close she is to having that plan fall apart. All it would take is for someone to come along and contest the agreement. Lenora’s grandson, for example. I consider mentioning that I know Lenora had a baby. I don’t because, just like Archie, I doubt Mrs. Baker will be honest about it. Also, I see no reason to make myself a target. If I’m not one already. Because her revelation that she’ll inherit Hope’s End makes me suspect there are secrets Mrs. Baker would do anything to keep. And that she had every reason in the world to kill Mary. Miss Baker made us tea and took me back to the sunroom for what she called “a nice chat.” As if nothing about our respective roles had changed. I was still the pupil and she the proper lady tasked with teaching me how to become the same. Only I seemed to see the ridiculousness of that. After all, I knew what she’d been doing with my father in that same sunroom minutes earlier. “What do we do now?” she said, addressing the situation as if we both had a say in the matter. She didn’t. “You can start by telling me why,” I said. “Why my father? Do you love him?” Miss Baker could barely hold back her laughter. “No, child. What we have is strictly transactional. I give him what he wants, and he rewards me with small tokens of appreciation.” Money, in other words. For all her talk of manners and propriety, Miss Baker was nothing but a high-class whore. My disgust with her must have shown in my expression, because she snapped, “Don’t you dare judge me, young lady. Someone like you, born into enormous wealth, has no idea what it’s like for the rest of us. The things we need to do to survive. Especially unmarried women like me. I’m simply looking out for my future.” “At what price?” I said. “The highest one I can get.” Miss Baker leaned back in her seat, daring me to say another critical word. “Is that what all this is about? You wanted to confront me? Try to shame me?” “No,” I said. “I wanted to show you this.” I stood, pulled the fabric of my dress tight against me, and turned so Miss Baker could see my growing stomach in profile. “Dear me,” she said as she set her teacup on its saucer. Her hands shook so much the teacup rattled the whole way to the table at her side. “How far along are you?” “Six months.” “And the father?” “I’m not going to tell you,” I said, unwilling to risk bringing Ricky into this. If Miss Baker knew, she might tell my father, who would surely fire him. Then there’d be no hope of Ricky and me scraping together enough money for the one thing I most desperately wanted to do--escape. “Did he force himself on you?” Miss Baker said. My face turned red as I shook my head and looked at the floor, too ashamed to face her.


the stability of foreign governments inside the CIA and knew the indicators of political deterioration as well as anyone. Specifically, I wanted to know what the implications would be for democratic stability during the presidency of “Trump 2.0” or a MAGA successor. Gordon answered in the language of a seasoned intelligence analyst, who prognosticates in terms of “low, medium, and high” confidence. Spy assessments are based on data from sources in the field and the uncertainty level of information they don’t have. “I would assess with ‘low confidence’ that the United States reaches its three hundredth birthday in any recognizable form,” she stated without emotion, using the distant civic anniversary of 2076 as a marker. Gordon elaborated on her dire forecast. Her pessimism wasn’t because the Next Trump would succeed in breaking every democratic guardrail, per se. But in attempting to do so, he or she would stoke unprecedented division in the country and set off a slow turn toward despotism. “People don’t trust government institutions anymore or each other,” she said, “and when the world gets tumultuous, they’re more open to authoritarianism.” That’s where it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. As public trust breaks down, social disorder goes up. Some people run to the safety of a populist strongman to protect the country from the chaos. Anti-democratic leaders then stoke further discord to justify retaining power, under the false pretense of maintaining “law and order.” That, in turn, increases the potential for widespread armed conflict. The process can take decades to unfold. If history is any guide, though, it might come to a head suddenly, with the literal pull of a trigger. And the odds of that happening in the not-too-distant future are historically high. Political assassinations and civil unrest will become more likely. According to U.S. Capitol Police, in the five years after Donald Trump was elected in 2016, the number of recorded threats against members of Congress increased more than 400 percent, to 9,625 in 2021. Lawmakers told news outlets that they were living in a state of fear and some were changing their votes for safety reasons. Many representatives retired after Trump’s presidency, publicly citing the danger to their families. We are witnessing what appears to be the largest spike in threats to U.S. public servants in modern history. In terms of volume, it’s worse than the chatter we saw in the period following the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks on the United States. The list of near-death incidents is growing. The year after Trump left office, a man showed up outside the home of Representative Pramila Jayapal, allegedly brandishing a firearm and threatening to kill her. After a campaign event against MAGA Republican Mike Lee, independent U.S. Senate candidate Evan McMullin was reportedly chased by a man in a truck holding a pistol. And in November 2022, a man broke into the home of House Speaker Nancy Pelosi with the hope of killing the woman second in line to the presidency. She wasn’t there. Instead the suspect beat her husband close to the edge of his life. The


which she meant to do herself, to discover what was the matter if possible. Overhead, as she sat, she could now hear the floorboards slightly creak, as if some one were walking about, and presently the movement was explained by the rustle of garments against the banisters, the opening and the closing of the front door, and the form of Tess passing to the gate on her way into the street. She was fully dressed now in the walking costume of a well-to-do young lady in which she had arrived, with the sole addition that over her hat and black feathers a veil was drawn. Mrs Brooks had not been able to catch any word of farewell, temporary or otherwise, between her tenants at the door above. They might have quarrelled, or Mr d'Urberville might still be asleep, for he was not an early riser. She went into the back room which was more especially her own apartment, and continued her sewing there. The lady lodger did not return, nor did the gentleman ring his bell. Mrs Brooks pondered on the delay, and on what probable relation the visitor who had called so early bore to the couple upstairs. In reflecting she leant back in her chair. As she did so her eyes glanced casually over the ceiling till they were arrested by a spot in the middle of its white surface which she had never noticed there before. It was about the size of a wafer when she first observed it, but it speedily grew as large as the palm of her hand, and then she could perceive that it was red. The oblong white ceiling, with this scarlet blot in the midst, had the appearance of a gigantic ace of hearts. Mrs Brooks had strange qualms of misgiving. She got upon the table, and touched the spot in the ceiling with her fingers. It was damp, and she fancied that it was a blood stain. Descending from the table, she left the parlour, and went upstairs, intending to enter the room overhead, which was the bedchamber at the back of the drawing-room. But, nerveless woman as she had now become, she could not bring herself to attempt the handle. She listened. The dead silence within was broken only by a regular beat. Drip, drip, drip. Mrs Brooks hastened downstairs, opened the front door, and ran into the street. A man she knew, one of the workmen employed at an adjoining villa, was passing by, and she begged him to come in and go upstairs with her; she feared something had happened to one of her lodgers. The workman assented, and followed her to the landing. She opened the door of the drawing-room, and stood back for him to pass in, entering herself behind him. The room was empty; the breakfast--a substantial repast of coffee, eggs, and a cold ham--lay spread upon the table untouched, as when she had taken it up, excepting that the carving-knife was missing. She asked the man to go through the folding-doors into the adjoining room.


critical. Fugitives were predictable the first hour after escape. They always needed the same thing. Travel. Lodging. Cash. The Holy Trinity. Interpol had the power to make all three disappear in the blink of an eye. By broadcast-faxing photos of Langdon and Sophie to Paris travel authorities, hotels, and banks, Interpol would leave no options-no way to leave the city, no place to hide, and no way to withdraw cash without being recognized. Usually, fugitives panicked on the street and did something stupid. Stole a car. Robbed a store. Used a bank card in desperation. Whatever mistake they committed, they quickly made their whereabouts known to local authorities. "Only Langdon, right?" Collet said. "You're not flagging Sophie Neveu. She's our own agent." "Of course I'm flagging her!" Fache snapped. "What good is flagging Langdon if she can do all his dirty work? I plan to run Neveu's employment file-friends, family, personal contacts-anyone she might turn to for help. I don't know what she thinks she's doing out there, but it's going to cost her one hell of a lot more than her job!" "Do you want me on the phones or in the field?" "Field. Get over to the train station and coordinate the team. You've got the reins, but don't make a move without talking to me." "Yes, sir." Collet ran out. Fache felt rigid as he stood in the alcove. Outside the window, the glass pyramid shone, its reflection rippling in the windswept pools. They slipped through my fingers. He told himself to relax. Even a trained field agent would be lucky to withstand the pressure that Interpol was about to apply. A female cryptologist and a schoolteacher? They wouldn't last till dawn. 107 CHAPTER 37 The heavily forested park known as the Bois de Boulogne was called many things, but the Parisian cognoscenti knew it as "the Garden of Earthly Delights." The epithet, despite sounding flattering, was quite to the contrary. Anyone who had seen the lurid Bosch painting of the same name understood the jab; the painting, like the forest, was dark and twisted, a purgatory for freaks and fetishists. At night, the forest's winding lanes were lined with hundreds of glistening bodies for hire, earthly delights to satisfy one's deepest unspoken desires-male, female, and everything in between. As Langdon gathered his thoughts to tell Sophie about the Priory of Sion, their taxi passed through the wooded entrance to the park and began heading west on the cobblestone crossfare. Langdon was having trouble concentrating as a scattering of the park's nocturnal residents were already emerging from the shadows and flaunting their wares in the glare of the headlights. Ahead, two topless teenage girls shot smoldering gazes into the taxi. Beyond them, a well-oiled black man in a G-string turned and flexed his buttocks. Beside him, a gorgeous blond woman lifted her miniskirt to reveal that she was not, in fact, a woman. Heaven help me! Langdon turned his gaze back inside the cab and took a deep breath. "Tell me about the Priory of Sion," Sophie said. Langdon


being reminded to sit up straight and keep their cameras on. Their world had shrunk to the four walls of our house, our yard, and the neighborhood we meandered through day after day. We knew that we were luckier than many. We were trying our best. But none of us were doing well, and the first long pandemic winter was on the way. This dog, I decided, was going to be the family comfort animal. The kids picked out a name together and refused to consider any others. It was my lap that Peggy curled up on to sleep during the drive home, firmly rejecting the blanket-and-newspaper-lined cardboard box we’d brought with us. By the time she came along to throw our entire household into joyful chaos, several more families we knew had gotten dogs. One went “just to look” at a litter of puppies and wound up bringing one home on the same day we got Peggy, without so much as a dog bed or food bowl ready. Holdouts teased us for giving their children fuel for their own pandemic pet campaigns. “Way to make it that much harder for the rest of us,” one friend said. “I want my kid to meet your puppy, but also my kid should never meet your puppy.” We had no regrets, even on days when Peggy woke us before dawn and soiled the floor every twenty minutes. She followed us from room to room, searching for someone to cuddle with when she wanted to sleep—I’d never met a needier being, yet she seemed convinced that she was taking care of us, not the other way around. She would often nap under the kids’ desks during their endless school Zoom days, near enough to be stealthily petted. One day I came into the living room to find our twelve-pound puppy exuberantly chasing my older child in circles around our coffee table, and I realized it was the first I’d heard her deep belly laugh in weeks. Nearly every other time I’d witnessed someone’s happiness or glee in the months since my mother’s death, I felt as though I were viewing it through a thick sheet of glass—though I might smile or laugh along, the emotion itself remained indistinct, inaccessible to me, something I could see and remember but not feel, at least not fully. The joy on my daughter’s face as Peggy scampered after her stood out so clear and sharp and bright, it was as if I could reach out and grab ahold of it. * * * I don’t remember when or why I first began to pay attention to my mother’s anxiety. At some point I realized that talking with her sometimes made me more anxious, but it wasn’t clear to me why; like me, she was someone I thought of as a worrier, but it wasn’t as if she were always catastrophizing when we talked. She had a hard time with silence, I noticed, and couldn’t help but try to fill it, which sometimes meant a jarring topic shift or slightly


not the least among the strange things bred by the intense artificialness of sea-usages, that while in the open air of the deck some officers will, upon provocation, bear themselves boldly and defyingly enough towards their commander; yet, ten to one, let those very officers the next moment go down to their customary dinner in that same commander's cabin, and straightway their inoffensive, not to say deprecatory and humble air towards him, as he sits at the head of the table; this is marvellous, sometimes most comical. Wherefore this difference? A problem? Perhaps not. To have been Belshazzar, King of Babylon; and to have been Belshazzar, not haughtily but courteously, therein certainly must have been some touch of mundane grandeur. But he who in the rightly regal and intelligent spirit presides over his own private dinner-table of invited guests, that man's unchallenged power and dominion of individual influence for the time; that man's royalty of state transcends Belshazzar's, for Belshazzar was not the greatest. Who has but once dined his friends, has tasted what it is to be Caesar. It is a witchery of social czarship which there is no withstanding. Now, if to this consideration you superadd the official supremacy of a ship-master, then, by inference, you will derive the cause of that peculiarity of sea-life just mentioned. .. <p 147 > Over his ivory-inlaid table, Ahab presided like a mute, maned sea-lion on the white coral beach, surrounded by his warlike but still deferential cubs. In his own proper turn, each officer waited to be served. They were as little children before Ahab; and yet, in Ahab, there seemed not to lurk the smallest social arrogance. With one mind, their intent eyes all fastened upon the old man's knife, as he carved the chief dish before him. I do not suppose that for the world they would have profaned that moment with the slightest observation, even upon so neutral a topic as the weather. No! And when reaching out his knife and fork, between which the slice of beef was locked, Ahab thereby motioned Starbuck's plate towards him, the mate received his meat as though receiving alms; and cut it tenderly; and a little started if, perchance, the knife grazed against the plate; and chewed it noiselessly; and swallowed it, not without circumspection. For, like the Coronation banquet at Frankfort, where the German Emperor profoundly dines with the seven Imperial Electors, so these cabin meals were somehow solemn meals, eaten in awful silence; and yet at table old Ahab forbade not conversation; only he himself was dumb. What a relief it was to choking Stubb, when a rat made a sudden racket in the hold below. And poor little Flask, he was the youngest son, and little boy of this weary family party. His were the shinbones of the saline beef; his would have been the drumsticks. For Flask to have presumed to help himself, this must have seemed to him tantamount to larceny in the first degree. Had he helped himself at that table, doubtless, never more would he


decided to toy with me?” “I’m not toying with you,” I say. “Lenora does know how to type. We spent all of yesterday doing it. She’s been telling me what happened the night her family was murdered. I think she plans on either confessing or telling me who really did it.” “That’s insane, Kit. The woman can barely sit up. Do you seriously expect me to believe that Lenora Hope is typing her goddamn life story?” “But it’s the truth!” “Sure,” Detective Vick says, dripping sarcasm. “Let’s go with that. But why now? After so many years, why has she decided to tell you, of all people, what happened that night?” “I don’t know. But she has told me things.” The words tumble out in a mad rush, so desperate am I to have Detective Vick believe me about something. “About the months leading up to the murders. About her family. And her sister. She said the ghost of her sister has been in her room.” “You don’t believe that, do you?” “No,” I say, because I don’t. Not really. Not yet, anyway. “But I do think something is wrong with this place. It’s . . . not right.” Detective Vick takes a step back and stares at me, his anger dissolving into something else. It looks like pity. “We’re done talking, Kit,” he says as he pulls a business card from his pocket and presses it into my hand. “Call me if you ever feel like telling the truth.” He stalks off down the hall toward the Grand Stairs. I march back into Lenora’s room. Seeing her at the desk, now in full typewriting mode, makes me break one of the cardinal rules of a Gurlain Home Health Aides employee—no swearing at patients. “What the fuck was that about?” Lenora, exuding the patience of a saint, nods for me to join her. She then types two words. im sorry “You should be. You made me look like a complete liar in front of the detective.” i had to “Why?” it must be a secret “You knowing how to type needs to be a secret?” I say. “From whom?” everyone It would have been nice to know that before I invited Detective Vick up to her room. Now that I do know—and now that I’ve completely blown my chance of him ever believing me about anything—I feel compelled to ask the same questions I think he would have posed. “Did Mary tell you she was leaving?” Lenora taps once on the keyboard. “The last time you saw her, how did she act?” Lenora starts typing, stops to give it some thought, starts over. The result is a strange beast of a word. weirnervous I study the word, which is a pretty accurate summation of my own current state. “Which is it? Weird or nervous?” both, Lenora types. “Had she been acting this way for a while?” Lenora taps the keyboard twice. Yes. “Did Mary ever mention hearing strange noises at night?” She gives the keyboard two more taps. Another yes. I’m hit


holds it aloft for examination in the neon light, right as they’re drawing to a stop beside the long-suffering Ferris wheel attendant. Even from here, his grumble sounds like “millennials,” which makes Wyn and me burst into laughter so forceful that tears are literally sliding off my chin. “It happened!” I squeal. “We’ve replaced our parents as the drunk-mom- on-vacation generation.” “Excuse you,” he says, “I think you mean the high-dad-on-vacation generation.” Below us, Sabrina climbs out of her seat, head held high and dignified. She hands the bra over to the attendant and, loudly and clearly enough for all of us and everyone in line to hear, says, “Do you have a lost and found? Someone seems to have dropped this on the ride.” “Are we about to get kicked out of Lobster Fest?” I ask Wyn. His head falls back with another wave of laughter. “It was bound to happen eventually.” “End of an era,” I say. “Nah.” His eyes slice sideways. “Another beginning.” • • • WE’RE STILL GIGGLY when we spill out of the Rover in front of the cottage, Sabrina leaning heavily on me, Kimmy leaning even more heavily on Wyn behind us. We’re almost to the front steps when our fearless (braless) designated driver takes off toward the side of the house. “Where are you going?” Parth throws his arms out. “You have the keys!” Sabrina and I exchange a look, then take off after her, around the dark side of the house. Cleo throws the gate to the patio open, kicking her shoes off as she runs through, unbuttoning her pants. Sabrina thumps my arm to get me to run faster, and we round the bend in time to see Cleo, now pantsless, leap into the pool. The others come around the bend, and Sabrina spins toward Parth, uses her full weight to shove him in. Without hesitation, Kimmy cannonballs in after him, one shoe still on. Sabrina whirls on me. I shriek and swat her hands away. “We’re too old!” I cry. “Don’t make me do this!” I get hold of her wrists. Her yelp turns into laughter as we struggle at the water’s edge. I’m swept off my feet from behind. An arm tight around my rib cage, a clovey smell, as I’m pitched off-balance. We fall together, tangled, breathless. The water folds around us, and I open my eyes beneath the surface, turning in his arms. Everything is glitter, shimmering bits of silver blue at first, and then there he is, paled by the pool’s strange light. His hair waves out, dancing around his face, and bubbles slip from his nose and the corners of his mouth. He catches my hands and draws me closer. I don’t even think about holding myself back. I’d like to blame the weed, but I can’t. It’s him and me. My thighs skate over his, nesting loose against his hips. He brings my hands to the back of his neck, and we sink like that, descending from the glowing legs treading water. He pulls me flush


puts their people before themselves. No matter the cost.” “That isn’t me. It is not in my nature—” “Of course it isn’t. Altruism is no one’s nature. It wouldn’t be half as remarkable otherwise.” He took the sifted lavender. The sound of the pestle clacking against stone grounded me. I sorted the stalks into bundles, losing myself in the repetition. “You look horrible,” Rory said. The next person to comment on my appearance would earn a swift punch to the throat. “That seems to be the general sentiment, yes.” “He cannot expect you to train as a Nizahl soldier would,” Rory started, working himself up for a grand fit. “A village apprentice does not have the skills—” “I am not only a village apprentice,” I interjected. “The training isn’t a problem.” “I cannot imagine the methods the Commander employs to train a Champion.” He scraped the pestle with force. “His methods don’t leave me delirious or at death’s door. That is more than I can say for others.” Rory halted. In all our revelations, I had never discussed the missing years between the Blood Summit and appearing at his doorstep. Perhaps living underground in the company of people who would dance on my grave had softened me to a kind face. I wanted him to know. I picked up the next bundle of sage, keeping my gaze trained on it. “A former Jasadi, thrown from the kingdom in disgrace, found me in the woods after the Blood Summit. She knew who I was. Breaking open my magic became her singular obsession.” “Breaking open your magic?” Oh. I had forgotten Rory didn’t know about my cuffs. “My magic is… complicated. The waleema was the first time it expressed itself in over a decade.” For once, Rory did not interrupt my tale. He folded his hands over the curved top of his cane. After weeks of guarding my every word, it felt freeing to talk without reservation. “We lived in the woods, somewhere warded to keep away other Jasadis. She would acquire horrible spells to teach me how to fight. Enchant the water to boil and test how long I could touch the surface. Compel monsters to chase me through the woods. My magic didn’t budge, not once, in all the years I spent with her. She would be livid to have failed where the Nizahl Heir succeeded.” Rory pushed himself to his feet. The sheer sorrow in his tone pierced through me. “She gave you those scars, didn’t she? On your back?” I briefly wondered when Rory would have seen my back until I remembered the night he found me at his shop. I’d been drenched in Hanim’s blood, and he had given me a tunic to change into. He must have caught sight of my scars before he turned around. I chuckled softly. “Hanim wanted her lessons to last.” Rory’s head snapped to attention. “What did you say?” “Am I speaking too quickly for you?” My smirk fled at Rory’s mounting horror. “What?” “Tell me you don’t mean Hanim, Qayida of the


wonder in them. And then one of the men looked up and saw him, for the first or perhaps the seventh time, and a voice called to Montag: "All right, you can come out now ! " Montag stepped back into the shadows. "It's all right," the voice said. "You're welcome here." Montag walked slowly toward the fire and the five old men sitting there dressed in dark blue denim pants and jackets and dark blue suits. He did not know what to say to them. "Sit down," said the man who seemed to be the leader of the small group. "Have some coffee?" He watched the dark steaming mixture pour into a collapsible tin cup, which was handed him straight off. He sipped it gingerly and felt them looking at him with curiosity. His lips were scalded, but that was good. The faces around him were bearded, but the beards were clean, neat, and their hands were clean. They had stood up as if to welcome a guest, and now they sat down again. Montag sipped. "Thanks," he said. "Thanks very much." "You're welcome, Montag. My name's Granger." He held out a small bottle of colourless fluid. "Drink this, too. It'll change the chemical index of your perspiration. Half an hour from now you'll smell like two other people. With the Hound after you, the best thing is Bottoms up." Montag drank the bitter fluid. "You'll stink like a bobcat, but that's all right," said Granger. "You know my name;" said Montag. Granger nodded to a portable battery TV set by the fire. "We've watched the chase. Figured you'd wind up south along the river. When we heard you plunging around out in the forest like a drunken elk, we didn't hide as we usually do. We figured you were in the river, when the helicopter cameras swung back in over the city. Something funny there. The chase is still running. The other way, though." "The other way?" "Let's have a look." Granger snapped the portable viewer on. The picture was a nightmare, condensed, easily passed from hand to hand, in the forest, all whirring colour and flight. A voice cried: "The chase continues north in the city! Police helicopters are converging on Avenue 87 and Elm Grove Park!" Granger nodded. "They're faking. You threw them off at the river. They can't admit it. They know they can hold their audience only so long. The show's got to have a snap ending, quick! If they started searching the whole damn river it might take all night. So they're sniffing for a scape-goat to end things with a bang. Watch. They'll catch Montag in the next five minutes! " "But how--" "Watch." The camera, hovering in the belly of a helicopter, now swung down at an empty street. "See that?" whispered Granger. "It'll be you; right up at the end of that street is our victim. See how our camera is coming in? Building the scene. Suspense. Long shot. Right now, some poor fellow is out for a walk. A rarity. An


at her hand. “I’ll show you.” “No. We have to stay here. We have to wait for Len.” “Fuck Len. Fuck all of them.” Something rustled in the bushes. Alex whirled, but there was nothing there. She looked up to the branches of the tree. The little boy ghost was whimpering softly, crouched on the branch. Not playing, not hide-and-goseek. He was terrified. Of what? Alex pulled on Hellie’s hands, drawing her to her feet. “We have to go, okay? We can talk about Len or whatever else, but let’s just get out of here. I’ll get you something to eat … or anything you need. Please.” “You said you could protect us.” “I can,” Alex said. But she felt a little less certain. Against Grays? Sure. Against bad boyfriends? She could damn well do her best. But she also knew that night was falling, and there were creatures like Linus Reiter somewhere out there. “I need you to trust me.” Hellie’s eyes were sad. “I did.” If Hellie had come back angry or vengeful or hungry for blood, Alex could have handled it, maybe even welcomed it. They would have set fire to the world together. But this ache of guilt and shame was too much. She was going to drown in it. “Tell me what to do to make it right,” Alex said. “Tell me what to say.” Hellie cupped her cheek. Her thumb brushed Alex’s lower lip. “You know that mouth is only good for one thing, Alex. And talking isn’t it.” Alex recoiled. Hellie didn’t talk that way. Len did. But Hellie’s fingers dug into her skull, pulling her closer. “Hellie—” “He was good to us,” Hellie hissed. “He took care of us.” “Let go of me.” “He was all we had and you killed him.” “He wanted to throw you out like a bag of trash!” “You let me die.” Hellie threw her to the ground and Alex went to her knees in the dirt. She felt the kick to her side, and then her face was shoved into the ground, the stink of rotting leaves and rainwater filling her nose. “You let me die, Alex. Not Len.” Hellie was right. If she’d just woken up when Hellie came in that night, if she’d made it home sooner, if she hadn’t fallen asleep in the theater in the first place, if she’d told Len no, they were done. If she’d kept them in Vegas, they could be there right now, staring at all the pretty glass at that big hotel, smelling the perfume and the old-cigarette smell beneath it. Hellie pushed at the back of Alex’s head, but Alex wasn’t fighting, she was crying, because she’d failed Hellie again and again and again. “That’s right.” Hellie flipped her over and shoved a handful of rotting leaves into Alex’s mouth. “I choked on my own vomit lying next to you. But you blamed Len for that? I let Ariel fuck me. He put some kind of electric prod inside me. He thought it was funny the way I


I do. Would you rather I didn't talk? If you say so I'll stop. I can STOP when I make up my mind to it, although it's difficult." Matthew, much to his own surprise, was enjoying himself. Like most quiet folks he liked talkative people when they were willing to do the talking themselves and did not expect him to keep up his end of it. But he had never expected to enjoy the society of a little girl. Women were bad enough in all conscience, but little girls were worse. He detested the way they had of sidling past him timidly, with sideways glances, as if they expected him to gobble them up at a mouthful if they ventured to say a word. This was the Avonlea type of well-bred little girl. But this freckled witch was very different, and although he found it rather difficult for his slower intelligence to keep up with her brisk mental processes he thought that he "kind of liked her chatter." So he said as shyly as usual: "Oh, you can talk as much as you like. I don't mind." "Oh, I'm so glad. I know you and I are going to get along together fine. It's such a relief to talk when one wants to and not be told that children should be seen and not heard. I've had that said to me a million times if I have once. And people laugh at me because I use big words. But if you have big ideas you have to use big words to express them, haven't you?" "Well now, that seems reasonable," said Matthew. "Mrs. Spencer said that my tongue must be hung in the middle. But it isn't-it's firmly fastened at one end. Mrs. Spencer said your place was named Green Gables. I asked her all about it. And she said there were trees all around it. I was gladder than ever. I just love trees. And there weren't any at all about the asylum, only a few poor weeny-teeny things out in front with little whitewashed cagey things about them. They just looked like orphans themselves, those trees did. It used to make me want to cry to look at them. I used to say to them, `Oh, you POOR little things! If you were out in a great big woods with other trees all around you and little mosses and Junebells growing over your roots and a brook not far away and birds singing in you branches, you could grow, couldn't you? But you can't where you are. I know just exactly how you feel, little trees.' I felt sorry to leave them behind this morning. You do get so attached to things like that, don't you? Is there a brook anywhere near Green Gables? I forgot to ask Mrs. Spencer that." "Well now, yes, there's one right below the house." "Fancy. It's always been one of my dreams to live near a brook. I never expected I would, though. Dreams don't often come true, do they? Wouldn't it be nice


to see the clock on her bedside table. It’s unplugged and on the ground a yard away, as if ripped from the wall and thrown there. “Whatever time it is.” “And do you know what time we usually go to bed on those nights before our early mornings?” Cleo says. “Nine. And I’m not saying we get into bed at nine. I’m saying we’re fully unconscious by then. Deep REM sleep.” “I didn’t notice REM anywhere on this week’s schedule,” I say. “Oh my god.” Kimmy lurches upright so fast I expect her to vomit over the side of the bed. Instead, she turns an expression of horror on us. “Did I . . . do the worm on a table last night?” Cleo and I both burst into laughter. “No,” I say. “You did not.” “But you certainly thought you did,” Cleo adds. Kimmy gasps in mock offense. Cleo sits up and leans over me to kiss her. “Babe, I love you too much to ever lie to you,” she says. “You could not do the worm if my life depended on it. Some of your other moves weren’t too shabby, though.” “HEY,” Sabrina screams from downstairs. “GET. YOUR. BODIES. DOWN. HERE. OR. ELSE.” “Hit man,” Kimmy grumbles. Cleo pops up onto her feet, balanced in a wide second position on either side of the bed frame. “Babe, who am I?” She presses her hands to her knees and gyrates nonsensically. “Okay, if I looked that good,” Kimmy says, “I feel a lot better.” From somewhere beneath us—perhaps deep in the bowels of the earth— an air horn blasts. • • • NORMALLY WHEN WE eat at Bernadette’s, we take advantage of the outdoor patio, with its gorgeous view of the harbor and its wide variety of rude, fry- stealing seabirds, even if the temperature requires us to be bundled in fleeces. But by the time we get downtown to the red-shingled greasy spoon, the storm has blown back in. In the span of our run from the car to the front doors, we get soaked. We score a table at the back, where the windows look out on the faded gray patio, the striped umbrellas shut tight and wobbling in the wind, lightning streaking down to touch the waves in the distance. Bernie’s is packed with summer visitors like us, here for the Lobster Festival’s grand opening tonight, and the locals having their morning cups of coffee and reading the Knott’s Harbor Register while tolerating the people “from away,” as they call us. At the counter, I spot my seatmate from the flight over and wave. He harrumphs and looks back to his newspaper. “Friend of yours?” Wyn murmurs against my ear as everyone’s peeling off their drenched outermost layers. His cool breath against my damp skin makes me shiver. I drop into my chair and look up at him. “That would depend on which of us you asked.” “What,” Wyn says, “has he been bugging you to define the relationship?” “Other way around,” I say. “I’m head over heels,


it less than three days ago, I certainly wouldn’t have expected him to remember that detail from my life—and he added, “My greatest show was in Glasgow, during a crazy summer storm. For the entire last hour, there was a torrential downpour, and everyone and everything got soaked. Me, my band, the instruments, the stage, the audience. I ruined my guitar, and it was so completely worth it.” “I guess the common denominator for epic live performances is a weather event involving precipitation,” I said, and he grinned again. “And it doesn’t even have to be natural,” he said. “It can be man-made. Have you really never appeared onstage here?” “Yes,” I said. “I really never have. I prefer lurking in the shadows like a goblin.” He made a concerned expression, and I said, “I don’t mean goblin in a bad way. It’s a point of pride.” His expression shifted to something warmer as he said, “Goblin definitely isn’t the word I’d have picked for you.” Surely, if I were a person adept at banter in real life, I’d have batted my eyelashes and said, “What word would you pick?” But I was adept at banter only on the page, and I said, “Anyway, about the panther, if you’re into the idea, great, and if you’re not, just say so to Elliot.” “Where’s the fun in that?” And then Autumn materialized at his elbow and said, “Noah, it’s time for your tux fitting.” Looking at me, Noah said, “Aren’t I fancy? See you at the Blabbermouth rehearsal.” Before I could reply, he’d been whisked away. I pulled out my phone and texted Viv, Where’d u go She responded with a photo of herself sitting in the armchair in her dressing room, making a festive expression and holding aloft a can of Diet Coke the way a person might hold up a champagne flute. Within a minute, I was knocking on her dressing room door. “Bad news,” I said as I entered. “I realized Noah Brewster is hot.” She laughed. “Welcome to 2001.” “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” “That an aging white boy heartthrob walks among us? Sally, there are certain insights a woman has to have on her own.” “Do you think he’s a cocky jerk?” “Probably.” “But based on working with him so far?” “At the dinner on Monday, he was pretty down-to-earth. He told a story about spraining his ankle while doing parkour with his agent.” I wanted to convey that it seemed as if there was some sort of attraction between Noah and me, but it felt embarrassing because Viv occupied a different plane than I did and there were options available to her that were unavailable to me. And didn’t this discrepancy mean that if I described what it had been like when Noah was in my office, or when I’d watched him sing, or just now after the rehearsal where Viv had been present, that I’d need to make a joke of it? And was I really ready to make a joke of it, if only to


face. She had evidently guessed and approved. Mr. van der Luyden turned to Mrs. Archer. "If Louisa's health allowed her to dine out--I wish you would say to Mrs. Lovell Mingott--she and I would have been happy to--er--fill the places of the Lawrence Leffertses at her dinner." He paused to let the irony of this sink in. "As you know, this is impossible." Mrs. Archer sounded a sympathetic assent. "But Newland tells me he has read this morning's Times; therefore he has probably seen that Louisa's relative, the Duke of St. Austrey, arrives next week on the Russia. He is coming to enter his new sloop, the Guinevere, in next summer's International Cup Race; and also to have a little canvasback shooting at Trevenna." Mr. van der Luyden paused again, and continued with increasing benevolence: "Before taking him down to Maryland we are inviting a few friends to meet him here--only a little dinner--with a reception afterward. I am sure Louisa will be as glad as I am if Countess Olenska will let us include her among our guests." He got up, bent his long body with a stiff friendliness toward his cousin, and added: "I think I have Louisa's authority for saying that she will herself leave the invitation to dine when she drives out presently: with our cards--of course with our cards." Mrs. Archer, who knew this to be a hint that the seventeen-hand chestnuts which were never kept waiting were at the door, rose with a hurried murmur of thanks. Mrs. van der Luyden beamed on her with the smile of Esther interceding with Ahasuerus; but her husband raised a protesting hand. "There is nothing to thank me for, dear Adeline; nothing whatever. This kind of thing must not happen in New York; it shall not, as long as I can help it," he pronounced with sovereign gentleness as he steered his cousins to the door. Two hours later, every one knew that the great C-spring barouche in which Mrs. van der Luyden took the air at all seasons had been seen at old Mrs. Mingott's door, where a large square envelope was handed in; and that evening at the Opera Mr. Sillerton Jackson was able to state that the envelope contained a card inviting the Countess Olenska to the dinner which the van der Luydens were giving the following week for their cousin, the Duke of St. Austrey. Some of the younger men in the club box exchanged a smile at this announcement, and glanced sideways at Lawrence Lefferts, who sat carelessly in the front of the box, pulling his long fair moustache, and who remarked with authority, as the soprano paused: "No one but Patti ought to attempt the Sonnambula." VIII. It was generally agreed in New York that the Countess Olenska had "lost her looks." She had appeared there first, in Newland Archer's boyhood, as a brilliantly pretty little girl of nine or ten, of whom people said that she "ought to be painted." Her parents had been continental wanderers, and after a roaming babyhood she


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then there’s the woman. Her expression morphs, too, into something knowing and intrigued. “You’re Greg’s girlfriend. That Elsie.” She looks between me and Jack once, twice, and then holds her hand out to me. “I’ve heard so much about you. It’s really nice to meet you. I’m George.” My brain halts. “Well, Georgina. Sepulveda. But please, call me George.” Her smile is warm and welcoming, as though I’m a dear friend of Jack’s whom she’s been dying to meet. “Georgina Sepulveda,” I mouth, barely audible. The name unlocks a drawer in my brain, full of scientific papers, TED Talks, conference addresses. Georgina Sepulveda, young physics hotshot. I’m a fan of her work. She doesn’t look familiar—she is. “Yup, that’s me.” Her hand is still outstretched. I should take it. “I work with Jack.” “George,” Jack warns. “Okay, technically not yet. But I’ll start at MIT next year. What? Come on, Jack. I got the formal offer, sent back the signed contract this morning. I can tell people.” She gives me a conspiratorial look. My stomach churns. “You’re a librarian, right? I love libraries.” Next to me, Cece sucks in a breath. Meanwhile, I nod. It must be an automatic reaction, because all my neural cells are busy, sluggishly processing what I just heard. Georgina. George. MIT. Formal offer. No. No, no, no. There is lead in my belly. Blood thumps in my ears, and — I take a step back, and for a split second my mind skitters to a place far away: my apartment. The computer I left on the bed. The half-written manuscript on it—the one I was finally going to finish when I got the MIT job. But I didn’t get it. George did, George who’s with Jack, and it’s over. I gave it my all, and it wasn’t enough. “Elsie,” Jack starts. He must have moved, because George and Cece have disappeared behind him. His throat bobs. “Unsuccessful candidates are not notified until all paperwork is complete.” I shake my head and he falls silent. His eyes are full of compassion, of sincere, heartbreaking sorrow. I cannot bear to watch it. I turn around slowly. Step away just as slowly, barely taking in the sidewalk. The man walking his husky. The group of students feigning excitement for an upcoming Truffaut retrospective. I walk past them and I walk some more, unhurried, like everything’s going to be fine. Everything will be all right. I’m at the red crosswalk light when I hear, “Elsie?” It’s Cece, calling from where I left her behind. I ignore her. “Is everything okay?” George. “Shit, did I do something?” Cece doesn’t answer her. “Elsie, let’s . . . let’s just go home.” Silence. Then Jack: “Elsie. Come back, please.” He sounds like his eyes looked, and it’s simply intolerable. The crossing light turns green. I take a deep breath, let the cold air fill my lungs, and start running. 13 A N N I H I L AT I O N I RUN ONE BLOCK . One and a half. Two. Snowflakes stick to


them Gog and Magog either doesn’t know what those names refer to in the Book of Revelation or he’s a closet reactionary among the ranks of the technology-besotted with whom he works. Most people in the company call them Rover and Spot. Reviewing the protocols of the remote-control mode until he fully understands operational methods and limitations, Michael then takes Gog and Magog under his authority. He orders them to come off their storage platform. They disconnect from their charging stations and, with a scissoring-stilting of their three-jointed legs, they move quickly to the center of the room and stand to attention, heads up like alert Dobermans. Even though they have only four legs, when in motion they remind Michael more of insects than of dogs. Perhaps that comparison is too disturbing for those who are developing these weapons; instead, thinking of them as dog-form companions evokes memories of Lassie and Scooby-Doo. Having been at Protean Cybernetics just forty-one seconds, he next transmits the address of the Chandra house into the mission-program center of Gog’s and Magog’s brains, designating that property as the sole battlefield in order to insure against collateral damage between here and there. He invades Durand Calaphas’s employee file at the ISA and transmits the agent’s photograph to Gog and Magog, designating the man as the sole target until Michael tells them otherwise. While overriding the security system, Michael opens all the electronic locks in the building. Under his control, the robots proceed quickly into the moonlit night. Fifty-six seconds and counting. MAN OF ACTION Yancy Norbert is working the graveyard shift at the east gate of Protean Cybernetics. He is twenty-five and believes that he looks like a young Brad Pitt. He styles his blond hair as Brad wore it in World War Z. Periodically, before a mirror, he practices Bradian smiles and other expressions he believes are unique to the actor, in the interest of having greater success with women. He has memorized numerous lines of dialogue from movies in which Brad is a romantic figure, but thus far he hasn’t gone on many dates where he’s had an opportunity to insert those words into a conversation in such a way that they are natural and effective. In truth, he’s not had nearly as many dates as he feels he ought to have had. The reason for his poor record with the ladies has mystified him, and recently he has begun to wonder if women of his approximate age do not find Brad to be the irresistible hunk that previous generations did. In addition, Yancy is a man of action in waiting. Initially, he intended to be a police officer. He opted instead to take this job as an armed security guard, because he could still have a gun, with much less risk of people shooting at him. He knows in his bones that the day will come when he’ll be caught up in action and adventure to match that of any Brad film; he just needs to be patient. Meanwhile, working the midnight-to-eight shift, when no


get into the silver car. The man at the wheel is familiar, belonging to the group from Mum’s church, but I don’t know his name. He’s a friend of the family, or a family friend, or family but not blood-related, whichever one, it doesn’t matter. We pull away from the house and travel down the road. We’re the third car behind the procession. Every time the hearse turns a corner and I see the photograph of Dad, large and framed, sat at the end of his coffin, the tears resurface. People on the street turn to watch us. A dog barks. One old man makes the sign of the cross. When their eyes meet mine, my chest opens and I feel exposed. I hope I remember never to stare at a funeral procession as it passes ever again. * * * I’ve never been through a graveyard before; I used to avoid cemeteries because I worried it would tempt fate. Looks like fate found me anyway. The sun is hot and the ground is uneven. My black cotton dress feels too heavy when I watch the cemetery workers lower my dad into a burial plot. They talk amongst themselves as they work because this is their own personal brand of “just another day at the office.” People I didn’t greet at the house come up to me, but I don’t really see any of them. Hello, Uncle. How are you? Me ho yε. My condolences. Medaase. You’re so big now. Aane. Do you remember me? Sure. Then we’re all stood surrounding a rectangle of hollowed-out earth. In there, at the bottom, is my dad. Aunt Abena is adjusting her headpiece and my uncle Osei swats at a fly. James is staring at the ground, Mum is pinching the bridge of her nose, Auntie Mabel has her head bowed and Uncle Freddie dabs his eyes with a white handkerchief. Suddenly I miss the noise from before: the Twi, the cars, the movement. “Are we all here?” Mum’s pastor asks. He’s a tall, lean Black man who must duck to avoid a tree’s swooping branches. “Yes,” Mum says. “Then let us pray. Lord God, we commit this day into Your hands,” he says. “We are gathered here to celebrate the life of Mr. George Wright…” He finishes by telling us that Dad is in a better place and that we as Christians need not mourn, but give thanks to God that we have a place where we will reunite with loved ones someday. We are blessed as believers because death is not the end. The tributes are read: “George Wright was clever and studious … As he was a faithful man, even when physically weakened, he will be at home now, with the Lord and family already gone … He was a hardworking man and his discipline allowed him to travel from Ghana and make a living in London…” I’m the only one who struggles to get started. I bite my lip and breathe through my nose. When words still won’t come out, Mum


could fuel her rage more than his passive-aggressive dropping of a sweet word. Especially “my love.” She shoved him, and he collided with the shuttered front of a shop, his back making a loud thud when it hit the steel. “Excuse me for panicking. Next time I stumble onto a dead man I’ll wear a suit!” Montserrat’s hands were pressed against his chest, and she glared up at him before attempting to slide away, but he caught her wrist and held her in place. “Don’t you remember what happened with that Molinet kid a few months back? They found the maid dead in his house, and they said he’d done it because he was a Satanist. And the proof of his Satanism was that he had a Stephen King collection, a copy of Süskind’s Perfume, and a few heavy metal records in his room. “Cops always try to pin it on an easy target. I should know,” he added, recalling the fuss after Karina passed away. “Orgy in Cuernavaca ends in deadly crash,” that’s what the newspapers said, and he had never been able to shake off that aura of crime and debauchery from himself. Montserrat gave him the tiniest nod, looking away from his face. “I was scared, okay? That’s why I’m pissed off. I needed you that night.” “I know,” he muttered. The tension between them was dissipating. He hated it when they quarreled. It left him a mess. He never knew how to properly apologize. “Why were you in Abel’s apartment?” he asked. “Abel said he was going to die. He had a premonition. Everything seemed fine and then he called me in a panic.” “Did you tell the police this?” “No. I may be dumb, but I’m not that stupid.” He sighed and let go of Montserrat’s hand. The haberdashery closed its shutters with a loud clang at the same moment the lamps went on. “Tell me what happened.” She did, starting with their meeting at the Zona Rosa, then ending by recounting her conversation with the cops and the questions they had peppered her with. Tristán reached into his pocket and took out a cigarette, toying with it before pressing the tip against the lighter’s flame and giving her a weary look. “There’s something else, isn’t there?” “When I was in Abel’s room there was a silence.” “You mean a noise?” “No, a silence. Or rather, it was a presence that seemed to muffle the room. It was unnatural; I have never experienced anything like it. I don’t think Abel lied when he said there are such a thing as curses and spells. We need to get back into Abel’s apartment. I can pick the lock, it won’t be a problem.” “It would be a big problem if someone saw us doing that.” That, plus the fact that they would be breaking into the place where someone had recently died. It felt to Tristán almost like desecrating a tomb. “We’ll go late tonight.” “His death is not our fault.” “No, but we need to know who was


Christian exclaims and glares down at me, concern etched on his face. “This is what I’m talking about,” he admonishes. “Your lack of self-preser- vation. I don’t want to hurt you.” “No . . . don’t stop,” I whimper. He stares at me, warring with himself. “Please.” “Here.” Abruptly he moves, and I’m sitting astride him, my short skirt now bunched up around my hips. His hands glide over the top of my thigh-highs. “There. That’s better, and I can enjoy the view.” He reaches up and hooks his long index finger into my other bra cup, freeing that breast, too. He grasps both of my breasts, and I throw my head back, pushing them into his welcome, expert hands. He teases me, tugging and rolling my nipples until I cry out, then sits up so we’re nose to nose, his greedy gray eyes on mine. He kisses me, his fingers still teasing me. I scramble for his shirt, undoing the first two buttons, and it’s like sensory overload—I want to be kissing him everywhere, undressing him, making love with him all at once. “Hey—” He gently grasps my head and pulls back, eyes dark and full of sen- sual promise. “There’s no rush. Take it slow. I want to savor you.” “Christian, it’s been so long.” I’m panting. “Slow,” he whispers, and it’s a command. He kisses the right corner of my mouth. “Slow.” He kisses the left corner. “Slow, baby.” He tugs my bottom lip with his teeth. “Let’s take this slow.” He unfurls his fingers in my hair, keeping me in place as his tongue invades my mouth, seeking, tasting, calming . . . inflam- ing. Oh, my man can kiss. 500/551 I caress his face, my fingers moving tentatively down to his chin then to his throat, and I start again on the buttons of his shirt, taking my time, as he continues to kiss me. Slowly I pull his shirt apart, my fingers trailing over his clavicles, feeling their way across his warm, silky skin. I push him gently back until he’s lying beneath me. Sitting up, I gaze down at him, aware that I’m squirming against his growing erection. Hmm. I trace my fingers across his lips to his jaw then down his neck, over his Adam’s apple to that little dip at the base of his throat. My beautiful man. I lean down, and my kisses follow the tips of my fingers. My teeth graze his jaw and kiss his throat. He closes his eyes. “Ah.” He groans and tilts his head back, giving me easier access to the base of his throat, his mouth slack and open in silent veneration. Christian lost and aroused is just so exhilarating . . . and so arousing to me. My tongue trails down his sternum, twirling through his chest hair. Hmm. He tastes so good. He smells so good. Intoxicating. I kiss first one, then two of his small round scars, and he grasps my hips, so my fingers halt on his chest as I gaze down


I nodded. “Hide the knife inside your house,” Jesse instructed. “Where’s a good place?” “Near the back door,” I said. “There’s a laundry room there. I’ll put it down beside the dryer.” “Perfect. I’ll grab it and wait for him in his study.” The realness of what was about to happen bore down on me, and my stomach churned. I half stood, ready to move to the bathroom, when my phone rang out in the hushed space. Lee’s name on the call display made my hair stand on end. It was like she’d somehow heard us. I glanced at the clock in the top corner of the screen. Lee would be done with her treatments by now. I’d promised to meet her there, to pay for everything, but I’d lost track of time. I picked up the phone. “Hello?” “Hazel, it’s Lee. I’m at the spa. They’re saying—” Jesse grabbed the phone away from me and hung up. “Why—” I started, but I knew what he was doing. Almost instantly, it rang again. “Don’t answer it.” Jesse’s voice was steely. We stared at the device, at Lee’s name, as it rang out, went to voice mail. When it rang again, we did the same. Finally, it stopped. She had given up. “Go to her now,” he said. “Are you ready?” I nodded and got up. Jesse did, too. We were moving toward the door when he touched my shoulder. “There’s just one more thing…” I stopped and turned. The punch came out of nowhere, smashing into my cheekbone, sending me reeling. Instinctively, I stepped back, covered my face, cowered away. But he was coming toward me, hands outstretched. “I’m sorry, babe. It would have hurt more if I told you I was going to do it.” Tears were hot on my skin, though I hadn’t realized I was crying. The pain was dull, throbbing, somehow far away. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. I was in shock. “I know Lee,” Jesse said. “She won’t go into your house just for money. We need to make her pity you. To think she’s saving you.” I stood taller, found my voice. “Benjamin would never hit me in the face.” “Lee doesn’t know that.” He reached out to wipe my tears, but I flinched away from his touch. The sudden violence had rattled me. And the ease with which he had hit me hurt more than the physical pain. “Pull yourself together, Hazel.” His voice was calm, controlled. “I know what I’m doing.” I nodded, blinked away the tears, and I left. When I was outside his building, I puked into the dry, brittle grass. But it worked. When I removed my sunglasses in the spa parking lot, Lee was horrified by my injured face, my traumatized demeanor. When I asked her to come into my house, to set me free, she agreed. The money and the new identification were secondary. She was scared for me. She felt compelled to save me. And in return, I would send her to jail for a murder she hadn’t


than anything.” “It kind of makes me angry.” “What a waste of a Top Ten spot.” “Too bad we can’t give negative points.” “Isn’t it?” At that, I’d had enough. I pressed the toilet handle with my shoe and held it there. Mercifully, the blast of the industrial flush was loud enough to startle them away. In the silence that followed, I washed my hands, smoothed my hair in the mirror, smiled encouragingly at my unintelligible face, stood up straight like how I imagined a person with some remaining human dignity would, and walked back out to my post. Just two soul-draining hours to go … It was okay. It was fine. What was it Joe had said about sitting for the portrait? “Trigonometry is hard. Climbing El Capitan is hard. Landing on the beaches of Normandy is hard.” All I had to do was stand here—and keep standing here—until my alarm went off. And then I could go home. And brainstorm a new life’s dream. This was the big break I’d been working toward for over a decade. This was the moment I’d been waiting for—dreaming of. This was the life I’d chosen. This was a competition that if the past five weeks hadn’t happened, I’d be crushing right now. This was a showcase moment for the thing I was best at in my entire life … Just not anymore. Could I have used at least one person there with me in that moment? Yes. And would I have even minded if it was Lucinda? Not at all. But I got fully stood up. By everyone. Even though my dad’s secretary had put it on his calendar and Lucinda had interrupted my last—only—night with Joe to give me that news. Even though I’d been dreading them coming ever since I found out. Even though they were the last people I ever would’ve chosen. I was out of choices. As time wore on and the smile I’d stapled to my face quivered more and more, I found myself hoping for someone, anyone, to show up—and, if I’m honest … imagining how great it would be if that someone could be Joe. It wasn’t impossible, was it? Crazier things had happened, right? If nothing else, imagining it gave me a nice distraction. Joe: Having an epiphany in line at the airport, abandoning his suitcase, hailing a cab, but then hitting too much traffic, sprinting the final blocks here only to burst through the doors and shove past elderly art critics to my dark corner like it was the only place he’d ever wanted to be … and then breathlessly begging my forgiveness while declaring his undying love—thereby validating my entire existence for everyone here, including me. Maybe I should pop out for some air freshener. Thanks a lot, Lysander. Anyway. I knew it was impossible. Joe had already refused to be my anybody. But be careful what you hope for. I did get an anybody—at last, two hours in … But it was Parker. Confirmed: Hope is the worst. * * * YOU


an issue that needs to be dealt with. Again, easier said than done, but so worth it in the long run.” I wonder how things would have gone at CGT if I had given Katherine a piece of my mind. Instead I kept quiet, took her abuse, and got fired anyway. “You don’t deserve to have other people’s comments and actions eat away at you five days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. My dad always says: ‘Regardless of how you behave, a lot of things are going to be out of your control because this world was made to test you. Protect your peace in whatever and every way that you can.”’ “Hey, Sam!” Kenny leans over the gate. “Our car’s here—ready to go?” Sam gets to his feet, and I’m reminded of how tall he is. “Coming in?” “No, I might stay here a while longer,” I say. “Thanks for talking to me.” “It was a good talk.” He stops at the gate and calls, “Hey, Maddie?” “Yes?” “Good luck tomorrow,” he says, smiling yet again. “I’m rooting for you.” Chapter Forty When I walk into the office, rough samples of Love Stories sit on my desk with a note: Make sure Kris approves these today. I pull the note aside to read the proposed cover: Love Stories from the Middle East Afra Yazden-Blake & Co & Co? They took my et al. suggestion seriously? I leave the samples there and knock on Penny’s door. When she says “Come in,” I close the door behind me. I stand in front of her desk until she looks at me. “Is everything all right, Maddie?” “I’d like to take on more responsibility here,” I blurt out. “I wasted a lot of time at my old job because I didn’t feel I had anything to contribute, but clearly I do as an editorial assistant. I may not understand why exactly you changed Cooking Combos to Flavor Pairings, and paired the pear with cinnamon instead of chocolate, or changed ‘et al.’ to ‘Afra and Co’ but … those ideas did come from me.” Penny doesn’t look angry, but I wouldn’t call her happy. Her jaw is locked, but at least I have her attention. “Afra is getting a lot of attention online,” I continue, “and I brought her here. I’m just—” “Maddie,” Penny interrupts, “it may have been your ideas, but it is us who employ you and us who put the resources behind those ideas. It isn’t just you here.” “That’s not what I’m saying.” I don’t know what I thought walking in here. If I could get fired from CGT for something I didn’t even do, surely this could be considered grounds for dismissal. I think about apologizing and leaving her office when she asks, “Then what are you saying, Maddie?” “I’m saying … I’m asking to learn,” I answer. “I think I could do more, I’m asking to do more.” Penny suddenly takes her glasses off and pinches the bridge of her nose. Without the rim of her glasses, I spot


gives me one more. A kiss on the cheek. Then she’s gone and I’m left thinking that maybe Madge really has been my friend all along. Finally, Gale is here and maybe there is nothing romantic between us, but when he opens his arms I don’t hesitate to go into them. His body is familiar to me — the way it moves, the smell of wood smoke, even the sound of his heart beating I know from quiet moments on a hunt — but this is the first time I really feel it, lean and hard-muscled against my own. 39 “Listen,” he says. “Getting a knife should be pretty easy, but you’ve got to get your hands on a bow. That’s your best chance.” “They don’t always have bows,” I say, thinking of the year there were only horrible spiked maces that the tributes had to bludgeon one another to death with. “Then make one,” says Gale. “Even a weak bow is better than no bow at all.” I have tried copying my father’s bows with poor results. It’s not that easy. Even he had to scrap his own work sometimes. “I don’t even know if there’ll be wood,” I say. Another year, they tossed everybody into a landscape of nothing but bould- ers and sand and scruffy bushes. I particularly hated that year. Many contestants were bitten by venomous snakes or went insane from thirst. “There’s almost always some wood,” Gale says. “Since that year half of them died of cold. Not much entertainment in that.” It’s true. We spent one Hunger Games watching the players freeze to death at night. You could hardly see them because they were just huddled in balls and had no wood for fires or torches or anything. It was considered very anti-climactic in the Capitol, all those quiet, bloodless deaths. Since then, there’s usually been wood to make fires. “Yes, there’s usually some,” I say. “Katniss, it’s just hunting. You’re the best hunter I know,” says Gale. “It’s not just hunting. They’re armed. They think,” I say. 40 “So do you. And you’ve had more practice. Real practice,” he says. “You know how to kill.” “Not people,” I say. “How different can it be, really?” says Gale grimly. The awful thing is that if I can forget they’re people, it will be no different at all. The Peacekeepers are back too soon and Gale asks for more time, but they’re taking him away and I start to panic. “Don’t let them starve!” I cry out, clinging to his hand. “I won’t! You know I won’t! Katniss, remember I —” he says, and they yank us apart and slam the door and I’ll never know what it was he wanted me to remember. It’s a short ride from the Justice Building to the train sta- tion. I’ve never been in a car before. Rarely even ridden in wa- gons. In the Seam, we travel on foot. I’ve been right not to cry. The station is swarming with re- porters with their insectlike cameras trained directly on


naked beside him. Apart from her legs, which were naked to the hips, Vesper was only a parcel. Her long black velvet skirt had been lifted over her arms and head and tied above her head with a piece of rope. Where her face was, a small gap had been torn in the velvet so that she could breathe. She was not bound in any other way and she lay quiet, her body moving sluggishly with the swaying of the car. Le Chiffre was concentrating half on the road ahead and half on the onrushing glare of Bond's headlights in the driving-mirror. He seemed undisturbed when not more than a mile separated the hare from the hounds and he even brought the car down from eighty to sixty miles an hour. Now, as he swept round a bend he slowed down still further. A few hundred yards ahead a Michelin post showed where a small parochial road crossed with the highway. 'Attention,' he said sharply to the man beside him. The man's hand tightened on the lever. A hundred yards from the cross-roads he slowed to thirty. In the mirror Bond's great headlights were lighting up the bend. Le Chiffre seemed to make up his mind. 'Allez.' The man beside him pulled the lever sharply upwards. The boot at the back of the car yawned open like a whale's mouth. There was a tinkling clatter on the road and then a rhythmic jangling as if the car was towing lengths of chain behind it. 'Coupez.' The man depressed the lever sharply and the jangling stopped with a final clatter. Le Chiffre glanced again in the mirror. Bond's car was just entering the bend. Le Chiffre made a racing change and threw the Citron left-handed down the narrow side-road, at the same time dowsing his lights. He stopped the car with a jerk and all three men got swiftly out and doubled back under cover of a low hedge to the cross-roads, now fiercely illuminated by the lights of the Bentley. Each of them carried a revolver and the thin man also had what looked like a large black egg in his right hand. The Bentley screamed down towards them like an express train. CHAPTER 16 - THE CRAWLING OF THE SKIN As Bond hurtled round the bend, caressing the great car against the camber with an easy sway of body and hands, he was working out his plan of action when the distance between the two cars had narrowed still further. He imagined that the enemy driver would try to dodge off into a side-road if he got the chance. So when he got round the bend and saw no lights ahead, it was a normal reflex to ease up on the accelerator and, when he saw the Michelin post, to prepare to brake. He was only doing about sixty as he approached the black patch across the right-hand crown of the road which he assumed to be the shadow cast by a wayside tree. Even so, there was no time to


not dead; and he feared what they might yet accomplish against him. Of Nargothrond he knew indeed the name, but neither its place nor its strength; and of Gondolin he knew nothing, and the thought of Turgon troubled him the more. Therefore he sent forth ever more spies into Beleriand; but he recalled the main hosts of the Orcs to Angband, for he perceived that he could not yet make a final and victorious battle until he had gathered new strength, and that he had not measured rightly the valour of the Noldor nor the might in arms of the Men that fought beside them. Great though his victory had been in the Bragollach and in the years after, and grievous the harm that he had done to his enemies, his own loss had been no less; and though he held Dorthonion and the Pass of Sirion, the Eldar recovering from their first dismay began now to regain what they had lost. Thus Beleriand in the south had a semblance of peace again for a few brief years; but the forges of Angband were full of labour. When seven years had passed since the Fourth Battle, Morgoth renewed his assault, and he sent a great force against Hithlum. The attack on the passes of the Shadowy Mountains was bitter, and in the siege of Eithel Sirion Galdor the tall. Lord of Dor-lmin, was slain by an arrow. That fortress he held on behalf of Fingon the High King; and in that same place his father Hador Lrindol died but a little time before. Hrin his son was then newly come to manhood, but he was great in strength both of mind and body; and he drove the Orcs with heavy slaughter from Ered Wethrin, and pursued them far across the sands of Anfauglith. But King Fingon was hard put to it to hold back the army of Angband that came down from the north; and battle was Joined upon the very plains of Hithlum. There Fingon was outnumbered; but the ships of Crdan sailed in great strength up the Firth of Drengist, and in the hour of need the Elves of the Falas came upon the host of Morgoth from the west. Then the Orcs broke and fled, and the Eldar had the victory, and their horsed archers pursued them even into the Iron Mountains. Thereafter Hrin son of Galdor ruled the house of Hador in Dor-lmin, and served Fingon. Hrin was of less stature than his fathers, or his son after him; but he was tireless and enduring in body, lithe and swift after the manner of his mothers kin, Hareth of the Haladin. His wife was Morwen Eledhwen, daughter of Baragund of the house of Bor, she who fled from Dorthonion with Ran daughter of Belegund and Emeldir the mother of Beren. In that time also the outlaws of Dorthonion were destroyed, as is told hereafter; and Beren son of Barahir alone escaping came hardly into Doriath. Chapter 19 Of Beren and Lthien Among the tales of sorrow and of


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


Ah, it’s a fine him well,’ says another. And you can hear the chains a- jangle dance—I’m with you there—and looks mighty like a horn- as you go about and reach for the other buoy. Now, that’s pipe in a rope’s end at Execution Dock by London town, it about where we are, every mother’s son of us, thanks to him, does. But who done it? Why, it was Anderson, and Hands, and Hands, and Anderson, and other ruination fools of you. and you, George Merry! And you’re the last above board of And if you want to know about number four, and that boy, that same meddling crew; and you have the Davy Jones’s in- why, shiver my timbers, isn’t he a hostage? Are we a-going to solence to up and stand for cap’n over me—you, that sank the waste a hostage? No, not us; he might be our last chance, and lot of us! By the powers! But this tops the stiffest yarn to I shouldn’t wonder. Kill that boy? Not me, mates! And nothing.” number three? Ah, well, there’s a deal to say to number three. Silver paused, and I could see by the faces of George and Maybe you don’t count it nothing to have a real college doc- his late comrades that these words had not been said in vain. tor to see you every day—you, John, with your head broke— “That’s for number one,” cried the accused, wiping the or you, George Merry, that had the ague shakes upon you not sweat from his brow, for he had been talking with a vehe- six hours agone, and has your eyes the colour of lemon peel to mence that shook the house. “Why, I give you my word, I’m this same moment on the clock? And maybe, perhaps, you sick to speak to you. You’ve neither sense nor memory, and I didn’t know there was a consort coming either? But there is, leave it to fancy where your mothers was that let you come to and not so long till then; and we’ll see who’ll be glad to have sea. Sea! Gentlemen o’ fortune! I reckon tailors is your a hostage when it comes to that. And as for number two, and trade.” why I made a bargain—well, you came crawling on your knees “Go on, John,” said Morgan. “Speak up to the others.” to me to make it—on your knees you came, you was that “Ah, the others!” returned John. “They’re a nice lot, ain’t downhearted—and you’d have starved too if I hadn’t—but they? You say this cruise is bungled. Ah! By gum, if you that’s a trifle! You look there—that’s why!” could understand how bad it’s bungled, you would see! We’re And he cast down upon the floor a paper that I instantly that near the gibbet that my neck’s stiff with thinking on it. recognized—none other than the chart on yellow paper, with Contents You’ve seen ‘em, maybe, hanged in chains, birds about ‘em, the three red crosses, that I had found in the


packed in jars, eh? I have a few left from Andrews. Molly spitting them out. Knows the taste of them now. Oranges in tissue paper packed in crates. Citrons too. Wonder is poor Citron still in Saint Kevin's parade. And Mastiansky with the old cither. Pleasant evenings we had then. Molly in Citron's basketchair. Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the hand, lift it to the nostrils and smell the perfume. Like that, heavy, sweet, wild perfume. Always the same, year after year. They fetched high prices too, Moisel told me. Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times. Must be without a flaw, he said. Coming all that way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the Levant. Crates lined up on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a book, navvies handling them barefoot in soiled dungarees. There's whatdoyoucallhim out of. How do you? Doesn't see. Chap you know just to salute bit of a bore. His back is like that Norwegian captain's. Wonder if I'll meet him today. Watering cart. To provoke the rain. On earth as it is in heaven. A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly. Grey. Far. No, not like that. A barren land, bare waste. Vulcanic lake, the dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the earth. No wind could lift those waves, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters. Brimstone they called it raining down: the cities of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. All dead names. A dead sea in a dead land, grey and old. Old now. It bore the oldest, the first race. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's, clutching a naggin bottle by the neck. The oldest people. Wandered far away over all the earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being born everywhere. It lay there now. Now it could bear no more. Dead: an old woman's: the grey sunken cunt of the world. Desolation. Grey horror seared his flesh. Folding the page into his pocket he turned into Eccles street, hurrying homeward. Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood: age crusting him with a salt cloak. Well, I am here now. Yes, I am here now. Morning mouth bad images. Got up wrong side of the bed. Must begin again those Sandow's exercises. On the hands down. Blotchy brown brick houses. Number eighty still unlet. Why is that? Valuation is only twenty-eight. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: parlour windows plastered with bills. Plasters on a sore eye. To smell the gentle smoke of tea, fume of the pan, sizzling butter. Be near her ample bedwarmed flesh. Yes, yes. Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley road, swiftly, in slim sandals, along the brightening footpath. Runs, she runs to meet me, a girl with gold hair on the wind. Two letters and a card lay on the hallfloor. He stooped and gathered them. Mrs Marion Bloom. His quickened heart slowed at once. Bold hand. Mrs Marion. --Poldy! Entering the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her tousled head. --Who are the letters for? He


Baskervilles. In one hour and five minutes I meet him at Waterloo Station. I have had a wire that he arrived at Southampton this morning. Now, Mr. Holmes, what would you advise me to do with him?" "Why should he not go to the home of his fathers?" "It seems natural, does it not? And yet, consider that every Baskerville who goes there meets with an evil fate. I feel sure that if Sir Charles could have spoken with me before his death he would have warned me against bringing this, the last of the old race, and the heir to great wealth, to that deadly place. And yet it cannot be denied that the prosperity of the whole poor, bleak countryside depends upon his presence. All the good work which has been done by Sir Charles will crash to the ground if there is no tenant of the Hall. I fear lest I should be swayed too much by my own obvious interest in the matter, and that is why I bring the case before you and ask for your advice." Holmes considered for a little time. "Put into plain words, the matter is this," said he. "In your opinion there is a diabolical agency which makes Dartmoor an unsafe abode for a Baskerville -- that is your opinion?" "At least I might go the length of saying that there is some evidence that this may be so." "Exactly. But surely, if your supernatural theory be correct, it could work the young man evil in London as easily as in Devonshire. A devil with merely local powers like a parish vestry would be too inconceivable a thing." "You put the matter more flippantly, Mr. Holmes, than you would probably do if you were brought into personal contact with these things. Your advice, then, as I understand it, is that the young man will be as safe in Devonshire as in London. He comes in fifty minutes. What would you recommend?" "I recommend, sir, that you take a cab, call off your spaniel who is scratching at my front door, and proceed to Waterloo to meet Sir Henry Baskerville." "And then?" "And then you will say nothing to him at all until I have made up my mind about the matter." "How long will it take you to make up your mind?" "Twenty-four hours. At ten o'clock to-morrow, Dr. Morti- mer, I will be much obliged to you if you will call upon me here, and it will be of help to me in my plans for the future if you will bring Sir Henry Baskerville with you." "I will do so, Mr. Holmes." He scribbled the appointment on his shirt-cuff and hurried off in his strange, peering, absent- minded fashion. Holmes stopped him at the head of the stair. "Only one more question, Dr. Mortimer. You say that before Sir Charles Baskerville's death several people saw this apparition upon the moor?" "Three people did." "Did any see it after?" "I have not heard of any." "Thank you. Good-morning." Holmes returned to


his voice rang out clear as the ogene, and tears stood in his eyes. His visitor was amazed, and sat speechless. At the end, Unoka was able to give an answer between fresh outbursts of mirth. "Look at that wall," he said, pointing at the far wall of his hut, which was rubbed with red earth so that it shone. "Look at those lines of chalk," and Okoye saw groups of short perpendicular lines drawn in chalk. There were five groups, and the smallest group had ten lines. Unoka had a sense of the dramatic and so he allowed a pause, in which he took a pinch of snuff and sneezed noisily, and then he continued: "Each group there represents a debt to someone, and each stroke is one hundred cowries. You see, I owe that man a thousand cowries. But he has not come to wake me up in the morning for it. I shall pay you, but not today. Our elders say that the sun will shine on those who stand before it shines on those who kneel under them. I shall pay my big debts first." And he took another pinch of snuff, as if that was paying the big debts first. Okoye rolled his goatskin and departed. When Unoka died he had taken no title at all and he was heavily in debt. Any wonder then that his son Okonkwo was ashamed of him? Fortunately, among these people a man was judged according to his worth and not according to the worth of his father. Okonkwo was clearly cut out for great things. He was still young but he had won fame as the greatest wrestler in the nine villages. He was a wealthy farmer and had two barns full of yams, and had just married his third wife. To crown it all he had taken two titles and had shown incredible prowess in two inter-tribal wars. And so although Okonkwo was still young, he was already one of the greatest men of his time. Age was respected among his people, but achievement was revered. As the elders said, if a child washed his hands he could eat with kings. Okonkwo had clearly washed his hands and so he ate with kings and elders. And that was how he came to look after the doomed lad who was sacrificed to the village of Umuofia by their neighbours to avoid war and bloodshed. The ill-fated lad was called Ikemefuna. CHAPTER TWO Okonkwo had just blown out the palm-oil lamp and stretched himself on his bamboo bed when he heard the ogene of the town crier piercing the still night air. Gome, gome, gome, gome, boomed the hollow metal. Then the crier gave his message, and at the end of it beat his instrument again. And this was the message. Every man of Umuofia was asked to gather at the market place tomorrow morning. Okonkwo wondered what was amiss, for he knew certainly that something was amiss. He had discerned a clear overtone of tragedy in the crier's voice, and


Until you, I still was. You can find out who he was. He had two DSOs and after the war he was trained by M and dropped back into Poland. They caught him and by torturing him they found out a lot and also about me. They came after me and told me he could live if I would work for them. He knew nothing of this, but he was allowed to write to me. The letter arrived on the fifteenth of each month. I found I couldn't stop. I couldn't bear the idea of a fifteenth coming round without his letter. It would mean that I had killed him. I tried to give them as little possible. You must believe me about this. Then it came to you. I told them you had been given this job at Royale, what your cover was and so on. That was why they knew about you before you arrived and why they had time to put the microphones in. They suspected Le Chiffre, but they didn't know what your assignment was except that it was something to do with him. That was all I told them. Then I was told not to stand behind you in the Casino and to see that neither Mathis nor Leiter did. That was why the gunman was nearly able to shoot you. Then I had to stage that kidnapping. You may have wondered why I was so quiet in the night-club. They didn't hurt me because I was working for MWD. But when I found out what had been done to you, even though it was Le Chiffre who did it and he turned out to be a traitor, I decided I couldn't go on. By that time I had begun to fall in love with you. They wanted me to find out things from you while you were recovering, but I refused. I was controlled from Paris. I had to ring up an Invalides number twice a day. They threatened me, and finally they withdrew my control and I knew my lover in Poland would have to die. But they were afraid I would talk, I suppose, and I got a final warning that SMERSH would come for me if I didn't obey them. I took no notice. I was in love with you. Then I saw the man with the black patch in the Splendide and I found he had been making inquiries about my movements. This was the day before we came down here. I hoped I could shake him off. I decided that we would have an affair and I would escape to South America from Le Havre. I hoped I would have a baby of yours and be able to start again somewhere. But they followed us. You can't get away from them. I knew it would be the end of our love if I told you. I realized that I could either wait to be killed by SMERSH, would perhaps get you killed too, or I could kill myself. There it is,


his organization and they're all running around like scalded cats. At the moment the Communist Party is giving out that he was off his head. But that hasn't helped much after Thorez's breakdown not long ago. They're just making it look as if all their big shots were gaga. God knows how they're going to unscramble the whole business.' Mathis saw that his enthusiasm had had the desired effect. Bond's eyes were brighter. 'One last mystery,' Mathis said, 'and then I promise I will go.' He looked at his watch. 'The doctor will be after my skin in a moment. Now, what about the money? Where is it? Where did you hide it? We too have been over your room with a toothcomb. It isn't there.' Bond grinned. 'It is,' he said, 'more or less. On the door of each room there is a small square of black plastic with the number of the room on it. On the corridor side, of course. When Leiter left me that night, I simply opened the door and unscrewed my number plate and put the folded cheque underneath it and screwed the plate back. It'll still be there.' He smiled. 'I'm glad there's something the stupid English can teach the clever French.' Mathis laughed delightedly. 'I suppose you think that's paid me back for knowing what the Muntzes were up to. Well, I'll call it quits. Incidentally, we've got them in the bag. They were just some minor fry hired for the occasion. We'll see they get a few years.' He rose hastily as the doctor stormed into the room and took one look at Bond. 'Out,' he said to Mathis. 'Out and don't come back.' Mathis just had time to wave cheerfully to Bond and call some hasty words of farewell before he was hustled through the door. Bond heard a torrent of heated French diminishing; down the corridor. He lay back exhausted, but heartened by all he had heard. He found himself thinking of Vesper as he quickly drifted off into a troubled sleep. There were still questions to be answered, but they could wait. CHAPTER 20 - THE NATURE OF EVIL Bond made good progress. When Mathis came to see him three days later he was propped up in bed and his arms were free. The lower half of his body was still shrouded in the oblong tent, but he looked cheerful and it was only occasionally that a twinge of pain narrowed his eyes. Mathis looked crestfallen. 'Here's your cheque,' he said to Bond. 'I've rather enjoyed walking around with forty million francs in my pocket, but I suppose you'd better sign it and I'll put it to your account with the Crdit Lyonnais. There's no sign of our friend from SMERSH. Not a damn trace. He must have got to the villa on foot or on a bicycle because you heard nothing of his arrival and the two gunmen obviously didn't. It's pretty exasperating. We've got precious little on this SMERSH organization and neither has London. Washington said they had,


be mentioned, the two of strongest promise to Harriet, were not without some degree of witness from Emma herself.--The first, was his walking with her apart from the others, in the lime-walk at Donwell, where they had been walking some time before Emma came, and he had taken pains (as she was convinced) to draw her from the rest to himself--and at first, he had talked to her in a more particular way than he had ever done before, in a very particular way indeed!--(Harriet could not recall it without a blush.) He seemed to be almost asking her, whether her affections were engaged.-- But as soon as she (Miss Woodhouse) appeared likely to join them, he changed the subject, and began talking about farming:-- The second, was his having sat talking with her nearly half an hour before Emma came back from her visit, the very last morning of his being at Hartfield--though, when he first came in, he had said that he could not stay five minutes--and his having told her, during their conversation, that though he must go to London, it was very much against his inclination that he left home at all, which was much more (as Emma felt) than he had acknowledged to her. The superior degree of confidence towards Harriet, which this one article marked, gave her severe pain. On the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she did, after a little reflection, venture the following question. "Might he not?--Is not it possible, that when enquiring, as you thought, into the state of your affections, he might be alluding to Mr. Martin-- he might have Mr. Martin's interest in view? But Harriet rejected the suspicion with spirit. "Mr. Martin! No indeed!--There was not a hint of Mr. Martin. I hope I know better now, than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be suspected of it." When Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to her dear Miss Woodhouse, to say whether she had not good ground for hope. "I never should have presumed to think of it at first," said she, "but for you. You told me to observe him carefully, and let his behaviour be the rule of mine--and so I have. But now I seem to feel that I may deserve him; and that if he does chuse me, it will not be any thing so very wonderful." The bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many bitter feelings, made the utmost exertion necessary on Emma's side, to enable her to say on reply, "Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr. Knightley is the last man in the world, who would intentionally give any woman the idea of his feeling for her more than he really does." Harriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence so satisfactory; and Emma was only saved from raptures and fondness, which at that moment would have been dreadful penance, by the sound of her father's footsteps. He was coming through the hall. Harriet was too much agitated to encounter him. "She