with baskets trying to catch them, but the elders counselled patience till nightfall. And they were right. The locusts settled in the bushes for the night and their wings became wet with dew. Then all Umuofia turned out in spite of the cold harmattan, and everyone filled his bags and pots with locusts. The next morning they were roasted in clay pots and then spread in the sun until they became dry and brittle. And for many days this rare food was eaten with solid palm-oil. Okonkwo sat in his obi crunching happily with Ikemefuna and Nwoye, and drinking palm-wine copiously, when Ogbuefi Ezeudu came in. Ezeudu was the oldest man in this quarter of Umuofia. He had been a great and fearless warrior in his time, and was now accorded great respect in all the clan. He refused to join in the meal, and asked Okonkwo to have a word with him outside. And so they walked out together, the old man supporting himself with his stick. When they were out of earshot, he said to Okonkwo: "That boy calls you father. Do not bear a hand in his death." Okonkwo was surprised, and was about to say something when the old man continued: "Yes, Umuofia has decided to kill him. The Oracle of the Hills and the Caves has pronounced it. They will take him outside Umuofia as is the custom, and kill him there. But I want you to have nothing to do with it. He calls you his father." The next day a group of elders from all the nine villages of Umuofia came to Okonkwo's house early in the morning, and before they began to speak in low tones Nwoye and Ikemefuna were sent out. They did not stay very long, but when they went away Okonkwo sat still for a very long time supporting his chin in his palms. Later in the day he called Ikemefuna and told him that he was to be taken home the next day. Nwoye overheard it and burst into tears, whereupon his father beat him heavily. As for Ikemefuna, he was at a loss. His own home had gradually become very faint and distant. He still missed his mother and his sister and would be very glad to see them. But somehow he knew he was not going to see them. He remembered once when men had talked in low tones with his father, and it seemed now as if it was happening all over again. Later, Nwoye went to his mother's hut and told her that Ikemefuna was going home. She immediately dropped her pestle with which she was grinding pepper, folded her arms across her breast and sighed, "Poor child." The next day, the men returned with a pot of wine. They were all fully dressed as if they were going to a big clan meeting or to pay a visit to a neighbouring village. They passed their cloths under the right arm-pit, and hung their goatskin bags and sheathed machetes over their left shoulders. Okonkwo got ready


ardently he hoped that when he grew strong and well again, he could do something to show his gratitude; only something, which would let them see the love and duty with which his breast was full; something, however slight, which would prove to them that their gentle kindness had not been cast away; but that the poor boy whom their charity had rescued from misery, or death, was eager to serve them with his whole heart and soul. 'Poor fellow!' said Rose, when Oliver had been one day feebly endeavouring to utter the words of thankfulness that rose to his pale lips; 'you shall have many opportunities of serving us, if you will. We are going into the country, and my aunt intends that you shall accompany us. The quiet place, the pure air, and all the pleasure and beauties of spring, will restore you in a few days. We will employ you in a hundred ways, when you can bear the trouble.' 'The trouble!' cried Oliver. 'Oh! dear lady, if I could but work for you; if I could only give you pleasure by watering your flowers, or watching your birds, or running up and down the whole day long, to make you happy; what would I give to do it!' 'You shall give nothing at all,' said Miss Maylie, smiling; 'for, as I told you before, we shall employ you in a hundred ways; and if you only take half the trouble to please us, that you promise now, you will make me very happy indeed.' 'Happy, ma'am!' cried Oliver; 'how kind of you to say so!' 'You will make me happier than I can tell you,' replied the young lady. 'To think that my dear good aunt should have been the means of rescuing any one from such sad misery as you have described to us, would be an unspeakable pleasure to me; but to know that the object of her goodness and compassion was sincerely grateful and attached, in consequence, would delight me, more than you can well imagine. Do you understand me?' she inquired, watching Oliver's thoughtful face. 'Oh yes, ma'am, yes!' replied Oliver eagerly; 'but I was thinking that I am ungrateful now.' 'To whom?' inquired the young lady. 'To the kind gentleman, and the dear old nurse, who took so much care of me before,' rejoined Oliver. 'If they knew how happy I am, they would be pleased, I am sure.' 'I am sure they would,' rejoined Oliver's benefactress; 'and Mr. Losberne has already been kind enough to promise that when you are well enough to bear the journey, he will carry you to see them.' 'Has he, ma'am?' cried Oliver, his face brightening with pleasure. 'I don't know what I shall do for joy when I see their kind faces once again!' In a short time Oliver was sufficiently recovered to undergo the fatigue of this expedition. One morning he and Mr. Losberne set out, accordingly, in a little carriage which belonged to Mrs. Maylie. When they came to Chertsey Bridge, Oliver turned very


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

of illiberal minds wears out at last the best resolves of the more generous. Though to be sure, when I reflected upon it, it was not strange that people entering my office should be struck by the peculiar aspect of the unaccountable Bartleby, and so be tempted to throw out some sinister observations concerning him. Sometimes an attorney having business with me, and calling at my office and finding no one but the scrivener there, would undertake to obtain some sort of precise information from him touching my whereabouts; but without heeding his idle talk, Bartleby would remain standing immovable in the middle of the room. So after contemplating him in that position for a time, the attorney would depart, no wiser than he came. Also, when a Reference was going on, and the room full of lawyers and witnesses and business was driving fast; some deeply occupied legal gentleman present, seeing Bartleby wholly unemployed, would request him to run round to his (the legal gentleman’s) office and fetch some papers for him. Thereupon, Bartleby would tranquilly decline, and yet remain idle as before. Then the lawyer would give a great stare, and turn to me. And what could I say? At last I was made aware that all through the circle of my professional acquaintance, a whisper of wonder was running round, having reference to the strange creature I kept at my office. This worried me very much. And as the idea came upon me of his possibly turning out a long-lived man, and keep occupying my chambers, and denying my authority; and perplexing my visitors; and scandalizing my professional reputation; and casting a general gloom over the premises; keeping soul and body together to the last upon his savings (for doubtless he spent but half a dime a day), and in the end perhaps outlive me, and claim possession of my office by right of his perpetual occupancy: as all these dark anticipations crowded upon me more and more, and my friends continually intruded their relentless remarks upon the apparition in my room; a great change was wrought in me. I resolved to gather all my faculties together, and for ever rid me of this intolerable incubus. Ere revolving any complicated project, however, adapted to this end, I first simply suggested to Bartleby the propriety of his permanent departure. In a calm and serious tone, I commended the idea to his careful and mature consideration. But having taken three days to meditate upon it, he apprised me that his original determination remained the same in short, that he still preferred to abide with me. What shall I do? I now said to myself, buttoning up my coat to the last button. What shall I do? what ought I to do? what does conscience say I should do with this man, or rather ghost. Rid myself of him, I must; go, he shall. But how? You will not thrust him, the poor, pale, passive mortal,—you will not thrust such a helpless creature out of your door? you will not dishonor yourself


either be hopelessly stupid or a venture- some fool." "If you talk so, I won't tell you any more," she re- turned peevishly, rising to her feet. "I accepted him, Nelly. Be quick, and say whether I was wrong." "You accepted him! Then what good is it discussing the matter? You have pledged your word, and cannot retract." "But say whether I should have done so---do!" she exclaimed in an irritated tone, chafing her hands to- gether and frowning. "There are many things to be considered before that question can be answered properly," I said sen- tentiously. "First and foremost, do you love Mr. Edgar?" "Who can help it? Of course I do," she answered. Then I put her through the following catechism; for a girl of twenty-two it was not injudicious. "Why do you love him, Miss Cathy?" "Nonsense; I do--that's sufficient." "By no means; you must say why." "Well, because he is handsome and pleasant to be with." "Bad!" was my commentary. "And because he is young and cheerful." "Bad still." "And because he loves me." "Indifferent, coming there." "And he will be rich, and I shall like to be the great- est woman of the neighbourhood, and I shall be proud of having such a husband." "Worst of all. And now, say how you love him." "As everybody loves. You're silly, Nelly." "Not at all---answer." "I love the ground under his feet, and the air over his head, and everything he touches, and every word he says. I love all his looks, and all his actions, and him entirely and altogether. There now!" "And why?" "Nay, you are making a jest of it. It is exceedingly ill-natured. It's no jest to me!" said the young lady, scowling and turning her face to the fire. "I'm very far from jesting, Miss Catherine," I replied. "You love Mr. Edgar because he is handsome, and young, and cheerful, and rich, and loves you. The last, however, goes for nothing---you would love him with- out that probably; and with it you wouldn't, unless he possessed the four former attractions." "No; to be sure not. I should only pity him---hate him, perhaps, if he were ugly and a clown." "But there are several other handsome, rich young men in the world---handsomer, possibly, and richer than he is. What should hinder you from loving them?" "If there be any, they are out of my way. I've seen none like Edgar." "You may see some. And he won't always be hand- some and young, and may not always be rich." "He is now; and I have only to do with the present. I wish you would speak rationally." "Well, that settles it. If you have only to do with the present, marry Mr. Linton." "I don't want your permission for that---I shall marry him; and yet you have not told me whether I'm right." "Perfectly right, if people be right to marry only for the present. And now, let us hear what you are unhappy about. Your brother will be pleased; the old lady and gentleman


anyone older than fifteen, yet here we are.” To her surprise, Simon stood and slid his hand into hers. For a moment, she couldn’t concentrate on anything but their fingers pressed together, but then he said, “And where are we going?” She shook off the strange feeling in her stomach and grinned at the man who looked far too nervous for someone who held so much power. All she held was his hand. “Somewhere without papers to scowl at. Come.” Only when they were outside did she realize how intimate the gesture of holding his hand really was. Locked together as they were, her skirts brushed his boots and she could smell the soap he used. Hardly appropriate, even if she had been his sister-in-law or close to it. She attempted to release him—he could hardly want that prolonged contact—but he held fast to her fingers and watched her with an intense look as they walked, as if he were desperate for whatever reprieve she could give him. How long had he been staring at those pages? It didn’t take him long before he realized where she was leading him, and he picked up the pace, practically pulling her along with him in his hurry to get to the place she was starting to suspect was his only sanctuary. Simon’s pond was just as it had been when he brought Lucy there the other day, only the sun hid behind a layer of gray clouds and left the place feeling somewhat melancholy—tainted by the weight he carried on his shoulders. When they reached the nearest shore, he plopped himself down in the grass, pulling Lucy with him, and didn’t even seem to notice how close together they sat. Neither did he seem to realize he still held on to her hand, something she was keenly aware of because her hand fit so well inside his. Lucy hadn’t intended to sit beside a smooth-surfaced pond, shoulder to shoulder with a baron who held her hand without reservation, but she had no inclination to change her situation. After several minutes, Simon finally let out a small sigh, his shoulders dropping with his breath. “I used to come here all the time as a boy,” he said, almost reverently. “Will always thought I was boring because I would just sit here. For hours. He never understood how much I needed to sort through my thoughts without distractions. How much I needed some peace.” “I can imagine your life has little peace in it,” Lucy replied. And here she was, threatening to destroy what little he had. He turned to meet her gaze, and both of them froze. Lucy didn’t know why he’d became so still, but she realized how close their faces were to one another, and the experience was not altogether unpleasant. After a moment that felt like an eternity, his eyes—which were much more golden than Lucy had realized, even without the sun—slid down to their hands clasped between them, and he loosened his grip. But he didn’t let go entirely. Lucy knew


way!’ ‘Yes, and now we’re leaving,’ I said. ‘What time is the next bus back to Dublin?’ ‘You can’t leave now. What’s the matter with you?’ ‘Because it’s just another wild goose chase. It’s not bringing me any closer to the manuscript, is it? People can waste their whole lives chasing shadows and I can’t let myself become one of them.’ I refused to stand there arguing about it. I’d made my decision. I didn’t owe her an explanation. I started walking briskly down the drive, assuming she would follow eventually. ‘Can I help you?’ A middle-aged woman held open the heavy wooden door and addressed us in a tone that left no doubt – the last thing she wanted to do was help. She had short, tight curls and wore a white nurse’s uniform. I didn’t blame her for being miserable, I would be too in a place like this. ‘Yes, I would like to establish if a woman by the name of Opaline Carlisle was a resident here at one point?’ I said, rushing back. ‘Do you have an appointment?’ No greeting, just direct animosity. ‘No, but I—’ ‘You have to make an appointment.’ She was about to close the door when I stuck my boot in the door. ‘Excuse me, what are you doing?’ I didn’t know. I’d seen it done so many times on TV I just did it without thinking of a follow-up plan. I stammered something incoherent. I just wanted to pull my foot back out but I couldn’t seem to move it. ‘We’re from the Department of Health and we’re running a spot-check,’ said Martha. I couldn’t even look at Martha. I knew if I did, I would give the game away. What the hell was she doing? ‘I wasn’t informed about this,’ the woman replied, suspicion narrowing her gaze. ‘It’s a spot-check, that’s the point.’ I didn’t know who this person beside me was. For all I knew she was an undercover spot-checker for the Department of Health, such was her conviction. The woman shifted her weight from one foot to another and she looked even more cross than she was when we’d first arrived. ‘I’ll need to see some identification.’ ‘Mr Field, show her your ID,’ Martha said. Was she talking to me? Where the fuck was I going to get ID? I finally looked across at her, trying to express my what-the-fuckness with my eyes. She widened hers as if to say just bloody do something. So I pulled out my ID card. The one from university. The one that said I was a rare manuscript specialist. ‘Very well, Dr Field’ she said and let us both inside. ‘I hope this won’t take long. We close at four o’clock.’ Doctor Field? That was what she took from my ID? Not that I was a PhD candidate? The place was eerily quiet. Inside, it looked as though the building was slowly deconstructing itself and nobody had bothered to fix it. The walls, painted a sickly green, were peeling and there were damp patches


hallway to a door tucked beneath the sweep of a grand staircase. “We can talk in here,” he said. “No interruptions.” They stepped into a large den equipped with a massive flat screen that took up most of one wall. On the opposite side of the room, French doors framed by floor-to-ceiling windows opened to a private pool area that was surrounded by a rock wall. Palm trees shaded the scattered tables and lounge chairs and a massive waterfall emptied into the pristine waters of the pool. Laroche motioned Bentz and Montoya into the chairs facing the television, which was tuned into a financial news channel. He picked up a remote, muted the volume, and said, “Can I get you anything? Sweet tea, a soda, or something stronger?” He made his way to a built-in bar located between massive bookcases. A fireplace now empty stood on one side of the room, and a desk was pushed into a corner with a view of the private gardens and glistening water. Bentz and Montoya declined the drinks while Laroche poured himself a tumbler of scotch and added two ice cubes. While waving them into the two leather recliners, he sat in an executive desk chair that he rolled from behind his wide desk. After taking a deep swallow, he said, “Tell me. Where and when did this happen?” Then he held up a hand. “And for God’s sake, how did it happen? She told me she was spending the night with her sister in Baton Rouge, they were going to do shopping and spa-ing, manicures, pedicures, facials, and massages, that sort of thing, then have drinks, and she didn’t think she’d want to drive. Told me she’d be home sometime this afternoon. In time for dinner.” He glanced at his watch. Saw that it was nearly four. His eyebrows quirked. “I wasn’t even worried. Dear God . . . is this for real? Can I . . . can I see her?” He seemed more curious than grief-stricken, Bentz thought. Not that he was acting, it just seemed that Hugo Laroche wasn’t all that concerned. As if he’d read Bentz’s thoughts, he said, “This is terrible. Horrible, but—” He took another swallow from his drink and moved the swivel chair back and forth, just slightly. “—I’m not surprised.” “You’re not?” Montoya asked. “She’s a risk taker. Helene always pushed the envelope, if you know what I mean.” “I don’t.” Montoya leaned forward in his seat. “I met her at a strip club. No big deal. My wife and I were having problems, and I started, well . . .” He paused, searching for the right word. “You know, looking for action.” Bentz kept his face neutral. “So I saw Helene dancing and I met her.” He looked away, to a middle distance only he could see. “She called herself Helen then, of course.” “Of course.” “That was before she added, ‘of Joy.’” He shook his head at the thought. “So, anyway, we went out a few times and she wanted to do everything extreme.


this will bring on the moment of death. Gaines asks me if someone will come for them. I guess someone will: either Susan, or more likely a father or a mother or a sister. Maybe just a city officer, if there’s no one else. I ask if Susan has family. I keep tripping over the tense; so does Gaines. It’s making both of us feel like shit. Gaines doesn’t know about family. I’m guessing Susan’s people maybe were not okay with her chosen career, or her decision to live in the city, or maybe they’re just far away and very busy. You’d think they have to know by now that she’s in trouble, but maybe not. Does Susan have any hobbies? Yes. She likes life drawing, museums and eating out. I ask about Harpo and the Marx Brothers, but Abigail doesn’t know. She hates old movies and TV shows. A lot of people do, without knowing why. It doesn’t occur to them to notice that we’re locked to the patterns of life in the moment T7 was developed, as if there can’t be new new things because the old ones aren’t going away. I stare at Susan Green’s room for a little while longer, wondering if I should go through her drawers. I read her bank statements instead. Money in from Victor, money out to Abigail and the grocery store, some expenses. What looks like a regular girls’ night. It speaks to a small life, well-enough lived. Four weeks ago she bought Roddy a tie. I figure it was a dull one, and that he liked it. There’s a sketch book on the night stand: dark blue hard covers, orange elastic holding it closed. Inside, towards the middle, I find a series of sketches of Roddy Tebbit naked as the dawn. Susan Green is working in that mid-brown pencil art students use that makes everything look provisional except dogs. His ribs and shoulders stretch the skin as if he doesn’t eat enough. Yoga and running, I figure, looking at the long muscles, and maybe less Goan-Hungarian takeout food and more granola. Roddy as Rodin’s thinker. Roddy as naked superman. Roddy as Achilles, with a shield and a hooked sword. Roddy’s hands, close up, and the big knuckles on his fingers. I wonder what it must have been like to be Roddy, to have arthritis one week and then look again and find this. And to find love again, with a girl like Susan Green. Maybe he’d have been better company than you’d think. Go figure. I go do the next damn thing. * * * — There’s two dozen cops at Officer Mullen’s place and every one of them is giving me that look. Tania Garcia frowns when she sees me and I can tell she thinks I shouldn’t be there. I think that too. I also think Mullen shouldn’t have shot me and that nice things should be free to nice people and really expensive for assholes, but this is not the day when any of us gets what we want.


matched her dress. Omar says she looks hot. Or no—he says she looks slutty, and she bats her eyes, pouts. Maybe he asks if the makeup was for Robbie. He asks why she needs to look trampy for the play, asks if she’s looking for more boyfriends, because he knows she doesn’t care about him, she’s probably fucking Dartmouth guys, too. Sometimes this is foreplay for them. Sometimes she says, What if I went to a frat party and saw how many guys would screw me? But he’s not in the mood, and he stands over her, still high on whatever he took while he waited for her, and he grabs her throat and maybe he didn’t mean it till this moment. If her face hadn’t seized with terror, he could still play it off as a joke, but it’s too late; she’s seen what’s in him, and the only way he can fix things is to stop her from seeing him and judging him and remembering this. He slams her head against a new CPR poster taped to the cinder-block wall above the couch. She claws him, makes the deep scratch the police will find nine days later behind his right ear, down to his collarbone, the one he’ll say he got from his neighbor’s dog. There was no skin found under her fingernails, but hours in chlorinated water could account for that. He chokes her harder, and when her arms go limp he steps back. No. This couldn’t be it. This was the version we were all handed—this was what he said in his confession (drugs, his office, the couch, the wall, a poster no one ever remembered seeing), but I couldn’t make it work. The movie director who lived in my brain wanted to scrap it, send the actors home for the day. Omar was someone who noticed the stress in your shoulders before you felt it yourself—not someone who bottled up rage till it exploded. So maybe instead—maybe there’s someone else there. Maybe Omar has a violent friend, one whose temper erupts. And Omar decides, later, to take the fall for them both. Maybe Omar has taken tainted drugs, ones that make him hallucinate. I had to leave it at something happens. Because it did. Because there was no other explanation. Because there was no one else in the gym that night. Something very bad happens, and he can’t call for help. She’s breathing still. He has enough medical training to know, even in his haze, what he’s done, and also to know she could still survive this. But if she survives this, he won’t. He checks the hall, carries Thalia over his shoulder the twenty-six feet to the pool. He strips her rag-doll body on the pool deck, wrangles her into a spare suit from the equipment locker. He’s reminded of dressing his little brother, pushes down the thought. Her breaths: ragged but steady. He rolls her into the water, doesn’t notice till she’s in that there’s blood on the pool deck cement. This must mean there’s


of the boys were looking from Jack to Ralph, curiously. "And another thing. You can't have an ordinary hunt because the beast doesn't leave tracks. If it did you'd have seen them. For all we know, the beast may swing through the trees like what's its name." They nodded. "So we've got to think." Piggy took off his damaged glasses and cleaned the remaining lens. "How about us, Ralph?" "You haven't got the conch. Here." "I mean--how about us? Suppose the beast comes when you're all away. I can't see proper, and if I get scared--" Jack broke in, contemptuously. "You're always scared." "I got the conch--" "Conch! Conch!" shouted Jack. "We don't need the conch any more. We know who ought to say things. What good did Simon do speaking, or Bill, or Walter? It's time some people knew they've got to keep quiet and leave deciding things to the rest of us." Ralph could no longer ignore his speech. The blood was hot in his cheeks. "You haven't got the conch," he said. "Sit down." Jack's face went so white that the freckles showed as clear, brown flecks. He licked his lips and remained standing. "This is a hunter's job." The rest of the boys watched intently. Piggy, finding himself uncomfortably embroiled, slid the conch to Ralph's knees and sat down. The silence grew oppressive and Piggy held his breath. "This is more than a hunter's job," said Ralph at last, "because you can't track the beast. And don't you want to be rescued?" He turned to the assembly. "Don't you all want to be rescued?" He looked back at Jack. "I said before, the fire is the main thing. Now the fire must be out--" The old exasperation saved him and gave him the energy to attack. "Hasn't anyone got any sense? We've got to relight that fire. You never thought of that, Jack, did you? Or don't any of you want to be rescued?" Yes, they wanted to be rescued, there was no doubt about that; and with a violent swing to Ralph's side, the crisis passed. Piggy let out his breath with a gasp, reached for it again and failed. He lay against a log, his mouth gaping, blue shadows creeping round his lips. Nobody minded him. "Now think, Jack. Is there anywhere on the island you haven't been?" Unwillingly Jack answered. "There's only--but of course! You remember? The tail-end part, where the rocks are all piled up. I've been near there. The rock makes a sort of bridge. There's only one way up." "And the thing might live there." All the assembly talked at once. "Quite! All right. That's where we'll look. If the beast isn't there we'll go up the mountain and look; and light the fire." "Let's go." "We'll eat first. Then go." Ralph paused. "We'd better take spears." After they had eaten, Ralph and the biguns set out along the beach. They left Piggy propped up on the platform. This day promised, like the others, to be a sunbath under a blue dome.


She carried a candle into her bedroom. She dropped the bags from her back to the floor, where they lay like two heaps on the rug. She stripped, shivering as the bloodstained linen peeled off her skin. A quick shower, Marisol had told her. Because it was the middle of the night, and they must always be ready for the hounds to come. Iris washed by candlelight. It was dark and warm, the steam curling up from the tiles, and she stood in the shower, her eyes closed and her skin burning as she scrubbed. She scrubbed as if she could wash it all away. Her ears still held a faint ring; she wondered if it would ever fade. She knocked something off the soap ledge. The clang made her jump, her heart faltering. She almost cowered, but slowly told herself she was fine. She was in the shower, and it was just a metal tin of Marisol’s lavender shampoo. When Iris was certain she had washed away the dirt and the sweat and the blood, she shut off the valve and dried herself. She didn’t even want to look at her body, the marks on her skin. Bruises and cuts to remind her what she had experienced. She thought of Roman as she drew on her nightgown. He lingered in her mind as she worked the tangles from her damp hair. When would he wake? When should she return to him? “Iris?” Marisol called. “Breakfast!” Breakfast, in the middle of the night. Iris set her comb aside and carried her candle down the stairs, into the kitchen. At the smell of the food, her stomach clenched. She was so hungry, but she wasn’t sure if she would be able to eat. “Here, start with the cocoa,” Attie said, offering a steaming cup to Iris. Iris took it gratefully, sinking into her usual chair. Marisol continued to set down plates on the table. She had made some sort of cheesy hash, full of comforting ingredients, and gradually, Iris was able to begin taking a few bites. The warmth trickled through her; she sighed and felt herself slowly returning to her body. Attie and Marisol sat and ate with her, but they were quiet. And Iris was thankful. She didn’t think she could speak of it yet. Just having them close beside her was all she needed. “Can I help you clean, Marisol?” Attie asked, rising to gather the dishes when they were done. “No, I’ve got this. Why don’t you help Iris to her room?” Marisol said. Iris’s eyes were heavy. Her feet felt like iron as she rose, and Attie took hold of her arm. She hardly remembered ascending the stairs, or Attie opening her door and guiding her inside. “Do you want me to stay with you tonight, Iris?” Iris sank to her pallet on the floor. The blankets were cold. “No, I’m so tired I don’t think sleeping will be an issue. But wake me if a siren sounds.” She hardly remembered falling asleep. Iris woke with a start.


that!" Langdon exhaled and lowered his voice. "I'm fairly certain your grandfather was a member of a secret society. A very old covert brotherhood." Sophie felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She was certain of it too. For ten years she had tried to forget the incident that had confirmed that horrifying fact for her. She had witnessed something unthinkable. Unforgivable. "The fleur-de-lis," Langdon said, "combined with the initials P.S., that is the brotherhood's official device. Their coat of arms. Their logo." "How do you know this?" Sophie was praying Langdon was not going to tell her that he himself was a member. "I've written about this group," he said, his voice tremulous with excitement. "Researching the symbols of secret societies is a specialty of mine. They call themselves the Prieur de Sion-the Priory of Sion. They're based here in France and attract powerful members from all over Europe. In fact, they are one of the oldest surviving secret societies on earth." Sophie had never heard of them. Langdon was talking in rapid bursts now. "The Priory's membership has included some of history's most cultured individuals: men like Botticelli, Sir Isaac Newton, Victor Hugo." He paused, his voice brimming now with academic zeal. "And, Leonardo da Vinci." Sophie stared. "Da Vinci was in a secret society?" "Da Vinci presided over the Priory between 1510 and 1519 as the brotherhood's Grand Master, which might help explain your grandfather's passion for Leonardo's work. The two men share a historical fraternal bond. And it all fits perfectly with their fascination for goddess iconology, paganism, feminine deities, and contempt for the Church. The Priory has a well-documented history of reverence for the sacred feminine." "You're telling me this group is a pagan goddess worship cult?" "More like the pagan goddess worship cult. But more important, they are known as the guardians of an ancient secret. One that made them immeasurably powerful." Despite the total conviction in Langdon's eyes, Sophie's gut reaction was one of stark disbelief. A secret pagan cult? Once headed by Leonardo da Vinci? It all sounded utterly absurd. And yet, even as she dismissed it, she felt her mind reeling back ten years-to the night she had mistakenly surprised her grandfather and witnessed what she still could not accept. Could that explain-? "The identities of living Priory members are kept extremely secret," Langdon said, "but the P.S. and fleur-de-lis that you saw as a child are proof. It could only have been related to the Priory." Sophie realized now that Langdon knew far more about her grandfather than she had previously imagined. This American obviously had volumes to share with her, but this was not the place. "I can't afford to let them catch you, Robert. There's a lot we need to discuss. You need to go!" 77 Langdon heard only the faint murmur of her voice. He wasn't going anywhere. He was lost in another place now. A place where ancient secrets rose to the surface. A place where forgotten histories emerged from the shadows. Slowly, as if moving underwater, Langdon


and whistled. “And you know for a year everybody walks into my office—Secretary of State Pompeo—I could name every one of them. All good people. And I’m looking at ’em saying, ‘I wonder if that could be the one.’ And it turns out to be this lowlife.” The audience laughed. “This is a disgrace to our country. It shouldn’t happen. And he should be prosecuted. Are you listening to me back in Washington? He should be prosecuted!” Grown men leapt to their feet and pumped their fists in the air, as the crowd roared with approval. They weren’t rally-goers. They were worshippers. “Bad things are going to happen to him,” the president concluded. “… It’s like a horrible, treasonous, horrible thing that you can do this and get away with it.” His comments were classic Trump incitement, a not-so-subtle wink-nod to followers that they should make “bad things” happen to his enemy. I’d gotten used to shrugging off his personal attacks and rhetorical excess. This was different. It felt insidious. I agreed to do a CNN interview to explain my decision. The network ran a countdown clock in the corner of the screen, ticking off the minutes until my remote appearance with anchor Chris Cuomo. The hotel room dimmed as the sun went down, and the backdrop was an exposed brick wall and a bed. Unfortunately, the setup reinforced the image of a man who’d been in hiding. When we went on air, Cuomo was firm but fair. He grilled me on why I’d misled Anderson Cooper. I explained my reasoning. “We have seen over the course of four years that Donald Trump’s preference is to use personal attacks and distractions to pull people away from criticisms of his record,” I explained. “I wrote anonymously to deprive him of that opportunity and to force him to answer the questions on their merits.” The president’s reaction to my revelation was proof. He wasn’t engaging me in a debate about the charges I’d made against him. Instead he resorted to petty slurs and wanted his followers to do the same. The TV connection almost failed because the phone I was using to patch into the studio was overwhelmed with calls. MAGA supporters had found my number. With people around America tuned in, I tried to finish the discussion as the signal went in and out. Cuomo gave me the chance—in the waning days before the election—to explain what made Trump’s re-election so dangerous. When I got off the air, my phone was filled with text messages and emails. My voicemail inbox was maxed out, and I made the mistake of listening to several of them before bed. “Miles, we are going to dox you,” a guy with a Boston-like accent said, gloating. “You’re not going to be able to walk down the street! You’re an anti-American. Leave the country. You’re not welcome here anymore.” “What you are doing to President Trump is disgusting. You are disgusting people. You’re evil, and you’re going to go down,” a female caller threatened. “Hi, Miles. I’m calling from


Not sure how, but I know it. And he knows that I know it, because when I step closer, he doesn’t move, doesn’t open his eyes, but he does ask, “Do you need something?” His voice is scratchy, like he did sleep at some point. “No,” I lie. Which, of course, he knows. He knows everything. “Want me to bring you up some water?” “No. I . . .” I’m awake, but not fully. Because I kneel beside the couch, my head just inches from his, and ask, “I . . . Can I tell you something?” His eyes finally open. He looks at me, and my hair is probably a mess, I am surely a mess, but I need to say this. “I don’t . . . What I said about George getting the job because she’s your girlfriend. Or friend. Because of some weird political intrigue—it was unfair of me. Despicable. And I don’t believe it. And I just—it was awful of me to—” “Elsie.” His tone is even and deep. “Hey. It’s okay. You already apologized.” He doesn’t get it. “I know, but of all the things that happened today, it seems like the shittiest. And I cannot control any of this—not my career tanking, not whether I’m going to have health insurance or make rent—but I . . . I can control the way I react. So I’m sorry I said it. About George. And about you. And . . . people do it to me all the time. In the last year of my Ph.D., I got this stupid award. When I walked into the student lounge the following day, other students were saying that it was only because I was a woman, and . . . I felt like total shit, and I really didn’t think they were right, but for a second I wasn’t sure, for a second they made me doubt myself, and I just—I don’t want to be like them. I—” “Hey.” Jack shifts and then does something I don’t fully understand. He — Oh. Somehow, he pulls me up. And somehow, I’m on the couch. Lying on the couch. Next to him. My head nestles under his chin, his arms surround mine, our thighs tangle together. I open my mouth to say something like What the hell? or Oh my God or ?!??, but nothing comes out. Instead, I burrow deeper. “Assholes,” he says. I’m still asleep. This is a dream. A nightmare. A blend. “Who?” “The people who didn’t like you winning the Forbes award.” How does he know that’s the award I was talking about? “You should report them.” “For what?” I ask against his throat. He’s warm and smells nice. Like sleep. Like clean. Like he could easily change my sink, save kittens stuck in a tree, extinguish a fire. “For being dicks?” “Yes. Though HR would call it sexual discrimination and building a hostile work environment.” “It’s not that simple,” I mumble. “It should be.” His chin brushes my hair every time he speaks, and I remember trying


guided him from the bloody room. They emerged into crisp air, fog in their breath. The hark-hark of gulls made Wulf recoil against his will. He blinked hard against the whiteness of the sun, the mist that spread its light, to see an inlet cradled by low and weathered cliffs. Vessels from many shores crossed its waters, from magnificent Hróthi longships and galleys to tiny fishing boats – even an ornate Ersyri cutter, with elegant yellow sails and a curved prow. As if in a dream, he turned his head. Sprawling beneath the milky sky were tens of thousands of wooden dwellings, a drunken horde jostling towards a hillfort. The Iron Mountains towered behind it, and atop stood Bithandun, the Silver Hall, seat of the House of Hraustr. All that time – days, weeks – they had been anchored just off Eldyng. The daylight burned like grit on his eyes. He followed Regny into a rowboat. Vell huddled inside, wrapped in a blanket, drinking from a wineskin. Regny and Karlsten sculled them all to shore, where traders and seafarers milled, unaware of the threat that lurked in their harbour. As the rowboat shunted him closer to the city, Wulf caught strains of Yscali, Mentish and Inysh among the dialects of Hróthi. A woman was fishing in the shallows, trousers rolled up to the knee. Karlsten stopped rowing and climbed out with Regny. Once the boat was shored, they led Wulf and Vell to a horse-drawn cart. Vell kept a tight hold on the wineskin. ‘Get in,’ Regny ordered them, taking the reins from the ostler. ‘You’re both too weak for the climb.’ Wulf knew it was because they looked and smelled appalling. They could hardly ride up to the fortress in this state. In silence, he sat beside Vell. As the cart lumbered through Eldyng, he watched its people go about their lives: carpenters, whalers, blacksmiths, shipwrights, leatherworkers, Hüran merchants selling pelts and horses. For the first time, he noticed how closely all these people lived and worked together. A bairn plunged muddy hands into a washtub. A strong-armed man dashed the sweat from his brow, drew a shirt from the same water, and spread it on a rack to dry. The water trickled on to the ground. A hound lapped at it, then padded across the street, to the flesh stall, and licked a slab of mutton. The butcher chased it off, and the hound loped away. Someone would buy that meat before the day was out. ‘I won’t ask if you’re all right,’ Vell said. He drank again from the wineskin and offered it. Wulf shook his head. ‘What you did was noble,’ he said hoarsely. ‘You honoured the Knight of Courage.’ ‘I didn’t only do it for Eydag.’ Vell stared towards the sea. ‘If your place in Halgalant was forfeit, you needed somebody to join you in the fire.’ Usually, Wulf would have smiled. Instead, he watched the innocent people of the city, and his insides swashed. None of these people knew his sins. For murder, the price was


cover. “Mushrooms? Again?” Cleo’s lips thin. “They’re fascinating.” “What about you, Sab?” I cut in. “Did you find anything?” “Oh my god, yeah,” she says. “This book is a fictional take on the Donner Party.” “How . . . nice,” I say. She cackles, grabs the book out of my hand. I didn’t realize I was holding one—I must’ve yanked it out when she surprised us. “Harry,” she says, reading the back of it. “This book is every bit as fucked as mine.” “I guarantee it’s not,” I say. “An interior designer finds a hand behind a wall,” she says. “Yes, but it’s cozy.” I take the book back. “How is that cozy,” she asks. “It’s a cozy mystery,” I say. “It’s hard to explain.” “Oh-kay.” Her voice wrenches up into a wordless yip of surprise as Kimmy appears at her shoulder. Beside me, Cleo grabs for the edge of the bookshelf, as if for support. “Why is everyone so jumpy?” Kim asks. “Sabrina’s reading about the Donners again,” Cleo says. “It’s fiction,” Sabrina says. Cleo asks, “Where are Parth and Wyn? Are they finished?” Kimmy shrugs. “I passed Parth by the fancy books.” “What are the fancy books?” I ask. “She means he’s looking for something the New York Times has described as ‘revelatory,’ ” Sabrina says. “Actually . . .” Parth walks up with a paper bag already in hand. “I picked this because the Wall Street Journal gave it such a cranky review I needed to read it myself. It’s by this married couple who usually publish separately. One of them writes literary doorstop novels and the other writes romance.” “What!” Kimmy snatches the book. “I know them!” “Seriously?” Parth asks. “I went to college with them in Michigan,” she says. “They weren’t together yet, though. Her books are really horny. Is this one horny?” “The Wall Street Journal review didn’t touch on the horniness,” Parth says. “Is Wyn done?” Sabrina asks. “Checking out now,” Parth confirms “What’d he get, a Steinbeck novel?” she asks. Parth shrugs. “Dunno.” There’s no way Wyn’s getting a Steinbeck novel. I’m surprised he’s buying a book, period, since we never have time to read on these trips and he’s cautious with his spending. But if he was going to get a book, it wouldn’t be about the American West. He would’ve felt like too much of a caricature. Parth and Sabrina herd us toward the register. Cleo gets her mushroom book and I buy Death by Design, and then we step out onto the cobbled street. The sun is high in the sky, no trace of mist left, only dazzling blue. Across the street, Kimmy spots a flower cart in front of the florist and, with a squeal of delight, pulls Cleo after her. “Parth and I are gonna grab more coffee.” Sabrina tilts her head toward the Warm Cup, the café next door with the awning-sheltered walk-up window. We’ve already been twice today. Once before the market, once after. “Want anything?” she asks. “I’m good, thanks,” I tell her. “Wyn?” He shakes


was not familiar with the brand name, but he was glad to hear the prophylactic manufacturers had gotten their hieroglyphs right. "Well done. Amon is indeed represented as a man with a ram's head, and his promiscuity and curved horns are related to our modern sexual slang 'horny.' "No shit!" "No shit," Langdon said. "And do you know who Amon's counterpart was? The Egyptian goddess of fertility?" The question met with several seconds of silence. "It was Isis," Langdon told them, grabbing a grease pen. "So we have the male god, Amon." He wrote it down. "And the female goddess, Isis, whose ancient pictogram was once called L'ISA." Langdon finished writing and stepped back from the projector. 82 AMON L'ISA "Ring any bells?" he asked. "Mona Lisa... holy crap," somebody gasped. Langdon nodded. "Gentlemen, not only does the face of Mona Lisa look androgynous, but her name is an anagram of the divine union of male and female. And that, my friends, is Da Vinci's little secret, and the reason for Mona Lisa's knowing smile." "My grandfather was here," Sophie said, dropping suddenly to her knees, now only ten feet from the Mona Lisa. She pointed the black light tentatively to a spot on the parquet floor. At first Langdon saw nothing. Then, as he knelt beside her, he saw a tiny droplet of dried liquid that was luminescing. Ink? Suddenly he recalled what black lights were actually used for. Blood. His senses tingled. Sophie was right. Jacques Saunire had indeed paid a visit to the Mona Lisa before he died. "He wouldn't have come here without a reason," Sophie whispered, standing up. "I know he left a message for me here." Quickly striding the final few steps to the Mona Lisa, she illuminated the floor directly in front of the painting. She waved the light back and forth across the bare parquet. "There's nothing here!" At that moment, Langdon saw a faint purple glimmer on the protective glass before the Mona Lisa. Reaching down, he took Sophie's wrist and slowly moved the light up to the painting itself. They both froze. On the glass, six words glowed in purple, scrawled directly across the Mona Lisa's face. 83 CHAPTER 27 Seated at Saunire's desk, Lieutenant Collet pressed the phone to his ear in disbelief. Did I hear Fache correctly? "A bar of soap? But how could Langdon have known about the GPS dot?" "Sophie Neveu," Fache replied. "She told him." "What! Why?" "Damned good question, but I just heard a recording that confirms she tipped him off." Collet was speechless. What was Neveu thinking? Fache had proof that Sophie had interfered with a DCPJ sting operation? Sophie Neveu was not only going to be fired, she was also going to jail. "But, Captain... then where is Langdon now?" "Have any fire alarms gone off there?" "No, sir." "And no one has come out under the Grand Gallery gate?" "No. We've got a Louvre security officer on the gate. Just as you requested." "Okay, Langdon must still be inside the Grand Gallery." "Inside?


something. It was easier to keep quiet.” “I understand,” I said, because I did. I understood the weight of a secret, and the urge to bury yourself beneath it. I knelt down in front of him. I touched his face lightly, fingertips brushing over his stubble, and his eyes closed briefly, a sigh slipping out of him. “I’ve been over that night a million times. I know that if I’d done something different, she might still be here. But none of it was done with intent. I was defending myself, and things just got out of control. She basically did it to herself. You can understand, though, how bad it would be if this came out. I can’t prove that I didn’t mean to hurt her. I could lose everything. Gabriella, the kids—they can’t know about this.” He looked at me desperately. I nodded. “Jessi’s death was an accident.” “Yes,” he said, as if relieved I understood. “But Liv’s wasn’t,” I said, ragged as a scream but so soft I could barely hear my own voice over the hiss of the rain. He pulled his hands from mine. He stepped back, his face settling into a hard kind of sorrow. His hand went to his back, lifting up the edge of his jacket. The jacket he’d never offered to me, as I shivered in the rain. He took the gun from his waistband. It looked like the one Mitch bought me. Nine-millimeter, I thought. Close enough to the Barneses’ gun that you couldn’t tell the difference just from the wounds they left. And they’d never recovered the bullet. My fear was cold and still, the surface of a lake in winter. I could sink forever under it, all sound and sense distant. Shudders racked my body, and I couldn’t look anywhere but the perfectly round, perfectly black barrel of the gun. I tried to take a breath. All that came was a short, shallow gasp. “It wasn’t me,” Cody said. “Stahl’s son—he must have found out that you lied.” “It wasn’t Ethan. He wanted his father in prison,” I said. “And how exactly do you know he found out we lied? Who told you that? It was Liv. Wasn’t it?” Cody looked down at the gun like he wasn’t sure what it was. “You think you know what happened, but you don’t,” he said. “You didn’t mean for it to happen.” Echoing again and again and again. Because nothing was our faults; the universe conspired against us, weaving tight the threads of fate. I’d known the names of the Fates once: Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos. How could I remember that, when I’d forgotten so much? “I only wanted to talk to her,” he said hoarsely. “But she wouldn’t listen to me. She wouldn’t—she attacked me. I was only defending myself.” “Unarmed? Half your size?” “She would have destroyed my whole life,” he said, voice strangled. “I was just trying to find a way out. That’s all I’ve been doing, all along.” “Was it you in the woods?” I asked him. “I thought you


and Emma engaging to give assurance of her safety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people in the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the grateful blessings that she could utter for her friend and herself. Such an adventure as this,--a fine young man and a lovely young woman thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at least. Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a mathematician have seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance together, and heard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances had been at work to make them peculiarly interesting to each other?--How much more must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with speculation and foresight!--especially with such a groundwork of anticipation as her mind had already made. It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever occurred before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no rencontre, no alarm of the kind;--and now it had happened to the very person, and at the very hour, when the other very person was chancing to pass by to rescue her!--It certainly was very extraordinary!--And knowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind of each at this period, it struck her the more. He was wishing to get the better of his attachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr. Elton. It seemed as if every thing united to promise the most interesting consequences. It was not possible that the occurrence should not be strongly recommending each to the other. In the few minutes' conversation which she had yet had with him, while Harriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror, her naivete, her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a sensibility amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet's own account had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the abominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing was to take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted. She would not stir a step, nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of interference. There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive scheme. It was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would on no account proceed. Emma's first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of what had passed,--aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but she soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half an hour it was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those who talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and servants in the place were soon in the happiness of frightful news. The last night's ball seemed lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he sat, and, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without their promising never


lost his mind. He began pouring out our secrets right and left in total disregard for my safety if not for his own, omitting nothing, knot-hole, pants and all. "...Mr. Nathan put cement in that tree, Atticus, an' he did it to stop us findin' things- he's crazy, I reckon, like they say, but Atticus, I swear to God he ain't ever harmed us, he ain't ever hurt us, he coulda cut my throat from ear to ear that night but he tried to mend my pants instead... he ain't ever hurt us, Atticus-" Atticus said, "Whoa, son," so gently that I was greatly heartened. It was obvious that he had not followed a word Jem said, for all Atticus said was, "You're right. We'd better keep this and the blanket to ourselves. Someday, maybe, Scout can thank him for covering her up." "Thank who?" I asked. "Boo Radley. You were so busy looking at the fire you didn't know it when he put the blanket around you." My stomach turned to water and I nearly threw up when Jem held out the blanket and crept toward me. "He sneaked out of the house- turn 'round- sneaked up, an' went like this!" Atticus said dryly, "Do not let this inspire you to further glory, Jeremy." Jem scowled, "I ain't gonna do anything to him," but I watched the spark of fresh adventure leave his eyes. "Just think, Scout," he said, "if you'd just turned around, you'da seen him." Calpurnia woke us at noon. Atticus had said we need not go to school that day, we'd learn nothing after no sleep. Calpurnia said for us to try and clean up the front yard. Miss Maudie's sunhat was suspended in a thin layer of ice, like a fly in amber, and we had to dig under the dirt for her hedge-clippers. We found her in her back yard, gazing at her frozen charred azaleas. "We're bringing back your things, Miss Maudie," said Jem. "We're awful sorry." Miss Maudie looked around, and the shadow of her old grin crossed her face. "Always wanted a smaller house, Jem Finch. Gives me more yard. Just think, I'll have more room for my azaleas now!" "You ain't grievin', Miss Maudie?" I asked, surprised. Atticus said her house was nearly all she had. "Grieving, child? Why, I hated that old cow barn. Thought of settin' fire to it a hundred times myself, except they'd lock me up." "But-" "Don't you worry about me, Jean Louise Finch. There are ways of doing things you don't know about. Why, I'll build me a little house and take me a couple of roomers and- gracious, I'll have the finest yard in Alabama. Those Bellingraths'll look plain puny when I get started!" Jem and I looked at each other. "How'd it catch, Miss Maudie?" he asked. "I don't know, Jem. Probably the flue in the kitchen. I kept a fire in there last night for my potted plants. Hear you had some unexpected company last night, Miss Jean Louise." "How'd you know?" "Atticus


“Could you call?” Maud said. Lydia’s expression hitched. She understood what Maud was asking. “Could you make sure he’s there?” Maud added. “He texted me when he arrived. He is.” Lydia came down hard on the last word. She pulled her robe tighter. She had a long crease down her cheek left by a pillow. “I need you to call your daughter and make sure he’s there,” Maud said. “Now, please.” She couldn’t worry about what she was doing. All that mattered was finding Ella. Lydia’s lips folded. “I’ll get my phone,” she said and went inside. From the porch, Maud listened to her apologize to her daughter for waking her up and ask her to check on Chris. “The people across the way can’t find their daughter,” she said. “Okay. Thanks, babes. Yes, everything’s all right.” She came back to the door. “Asleep in bed,” she said. “Alone.” “Thank you.” Maud backed off the porch. “Good luck finding her,” Lydia said, as she shut the door. At the farmhouse, the officer had no reports of Ella. She wasn’t on the streets of Red Hook or Tivoli. “And the emergency rooms are clear. That’s good.” Maud hadn’t thought of emergency rooms. She gulped down a breath. “They’re going to check her camp,” the officer said. “It’s been four hours. Or more.” A man in a truck. A door opening for Ella. Rope and a blindfold. Peter put his arm around her shoulders. “They’ll find her,” he said. She clung to his arm. “Can you calm Louise down?” she said. “I can’t.” He went to Louise, who was circling a tree, sniffling and talking to herself. The officer stepped away and murmured into his walkie-talkie. Above the orchard, the first layer of night had peeled off the sky. An engine slowed on the road, and Maud saw Gabriel’s truck pull through the gates. “I ate dinner and turned around,” he said when Maud ran over. “I felt like I was abandoning you.” He glanced at Peter and the police officer. “What’s going on?” Maud swallowed a sob. “You didn’t see my text?” “I’ve been driving.” “Ella’s missing. We’ve looked everywhere.” “Did you check the grounds?” “Everywhere.” “Have you looked at my place?” “She can’t get in.” “She knows where to find the key.” Without measuring his words, she took off toward the cottage. The door was unlocked. The table was cluttered with crystals and flint. A low hum of a refrigerator came from the kitchen. And there, on a sagging couch in the living room, Ella slept with her backpack under her head. Maud knelt on the floor and grabbed her into a hug. “Wake up, honey.” The lights went on, then Peter was beside her with Louise. Ella’s eyes opened. “What’s happening?” she said fuzzily. “You were asleep. What are you doing here?” Maud said. Ella’s brow crumpled. “I started to walk down the road, but it was so dark”—her voice quaked—“I got scared. I was gonna wait here until morning since he was gone.” She looked over Maud’s shoulder. “Why are


they die off, and the widows is pensioned directly, with twenty pound a-year for each of the children, and a premium of fifty for twins. One penny a square! Two half-pence is all the same, and four farthings is received with joy. One penny a square! Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains, mud-stains, blood-stains! Here is a stain upon the hat of a gentleman in company, that I'll take clean out, before he can order me a pint of ale.' 'Hah!' cried Sikes starting up. 'Give that back.' 'I'll take it clean out, sir,' replied the man, winking to the company, 'before you can come across the room to get it. Gentlemen all, observe the dark stain upon this gentleman's hat, no wider than a shilling, but thicker than a half-crown. Whether it is a wine-stain, fruit-stain, beer-stain, water-stain, paint-stain, pitch-stain, mud-stain, or blood-stain--' The man got no further, for Sikes with a hideous imprecation overthrew the table, and tearing the hat from him, burst out of the house. With the same perversity of feeling and irresolution that had fastened upon him, despite himself, all day, the murderer, finding that he was not followed, and that they most probably considered him some drunken sullen fellow, turned back up the town, and getting out of the glare of the lamps of a stage-coach that was standing in the street, was walking past, when he recognised the mail from London, and saw that it was standing at the little post-office. He almost knew what was to come; but he crossed over, and listened. The guard was standing at the door, waiting for the letter-bag. A man, dressed like a game-keeper, came up at the moment, and he handed him a basket which lay ready on the pavement. 'That's for your people,' said the guard. 'Now, look alive in there, will you. Damn that 'ere bag, it warn't ready night afore last; this won't do, you know!' 'Anything new up in town, Ben?' asked the game-keeper, drawing back to the window-shutters, the better to admire the horses. 'No, nothing that I knows on,' replied the man, pulling on his gloves. 'Corn's up a little. I heerd talk of a murder, too, down Spitalfields way, but I don't reckon much upon it.' 'Oh, that's quite true,' said a gentleman inside, who was looking out of the window. 'And a dreadful murder it was.' 'Was it, sir?' rejoined the guard, touching his hat. 'Man or woman, pray, sir?' 'A woman,' replied the gentleman. 'It is supposed--' 'Now, Ben,' replied the coachman impatiently. 'Damn that 'ere bag,' said the guard; 'are you gone to sleep in there?' 'Coming!' cried the office keeper, running out. 'Coming,' growled the guard. 'Ah, and so's the young 'ooman of property that's going to take a fancy to me, but I don't know when. Here, give hold. All ri--ight!' The horn sounded a few cheerful notes, and the coach was gone. Sikes remained standing in the street, apparently unmoved by what he had just heard, and agitated by no stronger feeling than a


I suppose?' 'Certainly,' rejoined Mr. Blathers. 'We had better inspect the premises first, and examine the servants afterwards. That's the usual way of doing business.' Lights were then procured; and Messrs. Blathers and Duff, attended by the native constable, Brittles, Giles, and everybody else in short, went into the little room at the end of the passage and looked out at the window; and afterwards went round by way of the lawn, and looked in at the window; and after that, had a candle handed out to inspect the shutter with; and after that, a lantern to trace the footsteps with; and after that, a pitchfork to poke the bushes with. This done, amidst the breathless interest of all beholders, they came in again; and Mr. Giles and Brittles were put through a melodramatic representation of their share in the previous night's adventures: which they performed some six times over: contradiction each other, in not more than one important respect, the first time, and in not more than a dozen the last. This consummation being arrived at, Blathers and Duff cleared the room, and held a long council together, compared with which, for secrecy and solemnity, a consultation of great doctors on the knottiest point in medicine, would be mere child's play. Meanwhile, the doctor walked up and down the next room in a very uneasy state; and Mrs. Maylie and Rose looked on, with anxious faces. 'Upon my word,' he said, making a halt, after a great number of very rapid turns, 'I hardly know what to do.' 'Surely,' said Rose, 'the poor child's story, faithfully repeated to these men, will be sufficient to exonerate him.' 'I doubt it, my dear young lady,' said the doctor, shaking his head. 'I don't think it would exonerate him, either with them, or with legal functionaries of a higher grade. What is he, after all, they would say? A runaway. Judged by mere worldly considerations and probabilities, his story is a very doubtful one.' 'You believe it, surely?' interrupted Rose. '_I_ believe it, strange as it is; and perhaps I may be an old fool for doing so,' rejoined the doctor; 'but I don't think it is exactly the tale for a practical police-officer, nevertheless.' 'Why not?' demanded Rose. 'Because, my pretty cross-examiner,' replied the doctor: 'because, viewed with their eyes, there are many ugly points about it; he can only prove the parts that look ill, and none of those that look well. Confound the fellows, they WILL have the way and the wherefore, and will take nothing for granted. On his own showing, you see, he has been the companion of thieves for some time past; he has been carried to a police-officer, on a charge of picking a gentleman's pocket; he has been taken away, forcibly, from that gentleman's house, to a place which he cannot describe or point out, and of the situation of which he has not the remotest idea. He is brought down to Chertsey, by men who seem to have taken a violent fancy to him, whether


ago." "But how could it have been done?" said Mary. He was examining a branch of a standard rose and he shook his head. "Aye! how could it!" he murmured. "With th' door locked an' th' key buried." Mistress Mary always felt that however many years she lived she should never forget that first morning when her garden began to grow. Of course, it did seem to begin to grow for her that morning. When Dickon began to clear places to plant seeds, she remembered what Basil had sung at her when he wanted to tease her. "Are there any flowers that look like bells?" she inquired. "Lilies o' th' valley does," he answered, digging away with the trowel, "an' there's Canterbury bells, an' campanulas." "Let's plant some," said Mary. "There's lilies o' th, valley here already; I saw 'em. They'll have growed too close an' we'll have to separate 'em, but there's plenty. Th' other ones takes two years to bloom from seed, but I can bring you some bits o' plants from our cottage garden. Why does tha' want 'em?" Then Mary told him about Basil and his brothers and sisters in India and of how she had hated them and of their calling her "Mistress Mary Quite Contrary." "They used to dance round and sing at me. They sang-- `Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With silver bells, and cockle shells, And marigolds all in a row.' I just remembered it and it made me wonder if there were really flowers like silver bells." She frowned a little and gave her trowel a rather spiteful dig into the earth. "I wasn't as contrary as they were." But Dickon laughed. "Eh!" he said, and as he crumbled the rich black soil she saw he was sniffing up the scent of it. "There doesn't seem to be no need for no one to be contrary when there's flowers an' such like, an' such lots o' friendly wild things runnin' about makin' homes for themselves, or buildin' nests an' singin' an' whistlin', does there?" Mary, kneeling by him holding the seeds, looked at him and stopped frowning. "Dickon," she said, "you are as nice as Martha said you were. I like you, and you make the fifth person. I never thought I should like five people." Dickon sat up on his heels as Martha did when she was polishing the grate. He did look funny and delightful, Mary thought, with his round blue eyes and red cheeks and happy looking turned-up nose. "Only five folk as tha' likes?" he said. "Who is th' other four?" "Your mother and Martha," Mary checked them off on her fingers, "and the robin and Ben Weatherstaff." Dickon laughed so that he was obliged to stifle the sound by putting his arm over his mouth. "I know tha' thinks I'm a queer lad," he said, "but I think tha' art th' queerest little lass I ever saw." Then Mary did a strange thing. She leaned forward and asked him a question she had never


in this strange, yawning terrain our loved ones have left behind, exploring its jagged boundaries and learning to see it as something new. I believe this because I feel that I am becoming someone new—someone who can remember, and mourn, and live without punishing herself. My mother loved her life enough to fight for every last moment, clinging to it with all her formidable will. Just as fiercely as she wanted to live, I know that she wanted me to have this life with my family, one that was always going to go on without her, and to treasure it if I can. Not because it is without fear or pain, loneliness or loss, but because it is mine. It is a revelation to discover that I can be grateful, even glad for it, though I will never stop missing her. I know that she would consider this further proof of God’s grace. I can only think of it as a gift from her. 29 On the last day I get to spend with my mother, I don’t know that it’s the last day. I don’t know that a virus is already spreading through the world, one that will upend our lives and rob us of what would have been our final visit. As her friends leave, taking paperwork to be notarized and lists of tasks to complete, I only know that I am lonely, afraid that my dying mother is angry with me. There is a part of me that remains a child, her child, searching for consolation I cannot find. I’ll be spared the shock I experienced when Dad died, but this knowing is another kind of anguish—it is impossible to find comfort in the warning, the ability to see fresh grief bearing down on me. Later, her priest arrives to pray with her and give her Communion, and I leave the two of them and go sit with my daughter in the spare room. I check my messages, text my husband to check in. I think about how Mom and I are having the unbearably hard but necessary conversations—about end-of-life decisions, about her will, about treatment and hospice care—that we never got to have with Dad when he was alive. Maybe this is something to be grateful for, as wrenching as it is for both of us. I am not my father, I’m not her partner or her confidant, but I have had to grow into a new role as her daughter. I tell myself that we are both doing the best we can. When the priest is ready to leave, I walk him out, mostly so I can ask him the question I have been turning over in my mind ever since my father’s funeral. “You said that Dad knew he was dying,” I say to him, shivering without a coat under my mother’s carport. “You said he’d made his peace with it. How can you be so sure?” “Your father and I talked, often, in his final months,” he says. “He didn’t want to die, to leave


the colonies, so that it was not unnatural that when they came to settle down they should do so as near each other as possible. Turner was apparently the richer man, so McCarthy became his tenant but still remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect equality, as they were frequently together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen, and Turner had an only daughter of the same age, but neither of them had wives living. They appear to have avoided the society of the neighboring English families and to have led retired lives, though both the McCarthys were fond of sport and were frequently seen at the race-meetings of the neighborhood. McCarthy kept two servants--a man and a girl. Turner had a considerable household, some half-dozen at the least. That is as much as I have been able to gather about the families. Now for the facts. "On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at Hatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down to the Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out of the stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been out with his serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told the man that he must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance to keep at three. From that appointment he never came back alive. "From Hatherley Farm-house to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was an old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was William Crowder, a game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both these witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The game-keeper adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr. McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going the same way with a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the father was actually in sight at the time, and the son was following him. He thought no more of the matter until he heard in the evening of the tragedy that had occurred. "The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder, the game-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the edge. A girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of the lodge-keeper of the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the woods picking flowers. She states that while she was there she saw, at the border of the wood and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using very strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up his hand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by their violence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached home that she had left


told me if I ever spoke to you like that again, he’d break my nose. It’s kind of the reason I like the dude.” “Really?” She laughed. But her throat was suddenly so tight, the word emerged a little choked. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t know that.” “Yeah.” Her future husband watched her closely. Like he could see everything going on in her head and it fascinated him. Probably squirreling information away for later so he could pull it out and use it during their next argument, which, at best, would likely take place in the next five minutes. “He cares about you, Natalie. Your mom cares about you, too. But it’s like you’re all trying to keep your love a secret. Why is that?” “I don’t know,” she said, half defensive, half . . . honest. She didn’t know. “Did your family go around making big professions of love all the time?” “Not exactly. Not all the time. But it was said. In birthday cards. Or when my mother had too much to drink on New Year’s and got sappy and started sharing memories.” He accepted his beer from the waitress and took a long gulp, staring at an invisible spot over her shoulder. “But I think my parents put more importance on telling me they were proud of me. I worked a summer job so I could afford a beat-up Honda Accord. When I signed the paperwork, my parents said they were proud of me. When I joined the navy, they were proud. Looking back, I think maybe that was more their way of saying ‘I love you’ than the actual words.” It unnerved Natalie how much she wanted him to continue talking about his family. But wanting to know the background of the person she was fake marrying was healthy and normal, right? “Which is more important to you? Love or pride?” He studied her face. “You answer first.” Was it crazy to be having this deep conversation in the middle of a loud bar? Probably. For some reason it didn’t feel strange, though. There were no formalities with this man. Just jumping in with both feet and being pulled along in the current. “I guess . . . pride is more important to me. Pride is something that can be kept. Love is too often squandered when you give it away. People might be careless with your love, but they can’t touch your pride. Or put it on their shelf like a trophy. It’s yours.” Something about his demeanor changed. Sort of a swelling of his shoulders and lifting of his chest, as if he was preparing for a fight. On her behalf? “Your ex was careless with you.” Not a question, a statement. Flustered by her willingness to share so recklessly with this man, she reached for her drink and stared into its depths. She took a sip, cooling her throat, feeling his rapt attention on her the whole time. “Your turn. Love or pride?” “Love,” he answered without hesitation. Why did something inside her


man is allowed to be a judge in his own cause, because his interest would certainly bias his judgment, and, not improbably, corrupt his integrity. —JAMES MADISON, FEDERALIST NO. 10, 1787 PART I November 28, 2017 Relief hit me in a warm wave of goose bumps. As I drove away from DHS headquarters, I imagined the metal filing cabinet where we stored classified documents, and I pictured all of my internal stressors as specifically as I could. It was the start of a familiar exercise. One by one, I would drop the nagging anxieties into a file drawer before sliding it shut and spinning the combination dial. The ritual usually felt ridiculous. On that day, I told myself it was working. My calendar listed the time as “HOLD—Offsite Meeting.” No matter what assurance the HR people offered, mental health issues were still taboo for people with security clearances, so I kept the problems to myself and kept the doctor’s appointments confidential. Without any obvious trigger, I was having near-fainting spells in meetings and large gatherings. My pulse would thump in my ears. My fingertips would get sweaty. My peripheral vision would darken until I excused myself to a restroom, waiting for the feeling to pass. I told my doctor, and he referred me to a therapist whom I’ll call Courtney. Courtney’s “containment” exercise was really just a visualization technique, and I’d actually been using it for years for other purposes. In school or at the office, I retained reams of information by forming vivid mental pictures and placing them in a familiar place, like the house I grew up in or an old workplace. The memory trick had helped me win Indiana debate championships on no sleep and pass multihour exams at Oxford after months of procrastination. Now I was using the technique to forget. As I drove to Courtney’s Georgetown office on that crisp November afternoon, I let my worries sprout into detailed mental images, then fall into the metal office drawer like leaves: a tiny skyscraper of unopened bills; Anabel, sleeping alone; a sprained wrist, bruised purple (it was actually broken); a family member floating facedown in a hot tub; a man with a gun, crouched in a hotel window; a crumpled white pickup truck spattered with blood; and a projectile that landed in the filing cabinet, erupted into a fireball, and vaporized everything inside. I felt a brief sense of release. Wisps of smoke faded from the filing cabinet’s mangled frame. I held on to the feeling during the drive and in the parking garage. Through the sterile lobby and up the elevator, I tried to hold tighter to the sense of calm. It was gone by the time I walked into the office, which was dressed up as a cozy living room. The decor didn’t fool me. The cheap mauve carpet exposed the room’s real purpose: it was a medical office like any other. “Containment is working.” Courtney studied me through translucent purple frames. “I really do think containment is working,” I shared with her from the couch,


few she’d kept after her first marriage had dissolved, so they kept in touch, usually meeting on the last Thursday of the month for dinner and drinks and just to catch up. Tonight had been no different. “I really need to run,” Sam said, finishing the last of her wine, taking out her phone and texting her husband to tell him she was on her way. “I hate to cut this short, but Ty’s with the boys and he’s got an early flight in the morning, so I’d better get home and take over so he can get a few hours’ sleep. He’s going to meet us at Disney in a couple of days.” “Vacation?” Caroline asked. “Yeah.” It was just a little lie. They’d tried to leave earlier, but their work schedules and flights had held them up longer than planned. “A bit of R and R. We’d hoped to go earlier but work and life got in the way.” Caroline was nodding, streaked hair shimmering under the low lights. “Oh, don’t I know. I’ve got to go, too. I’ve got an early meeting in the morning and Lars gets a little antsy if I’m like two minutes late.” She rolled her expressive eyes—big and blue, the lids shaded a smoky gray. Lars was the most recent of a string of boyfriends, all of whom had been on the possessive side, at least as far as Samantha was concerned. Caroline had been married for ten years, divorced her husband for cheating, and then had taken up with a series of boyfriends looking for “Mr. Right” or “Mr. Okay,” who, in Sam’s estimation, were no better than her husband had been. In fact, some had been worse. Caroline’s phone buzzed and she checked it. “Oh, Geez. Guess who’s asking where I am?” She smiled coyly, as if his overt possessiveness was cute. Sam had already told her what she’d thought about a man checking up on his woman, and it hadn’t gone over too well, so she held her tongue. “I’d better hustle.” Caroline opened her wallet and reached for her credit card when her phone buzzed again. “Oops.” She shoved her card back into its slot, pulled out a couple of bills, and put them on the table. “You mind settling up?” she asked, slipping her arms through her jacket, standing, and bending to give Sam a quick hug and kiss on the cheek. “No problem.” “You’re the best! Okay, good, ciao!” Samantha was already fishing in her purse while Caroline, in heels and a short skirt, wended her way agilely through the tables, sidestepping patrons and waiters and hurrying through the door. At that moment, someone fell against the back of her chair, then clipped the edge of the table, jostling it. Plates with crusts of uneaten bread slid and smashed onto the floor. Glasses toppled. Ice cubes skittered across a widening pool of water. Flatware followed, clattering loudly. The surrounding conversations ended abruptly. “So sorry,” a gruff voice apologized. A bearded old man with a walker. Wearing a cap


ever ever, and then you kiss and that's all. Anybody can do it." "Kiss? What do you kiss for?" "Why, that, you know, is to -- well, they always do that." "Everybody?" "Why, yes, everybody that's in love with each other. Do you remember what I wrote on the slate?" "Ye -- yes." "What was it?" --------------------------------------------------------- -87- [Image] "I-LOVE-YOU" "I sha'n't tell you." "Shall I tell you?" "Ye -- yes -- but some other time." "No, now." "No, not now -- to-morrow." "Oh, no, now. Please, Becky -- I'll whisper it, I'll whisper it ever so easy." Becky hesitating, Tom took silence for consent, and passed his arm about her waist and whispered the tale ever so softly, with his mouth close to her ear. And then he added: "Now you whisper it to me -- just the same." She resisted, for a while, and then said: "You turn your face away so you can't see, and then I will. But you mustn't ever tell anybody -- will you, Tom? Now you won't, will you?" "No, indeed, indeed I won't. Now, Becky." He turned his face away. She bent timidly around till her breath stirred his curls and whispered, "I -- love -- you!" Then she sprang away and ran around and around the desks and benches, with Tom after her, and took refuge in a corner at last, with her little white apron to her face. Tom clasped her about her neck and pleaded: "Now, Becky, it's all done -- all over but the kiss. Don't you be afraid of that -- it ain't anything at all. Please, Becky." And he tugged at her apron and the hands. By and by she gave up, and let her hands drop; --------------------------------------------------------- -88- her face, all glowing with the struggle, came up and submitted. Tom kissed the red lips and said: "Now it's all done, Becky. And always after this, you know, you ain't ever to love anybody but me, and you ain't ever to marry anybody but me, ever never and forever. Will you?" "No, I'll never love anybody but you, Tom, and I'll never marry anybody but you -- and you ain't to ever marry anybody but me, either." "Certainly. Of course. That's part of it. And always coming to school or when we're going home, you're to walk with me, when there ain't anybody looking -- and you choose me and I choose you at parties, because that's the way you do when you're engaged." "It's so nice. I never heard of it before." "Oh, it's ever so gay! Why, me and Amy Lawrence -- " The big eyes told Tom his blunder and he stopped, confused. "Oh, Tom! Then I ain't the first you've ever been engaged to!" The child began to cry. Tom said: "Oh, don't cry, Becky, I don't care for her any more." "Yes, you do, Tom -- you know you do." Tom tried to put his arm about her neck, but she pushed him away and turned her face to the wall, and went


want to spend on my account, on my good name, then I need cash up front, to cover my risks.” “Yes,” said Mrs. King, crunching her sherbet. “You do.” Mrs. Bone looked annoyed at that. “Well, then, you understand, don’t you?” she said. “I can’t be making big investments until trading gets a bit brisker.” Second move, thought Mrs. King. “Your trade’s not about to get any brisker,” she said. Mrs. Bone took another pear drop. “Says who?” “I’ve got eyes.” “And?” “I can read accounts.” There it was: a streak of anger. Startled you, didn’t I? thought Mrs. King. She felt almost sorry, prodding Mrs. Bone. Her aunt was the only person who’d ever kept an eye out for her when she was small. Gave her clean pinafores, sturdy boots, fresh stockings, when Mother couldn’t manage. But this wasn’t a time to be softhearted. “Not your accounts,” she added smoothly. “I never pry into a lady’s affairs. But I’ve paid a call on Mr. Murphy. His books are looking splendid, Mrs. Bone. Heaving with orders. Whereas all I smell around your place is a pile of old debts.” “Is that so?” Mrs. King nodded. “Debts and debtors, crawling all over your patch.” Mrs. Bone said nothing. The flesh around her neck was taut, as if she were holding her chin up with great effort, as if it were costing her dearly not to backhand Mrs. King. Then she mastered herself. Smiled, put the other pear drop into her mouth. “Shall I name the sum, dear? Or shall we bully each other till sundown?” Mrs. King crossed her arms. “You may name the sum.” Mrs. Bone did so. The light outside was strange. Not stormy, not like the week before. But weak willed, almost slippery: grayish. Mrs. King disliked it. It depressed her. She sighed. “Payable against what?” “Two-sevenths of net receipts.” “Two?” Mrs. Bone nodded. “I’d have to give up my own share to pay you that, Mrs. Bone.” “Or someone else’s.” Mrs. Bone shrugged. “They’re not my people.” “Alice Parker is my sister.” “Lucky you.” “Winnie Smith is my oldest friend.” “So chuck the other old tart, if you must.” Mrs. Bone crunched her own pear drops. Mrs. King held her gaze. “I’m not chucking any of them, Mrs. Bone. We’re all equals in this. I’ve made that quite clear.” “I’m offering fair terms, my girl. You give me an advance against future earnings, and I put up the rest of the credit you need to get this thing moving. I mean properly moving.” “I thought you said the whole plan was a load of nonsense.” Mrs. Bone smiled, beadily. “It may well be, my dear. But that’s on you, not on me.” Mrs. King considered this. She could pay Mrs. Bone’s advance, of course. In cash, too, just as Mrs. Bone would expect. It equaled almost everything she had saved, in a whole lifetime at Park Lane. She didn’t have any more than that. No backstop, no surety beyond it, at all. But if this job failed, a loss


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

at some point—even from across the room, I’m not greedy—let alone some time to speak to him in private. But if he’s in the building with us, I never see him. I do see Brenna, Liz, Isaac, Evan, and all of the Heroes who’ve been voted off but will return for the reunion portion of the show. We’re ushered around from room to room, being powdered and coiffed and prepped for the interview. Being in the studio feels like we’ve leveled up in importance; gone is our cozy little coffee shop, sweet dates in the park, and the illusion that what we’re doing here is some small indie production. This is big. Somehow, even with the new followers, being stopped in public, bestseller lists, and calls for interviews, I never quite comprehended just how big this has gotten. There are security guards who walk us from trailer to studio. The entire building hums with energy, and a line of people hoping for tickets to the live finale wraps around several city blocks. I’m given four choices for outfits, but the truth is, I don’t really care what I’m wearing. I feel oddly numb as I step into the dressing room and pull on the red A-line dress I know my mother will love, because I realize that facing my life after this isn’t going to be easier. I did this show for some sort of jump start, inspiration, a change of perspective. I found something new inside me—the feeling of genuine love and passion—but unattended, I already feel it turning into a sharp spur in my thoughts, souring. In all of my visions for the show, never did I come out of it sadder than I was before. From our prepping, we’re told that the run of show will go a little something like this: The Heroes will be interviewed as a group, with short videos shown for each of them. After this, I’ll be brought out to talk about my experiences with them. Finally, the audience vote will be revealed, followed by the DNADuo scores. The winner will be crowned and he’ll pick me up in a fireman’s carry to take me out of the building and aboard the plane to Fiji. I might have fictionalized that last part a bit. Brenna sets me up offstage so I can watch the first portion from the wings as well as on a monitor nearby. From the other side of the set, the men file in to roaring applause, and Lanelle gives a brief introduction to the show, how it started, how it grew in popularity beyond anything we ever imagined. Inside my chest, my heart feels like a wind-up toy cranked too tight. Nick, Dax, Colby, Jude, Arjun, and Tex are seated on the long couches on either side of Lanelle’s chair, with Isaac and Evan in the positions closest to her. “These eight Heroes were invited to join the show and date the much-beloved romance novelist Felicity Chen.” Cheers rise again, and I peek out, trying to find Jess, River, Juno,


tapped the cigarette occasionally into an ash-try when the cigarette had no ash. Bond noticed these small things because he felt intensely aware of her and because he wanted to draw her into his own feeling of warmth and relaxed sensuality. But he accepted her reserve. He thought it came from a desire to protect herself from him, or else it was her reaction to his coolness to her earlier in the evening, his deliberate coolness, which he knew had been taken as a rebuff. He was patient. He drank champagne and talked a little about the happenings of the day and about the personalities of Mathis and Leiter and about the possible consequences for Le Chiffre. He was discreet and he only talked about the aspects of the case on which she must have been briefed by London. She answered perfunctorily. She said that, of course, they had picked out the two gunmen, but had thought nothing of it when the man with the stick had gone to stand behind Bond's chair. They could not believe that anything would be attempted in the Casino itself. Directly Bond and Leiter had left to walk over to the hotel, she had telephoned Paris and told M's representative of the result of the game. She had had to speak guardedly and the agent had rung off without comment. She had been told to do this whatever the result. M had asked for the information to be passed on to him personally at any time of the day or night. This was all she said. She sipped at her champagne and rarely glanced at Bond. She didn't smile. Bond felt frustrated. He drank a lot of champagne and ordered another bottle. The scrambled eggs came and they ate in silence. At four o'clock Bond was about to call for the bill when the matre d'htel appeared at their table and inquired for Miss Lynd. He handed her a note which she took and read hastily. 'Oh, it's only Mathis,' she said. 'He says would I come to the entrance hall. He's got a message for you. Perhaps he's not in evening clothes or something. I won't be a minute. Then perhaps we could go home.' She gave him a strained smile. 'I'm afraid I don't feel very good company this evening. It's been rather a nerve-racking day. I'm so sorry.' Bond made a perfunctory reply and rose, pushing back the table. 'I'll get the bill,' he said, and watched her take the few steps to the entrance. He sat down and lit a cigarette. He felt flat. He suddenly realized that he was tired. The stuffiness of the room hit him as it had hit him in the Casino in the early hours of the previous day. He called for the bill and took a last mouthful of champagne. It tasted bitter, as the first glass too many always does. He would have liked to have seen Mathis's cheerful face and heard his news, perhaps even a word of congratulation. Suddenly the note to Vesper


and stared out of the nearby window. "It's a lovely day, hurrah!" cried Julian, leaping out of bed. "I don't know why, but it always seems very important that it should be sunny on the first day of a holiday. Let's wake Anne." Anne slept in the next room. Julian ran in and shook her. "Wake up! It's Tuesday! And the sun's shining." Anne woke up with a jump and stared at Julian joyfully. "It's come at last!" she said. "I thought it never would. Oh, isn't it an exciting feeling to go away for a holiday!" They started soon after breakfast. Their car was a big one, so it held them all very comfortably. Mother sat in front with Daddy, and the three children sat behind, their feet on two suitcases. In the luggage-place at the back of the car were all kinds of odds and ends, and one small trunk. Mother really thought they had remembered everything. Along the crowded London roads they went, slowly at first, and then, as they left the town behind, more quickly. Soon they were right into the open country, and the car sped along fast. The children sang songs to themselves, as they always did when they were happy. "Are we picnicking soon?" asked Anne, feeling hungry all of a sudden. "Yes," said Mother. "But not yet. It's only eleven o'clock. We shan't have lunch till at least half-past twelve, Anne." "Oh, gracious!" said Anne. "I know I can't last out till then!" So her mother handed her some chocolate, and she and the boys munched happily, watching the hills, woods and fields as the car sped by. The picnic was lovely. They had it on the top of a hill, in a sloping field that looked down into a sunny valley. Anne didn't very much like a big brown cow who came up close and stared at her, but it went away when Daddy told it to. The children ate enormously, and Mother said that instead of having a tea-picnic at half-past four they would have to go to a tea-house somewhere, because they had eaten all the tea sandwiches as well as the lunch ones! "What time shall we be at Aunt Fanny's?" asked Julian, finishing up the very last sandwich and wishing there were more. "About six o'clock with luck," said Daddy. "Now who wants to stretch their legs a bit? We've another long spell in the car, you know." The car seemed to eat up the miles as it purred along. Tea-time came, and then the three children began to feel excited all over again. "We must watch out for the sea," said Dick. "I can smell it somewhere near!" He was right. The car suddenly topped a hill- and there, was the shining blue sea, calm and smooth in the evening sun. The three children gave a yell. "There it is!" "Isn't it marvellous!" "Oh, I want to bathe this very minute!" "We shan't be more than twenty minutes now, before we're at Kirrin Bay," said Daddy. "We've made


breakfast-time; that he began to look about him more hopefully about mid-day; that he drooped when he came into dinner; that he seemed to descry Capital in the distance rather clearly, after dinner; that he all but realized Capital towards midnight; and that at about two o'clock in the morning, he became so deeply despondent again as to talk of buying a rifle and going to America, with a general purpose of compelling buffaloes to make his fortune. I was usually at Hammersmith about half the week, and when I was at Hammersmith I haunted Richmond: whereof separately by-and-by. Herbert would often come to Hammersmith when I was there, and I think at those seasons his father would occasionally have some passing perception that the opening he was looking for, had not appeared yet. But in the general tumbling up of the family, his tumbling out in life somewhere, was a thing to transact itself somehow. In the meantime Mr. Pocket grew greyer, and tried oftener to lift himself out of his perplexities by the hair. While Mrs. Pocket tripped up the family with her footstool, read her book of dignities, lost her pocket-handkerchief, told us about her grandpapa, and taught the young idea how to shoot, by shooting it into bed whenever it attracted her notice. As I am now generalizing a period of my life with the object of clearing my way before me, I can scarcely do so better than by at once completing the description of our usual manners and customs at Barnard's Inn. We spent as much money as we could, and got as little for it as people could make up their minds to give us. We were always more or less miserable, and most of our acquaintance were in the same condition. There was a gay fiction among us that we were constantly enjoying ourselves, and a skeleton truth that we never did. To the best of my belief, our case was in the last aspect a rather common one. Every morning, with an air ever new, Herbert went into the City to look about him. I often paid him a visit in the dark back-room in which he consorted with an ink-jar, a hat-peg, a coal-box, a string-box, an almanack, a desk and stool, and a ruler; and I do not remember that I ever saw him do anything else but look about him. If we all did what we undertake to do, as faithfully as Herbert did, we might live in a Republic of the Virtues. He had nothing else to do, poor fellow, except at a certain hour of every afternoon to "go to Lloyd's" - in observance of a ceremony of seeing his principal, I think. He never did anything else in connexion with Lloyd's that I could find out, except come back again. When he felt his case unusually serious, and that he positively must find an opening, he would go on 'Change at a busy time, and walk in and out, in a kind of gloomy country dance figure,