Mr. Tate's testimony as if it were stock-market quotations: "...which eye her left oh yes that'd make it her right it was her right eye Mr. Finch I remember now she was bunged." He flipped the page. "Up on that side of the face Sheriff please repeat what you said it was her right eye I said-" "Thank you, Bert," said Atticus. "You heard it again, Mr. Ewell. Do you have anything to add to it? Do you agree with the sheriff?" "I holds with Tate. Her eye was blacked and she was mighty beat up." The little man seemed to have forgotten his previous humiliation from the bench. It was becoming evident that he thought Atticus an easy match. He seemed to grow ruddy again; his chest swelled, and once more he was a red little rooster. I thought he'd burst his shirt at Atticus's next question: "Mr. Ewell, can you read and write?" Mr. Gilmer interrupted. "Objection," he said. "Can't see what witness's literacy has to do with the case, irrelevant'n'immaterial." Judge Taylor was about to speak but Atticus said, "Judge, if you'll allow the question plus another one you'll soon see." "All right, let's see," said Judge Taylor, "but make sure we see, Atticus. Overruled." Mr. Gilmer seemed as curious as the rest of us as to what bearing the state of Mr. Ewell's education had on the case. "I'll repeat the question," said Atticus. "Can you read and write?" "I most positively can." "Will you write your name and show us?" "I most positively will. How do you think I sign my relief checks?" Mr. Ewell was endearing himself to his fellow citizens. The whispers and chuckles below us probably had to do with what a card he was. I was becoming nervous. Atticus seemed to know what he was doing- but it seemed to me that he'd gone frog-sticking without a light. Never, never, never, on cross-examination ask a witness a question you don't already know the answer to, was a tenet I absorbed with my baby-food. Do it, and you'll often get an answer you don't want, an answer that might wreck your case. Atticus was reaching into the inside pocket of his coat. He drew out an envelope, then reached into his vest pocket and unclipped his fountain pen. He moved leisurely, and had turned so that he was in full view of the jury. He unscrewed the fountain-pen cap and placed it gently on his table. He shook the pen a little, then handed it with the envelope to the witness. "Would you write your name for us?" he asked. "Clearly now, so the jury can see you do it." Mr. Ewell wrote on the back of the envelope and looked up complacently to see Judge Taylor staring at him as if he were some fragrant gardenia in full bloom on the witness stand, to see Mr. Gilmer half-sitting, half-standing at his table. The jury was watching him, one man was leaning forward with his hands over the railing. "What's so interestin'?" he asked.


any easier for me, and I’m still relying on several trillion people to help me get my work in shape. Love, Theoretically was, simultaneously, a book I really wanted to write and a book I really struggled to write (go figure!). I owe a lot to my editor, Sarah Blumenstock (thank you for letting me keep that chapter break; BTW, I’m still mad you didn’t tell me about that panel), and to my agent, Thao Le (thank you for being the only one who laughs at my jokes!), who constantly support me in all my writerly endeavors and are the reason writing is such a joy for me. I’m truly honored to get to work so closely with two people I like so much. Also, all my appreciation to Liz Sellers for her precious input. To my beloved Jen, Lucy, Margaret, and Kelly, who slogged through lackluster versions of this manuscript: this is what you get for being friends with me, you’re welcome (I’m so sorry—ILU). Thank you to my (anonymous) authenticity readers for their important and difficult work. In addition, I’m incredibly fortunate to have the best people working on the art (Lilith, who consistently creates the covers of my dreams, and Rita Frangie and Vikki Chu), production editorial work (Lindsey Tulloch), and copy edits (Janice Lee) for my books. And, of course, the best marketing and publicity team. To Bridget O’Toole, Kim-Salina I, Kristin Cipolla, Tara O’Connor: Hi. I’m sorry if sometimes I go rogue, and I’m sorry about all the crying on Zoom. I truly appreciate you and everything you do for me, and it’s possible that I don’t deserve you, but please don’t leave me. Also, special acknowledgments to my grandeditor, Cindy, and my grandpublicist, Erin. I would also like to thank all the foreign publishing professionals who have acquired and published my books abroad. I am so honored that The Love Hypothesis has reached so many readers, and I owe it all to you! In particular, all my love to my team at Sextante/Arqueiro (and to Frini and Nana) for having me in Brazil and giving me the experience of a lifetime, and to my team at Aufbau (especially Stefanie and Sara) for fitting so many cat cafés and Motel Ones in my memorable Germany visit. When people ask me for writing advice, what I always say is that what matters the most is having a good support network, and mine is fantastic. I owe so much to my Grems, the Berkletes, and all the friends who’ve been so supportive of me in the last two years. In particular, thanks to Lo, Christina, Adriana, and Elena for their constant friendship, mentorship, and guidance. (And okay, fine, thanks to my husband, too, for making really good dinners.) Last, but very much not least: all my gratitude to anyone who has read something I’ve written, ever. Time is a finite and precious resource, and I’m constantly overcome with emotion that people choose to spend it on my words. So thank you, thank you, thank you. Justin Murphy of Out


where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so when he died it was found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to men whose hair is of that color. From all I hear it is splendid pay and very little to do.' "'But,' said I, 'there would be millions of red-headed men who would apply.' "'Not so many as you might think,' he answered. 'You see it is really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use your applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.' "Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if there was to be any competition in the matter I stood as good a chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so much about it that I thought he might prove useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters for the day and to come right away with me. He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the business up and started off for the address that was given us in the advertisement. "I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in his hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope's Court looked like a coster's orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so many in the whole country as were brought together by that single advertisement. Every shade of color they were--straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real vivid flame-colored tint. When I saw how many were waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up to the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream upon the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back dejected; but we wedged


therefore there was no chance for him there. He returned to Dartmoor and awaited the arrival of the baronet." "One moment!" said I. "You have, no doubt, described the sequence of events correctly, but there is one point which you have left unexplained. What became of the hound when its master was in London?" "I have given some attention to this matter and it is undoubt- edly of importance. There can be no question that Stapleton had a confidant, though it is unlikely that he ever placed himself in his power by sharing all his plans with him. There was an old manservant at Merripit House, whose name was Anthony. His connection with the Stapletons can be traced for several years, as far back as the schoolmastering days, so that he must have been aware that his master and mistress were really husband and wife. This man has disappeared and has escaped from the country. It is suggestive that Anthony is not a common name in England, while Antonio is so in all Spanish or Spanish-American coun- tries. The man, like Mrs. Stapleton herself, spoke good English, but with a curious lisping accent. I have myself seen this old man cross the Grimpen Mire by the path which Stapleton had marked out. It is very probable, therefore, that in the absence of his master it was he who cared for the hound, though he may never have known the purpose for which the beast was used. "The Stapletons then went down to Devonshire, whither they were soon followed by Sir Henry and you. One word now as to how I stood myself at that time. It may possibly recur to your memory that when I examined the paper upon which the printed words were fastened I made a close inspection for the water- mark. In doing so I held it within a few inches of my eyes, and was conscious of a faint smell of the scent known as white jessamine. There are seventy-five perfumes, which it is very necessary that a criminal expert should be able to distinguish from each other, and cases have more than once within my own experience depended upon their prompt recognition. The scent suggested the presence of a lady, and already my thoughts began to turn towards the Stapletons. Thus I had made certain of the hound, and had guessed at the criminal before ever we went to the west country. "It was my game to watch Stapleton. It was evident, how- ever, that I could not do this if I were with you, since he would be keenly on his guard. I deceived everybody, therefore, your- self included, and I came down secretly when I was supposed to be in London. My hardships were not so great as you imagined, though such trifling details must never interfere with the investi- gation of a case. I stayed for the most part at Coombe Tracey, and only used the hut upon the moor when it was necessary to be near the scene of action. Cartwright had come


Hannah Whitten - The Foxglove King-Orbit (2023).txt

degrees. She fed death to the corpse and laid it slowly to rest again. Lore slumped on the floor, pins and needles sweeping down her whole body as her blood quickened again, itchy and uncomfortable. Her breath heaved, her heart working overtime after tithing its beat. Gabe came to her. Knelt before her, pulled her up by the shoulders, stared into her face. “I’m fine,” Lore rasped, an answer to the question Gabe hadn’t asked. Not quite true, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. “It worked, and I’m fine.” The vault door opened, like Bastian somehow knew it was done. He walked in, stopped when he saw Lore and Gabe on the floor. He didn’t ask her if she was fine. Didn’t show any kind of concern. Because he knows exactly what you are. He knew channeling Mortem was as familiar to her hands as their heartlines. Light filtered in through the now-open door, dawn blushing the sky beyond the glass-domed roof. They needed to get out of here. She’d done what she had to do. But Gabe didn’t move, still holding her shoulders, eyes moving from her face to the body on the slab. “What did he mean?” he asked quietly. “When he said find the others, that they weren’t destroyed?” “He had to be talking about the other bodies from the villages,” she murmured, voice hoarse. She knew she was right, knew it with the same cell-deep awareness that pulled her to Gabe, pulled her to Bastian. “They weren’t burned. August and Anton are keeping them somewhere.” Footnotes 1 Earliest Compendium translation. Modern Compendiums have eliminated Tracts 690–821; these Tracts can only be found in Compendiums made immediately after being dictated by Apollius (1 AGF). CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Catastrophes come in waves. —Auverrani proverb Sleep clawed at the corners of Lore’s eyes, but she didn’t let them droop. At least she tried not to; every few moments, her view of the sitting room in her and Gabe’s apartments would dim, and she had to remind herself to stay awake. They’d parted ways with Bastian after the vaults; even he was yawning by then. The Sun Prince hadn’t said anything to them, just split off in the opposite direction as they turned toward the southeast turret. Both of them had been too tired to comment then, but apparently the climb up to the apartment had reinvigorated Gabe. “It doesn’t make sense.” Gabe ran his hands over his shorn hair, elbows on his knees. He was too large for their couch, really, and angry confusion only made him seem larger. “There’s no reason for Anton or August to lie about what they’re doing with the bodies.” Lore shrugged, seated cross-legged in front of the fire, slumped over and propping her chin on her hand. “So you think I’m wrong?” “I didn’t say that.” Gabe looked up, flames reflecting in his one visible eye. She watched him toss words back and forth in his mind, trying to find a combination that didn’t sound like an accusation. “I just… how do you


near the window.’ Lin remembered the lasagne. ‘What about the spoiled food?’ ‘There’s a vixen with cubs in the field beyond the garden. I’m sure they’d all love a taste of Italy.’ Neil winked. ‘And what they can’t eat, the blue tits will finish.’ ‘If the blackened cheese doesn’t stick their beaks together…’ Lin hesitated, then she grinned. ‘A night out with my handsome husband would be great, though.’ ‘There’s no accounting for taste.’ Neil laughed. ‘I always thought Jimmy Baker was the one the girls liked.’ ‘Poor Jimmy, he was so smelly and we treated him so badly. He’s widowed now. And Sally Corbyn’s moved to Australia. Kenny Hooper’s always been on his own…’ Lin was suddenly sad. ‘There aren’t many of us from Miss Hamilton’s class left.’ Neil agreed. ‘I like Kenny. He helped me out at the garage when I needed another pair of hands. He’s genius with fixing clutches. And he’s a good lad – Jimmy too.’ ‘Mmm…’ Lin was still thinking: it seemed so long since she and Josie were at school; everyone was so much older now, yet time had passed so quickly and she felt no different. It didn’t make sense. Neil guessed her thoughts. ‘Don’t worry about us, Lindy – your cooking keeps us strong. We have the constitutions of oxen.’ He winked again. ‘Unless we die of starvation. Come on – let’s get going.’ Lin was about to move, then she paused, threw her arms around Neil and kissed his lips. He was momentarily taken aback. ‘What was that for? Not that I’m complaining.’ ‘Because you’re the best.’ She gave a little shrug. ‘And because it’s your birthday and I’m so lucky…’ A sob caught in her throat. She was far too emotional nowadays. She blamed it on the tablets she took for the arthritis. Neil was grinning. ‘The black dress is my favourite. The one with the neckline…’ He squeezed her arm. ‘Go on, get changed. I’ll book a table for eight o’clock.’ Lin mouthed, ‘Love you,’ then she was on her way upstairs, to the shower. There was some spicy shower gel and a coconut shampoo. It might just get rid of the smell of burned lasagne. Josie had chosen her favourite black dress. She sat across the table from David Ellis, who was dapper in a dinner jacket, and Arnie and Nancy Wiesner, clad in matching white. A band played swing music, although the dance floor was currently empty. Arnie poured from a bottle of champagne as the group talked and laughed. Nancy leaned towards David. ‘So, you guys only met just this afternoon?’ ‘We did, yes,’ David replied. ‘We shared cocktails on deck. Josie and I had a great time talking about… life and… things…’ He glanced in Josie’s direction, a little nervous about what to say. Josie helped him out. ‘David is a writer – he’s researching a detective novel.’ ‘I have a title…’ David proclaimed. ‘What do you think of Murder in Sweet St Lucia?’ Arnie pulled a face. ‘Is it a horror?’ ‘More of a mystery,’


of the moor. For some minutes he stood watching intently. Then he gave a deep groan and with an impatient gesture he put out the light. Instantly I made my way back to my room, and very shortly came the stealthy steps passing once more upon their return journey. Long afterwards when I had fallen into a light sleep I heard a key turn somewhere in a lock, but I could not tell whence the sound came. What it all means I cannot guess, but there is some secret business going on in this house of gloom which sooner or later we shall get to the bottom of. I do not trouble you with my theories, for you asked me to furnish you only with facts. I have had a long talk with Sir Henry this morning, and we have made a plan of campaign founded upon my observations of last night. I will not speak about it just now, but it should make my next report interesting reading. Chapter 9 Second Report of Dr. Watson THE LIGHT UPON THE MOOR Baskerville Hall, Oct. 15th. MY DEAR HOLMES: If I was compelled to leave you without much news during the early days of my mission you must acknowledge that I am making up for lost time, and that events are now crowding thick and fast upon us. In my last report I ended upon my top note with Barrymore at the window, and now I have quite a budget already which will, unless I am much mistaken, considera- bly surprise you. Things have taken a turn which I could not have anticipated. In some ways they have within the last forty- eight hours become much clearer and in some ways they have become more complicated. But I will tell you all and you shall judge for yourself. Before breakfast on the morning following my adventure I went down the corridor and examined the room in which Barry- more had been on the-night before. The western window through which he had stared so intently has, I noticed, one peculiarity above all other windows in the house -- it commands the nearest outlook on to the moor. There is an opening between two trees which enables one from this point of view to look right down upon it, while from all the other windows it is only a distant glimpse which can be obtained. It follows, therefore, that Barry- more, since only this window would serve the purpose, must have been looking out for something or somebody upon the moor. The night was very dark, so that I can hardly imagine how he could have hoped to see anyone. It had struck me that it was possible that some love intrigue was on foot. That would have accounted for his stealthy movements and also for the uneasiness of his wife. The man is a striking-looking fellow, very well equipped to steal the heart of a country girl, so that this theory seemed to have something to support it. That opening of the door whlch


Poppy by the hand, Pupkin hanging back, staring at Aunt Honey. They stood in the hall, not knowing what to say or where to go. “All her life,” Mark said. “All her life she must have known something was wrong. She never wanted to talk about death or Freddie because she must’ve known it didn’t add up. Even if it was just a freak accident, she must have felt so guilty that it happened when she took her eyes off her brother. And she never said a word. None of them did. And she clung to the one thing she had to remember her brother by for almost seventy years. Can you even imagine?” Louise couldn’t. She thought about those women—Aunt Honey, her grandmother, her mom—deciding what needed to be done and doing it. They had a hardness she was beginning to think, more and more, she’d inherited. A hardness she couldn’t have imagined before she had her own child. “We have to go to the house,” Louise said. “Why?” Mark asked. “To find Freddie,” she said. They both looked down at Pupkin, who looked up at them. “Don’t we call the police or something?” Mark asked, but his voice lacked conviction. Louise adjusted Poppy’s hot, soft, unresponsive hand in hers. This is what her daughter’s hand would feel like if she was in a coma. This is what her daughter’s hand would feel like at the moment of her death. “We need to do it now,” Louise said, “before there’s no more Poppy left.” For a moment, it looked like Mark was going to argue, then he nodded. “Okay,” he said. — They had to wrestle Poppy into Mark’s truck. She clung to the doorframe, bracing her feet against the seat and pushing backward. Louise was prying her fingers off the frame one by one when Mark let go and stepped back. “You’re going to hurt her,” he said. Louise turned on him in a fury. “She’s already hurt!” she snapped. “Mom’s already hurt her! Aunt Honey hurt her! Everyone in this family hurt her! Now, help me!” He wasn’t much help with only one arm, but together they managed to stuff her into his truck. Louise sat Poppy between them to keep her away from the door, but the minute Mark got in Poppy lashed out, shoving herself backward into Louise and kicking Mark in the thigh. “Hold her!” he said, as Poppy kicked at the steering wheel. “I’m doing my best!” Louise said, grappling with Poppy, who suddenly seemed to be everywhere, feet flailing at Mark’s face, Pupkin pummeling Louise. Finally, she got Poppy in a bear hug, lifted her over herself, and put her own body in the middle, between Poppy and Mark. Her daughter went limp. Louise clicked the passenger-side seat belt over Poppy and made sure it was snug. One eye on Poppy, Mark started the truck. “It’s a big backyard,” Mark said, voice low, as they drove down Ashley. “I know,” Louise said. “How’re we going to know where to dig?” Mark asked, turning onto


got back to us.

226

https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t.me/Afghansalarlibrary

The persons you're following...what’s their status?

I shook my head and thought: Most of them are gone, because you've

been so slow.

I said: They've split up and we’re down to one bike.

Permission to fire.

Dave said to use the Hellfire. I was nervous about using it, however; I

shot the 30-mm cannon instead.

Mistake. I hit the motorbike. One man down, presumably dead, but one

hopped off and ran into a building.

We circled, called in ground troops.

You were right, | told Dave. Should ’ve used the Hellfire.

No worries, he said. It was your first time.

Long after returning to base, I did a sort of mental scan. I’d been in

combat before, I’d killed before, but this was my most direct contact with

the enemy—ever. Other engagements felt more impersonal. This one was

eyes on target, finger on trigger, fire away.

I asked myself how I felt.

Traumatized?

No.

Sad?

No.

Surprised?

No. Prepared in every way. Doing my job. What we’d trained for.

I asked myself if I was callous, perhaps desensitized. I asked myself if

my non-reaction was connected to a long-standing ambivalence towards

death.

I didn’t think so.

It was really just simple maths. These were bad people doing bad things

to our guys. Doing bad things to the world. If this guy I’d just removed from

the battlefield hadn’t already killed British soldiers, he soon would. Taking

him meant saving British lives, sparing British families. Taking him meant

fewer young men and women wrapped like mummies and shipped home on

hospital beds, like the lads on my plane four years earlier, or the wounded

men and women I’d visited at Selly Oak and other hospitals, or


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

boots from my feet and replaced them with the shoes. They fit perfectly, and oh, they were so warming. I felt astonished that I hadn’t realized how cold my feet had been before. “Thank you,” I said, trying to read the meaning of this gift on his unfamiliar face. But he gave me no assistance, only smiled, bowed again to the king, and faded back into obscurity. The king was watching me with a frown between his lovely blue eyes. “Are you all right, my darling? Your heart is thundering as if it wishes to escape from you.” I swallowed—it would be an understatement to call his knowledge of my heart rate an unpleasant surprise. “The shoes are beautiful.” “Ah,” he said, smiling. I didn’t think him an idiot, only his expectations of me were so limited that I never found him difficult to lie to. I had the sense that he viewed all mortals as akin to his pet ravens, whose lives revolve around the treats he tosses their way, which made me wonder if he’d ever had a comeuppance before, and I don’t mean by a fellow monarch. The literature is, after all, strewn with examples of arrogant faerie lords given their due by artless maidens and practical rustics. “I should have guessed,” he said. “I’ve been wrong to spoil you with jewels and servants, haven’t I? Never fear. After our wedding, I will have my shoemakers fill your rooms to bursting with boots of calfskin and rabbit fur, all covered in diamonds, flowers, and frost; you shall have a different pair for each day of your life.” I didn’t care for the way he said this, as if the life of a mortal, measured in ridiculous shoes, was so puny a thing that there was nothing at all extravagant about such a present. He turned his attention to the three guests approaching our thrones. If my heart had been suspiciously thundering before, now it was a racehorse spooked to a gallop. The mortals stood out against the lovely watercolour gathering of Folk like accidental splotches of ink on a canvas. Aud, Finn, and Aslaug walked steadily, staring in front of them, though as the thrones loomed closer, I could see their resolution falter. Aud was the bravest. She kept a little ahead of the others, dressed simply but well in her furs with her hair intricately braided. Given her smallness, it was all the more impressive, and I could see the king start to smile. Finn was pale, but I could see that, alongside his fear, there was amusement, as if he could see no other way to react to such an impossible situation. Aslaug surprised me the most. She had gained weight, and her gaze had lost its cloudiness—she looked like an altogether different person. When she met my gaze, she smiled—a quick, fierce thing that was also a promise. “Do you know them?” the king enquired, politely nodding at the villagers as they bowed and curtsied. “Yes,” I said, for there was no reason to lie about


nebulous form below Apollius’s feet appeared to be a shadow at first glance. But if you looked closely, you could almost pick out the shape of a woman, see where the weaver had used threads of varying darkness to suggest a moon-crowned head, feminine curves. The Bleeding God’s feet were directly above the points of the vague woman-shape’s crescent crown, turned on Her forehead so the points speared up like horns. It gave the impression of the god stomping Her into the earth. The Buried Goddess, Nyxara. The Church, then. Of course the Presque Mort had brought her to the Church. The thought made panic spike anew. The one who’d drugged her said they meant her no harm, but that could be semantics, a cruel game. The Presque Mort might not be authorized to execute her themselves, but the Priest Exalted certainly was. Or maybe the King would want to do the honors. It’d been ages since they’d had a real necromancer to burn. All of them had been killed in the year of the Godsfall and the decade afterward, when Mortem leaked from the Buried Goddess’s body like blood from an arterial wound. A deep breath, an attempt to quell the fear. She wondered how her captors might react if she asked for chloroform again. A drugged sleep was preferable to this churn of anxiety, especially when her fate was all but sealed. Her stomach gurgled, hunger making it twist in on itself. How long had she been down here? There were no windows, nothing to help her mark the time, but the stiffness of her limbs and the emptiness of her stomach made her think it’d been hours. Lore barely reacted when the Presque Mort filed in, only two of them: the one who’d drugged her and another she didn’t recognize, with a shaved head and walnut-brown arms marked in deep, silvery scars. The one with the scarred arms looked her way and cocked a brow. “You might’ve gone overboard with that chloroform, Gabriel. She looks a moment away from losing her lunch.” “I didn’t use that much.” The tall Presque Mort—Gabriel, apparently—looked curiously at her from his one working eye, then grimaced at the air. “It’s still so thick in here, even after a day.” A day? Gods dead and dying, she’d been knocked out for a whole day? “She channeled so much…” Gabriel turned to his companion. “Do you feel it?” The other’s expression darkened. “A bit,” he said, almost begrudgingly. “Not as much as you do. Some of us have to pay our dues in Dellaire, instead of out in one of the country monasteries. We’re used to Mortem being thick here.” There was a bite of defensiveness to his tone, for all that it sounded like he’d meant it as a joke. Gabriel raised a candle-inked hand. “I meant no offense, Malcolm.” “None taken,” Malcolm replied. He rubbed his scarred arms and scoffed good-naturedly, as if trying to lift the mood. “If I’d had to spend my entire training period in one of the country monasteries,


Well, don’t worry, everything you’re gonna see tonight is a quick turnaround that’s gonna get you back to where you should’ve been.” I’m sorry but is this…………………still a commercial for face wash??? I love it. Shame me, Mommy! Make me feel like absolute dogshit for spending the entire summer frying bacon on my forehead at high noon! Julia has an aesthetician in studio with her today, and she is thrilled to be with us and can’t wait to answer our stream of burning questions in the chat. Okay, I love QVC and watch it like I’m chilling with my pals, but even I am not cool or confident enough to kick it with the heavy hitters in the chat. That’s for the real QCard insiders. The as-yet-unnamed aesthetician enthusiastically details a full antiaging skincare routine, but Julia interrupts her to tell us that this best beauty product–nominated cleanser typically retails for $75, but they are cutting me, their best friend, a deal by offering two bottles for less than $50! I don’t care so much about that, as chances are I’m gonna be back to using Cetaphil from the bottom shelf of Walgreens within a matter of days anyway, but I love that she’s doing math. The aesthetician says you can keep one for yourself and give the other to your significant other, and I broke out in a full-body sweat like “HOLD UP, THEY GOT LESBIANS ON HERE????” But, no. She is just talking about her dumb husband who apparently never washed his face in fifty-plus years until she gently nudged her bottle of Peter Thomas Roth Anti-Aging Cleansing Gel closer to his side of the sink. What kind of bathroom do they have? Are all the products locked up like at Walgreens? If my lady gets a new soap or toner and I want to try some I just…use it. What is this “bottle for your significant other” business? Is this how Americans are living in the heartland, just out here doubling and quadrupling up on his-’n’-hers economy-sized jugs of face wash? Next the aesthetician starts busting out the science words that we’ve all heard but couldn’t define if our lives depended on it (I’ll wait while you tell me, without using your pocket computer, what “glycolic acid” is and does), but what hooks me is she describes the scent and feeling of the gel as “peachy clean.” Is she: misusing the common American colloquialism “peachy keen”? thinking about how peaches are soft and hairy like a face and that this soap would be a good way to clean their delicate skins? describing the scent as both “peachy” and “clean,” two things that absolutely do not go together olfactorily? Julia describes how skin feels firmer from the first wash and this is the first cleanser of its kind (probably?) to make your skin feel firm without leaving it tight and stripped. I don’t care about firmness, but I do hate that crackly dry feeling you get from washing your face with the wrong thing, but then she says that it


"Miss Barry was a kindred spirit, after all," Anne confided to Marilla. "You wouldn't think so to look at her, but she is. You don't find it right out at first, as in Matthew's case, but after a while you come to see it. Kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think. It's splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world." 20. A Good Imagination Gone Wrong Spring had come once more to Green Gables-the beautiful capricious, reluctant Canadian spring, lingering along through April and May in a succession of sweet, fresh, chilly days, with pink sunsets and miracles of resurrection and growth. The maples in Lover's Lane were red budded and little curly ferns pushed up around the Dryad's Bubble. Away up in the barrens, behind Mr. Silas Sloane's place, the Mayflowers blossomed out, pink and white stars of sweetness under their brown leaves. All the school girls and boys had one golden afternoon gathering them, coming home in the clear, echoing twilight with arms and baskets full of flowery spoil. "I'm so sorry for people who live in lands where there are no Mayflowers," said Anne. "Diana says perhaps they have something better, but there couldn't be anything better than Mayflowers, could there, Marilla? And Diana says if they don't know what they are like they don't miss them. But I think that is the saddest thing of all. I think it would be TRAGIC, Marilla, not to know what Mayflowers are like and not to miss them. Do you know what I think Mayflowers are, Marilla? I think they must be the souls of the flowers that died last summer and this is their heaven. But we had a splendid time today, Marilla. We had our lunch down in a big mossy hollow by an old well-such a ROMANTIC spot. Charlie Sloane dared Arty Gillis to jump over it, and Arty did because he wouldn't take a dare. Nobody would in school. It is very FASHIONABLE to dare. Mr. Phillips gave all the Mayflowers he found to Prissy Andrews and I heard him to say `sweets to the sweet.' He got that out of a book, I know; but it shows he has some imagination. I was offered some Mayflowers too, but I rejected them with scorn. I can't tell you the person's name because I have vowed never to let it cross my lips. We made wreaths of the Mayflowers and put them on our hats; and when the time came to go home we marched in procession down the road, two by two, with our bouquets and wreaths, singing `My Home on the Hill.' Oh, it was so thrilling, Marilla. All Mr. Silas Sloane's folks rushed out to see us and everybody we met on the road stopped and stared after us. We made a real sensation." "Not much wonder! Such silly doings!" was Marilla's response. After the Mayflowers came the violets, and Violet Vale was empurpled with them. Anne walked through it on her way to school with


one-and-twenty. Woman's usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil to be avoided in not marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me." "Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?" "Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, that is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death." They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away, "These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make every thing else appear!--I feel now as if I could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it may all vanish from my mind?" "Very true," said Harriet. "Poor creatures! one can think of nothing else." "And really, I do not


here. When we were separate individuals, all we had was rage. I struck a fireman when he came to burn my library years ago. I've been running ever since. You want to join us, Montag?" "Yes." "What have you to offer?" "Nothing. I thought I had part of the Book of Ecclesiastes and maybe a little of Revelation, but I haven't even that now." "The Book of Ecclesiastes would be fine. Where was it?" "Here," Montag touched his head. "Ah," Granger smiled and nodded. "What's wrong? Isn't that all right?" said Montag. "Better than all right; perfect!" Granger turned to the Reverend. "Do we have a Book of Ecclesiastes?" "One. A man named Harris of Youngstown." "Montag." Granger took Montag's shoulder firmly. "Walk carefully. Guard your health. If anything should happen to Harris, you are the Book of Ecclesiastes. See how important you've become in the last minute!" "But I've forgotten!" "No, nothing's ever lost. We have ways to shake down your clinkers for you." "But I've tried to remember!" "Don't try. It'll come when we need it. All of us have photographic memories, but spend a lifetime learning how to block off the things that are really in there. Simmons here has worked on it for twenty years and now we've got the method down to where we can recall anything that's been read once. Would you like, some day, Montag, to read Plato's Republic?" "Of course!" "I am Plato's Republic. Like to read Marcus Aurelius? Mr. Simmons is Marcus." "How do you do?" said Mr. Simmons. "Hello," said Montag. "I want you to meet Jonathan Swift, the author of that evil political book, Gulliver's Travels! And this other fellow is Charles Darwin, and-this one is Schopenhauer, and this one is Einstein, and this one here at my elbow is Mr. Albert Schweitzer, a very kind philosopher indeed. Here we all are, Montag. Aristophanes and Mahatma Gandhi and Gautama Buddha and Confucius and Thomas Love Peacock and Thomas Jefferson and Mr. Lincoln, if you please. We are also Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John." Everyone laughed quietly. "It can't be," said Montag. "It is," replied Granger, smiling. " We're book-burners, too. We read the books and burnt them, afraid they'd be found. Micro-filming didn't pay off; we were always travelling, we didn't want to bury the film and come back later. Always the chance of discovery. Better to keep it in the old heads, where no one can see it or suspect it. We are all bits and pieces of history and literature and international law, Byron, Tom Paine, Machiavelli, or Christ, it's here. And the hour is late. And the war's begun. And we are out here, and the city is there, all wrapped up in its own coat of a thousand colours. What do you think, Montag?" "I think I was blind trying to do things my way, planting books in firemen's houses and sending in alarms." "You did what you had to do. Carried out on a national scale, it might have worked beautifully. But our way is simpler


overpowering nature; they were a mixture of pain and pleasure, such as I had never before experienced, either from hunger or cold, warmth or food; and I withdrew from the window, unable to bear these emotions. "Soon after this the young man returned, bearing on his shoulders a load of wood. The girl met him at the door, helped to relieve him of his burden, and taking some of the fuel into the cottage, placed it on the fire; then she and the youth went apart into a nook of the cottage, and he showed her a large loaf and a piece of cheese. She seemed pleased and went into the garden for some roots and plants, which she placed in water, and then upon the fire. She afterwards continued her work, whilst the young man went into the garden and appeared busily employed in digging and pulling up roots. After he had been employed thus about an hour, the young woman joined him and they entered the cottage together. "The old man had, in the meantime, been pensive, but on the appearance of his companions he assumed a more cheerful air, and they sat down to eat. The meal was quickly dispatched. The young woman was again occupied in arranging the cottage, the old man walked before the cottage in the sun for a few minutes, leaning on the arm of the youth. Nothing could exceed in beauty the contrast between these two excellent creatures. One was old, with silver hairs and a countenance beaming with benevolence and love; the younger was slight and graceful in his figure, and his features were moulded with the finest symmetry, yet his eyes and attitude expressed the utmost sadness and despondency. The old man returned to the cottage, and the youth, with tools different from those he had used in the morning, directed his steps across the fields. "Night quickly shut in, but to my extreme wonder, I found that the cottagers had a means of prolonging light by the use of tapers, and was delighted to find that the setting of the sun did not put an end to the pleasure I experienced in watching my human neighbours. In the evening the young girl and her companion were employed in various occupations which I did not understand; and the old man again took up the instrument which produced the divine sounds that had enchanted me in the morning. So soon as he had finished, the youth began, not to play, but to utter sounds that were monotonous, and neither resembling the harmony of the old man's instrument nor the songs of the birds; I since found that he read aloud, but at that time I knew nothing of the science of words or letters. "The family, after having been thus occupied for a short time, extinguished their lights and retired, as I conjectured, to rest." Chapter 12 "I lay on my straw, but I could not sleep. I thought of the occurrences of the day. What chiefly struck me was the gentle manners


it before me. “You like Chinese food, right?” I don’t have the heart to tell her that it was Rory who liked Chinese, and that Chinese food makes my stomach roil, especially now, since that horrible club meeting in Rockville. “Yeah, it’s fine.” “I got you the Triple Buddha. Are you still vegetarian?” “Oh, only sort of, but that’s fine.” I split my chopsticks open. “Thanks.” Mom, nodding, spoons some pork fried rice onto her plate and begins to eat. We don’t talk much. It’s always been like this between us—either placid silence, or vicious fighting. There’s no casual in-between, no common interests we can shoot the shit about. Whatever wildness Mom once possessed seems to have evaporated back in the eighties, when she was smoking pot and following bands around and naming her children things like Juniper Song and Aurora Whisper. She went back to work after Dad died, and since then has molded herself entirely into the American ideal of a working single mother: perfect attendance at her office job, perfect attendance at our parent-teacher meetings, just enough savings to put Rory and me through good schools with minimal student debt and to set up a retirement account for herself. The demands of such a hustle, it seems, left no room for creativity. She’s the kind of suburban white mother who buys home living magazines at the grocery checkout counter, who drinks crate upon crate of four-dollar wines from Trader Joe’s, who refers to Twilight as “those vampire books,” and who hasn’t read anything other than Costco discount paperbacks for decades. Mom always got along better with Rory. I always got the sense that she didn’t quite know what to do with me. It was Dad who could always follow me wherever my imagination went. But we don’t talk about Dad. We sit in silence for a while, chewing on egg rolls and stir-fried chicken bits so sweet they taste like candy. At last, Mom asks, “How’s your, well, book writing going?” Mom has always had the particular ability to reduce all my aspirations to trivial obsessions with a simple disinterested question. I set down my chopsticks. “It’s, uh, fine.” “Oh, that’s good.” “Well, actually, I’m sort of . . .” I want to tell her why I’ve been so miserable these past few months, but I don’t know where to begin. “I’m in a difficult place. Creatively. Like, I can’t think of anything to write about.” “You mean like writer’s block?” “Sort of like that. Only usually I have all these tricks to break out of it. Writing exercises, listening to music, going on long walks and whatnot. It’s not working this time.” Mom shoves some bits of chicken aside to snag a candied pecan. “Well, maybe it’s time to move on, then.” “Mom.” “I’m just saying. Rory’s friend can always get you into that class. You just have to fill out the application.” Mom has suggested that I do a master’s in tax and accounting at American University every time I’ve seen her in the last four years.


against the wall and stared at the statue Lore had made of a living, breathing human being. Milo. He’d been a person, with a name and a job, even if that job was extorting bets on illegal boxing matches. A person she’d turned to stone. Was he still aware, somewhere in all that? Did it hurt? She shook her head. She didn’t want to know. Lore didn’t look at Gabe. She knew his expression now would be so much worse than it had been the day of the Mortem leak, and she couldn’t take it, couldn’t face it, not when there was so much else to do. “How’s your gut?” she asked Bastian, her voice thin and shaking. He glanced down like he’d forgotten, frowned at his bloody shirt. “Fine,” he said. “Must’ve just been a scratch.” It’d been more than that. At least, Lore thought it had been. But when he raised his shirt, the skin was unblemished, marred only by a scrim of dried blood. A hand on her shoulder—Bastian, gently moving her away from the outstretched knife in Milo’s stone hand. His fingers slid to the back of her neck, into her hair; his thumb brushed her cheek, then dropped, and he stepped away. “Right,” he said, with a decisive nod. “Well. We can’t leave him here, and I assume you aren’t up to changing him back just yet?” “If we can.” Gabe’s voice was quiet, hoarse. “If we can change him back.” “Either way, we’ll have to move him.” A rickety cart slouched against the wall on the other end of the alley; Bastian went and tugged on one of the handles. The cart moved, though the squeaking was awful. “But to where, I have no idea.” “I do,” Lore said. Her lips felt numb. “I know where we can take him.” There was a moment of slight panic as Bastian and Gabe conferred on how to tip the stone man over into the cart—and whether the cart could even hold the weight, decrepit as it was; Milo wasn’t a small man even when he was flesh —but in the end, the Mortem-made statue was easier to move than it looked. Gabe and Bastian heaved together on a count of three, and the man fell into the cart, the bottom of it cushioned with trash that Lore gathered from the alleyway. Bastian stood back, eyes wide. “That was much easier than I anticipated.” “It’s not solid stone,” Gabe said. Then, with a shake of his head, “He isn’t, I mean.” Not solid stone, just a living person knit into a shroud of death. Lore felt sick. Gabe didn’t look at her. Gabe covered the stone figure with more trash, then he and Bastian manned the cart while Lore crept to the mouth of the alley, looking both ways. “Clear,” she murmured, “but we have to move fast.” “Yes, I imagine this would be difficult to explain away.” Bastian hauled the front of the cart up behind her. Gabe stayed at the back, keeping it steady. She wondered if


turns, shaking out of his partner’s hold as he follows him out of the office. “What was that?” Jonah asks once they’re inside the elevator. “It seemed…personal.” Ethan presses the button for the underground parking garage. “I just don’t like that guy.” Jonah studies him as they descend the thirty floors to the parking garage. “Okay. You don’t want to tell me? Fine,” he finally says. The elevator doors open. Jonah turns after stepping into the parking garage. “The caretaker of Carr’s San Juan Island home called on my way here. He said that Carr requested to be alone on the property last weekend, so he didn’t see who Carr was with. There are three security cameras outside the home, so I’m going to see if we can get a warrant for the footage from last weekend.” Ethan follows after him, trying to think of a reason to keep his partner from requesting the warrant. He could insist on being the one to check the footage, but if he lies about the contents and is found out, he’ll be looking at prison time. Jonah turns. “What if he told this woman about his plan to murder his wife? We’ll never know if we don’t ask her. Who knows, maybe she even helped him plot it.” Ethan stops. “I know,” Jonah adds. “I just hope he wasn’t preying on some teenager up there.” “That seems like something that happens down in Los Angeles, Jonah. Not the San Juans.” Jonah turns around. “Maybe. Maybe not. You coming back to homicide now?” “Actually, I wanted to interview the firefighters who responded to Carr’s 911 call. See if they noticed anything unusual about his behavior.” Jonah stops after unlocking his Ford. “I’ll join you.” “The medic’s report said they were dispatched from Fire Station 29.” “Meet you there.” Ethan pulls out his phone after getting behind the wheel. He attaches the three recovered photos from Chelsea’s phone in an email to the FBI agent he spoke to earlier that week. After sending the email, he opens the message from the local crime reporter. Hey Ethan, Got any updates for me about your investigation into Chelsea Carr’s death? Ethan hits Reply and then Attach File. His finger hovers over the last image sent by TESU, with the girl on Carr’s lap, facing away from the camera. He might never be able to charge Carr with murder, but leaking a photo like this would go a long way in ruining his life. Chapter 35 Sloane looks at the clock on her microwave before pulling a mug out of the cupboard. Being at home, alone with her thoughts, is worse than being at work. Even though all day long she walks past the room where Chelsea died, she can still lose herself in a trauma or full code throughout the day. Here, the minutes crawl at an agonizingly slow pace. She drops a tea bag into her mug as her kettle heats on the stove. Ethan was already gone when she awoke this morning. He didn’t seem to buy


cheeks...

on special occasions.

But in Africa none of this was true. In Africa distance dissolved. All

creatures mingled freely. Only the lion walked with his head in the air, only

the elephant had an emperor’s strut, and even they weren’t totally aloof.

They mingled daily among their subjects. They had no choice. Yes, there

was predation and prey, life could be nasty and brutish and short, but to my

teenage eyes it all looked like distilled democracy. Utopia.

And that wasn’t even counting the bear hugs and high fives from all the

trackers and guides.

On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t the mere closeness of living things

that I liked. Maybe it was the mind-boggling number. In a matter of hours

I'd gone from a place of aridity, sterility, death, to a wetland of teeming

fertility. Maybe that was what I yearned for most of all—tife.

Maybe that was the real miracle I found in the Okavango in April 1999.

I don’t think I blinked once that whole week. I don’t think I stopped

grinning, even while asleep. Had I been transported back to the Jurassic

period, I couldn’t have been more awed—and it wasn’t just [7 rexes that had

60

https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t.:me/Afghansalarlibrary

me captivated. I loved the littlest creatures too. And the birds. Thanks to

Adi, clearly the savviest guide in our group, I began to recognize hooded

vultures, cattle egrets, southern carmine bee-eaters, African fish eagles, in

flight. Even the bugs were compelling. Adi taught me to really see them.

Look down, he said, note the different species of beetle, admire the beauty of

larvae. Also, appreciate the baroque architecture of termite mounds—the

tallest structures built by any animal besides humans.

So much to know, Harry. To appreciate.

Right, Adi.

Whenever I went with him on a wander, whenever we’d come upon a

fresh carcass crawling with maggots or wild dogs, whenever we’d stumble

on a mountain of elephant dung sprouting mushrooms that looked like the

Artful Dodger’s top hat, Adi never cringed. Circle of life, Harry.<span


forward and acknowledged him- self. She kissed him fervently, and they gazed with wonder at the change time had wrought in the appear- ance of each. Catherine had reached her full height; her figure was both plump and slender, elastic as steel, and her whole aspect sparkling with health and spirits. Linton's looks and movements were very languid, and his form extremely slight; but there was a grace in his manner that mitigated these defects, and rendered him not unpleasing. After exchanging numerous marks of fondness with him, his cousin went to Mr. Heathcliff, who lingered by the door, dividing his attention be- tween the objects inside and those that lay without--- pretending, that is, to observe the latter, and really noting the former alone. "And you are my uncle, then!" she cried, reaching up to salute him. "I thought I liked you, though you were cross at first. Why don't you visit at the Grange with Linton? To live all these years such close neigh- bours, and never see us, is odd. What have you done so for?" "I visited it once or twice too often before you were born," he answered. "There---damn it! If you have any kisses to spare, give them to Linton---they are thrown away on me." "Naughty Ellenl" exclaimed Catherine, flying to at- tack me next with her lavish caresses. "Wicked Ellen, to try to hinder me from entering! But I'll take this walk every morning in future---may I, uncle?---and sometimes bring papa. Won't you be glad to see us?" "Of coursel" replied the uncle, with a hardly sup- pressed grimace, resulting from his deep aversion to both the proposed visitors. "But stay," he continued, turning towards the young lady. "Now I think of it, I'd better tell you. Mr. Linton has a prejudice against me. We quarrelled at one time of our lives with unchristian ferocity, and if you mention coming here to him he'll put a veto on your visits altogether. Therefore you must not mention it, unless you be careless of seeing your cousin hereafter. You may come if you will, but you must not mention it," "Why did you quarrel?" asked Catherine, consider- ably crestfallen. "He thought me too poor to wed his sister," answered Heathcliff, "and was grieved that I got her. His pride was hurt, and he'll never forgive it." "That's wrong!" said the young lady. "Some time I'll tell him so. But Linton and I have no share in your quarrel. I'll not come here then; he shall come to the Grange." "It will be too far for me," murmured her cousin; "to walk four miles would kill me. No, come here, Miss Catherine, now and then---not every morning, but once or twice a week." The father launched towards his son a glance of bitter contempt. "I am afraid, Nelly, I shall lose my labour," he mut- tered to me. "Miss Catherine, as the ninny calls her, will discover his value, and send him to the devil. Now, if it had been Hareton! Do you know that, twenty times a


breaks, I buy a timed safe in which to lock my phone during the day. I try to take refuge in my work. But I can’t lose myself in the words like I have before. All my happy memories with Athena are tinged now with niggling guilt, so all I can bear to dwell on are the bad ones—of awkward exchanges, of social snubbing, of constant stabs of jealousy in my gut. Of Athena, laughing obliviously as she asked about my floundering career. Of Athena, dying on the floor of her kitchen while I stood by, doing nothing. I dream of Athena every night. I see her in her last moments: her wide panicked eyes, her fingernails tearing at her skin, her feet drumming against the floor. Powerless, helpless, literally voiceless. She works her mouth, desperate to make me understand. But no words come out, only a series of awful, strained gurgles, until her eyes roll up to the back of her head, until her convulsions dwindle to a faint twitch. Those are the tame dreams. Worse are the dreams when she’s reanimated. She comes magically to life, but this time she’s not the same. There’s a scarlet glinting energy in her eyes, all the fury of the underworld, and vengeful delight twists her lovely face as she leaps up, arms out, reaching for my neck to return the favor. SOMETIMES MY IMAGINATION RUNS WILD IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY, and I convince myself of myriad ways that Athena might still be alive. The funeral was closed casket, wasn’t it? She could have faked the choking. She could have hired those EMTs. This could all be one grand literary hoax, a deranged publicity campaign for her next project. Perhaps she’ll jump out from behind the corner any minute. Boo! Gotcha, Junie! But the living are burdened with bodies. They make shadows, footprints. I would prefer that Athena were alive and stalking me, because then she would leave traces—public spottings, narrative inconsistencies, breadcrumbs of proof. The living can’t appear and disappear at will. The living can’t haunt you at every turn. Athena’s ghost has wormed its way into my every waking moment. Only the dead can be so constantly present. I find myself typing “Chinese ghosts” into Google Scholar and diving deep into all the literature that comes up. The Chinese have so many different words for ghost—“gui,” “ling,” “yao,” “hunpo.” They are obsessed with death without peace. I learn that the most common word for ghost, “gui,” is a homophone for a different “gui,” which means to return. I learn that the female revenant is a common theme in early Chinese literature, a trope employed to explore the regrets of single, unmarried women who died violent and unnatural deaths. I learn about a trope called the “amorous ghost,” in which all the female ghost needs to sate its haunted desire is a good fucking. I learn about something called jiangshi, which as far as I can tell is like a zombie, a corpse reanimated by a spell written on a slip


out of the perpendicular by the fierce light of publicity, and he bored into the coarse grass with one toe. He was muttering and about to cry. The other little boys, whispering but serious, pushed him toward Ralph. "All right," said Ralph, "come on then." The small boy looked round in panic. "Speak up!" The small boy held out his hands for the conch and the assembly shouted with laughter; at once he snatched back his hands and started to cry. "Let him have the conch!" shouted Piggy. "Let him have it!" At last Ralph induced him to hold the shell but by then the blow of laughter had taken away the child's voice. Piggy knelt by him, one hand on the great shell, listening and interpreting to the assembly. "He wants to know what you're going to do about the snake-thing." Ralph laughed, and the other boys laughed with him. The small boy twisted further into himself. "Tell us about the snake-thing." "Now he says it was a beastie." "Beastie?'' "A snake-thing. Ever so big. He saw it." "Where?" "In the woods." Either the wandering breezes or perhaps the decline of the sun allowed a little coolness to lie under the trees. The boys felt it and stirred restlessly. "You couldn't have a beastie, a snake-thing, on an island this size," Ralph explained kindly. "You only get them in big countries, like Africa, or India." Murmur; and the grave nodding of heads. "He says the beastie came in the dark." "Then he couldn't see it!" Laughter and cheers. "Did you hear that? Says he saw the thing in the dark--" "He still says he saw the beastie. It came and went away again an' came back and wanted to eat him--" "He was dreaming." Laughing, Ralph looked for confirmation round the ring of faces. The older boys agreed; but here and there among the little ones was the doubt that required more than rational assurance. "He must have had a nightmare. Stumbling about among all those creepers." More grave nodding; they knew about nightmares. "He says he saw the beastie, the snake-thing, and will it come back tonight?" "But there isn't a beastie!" "He says in the morning it turned into them things like ropes in the trees and hung in the branches. He says will it come back tonight?" "But there isn't a beastie!" There was no laughter at all now and more grave watching. Ralph pushed both hands through his hair and looked at the little boy in mixed amusement and exasperation. Jack seized the conch. "Ralph's right of course. There isn't a snake-thing. But if there was a snake we'd hunt it and kill it. We're going to hunt pigs to get meat for everybody. And we'll look for the snake too--" "But there isn't a snake!" "We'll make sure when we go hunting." Ralph was annoyed and, for the moment, defeated. He felt himself facing something ungraspable. The eyes that looked so intently at him were without humor. "But there isn't a beast!" Something he had not


the ground in a heap, still snarled in my sleeping bag. There’s no time for any kind of packing. Fortunately, my backpack and water bottle are already in the bag. I shove in the belt, hoist the bag over my shoulder, and flee. The world has transformed to flame and smoke. Burning branches crack from trees and fall in showers of sparks at my feet. All I can do is follow the others, the rabbits and deer and I even spot a wild dog pack shooting through the woods. I trust their sense of direction because their instincts are sharper than mine. But they are much faster, flying through the un- derbrush so gracefully as my boots catch on roots and fallen tree limbs, that there’s no way I can keep apace with them. The heat is horrible, but worse than the heat is the smoke, which threatens to suffocate me at any moment. I pull the top of my shirt up over my nose, grateful to find it soaked in sweat, and it offers a thin veil of protection. And I run, chok- ing, my bag banging against my back, my face cut with branches that materialize from the gray haze without warn- ing, because I know I am supposed to run. 171 This was no tribute’s campfire gone out of control, no acci- dental occurrence. The flames that bear down on me have an unnatural height, a uniformity that marks them as human- made, machine-made, Gamemaker-made. Things have been too quiet today. No deaths, perhaps no fights at all. The au- dience in the Capitol will be getting bored, claiming that these Games are verging on dullness. This is the one thing the Games must not do. It’s not hard to follow the Gamemakers’ motivation. There is the Career pack and then there are the rest of us, probably spread far and thin across the arena. This fire is designed to flush us out, to drive us together. It may not be the most origi- nal device I’ve seen, but it’s very, very effective. I hurdle over a burning log. Not high enough. The tail end of my jacket catches on fire and I have to stop to rip it from my body and stamp out the flames. But I don’t dare leave the jacket, scorched and smoldering as it is, I take the risk of shov- ing it in my sleeping bag, hoping the lack of air will quell what I haven’t extinguished. This is all I have, what I carry on my back, and it’s little enough to survive with. In a matter of minutes, my throat and nose are burning. The coughing begins soon after and my lungs begin to feel as if they are actually being cooked. Discomfort turns to distress until each breath sends a searing pain through my chest. I manage to take cover under a stone outcropping just as the vomiting begins, and I lose my meager supper and whatever water has remained in my stomach. Crouching on my hands and knees, I


wonder suddenly if she thinks we’re the same. He reminds me of Donno, which is a thought I do not enjoy. Celine reads the note quickly and says, “Shit.” I glance over her shoulder, but Allen takes the paper almost immediately. Doesn’t matter; I saw enough to get the gist. “Shit,” I repeat. Allen’s voice rings with disbelief. “ ‘Step by step and line by line, places that hide each book, you’ll find. From every clue, take letter and number—to start, what’s small and strange and sweet, and in one bite appeases hunger?’ ” His voice rises at the end as if no one has ever fucked with him like this. A little silence falls. Then Raj laughs. “We have to find nine more books.” CHAPTER FIVE CELINE There’s a very interesting vein pulsing in Allen’s forehead. I catch Aurora’s eye and she bites her lip on a smile. “All right, change of plans!” Sophie says, patting her ponytail as it slowly frizzes into a curly puff. “First things first: what’s the riddle mean? Is anyone good at that sort of thing?” Aurora sidles over to me, leans in, and murmurs, “Petit fours.” Uh…is she hungry? “Pardonnez moi?” Unfortunately, Allen finally regains his voice. “This can’t be right,” he announces, and strides over to our supervisor Holly. “Excuse me,” he says all politely, which—it’s a bit late for that, pal, she’s already heard you mouthing off to everyone else, but okay. “Was there a misunderstanding earlier?” Holly tilts her beautiful head to one side and says calmly, “No.” Allen waits for more information. Apparently, none is forthcoming. “It’s just that we were told the books would all be together,” he tries again. Holly presses her fluttery fake eyelashes together and apart, very, very slowly. Her glossy mouth remains closed. Allen is turning a lovely shade of pink. “So are you saying we now have to find ten books individually? Clue by clue?” “No.” Allen starts to exhale in relief. “You’ve already found one,” she continues. “There are only nine left.” So Raj was right. I should be annoyed that we have even more hiking to do, but I’m busy enjoying the barely restrained outrage on Allen’s face. I bite back a smile, and by some unexplainable accident, my eyes meet Bradley’s. He’s smirking. I’m smirking. For one impossible second, we’re both smirking—at each other, but, like, not in the usual way. Then his smirk is replaced by a grimace of horrified realization, and he snatches his gaze away like I might give him fleas. God forbid someone like him make eye contact with someone like me, I suppose. My jaw aches and I realize I’m grinding my teeth. “But then…that’s not…” Allen might be in the midst of a cardiac arrest. “Well,” he manages, pulling himself together. “We’ve found one of the books. Shouldn’t one person get to go back? Or…do we really need all ten? We can photocopy them, can’t we? That would be smarter. We should work smarter, not harder.” His gaze drills into Holly. “Is that what we’re supposed


to this night as she did and was desperately fighting against it. “It happened again. Another village.” Only Bastian’s hand on her waist kept her from tripping over her hem. Lore’s fingers went cold. “When?” “Last night.” He kept her close, spoke in her ear—to anyone watching, they’d look two minutes away from sneaking off to a secluded corner, but their faces were twin masks of fear. “A few of the Presque Mort went to collect the bodies—Anton put Malcolm in charge.” Another village. She thought of her uncomfortable sleep, dark dreams she could only recall fragments of. Lore shook her head, banishing the half-formed speculations. “Where is Anton, then?” “I don’t know.” Bastian led her through a spin. “Preparing to stop August, I guess. It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to let my uncle be the only thing that stands between you and death. I can get you money. Food. Get you on a ship —” “I can’t leave Dellaire. Mortem won’t let me.” “Damn this.” He hissed it through his teeth, his grip on her waist so tight it almost hurt. “Damn this. Fine. I can find a place for you in the city—” “Bastian.” She shook her head again, her nose grazing his neck. They didn’t have to stand this close, but it was a comfort, and neither of them moved away. “They’d just find me. You know that.” Her road ended here, in the Citadel. Either dead from August’s ritual, or kept in a gilded cage, a tool to aid in controlling a mad and dying King. Lore knew it. Gabe knew it. Bastian did, too. Of the three of them, he was the most likely to try to change the unchangeable, the one most predisposed to thinking he could shift the world to suit him. But even Bastian had to realize it was pointless this time. Lore was caught. But just because she was caught didn’t have to mean all of them were. “I can’t leave,” Lore repeated, a murmur against his ear. “But you can.” For the first time, Bastian stuttered in their dance; other courtiers swirled around them as if she and the Sun Prince were rocks in a stream, but he and Lore just stood still, her hands on his shoulders, his on her waist, his eyes boring down into hers. “And leave you.” Gruff, not quite angry, but more than halfway there. “Leave you here.” “Anton said he’d stop the ritual.” A thin defense, but it was all she had. “Say he does. Then what?” People were starting to stare; Bastian swept her up into the dance again, the tight line of his jaw a stark contrast to fluid movement. “I leave, and you just stay a prisoner in the Citadel? You hope August doesn’t try to kill you again, that Anton doesn’t find a way to use you like a weapon? Those two will never come to any kind of peace, and you will always be in the middle of it.” “Notice all of that has to do with me, not you.”


would never happen again—that he knew he had to come clean. He had never been so scared in his life. Until now. He opens a new window and searches the King County Assessor website for the address. The fifteen-thousand-square-foot home was purchased for twenty-six million dollars four months ago by Pacific Estate Management, LLC. Ethan leaves the assessor website and runs an Internet search for the company. His heart drops in his chest when he reads the headline at the top of the search. BRODY CARR’S MYSTERIOUS NEW COMPANY: PACIFIC ESTATE MANAGEMENT, LLC Sloane’s words on the phone replay in his mind. Thanks, Brody. I’ll let you know how it goes. Ethan skims the first sentence beneath the headline. Pacific Estate Management oversees many of Brody and Chelsea Carr’s personal matters, including the power couple’s real estate holdings. Their names sound familiar, and he drums his fingers against his desk before typing Brody Carr into his Internet search bar. A headshot of a guy around Ethan’s age tops the search. Beside the photo, in bold letters: Brody Carr, entrepreneur and founder of The One. His net worth is listed as 1.4 billion dollars. Ethan has never used the dating app, which had been around for over a decade, but everyone knew what it was. He recalls Sloane mentioning once that the app’s founder had been her chemistry lab partner in college. Beneath Brody’s headshot are several photos of him and a stunning blonde. Ethan’s eyes travel to his biography on the right side of the screen. Brody Carr married Australian model Chelsea Nesbitt in 2016. He sits back in his chair. He wouldn’t have thought it would matter who his wife was having an affair with. But learning he was a billionaire dating app founder somehow made it sting worse. How could this be happening? Ethan examines the photo of Brody, smiling with his arm around his wife. Behind him, his partner’s phone rings as Ethan runs a new search for Chelsea Carr. A headline from last week appears at the top. EX-MODEL CHELSEA CARR STEPS OUT WITHOUT WEDDING RING AT NY FILM FESTIVAL, SPARKING SEPARATION RUMORS “We’re on our way,” he hears Jonah say. Ethan clicks on the article as Jonah slaps him on the shoulder. “Hey, we’re up. That was McKinnon. Patrol just called in a man found stabbed to death in his apartment in the U district. They already have his neighbor in custody. According to another apartment resident, she came out of the victim’s apartment covered in blood screaming that she killed him.” After standing, Jonah leans forward to see what Ethan is looking at. “Unless you need to stay here and catch up on celebrity gossip.” Ethan closes his laptop and turns to see Jonah grinning at his own joke. Despite the churning in his stomach, he cracks a smile as he pulls on his suit jacket. “That’s all right. I think I’ve had enough for today.” Chapter 10 Her house is depressingly quiet when Sloane steps inside. Exhausted, she sets her purse on the quartz kitchen


got elected class president our sophomore year. In one photo he’s holding a cigarette in each hand, arms out like a scarecrow. Rachel Popa, Beth Docherty, and Donna Goldbeck, posing like Charlie’s Angels. Beth, like Bendt and Sakina John and Mike Stiles, is fresh from the Camelot stage. Sakina still wears her Morgan le Fay makeup, the long wings of eyeliner. The fact that Mike’s cast had just come off put a speed limit on the night; the group couldn’t have run down the trail either there or back. Dorian Culler. There’s a shot of just him, leaning against a tree, eyes closed, long eyelashes against pale cheeks, mouth open to talk. He might have been good-looking, if he weren’t so terrible. Asad Mirza—a devout Muslim back then, so there was at least one sober account of the mattress party. A few other skiers and ski-adjacent people whose faces didn’t mean much to me anymore. The kid taking the pictures was Jimmy Scalzitti—a skier who’d used one of the expensive yearbook Pentaxes for curtain-call shots of Camelot, also unhelpfully shown on the website. He then used most of the rest of the film in the woods. He must have started shooting only once he was drunk enough not to think twice about documenting underage drinking with a school camera. The kids had built a flashlight bonfire, meaning they’d turned on their Granby-issued pocket lights and some bigger heavy-duty ones and arranged them like kindling in a big pile, illuminating the clearing. I’d seen one of these shots before, the one they showed on Dateline: Robbie looking over his shoulder at the camera, Sakina and Beth leaning together laughing in the background, Dorian twisting his hands into some joke approximation of a gang sign. There are beer bottles in that shot, a few cigarette glows: the perfect visual encapsulation of mild teenage debauchery. I remembered that the film was still in the Pentax, and still in Jimmy’s dorm room, when the State Police started nosing around; that was when Jimmy brought the film to Geoff and asked if he could develop it before his interview. “I just want to clear the air for Serenho,” Geoff told us he said. He asked Geoff if there was a way to cut any alcohol and cigarettes from the shots—but then the school promised disciplinary immunity for anyone forthcoming about drugs or drinking that night, so it didn’t matter. Geoff told me he was keeping the negatives and making duplicates to hang on to. “Like—of course I keep them, right?” he said, and it seemed perfectly logical: What if Scalzitti threw it all away, and it turned out to be important? “Plus,” Geoff said, “it’s yearbook film.” For some reason, Jimmy Scalzitti had turned on the timestamp, rendering the Camelot photos useless for yearbook unless Geoff cropped them, but making the shots of the mattress party tremendously helpful for establishing a timeline of the night. Or, more specifically—and a dozen online theories sprang from this, I already knew—Jimmy had only the date stamp on during the show,


such a spirit appeared, the man saw it vaguely in the darkness, but never heard its voice. Some people even said that they had heard the spirits flying and flapping their wings against the roof of the cave. Many years ago when Okonkwo was still a boy his father, Unoka, had gone to consult Agbala. The priestess in those days was a woman called Chika. She was full of the power of her god, and she was greatly feared. Unoka stood before her and began his story. "Every year," he said sadly, "before I put any crop in the earth, I sacrifice a cock to Ani, the owner of all land. It is the law of our fathers. I also kill a cock at the shrine of Ifejioku, the god of yams. I clear the bush and set fire to it when it is dry. I sow the yams when the first rain has fallen, and stake them when the young tendrils appear. I weed" -- "Hold your peace!" screamed the priestess, her voice terrible as it echoed through the dark void. "You have offended neither the gods nor your fathers. And when a man is at peace with his gods and his ancestors, his harvest will be good or bad according to the strength of his arm. You, Unoka, are known in all the clan for the weakness of your machete and your hoe. When your neighbours go out with their axe to cut down virgin forests, you sow your yams on exhausted farms that take no labour to clear. They cross seven rivers to make their farms,- you stay at home and offer sacrifices to a reluctant soil. Go home and work like a man." Unoka was an ill-fated man. He had a bad chi or personal god, and evil fortune followed him to the grave, or rather to his death, for he had no grave. He died of the swelling which was an abomination to the earth goddess. When a man was afflicted with swelling in the stomach and the limbs he was not allowed to die in the house. He was carried to the Evil Forest and left there to die. There was the story of a very stubborn man who staggered back to his house and had to be carried again to the forest and tied to a tree. The sickness was an abomination to the earth, and so the victim could not be buried in her bowels. He died and rotted away above the earth, and was not given the first or the second burial. Such was Unoka's fate. When they carried him away, he took with him his flute. With a father like Unoka, Okonkwo did not have the start in life which many young men had. He neither inherited a barn nor a title, nor even a young wife. But in spite of these disadvantages, he had begun even in his father's lifetime to lay the foundations of a prosperous future. It was slow and painful. But he threw himself into it like one


worst of it. Technically her story—a whodunnit set in San Francisco’s Chinatown, in which none of the witnesses will cooperate with the police because they have their own secrets and community codes of honor—is not bad. The writing is strong, the conceit is interesting, and there’s even a clever twist at the end that makes you reevaluate every previous word uttered by the characters. It’s very impressive for a high schooler. Still, her inexperience shows. Skylar’s exposition is clumsy in parts, she makes use of quite a few contrived coincidences to move the story along, and she hasn’t figured out how to toe the line between tense and histrionic dialogue. I could gently correct these tendencies while encouraging Skylar to think up the solutions herself. “And then, again, there’s a lawyer on the scene out of nowhere.” I tap the page. “Do lawyers grow on trees, Skylar? Maybe they have a spidey sense for marital discomfort?” Then: “Do Chloe and Christopher have a weird incest thing going on, or is that just how you’ve chosen to portray all of their sibling interactions?” Then: “Does every single Chinese person in this neighborhood know each other, or did you just find that convenient for the plot?” Then: “I wonder if there’s any better imagery you can use for sexual tension than literally biting into a strawberry.” Then: “‘She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.’ Really?” By the end of it I’ve convinced most of the class that Skylar’s story is horrible—whether they agree, or whether they’re scared of invoking my ire, I don’t care. We’ve picked her voice and style to shreds. Her metaphors are unoriginal, her dialogue is wooden (at one point I even make Johnson and Celeste act out a scene, just to highlight how cringey it sounds out loud), her plot twists are all borrowed from readily recognizable pop-culture sources, and she overuses her em dashes and semicolons to the extreme. By the end of our session, Skylar is close to tears. She has stopped nodding, frowning, or reacting to any bits of criticism whatsoever. She merely stares out the window, lower lip trembling, fingers twisting the top page of her notebook into tiny pieces. I’ve won. It’s a pathetic victory, sure, but it’s better than sitting here and suffering their mocking glares. That hot, vicious satisfaction stays with me through the rest of the morning. I conclude the critique circle, assign homework, and watch them flee wordlessly out the door. I’ve only made things worse, I know. Now I’ll have to sit before their resentful, condescending faces for another week and a half. I’m sure that, behind the scenes, they’ll bitch about me endlessly until this workshop is over. I’m sure they’ll join the chorus of Juniper Song haters online. But I’ve at least made myself into a terror rather than a punch line, and for now, I’m all right with that. Once they’ve left the classroom, I pull out my phone and Google “Candice Lee Juniper Song Athena Liu.” Johnson’s words have been stuck in


but he sounds like he's willing to do anything to get it back." Collet tried to imagine how this could happen. Maybe Langdon and Neveu had held a bank employee at gunpoint? Maybe they forced Vernet to open Saunire's account and facilitate an escape in the armored truck. As feasible as it was, Collet was having trouble believing Sophie Neveu could be involved in anything like that. From the kitchen, another agent yelled to Fache. "Captain? I'm going through Mr. Teabing's speed dial numbers, and I'm on the phone with Le Bourget Airfield. I've got some bad news." Thirty seconds later, Fache was packing up and preparing to leave Chteau Villette. He had just learned that Teabing kept a private jet nearby at Le Bourget Airfield and that the plane had taken off about a half hour ago. The Bourget representative on the phone had claimed not to know who was on the plane or where it was headed. The takeoff had been unscheduled, and no flight plan had been logged. Highly illegal, even for a small airfield. Fache was certain that by applying the right pressure, he could get the answers he was looking for. 200 "Lieutenant Collet," Fache barked, heading for the door. "I have no choice but to leave you in charge of the PTS investigation here. Try to do something right for a change." 201 CHAPTER 71 As the Hawker leveled off, with its nose aimed for England, Langdon carefully lifted the rosewood box from his lap, where he had been protecting it during takeoff. Now, as he set the box on the table, he could sense Sophie and Teabing leaning forward with anticipation. Unlatching the lid and opening the box, Langdon turned his attention not to the lettered dials of the cryptex, but rather to the tiny hole on the underside of the box lid. Using the tip of a pen, he carefully removed the inlaid Rose on top and revealed the text beneath it. Sub Rosa, he mused, hoping a fresh look at the text would bring clarity. Focusing all his energies, Langdon studied the strange text. After several seconds, he began to feel the initial frustration resurfacing. "Leigh, I just can't seem to place it." From where Sophie was seated across the table, she could not yet see the text, but Langdon's inability to immediately identify the language surprised her. My grandfather spoke a language so obscure that even a symbologist can't identify it? She quickly realized she should not find this surprising. This would not be the first secret Jacques Saunire had kept from his granddaughter. Opposite Sophie, Leigh Teabing felt ready to burst. Eager for his chance to see the text, he quivered with excitement, leaning in, trying to see around Langdon, who was still hunched over the box. "I don't know," Langdon whispered intently. "My first guess is a Semitic, but now I'm not so sure. Most primary Semitics include nekkudot. This has none." "Probably ancient," Teabing offered. "Nekkudot?" Sophie inquired. Teabing never took his eyes from the box. "Most modern Semitic


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

it. The idea of not working anymore is sort of depressing to me. I didn’t get into math for money, I got into it because it’s fun.” “Maybe we’re getting our mojo back?” She grins. “Fuck, I hope so.” The moment lingers, our gazes hugging, and slowly, Jess’s smile straightens as, I presume, she reads the shadow in my eyes. “Hey.” She reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I’m sorry that things with Connor fell apart. That really sucks about the other show tanking.” I nod. I’ve got nothing useful to add. It does suck. “But does it help to know it wasn’t just about what happened at the hotel, that there were other things at play?” she asks. “I’m guessing he didn’t have much of a choice.” “I guess?” I laugh and it comes out a little watery; I didn’t realize I’d gotten teary. “I know this situation is complicated. I know he has different pressures and responsibilities. It’s bigger than me and my feelings.” “Look at this character growth. Five stars,” she says, grinning. Pushing back to stand, she says, “I’m going to order coffee. Need a refill?” “I’m good.” I’m so close to finishing this terrible document. I’ll probably never show it to another human, but it isn’t even about that. Two hours ago, my agent called to let me know she expects several of my backlist titles to hit the bestseller lists this week. Apparently new readers have been discovering my books, and posting photos and hilarious challenges, videos, and reviews. She sent me a few and I laughed through teary eyes as I watched. Writers can work for years and never know how a story will land with an audience. Being reminded that my words really affect readers made me want to get back to it immediately. Book people are just better, I swear by it. She also scolded me for avoiding her calls (valid), but said that she cares about me first, and if I never want to write another book, that’s fine. I won’t be letting her down, and she won’t take it personally. I have to do what’s best for me. Four months ago, the idea of hearing that would have been a relief, a weight lifted, but the moment Amaya said I could quit if I wanted, all I felt was a devastating bleakness. It made me realize I’m not ready to give up writing. I did the show to find myself, not for fame, and if I have to give up Connor, I want to at least hold on to what makes me me. And what I am is a writer. So even if every word in this doc is garbage, I’m not quitting. And tomorrow, I will put on my mental blinders and sit down and try to make a diamond out of a hunk of coal. Because tomorrow, I will do everything I can not to think about Connor and the show and how in just over four days I will be expected to embark on a trip


Red House party in Chapter 11 define another part of Raveloe society. But the men from the Rainbow also appear here, as spectators. They are the base of country wisdom that Eliot uses as a moral standard. This is a fully fleshed-out social group, with a whole range of personalities. There's Dowlas the know-it-all farrier, the sarcastic wheelwright Ben Winthrop, the easy-going butcher Lundy, the old codger Mr. Macey, the deputy clerk Tookey who's the butt of their jokes, and the landlord Mr. Snell who moderates and keeps the peace. Think about groups of people you socialize with--don't they interact in typical roles like this? ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: SETTING The opening of Silas Marner suggests a world of legend and myth--a pastoral countryside untouched by the modern world, where figures are larger than life. But gradually Eliot establishes that this story occurs in the first years of the nineteenth century, during the Napoleonic wars, when George III was King of England. This is slightly before Eliot's own childhood. It's also before the Reform Act of 1832, which many Englishmen felt marked the end of an era (as Americans today may regard the bombing of Hiroshima or the Vietnam War). It represented for her an age of innocence. The landscape is the farming country of the English Midlands where George Eliot grew up. The villagers of Raveloe live in isolation only because of their old-fashioned customs--they really aren't that far from the rest of civilization. Upperclass characters, such as the Casses, frequently travel to neighboring towns. In general, the two classes in Raveloe inhabit different worlds. The Rainbow pub is the center of the common folks' world, and Squire Cass' Red House is the center of the gentry's world. The Raveloe gentry are representatives of an ancient British social class--the "squirearchy," well-off rural landowners who wielded local political power and stood independent of the aristocracy. By Eliot's own time, this class had nearly been obliterated. Raveloe's class system is smoothly integrated, however. Upperclass men drink at the Rainbow, too, and villagers are invited to the Red House parties. They all hear the same gossip. Everyone meets at church. Silas Marner, in contrast, comes from a large industrial town, though he stayed within a smaller community there, his religious sect. While his hometown is a portrait of the "new" industrialized city of the nineteenth century, his sect is a portrait of the fanatical Evangelical or Puritan denominations that had challenged the established Church of England since the sixteenth century. (Eliot herself had briefly been influenced by Evangelicals.) The customs of such a place are totally different from those of Raveloe, so Silas is branded an alien. Therefore, he lives outside the village, in a cottage beside a dangerous, desolate stone-pit. After Eppie enters his life, however, a garden blooms around its walls, signifying the roots he has put down at last. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: THEMES The following are major themes of Silas Marner. 1. LUCK AND FATE Are some people simply luckier than others? Or is there an overall justice ruling life? Different characters


strength of many?” I immediately think of Nia and Shu. I think of how Nia has never directed one inch of resentment toward me for not being the kind of friend she’s been to me when her dad died. How she can move to America and return as if she’s been gone only for days instead of a year. How at the beginning she said she’d do anything for me and has wordlessly proved she meant it. I think of Shu coming over with shit for my sadness in the middle of a weekday. She rarely takes time off work. She could have waited for the evening or the weekend but instead came as soon as she heard. Did she walk straight out of work? I remember how she came over with Nia when I found out about Ben and Sophie. What had she been doing before I called her? What had they each dropped last minute for me? Shu didn’t have to talk to me in that lecture hall all those years ago just because she saw me on my own. And the time she answered her phone when I called to ask why she was a lesbian, even though I know she never touches her phone during office hours. Yet I subconsciously knew she would see my name flash on her screen and pick up. “Yes,” I answer quietly. “Yes, I’m very well-loved.” “Good. It will serve you well to remember this, especially at times when certain sources of love fail to deliver.” Then Angelina says, “Maddie, at the beginning of this session we spoke about your father’s funeral, your feelings during and after; we spoke about your family, immediate and extended. You said you’d never felt closer to your culture and who you are—and more importantly, who you want to be going forward. How do you feel about the name Maame now?” I’m about to say nothing has changed, but that would be a lie. “It’s complicated.” “Try your best to make it simple. Say your thoughts aloud if that helps you.” I take a breath. “Before, I said I hated it, but I don’t think I do. I like the name. It can feel heavy and it won’t be what I call my children if I choose to have any, but it’s really a term of endearment. Well, it’s meant to be, so maybe what I didn’t like was how my family turned it into an excuse. The name Maame put a lot of pressure on me, but it also made my dad feel safe when he must have felt trapped and uncertain. It made my mum’s life a little easier and, ultimately, it taught my brother a lesson. It made me someone I needed to be so I could find out who I want to be.” I smile at Angelina. “I suppose I owe Maame a great deal.” Angelina smiles so wide I notice her dimples for the first time. “That’s a wonderful way to look at it, Maddie.” * * * Nia So I’m on the


He was very fond of them.'' This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them. Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old. ``And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?'' said Mr. Gardiner. ``Oh! yes -- the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so accomplished! -- She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a new instrument just come down for her -- a present from my master; she comes here to-morrow with him.'' Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either from pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister. ``Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?'' ``Not so much as I could wish, Sir; but I dare say he may spend half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months.'' ``Except,'' thought Elizabeth, ``when she goes to Ramsgate.'' ``If your master would marry, you might see more of him.'' ``Yes, Sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is good enough for him.'' Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, ``It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so.'' ``I say no more than the truth, and what every body will say that knows him,'' replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; and she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, ``I have never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old.'' This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her ideas. That he was not a good tempered man had been her firmest opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was grateful to her uncle for saying, ``There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in having such a master.'' ``Yes, Sir, I know I am. If I was to go through the world, I could not meet with a better. But I have always observed that they who are good-natured when children are good-natured when they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted, boy in the world.'' Elizabeth almost stared at her. -- ``Can this be Mr. Darcy!'' thought she. ``His father was an excellent man,'' said Mrs. Gardiner. ``Yes, Ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him -- just as affable to the poor.'' Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs. Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subject of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the furniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family prejudice to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her master, soon