failure. Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually deemed marvellous. Were we among the tamer scenes of nature I might fear to encounter your unbelief, perhaps your ridicule; but many things will appear possible in these wild and mysterious regions which would provoke the laughter of those unacquainted with the ever- varied powers of nature; nor can I doubt but that my tale conveys in its series internal evidence of the truth of the events of which it is composed." You may easily imagine that I was much gratified by the offered communication, yet I could not endure that he should renew his grief by a recital of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness to hear the promised narrative, partly from curiosity and partly from a strong desire to ameliorate his fate if it were in my power. I expressed these feelings in my answer. "I thank you," he replied, "for your sympathy, but it is useless; my fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I shall repose in peace. I understand your feeling," continued he, perceiving that I wished to interrupt him; "but you are mistaken, my friend, if thus you will allow me to name you; nothing can alter my destiny; listen to my history, and you will perceive how irrevocably it is determined." He then told me that he would commence his narrative the next day when I should be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks. I have resolved every night, when I am not imperatively occupied by my duties, to record, as nearly as possible in his own words, what he has related during the day. If I should be engaged, I will at least make notes. This manuscript will doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure; but to me, who know him, and who hear it from his own lips--with what interest and sympathy shall I read it in some future day! Even now, as I commence my task, his full- toned voice swells in my ears; his lustrous eyes dwell on me with all their melancholy sweetness; I see his thin hand raised in animation, while the lineaments of his face are irradiated by the soul within. Strange and harrowing must be his story, frightful the storm which embraced the gallant vessel on its course and wrecked it--thus! Chapter 1 I am by birth a Genevese, and my family is one of the most distinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and syndics, and my father had filled several public situations with honour and reputation. He was respected by all who knew him for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public business. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the affairs of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his marrying early, nor was it until the decline of life that he became a husband and the father of a family. As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot refrain from relating them. One of his


unlike the scorpion-flies they had encountered prior. Composed of billions of nanites, they apparently could effortlessly dissipate into a vaporous cloud, rendering their Arrows’ conventional weapons useless. The Arrows’ Phazon Pulsar bolts, known for their devastating power, would probably have little or no effect on these elusive alien craft. A small squad of five dragonflies had broken away and was coming right for them. And with that, the battle commenced. J-Dog’s mind raced, searching for a strategy to outmaneuver and defeat the enemy. His eyes darted across the holographic display, tracking the erratic movements of the dragonflies. He knew he had to think outside the box, to embrace the unpredictable nature of the battlefield. Quintos had made it clear he needed to buy some time … Without explicitly saying the words, he was throwing Ryder and this ragtag lot of pilots up as sacrificial lambs, while doing so without excuses, no apologies offered. Quintos had asked for an hour, two, if possible. This was the nature of war, but perhaps more importantly, of friendship. With a swift flick of his wrist, J-Dog initiated a daring evasive maneuver, sending his Arrow into a dizzying spin. The starry backdrop blurred as he weaved through the enemy formation, narrowly evading incoming plasma fire. His senses heightened, he anticipated the dragonflies’ next move, reacting with split-second precision. The dance in space intensified as the Arrows engaged in a fierce ballet of evasion and retaliation. J-Dog led his squadron, orchestrating their maneuvers with strategic finesse. He guided his pilots through intricate corkscrew spins, barrel rolls, and abrupt direction changes, exploiting the agility of their Arrow fighters. But the dragonflies proved elusive adversaries, their nanite-based composition granting them an unnerving advantage. Phazon Pulsar bolts streaked through the void, barely grazing their insectile forms before they dissipated into mist. The frustration mounted as, one by one, the Arrows succumbed to the onslaught, their explosions casting mournful glimmers against the backdrop of distant stars. The battlefield transformed into a deadly ballet of destruction. Arrows erupted in fiery bursts, their once-mighty composite frames crumbling under the merciless assault of the dragonflies’ plasma fire. Pained screams of fellow pilots reverberated through J-Dog’s comms, a haunting reminder of the stakes at hand. Guilt suddenly hung heavy within his cockpit, J-Dog realizing the Symbios were being taken out at nearly three times the number of his human pilots. Determination burned in J-Dog’s eyes as he pushed his Arrow to its limits, searching for a breakthrough. His mind raced, analyzing every nuance of the enemy’s behavior. And then, an idea sparked within him—a calculated risk that could turn the tide. With a resolute nod, J-Dog signaled his squadron to follow. He executed a daring maneuver, plunging his Arrow directly into the heart of the enemy formation. The dragonflies swarmed, their ghostly forms engulfing his ship. It was a high-stakes gamble—one that demanded split-second timing. As the dragonflies converged, J-Dog’s finger hovered over the trigger. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he unleashed a barrage of Phazon Pulsar bolts, saturating the air with radiant energy.


I was immature. I knew Thalia because she played tennis, and she messed up her elbow a few times. I’m out there at matches, but that was back in the fall. I haven’t seen her all winter. It’s not like she’s coming in to lift, right? They ask for a hair sample, a saliva sample. I do that, and they let me go. Actually—wait—I should explain this. You know what they do? They have to get something like a hundred hairs. This lady stands over me with rubber gloves pulling hairs out by the root from every part of my head, and then from my arm and leg. It’s torture. Then that Friday, I’m in my office at school and they come arrest me. I don’t even think anything’s up when they come in. I got used to them poking around the building. But they have me stand up, they do the cuffs and my Miranda, and all I can do is laugh. It’s a weird response, I know. Not laughing hysterically, I mean I’m just sort of laughing in disbelief. It felt like a movie. But then yeah, two years later in court, the one officer testifies that when they came and got me I was laughing. I sound like a maniac. What they had on me, what they thought they had, was a very small piece of my hair in Thalia’s mouth and my DNA on the bathing suit. I don’t know what to say here because either it was shit luck or, I gotta suggest, maybe they gave themselves a little help. They do what they can to strengthen their case because they’re under a metric shit ton of pressure to solve this thing. And I’m a solution that makes the school happy. I’m not a student, I’m not a teacher. I’m not some huge part of the community. They probably think they’ve figured it out, and they just need that little bit of extra help. Or maybe it’s legit. I swam in that pool a lot of mornings. I’d lift, rinse off, go for a swim, shower, get to work. So sure, maybe some of my hair is in the pool. The bathing suit, I have no idea. I touched a lot of shit in that gym. They say “DNA” and it sounds so definite, like it must be my blood or semen. And DNA evidence was this new, exciting thing back then—like this was something juries had maybe heard about on TV but just barely. They hear DNA and, wow, that’s official. But what you’ve got is a quarter-million gallons of water in a pool with fuck knows what floating in it, and one of those things is a piece of my hair. The thing is, the cops don’t tell me it’s a hair and some trace stuff on a bathing suit. They tell me my DNA was all over this girl, and they say the only explanation is either I killed her or I was sleeping with her. They say this at about three in the


gentleman was, he evidently took her to be a young person serving for wages), "I am a cousin of Miss Hepzibah, on a visit to her." "Her cousin?--and from the country? Pray pardon me, then," said the gentleman, bowing and smiling, as Phoebe never had been bowed to nor smiled on before; "in that case, we must be better acquainted; for, unless I am sadly mistaken, you are my own little kinswoman likewise! Let me see,--Mary?--Dolly?--Phoebe? --yes, Phoebe is the name! Is it possible that you are Phoebe Pyncheon, only child of my dear cousin and classmate, Arthur? Ah, I see your father now, about your mouth! Yes, yes! we must be better acquainted! I am your kinsman, my dear. Surely you must have heard of Judge Pyncheon?" As Phoebe curtsied in reply, the Judge bent forward, with the pardonable and even praiseworthy purpose--considering the nearness of blood and the difference of age--of bestowing on his young relative a kiss of acknowledged kindred and natural affection. Unfortunately (without design, or only with such instinctive design as gives no account of itself to the intellect) Phoebe, just at the critical moment, drew back; so that her highly respectable kinsman, with his body bent over the counter and his lips protruded, was betrayed into the rather absurd predicament of kissing the empty air. It was a modern parallel to the case of Ixion embracing a cloud, and was so much the more ridiculous as the Judge prided himself on eschewing all airy matter, and never mistaking a shadow for a substance. The truth was,--and it is Phoebe's only excuse,--that, although Judge Pyncheon's glowing benignity might not be absolutely unpleasant to the feminine beholder, with the width of a street, or even an ordinary-sized room, interposed between, yet it became quite too intense, when this dark, full-fed physiognomy (so roughly bearded, too, that no razor could ever make it smooth) sought to bring itself into actual contact with the object of its regards. The man, the sex, somehow or other, was entirely too prominent in the Judge's demonstrations of that sort. Phoebe's eyes sank, and, without knowing why, she felt herself blushing deeply under his look. Yet she had been kissed before, and without any particular squeamishness, by perhaps half a dozen different cousins, younger as well as older than this dark-browned, grisly-bearded, white-neck-clothed, and unctuously-benevolent Judge! Then, why not by him? On raising her eyes, Phoebe was startled by the change in Judge Pyncheon's face. It was quite as striking, allowing for the difference of scale, as that betwixt a landscape under a broad sunshine and just before a thunder-storm; not that it had the passionate intensity of the latter aspect, but was cold, hard, immitigable, like a day-long brooding cloud. "Dear me! what is to be done now?" thought the country-girl to herself." He looks as if there were nothing softer in him than a rock, nor milder than the east wind! I meant no harm! Since he is really my cousin, I would have let him kiss me, if I could!" Then,


by. Orson’s mother separated from me to help set up more chairs. I was left in the center of the room, trying to decide my next move, when I saw a man galloping toward me, a massive camera of the kind used on reality TV shows attached to his chest. “You must be Ezra!” he shouted. “Welcome to the hive.” He looked me up and down. “I’m Joseph Rhyno with a y, but you can call me Rhyno. I’m the cameraman for this event.” I asked him if he was getting good footage and he leaned toward me conspiratorially. “Actually, I was hoping to get some help with a few shots. Do you think maybe you could follow me into the kitchen here?” I stumbled after Rhyno into the kitchen, where at least twelve NuLifers were at work on plates of hors d’oeuvres, a giant turkey sculpted out of tofu, and a four-tiered cake topped with plastic figurines that, on very close inspection, looked exactly like Orson and Emily. “Could you, um, not get too close?” said one of the NuLifers, a man with a deeply lined face whose forehead was obscured by a white bandanna. “It’s kind of a delicate operation.” “Of course,” I said, stepping back as carefully as I could. “Everyone, a quick announcement,” Rhyno said. “I need to get an establishing shot of the kitchen here. I’m going to step back a few feet, and I want you all to pretend I’m not here.” He walked backward and beckoned to me as well. Then he framed the shot with his hands. “What do you think, Ez?” I couldn’t see anything. “Looks good,” I said. We wandered around the house and the property, getting footage of NuLifers attesting to how Orson had changed their lives. We got footage of the Enners toasting the happy couple. We got footage of children running through the fields, playing a game of tag. Rhyno asked for my opinion on every shot, and I never told him that I couldn’t see what he was talking about. Eventually he sat me down on the patio and turned the camera on me. “Ezra Green,” he said. “CFO and best man and best friend. What words do you have for Orson on his wedding day?” Rhyno’s face was in a blind spot. I tried not to squint. “Good luck,” I said. “On everything.” Rhyno stopped recording. I could tell he was disappointed. “Can we maybe make it a little longer?” he asked. “Like a preview of your speech?” “Sure,” I said. I hadn’t written a speech. “Okay, let’s try it again.” He stepped back and announced that he was rolling. But before I could say anything, a bridesmaid was springing toward us out of the house. “Ez!” she called. Rhyno groaned and shut off his camera. “It’s Emily,” she said breathlessly. “She wants to talk to you.” The sun was glaring directly above the bridesmaid’s head, making it all the more difficult to see her. “Are you sure?” “Yeah. She said it would be quick and sorry


including law-enforcement officers, lawyers, compliance personnel, and technical staff. Those protective layers might not be in place in a second go-round. The Trump advisors who were charged with hunting down the disloyalists are involved in efforts to shape the next Republican presidential administration. And they are hell-bent on weakening or eliminating the peskiest guardrail in the executive branch: the careerists. In the name of countering the Deep State, MAGA forces plan to take a hammer to the government’s career civil service. The tone of government is set at the top and then echoed by midlevel enforcers. Nevertheless, the real action happens on the front lines. Almost 3 million civilian employees do the daily work of federal agencies—disbursing Social Security checks, managing hurricane recovery, conducting highway maintenance, researching life-saving vaccines, and much more. Strict regulations forbid government employees from taking politically motivated actions or allowing their work to be influenced by any particular political candidate or party. A president cannot order these millions of employees to do whatever he or she wants. Since the 1800s, the American system has been built atop the notion of an independent civil service. When Congress passes laws, they do so with the expectation that the executive branch—regardless of who is in charge—will faithfully execute those laws, rather than wipe away statutes it doesn’t like and enforce the ones that it does. But a corrupt chief executive can try to skirt these protections. He or she might ignore the recommendations of the career civil service or badger employees and experts to act in ways contrary to their reasoned judgment. The Trump administration regularly pursued both strategies to bend the federal government to its will, frustrated by what they ruefully labeled the “Deep State.” MAGA leaders intend to destroy the civil service next time, and they have plenty of case studies to use. The ex-president’s hostility toward careerists was best captured in what became known as “Sharpiegate.” In September 2019, Hurricane Dorian was bearing down on the United States, and Donald Trump tweeted that Alabama and other states would “most likely be hit (much) harder than anticipated.” It was true that the Category 5 hurricane was looking bad; the only problem was that Trump was wrong about where it would hit. He was basing his claim on an outdated storm forecast from the National Weather Service (NWS), which days earlier had predicted a slight possibility Alabama could be impacted by winds. But the state wasn’t in the cross hairs anymore. “Trump was following an old spaghetti chart.… He hadn’t looked at a recent forecast in forty-eight hours,” explained Rear Admiral Tim Gallaudet, who was the Trump administration’s number two official at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) at the time, which oversaw NWS. NOAA leaders were concerned the president was tweeting false information amid a public safety crisis. An NWS branch in Alabama quickly corrected the president with a tweet: “Alabama will NOT see any impacts from #Dorian.” The issue could have died right then, but it didn’t. According to Gallaudet, the White House was “angry that the


Traddles, as if he desired to have his opinion. 'Why, the plain state of the case, Mrs. Micawber,' said Traddles, mildly breaking the truth to her. 'I mean the real prosaic fact, you know -' 'Just so,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'my dear Mr. Traddles, I wish to be as prosaic and literal as possible on a subject of so much importance.' '- Is,' said Traddles, 'that this branch of the law, even if Mr. Micawber were a regular solicitor -' 'Exactly so,' returned Mrs. Micawber. ('Wilkins, you are squinting, and will not be able to get your eyes back.') '- Has nothing,' pursued Traddles, 'to do with that. Only a barrister is eligible for such preferments; and Mr. Micawber could not be a barrister, without being entered at an inn of court as a student, for five years.' 'Do I follow you?' said Mrs. Micawber, with her most affable air of business. 'Do I understand, my dear Mr. Traddles, that, at the expiration of that period, Mr. Micawber would be eligible as a Judge or Chancellor?' 'He would be ELIGIBLE,' returned Traddles, with a strong emphasis on that word. 'Thank you,' said Mrs. Micawber. 'That is quite sufficient. If such is the case, and Mr. Micawber forfeits no privilege by entering on these duties, my anxiety is set at rest. I speak,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'as a female, necessarily; but I have always been of opinion that Mr. Micawber possesses what I have heard my papa call, when I lived at home, the judicial mind; and I hope Mr. Micawber is now entering on a field where that mind will develop itself, and take a commanding station.' I quite believe that Mr. Micawber saw himself, in his judicial mind's eye, on the woolsack. He passed his hand complacently over his bald head, and said with ostentatious resignation: 'My dear, we will not anticipate the decrees of fortune. If I am reserved to wear a wig, I am at least prepared, externally,' in allusion to his baldness, 'for that distinction. I do not,' said Mr. Micawber, 'regret my hair, and I may have been deprived of it for a specific purpose. I cannot say. It is my intention, my dear Copperfield, to educate my son for the Church; I will not deny that I should be happy, on his account, to attain to eminence.' 'For the Church?' said I, still pondering, between whiles, on Uriah Heep. 'Yes,' said Mr. Micawber. 'He has a remarkable head-voice, and will commence as a chorister. Our residence at Canterbury, and our local connexion, will, no doubt, enable him to take advantage of any vacancy that may arise in the Cathedral corps.' On looking at Master Micawber again, I saw that he had a certain expression of face, as if his voice were behind his eyebrows; where it presently appeared to be, on his singing us (as an alternative between that and bed) 'The Wood-Pecker tapping'. After many compliments on this performance, we fell into some general conversation; and as I was too full of my desperate intentions


Dr. Ali nor Dr. Fidelis stopped to eat, she drank more water and kept going, gripping her pen to stop her fingers from trembling. Finally, around five, two hours after the clinic was supposed to have ended, Dr. Fidelis capped her pen and turned to Dr. Ali. “Whoever is still out there must have arrived terribly late. Let them come next week. I can’t, I can’t do anymore today, Ali.” “Okay ma,” Dr Ali said. Dr. Fidelis slid her handbag over her shoulder and stood up. “Have a lovely night ma,” Wúràọlá said. Dr. Fidelis pursed her lips and left the room. “Don’t worry about her,” Dr. Ali said after Dr. Fidelis’s footsteps faded away. “I can’t believe I forgot.” “It’s not you, it’s something else that is worrying her today. Two of her residents in Ifẹ̀ passed their exams, and she was pushing for them to be retained as consultants. Last last, sha, it is not going to happen, because there’s no allocation for that from Abuja or something. The usual nonsense. She’s really mad about it.” Dr. Ali opened his laptop bag and brought out a pack of Beloxxi crackers. “Do you want? Oh, you ate well in the morning? Then take it now, chop something before you faint.” “Thank you.” “And you know what is going to happen? Both of those residents are my guys. One has an offer from like four private hospitals in Lagos. By next week, he should decide on which offer he’ll take.” “Good for him.” They began walking towards the corridor, matching each other’s pace. “Yeah, but terrible for us here. You know how many consultant neurologists we have in this country?” Wúràọlá shook her head and bit into another cracker. “Not up to one hundred in the whole fucking country. We’re well over a hundred million people now, that’s one neurologist to over one million people.” Dr. Ali laughed. “And we’re not even retaining the ones in training. You know my other guy who just passed his exams? He has written USMLE already. Small time now, he will leave this country. If we’re not careful, ehn, all these public hospitals will become glorified hospices. Give it ten to fifteen years.” Wúràọlá unzipped her bag and pulled out her phone. “And there are people like your brother who just say fuck it to the whole thing.” “Oh, you know Láyí? Did you finish from Ifẹ̀ too?” She checked her notifications. Four messages from Mọ́tárá, two missed calls from Kúnlé, five from her mother. She switched the settings from silent mode to vibrate only. “We were classmates.” “I’m never leaving medicine.” “Just leave Nigeria, that’s what you need to do.” Her phone began vibrating as they stepped into the corridor. Kúnlé. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sha, take care.” Dr. Ali waved as he headed towards the car park. “Thank you so much sir.” Wúràọlá held up the pack of crackers before continuing down the corridor. She finished another cracker before dialling Kúnlé’s number. He picked up immediately. “Sorry, I’ve been in the consulting room since


you there is no reason why I should not be perfectly frank. "The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and those who live near each other are thrown very much together. For this reason I saw a good deal of Sir Charles Baskerville. With the exception of Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist, there are no other men of education within many miles. Sir Charles was a retiring man, but the chance of his illness brought us together, and a community of interests in science kept us so. He had brought back much scientific information from South Africa, and many a charming evening we have spent together discussing the comparative anatomy of the Bushman and the Hottentot. "Within the last few months it became increasingly plain to me that Sir Charles's nervous system was strained to the break- ing point. He had taken this legend which I have read you exceedingly to heart -- so much so that, although he would walk in his own grounds, nothing would induce him to go out upon the moor at night. Incredible as it may appear to you, Mr. Holmes, he was honestly convinced that a dreadful fate overhung his family, and certainly the records which he was able to give of his ancestors were not encouraging. The idea of some ghastly presence constantly haunted him, and on more than one occasion he has asked me whether I had on my medical journeys at night ever seen any strange creature or heard the baying of a hound. The latter question he put to me several times, and always with a voice which vibrated with excitement. "I can well remember driving up to his house in the evening some three weeks before the fatal event. He chanced to be at his hall door. I had descended from my gig and was standing in front of him, when I saw his eyes fix themselves over my shoulder and stare past me with an expression of the most dreadful horror. I whisked round and had just time to catch a glimpse of something which I took to be a large black calf passing at the head of the drive. So excited and alarmed was he that I was compelled to go down to the spot where the animal had been and look around for it. It was gone, however, and the incident appeared to make the worst impression upon his mind. I stayed with him all the evening, and it was on that occasion, to explain the emotion which he had shown, that he confided to my keeping that narrative which I read to you when first I came. I mention this small episode because it assumes some importance in view of the tragedy which followed, but I was convinced at the time that the matter was entirely trivial and that his excite- ment had no justification. "It was at my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to London. His heart was, I knew, affected, and the constant anxi- ety in which he


“They weave and dance,” Teucer says, still cackling, “and fuck every once in a while.” This makes the men laugh more. Diomedes’s face is red again, this time with amusement. “My father didn’t even see his bride until the wedding day,” he says. “She had never left the house.” Again, a roar of laughter. Clytemnestra doesn’t understand the joke. Though she has grown up among vulgar warriors, she has never heard men speak like this. They usually joke about fucking goats and pigs or challenge each other out of nothing. Tyndareus doesn’t join in with the laughter, but he does nothing to stop it. “How old was she?” Penelope asks politely. “Twelve.” Diomedes shrugs. Timandra stirs next to Tyndareus, suddenly aware of her own age. After a while, the fire burns out and the lights flicker feebly, like stars in a cloudy sky. Leda seems asleep on her chair, and Helen has to help her out of the room when the dinner is over. Helen doesn’t reappear from her mother’s room, so when the soldiers start leaving the hall, their foreheads greasy and their eyes tired, Clytemnestra and Penelope go to sleep together. When they reach the entrance to the gynaeceum, Penelope mumbles something about forgetting her cloak and runs back to the hall. Clytemnestra waits for her in the room, opening the windows to let in some air. The wind is colder than a blade, cutting her skin, but she enjoys it after hours spent in the crowded hall. She takes off her blue dress and curls up under the thick blankets. Penelope bursts in, panting. She is holding up her tunic to avoid tripping, and the fabric is now crumpled around her waist. “What is it?” Clytemnestra sits up. “Prince Odysseus was talking to your father—I heard them,” she says, breathless. “What about?” “About me, but I couldn’t hear properly.” She frowns. “I think they were making a kind of agreement.” “An agreement?” Penelope shakes her head. She paces the room briefly, then jumps onto the bed next to Clytemnestra. “I like that prince,” Clytemnestra says. Penelope chortles. “I do too. He sounds like your husband.” “You think so? He gave me the same impression.” “Yes, they are different from the others. They have something dark about them, though it’s hard to say what.” She thinks for a moment, then adds with a smile, “Talking to them is like entering a cave.” Clytemnestra knows the feeling—moving in the darkness and feeling each stone, finding each secret with your hands, step by step. “They draw you in with questions about yourself,” Penelope continues. Clytemnestra laughs. “That is Tantalus’s specialty.” Penelope moves closer to her, warming her feet under the blankets. She has goose bumps on her arms. “And what did you think of that man, Diomedes?” “Disgusting,” Clytemnestra says. “Even worse than Menelaus.” “I thought so too.” “And Ajax the Great. He looks like an oversized boar, hairs and all.” Penelope laughs. “He does! And when he talked of women moaning—” “If I hadn’t been pregnant, I would have challenged him


I was a bad fit for the fraternity-sorority/country club vibe of the campus. I almost never went to parties and barely had friends until I joined the staff of the student newspaper my sophomore year. First I was one of the copy editors, and eventually I was the copy chief. This meant I stayed late, read practically every article that was filed, and was fairly invisible in a way that suited me. (Nigel says that TNO isn’t a place for perfectionists or lone wolves, and because I’m naturally both, working there has taught me to fight those tendencies.) Anyway, the sports editor of the newspaper my senior year was a guy named Mike. He’d also worked his way up, so we’d interacted tons of times (while I copyedited his articles about, say, men’s tennis) without really getting to know each other. At a staff happy hour on Halloween, a columnist named Derrick got falling down drunk, and Mike and I ended up walking him back to his dorm room and putting him to bed. It was only maybe eight o’clock on a Friday, and campus was filled with people in all kinds of crazy costumes planning all kinds of wild nights, but both Mike and I were worried that Derrick was going to throw up, choke on it, and die, so we parked ourselves in his room, with the lights low, to keep an eye on him. We sat on the floor and talked for a few hours, until we decided it was safe to leave. I honestly don’t think we’d have gotten together if not for babysitting Derrick (though I think this is true for plenty of relationships, that they’re random at least as often as they’re inevitable), but we quickly became a serious couple (in every sense). Mike was applying to law schools then, and he ended up deciding on Chapel Hill, which is just 20 minutes from Duke. He was (is? Because he’s still alive, if not still part of my life) from Charlotte, NC, and it was already understood that when he finished law school, he’d go back there. In the spring of our senior year, we decided to get married. Neither of us was being pressured by our parents—his parents actually were religious, but not in a way where they’d have been upset if we lived together without getting married. My mom said that she had concerns because people can change a lot in their twenties and Mike and I might evolve out of wanting to be a couple, but that she also thought I had the right to make my own decisions. We got married at the Durham County Courthouse the Friday after our graduation, in front of Mike’s parents and brother, my mom and Jerry, and two of our friends from the newspaper. That Monday, I started my job as a writer at an in-house newsletter for a gigantic medical device company (AdlerWilliams). When I look back, I simultaneously think it’s fine that Mike and I got married, no animals were injured, etc., AND it


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

off. --O by the way, said Heron suddenly, I saw your governor going in. The smile waned on Stephen's face. Any allusion made to his father by a fellow or by a master put his calm to rout in a moment. He waited in timorous silence to hear what Heron might say next. Heron, however, nudged him expressively with his elbow and said: --You're a sly dog. --Why so? said Stephen. --You'd think butter wouldn't melt in your mouth said Heron. But I'm afraid you're a sly dog. --Might I ask you what you are talking about? said Stephen urbanely. --Indeed you might, answered Heron. We saw her, Wallis, didn't we? And deucedly pretty she is too. And inquisitive! AND WHAT PART DOES STEPHEN TAKE, MR DEDALUS? AND WILL STEPHEN NOT SING, MR DEDALUS? Your governor was staring at her through that eyeglass of his for all he was worth so that I think the old man has found you out too. I wouldn't care a bit, by Jove. She's ripping, isn't she, Wallis? --Not half bad, answered Wallis quietly as he placed his holder once more in a corner of his mouth. A shaft of momentary anger flew through Stephen's mind at these indelicate allusions in the hearing of a stranger. For him there was nothing amusing in a girl's interest and regard. All day he had thought of nothing but their leave-taking on the steps of the tram at Harold's Cross, the stream of moody emotions it had made to course through him and the poem he had written about it. All day he had imagined a new meeting with her for he knew that she was to come to the play. The old restless moodiness had again filled his breast as it had done on the night of the party, but had not found an outlet in verse. The growth and knowledge of two years of boyhood stood between then and now, forbidding such an outlet: and all day the stream of gloomy tenderness within him had started forth and returned upon itself in dark courses and eddies, wearying him in the end until the pleasantry of the prefect and the painted little boy had drawn from him a movement of impatience. --So you may as well admit, Heron went on, that we've fairly found you out this time. You can't play the saint on me any more, that's one sure five. A soft peal of mirthless laughter escaped from his lips and, bending down as before, he struck Stephen lightly across the calf of the leg with his cane, as if in jesting reproof. Stephen's moment of anger had already passed. He was neither flattered nor confused, but simply wished the banter to end. He scarcely resented what had seemed to him a silly indelicateness for he knew that the adventure in his mind stood in no danger from these words: and his face mirrored his rival's false smile. --Admit! repeated Heron, striking him again with his cane across the calf of the leg. The stroke was playful


and now this sweaty march along the blazing beach had given them the complexions of newly washed plums. The boy who controlled them was dressed in the same way though his cap badge was golden. When his party was about ten yards from the platform he shouted an order and they halted, gasping, sweating, swaying in the fierce light. The boy himself came forward, vaulted on to the platform with his cloak flying, and peered into what to him was almost complete darkness. "Where's the man with the trumpet?" Ralph, sensing his sun-blindness, answered him. "There's no man with a trumpet. Only me." The boy came close and peered down at Ralph, screwing up his face as he did so. What he saw of the fair-haired boy with the creamy shell on his knees did not seem to satisfy him. He turned quickly, his black cloak circling. "Isn't there a ship, then?" Inside the floating cloak he was tall, thin, and bony; and his hair was red beneath the black cap. His face was crumpled and freckled, and ugly without silliness. Out of this face stared two light blue eyes, frustrated now, and turning, or ready to turn, to anger. "Isn't there a man here?" Ralph spoke to his back. "No. We're having a meeting. Come and join in." The group of cloaked boys began to scatter from close line. The tall boy shouted at them. "Choir! Stand still!" Wearily obedient, the choir huddled into line and stood there swaying in the sun. None the less, some began to protest faintly. "But, Merridew. Please, Merridew . . . can't we?" Then one of the boys flopped on his face in the sand and the line broke up. They heaved the fallen boy to the platform and let him lie. Merridew, his eyes staring, made the best of a bad job. "All right then. Sit down. Let him alone." "But Merridew." "He's always throwing a faint," said Merridew. "He did in Gib.; and Addis; and at matins over the precentor." This last piece of shop brought sniggers from the choir, who perched like black birds on the criss-cross trunks and examined Ralph with interest. Piggy asked no names. He was intimidated by this uniformed superiority and the offhand authority in Merridew's voice. He shrank to the other side of Ralph and busied himself with his glasses. Merridew turned to Ralph. "Aren't there any grownups?" "No." Merridew sat down on a trunk and looked round the circle. "Then we'll have to look after ourselves." Secure on the other side of Ralph, Piggy spoke timidly. "That's why Ralph made a meeting. So as we can decide what to do. We've heard names. That's Johnny. Those two--they're twins, Sam 'n Eric. Which is Eric--? You? No--you're Sam--" "I'm Sam--" "'n I'm Eric." "We'd better all have names," said Ralph, "so I'm Ralph." "We got most names," said Piggy. "Got 'em just now." "Kids' names," said Merridew. "Why should I be Jack? I'm Merridew." Ralph turned to him quickly. This was the voice of one who knew


the times when I was a little helpless creature, and my sister did not spare me, vividly returned. But they returned with a gentle tone upon them that softened even the edge of Tickler. For now, the very breath of the beans and clover whispered to my heart that the day must come when it would be well for my memory that others walking in the sunshine should be softened as they thought of me. At last I came within sight of the house, and saw that Trabb and Co. had put in a funereal execution and taken possession. Two dismally absurd persons, each ostentatiously exhibiting a crutch done up in a black bandage - as if that instrument could possibly communicate any comfort to anybody - were posted at the front door; and in one of them I recognized a postboy discharged from the Boar for turning a young couple into a sawpit on their bridal morning, in consequence of intoxication rendering it necessary for him to ride his horse clasped round the neck with both arms. All the children of the village, and most of the women, were admiring these sable warders and the closed windows of the house and forge; and as I came up, one of the two warders (the postboy) knocked at the door - implying that I was far too much exhausted by grief, to have strength remaining to knock for myself. Another sable warder (a carpenter, who had once eaten two geese for a wager) opened the door, and showed me into the best parlour. Here, Mr. Trabb had taken unto himself the best table, and had got all the leaves up, and was holding a kind of black Bazaar, with the aid of a quantity of black pins. At the moment of my arrival, he had just finished putting somebody's hat into black long-clothes, like an African baby; so he held out his hand for mine. But I, misled by the action, and confused by the occasion, shook hands with him with every testimony of warm affection. Poor dear Joe, entangled in a little black cloak tied in a large bow under his chin, was seated apart at the upper end of the room; where, as chief mourner, he had evidently been stationed by Trabb. When I bent down and said to him, "Dear Joe, how are you?" he said, "Pip, old chap, you knowed her when she were a fine figure of a--" and clasped my hand and said no more. Biddy, looking very neat and modest in her black dress, went quietly here and there, and was very helpful. When I had spoken to Biddy, as I thought it not a time for talking I went and sat down near Joe, and there began to wonder in what part of the house it - she - my sister - was. The air of the parlour being faint with the smell of sweet cake, I looked about for the table of refreshments; it was scarcely visible until one had got accustomed to the


God's Work necessarily include vows of chastity, tithing, and atonement for sins through self-flagellation and the cilice?" "You are describing only a small portion of the Opus Dei population," Aringarosa said. "There are many levels of involvement. Thousands of Opus Dei members are married, have families, and do God's Work in their own communities. Others choose lives of asceticism within our cloistered residence halls. These choices are personal, but everyone in Opus Dei shares the goal of bettering the world by doing the Work of God. Surely this is an admirable quest." 21 Reason seldom worked, though. The media always gravitated toward scandal, and Opus Dei, like most large organizations, had within its membership a few misguided souls who cast a shadow over the entire group. Two months ago, an Opus Dei group at a midwestern university had been caught drugging new recruits with mescaline in an effort to induce a euphoric state that neophytes would perceive as a religious experience. Another university student had used his barbed cilice belt more often than the recommended two hours a day and had given himself a near lethal infection. In Boston not long ago, a disillusioned young investment banker had signed over his entire life savings to Opus Dei before attempting suicide. Misguided sheep, Aringarosa thought, his heart going out to them. Of course the ultimate embarrassment had been the widely publicized trial of FBI spy Robert Hanssen, who, in addition to being a prominent member of Opus Dei, had turned out to be a sexual deviant, his trial uncovering evidence that he had rigged hidden video cameras in his own bedroom so his friends could watch him having sex with his wife. "Hardly the pastime of a devout Catholic," the judge had noted. Sadly, all of these events had helped spawn the new watch group known as the Opus Dei Awareness Network (ODAN). The group's popular website-www.odan.org- relayed frightening stories from former Opus Dei members who warned of the dangers of joining. The media was now referring to Opus Dei as "God's Mafia" and "the Cult of Christ." We fear what we do not understand, Aringarosa thought, wondering if these critics had any idea how many lives Opus Dei had enriched. The group enjoyed the full endorsement and blessing of the Vatican. Opus Dei is a personal prelature of the Pope himself. Recently, however, Opus Dei had found itself threatened by a force infinitely more powerful than the media... an unexpected foe from which Aringarosa could not possibly hide. Five months ago, the kaleidoscope of power had been shaken, and Aringarosa was still reeling from the blow. "They know not the war they have begun," Aringarosa whispered to himself, staring out the plane's window at the darkness of the ocean below. For an instant, his eyes refocused, lingering on the reflection of his awkward face-dark and oblong, dominated by a flat, crooked nose that had been shattered by a fist in Spain when he was a young missionary. The physical flaw barely registered now. Aringarosa's was a world of the soul, not of


hair, a smooth, unlined face. And not a hint of rot. The last attack had been two days ago. Two days, with seventy-five victims. But there were far more than seventy-five bodies in this room, so these had to be corpses from all four attacked villages. But why were they divided by age? And how had they been so well preserved? “Lore.” Bastian’s voice was quiet, like he was afraid to disturb the dead. “Their palm.” One of the corpse’s hands had fallen from the plinth. Lore didn’t want to touch it; instead, she crouched and craned her neck to look. An eclipse was carved into the meat of the corpse’s palm. A sun across the top, its curve running beneath the fingers, rays stretching to where they began. A crescent moon across the bottom, completing the sun’s arc. “I don’t understand,” she murmured, straightening, closing her own scarred hand into a fist. “What does that mean?” “Only one way to find out,” Bastian said. Lore placed her fingers lightly on the stone plinth before her. She closed her eyes and found the death hiding deep in the body, tugged on it gently. The breath she took and held tasted of emptiness and mineral cold. Her fingertips grew cold and pale as strands of darkness eased from the corpse and into her, the world losing its color again. Something didn’t look right. She could see her own body, white light and gray and the mass of dark in her center. Bastian next to her, a light so bright it nearly throbbed. But right above the heart of every corpse, there was a knot of darkness, thickly tangled, the color of a sky devoid of moon or stars. It reminded her of the leak, of the door. Anton, again. What had the Priest Exalted done? Her heartbeat came slow, slower. Her limbs felt heavy. She’d taken in nearly as much Mortem as she could, and she slammed her palms down on the plinth, channeling it into the rock, feeling it grow porous and brittle. Her veins were sluggish; her lungs couldn’t pull in enough air to satisfy. She’d taken in more death than she should’ve been able to, in the short while she’d channeled. It was… was thicker than it should be, denser. Her knees wobbled, and Bastian rushed to her, a warm arm over her shoulders holding her up and keeping her steady. “What happened to you?” Lore murmured to the dead, her voice thin and reedy. “Who did this, and why?” But the corpse in front of her was still and silent. “I don’t understand.” Bastian’s eyes narrowed. “What did—” A creaking sound cut him off as every corpse in the cavern sat up. As every corpse in the cavern twisted to look at them with dead, blank eyes. Understanding crashed into Lore like a wave: When she’d pulled the death out of one of them, it’d somehow pulled death from them all. Those writhing knots of dark she’d seen over their hearts must connect them, somehow. Bastian shouldered in front


away from me as I can. It crashes down through the lower branches, snagging temporarily on a few but then twisting free until it smashes with a thud on the ground. The nest bursts open like an egg, and a furious swarm of tracker jackers takes to the air. I feel a second sting on the cheek, a third on my neck, and their venom almost immediately makes me woozy. I cling to the tree with one arm while I rip the barbed stingers out of my flesh. Fortunately, only these three tracker jackers had identi- fied me before the nest went down. The rest of the insects have targeted their enemies on the ground. It’s mayhem. The Careers have woken to a full-scale tracker jacker attack. Peeta and a few others have the sense to drop everything and bolt. I can hear cries of “To the lake! To the lake!” and know they hope to evade the wasps by taking to the water. It must be close if they think they can outdistance the furious insects. Glimmer and another girl, the one from Dis- trict 4, are not so lucky. They receive multiple stings before they’re even out of my view. Glimmer appears to go complete- 189 ly mad, shrieking and trying to bat the wasps off with her bow, which is pointless. She calls to the others for help but, of course, no one returns. The girl from District 4 staggers out of sight, although I wouldn’t bet on her making it to the lake. I watch Glimmer fall, twitch hysterically around on the ground for a few minutes, and then go still. The nest is nothing but an empty shell. The wasps have va- nished in pursuit of the others. I don’t think they’ll return, but I don’t want to risk it. I scamper down the tree and hit the ground running in the opposite direction of the lake. The poi- son from the stingers makes me wobbly, but I find my way back to my own little pool and submerge myself in the water, just in case any wasps are still on my trail. After about five minutes, I drag myself onto the rocks. People have not exagge- rated the effects of the tracker jacker stings. Actually, the one on my knee is closer to an orange than a plum in size. A foul- smelling green liquid oozes from the places where I pulled out the stingers. The swelling. The pain. The ooze. Watching Glimmer twitching to death on the ground. It’s a lot to handle before the sun has even cleared the horizon. I don’t want to think about what Glimmer must look like now. Her body disfigured. Her swollen fingers stiffening around the bow . . . The bow! Somewhere in my befuddled mind one thought connects to another and I’m on my feet, teetering through the trees back to Glimmer. The bow. The arrows. I must get them. I haven’t heard the cannons fire yet, so perhaps Glimmer is in some sort of coma, her


Queen, who had meanwhile been examining the roses. `Off with their heads!' and the procession moved on, three of the soldiers remaining behind to execute the unfortunate gardeners, who ran to Alice for protection. `You shan't be beheaded!' said Alice, and she put them into a large flower-pot that stood near. The three soldiers wandered about for a minute or two, looking for them, and then quietly marched off after the others. `Are their heads off?' shouted the Queen. `Their heads are gone, if it please your Majesty!' the soldiers shouted in reply. `That's right!' shouted the Queen. `Can you play croquet?' The soldiers were silent, and looked at Alice, as the question was evidently meant for her. `Yes!' shouted Alice. `Come on, then!' roared the Queen, and Alice joined the procession, wondering very much what would happen next. `It's--it's a very fine day!' said a timid voice at her side. She was walking by the White Rabbit, who was peeping anxiously into her face. `Very,' said Alice: `--where's the Duchess?' `Hush! Hush!' said the Rabbit in a low, hurried tone. He looked anxiously over his shoulder as he spoke, and then raised himself upon tiptoe, put his mouth close to her ear, and whispered `She's under sentence of execution.' `What for?' said Alice. `Did you say "What a pity!"?' the Rabbit asked. `No, I didn't,' said Alice: `I don't think it's at all a pity. I said "What for?"' `She boxed the Queen's ears--' the Rabbit began. Alice gave a little scream of laughter. `Oh, hush!' the Rabbit whispered in a frightened tone. `The Queen will hear you! You see, she came rather late, and the Queen said--' `Get to your places!' shouted the Queen in a voice of thunder, and people began running about in all directions, tumbling up against each other; however, they got settled down in a minute or two, and the game began. Alice thought she had never seen such a curious croquet-ground in her life; it was all ridges and furrows; the balls were live hedgehogs, the mallets live flamingoes, and the soldiers had to double themselves up and to stand on their hands and feet, to make the arches. The chief difficulty Alice found at first was in managing her flamingo: she succeeded in getting its body tucked away, comfortably enough, under her arm, with its legs hanging down, but generally, just as she had got its neck nicely straightened out, and was going to give the hedgehog a blow with its head, it WOULD twist itself round and look up in her face, with such a puzzled expression that she could not help bursting out laughing: and when she had got its head down, and was going to begin again, it was very provoking to find that the hedgehog had unrolled itself, and was in the act of crawling away: besides all this, there was generally a ridge or furrow in the way wherever she wanted to send the hedgehog to, and, as the doubled-up soldiers were always getting up and walking off to


back there because the fight had begun hours earlier. Maybe he was coasting on hours of rage. Maybe he knew exactly what he was planning. I slept, but my dreams only rehashed things. The photos on Geoff’s bed, the math problem of the bike in the woods. A train leaves Kansas City at 9:00 p.m., headed for the gym. How angry is the driver? In the morning, I texted Fran: I have a quest for Jacob and Max. Could they time themselves, I asked, riding bikes from the gym to the old mattress spot? Could they avoid any newer paths? I didn’t explain. Fran wrote back: Who on earth had a bike?? But sure! They need exercise! It was cold now, and muddy, only a little snow. The conditions were about the same. We had decided at the end of the night that Alder would fill in both Britt and the defense team. We knew it was a reach—we’d probably sound like lunatics—but Robbie had yet to testify, so maybe they could make something of it. And meanwhile, those of us who had nothing better to do could at least dig harder. I had ridiculous visions of finding a rusty bike in the woods, Robbie’s fingerprints and Thalia’s blood still on the handlebars. The image I kept returning to was of a tangled necklace chain. In one of the more normal moments of my later childhood, my mother taught me to rub a chain with olive oil, then take a long, straight pin and start working on the tiniest of gaps, the place with the most give. Once one thing loosened, another could loosen, another. I always felt claustrophobic at the start. But over time I’d learned patience, learned the reward of breathing through my discomfort. What I knew was that we’d found a gap in the knot. I didn’t know what else it would loosen up, and I didn’t want to pull too hard, but I knew if we finessed it, wiggled it gently, other things would follow. Midday, Geoff and I took our laptops to Aroma Mocha and sat looking through the 1995 interview records for any details of the mattress party timeline, any mention of Robbie being there the whole time or of who walked together. The kids who’d been there listed all nineteen students at the mattress party, confirmed that they’d been drinking, talked about when they’d last seen Thalia. Nothing about how scattered they’d been on the trail. The only time it came up, either as a question or an answer, was the State Police asking both Sakina and Bendt Jensen whether Robbie had been there the whole time. Sakina said that to the best of her recollection, he was. Bendt said that he assumed so. They asked Sakina if he could have left early and she said no, because she remembered him helping Stiles walk home on his bad leg. Mike Stiles, in his own interview, talked about Robbie and Dorian helping him back. “It’s amazing,” Geoff said, “that they thought to ask if he left


knew you had the sort of friendship that would withstand the changing years.’ ‘Come and sit down with us, Miss.’ Minnie patted the seat next to her, gazing at the teacher as she had done over sixty years ago. ‘I’d love to.’ Miss Hamilton eased herself slowly towards the table. ‘The scooter is parked outside. I don’t get around as well as I used to: my arthritis is very annoying, but I have a good doctor and she keeps an eye on me. That’s why I’ve moved here. I’ve just bought a nice bungalow on Tadderly Road.’ She sat down carefully, Minnie pushing out the chair, extending a hand. ‘Well, how pleasant. Just like old times.’ ‘You’re most welcome.’ Odile offered a wide smile. ‘What can I get you?’ ‘Tea…’ Miss Hamilton ignored the menu that Odile offered. ‘And did I overhear someone say carrot cake? A slice of that would be wonderful. With a dollop of cream, if you have it.’ She turned to the three former pupils who sat at the table looking at her, their eyes shining. ‘This is nice, isn’t it? It’s been quite a while…’ She leaned forwards, her voice soft with warmth. ‘Well, you must tell me about everything you’ve been doing over the last sixty years. It will be good to catch up with all the news.’ Then she stared across the café and she was suddenly stern. ‘Please do close your mouth, Jimmy Baker. You’re staring again, and you know it’s impolite to stare.’ ‘Yes, Miss,’ Jimmy replied automatically, and Dangerous Dave dug him in the ribs and began to laugh. Jimmy hung his head and Kenny looked around nervously. Miss Hamilton turned to the three friends at the table. ‘So, my girls,’ she purred. ‘I want to hear all about your lives since we last met. Every detail.’ She patted her silver hair. ‘Oh, I know so much has changed, but it’s good to be back in Middleton Ferris. I can’t wait to settle in and become part of the village. I know it’s going to be wonderful.’ 9 Florence sat on the edge of her bed fiddling with a bracelet, still in the green dress she had worn for work. Malia huddled next to her, legs crossed, shoes off, and Florence noticed how well she looked, all smiles and wild hair and torn jeans, her life open in front of her like an unwritten page. She sighed. ‘So, you’re going to London?’ ‘I want to work for a publisher – I’d love a marketing role.’ Malia leaned forwards. ‘It doesn’t take long from here to London by train.’ Florence nodded. ‘London’s a big place…’ ‘I’d love the bustle. I don’t want to be like Adam, living here, working with my dad. Or teaching forever, like poor Mum.’ Florence wasn’t sure what to say, so she took a breath. ‘Does Adam like living at home?’ ‘He’s saving for a mortgage; he’ll get a flat in Tadderly.’ Malia met her friend’s eyes. ‘He asked about you before I came out. He said to send


if I would promise for three months to let the matter rest and to be content with cultivating the lady's friendship during that time without claiming her love. This I promised, and so the matter rests." So there is one of our small mysteries cleared up. It is something to have touched bottom anywhere in this bog in which we are floundering. We know now why Stapleton looked with disfavour upon his sister's suitor -- even when that suitor was so eligible a one as Sir Henry. And now I pass on to another thread which I have extricated out of the tangled skein, the mystery of the sobs in the night, of the tear-stained face of Mrs. Barrymore, of the secret journey of the butler to the western lattice window. Congratulate me, my dear Holmes, and tell me that I have not disappointed you as an agent -- that you do not regret the confi- dence which you showed in me when you sent me down. All these things have by one night's work been thoroughly cleared. I have said "by one night's work," but, in truth, it was by two nights' work, for on the first we drew entirely blank. I sat up with Sir Henry in his rooms until nearly three o'clock in the morning, but no sound of any sort did we hear except the chiming clock upon the stairs. It was a most melancholy vigil and ended by each of us falling asleep in our chairs. Fortunately we were not discouraged, and we determined to try again. The next night we lowered the lamp and sat smoking cigarettes without making the least sound. It was incredible how slowly the hours crawled by, and yet we were helped through it by the same sort of patient interest which the hunter must feel as he watches the trap into which he hopes the game may wander. One struck, and two, and we had almost for the second time given it up in despair when in an instant we both sat bolt upright in our chairs with all our weary senses keenly on the alert once more. We had heard the creak of a step in the passage. Very stealthily we heard it pass along until it died away in the distance. Then the baronet gently opened his door and we set out in pursuit. Already our man had gone round the gallery and the corridor was all in darkness. Softly we stole along untii we had come into the other wing. We were just in time to catch a glimpse of the tall, black-bearded figure, his shoulders rounded as he tiptoed down the passage. Then he passed through the same door as before, and the light of the candle framed it in the darkness and shot one single yellow beam across the gloom of the corridor. We shuffled cautiously towards it, trying every plank before we dared to put our whole weight upon it. We had taken the precaution of leaving our boots behind us, but, even so, the


clear off.” “Did you take her last delivery, Mr. Champion?” said Mrs. King. His eyes swiveled to meet hers. A sneer. “I doubt it.” Winnie appeared troubled. “That’s not correct, Mr. Champion. I gave you my very best stock.” “I daresay you might have off-loaded some old handkerchiefs on me. I really can’t recall.” “I’m sure you have the receipts,” said Mrs. King. “I’m sure I don’t.” He looked like suet, a sick-making color. “Might I check?” she said. “Might you...” He paused, taking a breath, reddening further. “No, you may not. You can show yourself out.” His eyes rattled back and forth between them. “Here, what is this? Some job you’ve worked up between you? I said to clear off!” Winnie lifted her hands, alarmed. “Mr. Champion...” “Five guineas, Mr. Champion,” said Mrs. King. He stared at her. “What?” “Five guineas for the Navy. Or I want to see your order book.” Mr. Champion let out a scornful laugh. “Don’t make me send for the constable.” “Be my guest,” Mrs. King said in a congenial tone. “I’ll report exactly what I can see occurring here. You’re cheating ladies out of their dues.” “Say that again,” he said, voice dropping, “and you won’t be able to sell a stitch to any living body in town.” “Order book, please,” said Mrs. King, pressing her palms to the table. There was a long silence. Winnie was holding her breath. “Three guineas,” Mr. Champion said. Mrs. King sometimes wondered, How do I do it? How did she get people to capitulate, to bow? She didn’t exactly like it. It made her feel chilly and contemptuous of the world. But of course it was necessary. Somebody had to put things right in life. “Done,” she said, keeping her distance from Mr. Champion. He made a lot of noise, a lot of fuss, counting out the change. “You’re nothing more than a thief. You won’t be coming around here again. They’ll lock the doors on you two, that I can tell you for sure and certain—” But they got their three guineas. Winnie shoved the pram out into the road. “For heaven’s sake.” Mrs. King closed the shop door with a bang. “Here,” she said gravely, counting out shillings. Winnie gave her a long look, as if deciding whether to say thank you or not. She pressed her lips together. “I need a sherry,” she said. “Lead the way,” said Mrs. King, reaching for the perambulator. “I’ll mind Baby.” * * * They quick-marched to Bethnal Green, the perambulator listing and keeling all the way, men throwing them filthy looks as it ran over their toes. Mrs. King watched the sky changing. The sun drained away, as if giving up. It stirred her, the dusk: it put her in the hunting mood. And she was hungry for a very particular object. Mrs. King wasn’t the only housekeeper ever employed in that house on Park Lane. Winnie had held that illustrious title herself, only three years before. And she still held a most useful item in her possession.


think he was a whole Royal Family rolled into one--Prince Consort and all.". "Eh!" protested Mrs. Medlock, "we've had to let him trample all over every one of us ever since he had feet and he thinks that's what folks was born for." "Perhaps he'll grow out of it, if he lives," suggested Mr. Roach. "Well, there's one thing pretty sure," said Mrs. Medlock. "If he does live and that Indian child stays here I'll warrant she teaches him that thewhole orange does not belong to him, as Susan Sowerby says. And he'll be likely to find out the size of his own quarter." Inside the room Colin was leaning back on his cushions. "It's all safe now," he said. "And this afternoon I shall see it--this afternoon I shall be in it!" Dickon went back to the garden with his creatures and Mary stayed with Colin. She did not think he looked tired but he was very quiet before their lunch came and he was quiet while they were eating it. She wondered why and asked him about it. "What big eyes you've got, Colin," she said. "When you are thinking they get as big as saucers. What are you thinking about now?" "I can't help thinking about what it will look like," he answered. "The garden?" asked Mary. "The springtime," he said. "I was thinking that I've really never seen it before. I scarcely ever went out and when I did go I never looked at it. I didn't even think about it." "I never saw it in India because there wasn't any," said Mary. Shut in and morbid as his life had been, Colin had more imagination than she had and at least he had spent a good deal of time looking at wonderful books and pictures. "That morning when you ran in and said `It's come! It's come!, you made me feel quite queer. It sounded as if things were coming with a great procession and big bursts and wafts of music. I've a picture like it in one of my books--crowds of lovely people and children with garlands and branches with blossoms on them, everyone laughing and dancing and crowding and playing on pipes. That was why I said, `Perhaps we shall hear golden trumpets' and told you to throw open the window." "How funny!" said Mary. "That's really just what it feels like. And if all the flowers and leaves and green things and birds and wild creatures danced past at once, what a crowd it would be! I'm sure they'd dance and sing and flute and that would be the wafts of music." They both laughed but it was not because the idea was laughable but because they both so liked it. A little later the nurse made Colin ready. She noticed that instead of lying like a log while his clothes were put on he sat up and made some efforts to help himself, and he talked and laughed with Mary all the time. "This is one of his good days, sir," she said


nod sympathetically. I too spend many nights alone in my marriage bed. “May I listen to your pulse?” I ask. I’ve been studying medicine and treating women for years now. I feel confident, but I take my time, palpating to reach the three levels on both her wrists. Her pulse is as I expect. Thin, like fine thread, yet distinct and clear. I mull over her symptoms—the constant spotting, especially—and possibilities for treatment, knowing I can never ask Grandmother’s advice on this case. “You’re suffering from Spleen qi deficiency and injured Kidney yin caused by taxation from toil,” I offer. “This type of deep fatigue can come from too much work or from extreme mental doings like studying too hard.” “I sleep—” “A single night of sleep will not allow your body to catch up. Taxation from toil is deep. Look what it has already done to you. If I write you a prescription, will you be able to fill it?” “Oriole can go where she wants,” Meiling answers on behalf of the brickmaker. “Then here is what I would like you to do. First, please have the herbalist make you a Decoction to Supplement the Center and Boost Qi.” I don’t know if any of this will matter to Oriole, but I take the time to explain anyway. “This is a classic remedy from a book called Profound Formulas. My grandmother says she has the last copy in existence.” Oriole’s eyes widen as she absorbs this information. “The most important ingredient is one that we women rely on. Astragalus will help your fatigue and Blood prostration. I’m adding my own ideas to your prescription. Skullcap root purges Fire and inflammation. Nut grass rhizome not only has cooling properties, but it is well known to help with moon-water problems, weight loss, and sleep disorders. Japanese thistle is one of the best substances to stop runaway bleeding.” “Will it be expensive?” Oriole asks. “There are no extraordinary ingredients here,” I answer. “You will be fine,” Meiling adds soothingly. “When you’ve finished this remedy, I want you to take Pill to Greatly Supplement Yin,” I go on. “It includes among its many ingredients freshwater turtle shell and cork-tree bark.” “And I’ll get better?” “You will,” I answer. “I’ll send Young Midwife to make sure you’re recovering. If you have other problems, she will bring me here.” I make this offer because I’m confident enough in my treatment plan to be sure I won’t need to return. The pill is one I’ve used before. While it’s known to quell Fire in the yin and supplement the Kidney, it also helps with turbulent emotions. Oriole is polite and hospitable, but her bitterness about her life radiates from her as the entire brickyard radiates heat. Her anger is far more deep-seated and difficult to treat than her weeping womb, but my remedy will work on this too. Meiling and I say goodbye and retrace our steps to her home, where we’re able to sneak back upstairs unobserved. I’m exhausted, and my feet are in more pain than


was a part of this place; she couldn’t picture Calloway Park without him, even if he spent most of his time in London or traveling elsewhere. They had reached the waiting coach, and now that they were within view of the driver, Simon pulled his arm free. Lucy felt his absence more acutely than she would have liked, under the circumstances, though she forced herself not to think about what her disappointment might mean. Nothing could happen between her and Simon, even if she wished it to. They were too far apart in station, and Simon would undoubtedly hate her once she told him the truth. She clung to the smallest hope that he would forgive her, even if they did not continue their tentative friendship. “What are you so deep in thought about?” Lucy glanced over at Simon, smiling at the curious look he gave her. If she pretended they had simply met in passing, while traveling perhaps, and were not from such different worlds, she could imagine him giving her this look quite often. “I am contemplating what will become of us when William wakes,” she said truthfully. Simon frowned, as if he hadn’t even considered the idea, and though he opened his mouth to say something, a different voice cut through the small space between them. “I am ready, miss!” Rebecca slid to a stop at Lucy’s side and dipped into an unsteady curtsy, her chest heaving as if she had run the length of the house. She probably had, now that Lucy thought about it, and she seemed all too pleased to interrupt their conversation. “You must be so excited to see your future home, Miss Lucy,” she added for good measure. Lucy groaned at the same time Simon raised an eyebrow. It was odd enough to have a maid be so outspoken and obvious, but calling her Miss Lucy was another reason for Simon to return to those suspicions he had only just relinquished. Lucy had only wanted a few more moments with the man before she admitted the truth, and she had just condemned herself to an afternoon of lying through her teeth as she tried to skirt around Rebecca’s unwavering insistence that she do so. “Well, I suppose we should . . . ,” Simon said, but though he offered his hand to assist Lucy and Rebecca into the carriage, he hadn’t stopped frowning yet. Lucy longed to smooth out the wrinkle that had formed between his eyebrows. “Shall we?” he added. “Yes, my lord!” Rebecca said, far too loudly for someone who should have remained silent. “Miss Lucy is most eager.” The wrinkle on Simon’s brow deepened, driving Lucy mad. “Yes, you’ve said.” “Yes,” Lucy agreed, trying to send Rebecca a look of warning. It might have succeeded if the maid had looked her direction. Instead, Rebecca grabbed hold of Simon’s waiting hand and hopped into the carriage. Lucy did not move as quickly, knowing the journey was going to be agonizing. Why on earth had she suggested Rebecca as their chaperone? It could


than she caught herself up. "I mean that's HIS way--the master's." I was struck. "But of whom did you speak first?" She looked blank, but she colored. "Why, of HIM." "Of the master?" "Of who else?" There was so obviously no one else that the next moment I had lost my impression of her having accidentally said more than she meant; and I merely asked what I wanted to know. "Did SHE see anything in the boy--?" "That wasn't right? She never told me." I had a scruple, but I overcame it. "Was she careful--particular?" Mrs. Grose appeared to try to be conscientious. "About some things--yes." "But not about all?" Again she considered. "Well, miss--she's gone. I won't tell tales." "I quite understand your feeling," I hastened to reply; but I thought it, after an instant, not opposed to this concession to pursue: "Did she die here?" "No--she went off." I don't know what there was in this brevity of Mrs. Grose's that struck me as ambiguous. "Went off to die?" Mrs. Grose looked straight out of the window, but I felt that, hypothetically, I had a right to know what young persons engaged for Bly were expected to do. "She was taken ill, you mean, and went home?" "She was not taken ill, so far as appeared, in this house. She left it, at the end of the year, to go home, as she said, for a short holiday, to which the time she had put in had certainly given her a right. We had then a young woman-- a nursemaid who had stayed on and who was a good girl and clever; and SHE took the children altogether for the interval. But our young lady never came back, and at the very moment I was expecting her I heard from the master that she was dead." I turned this over. "But of what?" "He never told me! But please, miss," said Mrs. Grose, "I must get to my work." III Her thus turning her back on me was fortunately not, for my just preoccupations, a snub that could check the growth of our mutual esteem. We met, after I had brought home little Miles, more intimately than ever on the ground of my stupefaction, my general emotion: so monstrous was I then ready to pronounce it that such a child as had now been revealed to me should be under an interdict. I was a little late on the scene, and I felt, as he stood wistfully looking out for me before the door of the inn at which the coach had put him down, that I had seen him, on the instant, without and within, in the great glow of freshness, the same positive fragrance of purity, in which I had, from the first moment, seen his little sister. He was incredibly beautiful, and Mrs. Grose had put her finger on it: everything but a sort of passion of tenderness for him was swept away by his presence. What I then and there took him to my heart for


IT’S Randy, his tone cold and accusatory. Although… he always sounds like that. Default mode: asshole. “What?” I ask, filling a glass with Coke from the fountain. “What am I doing?” “You’re cheerful,” he says, pulling a toothpick from the dish near the cash register and peeling off the paper. “And nice. It’s not like you at all.” I snort and roll my eyes, hurrying away with the glass of soda. Randy’s not wrong. I’m happier than I’ve been since I came to Seattle. My prospects are slowly but surely improving. Hazel is getting me new identification. When I sell the netsuke, I’ll have a thousand bucks. And I have a spa day to look forward to. More importantly, I have a friend. And a boyfriend. Or a lover. Whatever Jesse is. He hasn’t come to see me since I spent the night with him, but I’m not concerned. It’s only been a few days. And I didn’t imagine our connection, the closeness between us. This sense of vulnerability is new to me, though. I’m used to having the power, holding the strings. I’ve never felt this way—not with André, my boyfriend of four years, not even in high school. I’m raw and needy. Is it because I’ve been stripped of my identity and everything I valued? Has my downfall opened me up, torn down my emotional walls? It is an odd feeling: heady, exciting, and terrifying. After my shift, I eat a burger in the kitchen, toying with my flip phone. It has been virtually useless to me. I’ve only made a handful of calls to auto glass repair shops. The phone has never rung. Not even once. Flicking through the contacts, I find Hazel’s number. And Teresa’s. I added it a couple of weeks ago, afraid I might forget it. But I’ll never call her. I know that now. I don’t have Jesse’s digits, but I know where he lives. I could show up at his apartment. It’s late, but he might appreciate the booty call. Or he might think it’s creepy. That I’m creepy. Because a call implies using a phone, not showing up in person. The old Lee would have gone to him, wouldn’t have worried about rejection, but I am different now. Softer. More fragile. The next time I see Jesse, I’ll ask him for his number. With a wave to the kitchen staff, I shuffle out the back door. The alley is dark, and quiet. A single bulb in a metal cage burns over the parking area. I am tired tonight, and the drive to the beach stretches long ahead of me. As I reach my car, I become aware of a figure in the shadows. I stop, my heart rabbiting in my chest. The knife is inside my car, next to the driver’s seat. Do I open the door and grab for it? Or run back into the diner? The figure is coming toward me, growing familiar. “Hey.” It’s Jesse, his voice husky. “Did I scare you?” “Uh… yeah.” “Shit. Sorry.” “Why didn’t you come


heard you ma, I’ll do something about it.” Aunty Caro reached out to take Yèyé’s bags. “Good afternoon, Yèyé, let’s go to my sitting room.” “No, no, this place is fine. I’m leaving soon.” Aunty Caro led Yèyé to the only two-seater sofa in the shop, then pushed a mound of fabric that had been piled high onto it to a side, creating just enough room for Yèyé. “What should we get for you?” Aunty Caro asked as Yèyé sat down. “Coke or Fanta? Àbí zobo?” “I feel like taking something, but Wúràọlá has said I should stop taking sugary things. Because of my blood sugar kiníkan sha.” Yèyé sighed. “In this short life, these doctors don’t want us to manage the small enjoyment we can enjoy.” “One bottle won’t kill you,” Aunty Caro said. “Àbí? But, you know, I always tell her father o, since we are the ones who sent Wúràọlá to learn, we must suffer from the knowledge she now has. We are enjoying the money we spent.” Aunty Caro chuckled. “How is our young doctor? We’ve not even seen her shadow here for months.” “Someone that doesn’t have time for herself. She’s okay, it’s even because of her that—” Yèyé stopped midsentence. “Good evening o, what I was saying made me forget to greet you people. Maria? Ṣèyí? Ẹniọlá, àbí? And…Fúnkẹ́? Good evening, everybody, gbogbo riín ni mo kí o.” They all replied at once, their voices mingling with hers as she continued speaking to Aunty Caro. “Ehen, so it’s even because of Wúràọlá that I’m here. Can you imagine that this girl has not sewn the lace we picked for my birthday? Since three months ago that we chose this material, you’d think my child would have picked a good style for the day. Ótí o, maybe she’s waiting until two days before the ceremony, I don’t know. But I’ve brought.” Yèyé leaned over and picked up the golden paper bag she’d dropped beside her on the sofa. One side of the bag bore a large photo of Yèyé smiling, while the other sides had several smaller ones of her seated, standing, mid-dance. Embossed below the largest photo in bold green letters: Chief (Mrs.) Christianah Àlàkẹ́ Mákinwá. Yèyé Bọ́bajírò of Ìjẹ̀ṣàland @ 50. Yèyé thrust the bag towards Aunty Caro, who reached into it to bring out a bundle of green lace fabric, before setting it down on the floor beside Yèyé’s feet. “You can keep the bag,” Yèyé said. “That’s the souvenir we are giving out with the aṣọ-ebí. I’ve wanted to bring one for you since, but I keep forgetting.” “And it’s very fine.” Aunty Caro picked the bag up and examined it. “Àbí, Láyí had them made in Àkúrẹ́. Plenty, like one thousand o, and he brought them in time for me to use them to package the aṣọ-ebí. Very thoughtful boy. I like the finishing, very beautiful.” “Why won’t it be fine, when you’re this beautiful?” “Caro, this my wrinkled face.” “It’s your face that makes it beautiful, Yèyé, you look like a


it that way too. A reporter asked

him what he thought of my time in Las Vegas, and Christie vowed that if I

spent the whole day with him, “nobody’s going to get naked.” The line got a

big laugh, because Christie is famously stout.

Before Jersey I’d gone to Washington, D.C., met with President Barack

Obama and First Lady Michelle Obama, visited Arlington National

Cemetery, laid a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. I'd laid

dozens of wreaths before, but the ritual was different in America. You didn’t

place the wreath on the grave yourself; a white-gloved soldier placed it with

you, and then you laid your hand singly, for one beat, upon the wreath. This

extra step, this partnering with another living soldier, moved me. Holding

my hand to the wreath for that extra second, I found myself a bit wobbly, my

mind flooding with images of all the men and women with whom I’d

served. I thought about death, injury, grief, from Helmand Province to

Hurricane Sandy to the Alma tunnel, and I wondered how other people just

got on with their lives, whereas I felt such doubt and confusion—and

something else.

What? I wondered.

Sadness?

Numbness?

I couldn’t name it. And without being able to give it a name, I felt a kind

of vertigo.

What was happening to me?

The whole American tour lasted only five days—a true whirlwind. So

many sights, and faces, and remarkable moments. But on the flight home I

was thinking about only one part.

A stop-off in Colorado. Something called the Warrior Games. A kind of

Olympiad for wounded soldiers, with two hundred men and women taking

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part, each of whom inspired me.

I watched them closely, saw them having the time of their lives, saw them

competing to the hilt, and I asked them...how?

Sport, they said. The most direct route to healing.

Most were natural athletes, and


side. He saw the word LOTTS on the wall of the lane and breathed slowly the rank heavy air. That is horse piss and rotted straw, he thought. It is a good odour to breathe. It will calm my heart. My heart is quite calm now. I will go back. * * * * * Stephen was once again seated beside his father in the corner of a railway carriage at Kingsbridge. He was travelling with his father by the night mail to Cork. As the train steamed out of the station he recalled his childish wonder of years before and every event of his first day at Clongowes. But he felt no wonder now. He saw the darkening lands slipping away past him, the silent telegraph-poles passing his window swiftly every four seconds, the little glimmering stations, manned by a few silent sentries, flung by the mail behind her and twinkling for a moment in the darkness like fiery grains flung backwards by a runner. He listened without sympathy to his father's evocation of Cork and of scenes of his youth, a tale broken by sighs or draughts from his pocket flask whenever the image of some dead friend appeared in it or whenever the evoker remembered suddenly the purpose of his actual visit. Stephen heard but could feel no pity. The images of the dead were all strangers to him save that of uncle Charles, an image which had lately been fading out of memory. He knew, however, that his father's property was going to be sold by auction, and in the manner of his own dispossession he felt the world give the lie rudely to his phantasy. At Maryborough he fell asleep. When he awoke the train had passed out of Mallow and his father was stretched asleep on the other seat. The cold light of the dawn lay over the country, over the unpeopled fields and the closed cottages. The terror of sleep fascinated his mind as he watched the silent country or heard from time to time his father's deep breath or sudden sleepy movement. The neighbourhood of unseen sleepers filled him with strange dread, as though they could harm him, and he prayed that the day might come quickly. His prayer, addressed neither to God nor saint, began with a shiver, as the chilly morning breeze crept through the chink of the carriage door to his feet, and ended in a trail of foolish words which he made to fit the insistent rhythm of the train; and silently, at intervals of four seconds, the telegraph-poles held the galloping notes of the music between punctual bars. This furious music allayed his dread and, leaning against the windowledge, he let his eyelids close again. They drove in a jingle across Cork while it was still early morning and Stephen finished his sleep in a bedroom of the Victoria Hotel. The bright warm sunlight was streaming through the window and he could hear the din of traffic. His father was standing before the dressing-table, examining his hair and face


in his parlour tonight, with the kernels blown out from under them by a neon wind, and his silly damned reading of a book to them. How like trying to put out fires with water-pistols, how senseless and insane. One rage turned in for another. One anger displacing another. When would he stop being entirely mad and be quiet, be very quiet indeed? "Here we go!" Montag looked up. Beatty never drove, but he was driving tonight, slamming the Salamander around corners, leaning forward high on the driver's throne, his massive black slicker flapping out behind so that he seemed a great black bat flying above the engine, over the brass numbers, taking the full wind. "Here we go to keep the world happy, Montag !" Beatty's pink, phosphorescent cheeks glimmered in the high darkness, and he was smiling furiously. "Here we are!" The Salamander boomed to a halt, throwing men off in slips and clumsy hops. Montag stood fixing his raw eyes to the cold bright rail under his clenched fingers. I can't do it, he thought. How can I go at this new assignment, how can I go on burning things? I can't go in this place. Beatty, smelling of the wind through which he had rushed, was at Montag's elbow. "All right, Montag?" The men ran like cripples in their clumsy boots, as quietly as spiders. At last Montag raised his eyes and turned. Beatty was watching his face. "Something the matter, Montag?" "Why," said Montag slowly, "we've stopped in front of my house." PART III BURNING BRIGHT LIGHTS flicked on and house-doors opened all down the street, to watch the carnival set up. Montag and Beatty stared, one with dry satisfaction, the other with disbelief, at the house before them, this main ring in which torches would be juggled and fire eaten. "Well," said Beatty, "now you did it. Old Montag wanted to fly near the sun and now that he's burnt his damn wings, he wonders why. Didn't I hint enough when I sent the Hound around your place?" Montag's face was entirely numb and featureless; he felt his head turn like a stone carving to the dark place next door, set in its bright borders of flowers. Beatty snorted. "Oh, no! You weren't fooled by that little idiot's routine, now, were you? Flowers, butterflies, leaves, sunsets, oh, hell! It's all in her file. I'll be damned. I've hit the bullseye. Look at the sick look on your face. A few grass-blades and the quarters of the moon. What trash. What good did she ever do with all that?" Montag sat on the cold fender of the Dragon, moving his head half an inch to the left, half an inch to the right, left, right, left right, left .... "She saw everything. She didn't do anything to anyone. She just let them alone." "Alone, hell ! She chewed around you, didn't she? One of those damn do-gooders with their shocked, holier-than-thou silences, their one talent making others feel guilty. God damn, they rise like the midnight sun


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

here, Malfoy," said Harry quietly. Everyone stopped talking to watch. Malfoy smiled nastily. "I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find -- how about -- up a tree?" "Give it here!" Harry yelled, but Malfoy had leapt onto his broomstick and taken off. He hadn't been lying, he could fly well. Hovering level with the topmost branches of an oak he called, "Come and get it, Potter!" Harry grabbed his broom. "No!" shouted Hermione Granger. "Madam Hooch told us not to move -- you'll get us all into trouble." Harry ignored her. Blood was pounding in his ears. He mounted the broom and kicked hard against the ground and up, up he soared; air rushed through his hair, and his robes whipped out behind him -- and in a rush of fierce joy he realized he'd found something he could do without being taught -- this was easy, this was wonderful. He pulled his broomstick up a little to take it even higher, and heard screams and gasps of girls back on the ground and an admiring whoop from Ron. He turned his broomstick sharply to face Malfoy in midair. Malfoy looked stunned. "Give it here," Harry called, "or I'll knock you off that broom!" "Oh, yeah?" said Malfoy, trying to sneer, but looking worried. Harry knew, somehow, what to do. He leaned forward and grasped the broom tightly in both hands, and it shot toward Malfoy like a javelin. Malfoy only just got out of the way in time; Harry made a sharp about-face and held the broom steady. A few people below were clapping. "No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy," Harry called. The same thought seemed to have struck Malfoy. "Catch it if you can, then!" he shouted, and he threw the glass ball high into the air and streaked back toward the ground. Harry saw, as though in slow motion, the ball rise up in the air and then start to fall. He leaned forward and pointed his broom handle down -- next second he was gathering speed in a steep dive, racing the ball -- wind whistled in his ears, mingled with the screams of people watching -- he stretched out his hand -- a foot from the ground he caught it, just in time to pull his broom straight, and he toppled gently onto the grass with the Remembrall clutched safely in his fist. "HARRY POTTER!" His heart sank faster than he'd just dived. Professor McGonagall was running toward them. He got to his feet, trembling. "Never -- in all my time at Hogwarts -- " Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with shock, and her glasses flashed furiously, " -- how dare you -- might have broken your neck -- " "It wasn't his fault, Professor -- " "Be quiet, Miss Patil -- " "But Malfoy -- " "That's enough, Mr. Weasley. Potter, follow me, now." Harry caught sight of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle's triumphant faces as he left, walking numbly in Professor McGonagall's wake as she strode toward the


to mine until our lips touched. To say that I saw fireworks would have been an exaggeration, but to say that I felt fireworks in my entire network of blood vessels would have been one hundred per cent accurate. I bent my head and kissed her as though it was the first time I had ever kissed anyone. It felt brand-new. We fit perfectly together. Her fingertips skated from my chest up along my jawline and then through my hair. I pulled her hips closer to mine and heard her sigh. I stopped for a moment and spoke, my own voice hardly recognisable as it had dropped to the husky octave of Barry White. ‘Is this okay?’ She nodded and then her lips were back on mine. I don’t know how long we stood there, it could have been twenty minutes or twenty seconds, before a customer came in and cleared his throat loudly. While silently vowing to murder him in his sleep, I found Martha’s hand and curled mine around it. ‘Do you want to come back to mine?’ ‘There’s something I have to do first,’ she said and she dragged me out of the shop, making a run for it. ‘Where are we going?’ ‘Trinity. I have five minutes left to register for my course!’ Chapter Twenty-Two OPALINE England, 1922 My trip began as planned, with a visit to the Brontë Society. Merely to stand where the Brontë sisters had stood, to look out at the moors that inspired Emily’s writing, was such a touching experience. The house itself stood like a fortress, its grey brick tempered by the large sash windows. I tried to imagine what it would have been like to live there, daughters of a fervently religious man, pressed up against the wilds of such an unyielding landscape. Young women, spinsters like myself, ignored by the world of men and literature, pouring their heart and passion into their writing and taking on the male pseudonyms of Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell. I stood there in Mr Fitzpatrick’s trousers and a long overcoat, similarly at odds with the constraints of our gender. It was also a disguise, in case Lyndon had his spies out. After Patrick Brontë’s death, the entire contents of the house were either auctioned off or gifted to those who worked at Haworth. The Society was fortunate enough to have acquired much of these effects and their archives were quite impressive. I came across poems by Emily, annotated by elder sister Charlotte, immediately giving me the impression of a sibling power struggle, albeit a loving one. It was common knowledge that Charlotte was critical of her younger sister’s masterpiece. In the preface to the 1850 edition of Wuthering Heights, where Emily’s authorship was finally recognised, Charlotte wrote: Whether it is right or advisable to create beings like Heathcliff, I do not know: I scarcely think it is. Wuthering Heights was hewn in a wild workshop, with simple tools, out of homely materials. Charlotte was the only one of the sisters to marry. She married Arthur


over, an' it looked like that gun was a part of him... an' he did it so quick, like... I hafta aim for ten minutes 'fore I can hit somethin'...." Miss Maudie grinned wickedly. "Well now, Miss Jean Louise," she said, "still think your father can't do anything? Still ashamed of him?" "Nome," I said meekly. "Forgot to tell you the other day that besides playing the Jew's Harp, Atticus Finch was the deadest shot in Maycomb County in his time." "Dead shot..." echoed Jem. "That's what I said, Jem Finch. Guess you'll change your tune now. The very idea, didn't you know his nickname was Ol' One-Shot when he was a boy? Why, down at the Landing when he was coming up, if he shot fifteen times and hit fourteen doves he'd complain about wasting ammunition." "He never said anything about that," Jem muttered. "Never said anything about it, did he?" "No ma'am." "Wonder why he never goes huntin' now," I said. "Maybe I can tell you," said Miss Maudie. "If your father's anything, he's civilized in his heart. Marksmanship's a gift of God, a talent- oh, you have to practice to make it perfect, but shootin's different from playing the piano or the like. I think maybe he put his gun down when he realized that God had given him an unfair advantage over most living things. I guess he decided he wouldn't shoot till he had to, and he had to today." "Looks like he'd be proud of it," I said. "People in their right minds never take pride in their talents," said Miss Maudie. We saw Zeebo drive up. He took a pitchfork from the back of the garbage truck and gingerly lifted Tim Johnson. He pitched the dog onto the truck, then poured something from a gallon jug on and around the spot where Tim fell. "Don't yawl come over here for a while," he called. When we went home I told Jem we'd really have something to talk about at school on Monday. Jem turned on me. "Don't say anything about it, Scout," he said. "What? I certainly am. Ain't everybody's daddy the deadest shot in Maycomb County." Jem said, "I reckon if he'd wanted us to know it, he'da told us. If he was proud of it, he'da told us." "Maybe it just slipped his mind," I said. "Naw, Scout, it's something you wouldn't understand. Atticus is real old, but I wouldn't care if he couldn't do anything- I wouldn't care if he couldn't do a blessed thing." Jem picked up a rock and threw it jubilantly at the carhouse. Running after it, he called back: "Atticus is a gentleman, just like me!" 11 When we were small, Jem and I confined our activities to the southern neighborhood, but when I was well into the second grade at school and tormenting Boo Radley became passe, the business section of Maycomb drew us frequently up the street past the real property of Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose. It was impossible to go to town without passing her


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

so his adorable assistant is good at the Google. That must be why I’m here. “Base Paired it is.” Hot Brit spreads his hands magnanimously. “It’s a clever idea, Felicity, and the timing was great.” Or maybe he’s not so good at the Google: anyone who knows me either personally or professionally knows that the only people who call me Felicity are my former schoolteachers, and even then only on the first day of class or when I was in trouble. Anyway, despite his patronizing tone, he’s right—the timing was great. I wrote Base Paired just as GeneticAlly launched the DNADuo app, and its publication dovetailed perfectly with the rising hype of the technology. That book, about two sworn enemies who turn out to be a Diamond Match, spent a long time on the bestseller list. But after a small production company failed to sell a series, I got the rights back last month. “Listen, Ted—” “Connor.” “—I’m going to be honest,” I say, rolling past this because, frankly, his name doesn’t much matter. “The rights are available, and I’m not opposed to working with someone to adapt it into a film or series, but this project is special to me for a lot of reasons, and I’m wary of—” He holds up a giant man hand. “Sorry to interrupt. It’s just—that’s not why I asked for a meeting.” I am immediately confused. And maybe a little annoyed with myself for skimming my agent’s email. “What?” “I’m not interested in adapting Base Paired.” Hot Brit shakes his head. “I’m curious whether you’re open to being cast as the lead in an upcoming show.” At this, I frown, concerned. “I’m an author.” “Yes.” “I felt like we were on the same page for a minute.” I wave a finger back and forth between us. “But that question took us to different genres.” He laughs, and not only does it seem to come from some sexy depth in his chest, it also reveals a small dimple, low on one cheek. Tall, British, and dimpled? Never trust a cliché. “We’d like to offer you the role of the central character in an upcoming reality dating show.” I stare blankly at him. “Me?” “Yes.” “A dating show?” “Yes.” “One where I’m dating?” “Yes.” “Is this a joke?” I am immediately suspicious. And then it clicks. I went on a couple of dates last year with a community theater director who insisted he had lots of connections in the feature world. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so obvious in my disbelief. “Did Steven put you up to this?” “Steven?” “I don’t remember his last name,” I admit. “But picture the hot guitar-playing college heartthrob archetype, then add twenty years to his jawline.” Hot Brit frowns. “I don’t—Yeah, no. There’s no Steven involved in this.” Oh. Of course. “Billy? He used to work at Paramount.” I mime muscles. “Gym rat? Shaves everything?” He shakes his head, bewildered. “It’s coming from—” “Evan.” I slap the arm of the leather chair. “Goddammit, of course!” I look at Hot Brit. “He