in all my fancies straight on: nothing occurred to me so strange and tragic as our actual Blandly himself found the HISPANIOLA, and by the adventures. most admirable management got her for the merest trifle. So the weeks passed on, till one fine day there came a let- There is a class of men in Bristol monstrously prejudiced ter addressed to Dr. Livesey, with this addition, “To be opened, against Blandly. They go the length of declaring that this in the case of his absence, by Tom Redruth or young Hawkins.” honest creature would do anything for money, that the Obeying this order, we found, or rather I found—for the HISPANIOLA belonged to him, and that he sold it me ab- gamekeeper was a poor hand at reading anything but print— surdly high—the most transparent calumnies. None of them the following important news: dare, however, to deny the merits of the ship. So far there was Old Anchor Inn, Bristol, March 1, 17— not a hitch. The workpeople, to be sure—riggers and what Dear Livesey—As I do not know whether you are at the not—were most annoyingly slow; but time cured that. It was hall or still in London, I send this in double to both places. the crew that troubled me. I wished a round score of men— The ship is bought and fitted. She lies at anchor, ready for in case of natives, buccaneers, or the odious French—and I sea. You never imagined a sweeter schooner—a child might had the worry of the deuce itself to find so much as half a sail her—two hundred tons; name, HISPANIOLA. I got her dozen, till the most remarkable stroke of fortune brought me through my old friend, Blandly, who has proved himself the very man that I required. I was standing on the dock, throughout the most surprising trump. The admirable fel- when, by the merest accident, I fell in talk with him. I found low literally slaved in my interest, and so, I may say, did ev- he was an old sailor, kept a public-house, knew all the seafar- eryone in Bristol, as soon as they got wind of the port we ing men in Bristol, had lost his health ashore, and wanted a sailed for—treasure, I mean. good berth as cook to get to sea again. He had hobbled down “Redruth,” said I, interrupting the letter, “Dr. Livesey will there that morning, he said, to get a smell of the salt. I was Contents not like that. The squire has been talking, after all.” monstrously touched—so would you have been—and, out of “Well, who’s a better right?” growled the gamekeeper. “A pure pity, I engaged him on the spot to be ship’s cook. Long Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 58 59 John Silver, he is called, and has lost a leg; but that I regarded for a mate, a man named Arrow. I have a boatswain who as a recommendation, since he lost it in his country’s service, pipes, Livesey; so things shall go man-o’-war fashion on board under the


screen fence separated them from the road upon which robed people were passing. Jessica detected a faint shimmering in the air between her and the people--a house shield--and went on to study the passing throng, wondering why Yueh found them so absorbing. The pattern emerged and she put a hand to her cheek. The way the passing people looked at the palm trees! She saw envy, some hate . . . even a sense of hope. Each person raked those trees with a fixity of expression. "Do you know what they're thinking?" Yueh asked. "You profess to read minds?" she asked. "Those minds," he said. "They look at those trees and they think; 'There are one hundred of us.' That's what they think." She turned a puzzled frown on him. "Why?" "Those are date palms," he said. "One date palm requires forty liters of water a day. A man requires but eight liters. A palm, then, equals five men. There are twenty palms out there--one hundred men." "But some of those people look at the trees hopefully." "They but hope some dates will fall, except it's the wrong season." "We look at this place with too critical an eye," she said. "There's hope as well as danger here. The spice could make us rich. With a fat treasury, we can make this world into whatever we wish." And she laughed silently at herself: Who am I trying to convince? The laugh broke through her restraints, emerging brittle, without humor. "But you can't buy security," she said. Yueh turned away to hide his face from her. If only it were possible to hate these people instead of love them! In her manner, in many ways, Jessica was like his Wanna. Yet that thought carried its own rigors, hardening him to his purpose. The ways of the Harkonnen cruelty were devious. Wanna might not be dead. He had to be certain. "Do not worry for us, Wellington," Jessica said. "The problem's ours, not yours." She thinks I worry for her! He blinked back tears. And I do, of course. But I must stand before that black Baron with his deed accomplished, and take my one chance to strike him where he is weakest--in his gloating moment! He sighed. "Would it disturb Paul if I looked in on him?" she asked. "Not at all. I gave him a sedative." "He's taking the change well?" she asked. "Except for getting a bit overtired. He's excited, but what fifteen-year-old wouldn't be under these circumstances?" He crossed to the door, opened it. "He's in here." Jessica followed, peered into a shadowy room. Paul lay on a narrow cot, one arm beneath a light cover, the other thrown back over his head. Slatted blinds at a window beside the bed wove a loom of shadows across face and blanket. Jessica stared at her son, seeing the oval shape of face so like her own. But the hair was the Duke's--coal-colored and tousled. Long lashes concealed the lime-toned eyes. Jessica smiled, feeling her fears retreat. She was suddenly caught by


own walls. ‘We should find Esbar. Siyu listens to her,’ Imsurin said, with certainty. ‘And to you,’ he added, a clear afterthought. Tunuva pursed her lips. ‘You must get her down, before—’ ‘She will not hear any of us now. We must wait for her to come to us.’ Tunuva pulled her shawl around her shoulders and folded her arms. ‘And it’s too late. Everyone has seen.’ By the time Siyu reappeared, the sky had flushed to apricot, and Tunuva was both rigid and atremble, like a plucked harpstring. ‘Siyu du Tunuva uq-Nāra, come down at once,’ she shouted. ‘The Prioress will hear of this!’ It was a craven thing, to invoke the Prioress. Esbar would never have been so weak. Still, her anger must have found its mark, for Siyu looked down from the branch, smile fading. ‘Coming,’ she said. Tunuva had assumed she would come down the same way she had climbed up, whatever that had been. Instead, Siyu stood and found her balance. She was light and small, and the bough was strong, yet Tunuva watched in dread, thinking it would crack beneath her. Not once had she feared the tree before this day. It had been guardian and giver and friend – never an enemy, never a threat. Not until Siyu ran along the bough and leapt into open air. In unison, Tunuva and Imsurin rushed forward, as if they had any hope of catching her. Siyu plummeted with a shriek, arms wheeling, and disappeared into the crashing waters of the Minara. Tunuva cast herself down at the riverbank. ‘Siyu!’ Her chest was so tight she could scarcely breathe. She flung off her shawl, and would have dived in – had Siyu not surfaced, black hair slicked across her face, and let out a laugh of pure delight. Fanning her strong arms, she kicked against the flow of water. ‘Siyu,’ Imsurin said, his voice hard and strained, ‘do not tempt Abaso’s rage.’ He reached for her. ‘Climb out, please.’ ‘You always said I swam beautifully, Imin,’ came the overjoyed reply. ‘The water is bracing. Try it!’ Tunuva looked to Imsurin. Decades of knowing him, and never once had she seen fear on that raw-boned face. Now his jaw shook. When Tunuva lowered her gaze, she found her hands were quaking. It’s all right. She’s all right. Siyu grasped one of the roots and used it to drag herself from the river. Tunuva released her breath, the tension pulled from her at once. She wrenched Siyu into her arms and kissed her sodden hair. ‘Reckless, foolish child.’ Tunuva clasped the back of her head. ‘What were you thinking, Siyu?’ ‘Do you mean to tell me no one has ever done it?’ Siyu said, breathless with exhilaration. ‘Hundreds of years with such a tree, and no one ever climbed it? I am the very first?’ ‘Let us hope you are the last.’ Tunuva retrieved her shawl and draped it around Siyu. Autumns were mild in the Lasian Basin, but the River Minara stemmed from the northeastern mountains, far beyond the


the bill for that now.” “Quite right.” “Quite ghastly, you mean. Can you imagine that girl running Fairhurst? Poor Lady Ashley.” “Poor nothing. Just think of the weekend parties. The trapeze artists! The dancing girls!” “The camels, darling!” They broke off into laughter, reaching for more wine. “Oi,” said a voice at Winnie’s ear. She turned and started. Behind her, eyes narrowed, stood one of Mrs. Bone’s men. His jaw was clenched. Winnie backed behind the marquee. “What are you doing?” she muttered. “We’re off.” “What?” “We’re getting out. This place is swarming with peelers.” Winnie looked around, searching for Mrs. King. “Nonsense,” she said. “Everything is simply fine. Go back inside.” “Can’t.” He nodded at the distant figure of the princess, moving slowly through the crowd. “Not now she’s here.” “Then you’ll need to improvise.” Winnie held his stare. “You don’t leave this house until Mrs. King gives the word.” For a second she feared he might refuse to obey her, might tell her to go and fetch Mrs. King. I would if I could, she thought desperately. But then he nodded again, a quick, smart little duck of the chin. “Yes, ma’am.” Equals, Winnie said to herself, almost in disbelief. We’re all equals... * * * Mrs. King was frog-marched downstairs by Lockwood’s clerks. “I can see myself out,” she said angrily, shaking their hands off her arm. “Mr. Lockwood said—” “Hang Mr. Lockwood,” said Mrs. King. But they steered her through the front hall, avoiding a huge crowd of guests that seemed to be processing toward the garden. Mrs. King couldn’t see who had arrived. She felt the mob rolling, not steered, not marshaled. Evidently, Hephzibah was busy elsewhere. A sudden fear pulled on Mrs. King’s heart. She was required here: to direct things. But she needed to get to Alice first. Dunce, she thought, directing all her anger on herself. Idiot. Even the Janes had sensed a risk with Alice, but not her. She was incapable of understanding other people’s feelings. She always had been. It was clear at once what had happened. She’d seen the way Alice had bent her head toward Miss de Vries, yearning toward her, fixing that awful, splendid gown. She’d been snared. Alice wasn’t a canary. She was a mouse, right in the trap. Lockwood was sizing her up. Mrs. King’s instincts told her everything she needed to know. She felt sick, frightened. “Off you go,” said the clerks, disposing of her on the front step, very nearly pushing her into the road. She didn’t talk back: she hurtled to the tradesmen’s entrance, trying to double back inside before they spotted her. This time it was harder to get in: there were crates of wine obstructing the door, waiters smoking. She had to push her way through the crowd of servants, speeding up the servants’ staircase, panting. The sound of the orchestra grew duller as she reached the second floor. There was a door half-open, letting in a soft breeze. Mrs. King nudged it open with her toe. Empty. I should have planned


foe that could know pity, believed the words of Glaurung and fuming away he sped over the bridge. But as he went Glaurung spoke behind him, saying in a fell voice: 'Haste thee now, son of Hrin, to Dor-lmin! Or perhaps the Orcs shall come before thee, once again. And if thou tarry for Finduilas, then never shalt thou see Morwen again, and never at all shalt thou see Nienor thy sister; and they will curse thee.' But Trin passed away on the northward road, and Claiming laughed once more, for he had accomplished the errand of his Master. Then he turned to his own pleasure, and sent forth his blast, and burned all about him. But all the Orcs that were busy in the sack he routed forth, and drove them away, and denied them their plunder even to the last thing of worth. The bridge then he broke down and cast into the foam of Narog; and being thus secure he gathered all the hoard and riches of Felagund and heaped them, and lay upon them in the innermost hall, and rested a while. And Trin hastened along the ways to the north, through the lands now desolate between Narog and Teiglin, and the Fell Winter came down to meet him; for in that year snow fell ere autumn was passed, and spring came late and cold. Ever it seemed to him as he went that he heard the cries of Finduilas, calling his name by wood and hill, and great was his anguish; but his heart being hot with the lies of Glaurung, and seeing ever in his mind the Orcs burning the house of Hrin or putting Morwen and Nienor to torment, he held on his way, and turned never aside. At last worn by haste and the long road (for forty leagues and more had he journeyed without rest) he came with the first ice of winter to the pools of Ivrin, where before he had been healed. But they were now but a frozen mire, and he could drink there no more.' Thus he came hardly by the passes of Dor-lmin, through bitter snows from the north, and found again the land of his childhood. Bare and bleak it was; and Morwen was gone. Her house stood empty, broken and cold; and no living thing dwelt nigh. Therefore Trin departed, and came to the house of Brodda the Easterling, he that had to wife Aerin, Hrin's kinswoman; and there he learned of an old servant that Morwen was long gone, for she had fled with Nienor out of Dor-Lmin, none but Aerin knew where. Then Trin strode to Brodda's table, and seizing him he drew his sword, and demanded that he be told whither Morwen had gone; and Aerin declared to him that she went to Doriath to seek her son. 'For the lands were freed then from evil,' she said, 'by the Black Sword of the south, who now has fallen, they say.' Then Trin's eyes were opened, and the last threads of Glaurung's spell


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

their backs to it, getting warm, when Snape crossed the yard. Harry noticed at once that Snape was limping. Harry, Ron, and Hermione moved closer together to block the fire from view; they were sure it wouldn't be allowed. Unfortunately, something about their guilty faces caught Snape's eye. He limped over. He hadn't seen the fire, but he seemed to be looking for a reason to tell them off anyway. "What's that you've got there, Potter?" It was Quidditch Through the Ages. Harry showed him. "Library books are not to be taken outside the school," said Snape. "Give it to me. Five points from Gryffindor." "He's just made that rule up," Harry muttered angrily as Snape limped away. "Wonder what's wrong with his leg?" "Dunno, but I hope it's really hurting him," said Ron bitterly. *** The Gryffindor common room was very noisy that evening. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat together next to a window. Hermione was checking Harry and Ron's Charms homework for them. She would never let them copy ("How will you learn?"), but by asking her to read it through, they got the right answers anyway. Harry felt restless. He wanted Quidditch Through the Ages back, to take his mind off his nerves about tomorrow. Why should he be afraid of Snape? Getting up, he told Ron and Hermione he was going to ask Snape if he could have it. "Better you than me," they said together, but Harry had an idea that Snape wouldn't refuse if there were other teachers listening. He made his way down to the staffroom and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again. Nothing. Perhaps Snape had left the book in there? It was worth a try. He pushed the door ajar and peered inside -- and a horrible scene met his eyes. Snape and Filch were inside, alone. Snape was holding his robes above his knees. One of his legs was bloody and mangled. Filch was handing Snape bandages. "Blasted thing!" Snape was saying. "How are you supposed to keep your eyes on all three heads at once?" Harry tried to shut the door quietly, but -- "POTTER!" Snape's face was twisted with fury as he dropped his robes quickly to hide his leg. Harry gulped. "I just wondered if I could have my book back." "GET OUT! OUT!" Harry left, before Snape could take any more points from Gryffindor. He sprinted back upstairs. "Did you get it?" Ron asked as Harry joined them. "What's the matter?" In a low whisper, Harry told them what he'd seen. "You know what this means?" he finished breathlessly. "He tried to get past that three-headed dog at Halloween! That's where he was going when we saw him -- he's after whatever it's guarding! And I'd bet my broomstick he let that troll in, to make a diversion!" Hermione's eyes were wide. "No -- he wouldn't," she said. "I know he's not very nice, but he wouldn't try and steal something Dumbledore was keeping safe." "Honestly, Hermione, you think all teachers are saints or something," snapped


the burning urge to breathe. She takes in the colorful sea floor as they glide slowly over purple urchins and yellow sea sponges. Ignoring the increasing ache in her lungs, she points to an orange starfish. There is something magical about being down here, so far removed from all her worries. It’s like they’re in another world, one with just the two of them. She feels something pull her backward and turns to Brody, who is focused on a jellyfish moving above them. Sloane spins to see what is tugging at her and finds a large piece of bull kelp wrapped around her leg. She flips over to reach for the kelp, but instead manages to wrap it another time around her ankle. She swims for the surface, but the kelp immediately drags her down. Air escapes her mouth as she tries to call out for Brody. She whips around, the bubbles from her mouth clouding her vision as she frantically claws at the kelp around her leg. She feels herself sink to the uneven sea floor. She flails her arms above her head in a futile attempt to ascend while the kelp keeps her tied to the bottom. Brody swims past her in a dark blur of movement as more air leaves her mouth. Her lungs scream for oxygen when Brody cuts the kelp from her leg then wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her toward the surface. She kicks and thrashes her arms through the water in her panic for air. But Brody maintains his hold on her, putting a hand under her jaw until her eyes settle on his. He moves his hand from her face, touching his index finger to his thumb to give her the OK signal. She stops fighting, allowing him to propel them toward the surface. Her heart feels like it’s beating into her throat. The agonizing burn in her lungs spreads to her sinus cavity when she opens her mouth, sucking in water. Brody clasps his palm over her mouth seconds before they break the surface. She sputters out saltwater when Brody’s hand falls away. “Sloane!” She coughs between gulps for air as Brody places her on her back. His wide eyes are panic-stricken, until he sees her take a couple deep breaths. “That’s it. Just keep breathing. Nice and slow.” She gives him the OK signal, even though she feels like she might pass out, as he encircles his strong arms around her torso from behind. She leans her head back on his shoulder, savoring every breath, as he tows her to the boat. He helps her up the ladder first, and she rips off her dive mask after she steps onto the deck. The boat dips when he climbs aboard behind her. She grips the deck railing and stares over the side into the green water. If it wasn’t for Brody, she would never have come up. Feeling his hand on her back, she tears her eyes away. “I’m so sorry, I should’ve warned you about the bull kelp.” He


the seven years Okonkwo had been in exile. The church had come and led many astray. Not only the low-born and the outcast but sometimes a worthy man had joined it. Such a man was Ogbuefi Ugonna, who had taken two titles, and who like a madman had cut the anklet of his titles and cast it away to join the Christians. The white missionary was very proud of him and he was one of the first men in Umuofia to receive the sacrament of Holy Communion, or Holy Feast as it was called in Ibo. Ogbuefi Ugonna had thought of the Feast in terms of eating and drinking, only more holy than the village variety. He had therefore put his drinking-horn into his goatskin bag for the occasion. But apart from the church, the white men had also brought a government. They had built a court where the District Commissioner judged cases in ignorance. He had court messengers who brought men to him for trial. Many of these messengers came from Umuru on the bank of the Great River, where the white men first came many years before and where they had built the centre of their religion and trade and government. These court messengers were greatly hated in Umuofia because they were foreigners and also arrogant and high-handed. They were called kotma, and because of their ash-coloured shorts they earned the additional name of Ashy Buttocks. They guarded the prison, which was full of men who had offended against the white man's law. Some of these prisoners had thrown away their twins and some had molested the Christians. They were beaten in the prison by the kotma and made to work every morning clearing the government compound and fetching wood for the white Commissioner and the court messengers. Some of these prisoners were men of title who should be above such mean occupation. They were grieved by the indignity and mourned for their neglected farms. As they cut grass in the morning the younger men sang in time with the strokes of their machetes: "Kotma of the ashy buttocks, He is fit to be a slave. The white man has no sense, He is fit to be a slave." The court messengers did not like to be called Ashy-Buttocks, and they beat the men. But the song spread in Umuofia. Okonkwo's head was bowed in sadness as Obierika told him these things. "Perhaps I have been away too long," Okonkwo said, almost to himself. "But I cannot understand these things you tell me. What is it that has happened to our people? Why have they lost the power to fight?" "Have you not heard how the white man wiped out Abame?" asked Obierika. "I have heard," said Okonkwo. "But I have also heard that Abame people were weak and foolish. Why did they not fight back? Had they no guns and machetes? We would be cowards to compare ourselves with the men of Abame. Their fathers had never dared to stand before our ancestors. We must fight these men and


ranks, with me by his side. We launched the Initiative. “And then it all turned sour. His family exposed my other-born status to the press. Overnight, all the support we’d built was gone. When the Commissioner position opened in Alante, our investors urged Luc to accept. Lawless Alante was a prime testing field for the Initiative. But I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice: the moment I arrived here, I was open and honest about my moira-born powers. More and more other-born began coming to our meetings. Supporters appeared from every corner of Alante. When the Mayoral elections were announced, we realized it would be the perfect opportunity. Luc could do so much more as Mayor—and now he will. So, please, please, can we get out of here?” “Not yet.” There was a lot to unpack here: the indenture, the trial, the relationship, the scheme. Io would have liked to doubt the story, but it sounded exactly like what one would script as the next chapter in Thais Ora’s life. She had started with Malena Silnova and her “favors,” and graduated to Thomas Mutton and his pyramid scheme. The pattern was always the same: Thais became enamored with some grand cause, and when the cause required her to betray her morals, she went along with it, ignoring the contradiction between her lofty speech and her actions. No, the lie wasn’t in the story but in the telling. Thais had framed the whole thing as a love story. Two star-crossed lovers with shared dreams fighting against the rest of the world. It sounded like the presentation Io had watched in the Teatro, their romance marketed as a selling point. It felt like a deflection. So what was the heart of the story? What was Thais trying to hide? Io stared at the threads in her palms, two dozen of them, coiling and serpentine. Some were dull, some brighter. Some were tingling against her skin, an indication that the people on the other end were nearing—good, that meant Bianca had done her job. Shifting her fingers minutely, Io spread the threads against her palms so that none was touching the other. If one of them was triggered by what Thais was feeling right now, Io would know. Her sister could lie, but the Quilt could not. Io just had to figure out the right questions. She had to be bold—bolder than Thais. That was the only way to shock her sister into revealing the truth. “There’s something I can’t figure out,” Io said. “You meet Luc, you create the Initiative, you get ‘investors’ and support from the Agora, you move to Alante to test it out—this all makes sense. You come to Alante with a secret agenda. You choose women from the Initiative meetups and turn them into wraiths. You send them to avenge the death of the Furies and pick off the culprits of the Riots one by one, leaving the Nine for last. But what is your goal, Thais? Justice? How is it justice to avenge death with more death?”


people, we ride the maker at the age of twelve. You are more than six years beyond that age and not born to this life. You don't have to impress anyone with your courage. We know you are brave. All you must do is call the maker and ride him." "I will remember," Paul said. "See that you do. I'll not have you shame my teaching." Stilgar pulled a plastic rod about a meter long from beneath his robe. The thing was pointed at one end, had a spring-wound clapper at the other end. "I prepared this thumper myself. It's a good one. Take it." Paul felt the warm smoothness of the plastic as he accepted the thumper. "Shishakli has your hooks," Stilgar said. "He'll hand them to you as you step out onto that dune over there." He pointed to his right. "Call a big maker, Usul. Show us the way." Paul marked the tone of Stilgar's voice -- half ritual and half that of a worried friend. In that instant, the sun seemed to bound above the horizon. The sky took on the silvered gray-blue that warned this would be a day of extreme heat and dryness even for Arrakis. "It is the time of the scalding day," Stilgar said, and now his voice was entirely ritual. "Go, Usul, and ride the maker, travel the sand as a leader of men." Paul saluted his banner, noting how the green and black flag hung limply now that the dawn wind had died. He turned toward the dune Stilgar had indicated -- a dirty tan slope with an S-track crest. Already, most of the troop was moving out in the opposite direction, climbing the other dune that had sheltered their camp. One robed figure remained in Paul's path: Shishakli, a squad leader of the Fedaykin, only his slope-lidded eyes visible between stillsuit cap and mask. Shishakli presented two thin, whiplike shafts as Paul approached. The shafts were about a meter and a half long with glistening plasteel hoods at one end, roughened at the other end for a firm grip. Paul accepted them both in his left hand as required by the ritual. "They are my own hooks," Shishakli said in a husky voice. "They never have failed." Paul nodded, maintaining the necessary silence, moved past the man and up the dune slope. At the crest, he glanced back, saw the troop scattering like a flight of insects, their robes fluttering. He stood alone now on the sandy ridge with only the horizon in front of him, the flat and unmoving horizon. This was a good dune Stilgar had chosen, higher than its companions for the viewpoint vantage. Stooping, Paul planted the thumper deep into the windward face where the sand was compacted and would give maximum transmission to the drumming. Then he hesitated, reviewing the lessons, reviewing the life-and-death necessities that faced him. When he threw the latch, the thumper would begin its summons. Across the sand, a giant worm -- a maker -- would hear and come to the drumming.


with an arrowy swiftness and was soon lost amidst the waves. All was again silent, but his words rang in my ears. I burned with rage to pursue the murderer of my peace and precipitate him into the ocean. I walked up and down my room hastily and perturbed, while my imagination conjured up a thousand images to torment and sting me. Why had I not followed him and closed with him in mortal strife? But I had suffered him to depart, and he had directed his course towards the mainland. I shuddered to think who might be the next victim sacrificed to his insatiate revenge. And then I thought again of his words -- "I WILL BE WITH YOU ON YOUR WEDDING-NIGHT." That, then, was the period fixed for the fulfillment of my destiny. In that hour I should die and at once satisfy and extinguish his malice. The prospect did not move me to fear; yet when I thought of my beloved Elizabeth, of her tears and endless sorrow, when she should find her lover so barbarously snatched from her, tears, the first I had shed for many months, streamed from my eyes, and I resolved not to fall before my enemy without a bitter struggle. The night passed away, and the sun rose from the ocean; my feelings became calmer, if it may be called calmness when the violence of rage sinks into the depths of despair. I left the house, the horrid scene of the last night's contention, and walked on the beach of the sea, which I almost regarded as an insuperable barrier between me and my fellow creatures; nay, a wish that such should prove the fact stole across me. I desired that I might pass my life on that barren rock, wearily, it is true, but uninterrupted by any sudden shock of misery. If I returned, it was to be sacrificed or to see those whom I most loved die under the grasp of a daemon whom I had myself created. I walked about the isle like a restless spectre, separated from all it loved and miserable in the separation. When it became noon, and the sun rose higher, I lay down on the grass and was overpowered by a deep sleep. I had been awake the whole of the preceding night, my nerves were agitated, and my eyes inflamed by watching and misery. The sleep into which I now sank refreshed me; and when I awoke, I again felt as if I belonged to a race of human beings like myself, and I began to reflect upon what had passed with greater composure; yet still the words of the fiend rang in my ears like a death-knell; they appeared like a dream, yet distinct and oppressive as a reality. The sun had far descended, and I still sat on the shore, satisfying my appetite, which had become ravenous, with an oaten cake, when I saw a fishing-boat land close to me, and one of the men brought me a packet; it contained letters from


husband also, and he praiseth her. Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all.'" When prayers were over, his mother said---- "I could not help thinking how very aptly that chapter your dear father read applied, in some of its particulars, to the woman you have chosen. The perfect woman, you see, was a working woman; not an idler; not a fine lady; but one who used her hands and her head and her heart for the good of others. 'Her children arise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her. Many daughters have done virtuously, but she excelleth them all.' Well, I wish I could have seen her, Angel. Since she is pure and chaste she would have been refined enough for me." Clare could bear this no longer. His eyes were full of tears, which seemed like drops of molten lead. He bade a quick goodnight to these sincere and simple souls whom he loved so well; who knew neither the world, the flesh, nor the devil in their own hearts; only as something vague and external to themselves. He went to his own chamber. His mother followed him, and tapped at his door. Clare opened it to discover her standing without, with anxious eyes. "Angel," she asked, "is there something wrong that you do away so soon? I am quite sure you are not yourself." "I am not, quite, mother," said he. "About her? Now, my son, I know it that--I know it is about her! Have you quarrelled in these three weeks?" "We have not exactly quarrelled," he said. "But we have had a difference----" "Angel--is she a young woman whose history will bear investigation?" With a mother's instinct Mrs Clare had put her finger on the kind of trouble that would cause such a disquiet as seemed to agitate her son. "She is spotless!" he replied; and felt that if it had sent him to eternal hell there and then he would have told that lie. "Then never mind the rest. After all, there are few purer things in nature then an unsullied country maid. Any crudeness of manner which may offend your more educated sense at first, will, I am sure, disappear under the influence or your companionship and tuition." Such terrible sarcasm of blind magnanimity brought home to Clare the secondary perception that he had utterly wrecked his career by this marriage, which had not been among his early thoughts after the disclosure. True, on his own account he cared very little about his career; but he had wished to make it at least a respectable one on account of his parents and brothers. And now as he looked into the candle its flame dumbly expressed to him that it was made to shine on sensible people, and that it abhorred lighting the face of a dupe and a failure. When his agitation had cooled he would be at moments incensed with his poor wife for causing a situation in which he was obliged to practise deception on his


dingy box absolutely enthralled. I forgot that I was in London and in the nineteenth century. I was away with my love in a forest that no man had ever seen. After the performance was over I went behind, and spoke to her. As we were sitting together, suddenly there came a look into her eyes that I had never seen there before. My lips moved towards hers. We kissed each other. I can't describe to you what I felt at that moment. It seemed to me that all my life had been narrowed to one perfect point of rose-colored joy. She trembled all over, and shook like a white narcissus. Then she flung herself on her knees and kissed my hands. I feel that I should not tell you all this, but I can't help it. Of course our engagement is a dead secret. She has not even told her own mother. I don't know what my guardians will say. Lord Radley is sure to be furious. I don't care. I shall be of age in less than a year, and then I can do what I like. I have been right, Basil, haven't I, to take my love out of poetry, and to find my wife in Shakespeare's plays? Lips that Shakespeare taught to speak have whispered their secret in my ear. I have had the arms of Rosalind around me, and kissed Juliet on the mouth." "Yes, Dorian, I suppose you were right," said Hallward, slowly. "Have you seen her to-day?" asked Lord Henry. Dorian Gray shook his head. "I left her in the forest of Arden, I shall find her in an orchard in Verona." Lord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner. "At what particular point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian? and what did she say in answer? Perhaps you forgot all about it." "My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a business transaction, and I did not make any formal proposal. I told her that I loved her, and she said she was not worthy to be my wife. Not worthy! Why, the whole world is nothing to me compared to her." "Women are wonderfully practical," murmured Lord Henry,--"much more practical than we are. In situations of that kind we often forget to say anything about marriage, and they always remind us." [35] Hallward laid his hand upon his arm. "Don't, Harry. You have annoyed Dorian. He is not like other men. He would never bring misery upon any one. His nature is too fine for that." Lord Henry looked across the table. "Dorian is never annoyed with me," he answered. "I asked the question for the best reason possible, for the only reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking any question,--simple curiosity. I have a theory that it is always the women who propose to us, and not we who propose to the women, except, of course, in middle-class life. But then the middle classes are not modern." Dorian Gray laughed, and tossed his head. "You are quite incorrigible, Harry;


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

only one.” He leaves, bare feet padding across the tile into the bathroom. Quiet shuffling. Water running. I feel like I’m floating. He returns and gently touches his fingers to my inner thigh before pressing a warm, wet cloth there, drawing it up to where a pleasant ache throbs, cleaning me with slow, careful hands. “Ready?” he asks. I push up onto an elbow. “I am. Are you?” He shakes his head but kisses me, distracting with the familiar drag of his teeth along my lower lip, and then presses a fresh, cooler cloth between my legs. The shock immediately shifts to a soothing bliss. “We went at it quite a long time. I’m worried you’re gonna be sore.” I hum into his lips. “Good sore.” The light from the bathroom sends gold along his arms, his fingers, and I feel like he’s painting me with stardust. It’s crazy, but I need him again. This is a choking, panicky feeling. I am infatuated, I am mesmerized by everything he does. When he stands to return the washcloths to the bathroom I grab his forearm, taking the damp cloths from him and tossing them somewhere to the side, out of sight. “Don’t go.” “I was just—” “I don’t care. I don’t want you to leave my sight.” With a smile, he climbs back over me. “Look at you,” he whispers into my neck. “A needy cuddler. Who would have guessed?” “I’m not usually.” “No?” “What have you done to me, Connor Prince III?” He aligns his body beside mine, pulling me right up against him, coaxing my leg over his hip. “Only a fraction of what I’ve thought about doing.” “You think about me when you’re alone?” I ask. Connor hums, the sound raspy and deep. “All the time.” “Me, too.” He pulls back, grinning at me. “You do?” “Of course I do,” I admit, and he tucks some of my tangled hair behind my ear. “Sometimes it’s sexy stuff, and sometimes I just really want to hang out with you. I like you.” “I like you, too.” His hand smooths down my side, over my thigh. “Christ, you’re so soft.” It seems absurd to me that I haven’t ever experienced such a basic building block of intimacy—post-sex languishing, lazy kisses and touches that are somehow more aware and more hazy—but I’m realizing I’ve been shitty at allowing any post-coital connection. These smaller kisses that lead nowhere, words spoken into skin, talking about the sex we just had with vulnerability and honesty and giddiness. Something creaks open inside me, a door to a secret room. “That was the best sex of my life,” I say. He doesn’t look surprised or skeptical. He says only, “Same,” as his lips make a warm path down my neck. “I want to do it again.” He laughs. “Do you see how sweaty I am?” “Mmm, yes.” I run my hands over his shoulders. “Let’s go rinse off together.” We stand and I see he was right: the bed really is a disaster. Connor holds my hand even


hallways, dodging men in suits and fancy ladies in tasteful daytime formal. INT. WEDDING VENUE HALLWAY AND BATHROOM—MOMENTS LATER The camera toggles between Sam stumbling through the hallways of this very posh wedding venue, dry-swallowing chalky diarrhea pills and sweating through her clothes; Sam in the pharmacy, head hung in shame at what’s about to transpire. Meanwhile, Pharmacy Sam doesn’t even speak. She just shakes her head, like “Oh no, here it comes.” In my mind and out my butt, I imagined this being at the Woman’s Club of Evanston, a place where I once delivered a bunch of opera tortes for some gala or something while actively trying not to shit on myself, because weddings and expensive parties are the most humiliating place to take a gross poo, and I say this as a person who’s been forced to shit in the street. The juxtaposition of a wild-eyed woman leaking feces through a $500-per-person wedding??? Hilarious! And, also terrible. Sam bursts into a bathroom to find it completely empty. Phew! She slams into a stall and struggles to get her pants down and apron off. After a beat, EMILY, the bride, and three bridesmaids pour in, circling in the lounge area right in front of Sam’s stall. I’m not even sure what we told the casting director to look for other than “EXCEPTIONALLY PRETTY,” because its common knowledge that beautiful women don’t take shits and are horrified when ugly peasants do. They don’t know Sam’s in there, and they start gushing about how beautiful Emily looks and how handsome MATT (the groom; description: A HUMAN MALE, IT DOESN’T MATTER) is and how the wedding is gonna be great. In my perfect world, because I love mess, one of the bridesmaids would’ve been like, “Sorry to tell you this before your big day, babe, but I sucked Matt’s dick three years ago,” but you can’t be that kind of chaos agent with glorified extras when making an actual show. Sam is sitting there sweating and bracing herself against the walls of the stall, trying to clench every hole in her body shut, when there’s a KNOCK on the bathroom door. Oh no! Matt wants to have a special greeting-card-commercial moment with his almost wife! Present-Day Sam is dissociating in the pharmacy as Matt and Emily share a tender moment right at Sam’s stall. At this point they lean in and have a romantic soft-focus kiss, the camera lingering on their lips. Then Sam, forgotten for a moment in the soap-operatic fog of nearly wedded bliss, rips a huge fart and unleashes a torrent of wetly spluttering diarrhea. I wish you could’ve heard the noise we chose. It was so loud and gross-sounding. If someone was shitting like that in a public bathroom you were in, you’d call an ambulance for them. It had just the most perfect full-evacuation-of-bowels sound effect I have ever had the pleasure of hearing. This wasn’t a delicate “toot,” it was a hurricane blown through a tuba, and I loved it. Matt and Emily pull apart, faces frozen


I am, if you drink in moderation but shun the phony party scene, if what you want most of all is to fill the lonely hours with someone who cares deeply for you, please consider me. His mother thought—and still thinks—that he worked in a bank, verifying the details in loan applications. He felt awkward on the first date with Alana and thought it didn’t go well, but the next day she called him and arranged a second date. They’ve been together ever since, and it’s a beautiful relationship. Alana is a fine cook, and he enjoys helping her prepare dinner in the cozy kitchen of his Craftsman-period bungalow. Many evenings, she reads novels to him, and though he has never been much of a reader, he listens with delight. The stories she chooses are always gripping and sometimes move him to tears, which he never knew he could produce until she read Little Women. They play board games and 500 rummy. They take long walks and talk about things that he never imagined would interest him, but they do. The sex is great, better than he’s ever known, and she’s never given him an infection. Alana is a ninth-grade English teacher, but she’s very ambitious. Last year she was awarded California Teacher of the Year. She earned a master’s degree in school administration. She intends to be an assistant principal in two more years, when she’s thirty, school principal by the time she’s thirty-two, superintendent of the entire district by the time she’s thirty-six, and California secretary of education in her early forties. Superintendent and state secretary are the positions in which an officeholder oversees the largest sums of public funds in the education system, with so little effective oversight that tens of millions can be siphoned off with little risk of discovery. Alana intends to retire at fifty if not sooner. It is a testament to Alana’s intelligence and insight that, in spite of the what-matters-to-me-most statement that Mother wrote for Orlando and regardless of his extreme awkwardness on their first date, the dear woman discerned the truth of him: his occupation and his unquenchable need for what he calls “action.” When they met, she was two years from being California Teacher of the Year. Because of her beauty and high academic standards, she had become the target of a few students, hormone-crazed fourteen-year-old boys, who had no interest in learning, carried knives, and thought the best way to prove their masculinity was to disrupt her class, torment other students, and openly make lewd suggestions to the teacher. With a keen nose for Alana’s ambition and resentful that she had turned down his romantic advances, the principal provided her with no assistance and failed to punish the miscreants. With her classroom in chaos, she lost hope of grooming her best students to win the academic contests that would bring them and their teacher to the attention of the state education establishment. Without the support of the school administration, she risked acquiring a reputation as a pushover for those students inclined


he was still hung up on the real one who got away. Unless. Unless he could find a way to convince her they were great together before Friday. Before she left for New York. Because once she had that investor in her pocket, it would be over. Not ready to admit defeat in any way, shape, or form, he drew Natalie onto his lap, dropped his chin onto her head, and flipped back to the start of the baby picture album. “Again.” Chapter Nineteen It was a startling contrast, the way August could let her get close in some ways, but he continued to doggedly fend her off in others. Last night at her mother’s house, they’d been each other’s one-person hype squads. They’d comforted each other with touches and . . . God, at some point it started to feel like she was actually introducing her husband into the family. She’d forgotten about their arrangement right up until Ingram stood to leave for the night. She’d wanted to forget again on the ride home, but the silence was too deafening. Was he waiting for her to announce her returned feelings? Was he waiting for her to announce she wanted him as her real husband? Reading August was next to impossible this morning, when he was working in the barn with the door closed, a clear sign to stay out. She wasn’t welcome there. And it was too much of a reminder of how she’d been raised. Allowed to participate only when it was convenient for everyone else and there was no chance she’d screw up. Maybe she would screw up his operation, even worse than it already was. After all, she’d flamed out brilliantly in New York. If he were hurting her intentionally, maybe she could find the heart to be mad at him. But really, he was just a stubborn, determined man who saw only the goal, not sparing any thoughts about who he climbed over to reach it. And instead of being mad at him, she missed him. Missed sitting shoulder to thigh with him like she’d done last night. Missed the sound of his big, obnoxious laugh—and it had been only one day. Whether she’d hurt him by protecting herself and not vocalizing her feelings or he was shutting her out, she still wanted to hear that laugh. She wanted this time with him and she wanted to experience it to the fullest because it . . . made her feel a way she couldn’t admit yet. Not without questioning her vision for the future. Natalie’s attention drifted away from her laptop and around the kitchen, landing on a package of cookies above the stove. Should she make August some food? Heaven only knew the last thing he’d expect was for her to bring him a snack. An idea struck. A perfect way to hear his laugh again. She closed her laptop and made sure the door was locked, then she spent the next forty-five minutes setting her plans in motion. At one time, she’d been known in


spat at me. “You are what happened last time. I never would have let her walk away if you hadn’t talked me into it.” I crossed my arms. “Fine. That’s fine. You can blame me all you want. You can tell yourself that your evil witch of a little sister stood between you and her fairy princess best friend. But when you look way deep down inside yourself, I think you know that isn’t true. I think you know as well as I do that I gave you an excuse. She was unraveling. Your relationship wasn’t good for either of you. Forgive me for trying to protect the people I love most.” With that, I stormed out of the dining hall, my heart pounding. I had clung to my moral superiority for years. But was I right to? If I hadn’t interfered, would Huff and Daphne be together now? Would they be happily married with a kid or two? I pushed the thought away. Yes, she had stayed on the straight and narrow for all these years, but Daphne could have gone down a different path—and she could have taken my brother with her. As I practically stomped across the grass, beneath a blanket of stars, I saw Mary Stuart. “Hey,” I said. “Where have you been?” “Ted and I lay down to take a nap and slept through dinner!” she lamented. “It’s over,” I said snappily. She looked taken aback. “Geez. Sorry, Lanier. I’ve been working twenty-four-seven taking on Holly Springs as my biggest new client—for free—while continuing to do my job for my actual paying clients. I’m exhausted.” “Sorry.” I softened. “I know you’re overwhelmed. It’s not you. Huff and I had a fight.” She rolled her eyes. “I probably need only one guess as to what that was about.” I ignored what she was implying. “Sorry about dinner. But I have wine and granola bars in my room.” Mary Stuart and Ted, Huff and I, and Daphne, Henry, and Steven each had one of the three separate rooms in the doctor’s quarters, which shared one long screened-in porch overlooking the swim lake. “Let me grab Ted and we’ll be right over. When Daphne gets Henry to sleep, can she come too?” I laughed. “Of course she can come. I’m not mad at her.” And I wasn’t, which was weird. I didn’t blame her. I knew what she had sacrificed for me. For all these years, no matter the ups and downs, I was content in the knowledge that she had, in essence, faced the decision of choosing between Huff and me, and she chose me. It was only now, all these years later, that it hit me what a terrible friend I was to ask her to choose in the first place. Daphne THE RIVER “WERE LANIER AND RICH TALKING at dinner?” Mary Stuart whispers. Henry is in the shower, washing up after playing baseball with Huff, and Steven has gone out to the porch to get the fishing rods organized for the morning. I nod, hope flooding me.


mortified when a fellow classmate corrected her publicly. After that, she never used a complicated word in class again. “That’s not how it’s spelled,” Ella said. Where? Maud thought. On Wikipedia, where you read about the book? “But that’s how it’s pronounced,” she said. “No, it isn’t.” “Could I borrow the book when you’re done?” Gabriel asked Ella, clearly trying to defuse the tension. “I’ve only seen the movie.” Maud took out her phone. “Let’s look it up,” she said to Ella. “The signal’s too weak out here. You’ll have to go to the tree.” Ella’s smile was a challenge. “We’ll go inside,” Maud said stiffly. “Come on.” They walked to the farmhouse, where Louise was fetching ice-cream bars. Ella dragged after Maud, kicking at the porch steps. Inside, Maud typed the word on her laptop and played the pronunciation. “So what?” Ella said. “Why are you acting like this?” Maud said. “You’re showing off,” Ella said. “You always show off in front of Gabriel.” Look who’s talking, Maud thought. In the girls’ bedroom later, when Ella said she couldn’t sleep, Maud told her that she’d scratch her back if she wanted. “I’m too old for that.” “Do you want to talk about anything?” Maud said. “Is something wrong?” “I’m trying to sleep,” Ella said to the wall. With her free hand, Maud took her phone from her pocket and awkwardly texted Gabriel. Think won’t make it. Try ? He texted back. “Who are you texting?” Ella asked. “Your dad.” She sat on the bed for another twenty minutes, waiting for Ella’s breaths to lengthen. “I think I’ll go to bed, sweetheart,” she said finally. “Is that all right?” “What do I care?” Ella said. Twenty minutes later, Maud heard Ella walk down the hall and stand at the door. Twenty minutes after that, when she tiptoed to the girls’ room, Ella was asleep. By the orchard, Gabriel sat in the dark. Even if the girls were to look through the windows of the farmhouse, Maud thought, as she made her way over the grass, they’d see only nebulous shapes. She sat in the chair next to Gabriel and took the hand that waited for hers on the armrest. All thoughts of the tension with Ella disappeared. “Can we just go over there?” Gabriel said, nodding at the orchard. “You know how we’d end up,” she said. “Rolling around on rotten cherries.” His middle finger traced a circle in her palm. “Always the grown-up.” “Someone has to be,” she said softly. Gabriel squeezed her fingers. “Maud, I’ve never felt this way.” “I haven’t either,” she said. “But where can it go?” “I’ll do anything to make it work. I’ll drop out of the dig in Turkey. I’ll find something in California.” “You can’t do that. That dig is too important to you.” Her heart flipped; his saying he’d do so meant everything. “When I go back, I’m facing at least a year of hell,” she said. “Then I’ll wait a year,” he said. “I’ll wait as long as it takes.” “This is


except the rescue in the end where adult life appears, dignified and capable, but in reality enmeshed in the same evil as the symbolic life of the children on the island. The officer, having interrupted a man-hunt, prepares to take the children off the island in a cruiser which will presently be hunting its enemy in the same implacable way. And who will rescue the adult and his cruiser?" This is, of course, merely a casual summing-up on Mr. Golding's part of his extremely complex and beautifully woven symbolic web which becomes apparent as we follow through the book, but it does indicate that LORD OF THE FLIES is not, to say the least, a simple adventure story of boys on a desert island. In fact, the implications of the story go far beyond the degeneration of a few children. What is unique about the work of Golding is the way he has combined and synthesized all of the characteristically twentieth-century methods of analysis of the human being and human society and used this unified knowledge to comment on a "test situation." In this book, as in few others at the present time, are findings of psychoanalysis of all schools, anthropologists, social psychologists and philosophical historians mobilized into an attack upon the central problem of modern thought: the nature of the human personality and the reflection of personality on society. Another feature of Golding's work is the superb use of symbolism, a symbolism that "works." The central symbol itself, the "lord of the flies," is, like any true symbol, much more than the sum of its parts; but some elements of it may be isolated. The "lord of the flies" is a translation of the Hebrew Ba'alzevuv (Beelzebub in Greek). It has been suggested that it was a mistranslation of a mistransliterated word which gave us this pungent and suggestive name for the Devil, a devil whose name suggests that he is devoted to decay, destruction, demoralization, hysteria and panic and who therefore fits in very well with Golding's theme. The Devil is not present in any traditional religious sense; Golding's Beelzebub is the modern equivalent, the anarchic, amoral, driving force that Freudians call the Id, whose only function seems to be to insure the survival of the host in which it is embedded or embodied, which function it performs with tremendous and single-minded tenacity. Although it is possible to find other names for this force, the modern picture of the personality, whether drawn by theologians or psychoanalysts, inevitably includes this force or psychic structure as the fundamental principle of the Natural Man. The tenets of civilization, the moral and social codes, the Ego, the intelligence itself, form only a veneer over this white-hot power, this uncontrollable force, "the fury and the mire of human veins." Dostoievsky found salvation in this freedom, although he found damnation in it also. Yeats found in it the only source of creative genius ("Whatever flames upon the night, Man's own resinous heart has fed."). Conrad was appalled by this "heart of darkness," and existentialists find in


that I might avail myself of that permission. I did so, and did so every morning of my imprisonment, which lasted five days. If I could have seen my mother alone, I should have gone down on my knees to her and besought her forgiveness; but I saw no one, Miss Murdstone excepted, during the whole time - except at evening prayers in the parlour; to which I was escorted by Miss Murdstone after everybody else was placed; where I was stationed, a young outlaw, all alone by myself near the door; and whence I was solemnly conducted by my jailer, before any one arose from the devotional posture. I only observed that my mother was as far off from me as she could be, and kept her face another way so that I never saw it; and that Mr. Murdstone's hand was bound up in a large linen wrapper. The length of those five days I can convey no idea of to any one. They occupy the place of years in my remembrance. The way in which I listened to all the incidents of the house that made themselves audible to me; the ringing of bells, the opening and shutting of doors, the murmuring of voices, the footsteps on the stairs; to any laughing, whistling, or singing, outside, which seemed more dismal than anything else to me in my solitude and disgrace - the uncertain pace of the hours, especially at night, when I would wake thinking it was morning, and find that the family were not yet gone to bed, and that all the length of night had yet to come - the depressed dreams and nightmares I had - the return of day, noon, afternoon, evening, when the boys played in the churchyard, and I watched them from a distance within the room, being ashamed to show myself at the window lest they should know I was a prisoner - the strange sensation of never hearing myself speak - the fleeting intervals of something like cheerfulness, which came with eating and drinking, and went away with it - the setting in of rain one evening, with a fresh smell, and its coming down faster and faster between me and the church, until it and gathering night seemed to quench me in gloom, and fear, and remorse - all this appears to have gone round and round for years instead of days, it is so vividly and strongly stamped on my remembrance. On the last night of my restraint, I was awakened by hearing my own name spoken in a whisper. I started up in bed, and putting out my arms in the dark, said: 'Is that you, Peggotty?' There was no immediate answer, but presently I heard my name again, in a tone so very mysterious and awful, that I think I should have gone into a fit, if it had not occurred to me that it must have come through the keyhole. I groped my way to the door, and putting my own lips to the keyhole, whispered:


rightful dread of being inferior; official censors, judges, and executors. That's you, Montag, and that's me." The door to the parlour opened and Mildred stood there looking in at them, looking at Beatty and then at Montag. Behind her the walls of the room were flooded with green and yellow and orange fireworks sizzling and bursting to some music composed almost completely of trap?drums, tom?toms, and cymbals. Her mouth moved and she was saying something but the sound covered it. Beatty knocked his pipe into the palm of his pink hand, studied the ashes as if they were a symbol to be diagnosed and searched for meaning. "You must understand that our civilization is so vast that we can't have our minorities upset and stirred. Ask yourself, What do we want in this country, above all? People want to be happy, isn't that right? Haven't you heard it all your life? I want to be happy, people say. Well, aren't they? Don't we keep them moving, don't we give them fun? That's all we live for, isn't it? For pleasure, for titillation? And you must admit our culture provides plenty of these." "Yes." Montag could lip?read what Mildred was saying in the doorway. He tried not to look at her mouth, because then Beatty might turn and read what was there, too. "Coloured people don't like Little Black Sambo. Burn it. White people don't feel good about Uncle Tom's Cabin. Burn it. Someone's written a book on tobacco and cancer of the lungs? The cigarette people are weeping? Bum the book. Serenity, Montag. Peace, Montag. Take your fight outside. Better yet, into the incinerator. Funerals are unhappy and pagan? Eliminate them, too. Five minutes after a person is dead he's on his way to the Big Flue, the Incinerators serviced by helicopters all over the country. Ten minutes after death a man's a speck of black dust. Let's not quibble over individuals with memoriams. Forget them. Burn them all, burn everything. Fire is bright and fire is clean." The fireworks died in the parlour behind Mildred. She had stopped talking at the same time; a miraculous coincidence. Montag held his breath. "There was a girl next door," he said, slowly. "She's gone now, I think, dead. I can't even remember her face. But she was different. How?how did she happen?" Beatty smiled. "Here or there, that's bound to occur. Clarisse McClellan? We've a record on her family. We've watched them carefully. Heredity and environment are funny things. You can't rid yourselves of all the odd ducks in just a few years. The home environment can undo a lot you try to do at school. That's why we've lowered the kindergarten age year after year until now we're almost snatching them from the cradle. We had some false alarms on the McClellans, when they lived in Chicago. Never found a book. Uncle had a mixed record; anti?social. The girl? She was a time bomb. The family had been feeding her subconscious, I'm sure, from what I saw of her school record. She didn't


imitate it. Alex tapped the quote into her phone. The search results popped up immediately: Charles II. Darlington had said he was the hermit in the cave. And of course, he’d meant Judges Cave. Anselm had warned her: Whatever survived in hell wouldn’t be the Darlington you know. Demons loved games. And he’d been playing with them from the start. PART II So Below 35 November We’re not alone,” the Gray whispered, one finger held up to his lips like an actor in a play. Alex had taken a car to the gates of Black Elm. She had walked the gravel drive in long strides, her anger like an engine, a locomotive pushing her ahead of common sense. She had slotted her key in the door, tidied the mail, washed her hands. She had seen the basement door, a gaping wound, an open grave. There had been a thousand moments to think, to reconsider. She had stood at the top of the basement stairs, gazing into the dark, a knife in her hand, and still she had believed she was being cautious. The fall had come swiftly. But it always did. In the cold dark of the basement, Alex took stock of her mistakes. She should have stayed with Turner and finished the interview with Andy Lambton. She shouldn’t have come to Black Elm alone. She should have told Dawes her suspicions, or Turner, or anyone. She should never have trusted her gentleman demon. But she’d wanted to believe that Darlington would be okay, that whatever he’d endured in hell wouldn’t leave a mark, that she could be forgiven and order restored. He would be made whole and she alongside him. But what if she was leaping to the wrong conclusions now? What if Not Hellie or one of the other demons had pushed her down the stairs, or some squatter who hadn’t shown up on Dawes’s cameras? What if Eitan and Tzvi had trailed her here? Or Linus Reiter with his white umbrella? Too many shadows, too much history, too many bodies piling up. Too many enemies. There was no way to fight them all. At least Alex would be visible on the cameras. Someone would know where she had gone. If she didn’t come back. The pain in her ribs made it hard to take a deep breath. She looked at the Grays in front of her. Not just any Grays. Harper Arlington and Daniel Arlington IV. Darlington’s parents. No one from Alex’s long list of enemies had a motive to see them dead. No one but Darlington, little Danny left alone again and again. Heaven, to keep its beauty, cast them out, but even Hell would not receive them. “How long have you been here?” she asked. Daniel’s eyes darted to the corner, as if he expected something to appear through the walls. “I don’t know.” Harper nodded in agreement. “You can’t get out?” Alex asked. Grays never stayed with their bodies for long, not unless they had a reason. Like Hellie wanting to say goodbye. The real Hellie


pinprick as he slowly manoeuvred himself around. Looking directly up, his vision was scorched. After years of subterrain gloom it took him a while to bring the dazzling light into balance. If he’d read nothing about this universe, he would’ve sworn there were three suns above him, a central one with two smaller ones on either side. But he knew from textbooks that there was only one sun in this solar system and this optical effect was called parhelion, tiny ice crystals in the air refracting the light, creating a glistening halo, a celestial eyeball watching with interest the arrival of a new species on the surface of this ancient world. The procession walked through McMurdo City, which appeared to Eitan to be a ragtag place, a junkyard city assembled from repurposed scrap, a beggar’s settlement suitable for a fallen people. They could’ve created something magnificent from the ice, but they didn’t know how, so downtrodden they couldn’t even glimpse the potential of this continent. He passed the workshops where they made their crude tools and the tailors where they stitched their primitive clothes to keep their fragile bodies warm. He watched as these people encountered him for the first time. Some were dumbfounded, others were scared. Some stepped back, others stepped forward. Only one woman waved, an older woman with a wicker basket of penguin eggs on her back, grey hair billowing about her wrinkled face – she struck him as quite mad. They all struck him as quite mad, mad with too many feelings and emotions. He politely imitated her gesture, waving back, and she seemed pleased, clasping her chest at the honour as though she’d encountered her favourite matinee movie star. The procession stopped at the edge of the city. Eitan looked out across the unpopulated eastern reaches of the ice shelf and beyond, an expanse these people had abandoned as unliveable when, in fact, there were mountains and valleys, glaciers and crevasses ready to be turned into citadels and castles, a kingdom waiting to be made. Beyond the last of their tatty buildings, they’d heaped a perimeter wall of ice to protect them against the worst of the katabatic winds sweeping off the vast planes. After the wall there was nothing human, only the Transantarctic Mountains on the horizon. Smooth orographic clouds were amassing on the northern ridge of the mountain range, like an ocean wave ready to spill over. Eitan studied the variations of air currents, seeing them as clearly as if they were theatrical displays of colours, imperceptible to the ordinary people. The elderly female leader who called herself president of this continent seemed a wise and thoughtful person despite the inappropriateness of her title, claiming supremacy of a land where she didn’t belong. ‘You’re free to explore the plateau. Our only request is that you return when we fire the first distress flare. Do you understand?’ ‘I understand. This is what you call a test.’ ‘Will you return?’ ‘I will return.’ ‘Are you lying?’ ‘I never lie. Ask Yotam.’ ‘Has he ever lied?’ ‘Not that


'you are a thoroughly good fellow, and deserve to be as happy as you are tonight. My hand upon it! Ham, I give you joy, my boy. My hand upon that, too! Daisy, stir the fire, and make it a brisk one! and Mr. Peggotty, unless you can induce your gentle niece to come back (for whom I vacate this seat in the corner), I shall go. Any gap at your fireside on such a night - such a gap least of all - I wouldn't make, for the wealth of the Indies!' So Mr. Peggotty went into my old room to fetch little Em'ly. At first little Em'ly didn't like to come, and then Ham went. Presently they brought her to the fireside, very much confused, and very shy, - but she soon became more assured when she found how gently and respectfully Steerforth spoke to her; how skilfully he avoided anything that would embarrass her; how he talked to Mr. Peggotty of boats, and ships, and tides, and fish; how he referred to me about the time when he had seen Mr. Peggotty at Salem House; how delighted he was with the boat and all belonging to it; how lightly and easily he carried on, until he brought us, by degrees, into a charmed circle, and we were all talking away without any reserve. Em'ly, indeed, said little all the evening; but she looked, and listened, and her face got animated, and she was charming. Steerforth told a story of a dismal shipwreck (which arose out of his talk with Mr. Peggotty), as if he saw it all before him - and little Em'ly's eyes were fastened on him all the time, as if she saw it too. He told us a merry adventure of his own, as a relief to that, with as much gaiety as if the narrative were as fresh to him as it was to us - and little Em'ly laughed until the boat rang with the musical sounds, and we all laughed (Steerforth too), in irresistible sympathy with what was so pleasant and light-hearted. He got Mr. Peggotty to sing, or rather to roar, 'When the stormy winds do blow, do blow, do blow'; and he sang a sailor's song himself, so pathetically and beautifully, that I could have almost fancied that the real wind creeping sorrowfully round the house, and murmuring low through our unbroken silence, was there to listen. As to Mrs. Gummidge, he roused that victim of despondency with a success never attained by anyone else (so Mr. Peggotty informed me), since the decease of the old one. He left her so little leisure for being miserable, that she said next day she thought she must have been bewitched. But he set up no monopoly of the general attention, or the conversation. When little Em'ly grew more courageous, and talked (but still bashfully) across the fire to me, of our old wanderings upon the beach, to pick up shells and pebbles; and when I asked her if she recollected how I used


cross, for he was in the middle of his work. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Uncle, it's about Kirrin Island," said Julian, eagerly. "Those men haven't bought it yet, have they?" "Well, it's practically sold," said his uncle. "I've signed my part, and they are to sign their part tomorrow. Why? What's that to do with you?" "Uncle, those men won't sign tomorrow," said Julian. "Do you know why they wanted to buy the island and the castle? Not because they really wanted to build an hotel or anything like that-but because they knew the lost gold was hidden there!" "What nonsense are you talking?" said his uncle. "It isn't nonsense, Father!" cried George indignantly. "It's all true. The map of the old castle was in that box you sold- and in the map was shown where the ingots were hidden by my great-great-great-grandfather!" George's father looked amazed and annoyed. He simply didn't believe a word! But his wife saw by the solemn and serious faces of the four children that something important really had happened. And then Anne suddenly burst into loud sobs! The excitement had been too much for her and she couldn't bear to think that her uncle wouldn't believe that everything was true. "Aunt Fanny, Aunt Fanny, it's all true!" she sobbed. "Uncle Quentin is horrid not to believe us. Oh, Aunt Fanny, the man had a revolver- and oh, he made Julian and George prisoners in the dungeons- and Dick had to climb down the well to rescue them. And George has smashed up their motor-boat to stop them escaping!" Her aunt and uncle couldn't make head or tail of this, but Uncle Quentin suddenly seemed to think that the matter was serious and worth looking into. "Smashed up a motor-boat!" he said. "Whatever for? Come indoors. I shall have to hear the story from beginning to end. It seems quite unbelievable to me." They all trooped indoors. Anne sat on her aunt's knee and listened to George and Julian telling the whole story. They told it well and left nothing out. Aunt Fanny grew quite pale as she listened, especially when she heard about Dick climbing down the well. "You might have been killed," she said. "Oh, Dick! What a brave thing to do!" Uncle Quentin listened in the utmost amazement. He had never had much liking or admiration for any children- he always thought they were noisy, tiresome, and silly. But now, as he listened to Julian's tale, he changed his mind about these four children at once! "You've been very clever," he said. "And very brave too. I'm proud of you. Yes, I'm very proud of you all. No wonder you didn't want me to sell the island, George, when you knew about the ingots! But why didn't you tell me?" The four children stared at him and didn't answer. They couldn't very well say, "Well, firstly, you wouldn't have believed us. Secondly, you are bad-tempered and unjust and we are frightened of you. Thirdly, we didn't trust you enough to do the right


the well-dressed guests, the sweet-smelling patio—“is a layer of protection few other-born can claim. Take that into consideration the next time you demand the instant forgiveness of someone you assaulted in a dark alley.” In the silence that followed, Io could count her heartbeats. Time her breaths. A bug was buzzing somewhere close, and automobiles whizzed down Hanover Street. Aris had averted his gaze sometime mid-tantrum, but Io refused to look away. His shame was a tonic to her frayed nerves; she sopped it up like starved desert earth. “That,” said Saint-Yves, breaking the silence. “That right there. That’s the perspective we need.” “Told you,” Thais declared proudly. “We need to address class issues if the Initiative is to be a success,” Saint-Yves continued in the focused, pragmatic tone of a businessman. “And Thais was right: you’re just the person to do it. A cutter from the Silts, a private investigator with a keen social mind.” “You could show them the necessity of reestablishing a policing body, the transparency and justice of a task force of other-born,” Thais said, with a raised eyebrow. “And,” Saint-Yves added, giving Thais one of his spectacular teeth-out smiles, “we’d be happy to have you as our maid of honor. It’s a good thing we’re showing them true assimilation firsthand when we get married this fall.” Marie giggled. “I can’t wait to be planning that.” Io’s mouth was half-open, eyes flying between the five of them. They were smiling, laid-back, and warmly expectant. As if it was completely normal to apologize for assaulting her, lecture her about equality, offer her a job, and plan a wedding—all in the span of two minutes. And they were so casual about it, as though they couldn’t imagine Io refusing. As though she was already one of them. She squirmed in her seat, an acute sense of discomfort. It was the warped form of this conversation; she felt like she was being evaluated in some way. Like they had taken her very justified anger and twisted it to their advantage, to something they could use in their campaign. It was the familiarity of their beliefs: social equality, progress, morality. How many times had Io heard Thais orating about these very same ideals? It had seemed noble then, but now it just sounded naive. At the first sign of trouble, she heard Edei’s voice in her head. Book it out of there. Edei, who would be getting off work soon. Edei, who would be coming to find her. Edei, who had promised to solve this with her. Edei, the thought of whom made her feel like she could finally breathe again. “It’s getting late,” she said after a moment, staring at her palms. “I should head home.” Her sister’s fingers reached out across the table, jostling the cups and creasing the linen tablecloth. “Wait, Io, don’t.” Io halted, forever unable to refuse Thais. Thais turned to her fiancé. “Io has found evidence tying the Initiative to the Silts Stranglers. Their records were pulled from the public registry. They were our volunteers. The


thought it would be a lot tougher.” You should have been fighting wolves with us. “I think I’m going to get kicked out of school,” Alex blurted. “Is that … a prediction or a plan?” Alex almost laughed. “A prediction.” “Then we have to get Darlington back. He can plead your case to Lethe. And maybe scare them with a lawsuit or something.” Maybe he could. Maybe he’d have more on his mind after a prolonged stay in hell. They wouldn’t know until they walked the Gauntlet again. But God, Alex was tired. The descent had been a beating and it wasn’t just her body that hurt. She texted their group chat: Everyone okay? Tripp’s reply rolled in first. I feel like shit. I think I have a cold. All Turner said was Check. If someone has a kitchen, I can make soup. That should help, Dawes replied and Alex felt a fresh wave of guilt. Dawes had a microwave and a hot plate at her cramped apartment, but no real kitchen. They should be gathering at Il Bastone, healing up for the next fight, making a plan. She thought of the house waiting for them. Did it know what they had attempted? Was it wondering why they hadn’t returned? Alex rubbed her hands over her face. She felt tired and lost. She missed her mom. She loved Mercy, but for the first time in a while, she really wanted to be by herself. She wanted to eat that second bacon sandwich, then curl up and have a good long cry. She wanted to go to Black Elm and run straight up those stairs, tell Darlington or the demon or whatever he was all about fighting Linus Reiter, her troubles with Eitan. She wanted to tell him every last terrible thing and see if he flinched. “You okay?” Mercy asked. Alex sighed. “No.” “Should we skip class?” Alex shook her head. She needed to hold on to this world as long as she could. And she didn’t want to think about Darlington or Lethe or hell for a few hours. If Lethe didn’t let her finish out the semester, then what would she do? Locate the exits. Make a plan. She wasn’t the girl she’d been. She wasn’t helpless. She knew how to handle Grays. She had power. She could get a job. Go to community college. Hell, do some ghost-listening and hire herself out to some rich Malibu douchebags. Galaxy Stern, psychic to the stars. She took a long hot shower, then changed into jeans and boots and the heaviest sweater she had. Their Shakespeare and the Metaphysical class was in LC, and Alex wondered what would happen if she ran into the Praetor. Would Professor Walsh-Whiteley look at her with pity? Give her the cut direct? But if the professor was somewhere in the rush of students, she didn’t see him. They were filing into class when Alex heard her name being called. She glimpsed a familiar head of dark hair in the crowd. “Be right back,” she told Mercy,


Was it a servant? “Agamemnon wasn’t alone in planning this,” Timandra says after a long pause. Clytemnestra’s head jerks up. She looks at her younger sister. “My own father betrayed me,” Clytemnestra says. Helen stirs a little, surprised to hear it. “He did,” Timandra says. “But others supported Agamemnon. Some servants and Cynisca.” “Cynisca,” Helen repeats, frowning. “Yes.” Timandra looks tentatively at Clytemnestra before going on. “She followed me in the street. She hit my head and left me unconscious so I wouldn’t come to help.” Clytemnestra stands, her palms sweating. She takes the bowl of food and starts eating the bread, slowly. Timandra and Helen look at each other, torn between fear and relief. “Why would Cynisca do such a thing?” Helen asks. “She wants Agamemnon,” Clytemnestra says before Timandra can speak. “Yes,” Timandra agrees. “I think he has promised her that he will take her to Mycenae with him.” “He would never do that,” Helen points out, frowning. “Agamemnon will not settle for anyone less than a princess.” “Cynisca is among the Spartiates,” Timandra says. “Her family is rich, her father a renowned warrior.” Helen shrugs. “Outside Sparta, no one cares who she is. Agamemnon will never marry her.” “I hope he will,” Clytemnestra says quietly. “Monsters deserve each other.” The bread tastes sour in her mouth. She waits a moment, then adds, “Do you know the servants who went to Tantalus and brought him to Agamemnon?” Timandra nods. “Good. Bring them to me.” * * * The next morning, Clytemnestra pulls a mantle over her head and follows Timandra to the kitchen. It is still early, and the sun’s fingers are cold and shy. The palace is strangely quiet, the corridors empty. Their steps echo softly, the sound floating in the dim light. “Come back,” Helen pleads, hurrying to match Clytemnestra’s pace. “Let someone else do it.” She has been running after her sisters all the way from the gynaeceum, grabbing Clytemnestra’s arm, tears swimming in her eyes. Clytemnestra shakes her away. “Keep guard outside,” she orders. “Don’t let Tyndareus come.” Or the Atreidai. Inside the kitchen, under the feeble light of a single lamp, two servants are kneeling by the sacks of barley, their hands and feet tied. They are staring at the stone floor, bare-chested, shivering. Timandra walks to them and kicks them. They look up, their dark eyes shiny, the skin stretched on their cheekbones. Their faces are already like skulls. “Where are the women?” Clytemnestra asks. Almonds and nuts are scattered on the wooden table, as if left by someone in a hurry. Overripe apricots in a bowl smell sweet and rotten. “Gone,” Timandra says. Her fingers are tight around the handle of her bronze sword. “I made sure of that.” The servants are staring at her, pleading and fear on their faces. She can see the marks and blood crusts on their arms, and she wonders if Timandra beat them before she brought her here or if it was someone else. “Tell my sister what you told me,” Timandra orders, her voice empty of


“Don’t fret. It’s a new century, dear. We’re all ripe for a shake-up. And you needn’t stand on ceremony about HRH. She’s slipping down the pecking order every year, poor thing. One day you’ll be able to drag her to any old bazaar or rose sale you like. I can’t see her making any great marriage, can you?” Hephzibah shifted in her seat. “But for now, of course, things are managed terribly, particularly in her household.” “Of course.” “It’s the question of security that really gets us all stirred up. We are living in such awfully violent times. Now, if you wanted to secure the royal presence, I would have to assure the household that there would be exceptional care taken for Her Royal Highness’s safety.” Only Miss de Vries’s knuckles, the faintest cracking of the skin, betrayed her interest. “Of course,” she said. “She does not, you understand, go out in society a great deal.” “I hear she’s very close to the queen.” “Quite right,” said Hephzibah severely, “and we forget, all too often, they are first and foremost a family. The first family in the land, bound as tightly in blood and bond as any—” she paused, casting around for the right words “—tradesman and his daughter.” Miss de Vries took this flank attack with a thin smile. “Indeed.” “So her safety is of paramount importance. We have our own policemen at the palace, you understand.” The moment stretched, longer and longer. And then, at last, Miss de Vries said, “They should feel free to look around, if it would help things.” “Thank you,” said Hephzibah, setting her cup down with a clatter. “If a few of your people clear out, give them a few rooms to stay in, then I am sure that would suffice.” Miss de Vries looked uncertain. “You mean...” “On the night of your party. We would want our own men in the house.” Miss de Vries laid down her cup. “Is it likely that the princess will attend, Your Grace?” Hephzibah drew on the strength of all duchesses past and present, the specters of great ladies living and dead. She sat up straight and said, “Miss de Vries. I would no more presume to predict the movements of Her Royal Highness than to divine the direction of the winds. But I am willing to put in a word, if you’re able to oblige me.” Miss de Vries’s gaze narrowed, suspicious. “If I can, Your Grace.” Hephzibah smiled. “It’s quite remarkable, the expenses people incur, ferrying Their Royal Highnesses from one engagement to another. If there’s anything that can be done to ease the burden for us...” Miss de Vries’s face closed, as if she’d disappeared behind a screen. “She’ll hate it,” Mrs. King had said, “being treated like a piggy bank. It’s everything she despises. But she’ll need to see a sign of weakness. She needs to feel she’s in control.” “I am, of course, willing to defray expenses,” Miss de Vries said coldly. “If that is necessary.” “Too kind,” said Hephzibah. “And tell me,”


phones and cars without signing for either, leaving his quarry with no way to track him by GPS. That his pursuer has dropped off the map should alarm Mace and encourage him to keep moving. Instead, he and his two mysterious companions enter this house, somehow aware that it’s untenanted, and they sit down for ice cream. Calaphas’s displeasure swells into indignation that these people seem not to take seriously the threat that he poses. Being underestimated particularly offends him. Being underestimated is equivalent to a slap in the face, an unforgivable act of contempt and belittlement, an affront not to be tolerated. Indignation flames into exasperation as he moves through an open door, along the main downstairs hall. He has conducted himself according to the rules of the game, achieving such an impressive kill total over twenty-six years, since the old man on the gurney, that he has come now to the last kill in this simulation, to the final gate and the ultimate reward beyond, but suddenly two new characters are introduced, two more whom he must eliminate, which is aggravating. Calaphas enjoys it, yes, and he will take pleasure in their fear and pain, but he wonders—as he has on a few occasions in the past—if the game is rigged so that it can never be won, additional new challenges added just when he is reaching for the well-earned gold ring, a new life of greater power and prestige. Rigged! The possibility enrages him, suggests that the game isn’t a game at all, but some kind of never-ending frat-boy hazing, as if the designers of this simulation take delight in mocking his expectation of being elevated to their level. It isn’t true, can’t be true, must not be true that his efforts have been a fool’s quest. The simulation is not, is not, is not, damn it, a sophisticated, cruel carnival of humiliations. How did her nipples taste, perv? It hasn’t been crafted for his endless mortification, but for his transcendence. The hateful memory of the candy between Britta Holdstrom’s breasts compounds exasperation into rage, even as his priapism is as painful as a grossly swollen boil. When he killed Gifford, his brother’s widow had given him the dead man’s solid-gold Rolex, which was an omen—a sign, a promise—that his time was coming, his glorious future. The gamemakers need to be reminded of that promise. Gifford can’t be killed twice, though it would be such a relief if he could be killed again and again. Here, now, Calaphas can find no one to kill, no one at all, by the time that he reaches the foyer. Then comes a clattering noise. Like wood knocking wood. Elsewhere in the house. His attention is drawn to the stairs, to the second floor, to the revived prospect of triumph and relief. NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH Juan is seventy-four, and Walter is seventy-five. They are retired, and a life without work doesn’t sit well with them. Once successful entrepreneurs, they can spend only so much time on the golf course, on the bocce ball court,


and wielded rather the bow and the spear. Now new tidings came to Doriath concerning Nargothrond, for some that had escaped from the defeat and the sack, and had survived the Fell Winter in the wild, came at last to Thingol seeking refuge; and the march-wardens brought them to the King. And some said that all the enemy had withdrawn northwards, and others that Glaurung abode still in the halls of Felagund; and some said that the Mormegil was slain, and others that he was cast under a spell by the dragon and dwelt there yet, as one changed to stone. But all declared that it was known to many in Nargothrond ere the end that the Mormegil was none other than Trin son of Hrin of Dor-lmin. Then Morwen was distraught, and refusing the counsel of Melian she rode forth alone into the wild to seek her son, or some true tidings of him. Thingol therefore sent Mablung after her, with many hardy march-wards, to find her and guard her, and to learn what news they might; but Nienor was bidden to remain behind. Yet the fearlessness of her house was hers; and in an evil hour, in hope that Morwen would return when she saw that her daughter would go with her into peril, Nienor disguised herself as one of Thingol's people, and went with that ill-fated riding. They came upon Morwen by the banks of Sirion, and Mablung besought her to return to Menegroth; but she was fey, and would not be persuaded. Then also the coming of Nienor was revealed, and despite Morwen's command she would not go back; and Mablung perforce brought them to the hidden ferries at the Meres of Twilight, and they passed over Sirion. And after three days' journeying they came to Amon Ethir, the Hill of Spies, that long ago Felagund had caused to be raised with great labour, a league before the doors of Nargothrond. There Mablung set a guard of riders about Morwen and her daughter, and forbade them to go further. But he, seeing from the hill no sign of any enemy, went down with his scouts to the Narog, as stealthily as they could go. But Glaurung was aware of all that they did, and he came forth in heat of wrath, and lay into the river; and a vast vapour and foul reek went up, in which Mablung and his company were blinded and lost Then Glaurung passed east over Narog. Seeing the onset of the dragon the guards upon Amon Ethir sought to lead Morwen and Nienor away, and fly with them with all speed back eastwards; but the wind bore the blank mists upon them, and their horses were maddened by the dragon-stench, and were ungovernable, and ran this way and that, so that some were dashed against trees and were slain, and others were borne far away. Thus the ladies were lost, and of Morwen indeed no sure tidings came ever to Doriath after. But Nienor, being thrown by her steed, yet unhurt, made her


I started crying a while ago. I hate that people might be looking at me but the thought doesn’t stop the tears from spilling. A thumb begins stroking the back of my hand before I hear his chair pull from the table. When I look up, Sam and our food are gone. I sit, trying to wipe my face as best as I can when he returns with paper bags. “The leftovers taste even better in the morning.” He hands me one of the bags and takes my other hand—it’s warm and swallows mine. “Come with me, Maddie.” We step out into the warm evening and silently Sam walks me down a straight road. He still holds my hand, his fingers slotted in between mine. I don’t know a lot about him but I feel as if I could close my eyes, sink into his warmth, and still arrive wherever we’re going intact. We walk for ten minutes before we make a right and enter an ice-cream shop. He sits me at a table and goes to the counter, where there are rows and rows of ice-cream containers. It’s bright in here and the shop’s name, MOOPHORIA, is in neon lights behind the counter. When Sam returns, he places a cup of ice cream in front of me. “Thank you.” I take a spoonful and the sugar makes my eye twitch. “This is very sweet.” “They make it like that on purpose,” Sam says. “It’s good for shock.” I look at him, knowing I wouldn’t blame him for cutting this date short. “Thank you, again. Sincerely.” “You’re welcome.” “Why is yours green?” I ask. “It’s mint.” “Eugh.” “You don’t like mint chocolate ice cream?” he asks incredulously. “Do you like eating chocolate after you’ve brushed your teeth?” “Not the same thing.” He offers me his spoon. “Here, try some.” I taste his and, “Okay, it’s not the same.” “See?” “But it’s not far off.” He smiles but puts his spoon down. “Want to talk about what just happened?” I clear my throat and shift in my seat. “I don’t know if I have anything else to add.” “Then I’ll just answer your question.” Sam leans across the table. “You are.” “What question?” “When are you going to be fine again?” Sam clarifies. “And I’m saying, you are fine. This is your new fine, Maddie.” I consider this. “That’s depressing.” He laughs without joy. “I know it sounds it. But you’re not supposed to ‘get over’ someone dying,” he says, “especially someone you loved, and your feelings of guilt may not be justified, but they are natural. Thing is, you don’t ever go back, Maddie, to life before, and my advice is to accept that. To accept that you’re not the same person you were when your dad was alive and you can’t be again. Accept that your life is different now because of this monumental, irreversible change and that it’s okay to feel guilty one day and indescribable happiness another. This is life now,” he says. “This is how you live.” He


Trin cast off his darkness, and grew hale again; and he arose, and he thought that he would remain in Brethil hidden, and put his shadow behind him, forsaking the past. He took therefore a new name, Turambar, which in the High-elven speech signified Master of Doom; and he besought the woodmen to forget that he was a stranger among them or ever bore any other name. Nonetheless he would not wholly leave deeds of war; for he could not endure that the Orcs should come to the Crossings of Teiglin or draw nigh to Haudh-en-Elleth, and he made that a place of dread for them, so that they shunned it. But he laid his black sword by, and wielded rather the bow and the spear. Now new tidings came to Doriath concerning Nargothrond, for some that had escaped from the defeat and the sack, and had survived the Fell Winter in the wild, came at last to Thingol seeking refuge; and the march-wardens brought them to the King. And some said that all the enemy had withdrawn northwards, and others that Glaurung abode still in the halls of Felagund; and some said that the Mormegil was slain, and others that he was cast under a spell by the dragon and dwelt there yet, as one changed to stone. But all declared that it was known to many in Nargothrond ere the end that the Mormegil was none other than Trin son of Hrin of Dor-lmin. Then Morwen was distraught, and refusing the counsel of Melian she rode forth alone into the wild to seek her son, or some true tidings of him. Thingol therefore sent Mablung after her, with many hardy march-wards, to find her and guard her, and to learn what news they might; but Nienor was bidden to remain behind. Yet the fearlessness of her house was hers; and in an evil hour, in hope that Morwen would return when she saw that her daughter would go with her into peril, Nienor disguised herself as one of Thingol's people, and went with that ill-fated riding. They came upon Morwen by the banks of Sirion, and Mablung besought her to return to Menegroth; but she was fey, and would not be persuaded. Then also the coming of Nienor was revealed, and despite Morwen's command she would not go back; and Mablung perforce brought them to the hidden ferries at the Meres of Twilight, and they passed over Sirion. And after three days' journeying they came to Amon Ethir, the Hill of Spies, that long ago Felagund had caused to be raised with great labour, a league before the doors of Nargothrond. There Mablung set a guard of riders about Morwen and her daughter, and forbade them to go further. But he, seeing from the hill no sign of any enemy, went down with his scouts to the Narog, as stealthily as they could go. But Glaurung was aware of all that they did, and he came forth in heat of wrath, and lay into the river; and a vast vapour


and we’ll kill you dead!” Nurse Ratched rolled up behind Vic, hatch opening, one of her tentacles slithering out viper-quick. It wrapped around Vic’s waist and began to pull him backward. “I could saw off your arm,” she said. “It would be easier.” “No sawing,” Vic snapped at her. He tried to break the fingers that held him, but they were too strong. The pile shifted once more as another couple of inches of the arm became exposed. “Enough of this,” Nurse Ratched said. “You were told to let go. Prepare for something quite shocking.” Another one of her tentacles shot out around Vic, the tip crackling with electricity. She pressed it against the arm. The effect was instantaneous. The hand spasmed, fingers opening. Vic’s feet skidded in the dirt as Nurse Ratched pulled him away. Rambo continued to hit the arm, weaving and dodging as it seized up and down. “Die!” he yelled. “Die, die, die!” Vic looked down at his arm. The blood had been pushed away from just underneath his skin, leaving the white outline of fingers. Nurse Ratched let go of his waist, tentacle sliding back inside her before the hatch closed. “Rambo, please step away from the dangerous arm. We do not know if it is attached to a dangerous body.” Rambo paused his assault, turning until his sensors faced them. “There could be more than the arm?” he asked in a high-pitched voice. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” He rolled away quickly, hiding behind Vic’s legs, his pincers tugging at Vic’s pants. The arm sticking out of the metal pile fell limp, though it still twitched. The forearm was covered in dark hair, the skin underneath pale and white. The fingers were thick and blunt, the hand large. “What is it?” Vic asked. “I do not know,” Nurse Ratched said. “Consider leaving it where it lies. It was discarded for a reason. Malfunction. Corruption. Faulty coding. It has obviously served its purpose.” “You said the same thing about Rambo,” Vic said, never looking away from the hand. “I did. And you did not listen to me then. Look what happened.” “I happened,” Rambo said, still hiding behind Vic. “Like a parasitic infection,” Nurse Ratched said. “We should— Victor, what are you doing?” Vic took another step forward. “Don’t you want to see what it is?” “No. I do not. Curiosity killed the cat by strangling it. If you are strangled, it might break the hyoid bone, and then your head will fall off.” She beeped, and the words TRUST ME, I’M A NURSE! appeared on her screen. “The others were stripped. Skin. Power sources. Why not this one?” His head was pounding. His heart stumbled in his chest. It was something new. Something strange. A mystery. Part of him wanted to turn and run as fast as he could, return home and lock his door until he could pretend nothing had happened. Another part whispered in his head over and over: What is it, what is it, what is it? He was