you soon, okay?” The sun gleams against his marble headstone and throws a strip of light onto my face. I laugh and look up to a patch of blue sky. “Subtle, Dad,” I tell him, squinting in the sun. “Really subtle.” Acknowledgments I will attempt to keep this short, because if I don’t, I run the risk of this being pages long, and you’ve already read an entire book. If I don’t succeed, know that I tried. Every author says this (perhaps because it’s true), but I couldn’t have done this without three special people. First up, we have literary agent extraordinaire Jemima Forrester, who had nothing but love, laughter, and I think a few tears for Maddie the moment she read my manuscript in its earliest stage and rawest form. My U.K. editor, Olivia Barber, who loved Maame so much that during the submission and auction process the words “She won’t go down without a fight” were uttered more than once. To Sarah Cantin, my U.S. editor, whose personal, soft spot for Maddie and her father resonated with me so deeply, I knew she was the one as soon as our call had ended. I love your ebullience and how whenever you tell me you’re excited to read Maame again, I believe you each and every time. I’m not sure it’s often an author enjoys a lengthy editing process but as I’ve mentioned many times (one particularly long email I sent on the 28th of July comes to mind), I loved it. The three of you make an unrivaled team in my opinion, and I love that this is only the beginning for us. And of course, to my U.S. agent/matchmaker, Michelle Brower, thank you for introducing me to the wonder that is Sarah, and for voluntarily joining online meetings at what I imagine felt like the crack of dawn for you. To Sallie Lotz and Drue VanDuker because I know well enough by now that there is no such thing as being “only an assistant” and I don’t need to be sat in the office beside you to know how hard you both must work. To Jen Enderlin, thank you so much for falling in love with Maame and to everyone else on the Maame team who I’ve met virtually and have yet to meet: Lisa Senz, Anne Marie Tallberg, Dori Weintraub, Erica Martirano (I wildly appreciate that favor you cashed in), Austin Adams, Kejana Ayala, Alexandra Hoopes, Tom Thompson, Kim Ludlam, Olga Grlic, Lena Shekhter, Lizz Blaise, Kiffin Steurer, Jen Edwards, Robert Allen, Mary Beth Roche, and Emily Dyer. I’ve heard only a fraction of all the magic you’re doing for this book, and I thank you for it. I also want to thank everyone else at St. Martin’s Press just for reading Maame because it’s an incredible thing to have Sarah constantly tell me how much of a unanimous decision it was to take me on as an author. To my mum, who, although she’s more thoughtful and supportive than Maddie’s, is just as full of funny one-liners.


underscoring the warmer notes of wood and dew. I hummed a jaunty Lukubi tune I’d overheard in the duqan and reviewed my tasks for the next day. Preparations for the waleema had spun Mahair into a frenzy. Celebrating the Alcalah was no small affair. I shuddered, thinking of the influx of strangers that flooded the village during the last waleema three years ago. Restraint alone had prevented me from running into the woods until it ended. A splash caught my ankle as a sesame-seed candy tumbled out of the basket and into a puddle. Kapastra’s twisted horns, these candies were a curse. I bent down, wrinkling my nose against the scent of excrement and rain. Maybe I could leave the flies to enjoy this one. I straightened, reaching for the basket—and found myself face-to-face with the Nizahl soldier from Zeinab’s street. My heart slowed. Each beat thundered in my ears. “Sylvia, apprentice to the chemist Rory, healer of poor elderly Aya. Did I get it right?” For a split second, as the safety of the woods and the terror of discovery shattered together, I thought: Who is Sylvia? A smirk played on his lips. He was waiting for me to lie. My physical appearance wasn’t enough to condemn me as a Jasadi. He’d needed more, and I had crawled through a hole in the wall and given it to him. Now he wanted to be entertained by a fumbled excuse for why I had ventured past the raven-marked trees in the middle of the night, basket of food in tow. The resolve, once it settled, was soothing. The fear retreated. It had been a long time since I’d killed anything bigger than a frog in these woods. I straightened to my full height, standing eye to eye with the soldier. “Not a coward, then.” He blinked. “What did you say?” I adopted a light, conversational approach. “I wasn’t sure. The one decent thing I can say of your ilk is that you die early. Yet here you stand, your age written into the lines of your skin. You were either a coward or too clever for your own good.” As I spoke, I untied the clasp of my cloak. I folded it carefully and set it atop the basket. “You watched me. Followed me far enough that nobody would hear me scream.” The Nizahl soldier remained unperturbed. “Even if they could hear you scream, they would not come to your aid. Nobody cares for the whimpers of Jasadi scum.” I closed my eyes briefly. With two words, the soldier had eliminated any chance of him leaving these woods alive. Feigning innocence did not matter now. As soon as the accusation of Jasadi was leveled, only a Nizahlan court could absolve it. This soldier would put me in the back of a wagon and drag me to Nizahl, where I needed zero hands to count the number of Jasadis who survived the trial. I’d learned over the years most did not even survive the journey. The detained died in convenient accidents or in


the most repulsive among them, as to creatures of an angelic nature and celestial mechanism. But I felt that I had no right to share their intercourse. I had unchained an enemy among them whose joy it was to shed their blood and to revel in their groans. How they would, each and all, abhor me and hunt me from the world did they know my unhallowed acts and the crimes which had their source in me! My father yielded at length to my desire to avoid society and strove by various arguments to banish my despair. Sometimes he thought that I felt deeply the degradation of being obliged to answer a charge of murder, and he endeavoured to prove to me the futility of pride. "Alas! My father," said I, "how little do you know me. Human beings, their feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded if such a wretch as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy Justine, was as innocent as I, and she suffered the same charge; she died for it; and I am the cause of this--I murdered her. William, Justine, and Henry--they all died by my hands." My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make the same assertion; when I thus accused myself, he sometimes seemed to desire an explanation, and at others he appeared to consider it as the offspring of delirium, and that, during my illness, some idea of this kind had presented itself to my imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved in my convalescence. I avoided explanation and maintained a continual silence concerning the wretch I had created. I had a persuasion that I should be supposed mad, and this in itself would forever have chained my tongue. But, besides, I could not bring myself to disclose a secret which would fill my hearer with consternation and make fear and unnatural horror the inmates of his breast. I checked, therefore, my impatient thirst for sympathy and was silent when I would have given the world to have confided the fatal secret. Yet, still, words like those I have recorded would burst uncontrollably from me. I could offer no explanation of them, but their truth in part relieved the burden of my mysterious woe. Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression of unbounded wonder, "My dearest Victor, what infatuation is this? My dear son, I entreat you never to make such an assertion again." "I am not mad," I cried energetically; "the sun and the heavens, who have viewed my operations, can bear witness of my truth. I am the assassin of those most innocent victims; they died by my machinations. A thousand times would I have shed my own blood, drop by drop, to have saved their lives; but I could not, my father, indeed I could not sacrifice the whole human race." The conclusion of this speech convinced my father that my ideas were deranged, and he instantly changed the subject of our conversation and endeavoured to alter the course of my thoughts. He wished as much as


kitchen table, then takes another sheet of paper and writes a note asking Linda to get the suitcase from under Nick’s bed and store it in her apartment. This second note he folds up small. Next door, he kisses Linda’s hand (she rolls her eyes) and presses the note into her palm. “We’ll meet you at the pizzeria in ten minutes, darling.” This is probably how spies feel. Andy is glad he isn’t a spy. His heart is pounding and all he can hope is that he’s done a good enough job keeping Nick safe. * * * When they get back from the pizzeria, having put away an entire pie and a half between them and carrying home the remaining slices for Nick, the apartment is still empty. It’s only two o’clock. Andy calls the Chronicle, but Nick still isn’t there. “You don’t have to babysit me.” Sal isn’t any less sullen after lunch. “Well, I’m not getting arrested for contributing to the corruption of a minor by leaving you unattended,” Andy says. “I don’t think that’s a real offense.” “Do you think that’ll stop your father’s friends from arresting me for it?” Andy asks, slightly frantic. Sal shrugs, conceding the point. This does not make Andy feel any better. Every time he hears the building door open below, he’s convinced it’s the police. He is not cut out for this. Distantly, he hears the building door open again. Andy glances warily at Sal. Since arriving, Sal’s started to look progressively wearier, a gray semicircle appearing under his unbruised eye, a brittleness to his surly teenage bravado. Andy wishes he knew what to say or do. There are footsteps on the stairs, close by, as if they’re heading here. Andy holds his breath, and then hears the key in the lock. About a dozen emotions flicker across Nick’s face in quick succession as he opens the door. “I’m glad you came,” he tells Sal. And apparently those are the magic words, because Sal’s lower lip quivers and the next moment he’s in Nick’s arms doing a version of Definitely Not Crying that Andy knows all too well. Andy probably shouldn’t be here, but he can’t just leave without explaining to Nick where he’s going, or in fact confirming that he is going, because that aspect of the problem may not even have occurred to Nick yet. “Did you have anything to eat?” Nick asks. “Andy and his girlfriend took me out for pizza,” Sal says. Nick gives Andy a look. “I found Sal on the stoop when I was stopping by to say hello to Linda,” Andy says, hoping he sounds smoother than he feels. “And now I probably ought to be going.” “Sal, do me a favor and scram for two minutes. Your room’s at the end of the hall.” They wait until Sal has shut the bedroom door. “I had to come up with a story on the spot,” Andy whispers. “I changed the sheets and got rid of all my stuff. Look, I’d better go. I’m sorry for


immovable text, where it can do little more than say, “Boo!” I write about how inadequate Athena has made me feel since college, how I swallowed back vinegary envy every time she achieved something I could not. The way I felt when Geoff told me how she’d mocked me at that convention. I recount the way she stole the story of my maybe-rape. I describe how, despite it all, I still loved her. But as I dig into the past, I find myself lingering on good memories, too. There are more of them than I realized. I haven’t let myself dwell on college for so long, but once I scratch the surface, it all comes bubbling to the fore. Starbucks every Tuesday after our Women in Victorian Lit seminar: an iced mocha for me, a Very Berry Hibiscus Refresher for Athena. Nights at slam poetry events during which we’d sipped ginger beers and giggled at the performers, who were not real poets, and who would one day certainly grow out of this nonsense. A Les Mis sing-along party at a drama major’s apartment, where we’d shrieked at the top of our lungs, “One day more!” As I transcribe all this, I wonder if our friendship had indeed been as strained as I’d perceived it. Was that jealous tension always there? Were we rivals from the start? Or had I, in the throes of my insecurity, projected it all against Athena? I remember the day during our senior year that Athena received the first offer on her debut novel, when her agent called and told her on her way to barre class that she would soon have her book on shelves. She called me first. Me. She hadn’t even told her parents yet. “Oh my God,” she’d breathed. “June. You won’t believe it. I can’t believe it.” Then she told me about the offer, and I gasped, and we both screamed back and forth at each other for a good thirty seconds. “Holy shit, Athena,” I whispered. “It’s happening. Everything you wanted—” “I feel like I’m standing on a cliff, and my whole life is in front of me.” I remember so clearly her breathy whisper; shocked and hopeful and vulnerable all at once. “I feel like everything is about to change.” “It will,” I promised her. “Athena, you’re going to be a fucking star.” And then we screamed back and forth a little more, relishing the other’s presence at the other end of the line, for it was so nice to know someone who understood this exact dream, who knew how mere words can become sentences can become a completed masterpiece, how that masterpiece can rocket you into a wholly unrecognizable world where you have everything—a world you wrote for yourself. I FALL IN LOVE WITH WRITING AGAIN. I START TO DREAM AGAIN. EVER since the @AthenaLiusGhost tweets broke, I’ve been operating from fear, defensiveness, and insecurity. But now I’m able to dwell once again on all of publishing’s promises, the things this world could give me. Brett will sell this to


noses and mouths and eyes on their faces. They wore strange clothing: bright and frilly dresses, trousers that weren’t quite pants and not quite shorts, a hat that read GO PATS! and had what looked to be plastic straws hanging down on either side. One wore a black shirt with the word RAMONES across the top and DEE DEE JOHNNY JOEY RICHIE underneath. From the ceiling hung dozens of windchimes, some metal, some glass, some wood. They clinked and clanked as the house hummed. Each of the items had a little placard underneath, offering a description of what the item was and what it was used for. If this had been any other time in any other situation, Vic would have been eager to look at each and every piece. But he only felt cold. “My collection,” the Coachman said proudly. “It’s the largest of its kind in the world. Machines come from miles to see what I have gathered.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Not everyone likes it, of course. It has been called macabre. Worthless. An affront to decency.” He brightened. “But! Now that you’re here, I expect my fortunes have changed. How lucky was I to stumble upon you!” Hap gripped the bars of his cage, grunting as he did so. He tried to pull them apart, to no avail. “I told you that won’t work,” the Coachman said, not unkindly. “They’re reinforced. You won’t be able to escape.” His eyes widened. “But please don’t think you’re a prisoner! No, no. That will not do. You are my guests. I have a business proposition for you.” Vic tried to center himself. Deep breath in, slow, lungs expanding. Then out again, a thin stream between pursed lips. In again, then out. “What are you doing?” he heard the Coachman ask. “Are you going to break down? But I just found you! Of all the luck. Please don’t make a mess! I do hate messes when none need to be made.” “Don’t talk to him,” Rambo said shrilly. “Leave him alone. Just because Vic is—” “Malfunctioning,” Nurse Ratched said. “A minor inconvenience. A fault in his code. It will pass. Right, Rambo?” “But that’s not—oh. Oh. Right. Yes. That’s all it is. A minor malfunction. Nothing else. Vic is a robot just like we are.” The Coachman frowned. “Strange, but I’ll allow it. I’d rather talk about what’s in here.” He motioned toward the pack in his lap. “I’m very impressed with what you have. So odd.” He began to root around in the pack. “Like this!” He pulled out an old cloth, wrapped with string. He tugged it open. Inside was food: dried meat and fruit. “What is this for?” “Animals,” Nurse Ratched said. “We like to feed our forest friends.” The Coachman picked up a piece of jerky, turning it over in his hands. He brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply. He grimaced. “It smells awful. I like it. For the animals, you say?” He set it aside on the table next to his chair before turning


I was a wolf.’ With surprising care, she drew a thread of damp hair between her fingers, teasing out a pine needle. ‘Are you certain you don’t want me to comb this, Princess?’ Dumai could feel her own breath betraying her. A warm drift in her darkest waters. Daughter, have you lost your senses? ‘I will manage,’ she said, starting to draw away. ‘Wait. You said I couldn’t style it for this court.’ ‘Oh, yes – a messenger came at noon.’ Nikeya smiled. ‘Queen Arkoro will see us tomorrow morning.’ Dumai stared at her in exasperation. ‘Did you not think to tell me that earlier?’ ‘I must have been distracted.’ Nikeya returned to the bath. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, Princess.’ **** In the guest quarters, Dumai lay on her bedding. As she tried to sleep, she remembered her strange dream – the figure who had spoken with her. On the mountain, the Grand Empress had started teaching her to control her dreams. The dreamer had to fall asleep, but also stay aware. Dumai turned on to her back, heels and hands planted on the floor. As sleep drew her in, she concentrated on those anchor points, trying to float instead of sinking deep under the waves. Are you there? There was the stream, winding like silver thread through cloth. I’m here, the messenger answered. Dumai glimpsed movement in the dark. I suppose we can’t say where we are. This realm is like a bubble, floating between the mortal and celestial worlds. A bubble that serves as a bridge. Perhaps if our discussion strays too close to our real lives, it breaks, and we fall back to wakefulness. This sounds a very fragile bridge. I’m not sure I would pay the toll . . . Dumai smiled. We can keep testing its strength. Her lips shaped the words in Seiikinese, but that was not the language in her dream. This was a language she had never learned. I still wonder where in this wide world you are. If you feel the same disturbances, the same strangeness. What do you mean? You must have seen. The earth quaked, and groundwater boiled, and the sun hid its light for almost a year. If you don’t know why that happened, you must be very far away. It was a fire mountain that caused all of it. The other presence faded, then strengthened again. I feel our rickety bridge straining. Let’s not speak of such things. How is it we can meet in dreams? I would say the gods allowed it, but you claimed not to have gods. Who is it that you praise, that rules you? A warrior. Dumai sensed a sudden reserve, shot with curiosity. You spoke of magic. Are you . . . a sorcerer? Only a dreamer. Feeling herself sink too deep, she reached for her bedding and grasped it until her hand ached. This bridge must have formed for a reason. Perhaps we’re just here to comfort each other. Even if this is a trick – or if I’m only


her mirrored feelings. Broken people fascinate me. Is that why she is drawn to Aegisthus? There are no answers in the pouring rain. * * * Dawn comes, bright and quiet, her rose-red fingers stroking the roofs of the citadel. Clytemnestra sneaks out of the palace, enjoying the thickness of the silence. There is nothing she likes more than being awake when the city sleeps. It gives her a sense of power, an illusion of control. She creeps out through the back gate of the citadel, a warm shawl wrapped over her peplos. The road up the mountain is steep and muddy. Goats and sheep are bleating somewhere on the slopes, where the land is ripe with grapes. Above her, pine and oak trees thicken, casting long shadows on the ground. She stops to rest by a small rock pool, the water so clear that it looks like a slice of sky. Though it is still autumn, the winter ice has already appeared on the mountains, covering the peaks with white sprinkles. She sits on the rock and touches her bare feet with her palms, warming them a little before plunging them into the freezing water of the pool. Her muscles scream but she keeps still, enjoying the pain. “I didn’t expect to find anyone here.” Her hand flies to her dagger. Aegisthus is standing by a tree, watching her. His hair is held back and the scars on his face are stark in the pale light. She takes her feet out of the cold water and puts down the dagger. “Were you following me?” Maybe the elders were right and she has underestimated him. She empties her mind of the sudden fear: a man like Aegisthus can probably smell it, as a wolf would. “I always come here,” he says. “I used to come here when Thyestes still ruled.” “To do what?” “I just stayed away from everyone else. The palace was different then from what it is now.” “How so?” “It was grayer. And bloodier.” She doesn’t like his tone. He speaks as if she couldn’t understand, as if she grew up with nymphs, spending her time with combs and pretty dresses. “How many dead men have you seen?” she asks. He pauses, and displeasure grows on his face. “I have seen hundreds,” she says. “In Sparta, the elders would take the criminals, and my father and brothers would drag them to the Ceadas. Then they pushed them off the cliff. Most were killed instantly. But others lived for a day or two, moaning, while the birds pecked their broken bodies until they bled to death or died of thirst.” She wills herself to remember. An image of herself as a child, crouching among the bushes and hearing the men’s cries, comes to mind. There were other cries too, fainter, but they slip away, like shadows. Aegisthus comes to sit on the rock beside her. The dagger lies between them, easy for either to reach. “Atreus used to say that it takes only one to deliver a message,” he says.


as considerate of me on this journey as she has of her own son. And she seems to have respect for my mother. Too fast to see much of anything, we’re escorted to a sampan. The bodyguards take our traveling bags to the shelter where we’re to spend the journey, but Miss Zhao doesn’t follow. “How long will it take us to reach Wuxi?” she asks the boatman. “If the wind gives us more strength than the current, then maybe a couple of days,” he answers. Miss Zhao closes her eyes in response. I understand. I’m still unsteady from our ocean journey, and the bobbing of the sampan isn’t calming my stomach one bit. When the bodyguards emerge from the shelter, she sways over to them. They’re supposed to be protecting us, but they back away as though they’re being approached by a fox spirit. “I don’t know that I’ll be able to stand more days in a windowless space,” she says to them in her melodious voice. Then she gestures to Yifeng and me. “And I don’t think they’ll be able to either. Please let us remain outside, where it will be more comfortable.” The bodyguards deny her request, insisting that they need to protect us. “Even if a farmer or another boatman glimpses us,” she replies, “in a moment we will have sailed past.” “We don’t want to get in trouble,” one of the bodyguards says. “Prefect Tan—” “Need never know,” she finishes. “We can keep this a secret between us.” After a bit more back-and-forth, she settles an arrangement by placing coins in their hands. Poppy and I exchange glances. We aren’t supposed to like the concubine, but in this moment we’re both grateful to her. As one guard takes a position at the front of the sampan and the other stands at the rear with the boatman, Miss Zhao herds Yifeng, Poppy, and me to seats under a canopy. The boatman pushes us away from the dock. Now I can see everything. The buildings, the people, the activities on the shore all help to distract me from my nausea. After an hour or so, the boatman steers us onto the Wusong River, which is far smaller than the Huangpu. We’re still going against the current, but the shift in direction also means a shift in the wind. It comes from behind us now, and we glide over the smoother waters. The boatman maneuvers the oar rhythmically as we pass li upon li of rice paddies. No walls hide the view or limit the sky. When Yifeng needs to relieve himself, Miss Zhao holds on to him so he can do his business right into the swirling waters. “Time to eat,” the boatman announces as the sun peeks through the clouds. He ties the sampan to a tree growing on the bank. He gives Miss Zhao a basket filled with rice balls stuffed with peanuts, which she hands out to each of us. After lunch, when the boatman takes Yifeng ashore to run off some energy, Miss Zhao says,


is poor, for she had not so fine a house as mamma. I was not long there. Mr. Rochester asked me if I would like to go and live with him in England, and I said yes; for I knew Mr. Rochester before I knew Madam Frdric, and he was always kind to me and gave me pretty dresses and toys; but you see he has not kept his word, for he has brought me to England, and now he is gone back again himself, and I never see him."     After breakfast, Adle and I withdrew to the library, which room, it appears, Mr. Rochester had directed should be used as the school-room. Most of the books were locked up behind glass doors; but there was one book-case left open, containing everything that could be needed in the way of elementary works, and several volumes of light literature, poetry, biography, travels, a few romances, etc. I suppose he had considered that these were all the governess would require for her private perusal; and, indeed, they contented me amply for the present; compared with the scanty pickings I had now and then been able to glean at Lowood, they seemed to offer an abundant harvest of entertainment and information. In this room, too, there was a cabinet piano, quite new and of superior tone; also an easel for painting, and a pair of globes.     I found my pupil sufficiently docile, though disinclined to apply; she had not been used to regular occupation of any kind. I felt it would be injudicious to confine her too much at first; so, when I had talked to her a great deal, and got her to learn a little, and when the morning had advanced to noon, I allowed her to return to her nurse. I then proposed to occupy myself till dinner-time in drawing some little sketches for her use.     As I was going upstairs to fetch my portfolio and pencils, Mrs. Fairfax called to me: "Your morning schoolhours are over now, I suppose," said she. She was in a room the folding-doors of which stood open; I went in when she addressed me. It was a large stately apartment, with purple chairs and curtains, a Turkey carpet, walnut-panelled walls, one vast window rich in stained glass, and a lofty ceiling, nobly molded. Mrs. Fairfax was dusting some vases of fine purple spar, which stood on a sideboard.     "What a beautiful room!" I exclaimed as I looked round; for I had never before seen any half so imposing.     "Yes; this is the dining-room. I have just opened the window, to let in a little air and sunshine; for everything gets so damp in apartments that are seldom inhabited; the drawing-room yonder feels like a vault."     She pointed to a wide arch corresponding to the window, and hung like it with a Tyrian-dyed curtain, now looped up. Mounting to it by two broad


hands. The way it holds its body. It’s seducing you so that you will release it. It is pretending. Playing a part, trying to convince us that it’s safe.’ ‘There’s no way you can know that.’ ‘Some part of you already knows this to be the truth. That you’re in love and no longer thinking clearly. That is why you broke the rules and brought me to see the creature. You wanted me to intervene, to save you from yourself. You’re going to be angry with me. It will feel like a betrayal, and I’m very sorry for that.’ ‘What have you done?’ The door to the bar opened and security officials entered. Their presence was such a rare occurrence that the entire bar fell silent as they surrounded Yotam’s table. It took a moment for him to comprehend that he was being arrested. Zariffa squeezed his hand. ‘That creature you love… it plans to kill us. All of us.’ PART EIGHT A REVOLT IN HOPE TOWN THE ANTARCTIC PENINSULA HOPE TOWN 10 DECEMBER 2043 THE CONVOY OF SNOW MOBILES from McMurdo City had been dispatched to cross the continent and collect the graduating ice-adapted students from the three survival towns. The plan was to bring them back to the place where they’d been born, where the expectation was for them to take up a selection of roles, helping to build a sustainable society. Some occupations would be more physical in nature, suited for ice construction, capable of working throughout the year, even during the freezing darkness of winter. Others might be more academic, making the most of their insights into the cold, working in the laboratories. No one knew what role Echo might be given, but there was a rumour she was going to be appointed to a leadership post, a representative for all ice-adapted people to aid with integration and help bridge the gulf between the ordinary-born and the ice-adapted. With only a few days before the convoy transport was due to arrive, Liza and Atto set out for the mountains east of Hope Town. Not with the intention of escape, since it was impossible to survive outside the settlements for more than a few weeks, even in the summer; their plan was to spend these days together as a family. They packed a tent made from recycled yacht sails and enough provisions to last a week, seaweed soups and starfish stews, supplies so heavy only Echo was strong enough to carry them, a pyramid of bags stacked on her back in the fashion of a Himalayan sherpa. Passing through the centre of Hope Town, they collected Tetu, who was considered part of their family. In fact, Liza had asked him to live with them on several occasions, surprised when he’d turned the offer down, which she now realized was because he didn’t want Echo to perceive him as a relative. He wanted to be her lover and there was a danger if he moved into Wordie House that she would consider him her brother. There were no rules in


is younger than the stern nun, who snatches the book away meanly from her hands while saying, “Let me see!” The room they’re in looks vaguely churchy, with stark white walls, filled with old books and flickering votives in red glass holders. The stern nun sits to flip through the book as her nun apprentice leans curiously (and sexily!) over her shoulder, trying to get a peek. It’s very Meryl Streep and Amy Adams in Doubt, if it was about hot sex instead of, ugh, well, not hot sex? The young nun is reading over the stern nun’s shoulder about “modesty in the fifteenth century for cloistered sisters,” and you just have to trust me that there is something worth grinding your pussy into the edge of the couch cushion coming up. The stern nun says, “Thank you, Sister Mona, you can leave,” and I have literally never listened to that part before, and I am crying. SISTER MOAN-A, GIVE ME A BREAK OVER HERE. Sister Mona turns around to face Mean Nun as she reaches for the door and holds out a white envelope. “This came for you,” she says coyly, and because I’m disgusting, I thought, “And I’m gonna come for you.” There’s a long, lingering shot of Mean Nun as some inscrutable emotions play across her face (Fear? Anxiety?? Heartburn from Taco Tuesday at the nunnery???) and then, it’s the next day (I guess?) and Sister Mona and another young nun are outside collecting the wash from the line, and I need you to know that in this case “the wash” appears to be stiff white napkins that still have the crease marks from the package they were purchased in. There’s water noise in the background, from either a babbling brook or because someone left the sink running or because these ladies are squirting so forcefully it’s audible through ten pounds of black cloth. The other nun stops doing her chores and says, “Sister Mona? I have a confession.” Oh shit! Are we about to find out God isn’t real and there is literally no point to our stupid and painful lives atop this spinning rock as it hurtles through outer space?! Haha, no, she just wants to tell Sister Mona that she still “thinks of [their] night together.” Sister Mona rolls her eyes like “Here we go with this shit again,” and continues unclipping her cheap-ass napkins. Ugh, maybe whoever wrote this actually knew what they were doing because nothing is sexier than intense, unrequited longing. My heart is pounding in my chest! Hang on, the camera pulls out (don’t make me make the joke), and it’s actually sheets they’re pretending to fold? I imagine the morning after your first night in this sexy lesbo convent you wake up covered in a thousand papercuts because these sheets look like the definition of hell. Sister Mona coldly apologizes to Sister Mary, apparently, for “awakening temptation” in her, and Sister Mary is crestfallen, holding her basket of sandpaper with tears streaming down her face as Sister Mona walks around her


man. She was surprised to see one of Arnold Guyot Dana’s scrapbooks on the library shelf, a fat volume bound in navy blue, Yale: Old and New emblazoned in gold on its spine. Darlington had been obsessed with the scrapbooks dedicated to New Haven and Yale, and had cherished volumes sixteen through eighteen, which, along with Hiram Bingham III’s diary, had been pilfered from the Sterling Library years ago to hide vital information on Lethe and the flow of magical artifacts through the city. Alex flipped through the thick pages of newspaper clippings, old photographs, and maps, until her eyes landed on a photo of a group of young men at Mory’s, all stern-faced, all suited. And there was Linus, in the back row, his face solemn, his pale blue eyes nearly white in the old picture. He looked softer somehow, more mobile in this photo than he had been sitting in his own living room. Had he been human then? Or already turned and having a laugh? And how was she supposed to best a drug-dealing blue blood Connecticut vampire? Kittscher’s Daemonologie was also on the shelf, the same book Michelle Alameddine had recommended and that Dawes had been using for research. Alex flipped through, still hoping for a catalogue of monsters and ideally how to best them. But the book was as Dawes had described: a series of debates on hell between Ellison Nownes, a divinity student and devout Christian, and Rudolph Kittscher, an atheist and member of Lethe. Nownes seemed to be arguing for Turner’s version of hell—a place of eternal punishment for sinners: Whether there be nine circles or twelve, whether pits of fire or lakes of ice, though the architecture of hell be indeterminate, its existence and purpose are not. But Kittscher disagreed: Superstition and bunk! We know there are other worlds and planes and that their existence enables the use of portals—why, ask any Locksmith if he thinks he’s simply disappearing from one place and reappearing in another. No! We know better. There are other realms. And why should we not understand “hell” as one of these realms? Here, the transcript noted “loud applause.” Some of what they were saying went right over Alex’s head, but she was pretty sure Kittscher was suggesting the existence of hell—and heaven—was a bargain between demons and men: Just as we may be nourished by meat or fowl, or survive upon a diet of simple roots and berries, so demons are nourished by our base emotions. Some feed on fear or greed or lust or rage, and yes, some hunger after joy. Heaven and hell are a compromise, nothing more, a treaty binding demons to remain in their realm and feed only upon the dead. This was where the crowd turned on Kittscher and the notes described Nownes as “red-faced.” Nownes: This is what comes of a vision of a world without God—not only a life but an afterlife devoid of any higher morality. You suggest that we, creatures born of God and made in His image, are the lowliest


I thought it very well done of him indeed. Whether it was his own idea you know, one cannot tell. He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps--" "My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes." "Three-and-twenty!--is he indeed?--Well, I could not have thought it-- and he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother! Well, time does fly indeed!--and my memory is very bad. However, it was an exceeding good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of pleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept. 28th--and began, `My dear Madam,' but I forget how it went on; and it was signed `F. C. Weston Churchill.'-- I remember that perfectly." "How very pleasing and proper of him!" cried the good-hearted Mrs. John Knightley. "I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man. But how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father! There is something so shocking in a child's being taken away from his parents and natural home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part with him. To give up one's child! I really never could think well of any body who proposed such a thing to any body else." "Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy," observed Mr. John Knightley coolly. "But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have felt what you would feel in giving up Henry or John. Mr. Weston is rather an easy, cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings; he takes things as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow or other, depending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society for his comforts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, and playing whist with his neighbours five times a week, than upon family affection, or any thing that home affords." Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and had half a mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let it pass. She would keep the peace if possible; and there was something honourable and valuable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home to himself, whence resulted her brother's disposition to look down on the common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was important.--It had a high claim to forbearance. CHAPTER XII Mr. Knightley was to dine with them--rather against the inclination of Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one should share with him in Isabella's first day. Emma's sense of right however had decided it; and besides the consideration of what was due to each brother, she had particular pleasure, from the circumstance of the late disagreement between Mr. Knightley and herself, in procuring him the proper invitation. She hoped they might now become friends again. She thought it was time to make up. Making-up indeed would not do. She certainly had not been in the wrong, and he would never own that he had. Concession must


noise. Lelliot makes the funny quacking noise, and he makes his arms like wings and flaps them up and down like a bird. Lelliot is funny. Mommy laughs. Lelliot laughs. I laugh. “You like this song, Christian?” And Mommy has her sad-happy face. I have a stock-ing. It is red and it has a picture of a man with a red hat and a big white beard. He is Santa. Santa brings presents. I have seen pictures of Santa. But Santa never brought me presents before. I was bad. Santa doesn’t bring presents to boys who are bad. Now I am good. My new mommy says I am good, very good. New Mommy doesn’t know. I must never tell New Mommy . . . but I am bad. I don’t want New Mommy to know that. Daddy hangs the stock-ing over the fireplace. Lelliot has a stocking, too. Lelliot can read the word on his stock-ing. It says Lelliot. There is a word on my stock- ing. Christian. New Mommy spells it out. C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N. 528/551 Daddy sits on my bed. He reads to me. I hold my blankie. I have a big room. So- metimes the room is dark and I have bad dreams. Bad dreams about before. My new mommy comes to bed with me when I have the bad dreams. She lies down and she sings soft songs and I go to sleep. She smells of soft and new and lovely. My new mommy is not cold. Not like . . . not like . . . And my bad dreams go when she is there asleep with me. Santa has been here. Santa does not know I have been bad. I am glad Santa does not know. I have a train and a plane and a helicopter and a car and a helicopter. My helicopter can fly. My helicopter is blue. It flies around the Christmas tree. It flies over the piano and lands in the middle of the white. It flies over Mommy and flies over Daddy and flies over Lelliot as he plays with the Lego. The helicopter flies through the house, through the dining room, through the kitchen. He flies past the door to Daddy’s study and upstairs in my bedroom, in Lelliot’s bedroom, Mommy and Daddy’s bedroom. He flies through the house, because it’s my house. My house where I live. Monday, May 9, 2011 “Tomorrow,” I mutter, dismissing Claude Bastille as he stands on the threshold of my office. “Golf, this week, Grey.” Bastille grins with easy arrogance, knowing that his victory on the golf course is assured. 530/551 I scowl after him as he turns and leaves. His parting words rub salt into my wounds because despite my heroic attempts in the gym this morning, my personal trainer has kicked my ass. Bastille is the only one who can beat me, and now he wants another pound of flesh on the golf course. I detest golf, but so much busi- ness is done on the fairways I have to endure his lessons there


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

easier for her to sense Mortem recently, and she wasn’t fond of the development. She gave her hand one more firm shake before heading into the kitchen. “End of the month, Elle-Flower.” There was barely enough coffee in the chipped ceramic pot for one cup. Lore poured all of it into the stained cloth she used as a strainer and balled it in her fingers as she put the kettle over the fire. If there was only one cup of coffee in this house, she’d be the one drinking it. “Don’t call me that.” Elle groaned as she shifted to sit up. She’d fallen asleep in her dancer’s tights, and a long run traced up each calf. It’d piss her off once she noticed, but the patrons of the Foghorn and Fiddle down the street wouldn’t care. One squinting look into the wine bottle to make sure it was empty and Elle shoved off the couch to stand. “Michal isn’t awake, we don’t have to pretend we like each other.” Lore snorted. In the year she’d been living with Michal, it’d become very obvious that she’d never get along with his sister. It didn’t bother Lore. Her relationship with Michal was built on a lie, a sand foundation with no hope of holding, so why try to make friends? As soon as Val gave the word, she’d be gone. Elle pushed past her into the kitchen, the spiderweb cracks on the windows refracting veined light on the tattered edges of her tulle skirt. She peered into the pot. “No coffee?” Lore tightened her hand around the cloth knotted in her fist. “Afraid not.” “Bleeding God.” Elle flopped onto one of the chairs by the pockmarked kitchen table. For a dancer, she was surprisingly ungraceful when sober. “I’ll take tea, then.” “Surely you don’t expect me to get it for you.” A grumble and a roll of bright-blue eyes as Elle slinked her way toward the cupboard. While her back was turned, Lore tucked the straining cloth into the lip of her mug and poured hot water over it, hoping Elle was too residually drunk to recognize the scent. Still grumbling, Elle scooped tea that was little more than dust into another mug. “Well?” She took the kettle from Lore without looking at her and apparently without smelling her coffee. “How’d it go? Is Michal finally going to have to spend money on something other than alcohol and betting at the boxing ring?” “Not on rent, at least.” Lore kept her back turned as she tugged the straining cloth and the tiny knot of coffee grounds from her cup and stuffed it in her pocket. “We’re paid up for six months.” “Is that why you look so disheveled?” Elle’s mouth pulled into a self-satisfied moue. “He could get it cheaper across the street.” “The dishevelment is the fault of your brother, actually.” Lore turned and leaned against the counter. “And barbs about Madam’s girls don’t suit you, Elle-Flower. It’s work like any other. To think otherwise just proves you dull.” Another eye roll.


hoes as though we were medieval serfs. We would be awakened at 5:00 in the morning by the ex–Navy SEAL blaring a police siren from his Honda Civic as he drove down the gravel road behind our cabins. Then a lucky quarter of us would be placed on mess duty, making breakfast while the rest of us performed “inspection,” which meant cleaning every inch of every cabin and standing outside while the former pastor and the ex–Navy SEAL inspected each of them. Both the former pastor’s and the ex–Navy SEAL’s names were Doug, so we referred to them by their last names: Mr. Kimborough (the former pastor) and Mr. Sledge (the ex–Navy SEAL). Kimborough would sometimes compliment us on our cleaning, but Sledge always found something out of place, some crumb or pocket of dust untouched by our washcloths and brooms, and for these small errors he would make us run three times around the entire property. This happened so often that I couldn’t remember going to breakfast not sweating, too hot and dizzy to eat whatever warm mash those on mess duty had prepared. We would be worked so hard for the rest of the day that I should have had an appetite, but I never did. I typically ate a boiled egg or a rock-hard potato for lunch, and then I choked down half of whatever protein-rich mash was being served for dinner. Being rotated onto mess duty didn’t help the problem, either, because I didn’t know how to cook—no one did, really. I lost twenty pounds I didn’t have to spare. Last Chance Camp was supposed to be the final stop before juvie, but its price tag suggested that whoever went there had parents who could pay their way out of juvie. The cost was prohibitive for my family, but my dad insisted I apply for a scholarship after the incident. I tried to tank the essay but I was required to submit my transcripts, and there was no way to pretend that I didn’t have a near-perfect GPA. This was because the material in high school was easy to master without taking notes or spending more than ten minutes glancing over a textbook. I was able to quickly diagnose each teacher’s particular brand of laziness. If they were enamored of their own cults of personality, they’d assign massive tests that were worth half the grade. If they were timid and bored, they’d assign frequent quizzes that someone with a memory worse than mine might have needed to study for. And if they were bitter about their unglamorous work, as most of them were, they arranged the class so they’d have to do as little grading as possible: one big project that was easily bullshit-able, one big test that there was no need to study for. Last Chance awarded me a full scholarship, much to my horror and disappointment. I landed at Last Chance because of a hustle. My family lived in an apartment on the border of a wealthy school district, and my parents had lobbied to let


"you will be welcome there, in a private and personal capacity." We had held this conversation in a low voice, well knowing my guardian's ears to be the sharpest of the sharp. As he now appeared in his doorway, towelling his hands, Wemmick got on his greatcoat and stood by to snuff out the candles. We all three went into the street together, and from the door-step Wemmick turned his way, and Mr. Jaggers and I turned ours. I could not help wishing more than once that evening, that Mr. Jaggers had had an Aged in Gerrard-street, or a Stinger, or a Something, or a Somebody, to unbend his brows a little. It was an uncomfortable consideration on a twenty-first birthday, that coming of age at all seemed hardly worth while in such a guarded and suspicious world as he made of it. He was a thousand times better informed and cleverer than Wemmick, and yet I would a thousand times rather have had Wemmick to dinner. And Mr. Jaggers made not me alone intensely melancholy, because, after he was gone, Herbert said of himself, with his eyes fixed on the fire, that he thought he must have committed a felony and forgotten the details of it, he felt so dejected and guilty. Chapter 37 Deeming Sunday the best day for taking Mr. Wemmick's Walworth sentiments, I devoted the next ensuing Sunday afternoon to a pilgrimage to the Castle. On arriving before the battlements, I found the Union Jack flying and the drawbridge up; but undeterred by this show of defiance and resistance, I rang at the gate, and was admitted in a most pacific manner by the Aged. "My son, sir," said the old man, after securing the drawbridge, "rather had it in his mind that you might happen to drop in, and he left word that he would soon be home from his afternoon's walk. He is very regular in his walks, is my son. Very regular in everything, is my son." I nodded at the old gentleman as Wemmick himself might have nodded, and we went in and sat down by the fireside. "You made acquaintance with my son, sir," said the old man, in his chirping way, while he warmed his hands at the blaze, "at his office, I expect?" I nodded. "Hah! I have heerd that my son is a wonderful hand at his business, sir?" I nodded hard. "Yes; so they tell me. His business is the Law?" I nodded harder. "Which makes it more surprising in my son," said the old man, "for he was not brought up to the Law, but to the Wine-Coopering." Curious to know how the old gentleman stood informed concerning the reputation of Mr. Jaggers, I roared that name at him. He threw me into the greatest confusion by laughing heartily and replying in a very sprightly manner, "No, to be sure; you're right." And to this hour I have not the faintest notion what he meant, or what joke he thought I had made. As I could not sit


a temperature and can't leave his room. Mamma needs you dreadfully, and I do hope you can get away at once and go straight to Granny's." Archer handed the note to his senior partner, and a few minutes later was crawling northward in a crowded horse-car, which he exchanged at Fourteenth Street for one of the high staggering omnibuses of the Fifth Avenue line. It was after twelve o'clock when this laborious vehicle dropped him at old Catherine's. The sitting-room window on the ground floor, where she usually throned, was tenanted by the inadequate figure of her daughter, Mrs. Welland, who signed a haggard welcome as she caught sight of Archer; and at the door he was met by May. The hall wore the unnatural appearance peculiar to well-kept houses suddenly invaded by illness: wraps and furs lay in heaps on the chairs, a doctor's bag and overcoat were on the table, and beside them letters and cards had already piled up unheeded. May looked pale but smiling: Dr. Bencomb, who had just come for the second time, took a more hopeful view, and Mrs. Mingott's dauntless determination to live and get well was already having an effect on her family. May led Archer into the old lady's sitting-room, where the sliding doors opening into the bedroom had been drawn shut, and the heavy yellow damask portieres dropped over them; and here Mrs. Welland communicated to him in horrified undertones the details of the catastrophe. It appeared that the evening before something dreadful and mysterious had happened. At about eight o'clock, just after Mrs. Mingott had finished the game of solitaire that she always played after dinner, the door-bell had rung, and a lady so thickly veiled that the servants did not immediately recognise her had asked to be received. The butler, hearing a familiar voice, had thrown open the sitting-room door, announcing: "Mrs. Julius Beaufort"--and had then closed it again on the two ladies. They must have been together, he thought, about an hour. When Mrs. Mingott's bell rang Mrs. Beaufort had already slipped away unseen, and the old lady, white and vast and terrible, sat alone in her great chair, and signed to the butler to help her into her room. She seemed, at that time, though obviously distressed, in complete control of her body and brain. The mulatto maid put her to bed, brought her a cup of tea as usual, laid everything straight in the room, and went away; but at three in the morning the bell rang again, and the two servants, hastening in at this unwonted summons (for old Catherine usually slept like a baby), had found their mistress sitting up against her pillows with a crooked smile on her face and one little hand hanging limp from its huge arm. The stroke had clearly been a slight one, for she was able to articulate and to make her wishes known; and soon after the doctor's first visit she had begun to regain control of her facial muscles. But the alarm had been great; and proportionately


to march with banners displayed in open force over Anfauglith. But when he had drawn forth, as he hoped, the armies of Morgoth in answer, then Fingon should issue forth from the passes of Hithlum; and thus they thought to take the might of Morgoth as between anvil and hammer, and break it to pieces. And the signal for this was to be the firing of a great beacon in Dorthonion. On the appointed day, on the morning of Midsummer, the trumpets of the Eldar greeted the rising of the sun; and in the east was raised the standard of the sons of Fanor, and in the west the standard of Fingon, High King of the Noldor. Then Fingon looked out from the walls of Eithel Sirion, and his host was arrayed in the valleys and the woods upon the east of Ered Wethrin, well hid from the eyes of the Enemy; but he knew that it was very great. For there all the Noldor of Hithlum were assembled, together with Elves of the Falas and Gwindor's company from Nargothrond, and he had great strength of Men: upon the right were the host of Dor-lmin and all the valour of Hrin and Huor his brother, and to them had come Haldir of Brethil with many men of the woods. Then Fingon looked towards Thangorodrim, and there was a dark cloud about it, and a black smoke went up; and he knew that the wrath of Morgoth was aroused, and that their challenge was accepted. A shadow of doubt fell upon Fingon's heart; and he looked eastwards, seeking if he might see with elven-sight the dust of Anfauglith rising beneath the hosts of Maedhros. He knew not that Maedhros was hindered in his setting-forth by the guile of Uldor the accursed, who deceived him with false warnings of assault from Angband. But now a cry went up, passing up the wind from the south from vale to vale, and Elves and Men lifted their voices in wonder and joy. For unsummoned and unlocked for Turgon had opened the leaguer of Gondolin, and was come with an army ten thousand strong, with bright mail and long swords and spears like a forest. Then when Fingon heard afar the great trumpet of Turgon his brother, the shadow passed and his heart was uplifted, and he shouted aloud: 'Utlie'n aur! Aiya Eldali ar Atanatri, utlie'n aur! The day has come! Behold, people of the Eldar and Fathers of Men, the day has come!' And all those who heard his great voice echo in the hills answered crying: 'Auta i lm! The night is passing!' Now Morgoth, who knew much of what was done and designed by his enemies, chose his hour, and trusting in his treacherous servants to hold back Maedhros and prevent the union of his foes he sent a force seeming great (and yet but part of all that he had made ready) towards Hithlum; and they were clad all in dun raiment and showed no naked steel, and thus were already far over


they made his guests deplore his inexorable punctuality. Archer, after the first act, had detached himself from the party and made his way to the back of the club box. From there he watched, over various Chivers, Mingott and Rushworth shoulders, the same scene that he had looked at, two years previously, on the night of his first meeting with Ellen Olenska. He had half- expected her to appear again in old Mrs. Mingott's box, but it remained empty; and he sat motionless, his eyes fastened on it, till suddenly Madame Nilsson's pure soprano broke out into "M'ama, non m'ama . . . " Archer turned to the stage, where, in the familiar setting of giant roses and pen-wiper pansies, the same large blonde victim was succumbing to the same small brown seducer. From the stage his eyes wandered to the point of the horseshoe where May sat between two older ladies, just as, on that former evening, she had sat between Mrs. Lovell Mingott and her newly-arrived "foreign" cousin. As on that evening, she was all in white; and Archer, who had not noticed what she wore, recognised the blue-white satin and old lace of her wedding dress. It was the custom, in old New York, for brides to appear in this costly garment during the first year or two of marriage: his mother, he knew, kept hers in tissue paper in the hope that Janey might some day wear it, though poor Janey was reaching the age when pearl grey poplin and no bridesmaids would be thought more "appropriate." It struck Archer that May, since their return from Europe, had seldom worn her bridal satin, and the surprise of seeing her in it made him compare her appearance with that of the young girl he had watched with such blissful anticipations two years earlier. Though May's outline was slightly heavier, as her goddesslike build had foretold, her athletic erectness of carriage, and the girlish transparency of her expression, remained unchanged: but for the slight languor that Archer had lately noticed in her she would have been the exact image of the girl playing with the bouquet of lilies-of-the-valley on her betrothal evening. The fact seemed an additional appeal to his pity: such innocence was as moving as the trustful clasp of a child. Then he remembered the passionate generosity latent under that incurious calm. He recalled her glance of understanding when he had urged that their engagement should be announced at the Beaufort ball; he heard the voice in which she had said, in the Mission garden: "I couldn't have my happiness made out of a wrong--a wrong to some one else;" and an uncontrollable longing seized him to tell her the truth, to throw himself on her generosity, and ask for the freedom he had once refused. Newland Archer was a quiet and self-controlled young man. Conformity to the discipline of a small society had become almost his second nature. It was deeply distasteful to him to do anything melodramatic and conspicuous, anything Mr. van der Luyden would have


start it going again. The face of Jim O'Brien, a Mastodon King and old-time comrade, caught his eyes. It was as a cue to him, seeming to rouse him to do what he would never have dreamed of doing. "Can you lend me a thousand?" he asked, almost in a whisper. "Sure," answered O'Brien, thumping down a plethoric sack by the side of Matthewson's. "Though it's little faith I'm having, John, that the beast can do the trick." The Eldorado emptied its occupants into the street to see the test. The tables were deserted, and the dealers and gamekeepers came forth to see the outcome of the wager and to lay odds. Several hundred men, furred and mittened, banked around the sled within easy distance. Matthewson's sled, loaded with a thousand pounds of flour, had been standing for a couple of hours, and in the intense cold (it was sixty below zero) the runners had frozen fast to the hard-packed snow. Men offered odds of two to one that Buck could not budge the sled. A quibble arose concerning the phrase "break out." O'Brien contended it was Thornton's privilege to knock the runners loose, leaving Buck to "break it out" from a dead standstill. Matthewson insisted that the phrase included breaking the runners from the frozen grip of the snow. A majority of the men who had witnessed the making of the bet decided in his favor, whereat the odds went up to three to one against Buck. There were no takers. Not a man believed him capable of the feat. Thornton had been hurried into the wager, heavy with doubt; and now that he looked at the sled itself, the concrete fact, with the regular team of ten dogs curled up in the snow before it, the more impossible the task appeared. Matthewson waxed jubilant. "Three to one!" he proclaimed. "I'll lay you another thousand at that figure, Thornton. What d'ye say?" Thornton's doubt was strong in his face, but his fighting spirit was aroused--the fighting spirit that soars above odds, fails to recognize the impossible, and is deaf to all save the clamor for battle. He called Hans and Pete to him. Their sacks were slim, and with his own the three partners could rake together only two hundred dollars. In the ebb of their fortunes, this sum was their total capital; yet they laid it unhesitatingly against Matthewson's six hundred. The team of ten dogs was unhitched, and Buck, with his own harness, was put into the sled. He had caught the contagion of the excitement, and he felt that in some way he must do a great thing for John Thornton. Murmurs of admiration at his splendid appearance went up. He was in perfect condition, without an ounce of superfluous flesh, and the one hundred and fifty pounds that he weighed were so many pounds of grit and virility. His furry coat shone with the sheen of silk. Down the neck and across the shoulders, his mane, in repose as it was, half bristled and seemed to lift


again as we grew old. The idea of playing nursemaid didn’t appeal, and on top of that, working in the theater is an all-consuming task, where every ounce of your being is devoted to connecting with the close circle of people around you. Then, once that show is up and running, you move on to the next circle. My guess is Peter’s work is like that as well. Throwing yourself into an investigation at the cost of everything else. We couldn’t have made it work, I understand that now. Although—and there’s always an although lurking in the recesses of my mind—I would have loved to share the journey with him. Even ten, twenty, years after we parted, I would hear something said at a party and think, Now, that would make Peter laugh. I suppose your first love is the one that stays with you, especially when it was never consummated. How easy it is to idealize someone when your time together was fraught and short. We were never bored together, never grated on each other’s nerves. It wasn’t real. My own tremor began ten years ago. I was holding the television remote in my right hand when it began moving back and forth. I knew immediately what was going on. After the doctor confirmed that I had Parkinson’s, I spiraled down into a depression. I was a dancer, for God’s sake; my life was about movement, my identity and sense of self were wrapped up in being able to move my limbs and body at will, to have perfect control over my muscles and tendons. I felt such shame at letting myself down. My body was always something that I could depend on, and with Parkinson’s I lost a part of myself. I thought my life was over. The prevailing advice at the time my father was diagnosed was to be careful, that someone with Parkinson’s must move slowly and cautiously to avoid falling. Instead, I fought back with every ounce of my being. I always felt my best when I was training. Even as a choreographer, I made sure to attend regular dance classes to stay in shape and remind myself of the physical demands I was making on my dancers. Doing so made it easier for me to not get frustrated or angry when they couldn’t replicate what I saw in my head. Soon after the diagnosis, I took even more classes. I discovered that when the music began, the Parkinson’s faded away. That was when I knew I was on the right track. I began telling people what was going on, and to my surprise, I was asked to share what I’d learned with others with the disease. I’m in the city at least twice a week now, running workshops, teaching others how to handle their gait and balance issues, how to look at their bodies in a new way. I take the mechanics and format of a ballet class—beginning by standing at the barre and focusing on small movements, eventually building up so the students are striding


out as my magic beat against me, seeking an outlet that did not exist. Tears ran down my temples, pooling between the Arin’s fingers. What was he doing to my magic? A ring of blue survived in eyes gone pitch-black. His lips parted, features awash in wonder. “How are you hiding this?” he said, voice low and accusatory. “I can feel—how can you—” The door opened, almost hesitantly, and I glimpsed Jeru blanching before Arin snarled an order, and another surge of agony scattered my thoughts. He was flaying me alive with nothing more than a searing touch. What brand of cruelty was this? What manner of murder? A soft touch against my forehead forced my eyes open again. Niphran smiled down at me. “Can I come home?” I wept. “Please?” Her skin was fragments of the sun, her shifting eyes stolen from the surface of the sea. “Fight.” I twisted weakly. Arin’s hand dug deeper, curling into my hair. His eyes were blank, swallowed whole by darkness. “I cannot!” Did the Nizahl Heir have magic? How else could he be doing this? “He is reacting to your magic, and it is stealing him from his right mind,” Niphran said. The sun inside her shone brighter, blinding me. “He will kill you if you do not resist.” I sank into the raging froth of my magic. It battered against me, growing more enraged with each ineffectual attempt at gaining freedom. His touch drew at my magic without an avenue of release, leaving it shrieking just beneath my skin. “Do not resist who you are,” Niphran murmured. The sun engulfed her, a white inferno bursting forth and flooding the room in an unbearable brilliance. “Essiya.” They have taken enough. Nizahl will not destroy what is left of my family. The ground shook beneath me. The cabinet rained debris as the maps on the wall fluttered wildly. I screamed with a thousand voices as something crumbled inside me. A whisper of relief eased the pressure on my cuffs, and Arin flew into the wall on the opposite side of the room. He caught himself before hitting the ground. The earth rocked, tilting the cabinet forward. It was not Niyar’s or Palia’s face I conjured as the cabinet groaned, but Rory’s scowl. Sefa’s musical laughter. Marek rubbing soot from his roasted peanuts and offering a handful to Fairel. Alarm flashed across Arin’s expression, now devoid of its delirium. The cabinet yawned forward. I had enough time to close my eyes before something collided with the side of my body, hurling me into nothingness. I swam circles in the velvet darkness of the lake. The creatures dancing down here were much more intriguing than anything waiting for me on the surface. Wake up, said a disgruntled fish with six lavender tails. It used Rory’s voice. I frowned and swam toward a large bolti with Dawoud’s stern nose. You cannot sleep any longer, Essiya. Who was Essiya? I started to tell the Dawoud bolti it was mistaken—my name was Sylvia, probably—but the water rushed into my mouth,


like Yankee Candle and dust. She went to the garbage can, tipped open the lid, and stopped. Pupkin was gone. “Hey!” Mark said behind her. Louise jumped. She turned and saw him staring at her through the open garage door. pupkin isn’t there, he’s escaped, he’ll be so angry She dropped the Squirrel Nativity into the can and slammed the lid shut. “Hey is for horses,” she said, a favorite saying of their mom’s. “I know what you’re doing.” He smiled. “You think I’m going to freak out over how long this is taking and cut you in on the sale.” She locked her face into its blankest expression and asked in an innocent voice, “You’re planning on selling?” “Homeownership is for suckers,” he said. “I’m a happy renter.” “Aunt Honey’s going to be angry,” Louise said. “She thinks you should keep it and rent it out the way Mom used to, or move in.” “Yeah, well,” Mark said, “it’s my house now, so I don’t really care about your opinion.” “Cool,” she said. “I’ll try to get everything out of here as soon as I can.” Which she had no intention of doing. “I can wait,” he said. “I can wait months. The market just keeps getting better and better.” “Mercy said the bubble’s at its peak,” she said, using whatever advantage she could find. “You don’t want to wait too long.” “Mom left everything to me, Louise. That won’t change no matter how much longer you drag your feet.” “Okay,” she said, and she couldn’t get her face to relax. Her fake smile felt like a snarl. “You’ve got a job,” Mark said, “and a kid. And you’re going to go back to all that in what, a week? A week and a half? By March this house will be on the market and there’s nothing you can do about it.” He looked so smug. He thought he could predict everything she was going to do. “Maybe I’ll move here,” she said. “Maybe I’ll bring Poppy. You want to wait me out? I can bring my daughter here, where the cost of living is cheaper, and I can waste years in Charleston going through this house. You’re never selling this fucking place while I’m alive.” Her chest felt flushed, her face felt hot. Mark looked elated. “So if I split it fifty-fifty you’ll pack up and stop pretending you care about Mom’s art?” That stopped her. A fifty-fifty split, and this would be over. They’d reschedule Agutter for next week and it would end. She could go home. She could see Poppy. Everything would go back to normal. Think of Poppy getting a quarter-million-dollar head start in life, Louise told herself. And you never have to deal with Mark again. She opened her mouth to say something and Mark raised his eyebrows and Louise realized it was a trap. He wanted to see if she’d get greedy and then he’d yank the rug out from under her. He’d never shared anything with her in her life. “You can’t put a


or contributed in printed form, following the precedent of Philip Beaufoy or Doctor Dick or Heblon's STUDIES IN BLUE, to a publication of certified circulation and solvency or employed verbally as intellectual stimulation for sympathetic auditors, tacitly appreciative of successful narrative and confidently augurative of successful achievement, during the increasingly longer nights gradually following the summer solstice on the day but three following, videlicet, Tuesday, 21 June (S. Aloysius Gonzaga), sunrise 3.33 a.m., sunset 8.29 p.m. Which domestic problem as much as, if not more than, any other frequently engaged his mind? What to do with our wives. What had been his hypothetical singular solutions? Parlour games (dominos, halma, tiddledywinks, spilikins, cup and ball, nap, spoil five, bezique, twentyfive, beggar my neighbour, draughts, chess or backgammon): embroidery, darning or knitting for the policeaided clothing society: musical duets, mandoline and guitar, piano and flute, guitar and piano: legal scrivenery or envelope addressing: biweekly visits to variety entertainments: commercial activity as pleasantly commanding and pleasingly obeyed mistress proprietress in a cool dairy shop or warm cigar divan: the clandestine satisfaction of erotic irritation in masculine brothels, state inspected and medically controlled: social visits, at regular infrequent prevented intervals and with regular frequent preventive superintendence, to and from female acquaintances of recognised respectability in the vicinity: courses of evening instruction specially designed to render liberal instruction agreeable. What instances of deficient mental development in his wife inclined him in favour of the lastmentioned (ninth) solution? In disoccupied moments she had more than once covered a sheet of paper with signs and hieroglyphics which she stated were Greek and Irish and Hebrew characters. She had interrogated constantly at varying intervals as to the correct method of writing the capital initial of the name of a city in Canada, Quebec. She understood little of political complications, internal, or balance of power, external. In calculating the addenda of bills she frequently had recourse to digital aid. After completion of laconic epistolary compositions she abandoned the implement of calligraphy in the encaustic pigment, exposed to the corrosive action of copperas, green vitriol and nutgall. Unusual polysyllables of foreign origin she interpreted phonetically or by false analogy or by both: metempsychosis (met him pike hoses), ALIAS (a mendacious person mentioned in sacred scripture). What compensated in the false balance of her intelligence for these and such deficiencies of judgment regarding persons, places and things? The false apparent parallelism of all perpendicular arms of all balances, proved true by construction. The counterbalance of her proficiency of judgment regarding one person, proved true by experiment. How had he attempted to remedy this state of comparative ignorance? Variously. By leaving in a conspicuous place a certain book open at a certain page: by assuming in her, when alluding explanatorily, latent knowledge: by open ridicule in her presence of some absent other's ignorant lapse. With what success had he attempted direct instruction? She followed not all, a part of the whole, gave attention with interest comprehended with surprise, with care repeated, with greater difficulty remembered, forgot with ease, with misgiving reremembered, rerepeated with error.


our mistakes. Men had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of warning, had claimed for it a certain moral efficacy in the formation of character, had praised it as something that taught us what to follow and showed us what to avoid. But there was no motive power in experience. It was as little of an active cause as conscience itself. All that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same as our past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, we would do many times, and with joy. It was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method by which one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; and certainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to promise rich and fruitful results. His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. There was no doubt that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for new experiences; yet it was not a simple but rather a very complex passion. What there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct of boyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination, changed into something that seemed to the boy himself to be remote from sense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous. It was the passions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most strongly over us. Our weakest motives were those of whose nature we were conscious. It often happened that when we thought we were experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves. While Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the door, and his valet entered, and reminded him it was time to dress [32] for dinner. He got up and looked out into the street. The sunset had smitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite. The panes glowed like plates of heated metal. The sky above was like a faded rose. He thought of Dorian Gray's young fiery-colored life, and wondered how it was all going to end. When he arrived home, about half-past twelve o'clock, he saw a telegram lying on the hall-table. He opened it and found it was from Dorian. It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to Sibyl Vane. CHAPTER IV [...32] "I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?" said Lord Henry on the following evening, as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol where dinner had been laid for three. "No, Harry," answered Hallward, giving his hat and coat to the bowing waiter. "What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope? They don't interest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons worth painting; though many of them would be the better for a little whitewashing." "Dorian Gray is engaged to be married," said Lord Henry, watching him as he spoke. Hallward turned perfectly pale, and a curious


and I could feel that he was crying. “I’m sorry, Sadie,” he said. “Your mom would hate me so much for how I failed you.” My knee-jerk impulse was to say, You didn’t fail me. But of course he had. Not just then, but after—over and over. So instead I said, “But you’re here now. And you brought her favorite flowers.” His voice was almost a whisper. “Of course.” And then, with his bandaged hand, he broke one of the yellow marigolds out of my bouquet and tucked it behind my ear with the daisy. Did this one moment magically make everything better? No. But it didn’t make things worse, either. I’ll give it that. And now whenever I see a marigold, I think of my mom, of course, as ever—but I think of my dad, too. Apologizing. * * * AFTER HE DROVE away with Lucinda, I picked up my orchid from Mrs. Kim and then eyed the gallery entrance. There were still forty-five minutes left. A courageous person would return and stay till the end. But I wasn’t sure how courageous I was. It was one thing to not leave my post—it was another thing to be out and then force myself back in. I might be a few guts short of the guts I needed to do that. But I’d barely had time to consider that before, in rapid succession, I got that primal feeling of someone watching me, turned to see who it was, and caught a fraction of a glimpse of Parker, edging around the corner, out of sight. She was still here. Lingering at the scene of one of her many crimes. I took a few steps in that direction, thinking she was running away and I might chase after her. But then I saw her shadow on the sidewalk. She hadn’t run away. She was just hiding. Hiding. I would’ve expected her to be out here, gloating. Cackling. Savoring the misery she’d wrought. Hiding made me wonder. Was she ashamed of herself? Could she even feel shame? Did she feel guilty? Remorseful? Even—and I shook my head, even as I thought it—sorry? I’d overheard a few things about Parker’s life, too, during the years when we all lived in one house together. I once heard Lucinda on the phone telling a friend the whole story about how Parker’s dad walked out very dramatically one night—with his mistress waiting in the car. Parker had tried to hold on to his leg to keep him from going, but he shook her off the way you might shake off a terrier—and he had kicked so hard, Parker slammed her head against the metal doorstop and had to go to the ER. In my more generous moments, I’d sometimes wonder if her father’s leaving like that haunted her. If she was still reckoning with that moment somehow. If she’d rather do bad things and make herself into a bad person than have to face the idea that she might’ve been unlovable just as she was. Or maybe she was


was not imposed upon them. Promiscuity went unpunished, divorce was permitted. For that matter, even religious worship would have been permitted if the proles had shown any sign of needing or wanting it. They were beneath suspicion. As the Party slogan put it: 'Proles and animals are free.' Winston reached down and cautiously scratched his varicose ulcer. It had begun itching again. The thing you invariably came back to was the impossibility of knowing what life before the Revolution had really been like. He took out of the drawer a copy of a children's history textbook which he had borrowed from Mrs Parsons, and began copying a passage into the diary: In the old days (it ran), before the glorious Revolution, London was not the beautiful city that we know today. It was a dark, dirty, miserable place where hardly anybody had enough to eat and where hundreds and thousands of poor people had no boots on their feet and not even a roof to sleep under. Children no older than you had to work twelve hours a day for cruel masters who flogged them with whips if they worked too slowly and fed them on nothing but stale breadcrusts and water. But in among all this terrible poverty there were just a few great big beautiful houses that were lived in by rich men who had as many as thirty servants to look after them. These rich men were called capitalists. They were fat, ugly men with wicked faces, like the one in the picture on the opposite page. You can see that he is dressed in a long black coat which was called a frock coat, and a queer, shiny hat shaped like a stovepipe, which was called a top hat. This was the uniform of the capitalists, and no one else was allowed to wear it. The capitalists owned everything in the world, and everyone else was their slave. They owned all the land, all the houses, all the factories, and all the money. If anyone disobeyed them they could file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (41 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt throw them into prison, or they could take his job away and starve him to death. When any ordinary person spoke to a capitalist he had to cringe and bow to him, and take off his cap and address him as 'Sir'. The chief of all the capitalists was called the King, and---- But he knew the rest of the catalogue. There would be mention of the bishops in their lawn sleeves, the judges in their ermine robes, the pillory, the stocks, the treadmill, the cat-o'-nine tails, the Lord Mayor's Banquet, and the practice of kissing the Pope's toe. There was also something called the JUS PRIMAE NOCTIS, which would probably not be mentioned in a textbook for children. It was the law by which every capitalist had the right to sleep with any woman working in one of his factories. How could you tell how much of it was lies? It MIGHT be true that the average human being was


have a fine surprise, but his face killed my joy. A flash of plain fear was going out of his eyes, but returned when Dill and Jem wriggled into the light. There was a smell of stale whiskey and pigpen about, and when I glanced around I discovered that these men were strangers. They were not the people I saw last night. Hot embarrassment shot through me: I had leaped triumphantly into a ring of people I had never seen before. Atticus got up from his chair, but he was moving slowly, like an old man. He put the newspaper down very carefully, adjusting its creases with lingering fingers. They were trembling a little. "Go home, Jem," he said. "Take Scout and Dill home." We were accustomed to prompt, if not always cheerful acquiescence to Atticus's instructions, but from the way he stood Jem was not thinking of budging. "Go home, I said." Jem shook his head. As Atticus's fists went to his hips, so did Jem's, and as they faced each other I could see little resemblance between them: Jem's soft brown hair and eyes, his oval face and snug-fitting ears were our mother's, contrasting oddly with Atticus's graying black hair and square-cut features, but they were somehow alike. Mutual defiance made them alike. "Son, I said go home." Jem shook his head. "I'll send him home," a burly man said, and grabbed Jem roughly by the collar. He yanked Jem nearly off his feet. "Don't you touch him!" I kicked the man swiftly. Barefooted, I was surprised to see him fall back in real pain. I intended to kick his shin, but aimed too high. "That'll do, Scout." Atticus put his hand on my shoulder. "Don't kick folks. No-" he said, as I was pleading justification. "Ain't nobody gonna do Jem that way," I said. "All right, Mr. Finch, get 'em outa here," someone growled. "You got fifteen seconds to get 'em outa here." In the midst of this strange assembly, Atticus stood trying to make Jem mind him. "I ain't going," was his steady answer to Atticus's threats, requests, and finally, "Please Jem, take them home." I was getting a bit tired of that, but felt Jem had his own reasons for doing as he did, in view of his prospects once Atticus did get him home. I looked around the crowd. It was a summer's night, but the men were dressed, most of them, in overalls and denim shirts buttoned up to the collars. I thought they must be cold-natured, as their sleeves were unrolled and buttoned at the cuffs. Some wore hats pulled firmly down over their ears. They were sullen-looking, sleepy-eyed men who seemed unused to late hours. I sought once more for a familiar face, and at the center of the semi-circle I found one. "Hey, Mr. Cunningham." The man did not hear me, it seemed. "Hey, Mr. Cunningham. How's your entailment gettin' along?" Mr. Walter Cunningham's legal affairs were well known to me; Atticus had once described them at length. The big man blinked


“That’s coming out of your pay,” I said, deadpan. “Wait … I’m supposed to be getting paid?” Looking about the bridge, I saw the others situating themselves at their respective stations. “Situation report. Where are we?” I looked to where Coogong had been sitting, but it was now just an empty chair. “And somebody find Coogong.” “Uh, here he is,” Grimes said, bent over, looking beneath an adjacent console. With the helmsman’s help, Coogong got to his feet. We all saw it—the Thine alien’s helmet had a serious vertical crack running down the middle. That, and it was leaking Ambiogell goo. “I got this,” Hardy said, hurrying over to Coogong. In two long strides the ChronoBot swept Coogong up into his arms. A moment later, the two were hurrying off the bridge. Where Hardy had taken Coogong, I had no idea. Tapping at her board, Akari answered my original question. “I have no idea where we are.” She looked at me. “Most definitely not where we were … not in that same universe. If we’re home, we’ll need to reconfigure our sensors back to be sure.” Grimes said, “From a navigation standpoint, Captain … I have no reference for this star system. What I can tell you is EUNF US Space-Navy’s celestial database is coming up blank. I do have a rough idea of what direction home is.” I looked to Bosun Polk, who shrugged. “I’ve got nothing for you, sir. I can deploy a comms relay. Would increase our chances of making contact with the fleet.” “Yes, make that happen.” I stared at the halo display. “Seriously … we’re back inside another asteroid field?” “Technically, we weren’t in an asteroid field prior—” I cut Akari off with a stare. “Sir, your head. That’s quite a gash you got there. If I may suggest, a few minutes in HealthBay would be a good idea.” “Thank you, Lieutenant, but I’m fine.” I looked up. “Sir Calvin, damage assessment?” DAMAGE IS MINIMAL. ADAMS’ RESTRAINING CLAMPS 4, 7, AND 9 ON THE PORT SIDE FRACTURED. PORTENT HAS MINOR DAMAGE TO HER OUTER HULL. I waited for more, but none came. Bosun Polk said, “We have injuries, Captain, but nothing all that serious being reported by HealthBay.” She looked up. “A few sprained wrists and ankles,” she chinned back at me, “… bonks to the head.” Hands on hips, I stared at the halo display. All seemed to be quiet. No incoming missiles, no alien ships. “Captain?” Akari said. I said, “Can the bridge crew reconfigure our sensors back to normal?” Of course, I already knew the answer to that. “Well … Yes, I already said we can—” “No. Not you, Lieutenant James, them,” I said, gesturing to the others. “Uh, I guess so,” she said, looking both a little confused and hurt. “How would you like to join me in a little spin around the neighborhood? I’m sure we can find a couple of Arrows still operational.” With a broad smile, she jumped to her feet. “Reconnaissance, right? Who needs operational sensors when two of


would deny it, of course—any narcissist would. For now, she’d feed his ego. Later, he wouldn’t know what hit him. Pristy followed after him. “Yes, General, I’m right behind you.” Chapter 53 Liquilid Empire Star System USS Adams Captain Galvin Quintos USS Adams powered deeper into the asteroid field, Grimes, sweating bullets at the helm, deftly maneuvering the dreadnought to avoid one catastrophic collision after another. Behind us, Boundless Wrath and Portent followed closely, seeking the safety of Adam’s protective Phazon Pulsar cannons and rail guns. Meanwhile, the enemy Liquilid frigates closed in, unleashing their energy weapons upon us. Adams’, Wrath’s, and Portent’s shields strained under the relentless assault. I glanced to Akari. “Don’t let up, Lieutenant … Bring all aft cannons to bear.” Bosun Polk, having joined her at Tactical, the oldest of the bridge crew, was looking frayed, if not overwhelmed. Chen’s voice broke through the tension. “Urgent message from Wrath … Captain Loggins. Says their shields are faltering. Says their situation is … dire.” Akari, her eyes focused on her board, said, “Yeah, well, our own shields are down to 65 percent.” The feeling of dread was conspicuous. Grimes, his voice taut with nervousness, said, “Uh … we’ve run out of open space ahead.” He sat back, deflated. No one said anything. “But maybe I can …” I saw what we were up against on the display. It would be a perilous maneuver, to say the least. Grimes would have to thread the proverbial needle, skirting in between two close-together massive asteroids. “Do it,” I said. “Aye, but it’ll be tight, sir.” Collectively, the bridge crew held their respective breaths as Adams approached the seemingly impossibly narrow ingress between the two mammoth-sized, counter-rotating asteroids. I cringed, gritting my molars as a prolonged, thunderous scraping sound reverberated through the ship. Everything shook, overhead lights flickered, a console at the back of the bridge erupted—sparks fountained into the air. Grimes winced. “Sorry!” Not realizing it, I had brought my palms together in front of my lips, as though silently praying. On the halo display, Wrath and Portent, having fallen back, now cleared the asteroids behind us; all the while enemy fire continued to rain down upon them. “Shit!” Akari said, her voice carrying a level of urgency I’d rarely heard. “Rail guns are now officially offline.” Looking back over one shoulder, she added, “That leaves us with limited options.” Was it limited or none? I wondered. But an idea was brewing. Then again, desperation tended to do that. “Mr. Grimes,” I called out, my voice filled with determination I wasn’t sure I actually felt, “Slow us to a crawl, then bring Adams about two hundred and seventy degrees! Do it now!” I needed the ship’s orientation perpendicular to what was coming for us. We’d be executing a risky tactic that could possibly save us. That, or quicken our demise. “Mr. Chen, signal Wrath and Portent they need to clear away from Adams … Give us a little elbow room.” Akari turned to me, a mix of confusion and anticipation in her


was Aredhel the White. She was younger in the years of the Eldar than her brothers; and when she was grown to full stature and beauty she was tall and strong, and loved much to ride and hunt in the forests. There she was often in the company of the sons of Fanor, her kin; but to none was her heart's love given. Ar-Feiniel she was called, the White Lady of the Noldor, for she was pale though her hair was dark, and she was never arrayed but in silver and white. The sons of Finarfin were Finrod the faithful (who was afterwards named Felagund, Lord of Caves), Orodreth, Angrod, and Aegnor; these tour were as close in friendship with the sons of Fingolfin as though they were all brothers. A sister they had, Galadriel, most beautiful of all the house of Finw; her hair was lit with gold as though it had caught in a mesh the radiance of Laurelin. Here must be told how the Teleri came at last to the land of Aman. Through a long age they dwelt in Tol Eressa; but slowly their hearts were changed, and were drawn towards the light that flowed out over the sea to the Lonely Isle. They were torn between the love of the music of the waves upon their shores, and the desire to see again their kindred and to look upon the splendour of Valinor; but in the end desire of the light was the stronger. Therefore Ulmo, submitting to the will of the Valar, sent to them Oss, their friend, and he though grieving taught them the craft of ship-building; and when their ships were built he brought them as his parting gift many strong-winged swans. Then the swans drew the white ships of the Teleri over the windless sea; and thus at last and latest they came to Aman and the shores of Eldamar. There they dwelt, and if they wished they could see the light of the Trees, and could tread the golden streets of Valmar and the crystal stairs of Tirion upon Tna, the green hill; but most of all they sailed in their swift ships on the waters of the Bay of Elvenhome, or walked in the waves upon the shore with their hair gleaming in the light beyond the hill. Many jewels the Noldor gave them, opals and diamonds and pale crystals, which they strewed upon the shores and scattered in the pools; marvellous were the beaches of Elend in those days. And many pearls they won for themselves from the sea, and their halls were of pearl, and of pearl were the mansions of Olw at Alqualond, the Haven of the Swans, lit with many lamps. For that was their city, and the haven of their ships; and those were made in the likeness of swans, with beaks of gold and eyes of gold and jet. The gate of that harbour was an arch of living rock sea-carved; and it lay upon the confines of Eldamar, north of the Calacirya, where the


of anxiety in his eyes. Stephen, depressed by his own voice, said: --Do you remember the first day I went to your house after my mother's death? Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said: --What? Where? I can't remember anything. I remember only ideas and sensations. Why? What happened in the name of God? --You were making tea, Stephen said, and went across the landing to get more hot water. Your mother and some visitor came out of the drawingroom. She asked you who was in your room. --Yes? Buck Mulligan said. What did I say? I forget. --You said, Stephen answered, O, IT'S ONLY DEDALUS WHOSE MOTHER IS BEASTLY DEAD. A flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to Buck Mulligan's cheek. --Did I say that? he asked. Well? What harm is that? He shook his constraint from him nervously. --And what is death, he asked, your mother's or yours or my own? You saw only your mother die. I see them pop off every day in the Mater and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the dissectingroom. It's a beastly thing and nothing else. It simply doesn't matter. You wouldn't kneel down to pray for your mother on her deathbed when she asked you. Why? Because you have the cursed jesuit strain in you, only it's injected the wrong way. To me it's all a mockery and beastly. Her cerebral lobes are not functioning. She calls the doctor sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups off the quilt. Humour her till it's over. You crossed her last wish in death and yet you sulk with me because I don't whinge like some hired mute from Lalouette's. Absurd! I suppose I did say it. I didn't mean to offend the memory of your mother. He had spoken himself into boldness. Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which the words had left in his heart, said very coldly: --I am not thinking of the offence to my mother. --Of what then? Buck Mulligan asked. --Of the offence to me, Stephen answered. Buck Mulligan swung round on his heel. --O, an impossible person! he exclaimed. He walked off quickly round the parapet. Stephen stood at his post, gazing over the calm sea towards the headland. Sea and headland now grew dim. Pulses were beating in his eyes, veiling their sight, and he felt the fever of his cheeks. A voice within the tower called loudly: --Are you up there, Mulligan? --I'm coming, Buck Mulligan answered. He turned towards Stephen and said: --Look at the sea. What does it care about offences? Chuck Loyola, Kinch, and come on down. The Sassenach wants his morning rashers. His head halted again for a moment at the top of the staircase, level with the roof: --Don't mope over it all day, he said. I'm inconsequent. Give up the moody brooding. His head vanished but the drone of his descending voice boomed out of the stairhead: AND NO MORE TURN ASIDE AND BROOD UPON LOVE'S BITTER MYSTERY FOR FERGUS RULES THE BRAZEN CARS. Woodshadows floated silently by


Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would be done with so little inconvenience to himself as by the present arrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a year the loser, by the hundred that was to be paid them; for, what with her board and pocket allowance, and the continual presents in money which passed to her through her mother's hands, Lydia's expences had been very little within that sum. That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was another very welcome surprise; for his chief wish at present was to have as little trouble in the business as possible. When the first transports of rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were over, he naturally returned to all his former indolence. His letter was soon dispatched; for though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick in its execution. He begged to know farther particulars of what he was indebted to his brother; but was too angry with Lydia to send any message to her. The good news quickly spread through the house; and with proportionate speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent philosophy. To be sure, it would have been more for the advantage of conversation, had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the happiest alternative, been secluded from the world in some distant farm house. But there was much to be talked of in marrying her; and the good-natured wishes for her well-doing, which had proceeded before from all the spiteful old ladies in Meryton, lost but little of their spirit in this change of circumstances, because with such an husband, her misery was considered certain. It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been down stairs, but on this happy day she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object of her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of accomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on those attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new carriages, and servants. She was busily searching through the neighbourhood for a ``proper situation'' for her daughter, and, without knowing or considering what their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and importance. ``Haye-Park might do,'' said she, ``if the Gouldings would quit it, or the great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth is too far off! I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as for Purvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful.'' Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her, ``Mrs. Bennet, before you take any or all of these houses for your son and daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into one house in this neighbourhood, they shall never have admittance. I will not