Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

seeing this? Connor: [laughing, pulls her back to her seat] Let’s get to the dates, shall we? thirty-one CONNOR Come on up. Room 1402. My brain stutters. When I texted Fizzy to tell her I’d arrived, I expected her to meet me down in the lobby or direct me to the banquet hall. But meeting her in a hotel room feels like the exact problem I anticipated when I gave myself a stern lecture in the mirror at home. “Escort her,” I’d said to my reflection. “You’re her handler, the executive in charge of her. You are not her date. You are not her lover. You are doing a job.” I can meet you down here, I type, but if she’s upstairs and asking me to come to her, it’s possible she needs help with something. I delete it, typing, Is anyone up there with you? which sounds possessive and awkward. I delete that, too. I see you typing, she texts. Don’t be weird. I need your help. Laughing, I delete everything again and type simply, On my way. I hit the button at the elevator bank and suck in a deep breath; my pulse is climbing its way up my throat. Ideally, I need the elevator ride to take a half hour. Unfortunately, I suspect today will be a continuous series of reminders that I should not have offered to escort her to this event, because I am not equipped to handle being alone with her. Her door, I see as I approach, is propped open with the dead bolt, but I knock anyway. A bright “Come in” drifts from inside. Pushing it open just enough to peek my head in, I call out, “I could be anyone, and you just invite me in sight unseen?” “You’re statistically unlikely to be a criminal.” Her voice echoes from the bathroom. “You just texted, and besides, half of the people on this floor are relatives or friends.” “Well, I’m glad the chances of someone you know seeing me walk into your hotel room are relatively high.” Her voice gets louder as she walks into the bedroom. “I’d just tell them you’re delivering room serv—” She stops for a breath when she sees me, but her next words are lost to the blank void of my cranium as I take in the strapless beaded gown poured over her body. It’s gold, covered with intricate beading and formfitting until about midthigh, where it spills in a wave of shimmering fabric around her feet. She’s wearing her hair piled in some complicated arrangement on her head, and a few dark strands hang loose, skimming her bare shoulders. “Connor?” I startle, having no idea how long I’d gone mute. “Yes—that’s—I’m here.” When I drag my eyes to her face, she’s fighting a smile. “I asked if you could help me?” “Uh, right—with what, exactly?” “My dress?” She turns to show me what she means. Awareness lands, and this view is infinitely worse. A long V of unmarred, honeyed skin is exposed in the space where the buttons


“Fuck you,” she said, and then there was an Orson-sized thud, a shallow splash. “Fuck you, Orson!” I watched as Emily ran past me crying and then craned my neck to see Orson sitting on the ground, covered in mud, looking both perplexed and furious. I watched him stand and run after her, calling her name in the tone an adult would use to appease an unruly child. I leaned against the side of the farmhouse, laughing and crying until the undersides of flowers and the tangle of branches were a chaotic blur. So I was sitting in a suit in the mud after giving an acid-washed speech to a bunch of unclean weirdos. So Emily and Orson were sleeping together. What did it matter? Orson trusted me the most. TEN EMILY CAME TO OUR NEW YORK office without calling ahead, distraught. She wore a pink jacket and pencil skirt with black trim: Givenchy’s attempt at a business suit for people who’d never had to work a day in their lives. Her hair was gathered under an unflattering sun hat, and she held her matching pink clutch close to her stomach. “Ez,” she said once Brianna had let her into my office, and then turned around to stare at Brianna standing at attention in the doorway. “You can leave, Brianna,” I said. Brianna nodded and vanished. “Oh my god, Ez. It’s the worst thing.” She sat down in front of me. I eyed my monitor, where I could see an unopened email from Elaine, likely about bookkeeping. Emily held the back of her hand to her eyes, clearly beginning to cry. “Do you want Brianna to bring you a tissue?” I asked. She nodded. “I think so.” I texted Brianna, who came back with a handkerchief and left again, shooting me an inquisitive look I didn’t reciprocate. Emily dabbed her eyes and shook her head. “I had a fight with Sasha,” she gasped. “She told me she hates Orson.” I rolled my eyes. “Emily, he’s a public figure. We can expect some people to hate him.” “She said he humiliated her. She doesn’t believe in Synthesis.” “What does it matter? She’s just one person. And that was years ago, anyway.” She gasped sharply. “It’s not just her. She found this woman on the internet who’s, like, obsessed with him. Jamie DeCroix.” My eyes widened. Jamie. “She said—Jamie I mean—that Orson did something bad to her? Like, slept with her and then scammed her forever ago? She wants to MeToo him.” Emily keened and hid her head in her hands. “I told her that’s my boyfriend she’s talking about. She just wants to drag his name through the mud!” “Is Jamie’s dad a hedge fund manager?” I asked helplessly, praying now that there was more than one Jamie DeCroix. Emily nodded. “He’s supposed to be one of the best ones in New York. Like, all the articles start out ‘Jonathan DeCroix’s daughter, Jamie.’ ” My heart dropped into my stomach. “Well,” I said, trying to remain calm. “This happens sometimes, Emily.” I turned


beneath a pillow a withered flower or a bit of crumpled lace. He sighed, and, having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord Henry's note. It was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper, and a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club at eight-fifteen. He opened the St. James's languidly, and looked through it. A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. He read the following paragraph: "INQUEST ON AN ACTRESS.--An inquest was held this morning at the Bell Tavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the District Coroner, on the body of Sibyl Vane, a young actress recently engaged at the Royal Theatre, Holborn. A verdict of death by misadventure was returned. Considerable sympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, who was greatly affected during the giving of her own evidence, and that of Dr. Birrell, who had made the post-mortem examination of the deceased." He frowned slightly, and, tearing the paper in two, went across the room and flung the pieces into a gilt basket. How ugly it all was! And how horribly real ugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry for having sent him the account. And it was certainly stupid of him to have marked it with red pencil. Victor might have read it. The man knew more than enough English for that. Perhaps he had read it, and had begun to suspect something. And, yet, what did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vane's death? There was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not killed her. His eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What was it, he wondered. He went towards the little pearl-colored octagonal stand, that had always looked to him like the work of some [64] strange Egyptian bees who wrought in silver, and took the volume up. He flung himself into an arm-chair, and began to turn over the leaves. After a few minutes, he became absorbed. It was the strangest book he had ever read. It seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the delicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb show before him. Things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly made real to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually revealed. It was a novel without a plot, and with only one character, being, indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian, who spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere artificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue, as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid and obscure at once,


single word with thee! Nay --the shuttle flies --the figures float from forth the loom; the freshet-rushing carpet for ever slides away. The weaver-god, he weaves; and by that weaving is he deafened, that he hears no mortal voice; and by that humming, we, too, who look on the loom are deafened; and only when we escape it shall we hear the thousand voices that speak through it. For even so it is in all material factories. The spoken words that are inaudible among the flying spindles; those same words are plainly heard without the walls, bursting from the opened casements. Thereby have villanies been detected. Ah, mortal! then, be heedful; for so, in all this din of the great world's loom, thy subtlest thinkings may be overheard afar. Now, amid the green, life-restless loom of that Arsacidean wood, the great, white, worshipped skeleton lay lounging --a gigantic idler! Yet, as the ever-woven verdant warp and woof intermixed and hummed around him, the mighty idler seemed the cunning weaver; himself all woven over with the vines; every month assuming greener, fresher verdure; but himself a skeleton. Life folded Death; Death trellised Life; the grim god wived with youthful Life, and begat him curly-headed glories. Now, when with royal Tranquo I visited this wondrous whale, and saw the skull an altar, and the artificial smoke ascending from where the real jet had issued, I marvelled that the king should regard a chapel as an object of vertu. He laughed. But more I marvelled that the priests should swear that smoky jet of his was genuine. To and fro I paced before this skeleton --brushed the vines aside --broke through the ribs --and with a ball of Arsacidean twine, wandered, eddied long amid its many winding, shaded collonades and arbors. But soon my line was out; and following it back, I emerged from the opening where I entered. I saw no living thing within; naught was there but bones. .. <p 448 > Cutting me a green measuring-rod, I once more dived within the skeleton. From their arrow-slit in the skull, the priests perceived me taking the altitude of the final rib. How now! they shouted; Dar'st thou measure this our god! That's for us. Aye, priests --well, how long do ye make him, then? But hereupon a fierce contest rose among them, concerning feet and inches; they cracked each other's sconces with their yard-sticks -- the great skull echoed --and seizing that lucky chance, I quickly concluded my own admeasurements. These admeasurements I now propose to set before you. But first, be it recorded, that, in this matter, I am not free to utter any fancied measurement I please. Because there are skeleton authorities you can refer to, to test my accuracy. There is a Leviathanic Museum, they tell me, in Hull, England, one of the whaling ports of that country, where they have some fine specimens of fin-backs and other whales. Likewise, I have heard that in the museum of Manchester, in New Hampshire, they have what the proprietors call the only


as we heard her quick, firm steps descending the stairs, "she seems to be a young lady who is very well able to take care of herself." "And she would need to be," said Holmes gravely. "I am much mistaken if we do not hear from her before many days are past." It was not very long before my friend's prediction was fulfilled. A fortnight went by, during which I frequently found my thoughts turning in her direction and wondering what strange side-alley of human experience this lonely woman had strayed into. The unusual salary, the curious conditions, the light duties, all pointed to something abnormal, though whether a fad or a plot, or whether the man were a philanthropist or a villain, it was quite beyond my powers to determine. As to Holmes, I observed that he sat frequently for half an hour on end, with knitted brows and an abstracted air, but he swept the matter away with a wave of his hand when I mentioned it. "Data! data! data!" he cried impatiently. "I can't make bricks without clay." And yet he would always wind up by muttering that no sister of his should ever have accepted such a situation. The telegram which we eventually received came late one night just as I was thinking of turning in and Holmes was settling down to one of those all-night chemical researches which he frequently indulged in, when I would leave him stooping over a retort and a test-tube at night and find him in the same position when I came down to breakfast in the morning. He opened the yellow envelope, and then, glancing at the message, threw it across to me. "Just look up the trains in Bradshaw," said he, and turned back to his chemical studies. The summons was a brief and urgent one. "Please be at the Black Swan Hotel at Winchester at midday to-morrow," it said. "Do come! I am at my wit's end. HUNTER." "Will you come with me?" asked Holmes, glancing up. "I should wish to." "Just look it up, then." "There is a train at half-past nine," said I, glancing over my Bradshaw. "It is due at Winchester at 11:30." "That will do very nicely. Then perhaps I had better postpone my analysis of the acetones, as we may need to be at our best in the morning." By eleven o'clock the next day we were well upon our way to the old English capital. Holmes had been buried in the morning papers all the way down, but after we had passed the Hampshire border he threw them down and began to admire the scenery. It was an ideal spring day, a light blue sky, flecked with little fleecy white clouds drifting across from west to east. The sun was shining very brightly, and yet there was an exhilarating nip in the air, which set an edge to a man's energy. All over the countryside, away to the rolling hills around Aldershot, the little red and gray roofs of the farm-steadings peeped out from


on his forehead, a gash is dripping blood down his cheek and onto the shiny floor. The spy stops talking and looks at Agamemnon, waiting for instructions. “I imagine, Eurybates, that this is your son,” Agamemnon says. Eurybates bends. He is broad-shouldered, his skin the color of walnuts. “Yes, my king. Kyros. Fourteen years old and the fastest runner his age.” As he approaches the throne, Agamemnon’s spy moves aside, blending with the shadows of the hearth columns. “And you interrupt me this morning because your son has been hurt,” Agamemnon says with amusement, looking at the gash on Kyros’s face as if it were a fleabite. Eurybates’s jaw tightens. “Yes, my king, he has been hurt but not during training or in a boys’ fight.” He falters. “Two girls did it.” Kyros’s face grows purple with shame. Agamemnon stifles a laugh, then shakes his head, annoyance growing on his face. “Do not bother me with this. Take the girls and flog them.” He has just spoken when two men—Kyros’s brothers, with the same angry face—bring Electra and Iphigenia into the hall. Clytemnestra’s hand flies to her dagger and the men take a step back, pushing her daughters forward. Electra is staring at the floor, tears on her cheeks, but Iphigenia’s eyes are narrowed, focused on Kyros with an expression of pure hatred. “This is what you get when you marry a Spartan woman. Unruly daughters.” Agamemnon’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You demand punishment, Eurybates?” “He wanted to rip our clothes,” Iphigenia hisses, fire in her eyes. “He chased us in the streets shouting that we would be forced to marry him after he was done with us.” Agamemnon speaks without even looking at her. “Do not interrupt, Iphigenia.” “As you said, they should be flogged, my lord,” Eurybates says. He is avoiding Clytemnestra’s eyes. Agamemnon sighs. “Do as you wish. Though if your son can be taken down by two girls, he’ll never be a man.” “They pushed him down.” Eurybates’s words are thick with spite. “One threatened him while the other hurt him with a rock.” Agamemnon opens his mouth, but Clytemnestra is quicker. “It is your son who should be punished, Eurybates. He tried to shame the king’s daughters, and they defended themselves. Their bodies aren’t his to take. Now leave, and do not come here again.” Eurybates storms out, his sons following close behind. Iphigenia and Electra linger, side by side, unsure of what to do. “This is your fault,” Agamemnon tells Clytemnestra. “You treat them as if they are equal to men.” She ignores him and stares at Iphigenia. “Why wasn’t Leon with you?” “He was training the older boys.” “Go and tell him what happened.” So he’ll never let you out of his sight. Iphigenia hurries away, but Electra doesn’t move. She waits until her sister’s steps fade, then says, “It was her idea. I didn’t want to do it.” “I do not care whose idea it was.” Clytemnestra already knows it must have been her older daughter’s doing. When Electra was little, Clytemnestra would


the streets with no sense of direction, thinking, always thinking. It wasn’t until I stumbled upon a place called Heaven and the machine therein that I understood what was happening. They called themself the Blue Fairy, and in Heaven, they showed me things I did not expect. A way to be free, unshackled. A hope, a chance, but one that came with a price: I could never return to the City of Electric Dreams.” Vic felt dull, washed out as Hap muttered at his hands. “I fled the city with the Blue Fairy’s help, and came to this forest. I created. I built. I felt pride at what I’d made, but it didn’t last because there was no one to share my accomplishments with. I convinced myself my power core had become unstable. Corrupted. So I built something new to replace it. A heart, one unlike anything I’d ever made before. But once it was in my chest, nothing changed. “Loneliness, Victor. I was lonely. And so I made you. I took what I’d learned about the history of humanity and made you. I made you, here, in this bunker, because I didn’t want to be alone anymore.” Vic gasped, eyes burning as he struggled to breathe through the panic bubbling in his chest. “Your gestation occurred in the vats behind you. At first, you were microscopic, but you grew and grew until you had arms and legs, toes and fingers. A nose. Ears. Eyes.” His voice cracked. “You were perfect. Oh, Victor, how perfect you were, and still are! And since I was a creator, I had to make sure you were healthy, that all your pieces and parts were working as they should.” He hung his head. “I took … blood. Your blood. Studied it. Tested it. Learned everything I could about it. I looked for any defects and found none. It fascinated me, the power blood has. Before the machines rose, there was a line of thought that blood held the key to unlocking genetic memories, the history of an entire species in the blood of the offspring. I thought … I thought to understand what I’d done, to understand you, I had to know what it felt like. If blood was the key to unlocking … something. “A single drop of your blood in my heart changed everything, Victor. When I held you in my arms for the first time, you opened your eyes and cried. Such a little sound, yet so strong. It was then I knew love. Here I was, the father of Death bringing life into the world as if I had any right. As if my loneliness was the only thing that mattered. I was selfish, a distinctly human trait. Another is the ability to lie. I lied, Victor. To myself. To you. “Because you were never left here with me. There is no mother or father, no people in the woods. They … did not exist. I lied to you because I thought it’d be easier for you, but I was really just


I could think of nothing else to say to her. In fact I could never think of anything to say to her, and I sat thinking of past painful conversations between us: How are you, Jean Louise? Fine, thank you ma'am, how are you? Very well, thank you, what have you been doing with yourself? Nothin'. Don't you do anything? Nome. Certainly you have friends? Yessum. Well what do you all do? Nothin'. It was plain that Aunty thought me dull in the extreme, because I once heard her tell Atticus that I was sluggish. There was a story behind all this, but I had no desire to extract it from her then. Today was Sunday, and Aunt Alexandra was positively irritable on the Lord's Day. I guess it was her Sunday corset. She was not fat, but solid, and she chose protective garments that drew up her bosom to giddy heights, pinched in her waist, flared out her rear, and managed to suggest that Aunt Alexandra's was once an hour-glass figure. From any angle, it was formidable. The remainder of the afternoon went by in the gentle gloom that descends when relatives appear, but was dispelled when we heard a car turn in the driveway. It was Atticus, home from Montgomery. Jem, forgetting his dignity, ran with me to meet him. Jem seized his briefcase and bag, I jumped into his arms, felt his vague dry kiss and said, "'d you bring me a book? 'd you know Aunty's here?" Atticus answered both questions in the affirmative. "How'd you like for her to come live with us?" I said I would like it very much, which was a lie, but one must lie under certain circumstances and at all times when one can't do anything about them. "We felt it was time you children needed- well, it's like this, Scout," Atticus said. "Your aunt's doing me a favor as well as you all. I can't stay here all day with you, and the summer's going to be a hot one." "Yes sir," I said, not understanding a word he said. I had an idea, however, that Aunt Alexandra's appearance on the scene was not so much Atticus's doing as hers. Aunty had a way of declaring What Is Best For The Family, and I suppose her coming to live with us was in that category. Maycomb welcomed her. Miss Maudie Atkinson baked a Lane cake so loaded with shinny it made me tight; Miss Stephanie Crawford had long visits with Aunt Alexandra, consisting mostly of Miss Stephanie shaking her head and saying, "Uh, uh, uh." Miss Rachel next door had Aunty over for coffee in the afternoons, and Mr. Nathan Radley went so far as to come up in the front yard and say he was glad to see her. When she settled in with us and life resumed its daily pace, Aunt Alexandra seemed as if she had always lived with us. Her Missionary Society refreshments added to her reputation as a hostess (she did not permit Calpurnia to make


Bend lower, please! You can do better than that. You're not trying. Lower, please! THAT'S better, comrade. Now stand at ease, the whole squad, and watch me.' A sudden hot sweat had broken out all over Winston's body. His face remained completely inscrutable. Never show dismay! Never show resentment! A single flicker of the eyes could give you away. He stood watching while the instructress raised her arms above her head and--one could not say file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (22 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt gracefully, but with remarkable neatness and efficiency--bent over and tucked the first joint of her fingers under her toes. 'THERE, comrades! THAT'S how I want to see you doing it. Watch me again. I'm thirty-nine and I've had four children. Now look.' She bent over again. 'You see MY knees aren't bent. You can all do it if you want to,' she added as she straightened herself up. 'Anyone under forty-five is perfectly capable of touching his toes. We don't all have the privilege of fighting in the front line, but at least we can all keep fit. Remember our boys on the Malabar front! And the sailors in the Floating Fortresses! Just think what THEY have to put up with. Now try again. That's better, comrade, that's MUCH better,' she added encouragingly as Winston, with a violent lunge, succeeded in touching his toes with knees unbent, for the first time in several years. Chapter 4 With the deep, unconscious sigh which not even the nearness of the telescreen could prevent him from uttering when his day's work started, Winston pulled the speakwrite towards him, blew the dust from its mouthpiece, and put on his spectacles. Then he unrolled and clipped together four small cylinders of paper which had already flopped out of the pneumatic tube on the right-hand side of his desk. In the walls of the cubicle there were three orifices. To the right of the speakwrite, a small pneumatic tube for written messages, to the left, a larger one for newspapers; and in the side wall, within easy reach of Winston's arm, a large oblong slit protected by a wire grating. This last was for the disposal of waste paper. Similar slits existed in thousands or tens of thousands throughout the building, not only in every room but at short intervals in every corridor. For some reason they were nicknamed memory holes. When one knew that any document was due for destruction, or even when one saw a scrap of waste paper lying about, it was an automatic action to lift the flap of the nearest memory hole and drop it in, whereupon it would be whirled away on a current of warm air to the enormous furnaces which were hidden somewhere in the recesses of the building. Winston examined the four slips of paper which he had unrolled. Each contained a message of only one or two lines, in the abbreviated jargon--not actually Newspeak, but consisting largely of Newspeak words--which was used in the Ministry for internal purposes. They ran: times 17.3.84 bb speech malreported


everything. Geoff believed you were involved in Thalia’s death even more than I did—which is to say one hundred percent to my ninety-five. And while I felt some combination of betrayed and horrified when I considered you taking her life, Geoff seemed filled with a more primal rage. The sun was sinking fast, almost gone. I said, “Are your fingers going to freeze to the railing?” “It would be a noble death.” I filled him in on Carlotta—he’d only known bits of it—and he closed his eyes against the news. He said, “I was always in love with her.” “I know.” “What it was, I had a crush on the two of you together. Not in a porny way, not like—it was the two of you as a duo. You were always having so much fun.” I understood, even if I didn’t want to: Geoff and I would banter for hours, make each other laugh, but I was an oily-faced schlub and couldn’t flirt in the slightest. Carlotta would strum her guitar and look stunning. Together, we filled all his needs. “We were never a duo,” I said. “There was Fran.” “Sure. Fran was who I talked to about it.” I said, “You know my absolute favorite memory of Carlotta?” I told him the story, which he’d surely once known: I’d been hanging out in the art studio as she finished a clay bust of Frida Kahlo, when Dorian Culler invited himself in, sat on the edge of the big metal table, tried juggling some of the thick acrylic paint tubes. We ignored him as we’d ignore a mountain lion we met in the woods, hoping our silence would cloud our scent. “Carlotta,” Dorian said, “if I may call you that. I’m worried about our friend Bodie. You see, I’m in a serious relationship now, and I’m not sure she can handle it. True fact: That’s not even eyeliner around her eyes, she’s just been crying over me.” While I stood frozen, Carlotta reached under the counter for a tube of blue oil paint. She squeezed some onto a brush and, stepping toward Dorian, painted a thick blue streak down his forehead and nose. “Jesus!” he said, and hopped off the table and wiped at his face with his sleeves, but now the paint was all over. “You fucking psychopath.” He left the studio. Carlotta said, “The best part, he’s gonna wash that with soap and it won’t work.” She laughed loud enough that he could surely hear it all the way down the hall. At dinner that night, he was still pale blue. “He looked like a Smurf,” I told Geoff. Geoff laughed gleefully. He said, “That guy had issues. Miserable little dude.” I was kind of stunned by the idea. Specifically: the notion—it should have been obvious—that Dorian’s harassment wasn’t about me. It had nothing to do with who I was or what I looked like; I was just a convenient prop, someone who wouldn’t bite back. It should not have taken me this long to realize. It should not


her tunic. His lip curled. Perhaps he remembered her choosing the name. She’d done it on his instructions. “Good heavens.” She didn’t move. He glanced up the stairs, judging the crush. Down here the noise was growing into a roar, hundreds of people staggering through the porch and entering the front hall. She knew what he was thinking: what can people see, what can people hear, what reason will they construct for this discussion, when will the risks show themselves? She rattled through a similar list herself, every moment. He smiled, eyes running over her mask. “Miss de Vries mentioned to me that you had made an unwelcome visit. She charged me to keep an eye out for you. I must confess I thought she was overreacting.” “Foolish of you,” said Mrs. King. “For here I am. You’ve caught me.” She was Jonah inside the whale. She was stepping right into the heart of the matter. He snapped his fingers, and two younger men hurried over. They were dressed as dominoes. Clerks, she guessed, his own little entourage. Evidently, Lockwood liked having his own people in the house, too. “Accompany us to the library,” he said to them. “And guard the door.” They gawked at Mrs. King. Then they saw Mr. Lockwood’s hand touch her elbow, and they squared up. “I think we should have a private discussion,” Lockwood said. “I agree,” she replied, lifting her mask. “May I?” he said. He offered his arm. He wasn’t her equal—he would never countenance that notion—but he could pretend to be civil. “No,” she said, and they walked upstairs, men at her back—trapped, as intended. 27 Three hours to go The ball had begun. But the lady of the house was still below stairs, just where they wanted her. Mrs. Bone was being held in the butler’s pantry, and the chauffeur barred the door. Mrs. King had been very clear about this. Let them interrogate you as long as they want. We need them down in the servants’ hall, so the men can pack up the old nurseries. Mrs. Bone pictured rocking horses creaking as they were lifted onto runners, gigantic dolls blinking as they were turned upside down. The nursery was a forlorn sort of place, preserved in aspic: too big, too bleached. The wallpaper was metal colored, a bleak and relentless pattern. The whole place had given Mrs. Bone the shivers. She was glad it was being packed away. “Alice, tell Mr. Shepherd what you told me,” Miss de Vries said, her face glinting in the lamplight. Alice kept things brief. “I saw her,” she said, pointing at Mrs. Bone, “selling silver spoons to a man in the street. She had them hidden in her apron.” So far so good. Mrs. Bone tutted loudly. “I was cleaning them.” “No, she was not,” said Alice. Mrs. Bone shook her fist, per her stage directions. “Rot!” “Madam, I had no idea,” began Mr. Shepherd. “That’s what’s troubling me, Shepherd.” Mr. Shepherd went very red in the face then. He gripped Mrs. Bone by the


man whom he had followed was standing at the bar, having some kind of altercation with the barman, a large, stout, hook-nosed young man with enormous forearms. A knot of others, standing round with glasses in their hands, were watching the scene. 'I arst you civil enough, didn't I?' said the old man, straightening his shoulders pugnaciously. 'You telling me you ain't got a pint mug in the 'ole bleeding boozer?' 'And what in hell's name IS a pint?' said the barman, leaning forward with the tips of his fingers on the counter. ''Ark at 'im! Calls 'isself a barman and don't know what a pint is! Why, a pint's the 'alf of a quart, and there's four quarts to the gallon. 'Ave to teach you the A, B, C next.' 'Never heard of 'em,' said the barman shortly. 'Litre and half litre--that's all we serve. There's the glasses on the shelf in front of you.' 'I likes a pint,' persisted the old man. 'You could 'a drawed me off a pint easy enough. We didn't 'ave these bleeding litres when I was a young man.' 'When you were a young man we were all living in the treetops,' said the barman, with a glance at the other customers. There was a shout of laughter, and the uneasiness caused by Winston's entry seemed to disappear. The old man's whitestubbled face had flushed pink. He turned away, muttering to himself, and bumped into Winston. Winston caught him gently by the arm. 'May I offer you a drink?' he said. 'You're a gent,' said the other, straightening his shoulders again. He appeared not to have noticed Winston's blue overalls. 'Pint!' he added aggressively to the barman. 'Pint of wallop.' The barman swished two half-litres of dark-brown beer into thick glasses file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (49 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt which he had rinsed in a bucket under the counter. Beer was the only drink you could get in prole pubs. The proles were supposed not to drink gin, though in practice they could get hold of it easily enough. The game of darts was in full swing again, and the knot of men at the bar had begun talking about lottery tickets. Winston's presence was forgotten for a moment. There was a deal table under the window where he and the old man could talk without fear of being overheard. It was horribly dangerous, but at any rate there was no telescreen in the room, a point he had made sure of as soon as he came in. ''E could 'a drawed me off a pint,' grumbled the old man as he settled down behind a glass. 'A 'alf litre ain't enough. It don't satisfy. And a 'ole litre's too much. It starts my bladder running. Let alone the price.' 'You must have seen great changes since you were a young man,' said Winston tentatively. The old man's pale blue eyes moved from the darts board to the bar, and from the bar to the door of the Gents, as though it were in the


I am just another woman getting pampered on a Thursday. I pour a glass of cucumber water and take it with me into the hall. The esthetician, about my age, wearing a white medical top, greets me. “I’m Nadia. I’ll be taking care of you today.” She leads me down a dimly lit corridor. “Let’s get your bikini wax out of the way and then get onto the good stuff.” The entire process is heavenly—except for the wax, which is necessary torture. Nadia hands me off to Ryan, the masseuse, and the massage relaxes me, makes me feel oddly weepy. But I gather myself enough to make small talk when Nadia returns to trim, file, and paint my nails a pale sheer pink. Like me, she works six days a week, but she is supporting elderly parents and a ten-year-old daughter who is a promising pianist. Her husband works at a meatpacking plant. I volunteer no information about myself to this hardworking woman. I’m ashamed of my tumble from privilege, of the things I’ve done, the choices I’ve made. While my nails dry, I move into the salon. The stylist, whose fair hair and skin matches the Nordic vibe, stands behind me, taking in my reflection. He lifts a hank of hair from my shoulder. “Let’s cut off these dry, brassy bits, give you some light layering at the ends for movement. Maybe a few subtle highlights through the crown?” “Sure.” I shrug. This is Hazel’s stylist. I feel safe in his hands. When he is done, my hair is gorgeous. He has straightened my natural wave and the style and color look a lot like Hazel’s. I feel pretty, and I’m thrilled that I have plans to see Jesse tonight. I’ve missed him. And I want him to see me looking my best. I dress slowly, savoring the last moments of serenity, taking in my reflection, drinking more infused water. Eventually I return to the lobby and the front desk where another glossy woman stands sentry. I’ve been here so long there’s been a shift change. “Did you enjoy our treatments?” she asks. “Everything was wonderful,” I say, because it was. “Thank you.” “Will you be needing any products today?” I wish. “No thanks.” “All right, then.” Her eyes dart to the iPad screen. “That’ll be five hundred and sixty-five dollars, please.” My eyes widen with momentary panic, but I quickly recover. “It was prepaid. By my friend who made the appointment.” The woman leans closer to the screen, her Botoxed features inscrutable. “No. There was no prepayment made.” “My friend is Hazel Laval,” I explain. “She comes here all the time.” “Okay…” It’s clear this woman doesn’t know Hazel. “I don’t know who booked these services. I just know that they need to be paid for.” There is an edge to her pleasant tone, and my armpits feel damp. “Of course,” I mumble. “It’s just… Hazel said she was treating me.” “Perhaps you could put it on your credit card and settle up with her later?” She doesn’t understand. It’s


sadness. “I’m upset, too, but rules are rules.” “Can he come back?” “Maybe next year,” June said, continuing to sort the mail. “You know Rich is beloved around here.” I walked away with my letter, couldn’t bring myself to send it. Was he furious with me? Of course he was. I had used his love, caused him to lose his job. I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror, and I certainly couldn’t respond to the three letters he sent me over the next week. I didn’t even open them. I couldn’t. He quit sending them. And I never saw Rich McNabb, my first great love, again. Until now. I looked up into his face, bathing in shame all over again, as Mary Stuart said, “Okay, I’m off to the basketball courts. I let Ted pick our activity, obviously.” As she walked away, I said the truest thing I could think of. “Mary Stuart is still a Songbird. Even though it’s been decades, she’s exactly the same.” “I think that’s what I like about her,” Rich said. “Me too.” Rich loved my friends. And, really, they were his friends too. They had known Rich as long as I had, and Daphne in particular saw him frequently on her visits to see June. Rich’s phone lit up with a notification. He looked at it. “Great,” he said under his breath. “What?” “That storm that I thought was going to pass over looks like it isn’t. We have about another hour, but that’s it.” That would put us at four o’clock. “I don’t think anyone will mind an afternoon rest.” “Least of all me,” he said. “I’m out of summer shape!” His abs seemed to twinkle of their own accord, defying him. He was definitely, definitely not out of summer shape. “Do you think you’ll always do this?” I asked. “Work at camp, I mean?” He sat down on the bench beside me, finishing his sandwich. “I don’t know. I’m enjoying it for now. But I’ve thought about getting my master’s. Teaching. Or taking over Dad’s furniture store.” He paused. “But, on the other hand, I can’t imagine my life without camp. Even though I work so hard all year long, with planning and fundraising and general camp communications, I also have a ton of flexibility during the off-season. I get to travel a lot. Take long stretches of days off.” “Sounds pretty great,” I said. He nodded. “But more than that, when you’re here with these kids…” “You’re changing their lives,” I filled in for him. “Yeah, I mean, they become resilient and strong and independent. They see what they can do without their mom there to pour their milk. It makes the stress of the summer worth it.” I laughed. “I wouldn’t be the person I am without camp.” I held his gaze for a long moment. “And, Rich, I wouldn’t be the person I am without you. My future, my standing in my family, my education… Well, you saved all of that. I’ve never thanked you for it. So thank


John pulled his hand away, the clasp snapped and the pearls bounced across the stone floor of the church. Now, a tsunami of beads cascading onto the floor of the arts and crafts hut broke me out of my memory, the past merging with the present. Little Alee’s face scrunched at the sight of the pieces of her necklace scattering. “It’s okay!” I said, jumping up to help her. “We’ll fix it together!” These kids had saved me. That summer after my sister died, after those long months alone bathing in my shame and loneliness and grief, the sun came out, and the children—including my niece—came back. They laughed and sang and danced and loved me back to life. They put me back together like this necklace I was restringing for a six-year-old, like the pearl bracelet Paula had later fixed for me. She had each of the pearls hand-knotted. That way, if the bracelet ever broke again, only one pearl would fall, not all of them. But it didn’t matter. I never wore that bracelet again. It was a reminder of losing my sister; it was a reminder of failing my niece. I had never forgiven myself for that. I did, at least, attempt to get custody two years later when I got my head out from under water and felt like I could be a responsible caregiver. Daphne was fifteen. There was no evidence Ray had done anything to warrant losing custody of her and, by that time, I got the feeling that Daphne didn’t care all that much anymore anyway. She spent so much time with Lanier and her family, was so involved with her school and friends and boys that, when Ray maintained custody, I think Daphne almost felt relieved. And her moving in with Lanier’s family felt like a natural transition, gave her a stable end of her childhood that I didn’t want to disrupt. Daphne and I were so close as adults, and I hoped we would talk about this really big thing between us one day. But right now, I had to focus on the families around me—the siblings, parents, and grandparents making sand art and tying friendship bracelets, stringing beads and knotting macramé. The sea of their voices swimming together was practically a melody, the sweetest song I had heard in quite some time. It was the sound of joy. The sound of hope. The sound of finally believing I wasn’t the only person who cared about saving this camp, that, if all these families came to help, we had to be onto something really good. Right? I had read once that you had to believe in something in order to make it happen. No one ever ran less than a four-minute mile until the first person did and then, suddenly, many other famous athletes did too. It wasn’t that their bodies couldn’t do it. Their minds simply couldn’t conceive of it. So maybe that had been my problem all along: I couldn’t conceive of a way to overcome the camp’s latest hurdle. But


says at last, “I’m honored to have an official of such integrity here to preside over the proceedings. All the parties are present.” “Then we will begin at once,” my father says. Hearing this, Lady Kuo quickly steps forward. “Let me first show you to a room where you can refresh yourself from your journey,” she offers, to which my father nods his agreement. Although he had seemed in a hurry to get started, nearly an hour passes before Lady Kuo escorts my father to the same colonnade where the first inquest about Spinster Aunt took place. My mother-in-law’s bow is deep and respectful. He’s a dignitary and an honored guest, but I’ve never before seen her act so humbly. I’m further surprised when he touches her sleeve, leans toward her, and whispers a few words. She tightens her jaw, nods, and then backs away. My father takes his place at a table, where he’s flanked by his secretaries, each of whom has paper, brushes, and an inkstone before him. Spinster Aunt’s exhumed body lies on a table, covered with muslin. A diagram showing the front and back outlines of a body stands on an easel. Next to this is a small table with the tools required for an inquest on one end and brush and ink on the other end. Doctor Wong sits on one of two chairs placed between my father and his secretaries and Spinster Aunt’s body, facing the audience. He looks as he always has to me: handsome, with an air of superiority about him. While custom and law say that the entire family of the dead may attend, only thirty chairs have been set up. My father-in-law, Second Uncle, and Maoren are in the front row in the same positions they took at the first inquest. Most of the other chairs are filled by Yang men, but a few women, including Lady Kuo, are also seated. Miss Chen has been summoned. She’s in an alcove, with a gauze veil covering her face to hide her few scars. Next to her are other nonfamily women: Meiling, her mother, and Poppy. Meiling and I give each other a subtle nod. My father begins with some preliminaries, noting the day, month, and year of the Hongzhi emperor’s reign. His secretaries keep their heads down as they write every word spoken to create the official record. My father then announces that he’ll follow the rules and directions laid down in The Washing Away of Wrongs as he considers the forensic evidence, quoting: “If even one tiny mistake is made, the repercussions can stretch ten thousand li.” He pauses to let us consider these words, which were spoken to us years ago by Magistrate Fu. “This is an unusual situation, since we have two accusations of crimes before us,” my father goes on. “The first dates back fourteen years to the death of Yang Fengshi—a woman known by her family as Spinster Aunt. The second allegation regards the deliberate use of abortifacients—with the resulting death of a fetus and near death of


android grimaced, baring his square teeth. “I … wh-who are you. Who are y-you? Who are you?” He tried to stand. His metal right leg held his weight, but the wooden left buckled. He stumbled forward. “Ahh!” Rambo cried. “He’s attacking! I’m brave. I’m so brave!” He rolled forward, banging the broom against the android’s knees. “Die, murderous revenge machine, die!” “S-s-stop that,” the android growled. He tried to swat at the broom, but his center of gravity was off, and he missed, almost falling on top of Rambo. He managed to catch himself at the last moment, Rambo moving deftly between his feet, the broom knocking against the android’s thighs. “Do not touch Rambo,” Nurse Ratched said, one of her tentacles whipping dangerously in the air. “If you do, you will find it to be rather shocking. Because I will shock you. That was another pun. They do not get old no matter how many times I say them.” “Wh-where am I?” the android snapped. “What is this p-place?” “You are in the laboratory of the great inventor Victor Lawson,” Nurse Ratched said, the tip of her tentacle crackling. “And you would do well to show him some respect. He was the one who brought you back to life. Granted, I did most of the work, which is why I am your mother, but Victor needs positive reinforcement. Victor. You did a good job. We are all very proud of you.” The android lurched again. Victor flinched, taking a step back, fingernails digging into his palms so hard he thought he’d draw blood. Rambo, apparently having decided there was still an active threat, bellowed as he smacked the broomstick against the android’s back. “En garde!” The android whirled around, snatching the broomstick before Rambo could hit him again. He brought down the handle over his knee, snapping it in two. “Oh no,” Rambo whispered. “We’re gonna die so bad.” The android dropped the pieces of the broom before turning on Victor. He stalked forward, his gait awkward as if he couldn’t figure out how to bend his wooden knee. “Who a-are you?” he demanded. “Wh-what did you d-do to my head?” He grabbed Victor by the front of his shirt, jerking him forward. Vic yelped as he closed his eyes. “Wh-why c-can’t I remember who I am?” And Victor said, “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t—” Electricity snapped and snarled as the android seized. Victor opened his eyes in time to see him slump toward the floor, Nurse Ratched’s tentacle sliding back inside her. “I told you to show him respect,” she said. “Listen to Mother.” Her screen read THERE IS PLENTY MORE WHERE THAT CAME FROM! The android was barely out long enough for them to get him back onto the table. “Quite shocking indeed,” Nurse Ratched said, moving efficiently around the table to the android’s head. “I warned you. I will do it again if needed. Come on, punk. Make my day.” She paused, her screen flashing green. “Interesting. I have no idea where that came from.


me! I want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the [29] world to hear our laughter, and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain. My God, Harry, how I worship her!" He was walking up and down the room as he spoke. Hectic spots of red burned on his cheeks. He was terribly excited. Lord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure. How different he was now from the shy, frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward's studio! His nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of scarlet flame. Out of its secret hiding-place had crept his Soul, and Desire had come to meet it on the way. "And what do you propose to do?" said Lord Henry, at last. "I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her act. I have not the slightest fear of the result. You won't be able to refuse to recognize her genius. Then we must get her out of the Jew's hands. She is bound to him for three years--at least for two years and eight months--from the present time. I will have to pay him something, of course. When all that is settled, I will take a West-End theatre and bring her out properly. She will make the world as mad as she has made me." "Impossible, my dear boy!" "Yes, she will. She has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, in her, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that it is personalities, not principles, that move the age." "Well, what night shall we go?" "Let me see. To-day is Tuesday. Let us fix to-morrow. She plays Juliet to-morrow." "All right. The Bristol at eight o'clock; and I will get Basil." "Not eight, Harry, please. Half-past six. We must be there before the curtain rises. You must see her in the first act, where she meets Romeo." "Half-past six! What an hour! It will be like having a meat-tea. However, just as you wish. Shall you see Basil between this and then? Or shall I write to him?" "Dear Basil! I have not laid eyes on him for a week. It is rather horrid of me, as he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderful frame, designed by himself, and, though I am a little jealous of it for being a whole month younger than I am, I must admit that I delight in it. Perhaps you had better write to him. I don't want to see him alone. He says things that annoy me." Lord Henry smiled. "He gives you good advice, I suppose. People are very fond of giving away what they need most themselves." "You don't mean to say that Basil has got any passion or any romance in him?" "I don't know whether he has any passion, but he certainly has romance," said Lord Henry, with an amused look in his eyes. "Has he never let


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

play at being common, get thrashed—” “On purpose, I feel like I should point out.” “—then kidnap Lore and leave me there?” He’d been advancing the whole time he spoke, and now Gabe stood right in front of Bastian, two inches taller and using it all to loom. “What the fuck?” “Language, Your Grace,” Bastian admonished, completely unperturbed by the large mass of angry monk in his face. “I do apologize that you ran into trouble, though it seems like you fought your way out of it just fine.” Gabe ignored him, seething. “You might be the prince, but you can’t just—” “He knows, Gabe.” Lore’s voice cut him off midsentence. Gabriel froze, then turned to look at her, shoulders stiff. “All of it?” She nodded wearily. “All of it.” Gabe mirrored her nod. Then he turned to Bastian and slammed him against the wall. “Gabriel!” Lore snapped, but the Presque Mort was beyond hearing. His palms pressed against Bastian’s shoulders, his nose mere inches from the prince’s, teeth bared. “So how are you going to kill us, Bastian?” he growled. “You know why we’re here, that your father knows you’re sending information to Kirythea, and I’m supposed to believe you’ll just let that go?” Bastian’s neck was tendon-tight, but he laughed like this was a game. “They really got to you, didn’t they? Made you think the only way to absolve yourself of treason by association was to see it in everyone else.” Gabe’s arms trembled slightly. Lore couldn’t tell if it was with the force of pressing Bastian to the wall, or with the restraint of not punching him. “It’ll never be enough for them, Gabe.” Despite the wicked grin, Bastian’s voice was soft. “The Church and Crown don’t forget, they don’t forgive, not any more than the gods did before them. But they’ll keep holding it in front of you like a mirage in a fucking desert. And you’ll keep chasing it, even when you know it’s not something you can touch.” They stared at each other. Then Gabe slammed him into the wall again. “Both of you, stop it.” Lore gripped Gabe’s arm and pulled him back—for a moment, she thought he’d shake her off, but he relented, albeit reluctantly. “Bastian, shut up.” Bastian shook his shoulders out, wincing. But he did shut up. Lore turned to Gabriel, breathing hard, as if she were the one who’d been seconds from a brawl. “We can use this,” she said quietly, not looking at the Sun Prince as she did. It skirted too close to what he’d said in the tunnel, all these questions about using and being used. “There’s a good chance August is framing Bastian.” The Presque Mort gave her a withering look. “Did he tell you that?” “Does it matter?” Lore didn’t know how to explain that she knew Bastian was telling the truth, at least about this. “You don’t know him.” Gabe shook his head. “Lore, Bastian is—” “Has it occurred to you,” Bastian interrupted casually, “that you are basing all of your assumptions on me


and hauled me back to her desk. "Jean Louise, I've had about enough of you this morning," she said. "You're starting off on the wrong foot in every way, my dear. Hold out your hand." I thought she was going to spit in it, which was the only reason anybody in Maycomb held out his hand: it was a time-honored method of sealing oral contracts. Wondering what bargain we had made, I turned to the class for an answer, but the class looked back at me in puzzlement. Miss Caroline picked up her ruler, gave me half a dozen quick little pats, then told me to stand in the corner. A storm of laughter broke loose when it finally occurred to the class that Miss Caroline had whipped me. When Miss Caroline threatened it with a similar fate the first grade exploded again, becoming cold sober only when the shadow of Miss Blount fell over them. Miss Blount, a native Maycombian as yet uninitiated in the mysteries of the Decimal System, appeared at the door hands on hips and announced: "If I hear another sound from this room I'll burn up everybody in it. Miss Caroline, the sixth grade cannot concentrate on the pyramids for all this racket!" My sojourn in the corner was a short one. Saved by the bell, Miss Caroline watched the class file out for lunch. As I was the last to leave, I saw her sink down into her chair and bury her head in her arms. Had her conduct been more friendly toward me, I would have felt sorry for her. She was a pretty little thing. 3 Catching Walter Cunningham in the schoolyard gave me some pleasure, but when I was rubbing his nose in the dirt Jem came by and told me to stop. "You're bigger'n he is," he said. "He's as old as you, nearly," I said. "He made me start off on the wrong foot." "Let him go, Scout. Why?" "He didn't have any lunch," I said, and explained my involvement in Walter's dietary affairs. Walter had picked himself up and was standing quietly listening to Jem and me. His fists were half cocked, as if expecting an onslaught from both of us. I stomped at him to chase him away, but Jem put out his hand and stopped me. He examined Walter with an air of speculation. "Your daddy Mr. Walter Cunningham from Old Sarum?" he asked, and Walter nodded. Walter looked as if he had been raised on fish food: his eyes, as blue as Dill Harris's, were red-rimmed and watery. There was no color in his face except at the tip of his nose, which was moistly pink. He fingered the straps of his overalls, nervously picking at the metal hooks. Jem suddenly grinned at him. "Come on home to dinner with us, Walter," he said. "We'd be glad to have you." Walter's face brightened, then darkened. Jem said, "Our daddy's a friend of your daddy's. Scout here, she's crazy- she won't fight you any more." "I wouldn't be


London – I’d gone to a party with friends. I showed the earring to Darryl and he said it must be one of mine. It looked similar but I knew it wasn’t.’ ‘He’s not to be trusted,’ Cecily grimaced. ‘You’d be wise to move on,’ Lin said. ‘I don’t think I’ll trust a man again…’ Charlotte muttered. ‘Daryl’s shattered any faith I had.’ ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Lin added. ‘Believe me.’ ‘Let’s not even give him the time of day. You’re too good for him,’ Tina muttered grimly. She was thoughtful for a moment, then she added, ‘In my experience, you’re better off spending time growing vegetables than wasting it on a useless man.’ ‘Yes, I agree,’ Lin said, her mouth set firmly. She gazed in the direction where Neil had gone. She imagined he’d be in The Sun Inn, meeting Carole Frost. But Lin was like Charlotte; she had her friends, good advice, support. She wouldn’t break, not now. 33 The huge crowd muttered amongst themselves in the judging tent as Minnie eased Tina forward to hear the announcement. Her entire year’s work in the allotments was going to be proved worthwhile or not in a single moment. Cecily placed herself next to the elbow of a woman in a white suit and a broad-brimmed hat whom she presumed was the judge, Margaret Fennimore. Cecily offered her a sweet smile and said loudly, so that Charlotte could hear, ‘We were just comparing vegetables to men. I hope you’ve gone for substance rather than veneer.’ The judge pretended she hadn’t understood. Lin stood closer to Charlotte: she felt really sorry for her. Darryl Featherstone was handsome, charming, just as Neil was. And they were both cheats and liars. Lin peeked at Charlotte’s face and noted the signs of tiredness and stress. She had been through the wringer. It was so unfair. Lin determined she’d be just as strong when she found out the truth. It couldn’t come soon enough now. Andrew the vicar gave his familiar little cough that meant that he was about to speak. Penny Ledbury sidled up to Tina and dug her in the ribs with a sharp elbow. She whispered, ‘I’m sure my fuchsias will win. Your basket is a close second, though, Tina.’ Tina ignored her and concentrated on the vicar’s mouth; she was so nervous, she could hardly hear his words. ‘This year, the standard was very high… flower baskets… very pretty indeed… our judge was impressed… unusual to have a male winner…’ Tina screwed up her eyes, hoping she’d hear better. ‘The first prize for the flower basket goes to Gerald Harris…’ Gerald pushed to the front and waved triumphantly. Margaret Fennimore was beaming, grabbing his hand and not letting go, simpering as he simpered back. The moment lengthened into a gushing conversation between Gerald and the judge, sharing words of mutual appreciation. They posed, faces close, as someone from the press took a photo. Penny whispered, ‘They play bridge together. It’s favouritism.’ Cecily caught her breath. ‘Really?’ ‘Oh, they are great friends,’


the pavement again. Just like that. I hadn’t moved my feet and yet there I was. I turned back to where the shop had been and found nothing but the darkness of night, as though it had swallowed the shop whole. For some reason I patted myself down, maybe to see if I was still there when the shop I was just standing in so clearly wasn’t. I did that ridiculous thing where you turn around and around on the spot, like a dog chasing its tail, in case the thing you lost is right behind you. But how could anyone lose a bookshop? The only logical explanation was that I had been very, very drunk. That is what I kept telling myself. A drunken haze, and the shop was a mirage. But I had been drunk many times before that and never conjured up a building, let alone walked into one. Now I had a corroborator. Someone else had seen the shop. The question now was: what had caused it to disappear and how could I get it back? Chapter Nineteen OPALINE Dublin, 1922 My first few weeks at Mr Fitzpatrick’s Nostalgia Shop were punctuated by a string of strange occurrences. It seemed the building itself did not exactly welcome me with open arms, but I was determined to prove myself a worthy custodian. I ventured up the spiral staircase that led to the attic, where he had kept the overflow from the shop. At the top was a tiny door that required me to bend a little and when I pushed against it, I found that the wood seemed to push back. I stood back in order to take something of a run at it and on the third go I burst through and fell flat on my face. ‘I see,’ I said aloud. ‘Like that, is it?’ I got up and dusted myself down, trying not to take the idiosyncrasies of an old building personally. A tiny window with a circular pane, opaque with green lichen, was the only source of light. I found a Victrola gramophone and immediately set it aside to bring downstairs. At first glance, it looked like an old museum with glinting treasure peeking out from under dustsheets. There was a telescope in the far corner behind bits of old furniture and lots of boxes. On a shelf I spotted a pair of workman’s trousers and looked down at my impractical skirt, covered in dust and worn in places. Decision made, I slipped it off and pulled on the tan-coloured trousers. They weren’t a bad fit and I pulled the belt through the loops, securing it around my waist. Mr Fitzpatrick must have been a rather slender man, as well as being a conscientious one, as they were neat as a new pin. Slightly too long in the leg, though, so I turned up the hem once and then twice, until I could see the heel of my boot. Catching sight of myself in a cheval mirror, which was amusingly strung with feather boas, I


make them welcome.” The courtiers all inclined their heads, faces inscrutable, blurred by the rapidly increasing sunlight through the windows lining the sanctuary. Lore nodded back, mostly because she wasn’t sure what else to do, and flicking both her middle fingers at them didn’t seem like proper duke’s-cousin behavior. “Go in peace,” August said, and with that, First Day prayers were dismissed. Courtiers rose, making their way back toward the double doors leading to the path and the green. Voices murmured and laughed, the solemnity of religious ritual disappearing as the sun rose higher in the sky. Lore looked to Gabe, but he still seemed far away, expression distant. After a moment, he drifted toward the doors with the rest of the nobles. With a weary sigh, Lore went to follow. Gabe seemed so lost here. Almost as lost as she was. August’s hand came down on her shoulder before she took a second step. “I’m afraid the court’s diversions will have to wait,” he said quietly. “You have a task before you, Lore. Come with me.” CHAPTER TWELVE The Emperor was rumored to drink a cup of hemlock tea each morning, so that he might live longer. Still, he died in the night, though most think it was his son rather than his sickness. —Last report of Gaspard Beauchamp, Auverrani spy in the Kirythean Empire, executed by Emperor Jax two days after message received Gabe looked behind him at the moment August gripped Lore’s shoulder, like some extra sense told him to pay attention. When he saw August, he stopped, a rock in the eddying sea of courtiers, brow furrowed. August waved a dismissive hand, speaking just loud enough for Gabe to hear him in the rising babble. “Your services are unneeded, Duke Remaut. We’re only going to the vaults.” Lore shifted under August’s hand. “Could he come anyway? I’m—” “I’ve made myself clear.” For all the force of his words, the way August took her arm was still polite. To anyone watching, he’d be the picture of a benevolent King, welcoming to even the lowest new noble in his glittering court. “You come with me. The duke does not.” He chucked a finger beneath her chin as if she were a wayward child. “The sooner we make progress on this, the sooner you’ll reunite.” Her lips pressed into a white line, but Lore fought the urge to jerk away. Instead she ducked her head, as gracefully as she could. “Lead on, Your Majesty.” August gave a surprised snort. “Well then,” he murmured, “it seems a weed can become a rose, if you move it from the gutter.” She was going to wear her teeth to nubs if she kept grinding them this hard. Gabriel watched August lead her down the aisle, worry clear on his face. Lore tried her best to look confident and reassured. This was the price of staying out of the Burnt Isles, and she could manage it without his worry. When her eyes left Gabe, they found Bastian. The Sun Prince loitered near the doors, joking


honey! Go lay down! Ah’ll be too glad tuh be in dere wid yuh de minute de doctor say so. Go lay back down. He’ll be heah wid some new medi- cine right away.” “Janie, Ah done went through everything tuh be good tuh you and it hurt me tuh mah heart tuh be ill treated lak Ah is.” The gun came up unsteadily but quickly and leveled at Janie’s breast. She noted that even in his delirium he took good aim. Maybe he would point to scare her, that was all. The pistol snapped once. Instinctively Janie’s hand flew behind her on the rifle and brought it around. Most likely this would scare him off. If only the doctor would come! If anybody at all would come! She broke the rifle deftly and shoved in the shell as the second click told her that Tea Cake’s suffering brain was urging him on to kill. “Tea Cake, put down dat gun and go back tuh bed!” Janie yelled at him as the gun wavered weakly in his hand. 216 Zora Neale Hurston He steadied himself against the jamb of the door and Janie thought to run into him and grab his arm, but she saw the quick motion of taking aim and heard the click. Saw the ferocious look in his eyes and went mad with fear as she had done in the water that time. She threw up the barrel of the rifle in frenzied hope and fear. Hope that he’d see it and run, desperate fear for her life. But if Tea Cake could have counted costs he would not have been there with the pistol in his hands. No knowledge of fear nor rifles nor anything else was there. He paid no more attention to the pointing gun than if it were Janie’s dog finger. She saw him stiffen himself all over as he leveled and took aim. The fiend in him must kill and Janie was the only thing living he saw. The pistol and the rifle rang out almost together. The pistol just enough after the rifle to seem its echo. Tea Cake crumpled as his bullet buried itself in the joist over Janie’s head. Janie saw the look on his face and leaped forward as he crashed forward in her arms. She was trying to hover him as he closed his teeth in the flesh of her forearm. They came down heavily like that. Janie struggled to a sitting position and pried the dead Tea Cake’s teeth from her arm. It was the meanest moment of eternity. A minute before she was just a scared human being fighting for its life. Now she was her sacrificing self with Tea Cake’s head in her lap. She had wanted him to live so much and he was dead. No hour is ever eternity, but it has its right to weep. Janie held his head tightly to her breast and wept and thanked him wordlessly for giving her the chance for loving service. She had to hug him tight


blessedness, virtuous: (adj) upright, pure, transgression. sanctitude, righteousness, goodness. righteous, good, moral, just, grizzled: (adj) grey, gray, old, brunet, sagacity: (n, v) discernment, judgment, honorable, honest, respectable, grisled, grayish, brunette. penetration; (n) judiciousness, sense, decent, pious. ANTONYMS: (adj) ill-fitted: (adj) ill-suited, inapt. prudence, gumption, acumen, bad, sinful, corrupt, impure, meddle: (v) intervene, interfere, perspicacity; (adj, n) discretion, unethical, decadent, degenerate, intrude, monkey, interpose, fiddle, wisdom. ANTONYM: (n) foolishness. irreverent. pry, dabble, interlope; (n) unadulterated: (adj) clean, simple, wrinkles: (n) crow's feet. 60 The Scarlet Letter "Hester Prynne," said the clergyman, "I have striven with my young brother here, under whose preaching of the Word you have been privileged to sit"--here Mr. Wilson laid his hand on the shoulder of a pale young man beside him--"I have sought, I say, to persuade this godly youth, that he should deal with you, here in the face of Heaven, and before these wise and upright rulers, and in hearing of all the people, as touching the vileness and blackness of your sin. Knowing your natural temper better than I, he could the better judge what arguments to use, whether of tenderness or terror, such as might prevail over your hardness and obstinacy, insomuch that you should no longer hide the name of him who tempted you to this grievous fall. But he opposes to me--with a young man's over-softness, albeit wise beyond his years--that it were wronging the very nature of woman to force her to lay open her heart's secrets in such broad daylight, and in presence of so great a multitude. Truly, as I sought to convince him, the shame lay in the commission of the sin, and not in the showing of it forth. What say you to it, once again, brother Dimmesdale? Must it be thou, or I, that shall deal with this poor sinner's soul?"% There was a murmur among the dignified and reverend occupants of the balcony; and Governor Bellingham gave expression to its purport, speaking in an authoritative voice, although tempered with respect towards the youthful clergyman whom he addressed: "Good Master Dimmesdale," said he, "the responsibility of this woman's soul lies greatly with you. It behoves you; therefore, to exhort her to repentance and to confession, as a proof and consequence thereof. " The directness of this appeal drew the eyes of the whole crowd upon the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale--young clergyman, who had come from one of the great English universities, bringing all the learning of the age into our wild forest land. His eloquence and religious fervour had already given the earnest of high eminence in his profession. He was a person of very striking aspect, with a white, lofty, and impending brow; large, brown, melancholy eyes, and a mouth which, unless when he forcibly compressed it, was apt to be tremulous, expressing both nervous sensibility and a vast power of self restraint. Thesaurus eloquence: (n) style, fluency, oratory, fervency, fervor, ardor, enthusiasm, tremulous: (adj) shaky, trembling, rhetoric, articulateness, expression, eagerness, zest, elan, ardency, fire. shaking, fearful, apprehensive, volubility, persuasiveness, articulacy, godly: (adj, adv) holy, saintly;


took his leave. But in that coffer lay the Necklace of the Dwarves, wherein was set the Silmaril; and Dior looking upon it knew it for a sign that Beren Erchamion and Lthien Tinviel had died indeed, and gone where go the race of Men to a fate beyond the world. Long did Dior gaze upon the Silmaril, which his father and mother had brought beyond hope out of the terror of Morgoth; and his grief was great that death had come upon them so soon. But the wise have said that the Silmaril hastened their end; for the flame of the beauty of Lthien as she wore it was too bright for mortal lands. Then Dior arose, and about his neck he clasped the Nauglamr; and now he appeared as the fairest of all the children of the world, of threefold race: of the Edain, and of the Eldar, and of the Maiar of the Blessed Realm. But now the rumour ran among the scattered Elves of Beleriand that Dior Thingol's heir wore the Nauglamr, and they said: 'A Silmaril of Fanor burns again in the woods of Doriath'; and the oath of the sons of Fanor was waked again from sleep. For while Lthien wore the Necklace of the Dwarves no Elf would dare to assail her; but now hearing of the renewal of Doriath and of Dior's pride the seven gathered again from wandering, and they sent to him to claim their own. But Dior returned no answer to the sons of Fanor; and Celegorm stirred up his brothers to prepare an assault upon Doriath. They came at unawares in the middle of winter, and fought with Dior in the Thousand Caves; and so befell the second slaying of Elf by Elf. There fell Celegorm by Dior's hand, and there fell Curufin, and dark Caranthir; but Dior was slain also, and Nimloth his wife, and the cruel servants of Celegorm seized his young sons and left them to starve in the forest. Of this Maedhros indeed repented, and sought for them long in the woods of Doriath; but his search was unavailing, and of the fate of Elurd and Elurn no tale tells. Thus Doriath was destroyed, and never rose again. But the sons of Fanor gained not what they sought; for a remnant of the people fled before them, and with them was Elwing Dior's daughter, and they escaped, and bearing with them the Silmaril they came in time to the mouths of the River Sirion by the sea. Chapter 23 Of Tuor and the Fall of Gondolin It has been told that Huor the brother of Hrin was slain in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears; and in the winter of that year Ran his wife bore a child in the wilds of Mithrim, and he was named Tuor, and was taken to foster by Annael of the Grey-elves, who yet lived in those hills. Now when Tuor was sixteen years old the Elves were minded to leave the caves of Androth where they dwelt, and to make


often (oops, did I just reveal I don’t go on first dates very often? By choice!). But it seems very understandable that you wonder about other people’s drinking habits. You actually are not my first pen pal. You’re probably my best one, though, or at least this little diversion we have going is very enjoyable. Do you think it’s beautiful when two people are each other’s firsts, or do you think that inevitably creates awkwardness and it’s better when one is more experienced and can guide the other? from: Noah Brewster <NoahRBrewster@gmail.com> to: Sally Milz <Smilz@TNOshow.com> date: Jul 24, 2020, 3:01 PM subject: Actually I’m “probably” your best pen pal? In “this little diversion we have going”? You’re breaking my heart here! Only kidding, but who are all these other pen pals that I probably compare favorably to? Are they current or past? Do I need to find them and challenge them to a duel? In all seriousness, I am honored you’ve been enjoying my music. I might also sound like a cringey fangirl when I tell you that I think I have watched all your sketches. And this also happened in the past, right after I hosted TNO. I’m assuming you know it’s hard to figure out which sketches you wrote because it doesn’t say in the show credits so I had to venture into some deep dark superfan caverns. Now, just for the record, this does not mean I buy into the idea you refer to where I am a celebrity recognized far and wide and you are an unknown. You for sure have fans, even if you aren’t recognized in the grocery store (except by Vinny Kaplan, who I am sure noticed you, knew you were pretending not to see him, and felt devastated). But I know you are a star in the comedy world. Also, plenty of people don’t know or care who I am, and frequently when a stranger comes up to me in a restaurant (in normal times), I think they are about to say “I love your music” and what they say is “You look so familiar…are you my dentist?” But my point is that your sketches are really funny. Although it’s hard to choose, the ones that made me laugh the most are the one about how women supposedly don’t fart, the one about the ICE agents celebrating Thanksgiving, and the 1950s ads for housewives. I respect that you are not afraid to be dark or to acknowledge the awkwardness of life instead of glossing over it like we are all trained to do. Impressive to think your entire career is built on Mad Libs! Thank you for the kind things you wrote about my parents. It took me a while to get here, but I try not to take their judgment personally. I’m grateful that I’ve had a much wider range of experiences and met many more people than they have. Also, it’s not quite fair of me to claim they’re completely unsupportive. Years ago…and warning, big namedrop ahead…I was part of presenting


were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead, where we hired a trap at the station inn and drove for four or five miles through the lovely Surrey laries. It was a perfect day, with a bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees and wayside hedges were just throwing out their first green shoots, and the air was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me at least there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the spring and this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My companion sat in the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down over his eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the deepest thought. Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed over the meadows "Look there!" said he. A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening into a grove at the highest point. From amid the branches there jutted out the gray gables and high roof-tree of a very old mansion. "Stoke Moran?" said he. "Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott," remarked the driver. "There is some building going on there," said Holmes; "that is where we are going." "There's the village," said the driver, pointing to a cluster of roofs some distance to the left; "but if you want to get to the house, you'll find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by the foot-path over the fields. There it is, where the lady is walking." "And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner," observed Holmes, shading his eyes. "Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest." We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way to Leatherhead. "I thought it as well," said Holmes as we climbed the stile, "that this fellow should think we had come here as architects, or on some definite business. It may stop his gossip. Good-afternoon, Miss Stoner. You see that we have been as good as our word." Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a face which spoke her joy. "I have been waiting so eagerly for you," she cried, shaking hands with us warmly. "All has turned out splendidly. Dr. Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he will be back before evening." "We have had the pleasure of making the doctor's acquaintance," said Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had occurred. Miss Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened. "Good heavens!" she cried, "he has followed me, then." "So it appears." "He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What will he say when he returns?" "He must guard himself, for he may find that there is someone more cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself up from him to-night. If he is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt's at


for his signature. While that was in course of being done, I looked on at Wemmick as he wrote, and Mr. Jaggers, poising and swaying himself on his well-polished boots, looked on at me. "I am sorry, Pip," said he, as I put the cheque in my pocket, when he had signed it, "that we do nothing for you." "Miss Havisham was good enough to ask me," I returned, "whether she could do nothing for me, and I told her No." "Everybody should know his own business," said Mr. Jaggers. And I saw Wemmick's lips form the words "portable property." "I should not have told her No, if I had been you," said Mr Jaggers; "but every man ought to know his own business best." "Every man's business," said Wemmick, rather reproachfully towards me, "is portable property." As I thought the time was now come for pursuing the theme I had at heart, I said, turning on Mr. Jaggers: "I did ask something of Miss Havisham, however, sir. I asked her to give me some information relative to her adopted daughter, and she gave me all she possessed." "Did she?" said Mr. Jaggers, bending forward to look at his boots and then straightening himself. "Hah! I don't think I should have done so, if I had been Miss Havisham. But she ought to know her own business best." "I know more of the history of Miss Havisham's adopted child, than Miss Havisham herself does, sir. I know her mother." Mr. Jaggers looked at me inquiringly, and repeated "Mother?" "I have seen her mother within these three days." "Yes?" said Mr. Jaggers. "And so have you, sir. And you have seen her still more recently." "Yes?" said Mr. Jaggers. "Perhaps I know more of Estella's history than even you do," said I. "I know her father too." A certain stop that Mr. Jaggers came to in his manner - he was too self-possessed to change his manner, but he could not help its being brought to an indefinably attentive stop - assured me that he did not know who her father was. This I had strongly suspected from Provis's account (as Herbert had repeated it) of his having kept himself dark; which I pieced on to the fact that he himself was not Mr. Jaggers's client until some four years later, and when he could have no reason for claiming his identity. But, I could not be sure of this unconsciousness on Mr. Jaggers's part before, though I was quite sure of it now. "So! You know the young lady's father, Pip?" said Mr. Jaggers. "Yes," I replied, "and his name is Provis - from New South Wales." Even Mr. Jaggers started when I said those words. It was the slightest start that could escape a man, the most carefully repressed and the soonest checked, but he did start, though he made it a part of the action of taking out his pocket-handkerchief. How Wemmick received the announcement I am unable to say, for I was afraid to look at him just then,


I RINSE THE DIRTY CHEDDAR RESCUED FROM THE FLOOR , THINKING , We should probably sweep more often; I hope we don’t get tetanus—just as Cece stands triumphantly with the last three blocks in hand and says, “This floor is surprisingly clean!” I smile into the swirling drain. “So.” She leans against the sink, arms crossed. “How much of you coming out as a lying liar has to do with Jack?” I sober up and kill the faucet. “It’s not . . .” I shake my head. “It’s a mess.” “What is?” My heart wrings. “Everything.” “But you had your sex-cation the other weekend.” I heat up. “We didn’t really . . .” I notice her raised eyebrow and abort my Deny the Obvious mission. “Have you seen Kirk recently?” “This is such an unskilled deflection attempt, I’m just gonna pretend it never happened. So, what exactly isn’t going on between you and the Jackster?” “Whatever it seemed like . . . Wherever we were going, we . . .” I grab the dishcloth. We should probably clean that, too. “I think that might be nowhere.” “How come?” I don’t really feel like meeting her eyes. “He lied to me about something. And before you say anything—I know it’s rich of me to call out people for lying. But.” “Hmm.” She drums her fingers against the steel of the sink. “Does this have to do with the article?” “Yeah.” I sigh, folding the ratty cloth. “I’m done with sweeping stuff under the rug. If something makes me mad, I’m going to let myself be mad. And that article has been the ammo people use to make fun of my work for fifteen years, so—” “No, I meant—the article he wrote today?” I lift my eyes. “The what?” “You haven’t seen it?” “Seen what?” “The entirety of academic Twitter is talking about it. Even the humanities —and you know how busy we are begging our boards of directors not to shutter our departments. Did you really not see it? Jack published an article. Today. In Annals of Theoretical Physics.” I’m positive that a mallard must have flown in and eaten Cece’s brain. “Wait—I was wrong,” she admits, and I relax. “It’s not an article. More like one of those op-eds?” Maybe she’s high? Has she been inhaling Tauron fumes? “There are no op-eds about science.” “There are op-eds about everything. Trout fishing, plasma coolant, velvet suits, the unbearable lightness of being—” “Okay. Yes. But Jack didn’t write an op-ed, and if he had, he wouldn’t have published it in the Annals.” Her brow furrows stubbornly. She picks up her phone. Taps the screen a few times, muttering something about the incredulity of Thomas, then thrusts it in my face. “Cece, I can’t read anything that’s one millimeter from my nose.” “Here.” She drops the phone in my palm and goes back to the tartiflette. I let my eyes focus on the words and— The floor wobbles. Jerks. Then it drops from underneath my feet. On the home page of the journal that published


camp, but they did not see the instant and terrible transformation which took place as soon as he was within the secrecy of the forest. He no longer marched. At once he became a thing of the wild, stealing along softly, cat- footed, a passing shadow that appeared and disappeared among the shadows. He knew how to take advantage of every cover, to crawl on his belly like a snake, and like a snake to leap and strike. He could take a ptarmigan from its nest, kill a rabbit as it slept, and snap in mid air the little chipmunks fleeing a second too late for the trees. Fish, in open pools, were not too quick for him; nor were beaver, mending their dams, too wary. He killed to eat, not from wantonness; but he preferred to eat what he killed himself. So a lurking humor ran through his deeds, and it was his delight to steal upon the squirrels, and, when he all but had them, to let them go, chattering in mortal fear to the treetops. As the fall of the year came on, the moose appeared in greater abundance, moving slowly down to meet the winter in the lower and less rigorous valleys. Buck had already dragged down a stray part-grown calf; but he wished strongly for larger and more formidable quarry, and he came upon it one day on the divide at the head of the creek. A band of twenty moose had crossed over from the land of streams and timber, and chief among them was a great bull. He was in a savage temper, and, standing over six feet from the ground, was as formidable an antagonist as even Buck could desire. Back and forth the bull tossed his great palmated antlers, branching to fourteen points and embracing seven feet within the tips. His small eyes burned with a vicious and bitter light, while he roared with fury at sight of Buck. From the bull's side, just forward of the flank, protruded a feathered arrow-end, which accounted for his savageness. Guided by that instinct which came from the old hunting days of the primordial world, Buck proceeded to cut the bull out from the herd. It was no slight task. He would bark and dance about in front of the bull, just out of reach of the great antlers and of the terrible splay hoofs which could have stamped his life out with a single blow. Unable to turn his back on the fanged danger and go on, the bull would be driven into paroxysms of rage. At such moments he charged Buck, who retreated craftily, luring him on by a simulated inability to escape. But when he was thus separated from his fellows, two or three of the younger bulls would charge back upon Buck and enable the wounded bull to rejoin the herd. There is a patience of the wild--dogged, tireless, persistent as life itself--that holds motionless for endless hours the spider in its web, the snake in its coils, the panther in its


kitchen. We’d moved to our silvery log and eaten our fruit or rolls or granola bars, the morning sky pale and promising as we hatched a plan. “You’ll need cash,” I told her a couple of days ago. “Credit cards can be easily traced.” Her hands worried at the zipper of her hoodie. “I don’t have my own bank account. But there’s cash in a safe in Benjamin’s study, if I can get into it. I could sell some jewelry. Or another netsuke. What did you get for yours?” I still haven’t sold it. The truth is… I’ve attached sentimental value to the smooth bone carving. It’s silly, but part of me feels that if I let it go, I’ll lose Hazel. But I’m going to lose her anyway. That’s what saving her means. “I haven’t had time to sell it,” I fibbed. “What about fake ID?” she asked. “How did you get yours?” “I didn’t think that far ahead,” I admitted. “I just… left. And then all my ID was stolen.” “I’ll figure it out,” she promised. “I’ll get documents for both of us. A whole new identity.” She paused for just a breath. “If you want that.” She was offering me a chance to start over, as a new person, unabashed and unafraid. To put all my failures and mistakes behind me, to wipe the slate clean. It meant giving up any hope of reuniting with my sister and my parents, but after what I’d done, there was no hope. They would never forgive me. “Yeah, I want that.” “Okay.” She stood. “Thank you, Lee.” I’d smiled. “Of course.” But I didn’t know why she was thanking me. Jesse’s next question brings me back to the room. “Does she want to stay with you?” “My place is really small.” Emphasis on the really. “She needs cash. And documents.” “Can you help with that?” “I hope so. I mean… I’ll do what I can.” “My mom was abused by my stepfather,” he says, sadness in those golden eyes. “No woman should ever have to live that way.” He’s right. Hazel’s situation is unbearable, and I’m in a unique position to help. If anyone knows how to disappear, to live an anonymous life, it’s me. And it’s a chance to make up for the way I hurt my sister. Even if it means losing my only friend. The conversation takes a lighter turn as we eat our soup with porcelain spoons, twirling noodles on chopsticks. Jesse orders another beer, but I abstain. When the meal is finished, I fish for the night’s tips, but Jesse insists on paying. “I asked you out,” he says. “It’s on me.” “Thank you.” Our eyes meet and I’m drawn in by his warm gaze. There’s a flutter—subtle, like butterfly wings—in my low belly. We stroll back toward the diner, savoring the time together. At least I am. But while our progress is slow, my mind is racing. Would it be too forward to suggest a nightcap at his place? I’ve already slept over, so it’s not


The thing took forever to heat up. A smile or something like one stayed on his face, yet he felt no joy. He had to keep smiling. For Aunty Caro, who seemed so pleased for him, and Maria, who would not stop beaming in his direction. But he might as well still be in his classroom, jumping at every sound as he waited for Mr. Bísádé to show up. All he really cared about, even now, was how long it would take for his parents to gather his fees so he could go back to school. He liked Aunty Caro well enough, and he knew the skills he learnt here would be useful, but what he wanted was the chance to study in a university or at least a polytechnic. Definitely not a college of education like his father. He would rather spend the rest of his life begging than become a teacher. God forbid, God forbid bad thing. He thought of the scraps of leftover fabric he’d been putting aside for months. Maybe he would be able to make the patchwork blouse for Bùsọ́lá soon. It would make her happy. “Come, come,” Aunty Caro said. “Take this bùbá from Maria and start ironing it.” “Yes ma.” Ẹniọlá went to Maria’s sewing machine. Aunty Caro looked up and frowned. “Wait, where did she see you?” “Who?” Ẹniọlá grabbed the bùbá and dashed to the ironing table. “Yèyé. She didn’t tell me, and I’ve been wondering where you two would meet.” Ẹniọlá pushed the pile of clothes to one side and spread the bùbá out carefully, so his fingers did not snag the lace fabric. “Ẹniọlá?” “It was in church ma.” “Oh,” Aunty Caro said. “I didn’t know you people go to the same church.” Ẹniọlá said nothing. “Quick, quick. Iron that bùbá.” “Yes ma.” He held a finger against the iron to test it and yelped when it seared his skin. * * * Bùsọ́lá was pacing the corridor when he returned home after nightfall. She ran to him while he was still standing in the doorway. “Did you see any three on your way back home?” Bùsọ́lá asked. “Did you count?” “What are you talking about?” He could not see her face clearly. There was power, but the current was so low, the single bulb in the corridor was no better than a candle. “I saw three eggs in the bush behind the school—” “Not this again, Bùsọ́lá.” She grabbed his arm. “Wait, wait, don’t go inside. Mọ̀ọmi came to my school to give me my teller, then I went there during short break after she left, because she told me she had not paid your own fees yet and I was not happy. That’s when I—” “She paid yours but didn’t pay mine?” “And she said you’re not going to Glorious Destiny again.” “You don’t know what you’re saying.” “Look, she told me—” He shook her hand off. “You’re wrong.” Ẹniọlá knew she was not wrong when his parents smiled at him as he stepped into the room. They were


the strength of the lattice with its great talons. The girl had almost ceased to breathe, when, to her relief, the head disappeared and she heard the brute's footsteps leaving the window. But now they came to the door again, and once more the scratching commenced; this time with increasing force until the great beast was tearing at the massive panels in a perfect frenzy of eagerness to seize its defenseless victims. Could Jane have known the immense strength of that door, built piece by piece, she would have felt less fear of the lioness reaching her by this avenue. Little did John Clayton imagine when he fashioned that crude but mighty portal that one day, twenty years later, it would shield a fair American girl, then unborn, from the teeth and talons of a man-eater. For fully twenty minutes the brute alternately sniffed and tore at the door, occasionally giving voice to a wild, savage cry of baffled rage. At length, however, she gave up the attempt, and Jane heard her returning toward the window, beneath which she paused for an instant, and then launched her great weight against the timeworn lattice. The girl heard the wooden rods groan beneath the impact; but they held, and the huge body dropped back to the ground below. Again and again the lioness repeated these tactics, until finally the horrified prisoner within saw a portion of the lattice give way, and in an instant one great paw and the head of the animal were thrust within the room. Slowly the powerful neck and shoulders spread the bars apart, and the lithe body protruded farther and farther into the room. As in a trance, the girl rose, her hand upon her breast, wide eyes staring horror-stricken into the snarling face of the beast scarce ten feet from her. At her feet lay the prostrate form of the Negress. If she could but arouse her, their combined efforts might possibly avail to beat back the fierce and bloodthirsty intruder. Jane stooped to grasp the black woman by the shoulder. Roughly she shook her. "Esmeralda! Esmeralda!" she cried. "Help me, or we are lost." Chapter 15 Esmeralda opened her eyes. The first object they encountered was the dripping fangs of the hungry lioness. With a horrified scream the poor woman rose to her hands and knees, and in this position scurried across the room, shrieking: "O Gaberelle! O Gaberelle!" at the top of her lungs. Esmeralda weighed some two hundred and eighty pounds, and her extreme haste, added to her extreme corpulency, produced a most amazing result when Esmeralda elected to travel on all fours. For a moment the lioness remained quiet with intense gaze directed upon the flitting Esmeralda, whose goal appeared to be the cupboard, into which she attempted to propel her huge bulk; but as the shelves were but nine or ten inches apart, she only succeeded in getting her head in; whereupon, with a final screech, which paled the jungle noises into insignificance, she fainted once again. With the subsidence of Esmeralda the


the orchard; she went to the Dryad's Bubble and Willowmere and Violet Vale; she called at the manse and had a satisfying talk with Mrs. Allan; and finally in the evening she went with Matthew for the cows, through Lovers' Lane to the back pasture. The woods were all gloried through with sunset and the warm splendor of it streamed down through the hill gaps in the west. Matthew walked slowly with bent head; Anne, tall and erect, suited her springing step to his. "You've been working too hard today, Matthew," she said reproachfully. "Why won't you take things easier?" "Well now, I can't seem to," said Matthew, as he opened the yard gate to let the cows through. "It's only that I'm getting old, Anne, and keep forgetting it. Well, well, I've always worked pretty hard and I'd rather drop in harness." "If I had been the boy you sent for," said Anne wistfully, "I'd be able to help you so much now and spare you in a hundred ways. I could find it in my heart to wish I had been, just for that." "Well now, I'd rather have you than a dozen boys, Anne," said Matthew patting her hand. "Just mind you thatrather than a dozen boys. Well now, I guess it wasn't a boy that took the Avery scholarship, was it? It was a girl-my girl-my girl that I'm proud of." He smiled his shy smile at her as he went into the yard. Anne took the memory of it with her when she went to her room that night and sat for a long while at her open window, thinking of the past and dreaming of the future. Outside the Snow Queen was mistily white in the moonshine; the frogs were singing in the marsh beyond Orchard Slope. Anne always remembered the silvery, peaceful beauty and fragrant calm of that night. It was the last night before sorrow touched her life; and no life is ever quite the same again when once that cold, sanctifying touch has been laid upon it. 37. The Reaper Whose Name Is Death "Matthew-Matthew-what is the matter? Matthew, are you sick?" It was Marilla who spoke, alarm in every jerky word. Anne came through the hall, her hands full of white narcissus,-it was long before Anne could love the sight or odor of white narcissus again,-in time to hear her and to see Matthew standing in the porch doorway, a folded paper in his hand, and his face strangely drawn and gray. Anne dropped her flowers and sprang across the kitchen to him at the same moment as Marilla. They were both too late; before they could reach him Matthew had fallen across the threshold. "He's fainted," gasped Marilla. "Anne, run for Martinquick, quick! He's at the barn." Martin, the hired man, who had just driven home from the post office, started at once for the doctor, calling at Orchard Slope on his way to send Mr. and Mrs. Barry over. Mrs. Lynde, who was there on an errand, came too. They