, assisted him to dismount, and he sat down on the bank of the road, where St. Aubert tried to bind up his arm, but his hands trembled so excessively that he could not accomplish it; and, Michael being now gone in pursuit of the horse, which, on being disengaged from his rider, had galloped off, he called Emily to his assistance. Receiving no answer, he went to the carriage, and found her sunk on the seat in a fainting fit. Between the distress of this circumstance and that of leaving Valancourt bleeding, he scarcely knew what he did; he endeavoured, however, to raise her, and called to Michael to fetch water from the rivulet that flowed by the road, but Michael was gone beyond the reach of his voice. Valancourt, who heard these calls, and also the repeated name of Emily, instantly understood the subject of his distress; and, almost forgetting his own condition, he hastened to her relief. She was reviving when he reached the carriage; and then, understanding that anxiety for him had occasioned her indisposition, he assured her, in a voice that trembled, but not from anguish, that his wound was of no consequence. While he said this St. Aubert turned round, and perceiving that he was still bleeding, the subject of his alarm changed again, and he hastily formed some handkerchiefs into a bandage. This stopped the effusion of the blood; but St. Aubert, dreading the consequence of the wound, enquired repeatedly how far they were from Beaujeu; when, learning that it was at two leagues' distance, his distress increased, since he knew not how Valancourt, in his present state, would bear the motion of the carriage, and perceived that he was already faint from loss of blood. When he mentioned the subject of his anxiety, Valancourt entreated that he would not suffer himself to be thus alarmed on his account, for


and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2023 by Heather Fawcett All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. DEL REY and the CIRCLE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA Names: Fawcett, Heather (Heather M.), author. Title: Emily Wilde’s encyclopaedia of faeries / Heather Fawcett. Description: New York: Del Rey, [2023] Identifiers: LCCN 2022000431 (print) | LCCN 2022000432 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593500132 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593500149 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593597620 (international edition) Subjects: LCGFT: Magic realist fiction. | Romance fiction. | Novels. Classification: LCC PR9199.4.F39 E45 2023 (print) | LCC PR9199.4.F39 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20220218 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022000431 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022000432 Ebook ISBN 9780593500149 randomhousebooks.com Book design by Virginia Norey, adapted for ebook Cover design: Vera Drmanovski ep_prh_6.0_142226817_c0_r0 Contents Cover Title Page Copyright 20th October, 1909 20th October—Evening 21st October 21st October—Evening 22nd October 23rd October 28th October 29th October 29th October—Evening 30th October 31st October 12th November 14th November 15th November 16th November 17th November 18th November 19th November —? November 20th November 22nd November 23rd November 26th November 26th November—Late 2nd December (?) 3rd December (?) 4th December (?) 17th December (?) 22nd December (?) 23rd December (?) 25th December (?) 30th January 30th January—Later (Presumably) 3rd February 4th February 13th February Chapter 37 Acknowledgments About the Author 20th October, 1909 Hrafnsvik, Ljosland Shadow is not at all happy with me. He lies by the fire while the chill wind rattles the door, tail inert, staring out from beneath that shaggy forelock of his with the sort of accusatory resignation peculiar to dogs, as if to say: Of all the stupid adventures you’ve dragged me on, this will surely be the death of us. I fear I have to agree, though this makes me no less eager to begin my research. Herein I intend to provide an honest account of my day-to-day activities in the field as I document an enigmatic species of faerie called “Hidden Ones.” This journal serves two purposes: to aid my recollection when it comes time to formally compile my field notes, and to provide a record for those scholars who come after me should I be captured by the Folk. Verba volant, scripta manent. As with previous journals, I will presume a basic understanding of dryadology in the reader, though I will gloss certain references that may be unfamiliar to those new to the field. I have not had reason to visit Ljosland before, and would be lying if I said my first sighting this morning didn’t temper my enthusiasm. The journey takes five days from London, and the only vessel to get you there is a weekly freighter carrying a great variety of goods and a much smaller variety of passengers. We ventured steadily north, dodging icebergs, whilst I paced the deck


I wanted to scream at him. One was the fact that he clearly had put Robbie ahead of Omar. Another was that he didn’t even seem concerned about justice for Thalia, about the fact that maybe she wasn’t resting in peace, and maybe the person who did this had gone on to hurt more people. Instead of screaming, I tucked a bolster pillow between my shoulder blades, stretched my shoulders back and pushed my boobs out. I wondered whether Mike would testify to any of this—whatever his professional convictions, his personal ethics. My phone had been recording the whole time, just in case. I’m not an idiot. “It makes so much sense, then, that you’d all get your stories straight. He was vulnerable.” I swallowed all the spit in my mouth and said, “Even if Robbie had shown up a little late at the mattresses, you’d have to say he was there from the beginning, right? Otherwise they’re off on some rabbit chase. Maybe they’d fully pin it on him.” I expected Mike to look alarmed, but he shrugged. “He was there, though.” “You remember walking with him?” “After all this time, I mean—but he was in the pictures from the beginning. That’s rock-solid.” “Oh, right,” I said. “He’s in the first one. Knowing him, it was probably his idea to take photos in the first place.” “Right? If we were kids now he’d be the Instagram king. He always wanted everyone to remember how much fun they’d had.” “That’s really sweet,” I said. “He’s a sweet guy.” “He’s a sap. He used to listen to Phantom of the Opera. I could never figure it out, how does a guy get away with listening to Phantom of the Opera and not get ragged on? No one questioned his sexuality.” “So if they asked you on the stand,” I said, “whether he was there from the beginning, you’d be positive? Because I’m having this crisis of confidence about testifying. Like, how do you remember things? It was so long ago.” “I think for us, it helped that we talked about it right away. We’re sitting around listing who all was in the woods, we’re making sure we know what time we got there.” “Was that all from Robbie? It seems like he was so smart about it, developing the photos and everything.” I sipped my whiskey and intentionally spilled some down my chin, onto my tank top, so I had to paw myself dry. Mike kept his eyes studiously above my head. “Yeah, actually,” he said. “He was the one who gathered a bunch of us. Or maybe—I guess we were in his room to check on him. It was the day after they found her. He started writing everything down in a notebook, who was there and what time we left the theater. It helped him process it all.” The motherfucker. That entitled little floppy-haired motherfucker. “For sure,” I said. “And I bet he was terrified. Of being blamed. I mean, what if he hadn’t been there? Or what if he’d joined


down, sir, please!" "Very well, then, I will--on one condition. Having brought you here to this out-of-the-way place, I feel myself responsible for your safe-conduct home, whatever you may yourself feel about it. As to your getting to Trantridge without assistance, it is quite impossible; for, to tell the truth, dear, owing to this fog, which so disguises everything, I don't quite know where we are myself. Now, if you will promise to wait beside the horse while I walk through the bushes till I come to some road or house, and ascertain exactly our whereabouts, I'll deposit you here willingly. When I come back I'll give you full directions, and if you insist upon walking you may; or you may ride--at your pleasure." She accepted these terms, and slid off on the near side, though not till he had stolen a cursory kiss. He sprang down on the other side. "I suppose I must hold the horse?" said she. "Oh no; it's not necessary," replied Alec, patting the panting creature. "He's had enough of it for tonight." He turned the horse's head into the bushes, hitched him on to a bough, and made a sort of couch or nest for her in the deep mass of dead leaves. "Now, you sit there," he said. "The leaves have not got damp as yet. Just give an eye to the horse--it will be quite sufficient." He took a few steps away from her, but, returning, said, "By the bye, Tess, your father has a new cob today. Somebody gave it to him." "Somebody? You!" D'Urberville nodded. "O how very good of you that is!" she exclaimed, with a painful sense of the awkwardness of having to thank him just then. "And the children have some toys." "I didn't know--you ever sent them anything!" she murmured, much moved. "I almost wish you had not--yes, I almost with it!" "Why, dear?" "It--hampers me so." "Tessy--don't you love me ever so little now?" "I'm grateful," she reluctantly admitted. "But I fear I do not---" The sudden vision of his passion for herself as a factor in this result so distressed her that, beginning with one slow tear, and then following with another, she wept outright. "Don't cry, dear, dear one! Now sit down here, and wait till I come." She passively sat down amid the leaves he had heaped, and shivered slightly. "Are you cold?" he asked. "Not very--a little." He touched her with his fingers, which sank into her as into down. "You have only that puffy muslin dress on--how's that?" "It's my best summer one. 'Twas very warm when I started, and I didn't know I was going to ride, and that it would be night." "Nights grow chilly in September. Let me see." He pulled off a light overcoat that he had worn, and put it round her tenderly. "That's it--now you'll feel warmer," he continued. "Now, my pretty, rest there; I shall soon be back again." Having buttoned the overcoat round her shoulders he plunged into the webs of vapour which by


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

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! You can see down his collar and the linings of his clothes. I could put my arm--" He extended his hand; it seemed to meet something in mid-air, and he drew it back with a sharp exclamation. "I wish you'd keep your fingers out of my eye," said the aerial voice, in a tone of savage expostulation. "The fact is, I'm all here: head, hands, legs, and all the rest of it, but it happens I'm invisible. It's a confounded nuisance, but I am. That's no reason why I should be poked to pieces by every stupid bumpkin in Iping, is it?" The suit of clothes, now all unbuttoned and hanging loosely upon its unseen supports, stood up, arms akimbo. Several other of the men folks had now entered the room, so that it was closely crowded. "Invisible, eigh?" said Huxter, ignoring the stranger's abuse. "Who ever heard the likes of that?" "It's strange, perhaps, but it's not a crime. Why am I assaulted by a policeman in this fashion?" "Ah! that's a different matter," said Jaffers. "No doubt you are a bit difficult to see in this light,


jobs in Washington because I was more interested in sitting in secure briefing rooms, digging into intelligence gathered overseas by U.S. spies, than sitting in classrooms. I trained my strengths—and anxieties—toward supporting national leaders, from preparing research memos at the White House and Pentagon to briefing CIA directors and Homeland Security secretaries. The stainless boy from a Midwest flyover state was awestruck at having a top-secret security clearance. I grew up fast and learned to stay in the background safeguarding information, knowing that lives were in the balance and that I was responsible for protecting the “sources and methods” of our spy agencies. Just as the kid inside me had yearned, I was working alongside the good guys to fight the bad ones, or so I thought. Washington changed in the years after 9/11. After spending time in the executive branch, the private sector, and grad school, I returned to Capitol Hill in my late twenties and found a very different place. Some of the people I looked up to had turned out to be not-so-good guys (including House Speaker Dennis Hastert, who’d been arrested, charged, and later convicted in a hush-money scheme related to sexual misconduct with minors). The spirit of unity had also worn off, giving way to fermenting animosity. The Republican Party was focused on undermining Democratic President Barack Obama, while a confrontational Tea Party movement sought to take over the GOP by launching an insurgency. I tried to ignore the partisan rancor that followed me up the career ladder. As the national security advisor on the House Homeland Security Committee, I told people I was focused on policy, not politics. Then Donald Trump emerged. “I want a Trump inoculation plan.” In early 2016, a small group of Republican congressmen and aides, myself included, huddled around a conference table inside the U.S. Capitol. Afternoon sunshine illuminated untouched cookies and sodas in front of us. The faces around the table hung low. “I want a Trump inoculation plan,” House Speaker Paul Ryan demanded, making eye contact with each of us. Paul Ryan had been elected Speaker only months earlier and was eager to move the GOP toward a big tent, hopeful, ideas-driven party. I was a fan for this reason. We millennials prided ourselves on being fiscally conservative and socially liberal, and Ryan was going to be our figurehead. Trump was putting it all at risk in his unexpected quest for the GOP presidential nomination. “We can’t let him trash the GOP,” Ryan fumed, noting that Donald Trump was not representative of the policies or the people in the Republican Party. House majority leader Kevin McCarthy nodded in agreement. When it was his turn, McCarthy joked that Trump had switched parties so many times he couldn’t tell a donkey from an elephant. Party leaders had failed to knock out Trump early, so now they were trying to coalesce around someone who could stop him. In the meantime, Paul Ryan wanted House Republicans to distance themselves from the New York businessman, who they all expected would lose anyway. It wasn’t just


as I understand it, this whole area”—she motioned to the area where paths wound through the trees—“was gifted to the church, the archdiocese, I think, but she specifically wanted it to be attached to Our Lady, which makes sense.” “Who gifted it? Beverly?” “No, no, Marjorie, she was a widow, Beverly’s mother-in-law.” Her lips pursed in disapproval. “Of course that was before he divorced her to marry that little tart Helene . . . Oh!” As if she realized she’d devolved into gossiping, she stopped suddenly, sketched the sign of the cross over her chest. “Yes. You’re probably here because of, um, Helene’s death as well. Poor dear.” Opal cleared her throat. “Helene wasn’t an active member of the church, and Hugo, he stopped attending mass years ago, but—” She held her hands up and waggled them as if to disperse any remnants of her words that might be hanging in the air. “I—I didn’t really know Helene and what happened to her was just awful.” “But the Laroche family is still a part of the congregation?” Bentz asked. “I—I really don’t know. I don’t see them but, you know, I’m not here twenty-four/seven. I really should get back to work.” She stood quickly. Bentz knew the interview was over, so he handed Opal his card, asking her to call him if she thought of anything else that might be relevant. “Oh, I will,” she promised, then ran a hand lovingly over the bench as she stood and added, “I guess I’d better get going. Those pews won’t polish themselves and I promised Father Anthony that I’d be finished today.” Again, Bentz saw the gardener, farther away, casting a wary look over his shoulder. And then it hit him. The man in the flannel shirt was none other than Ned Zavala. Older than Bentz remembered, but definitely the man who had been named the Bayou Butcher by the press. He saw that Mrs. Guidry, too, had noticed the man with the rake. “Do you know him?” he asked. “The gardener? Ned?” She shook her head. “Not really. His mother is a member and I think she got him the job.” Her lips curled over her teeth. “And you don’t need to ask. I know what he was accused of years ago.” She gave an exaggerated shiver. “But that’s all in the past and he was proved innocent. Right?” “His mother recanted her testimony.” “Yes, yes, I know.” She cleared her throat. “Whatever Mr. Zavala did—what happened—God will cast His own judgment.” And at that she crossed herself. “You know Ned’s mother?” Bentz pressed as she took a step toward the church. “Not really. I mean, I see her around. Or I did; she came to mass every once in a while. But she’s sick, in bed for the most part. Cancer, I think.” Again she sketched a quick sign of the cross over her chest and cast another furtive look over her shoulder, but Ned had moved through the trees to the small cemetery. “How long has Ned worked here?” “Um .


He leaped upward, planting his feet against that wall, leaning out against the clinging barbs. This was the true instant of the testing: if he had planted the hooks correctly at the leading edge of a ring segment, opening the segment, the worm would not roll down and crush him. The worm slowed. It glided across the thumper, silencing it. Slowly, it began to roll -- up, up -- bringing those irritant barbs as high as possible, away from the sand that threatened the soft inner lapping of its ring segment. Paul found himself riding upright atop the worm. He felt exultant, like an emperor surveying his world. He suppressed a sudden urge to cavort there, to turn the worm, to show off his mastery of this creature. Suddenly he understood why Stilgar had warned him once about brash young men who danced and played with these monsters, doing handstands on their backs, removing both hooks and replanting them before the worm could spill them. Leaving one hook in place, Paul released the other and planted it lower down the side. When the second hook was firm and tested, he brought down the first one, thus worked his way down the side. The maker rolled, and as it rolled, it turned, coming around the sweep of flour sand where the others waited. Paul saw them come up, using their hooks to climb, but avoiding the sensitive ring edges until they were on top. They rode at last in a triple line behind him, steadied against their hooks. Stilgar moved up through the ranks, checked the positioning of Paul's hooks, glanced up at Paul's smiling face. "You did it, eh?" Stilgar asked, raising his voice above the hiss of their passage. "That's what you think? You did it?" He straightened. "Now I tell you that was a very sloppy job. We have twelve-year-olds who do better. There was drumsand to your left where you waited. You could not retreat there if the worm turned that way." The smile slipped from Paul's face. "I saw the drumsand." "Then why did you not signal for one of us to take up position secondary to you? It was a thing you could do even in the test." Paul swallowed, faced into the wind of their passage. "You think it bad of me to say this now," Stilgar said. "It is my duty. I think of your worth to the troop. If you had stumbled into that drumsand, the maker would've turned toward you." In spite of a surge of anger, Paul knew that Stilgar spoke the truth. It took a long minute and the full effort of the training he had received from his mother for Paul to recapture a feeling of calm. "I apologize," he said. "It will not happen again." "In a tight position, always leave yourself a secondary, someone to take the maker if you cannot," Stilgar said. "Remember that we work together. That way, we're certain. We work together, eh?" He slapped Paul's shoulder. "We work together," Paul agreed. "Now," Stilgar said,


the sake of it, but he can't get the easygoing butcher to fight. Mr. Snell ends this pig-headed quarrel and shifts the topic to the Lammeter family, who owned the cow. He calls on the parish-clerk Mr. Macey, who sparks another quarrel with his new deputy Mr. Tookey. In this ongoing dispute, not only do Macey and Tookey know exactly what they're arguing about, others such as the wheelwright Ben Winthrop butt in, too. The whole community cares about how Tookey does his job. They also care about music and the ritual of the church service. Originally, George Eliot wanted to write Silas Marner in verse. (You can be glad she didn't--her poetry was usually stilted and boring.) She changed to prose because she felt the story would need humor. This chapter demonstrates the kind of humor she meant--based on funny personalities rather than wisecracks. Part of you may be laughing at these yokels, like the pompous farrier with his thick-headed arguments. But another part of you may laugh with them--at the interplay of characters, the teasing banter, and the droll understatements, like Mr. Macey's comment that there are two opinions about every man. The ribbing is good-natured (notice how out-of-place Ben Winthrop's harsh insults sound) and someone like Mr. Snell always restores harmony. NOTE: DIALECT Although everyone in Raveloe probably spoke with a country accent, Eliot distinguishes the lower classes by writing their speeches in dialect. This was unusual in Victorian novels, although Shakespeare's comic "rustic scenes" provided a model for her. Eliot's dialect is just thick enough to give you the flavor of a rural world. Notice the several techniques she uses. She spells a word as it is pronounced ("allays," "nat'ral"). She uses ungrammatical constructions ("it's no better nor a hollow stalk"). She has her characters use countrified sayings ("I'd keep him in liver and lights for nothing"). Occasionally she uses unusual dialect words ("throstle"). Snell smoothes everyone's feelings and then prods Mr. Macey once more to tell his story about Mr. Lammeter. This story's been told many times before--probably in the same words--but everyone enjoys hearing it again. It's like hearing your favorite comedian do a routine that you know by heart. Eliot wrote this long anecdote for another reason--to show how people in Raveloe regard aliens. The first Mr. Lammeter, like Silas, came from the outside world, which to Raveloers seems like another planet. But Mr. Lammeter fit in with their values. He brought good sheep with him, and he "know'd the rights and customs o' things." As Macey traces the Lammeter family tree, you see how much these people feel connected with the past. Mr. Macey finally tells his story about the Lammeters' wedding, when the minister that day mixed up the questions and responses in the ceremony. Mr. Macey was afraid the marriage wouldn't be legal. (Note how outward forms and rituals are important.) The minister, however, being an authority figure, set Macey's mind at ease. The next story Macey tells is in direct contrast. Another outsider, a man named Cliff from London, owned the


"and they cannot forgive me." He shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence with it, and he only said, "I shall not scold you. I leave you to your own reflections." "Can you trust me with such flatterers?--Does my vain spirit ever tell me I am wrong?" "Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.--If one leads you wrong, I am sure the other tells you of it." "I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in Mr. Elton. There is a littleness about him which you discovered, and which I did not: and I was fully convinced of his being in love with Harriet. It was through a series of strange blunders!" "And, in return for your acknowledging so much, I will do you the justice to say, that you would have chosen for him better than he has chosen for himself.--Harriet Smith has some first-rate qualities, which Mrs. Elton is totally without. An unpretending, single-minded, artless girl-- infinitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to such a woman as Mrs. Elton. I found Harriet more conversable than I expected." Emma was extremely gratified.--They were interrupted by the bustle of Mr. Weston calling on every body to begin dancing again. "Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what are you all doing?-- Come Emma, set your companions the example. Every body is lazy! Every body is asleep!" "I am ready," said Emma, "whenever I am wanted." "Whom are you going to dance with?" asked Mr. Knightley. She hesitated a moment, and then replied, "With you, if you will ask me." "Will you?" said he, offering his hand. "Indeed I will. You have shewn that you can dance, and you know we are not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper." "Brother and sister! no, indeed." CHAPTER III This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma considerable pleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball, which she walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy.--She was extremely glad that they had come to so good an understanding respecting the Eltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife were so much alike; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in her favour, was peculiarly gratifying. The impertinence of the Eltons, which for a few minutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the occasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked forward to another happy result--the cure of Harriet's infatuation.-- From Harriet's manner of speaking of the circumstance before they quitted the ballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were suddenly opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the superior creature she had believed him. The fever was over, and Emma could harbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by injurious courtesy. She depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for supplying all the discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther requisite.--Harriet rational, Frank


peering at above were thousands of years old. When I look at art, I don’t want to be thinking about the artist, but it’s not the same way with nature. Mysticism is for people who can’t make sense of the world. I spent two years directly coming to terms with my own impermanence and finally accepted it. The conclusion caused me to treat my life with greater care than ever before and to better understand its foundations, which made me grateful for—and almost reverent of—the pain that it took to get there. I wasn’t mourning past losses. Tonight was a celebration. I got up from my chair and walked across the leafy park back to the car. In the trunk, there was a briefcase. The metal box was cold to the touch as I scrolled the combination on two separate dials. The password was the answer to a math problem from school—why I still remembered it, I didn’t know. I slid the buttons to the side and popped open the latches with a soft click. I lifted the lid. Inside, there were several loose papers, a few charging cords, and the corners of cash peeking out from beneath it all. What I wanted was on top. A newspaper clipping yellowed with age, and a hardback book with a sparse white cover. I pulled them out and closed the lid, snapping the latches shut. I walked back over and told my fellow traveler what they were. She asked if I was sure about it. I said I was, and she smiled. I placed the only copy of the newspaper clipping that I had into the fire pit and watched it curl up and disappear within seconds. The second item took longer. I set it on top of the pyre, and for a moment it didn’t catch. A thin circle of flame lazily enveloped the cover. Like the border of a closing wound, it shrank toward the center until the words were gone. The blaze caught hold of the spine and consumed the book from within, causing the pages to flutter in the heat like butterflies. They fell away in charred flakes. “Nobody ever tells you that books burn so pretty,” she said. The remaining pages became fire, and after a while, the last wooden support collapsed into the heap. Briefly, the embers blended with the stars as they drifted into the night sky. A NOTE ON SOURCES The anecdotes and analysis contained in this book are based on interviews with dozens of current and former U.S. government officials, personal recollections, contemporaneous notes, emails and text messages, public records, and other sources. Where notes or records did not exist for a particular conversation, I have reconstructed the exchange to the very best of my recollection and/or in consultation with subjects who were involved in or aware of those conversations. Some names and identifying characteristics have been changed. ABOUT THE AUTHOR Miles Taylor is a national security expert who works in Washington, D.C. Taylor previously served as chief of staff at the U.S. Department of


rushing by so quickly they had to stretch the advertising out so it would last." "I didn't know that!" Montag laughed abruptly. "Bet I know something else you don't. There's dew on the grass in the morning." He suddenly couldn't remember if he had known this or not, and it made him quite irritable. "And if you look"-she nodded at the sky-"there's a man in the moon." He hadn't looked for a long time. They walked the rest of the way in silence, hers thoughtful, his a kind of clenching and uncomfortable silence in which he shot her accusing glances. When they reached her house all its lights were blazing. "What's going on?" Montag had rarely seen that many house lights. "Oh, just my mother and father and uncle sitting around, talking. It's like being a pedestrian, only rarer. My uncle was arrested another time-did I tell you?-for being a pedestrian. Oh, we're most peculiar." "But what do you talk about?" She laughed at this. "Good night!" She started up her walk. Then she seemed to remember something and came back to look at him with wonder and curiosity. "Are you happy?" she said. "Am I what?" he cried. But she was gone-running in the moonlight. Her front door shut gently. "Happy! Of all the nonsense." He stopped laughing. He put his hand into the glove-hole of his front door and let it know his touch. The front door slid open. Of course I'm happy. What does she think? I'm not? he asked the quiet rooms. He stood looking up at the ventilator grille in the hall and suddenly remembered that something lay hidden behind the grille, something that seemed to peer down at him now. He moved his eyes quickly away. What a strange meeting on a strange night. He remembered nothing like it save one afternoon a year ago when he had met an old man in the park and they had talked .... Montag shook his head. He looked at a blank wall. The girl's face was there, really quite beautiful in memory: astonishing, in fact. She had a very thin face like the dial of a small clock seen faintly in a dark room in the middle of a night when you waken to see the time and see the clock telling you the hour and the minute and the second, with a white silence and a glowing, all certainty and knowing what it has to tell of the night passing swiftly on toward further darknesses but moving also toward a new sun. "What?" asked Montag of that other self, the subconscious idiot that ran babbling at times, quite independent of will, habit, and conscience. He glanced back at the wall. How like a mirror, too, her face. Impossible; for how many people did you know that refracted your own light to you? People were more often-he searched for a simile, found one in his work-torches, blazing away until they whiffed out. How rarely did other people's faces take of you and throw back to you your own


moment, and then Montag talked about the weather, and then the old man responded with a pale voice. It was a strange quiet meeting. The old man admitted to being a retired English professor who had been thrown out upon the world forty years ago when the last liberal arts college shut for lack of students and patronage. His name was Faber, and when he finally lost his fear of Montag, he talked in a cadenced voice, looking at the sky and the trees and the green park, and when an hour had passed he said something to Montag and Montag sensed it was a rhymeless poem. Then the old man grew even more courageous and said something else and that was a poem, too. Faber held his hand over his left coat-pocket and spoke these words gently, and Montag knew if he reached out, he might pull a book of poetry from the man's coat. But he did not reach out. His. hands stayed on his knees, numbed and useless. "I don't talk things, sir," said Faber. "I talk the meaning of things. I sit here and know I'm alive." That was all there was to it, really. An hour of monologue, a poem, a comment, and then without even acknowledging the fact that Montag was a fireman, Faber with a certain trembling, wrote his address on a slip of paper. "For your file," he said, "in case you decide to be angry with me." "I'm not angry," Montag said, surprised. Mildred shrieked with laughter in the hall. Montag went to his bedroom closet and flipped through his file-wallet to the heading: FUTURE INVESTIGATIONS (?). Faber's name was there. He hadn't turned it in and he hadn't erased it. He dialled the call on a secondary phone. The phone on the far end of the line called Faber's name a dozen times before the professor answered in a faint voice. Montag identified himself and was met with a lengthy silence. "Yes, Mr. Montag?" "Professor Faber, I have a rather odd question to ask. How many copies of the Bible are left in this country?" "I don't know what you're talking about! " "I want to know if there are any copies left at all." "This is some sort of a trap! I can't talk to just anyone on the phone!" "How many copies of Shakespeare and Plato?" "None ! You know as well as I do. None!" Faber hung up. Montag put down the phone. None. A thing he knew of course from the firehouse listings. But somehow he had wanted to hear it from Faber himself. In the hall Mildred's face was suffused with excitement. "Well, the ladies are coming over!" Montag showed her a book. "This is the Old and New Testament, and-" "Don't start that again!" "It might be the last copy in this part of the world." "You've got to hand it back tonight, don't you know? Captain Beatty knows you've got it, doesn't he?" "I don't think he knows which book I stole. But how do


(n) parenthood, source, palliate: (v) mitigate, assuage, sitting room, front room, authorship, origin, beginning, alleviate, mollify, appease, allay, livingroom, room to meet guests, relationship, parentage, genesis, facilitate, relieve; (n, v) extenuate; parlours, parlors, salon, reception provenance, consanguinity, family (adj, v) gloze, smooth room, room relationship pallid: (adj) ghastly, wan, bloodless, parochial: (adj) insular, provincial, pathos: (v) emotion, inspiration, lurid, cadaverous, sickly, ashen, local, limited, finite, conventional, impression, affection; (n) poignancy, white, pasty, livid, watery. petty, narrow-minded, parish, pity, ruth, commiseration, grief, ANTONYMS: (adj) healthy, rosy, topical, confined. ANTONYMS: poignance, sympathy vivid (adj) cosmopolitan, broadminded pathway: (n) lane, road, path, pallor: (n) pallidness, wanness, particulars: (n) specification, data, footpath, course, trail, alley, complexion, achromasia, lividity, nicety, minutiae, terms, highway, way, tract, track lividness, luridness, pale, skin color, consideration, workings, fine points, patriarch: (n) forefather, whiteness, sallowness. ins and outs paterfamilias, father, head, chief, old ANTONYMS: (n) rosiness, parting: (n) adieu, division, leave, man, antediluvian, head of coloration, bloom departure, disunion, goodbye, household, elder, founder, senior. palsied: (adj) paralyzed, disabled, leaving, segregation, dying, rupture; ANTONYM: (n) matriarch motionless, unsteady, weak, (adj) valedictory. ANTONYMS: (n) patriarchal: (adj) family, ancestral, comatose, unconscious; (v) paralyse, joining, meeting, connection, linear, old, preadamite, patriarchic; paralyze, withered Reunion (adv) fatherly panelling: (n) paneling, lining, panel, partridge: (n) grouse, bobwhite, patriarchs: (n) forbears, forefathers dado, pane of glass, wainscot, bobwhite quail, wildfowl, pauper: (n) poor man, mumper, bum, wainscoting, fairing phasianid, quail, game bird, poor person, starveling; (adj) poor, pang: (n) pain, torture, ache, agony, tinamou, ruffed grouse indigent, penniless; (v) bust, fold twinge, affliction, sting, stab, passionately: (adv) fervently, peaches: (n) amphetamine sulfate distress, ailment, cramp vehemently, violently, fiercely, peal: (n) ding, noise, clang, dingdong, panoply: (n) stand of arms, show, eagerly, zealously, fervidly, fierily, blast; (v) chime, knell, toll, echo; parade, clothing, fanfare; (v) protect, enthusiastically, heatedly, stormily. (adj, n) swell; (n, v) bang clothe, defend, guard ANTONYMS: (adv) mildly, pealing: (n) axial motion, roll, coil, papist: (adj, n) Roman, Romanist; apathetically, calmly, halfheartedly, thunder, curl, curlicue, drum roll, (adj) Romish, popish, papistical, impassively, jokingly, gently gyre, paradiddle, cast; (adj) loud papistic, Roman Catholic; (n) passionless: (adj) frigid, indifferent, pearl: (adj, n) jewel; (n) gem, bead, Catholic, papalist emotionless, soulless, spiritless, dewdrop, ivory, bone; (adj) brilliant, papistry: (n) popery dispassionate, impassive, flower, bijou, satin etched, ruby. parable: (n) fable, comparison, tale, apathetical, unimpassioned, calm, ANTONYM: (n) dud proverb, myth, legend, fiction, story; unemotional pearls: (n) beads, jewelry, jewellery (adj, n, v) apologue; (adj) simile, passiveness: (n) inactivity, apathy, pebble: (n) boulder, crystal, flint, metalepsis inertia, indifference, inaction, rock, scree, cobblestone, calculus, paradise: (n) Elysium, bliss, Eden, resignation, submissiveness, crag, granite, pebblestone; (adj) Zion, promised land, Garden of passive, humility, listlessness, quartz Eden, Elysian Fields, ecstasy, torpidity pebbles: (n) shingle, grit, gravel, nirvana, Valhalla, utopia. passport: (n) permit, instrument, stones ANTONYM: (n) misery protection, identification, warrant, peculiarity: (n) idiosyncrasy, paramour: (n) love, courtesan, doxy, safeguard, method, means, license, distinction, particularity, oddness, mistress, lover, beau, sweetheart, device, key eccentricity, distinctiveness, favorite, odalisque; (adj) gallant, pastime: (n) game, avocation, abnormality, characteristic, leman entertainment, recreation, hobby, attribute, difference, individuality. parchment: (n) vellum, sheepskin,


time heard of this thing succeeding but never of its failing before. It did not occur to him that he had tried it several times before, himself, but could never find the hiding-places afterward. He puzzled over the matter some time, and finally decided that some witch had interfered and broken the charm. He thought he would satisfy --------------------------------------------------------- -95- himself on that point; so he searched around till he found a small sandy spot with a little funnel-shaped depression in it. He laid himself down and put his mouth close to this depression and called -- "Doodle-bug, doodle-bug, tell me what I want to know! Doodle-bug, doodle-bug, tell me what I want to know!" The sand began to work, and presently a small black bug appeared for a second and then darted under again in a fright. "He dasn't tell! So it was a witch that done it. I just knowed it." He well knew the futility of trying to contend against witches, so he gave up discouraged. But it occurred to him that he might as well have the marble he had just thrown away, and therefore he went and made a patient search for it. But he could not find it. Now he went back to his treasure-house and carefully placed himself just as he had been standing when he tossed the marble away; then he took another marble from his pocket and tossed it in the same way, saying: "Brother, go find your brother!" He watched where it stopped, and went there and looked. But it must have fallen short or gone too far; so he tried twice more. The last repetition was successful. The two marbles lay within a foot of each other. Just here the blast of a toy tin trumpet came faintly down the green aisles of the forest. Tom --------------------------------------------------------- -96- flung off his jacket and trousers, turned a suspender into a belt, raked away some brush behind the rotten log, disclosing a rude bow and arrow, a lath sword and a tin trumpet, and in a moment had seized these things and bounded away, barelegged, with fluttering shirt. He presently halted under a great elm, blew an answering blast, and then began to tiptoe and look warily out, this way and that. He said cautiously -- to an imaginary company: "Hold, my merry men! Keep hid till I blow." Now appeared Joe Harper, as airily clad and elaborately armed as Tom. Tom called: "Hold! Who comes here into Sherwood Forest without my pass?" "Guy of Guisborne wants no man's pass. Who art thou that -- that -- " "Dares to hold such language," said Tom, prompting -- for they talked "by the book," from memory. "Who art thou that dares to hold such language?" "I, indeed! I am Robin Hood, as thy caitiff carcase soon shall know." "Then art thou indeed that famous outlaw? Right gladly will I dispute with thee the passes of the merry wood. Have at thee!" They took their lath swords, dumped their other traps on the ground, struck


of buttered toast, that I could scarcely see him over it as it simmered on an iron stand hooked on to the top-bar; while Miss Skiffins brewed such a jorum of tea, that the pig in the back premises became strongly excited, and repeatedly expressed his desire to participate in the entertainment. The flag had been struck, and the gun had been fired, at the right moment of time, and I felt as snugly cut off from the rest of Walworth as if the moat were thirty feet wide by as many deep. Nothing disturbed the tranquillity of the Castle, but the occasional tumbling open of John and Miss Skiffins: which little doors were a prey to some spasmodic infirmity that made me sympathetically uncomfortable until I got used to it. I inferred from the methodical nature of Miss Skiffins's arrangements that she made tea there every Sunday night; and I rather suspected that a classic brooch she wore, representing the profile of an undesirable female with a very straight nose and a very new moon, was a piece of portable property that had been given her by Wemmick. We ate the whole of the toast, and drank tea in proportion, and it was delightful to see how warm and greasy we all got after it. The Aged especially, might have passed for some clean old chief of a savage tribe, just oiled. After a short pause for repose, Miss Skiffins - in the absence of the little servant who, it seemed, retired to the bosom of her family on Sunday afternoons - washed up the tea-things, in a trifling lady-like amateur manner that compromised none of us. Then, she put on her gloves again, and we drew round the fire, and Wemmick said, "Now Aged Parent, tip us the paper." Wemmick explained to me while the Aged got his spectacles out, that this was according to custom, and that it gave the old gentleman infinite satisfaction to read the news aloud. "I won't offer an apology," said Wemmick, "for he isn't capable of many pleasures - are you, Aged P.?" "All right, John, all right," returned the old man, seeing himself spoken to. "Only tip him a nod every now and then when he looks off his paper," said Wemmick, "and he'll be as happy as a king. We are all attention, Aged One." "All right, John, all right!" returned the cheerful old man: so busy and so pleased, that it really was quite charming. The Aged's reading reminded me of the classes at Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt's, with the pleasanter peculiarity that it seemed to come through a keyhole. As he wanted the candles close to him, and as he was always on the verge of putting either his head or the newspaper into them, he required as much watching as a powder-mill. But Wemmick was equally untiring and gentle in his vigilance, and the Aged read on, quite unconscious of his many rescues. Whenever he looked at us, we all expressed the greatest interest and amazement, and nodded until he


have an actual conversation with her, or at least say thank you after she ditched her shift at McDonald’s to take me to the hospital. But I am in a foul mood because my left wrist is fractured (like, it’s in a cast! For six to eight weeks! Positive thinking hasn’t helped at all!) and that is not an item on my Steps to Success board. Quite the opposite, in fact. My Steps to Success board, which is pinned up by the side of my bed, has pictures of Katharine Breakspeare, advertising CEO Karen Blackett, and management consultant Dame Vivian Hunt—three of the most influential Black businesswomen in the UK—as well as a life plan that should take me from age seventeen to twenty-one: Maintain flawless school record. Keep up with TikTok (unique extracurricular, will stand out on applications, also someone in admissions might be a genius who understands the joy of a good conspiracy). Finish PERFECT Cambridge application and receive conditional offer. ACE EXAMS AND GET THE GRADES. Charm all Cambridge law staff members with sparkling wit and joie de vivre (also: find YouTube tutorials on sparkling wit and joie de vivre). Secure training position with Sharma & Moncrieff. Sharma & Moncrieff is the second-best corporate law firm in the East Midlands. My dad’s is the first, but that will change when I rise as a giant in the field and Luke Skywalker his arse with the spiked heel of my Louboutin. It’s going to be epic. Boardrooms will crumble. Empires will fall! He’ll— Oh, sorry, back to the point: clearly, a broken wrist is absolutely nowhere in my plan. I should sue Bradley for this because he definitely did it on purpose. I mean, I know I’m a hefty babe, but he’s supposed to be some kind of super sportsman and his biceps are the size of grapefruits. He had me. He did. And then he didn’t. Plus, I landed harder than I would’ve without his oh-so-helpful momentary pawing of my T-shirt because I was too stunned by his audacity to concentrate on falling well. In short, I would be well within my rights to demand blood. Or his firstborn. Or whatever I wanted, really, except his integrity, because he doesn’t have any. Giselle unfolds a never-ending arm and presses her finger between my eyebrows. “Stop scowling, baby. Or the wind will change, and you’ll be stuck like that.” “Good. It would suit my personality.” She rolls onto her back and laughs at the ceiling. My sister is twenty-four—seven years older than me—and when I was a kid, I wanted to be her. Maybe that’s why, even now, whenever she laughs, I do too. We’re still giggling when someone knocks on my door. I wait a second for Mum to breeze in without permission, plonk herself on the bed, and steal my phone to scroll through TikTok. When that doesn’t happen, I frown in confusion and Giselle grins in response. “Oh yeah. Forgot to mention: Bradley’s here.” “What?” It’s supposed to come out frosty and disgusted, but I accidentally squawk


Bone was always a very pragmatic sort of lady. She assessed trades coolly, dispassionately: she weighed them on the scales and picked the most lucrative ones every time. But there was one business she wouldn’t touch. She pictured Danny, the gleam of his curls. Felt her flesh crawling. “Sue’s sick,” she said. The boy frowned. “I was told to fetch her.” “Tell ’em she’s sick, and tell ’em I told you so, and tell ’em I said it was for the best.” She stared at him levelly. “Trust me.” He stared back. Calculating. “Fine,” he said. He didn’t waste time. He turned and ran away, back to whoever had sent him, heels echoing as he went. And he didn’t lock their door. Mrs. Bone closed the door. She leaned against it, hands behind her back, tightly clasped. “Anyone asked for you before?” Better to ask straight out, not to fudge the question. There was a silence. Sue shook her head. And then she spoke, in a voice that sounded hard, snapped off at the edges. “But he told me to get ready,” she said, nodding to the door, meaning the boy. “He said someone might ask for me tonight.” Mrs. Bone made her expression appear unruffled, unbothered. “Stuff and nonsense. What’s anyone going to want with a goose like you?” She went to the bed, fingers shaking, and wrenched down the covers. “You come to me if he speaks to you again.” She snapped her fingers. “Bed, Sue. Get in.” She looked again at the floorboards, the nicks and scratches and marks, and wondered how many girls had been dragging their bed across the floor to bar the door. 11:00 p.m. Alice felt an ache right in the middle of her back. It was radiating outward, all her muscles contracting. She was sitting half-stooped at the worktable, all the lights burning overhead, forcing herself to keep going. This was the hardest, fiddliest, most exhausting part of the job: doing the embroidery all along the bodice and the sleeves and the back. She could have finished it in a heartbeat if she didn’t care about the results, if she thought that hardly anyone would notice it. But she cared too much; she cared enormously. Madam had such excellent powers of observation. She’d see any faults at once. She’d see the best bits, too. “You’ll be handsomely rewarded,” she’d said. That was incentive enough to go on. She heard a footstep, the heavy sweep of the door as it opened. “Alice?” Alice started, dropping the thread. She ran a hasty hand through her hair, trying to smooth herself. She could only imagine how she looked: greasy faced and pinched. “Madam,” she said, pushing back her chair. “No, don’t get up.” Miss de Vries had dressed for compline in plain black satin, buttoned all the way up to the chin, her hair swept up under a coif. She wore a black veil tight to the face, so that the embroidery crawled all over her cheeks. She was holding on tight to her prayer book. She