to the mutts, Peeta is sure to die with him. We’ve reached a stalemate. I can’t shoot Cato without killing Peeta, too. He can’t kill Peeta with- 330 out guaranteeing an arrow in his brain. We stand like statues, both of us seeking an out. My muscles are strained so tightly, they feel they might snap at any moment. My teeth clenched to the breaking point. The mutts go silent and the only thing I can hear is the blood pounding in my good ear. Peeta’s lips are turning blue. If I don’t do something quick- ly, he’ll die of asphyxiation and then I’ll have lost him and Cato will probably use his body as a weapon against me. In fact, I’m sure this is Cato’s plan because while he’s stopped laughing, his lips are set in a triumphant smile. As if in a last-ditch effort, Peeta raises his fingers, dripping with blood from his leg, up to Cato’s arm. Instead of trying to wrestle his way free, his forefinger veers off and makes a deli- berate X on the back of Cato’s hand. Cato realizes what it means exactly one second after I do. I can tell by the way the smile drops from his lips. But it’s one second too late because, by that time, my arrow is piercing his hand. He cries out and reflexively releases Peeta who slams back against him. For a horrible moment, I think they’re both going over. I dive for- ward just catching hold of Peeta as Cato loses his footing on the blood-slick horn and plummets to the ground. We hear him hit, the air leaving his body on impact, and then the mutts attack him. Peeta and I hold on to each other, waiting for the cannon, waiting for the competition to finish, waiting to be released. But it doesn’t happen. Not yet. Because this is the climax of the Hunger Games, and the audience ex- pects a show. 331 I don’t watch, but I can hear the snarls, the growls, the howls of pain from both human and beast as Cato takes on the mutt pack. I can’t understand how he can be surviving until I remember the body armor protecting him from ankle to neck and I realize what a long night this could be. Cato must have a knife or sword or something, too, something he had hidden in his clothes, because on occasion there’s the death scream of a mutt or the sound of metal on metal as the blade collides with the golden horn. The combat moves around the side of the Cornucopia, and I know Cato must be attempting the one ma- neuver that could save his life — to make his way back around to the tail of the horn and rejoin us. But in the end, despite his remarkable strength and skill, he is simply overpowered. I don’t know how long it has been, maybe an hour or so, when Cato hits the ground and we hear the mutts dragging him, dragging him back


that what this is? You’re getting back at me?” She smiles. “I just wanted to have a nice weekend. And didn’t want to sit around the house all by myself.” “So, you went to the San Juans all by yourself?” “Yep.” He sets his jaw in the way he always does when he’s pissed. As he should be. Ethan sets his beer on the counter and steps toward her. “Didn’t you tell me once you went to college with Brody Carr?” She feigns confusion. “The guy from The One?” Ethan narrows his eyes. “Touchdown!” an announcer exclaims through the living room TV. His voice is quickly drowned out by the roar of the crowd. “We were in the same class together before he dropped out. I didn’t know him. Why?” “You said you were chemistry lab partners.” Ethan frowns. “Are you sure there’s nothing you want to share?” Her mouth feels dry. She studies the look on his face. Ethan isn’t going to let this go tonight. He’s going to push until she confesses. It suddenly occurs to her this could be the end of them. It was a risk, her fling with Brody. It could be the final straw that pushes them over the edge of no return. Ethan could tell her it’s over. “I’m sure.” He comes another step closer. She braces herself for what could be coming next. She relaxes her shoulders, knowing if she hadn’t done it, their marriage was doomed. It was all or nothing. If this was the end, Brody would undoubtedly be happy to step in and take Ethan’s place. But as she looks at Ethan, the two-day stubble on his face reminding her of when they first met, she knows no one will ever make her feel like he does. He stops when their faces are only inches apart. “You know what I think?” He cocks his head to the side. “I think I’ll go take a couple days, too. This house suddenly feels too small for the two of us.” His shoulder bumps against hers when he brushes past her. Sloane lets out the breath she was holding when she hears Ethan storm upstairs. She sits at the kitchen table. Ten minutes later, Ethan returns with his gym bag slung over his shoulder. “You sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?” His voice is calm. But Sloane can tell by his flushed face that he’s fighting to control the rage boiling inside him. “I’m sure.” His expression goes cold. “Unbelievable,” he huffs, as he turns for the door. Seconds later, the door to the garage slams, rattling the kitchen cabinets behind her. She reaches for Ethan’s untouched beer and takes a swig as she hears his car peel out of their drive. The football game goes to commercial when she steps into the living room. Beer in hand, she sinks onto her couch. That could have gone a lot worse. He didn’t say he was leaving her for good. Even though he looked angry enough to. She’ll give him a few days.


before she passed. He shook his head and returned to his needlework. Siyu lay on top of the covers, one arm tucked under her head, hair swept over her face. Tunuva sat beside her and brushed a few dark strands behind her ear. She had slept this way since she was a child. Stirring, she opened her eyes and blinked up at Tunuva. ‘Oh, Tuva.’ She sat up and embraced her at once. ‘Tuva, Imin says I must stay in here for a week. And that I may not go beyond the valley at all, for a whole month. Is it true?’ ‘Yes,’ Tunuva said, feeling her back heave with sobs. ‘Hush, sunray, hush. Imin will make sure the men keep you busy. It will feel as if no time is passing.’ ‘But I can’t stay here,’ Siyu said, frantic. ‘Please. Will you ask the Prioress to forgive me?’ ‘She will, in time.’ Tunuva drew back and frowned at her tearstained face. Her skin was a deeper brown, her hair still black all the way through, but otherwise she was the picture of Esbar. ‘Siyu, you must know this punishment is lighter than it could have been. The men do good work, important work. Is it so bad to help them for a few weeks?’ Siyu met her gaze. Something flickered in those thick-lashed eyes. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I just hate to be trapped inside. And I’m ashamed.’ She drew a scuffed knee to her chest. ‘I suppose Esbar didn’t want you to see me. She told me I disgraced you both.’ ‘Esbar loves you with her soul, as we all do.’ ‘She loves the Mother more.’ ‘As we all must – but Siyu, I was there when Esbar gave birth to you. You have made her so proud over the years. This mistake is a small part of your life. It does not define it.’ Swallowing, Siyu managed a nod. Tunuva reached into her overskirt and took out the pouch. ‘For you. So you can smell the forest, at least.’ Siyu undid the tie. When she saw the delicate blue petals in the pouch, she drew out the bloom and held it to her cheek, tears running again. She had always loved dayflowers. ‘Thank you.’ She sank against Tunuva. ‘You’re always so good to me, Tuva. Even when I’m a fool.’ Tunuva kissed the top of her head. Even as she did, she remembered that Esbar could never be so tender with Siyu. She and Imsurin did not have that freedom. ‘I would like something in exchange,’ Tunuva said. ‘I would like you to tell me a story.’ ‘What story?’ ‘The one that matters most.’ Tunuva stroked her hair. ‘Come. The way Imin used to tell it to you.’ With a tiny smile, Siyu shifted across the bed, so Tunuva could lean into the bolsters. ‘Will you do the fire?’ Siyu asked her. ‘Of course.’ Siyu wiped her face once more, nestling close. ‘There is a Womb of Fire that roils beneath the world,’ she began. ‘Centuries ago, the molten flame


League photos? His mother would have had Natalie on her couch in the den for a week methodically going through each year of his life on film, and Natalie deserved that same consideration. To Corinne’s credit, the lack of photographic evidence of what must have been a beautifully impish daughter seemed to give her pause. “There has to be more,” said his mother-in-law, attempting to refill Ingram’s wine for the third time since dinner ended. To put it bluntly, the guy was soused. They’d won him over before the main course and he’d let his guard down, but the closer they got to the end of the evening, the more August’s guard went in the opposite direction. When Ingram refused the refill and stood up, slapping the straw hat back on his head, everyone stood with him. Everyone but August. “Tonight was a pleasure, as always,” he said, shaking Julian’s hand. Kissing Corinne’s. “The only thing that could have made it better was Dalton’s presence. St. Helena surely misses that man. I hold out hope that we’ll lure him back from Italy sooner or later.” Corinne maintained her smile at the mention of her ex-husband. Meanwhile, Natalie sent August an eye roll, and he loved that. He loved that they were sitting beside each other on the couch, his arm around her shoulders, and now she was gifting him little nuggets of exasperation. Still, his dread remained and a moment later, he knew why. “I’m quite satisfied that this is a strong match between two upstanding young people. I only wish Dalton were here to see it for himself,” Ingram said, tipping his hat. “I’ll file the necessary paperwork in the morning to release Natalie’s trust fund.” August expected Natalie to thank him. To stand up and cheer. Something. Instead, her chest seemed to be cranking up and down. “And . . . a meeting with August to speak about the small business loan? Could that be arranged, as well?” “Yes, of course,” Ingram replied, having no idea that August didn’t require a loan any longer. No, the investment from his CO had arrived in full that very morning, hadn’t it? “Though my calendar is jam-packed this week. I’ll take a look at my schedule when I arrive at the bank tomorrow morning.” Finally, Natalie exhaled. “Thank you.” August’s throat was on goddamn fire. Their plan had worked. Natalie was going to get her money. That was what he wanted. But it put her one step closer to no longer needing him. When Natalie blinked up at him and said his name softly, August realized he was staring into space, imagining the desolate world he’d be living in when she left. She’d get her trust fund and forget his name within a year or two, while he was still hung up on the real one who got away. Unless. Unless he could find a way to convince her they were great together before Friday. Before she left for New York. Because once she had that investor in her pocket, it would be


sending blazing heat into her cheeks, told Lucy that Simon Calloway had no idea what to make of her, and she rather liked that. Mr. Granger had always acted as though he understood everything she could possibly want, and the fact that Simon had to work to know her and was still trying made her like him all the more. “You want to skip stones?” he asked, a measure of incredulity in his voice. “That is what I said.” She thought he would deny her attempt at distraction and return to the house, but then he shrugged and rose to his feet before offering his hand to help her up. “I thought everyone learned to skip stones as a child,” he said. “Not everyone grows up in a life of leisure,” she replied. “Our lands struggled too much to give us an adequate income, so I worked alongside my father from the day I was old enough to use a needle and thread, using any free time I had to study everything I needed to know to be a proper lady should I catch the eye of a suitor later in life. And I didn’t have a pond to practice skipping stones on. But I heard other children talk about it, and it sounded amusing.” Though he winced with appreciated sympathy and apology for forgetting their very different positions in life, Lucy hadn’t intended to make him pity her. They were out here to help him, so she bent down and picked up the roundest pebble she could find. “Not that one,” Simon said immediately, and he wrapped his hand around hers, holding onto her while he searched for a better rock. When he found one, he replaced the one in her palm with an exceptionally flat one. “The thinner the stone, the easier it skims the water.” Grabbing a similar stone, he turned with his left side facing the pond and tossed the rock across the water. It skipped three times before it slid beneath the surface. Well, that didn’t look so difficult. Mimicking his stance, Lucy did the same motion and threw her own rock, only hers went straight into the water with a plunk. Simon chuckled as he picked up another stone. “Hold it like this,” he said, demonstrating the way he curled his finger around the edge. “Use your wrist and throw it as flat as you can.” Her second attempt was worse than the first, and she couldn’t help but laugh. “Perhaps I am not meant to skip them,” she said with a grin. “Try one more time.” This time, instead of demonstrating, he stepped behind her and put a hand on her elbow. “Get a little closer to the water.” He guided her directly to the edge of the water, and though it was a bit muddy in that spot, he didn’t seem to mind in the least. She would have expected him to at least grimace at the state of his boots, but he didn’t give them a passing glance. The differences between him and


And I shall behave. I mean how much trouble can I get into with Kate? Anastasia Grey Commissioning Editor, SIP I hit send and sip my latte, courtesy of Hannah. Who knew I’d grow to love cof- fee? Despite the fact that I’m going out this evening with Kate, I feel like a chunk of me is missing. At the moment, it’s thirty-five thousand feet somewhere above the Midwest en route to New York. I didn’t know I would feel this unsettled and anxious just because Christian’s away. Surely over time I won’t feel this loss and uncertainty, will I? I let out a heavy sigh and continue with my work. Around lunchtime, I start manically checking my e-mail and my BlackBerry for a text. Where is he? Has he landed safely? Hannah asks if I want lunch, but 195/551 I’m too apprehensive and wave her away. I know it’s irrational, but I need to be sure he’s arrived safely. My office phone rings, startling me. “Ana St—Grey.” “Hi.” Christian’s voice is warm with a trace of amusement. Relief floods through me. “Hi.” I’m grinning from ear to ear. “How was your flight?” “Long. What are you doing with Kate?” Oh no. “We’re just going out for a quiet drink.” Christian says nothing. “Sawyer and the new woman—Prescott—are coming to watch over us,” I of- fer, trying to placate him. “I thought Kate was coming to the apartment.” “She is after a quick drink.” Please let me go out! Christian sighs heavily. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he says quietly. Too quietly. I mentally kick myself. “Christian, we’ll be fine. I have Ryan, Sawyer, and Prescott here. It’s only a quick drink.” Christian remains resolutely silent, and I know he’s not happy. “I’ve only seen her a few times since you and I met. Please. She’s my best friend.” “Ana, I don’t want to keep you from your friends. But I thought she was coming back to the apartment.” “Okay,” I acquiesce. “We’ll stay in.” “Only while this lunatic is out there. Please.” “I’ve said okay,” I mutter in exasperation, rolling my eyes. Christian snorts softly down the phone. “I always know when you’re rolling your eyes at me.” I scowl at the receiver. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. I’ll tell Kate.” “Good,” he breathes, his relief evident. I feel guilty for worrying him. “Where are you?” “On the tarmac at JFK.” “Oh, so you just landed.” “Yes. You asked me to call the moment I landed.” I smile. My subconscious glares at me. See? He does what he says he’s going to do. 196/551 “Well, Mr. Grey, I’m glad one of us is punctilious.” He laughs. “Mrs. Grey, your gift for hyperbole knows no bounds. What am I going to do with you?” “I am sure you’ll think of something imaginative. You usually do.” “Are you flirting with me?” “Yes.” I sense his grin. “I’d better go. Ana, do as you’re told, please. The security team knows what they’re doing.” “Yes, Christian, I will.” I sound exasperated


and we’re expecting at least a few to run something positive. No, we’re probably not going to get a profile in the New Yorker, though perhaps a few books down the road we can talk. I have actual money now, so I hire a photographer to take a new set of author photos. My old set was done by my sister’s friend from college, an amateur photographer named Melinda who happened to be in the area and charged me a fraction of the rates I’d found elsewhere online. I contorted my face in a number of different ways, trying to evoke the sultry, mysterious, and serious vibes of the photos of Serious Famous Woman Writers. Channel Jennifer Egan. Channel Donna Tartt. Athena always looked like a model in hers: hair floating loose around her face, skin porcelain pale and glowing, full lips loose and slightly curled up at the edges as if she knew a joke that you weren’t in on, one eyebrow arched as if to say, Try me. It’s easy to sell books if you’re gorgeous. I made peace a long time ago with the fact that I’m only passably hot, and only from the right angles and lighting, so I tried for the next best thing, which is “tortured in a very deep and brilliant way.” It’s hard to transpose those thoughts to the camera, though, and the results horrified me when Melinda sent them in. I looked like I was trying to hold in a sneeze, or like I had to take a shit but was too afraid to tell anyone. I wanted to take them all again, this time with maybe a mirror in the background so I could see what the fuck I was doing, but I felt bad for wasting Melinda’s time, so I picked the one where I looked the most like a human being and the least like myself and paid her fifty bucks for her trouble. This time I drop half a grand on a professional photographer in DC named Cate. We shoot in her studio, where she employs all sorts of lighting equipment I’ve never seen before, and which I can only hope will wash out my acne scars. Cate is brisk, friendly, professional. Her instructions are clear and direct. “Chin up. Relax your face a bit. Now I’m going to tell a joke, and just react however you want, just don’t pay attention to the lens. Lovely. Oh, that’s lovely.” She sends me a selection of watermarked photos a few days later. I’m amazed by how good I look, especially in the photos we took outside. During golden hour I come off as nicely tanned, which makes me look sort of racially ambiguous. My eyes are cast demurely to the side, my mind full of profound and cryptic thoughts. I look like someone who could write a book about Chinese laborers in World War I and do it justice. I look like a Juniper Song. At Emily’s suggestion, I start cultivating a social media presence. Until now, I’ve only tweeted


rehydrate me at this point. “This feels like the opposite of what we were saying last night.” I try to laugh, but there isn’t enough air in my lungs. Maybe even in the whole state of Oregon. “I want to learn.” He pushes a wayward strand of hair back into place, but it’s no match for the wind. “I was up half the night googling, but it all started to blur together after a while. And I’m only a little scared of the targeted ads I’m going to get now.” I let out a deep, shaky breath, my heart turning wild in my chest. Because maybe the scariest thing about this conversation is that I want to tell him. The thrill racing up my spine is a foreign, delicious thing, impossible to ignore. Maybe it’s the fact that we’ve already seen each other naked that makes talking about this easier. Maybe it’s that I went on this walk thinking I was about to get fired, and any other outcome has me feeling like I’ve just cheated death. Whatever it is, I run right toward it. “Hypothetically . . . you’d want to start slowly.” My voice takes on a huskiness that feels wholly out of place in a public setting, and when I get quieter, Finn leans in closer. “The more aroused she gets, the more likely she is to orgasm. It’s crucial to spend time building up that tension, figuring out what she likes. Ask her. She might prefer your hands, or your mouth. She might have a specific way she likes being touched. Or, even better—have her show you.” At that, his mouth slides open, accompanied by the smallest hitch in his breath. I almost don’t catch it, but that slight hint this conversation is as exciting for him as it is for me sends a shock straight to my core. “You’ve done that?” he says. “Shown someone?” “Yes,” I say, as calmly as I can. “Masturbation doesn’t always have to be a solo act. What about you?” He shakes his head, that pesky lock of hair falling back across his forehead. “I’m usually fairly easy.” “I got that.” This earns me a soft jab of his elbow against my shoulder. “You have to listen. Communication is probably the most important part of it, more important than the physical.” Although I wouldn’t hate his physical elbow touching my physical shoulder again. “You can’t expect that what works for one person will work for everyone.” “I’m not asking about everyone.” His gaze clings to mine. “I’m asking about you.” Jesus. I have to break eye contact or else I’ll incinerate. “I like when someone’s clearly paying attention to my body,” I say, dragging my fingertips out along the railing, and then back. His eyes follow them. “My breaths. My slightest movements. The places where I might be tighter, and the places where I open up.” A nod. Another step closer, a few inches separating his chest from mine. “And I love when it’s obvious that he’s enjoying what he’s doing to


hear the conversation which followed. "Wait," cried Professor Porter, as Tarzan was about to follow. The professor had been stricken dumb with surprise by the rapid developments of the past few minutes. "Before we go further, sir, I should like an explanation of the events which have just transpired. By what right, sir, did you interfere between my daughter and Mr. Canler? I had promised him her hand, sir, and regardless of our personal likes or dislikes, sir, that promise must be kept." "I interfered, Professor Porter," replied Tarzan, "because your daughter does not love Mr. Canler--she does not wish to marry him. That is enough for me to know." "You do not know what you have done," said Professor Porter. "Now he will doubtless refuse to marry her." "He most certainly will," said Tarzan, emphatically. "And further," added Tarzan, "you need not fear that your pride will suffer, Professor Porter, for you will be able to pay the Canler person what you owe him the moment you reach home." "Tut, tut, sir!" exclaimed Professor Porter. "What do you mean, sir?" "Your treasure has been found," said Tarzan. "What--what is that you are saying?" cried the professor. "You are mad, man. It cannot be." "It is, though. It was I who stole it, not knowing either its value or to whom it belonged. I saw the sailors bury it, and, ape-like, I had to dig it up and bury it again elsewhere. When D'Arnot told me what it was and what it meant to you I returned to the jungle and recovered it. It had caused so much crime and suffering and sorrow that D'Arnot thought it best not to attempt to bring the treasure itself on here, as had been my intention, so I have brought a letter of credit instead. "Here it is, Professor Porter," and Tarzan drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to the astonished professor, "two hundred and forty-one thousand dollars. The treasure was most carefully appraised by experts, but lest there should be any question in your mind, D'Arnot himself bought it and is holding it for you, should you prefer the treasure to the credit." "To the already great burden of the obligations we owe you, sir," said Professor Porter, with trembling voice, "is now added this greatest of all services. You have given me the means to save my honor." Clayton, who had left the room a moment after Canler, now returned. "Pardon me," he said. "I think we had better try to reach town before dark and take the first train out of this forest. A native just rode by from the north, who reports that the fire is moving slowly in this direction." This announcement broke up further conversation, and the entire party went out to the waiting automobiles. Chapter 28 165 Clayton, with Jane, the professor and Esmeralda occupied Clayton's car, while Tarzan took Mr. Philander in with him. "Bless me!" exclaimed Mr. Philander, as the car moved off after Clayton. "Who would ever have thought it possible! The


entering the house I looked about for some one to give informa- tion of Catherine. The place was filled with sunshine, and the door stood wide open, but nobody seemed at hand. As I hesitated whether to go off at once or return and seek my mistress, a slight cough drew my atten- tion to the hearth. Linton lay on the settle, sole tenant, sucking a stick of sugar-candy, and pursuing my move- ments with apathetic eyes. "Where is Miss Catherine?" I demanded sternly, supposing I could frighten him into giving intelligence by catching him thus alone. He sucked on like an innocent, "Is she gone?" I said. "No," he replied; "she's upstairs. She's not to go; we won't let her." "You won't let her, little idiot!" I exclaimed. "Direct me to her room immediately, or I'll make you sing out sharply." "Papa would make you sing out if you attempted to get there," he answered. "He says I'm not to be soft with Catherine. She's my wife, and it's shameful that she should wish to leave me. He says she hates me and wants me to die, that she may have my money. But she shan't have it, and she shan't go home---she never shall! She may cry and be sick as much as she pleases!" He resumed his former occupation, closing his lids as if he meant to drop asleep. "Master Heathcliff," I resumed, "have you forgotten all Catherine's kindness to you last winter, when you affirmed you loved her, and when she brought you books and sang you songs, and came many a time through wind and snow to see you? She wept to miss one evening, because you would be disappointed; and you felt then that she was a hundred times too good to you, and now you believe the lies your father tells, though you know he detests you both. And you join him against her. That's fine gratitude, is it not?" The corner of Linton's mouth fell, and he took the sugar-candy from his lips. "Did she come to Wuthering Heights because she hated you?" I continued. "Think for yourself! As to your money, she does not even know that you will have any. And you say she's sick, and yet you leave her alone up there in a strange house--you who have felt what it is to be so neglected! You could pity your own suf- ferings, and she pitied them too, but you won't pity hers! I shed tears, Master Heathcliff, you see---an el- derly woman, and a servant merely; and you, after pre- tending such affection and having reason to worship her almost, store every tear you have for yourself, and lie there quite at ease. Ah! you're a heartless, selfish boy!" "I can't stay with her," he answered crossly. "I'll not stay by myself. She cries so I can't bear it. And she won't give over, though I say I'll call my father. I did call him once, and he threatened to strangle her if she was not quiet; but she began


learned that if I acknowledge it instead, give it some of my attention, it may quiet, its warning delivered. It has taken time to understand the ways in which grief can interact with and feed my anxiety; sometimes, I think, I lean too far into it, let my mind run away with worrying and planning, so that grief is not all that I feel. When my thoughts are churning, trying to find some way to avert catastrophe and wish us into a different, better world, I don’t have to focus on the fact that I live in this one, where my heart is still broken. * * * I wasn’t thinking about my anxiety when we decided to get a dog; I was thinking about my family and the fact that we had never been more in need of comfort and a limitless source of uncomplicated love. More than once, I thought of what my mother said when she got Buster: He’s good for me. He gets me out of the house. No matter how I feel or what I want, I have to take him for his walk. I’m never alone anymore. In the last weeks of her life, Buster was always with her, curled up beside her in the hospital bed. My aunt takes care of him now, in the house he used to share with my mom, and I like to think that he remembers her as well as he can—the rooms may yet hold traces of her that a dog’s sharp nose can sniff out. I’m thankful that he was with her until the end. Now full grown at one year old, Peggy remains a puppy—curious, affectionate, high-energy, ready to greet and be devoted to anyone who crosses her path. Her name is forever bouncing off the walls of our house: an excited greeting when we come home to find her waiting, tail wagging; a grumble of irritation when she does something naughty; a murmur of appreciation when she curls up next to us to offer comfort. She isn’t allowed in my office, because I don’t know that I could trust her exuberant bulk or wide-swinging tail around the breakables there, and suspect she might also try to nose some of my books down from the shelves. Now I write at the kitchen table, with Peggy napping at my feet. Though I’m highly allergic to most dogs, no one has spent more time cuddling with her, ruffling her silky-soft fur and scratching her ears, than I have. I end most days on the couch or the floor, her head in my lap, and these moments never fail to slow my anxious thoughts and soothe my heart. I think she immediately recognized that I was broken and needed her, which could be why the two of us have such a deep soul bond. (Or it could be because she has learned that I have the freest hand with the dog biscuits, who can say.) I don’t want to say that she saved us from our grief, because neither loss


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

get excited about.” “Can’t argue with that,” he says with a grin. “But they’re writing you in anyway. Apparently, Daddy Prince, they love your deep voice and your sexy accent, and the way you and Fizzy banter.” He glances up at the sound of my stifled mortification. “Oh, come on, stop looking so horrified. ‘Daddy Prince’ is pretty tame compared to some of the other stuff here.” As he continues to scroll, his grin turns into a frown and he muses, “I didn’t realize ‘choke me’ was such a common phrase.” I ignore this. “What does that mean, ‘write in’? Can’t they only vote for the contestants?” “You wouldn’t know this because you’re a social media troglodyte, but no. The way your team has set it up, if the show is tagged, a tracking program considers it a vote and keeps a tally. It could be ‘#GiantAnacondaCock_TheTrueLoveExperiment’ and Giant Anaconda Cock gets a vote.” I stare at Ash. “What?” “Don’t worry. Most people use it the way you intended. They hashtag Colby or Isaac or whoever. It’s quite smart, really; lots of the big music award shows do it. I think the Oscars even started doing it for fan favorite and favorite movie moment. It’s a great way to get engagement because the tags are visible to everyone, you can tweet—aka vote—as many times as you want, which means tweeting and retweeting puts it in everyone’s feed. You can’t buy exposure like that. It’s all there on your pocket computer if you care to look.” This entire conversation has thrown me off-kilter now that it’s sinking in what Ash is telling me. Viewers are voting for me? Blaine doesn’t know as much as he’d like everyone to believe, and I have to assume that if he did know something about this—or, worse, about me and Fizzy—he would have mentioned it, right? Either way, I’ll need to be very, very careful over the next few weeks. “Of course, there are people writing in all kinds of names,” Ash says. “Lots of Your Mom and other random things. I think Captain America had a pretty decent number one week.” “Great,” I say dryly. “A flawless system.” “There will always be idiots,” Ash says, dismissing this as he pushes his plate aside and leans in. “So far, Isaac has the most votes every week. But you’re definitely gaining.” I lean back with a soft gusting exhale, feeling Ash’s attention on me while I process this. “For sure Brenna sees this. Why didn’t anyone tell me?” “Maybe they’re trying to ignore it.” He picks up his water glass and takes a sip. “I mean, it’s not like you can win this thing.” * * * These words bounce around in my head. It’s not like you can win this thing. He’s right, of course. I’m not even a contestant. Still, there’s a faint echo of pity party, too. I can’t win. I’m stuck in that tight mental squeeze where I have too many things on my mind and not enough time to devote to them. I


cross my arms. “Bryce, for most of my life I didn’t have anyone who cared whether I ate dinner, let alone became successful in business, so you aren’t going to out–sob story me.” “Okay, fine. But do you know how utterly humiliating it was to have to run to my mother, to have to beg her to save me because it was all smoke and mirrors? Because I lost it all?” I do feel the tiniest bit bad for him. “Do you know who will understand the need for personal success bringing out your worst colors?” He rolls his eyes. “Your fiancée. Because wanting to prove herself made her do some dumb things when she was younger. But you owe it to her to tell her. And even if you don’t think she deserves the truth, Cape Carolina is tiny. She will find out.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” “Why in the hell not?” “Everyone has to sign an NDA before they get their first payment. And who wouldn’t want their money?” That was, I suspected, Bryce’s latest in a long line of incorrect thoughts. I was certain there was someone who would rather make him—or his family—pay. Local media made a lot of enemies. “Have they all signed?” He bit his lip. “No. But I’m hopeful they will.” So there were still a million reasons Bryce wasn’t in the clear. He had to know that all the vendors and subs were pretty tight in Cape Carolina; they would all be talking about this. “She deserves to know,” I say. “This is far from an airtight plan, and, trust me, she will find out. It will be a lot better coming from you than a stranger.” “Daphne, you’re being unreasonable. I’m not a bad guy. I got in over my head and got behind on some payments. It’s not that big a deal.” I nod. “Great. Then if it’s not that big a deal, tell her.” He shakes his head again. “You stole hundreds of thousands of dollars from people, Bryce. How can you sugarcoat that, even to yourself?” He put up his finger. “Not stole. Got behind on paying. This is basically in the past. Everyone has a past, Daphne. Even you, if you’ll recall.” It was kind of a low blow. It was also true. But my past was in the past. Bryce’s situation was unfolding in real time. “I want to be really clear,” I said. “If you don’t tell her, I will.” “You know you can’t do that,” he says. “And why not?” I know why not, but I wonder if he’s callous enough to actually say it to my face. “If you tell, I’ll turn you in to the bar, Daphne. I’m sorry. But I have to protect my family.” I want to slap him. His family? Protect his family? “I am Lanier’s family.” I pause. “Bryce, I am fully aware that telling her means breaking an oath, one I take seriously. If I tell her, I will absolutely turn myself in.” I start


favourite subject, Myself."' He squinted at the wall. " `The favourite subject, Myself."' "I understand that one," said Mildred. "But Clarisse's favourite subject wasn't herself. It was everyone else, and me. She was the first person in a good many years I've really liked. She was the first person I can remember who looked straight at me as if I counted." He lifted the two books. "These men have been dead a long time, but I know their words point, one way or another, to Clansse." Outside the front door, in the rain, a faint scratching. Montag froze. He saw Mildred thrust herself back to the wall and gasp. "I shut it off." "Someone--the door--why doesn't the door-voice tell us--" Under the door-sill, a slow, probing sniff, an exhalation of electric steam. Mildred laughed. "It's only a dog, that's what! You want me to shoo him away?" "Stay where you are!" Silence. The cold rain falling. And the smell of blue electricity blowing under the locked door. "Let's get back to work," said Montag quietly. Mildred kicked at a book. "Books aren't people. You read and I look around, but there isn't anybody!" He stared at the parlour that was dead and grey as the waters of an ocean that might teem with life if they switched on the electronic sun. "Now," said Mildred, "my `family' is people. They tell me things; I laugh, they laugh! And the colours!" "Yes, I know." "And besides, if Captain Beatty knew about those books--" She thought about it. Her face grew amazed and then horrified. "He might come and bum the house and the `family.' That's awful! Think of our investment. Why should I read? What for?" "What for! Why!" said Montag. "I saw the damnedest snake in the world the other night. It was dead but it was alive. It could see but it couldn't see. You want to see that snake. It's at Emergency Hospital where they filed a report on all the junk the snake got out of you! Would you like to go and check their file? Maybe you'd look under Guy Montag or maybe under Fear or War. Would you like to go to that house that burnt last night? And rake ashes for the bones of the woman who set fire to her own house! What about Clarisse McClellan, where do we look for her? The morgue! Listen!" The bombers crossed the sky and crossed the sky over the house, gasping, murmuring, whistling like an immense, invisible fan, circling in emptiness. "Jesus God," said Montag. "Every hour so many damn things in the sky! How in hell did those bombers get up there every single second of our lives! Why doesn't someone want to talk about it? We've started and won two atomic wars since 1960. Is it because we're having so much fun at home we've forgotten the world? Is it because we're so rich and the rest of the world's so poor and we just don't care if they are? I've heard rumours; the world is starving,


in my pencil. I pondered the mystery a minute or two; but finding it insolvable, and being certain it could not be of much moment, I dismissed and soon forgot it.       |Go to Contents |               Chapter XXXIII     WHEN Mr. St. John went, it was beginning to snow; the whirling storm continued all night. The next day a keen wind brought fresh and blinding falls; by twilight the valley was drifted up and almost impassable. I had closed my shutter, laid a mat to the door to prevent the snow from blowing in under it, trimmed my fire, and after sitting nearly an hour on the hearth listening to the muffled fury of the tempest, I lit a candle, took down Marmion, and beginning     Day sat on Norham's castled steep,  And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep,  And Cheviot mountains lone;  The massive towers, the donjon keep,  The flanking walls that round them sweep,  In yellow luster shone.     I soon forgot storm in music.     I heard a noise; the wind I thought shook the door.     No; it was St. John Rivers, who, lifting the latch, came in out of the frozen hurricane the howling darkness and stood before me, the cloak that covered his tall figure all white as a glacier. I was almost in consternation, so little had I expected any guest from the blocked-up vale that night.     "Is there any ill news?" I demanded. "Has anything happened?"     "No. How very easily alarmed you are!" he answered, removing his cloak and hanging it up against the door, toward which he again coolly pushed the mat which his entrance had deranged. He stamped the snow from his boots.     "I shall sully the purity of your floor," said he, "but you must excuse me for once." Then he approached the fire. "I have had hard work to get here, I assure you," he observed, as he warmed his hands over the flame. "One drift took me up to the waist; but happily the snow is quite soft yet."     "But why are you come?" I could not forbear saying. "Rather an inhospitable question to put to a visitor; but since you ask it, I answer, simply to have a little talk with you; I got tired of my mute books and empty rooms. Besides, since yesterday I have experienced the excitement of a person to whom a tale has been half-told, and who is impatient to hear the sequel."     He sat down. I recalled his singular conduct of yesterday, and really I began to fear his wits were touched. If he were insane, however, his was a very cool and collected insanity. I had never seen that handsome-featured face of


the doorway; `and even if my head would go through,' thought poor Alice, `it would be of very little use without my shoulders. Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if I only know how to begin.' For, you see, so many out-of-the-way things had happened lately, that Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible. There seemed to be no use in waiting by the little door, so she went back to the table, half hoping she might find another key on it, or at any rate a book of rules for shutting people up like telescopes: this time she found a little bottle on it, (`which certainly was not here before,' said Alice,) and round the neck of the bottle was a paper label, with the words `DRINK ME' beautifully printed on it in large letters. It was all very well to say `Drink me,' but the wise little Alice was not going to do THAT in a hurry. `No, I'll look first,' she said, `and see whether it's marked "poison" or not'; for she had read several nice little histories about children who had got burnt, and eaten up by wild beasts and other unpleasant things, all because they WOULD not remember the simple rules their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot poker will burn you if you hold it too long; and that if you cut your finger VERY deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had never forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked `poison,' it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later. However, this bottle was NOT marked `poison,' so Alice ventured to taste it, and finding it very nice, (it had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavour of cherry-tart, custard, pine-apple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast,) she very soon finished it off. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * `What a curious feeling!' said Alice; `I must be shutting up like a telescope.' And so it was indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her face brightened up at the thought that she was now the right size for going though the little door into that lovely garden. First, however, she waited for a few minutes to see if she was going to shrink any further: she felt a little nervous about this; `for it might end, you know,' said Alice to herself, `in my going out altogether, like a candle. I wonder what I should be like then?' And she tried to fancy what the flame of a candle is like after the candle is blown out, for she could not remember ever having seen such a thing. After a while, finding that nothing more happened, she decided on going into the garden at once; but, alas for poor Alice! when she got to the door, she found he had forgotten the


and bulky, skin cross-stitched with wrinkles and nautical tattoos. Not much work for sailors nowadays; the seas grew rougher by the year, tidal waves upending boats into the dark waters. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “The lady wants to bet? You’re lucky—I got new ones today. Should be a real fight.” “How does it work?” Io asked, gesturing at the cages. “You get a good look at our contestants, place your bet, then watch them fight. If your fighter wins, you get your money back, plus some interest.” “How much do people bet?” Io reached into her jacket. “Is fifteen notes all right?” Nico, who was standing at her back, proceeded to theatrically choke. Fifteen notes was a ridiculous amount. Nico knew it, Horatio knew it, but daddy’s girl from Nanzy didn’t. “Let’s start with three,” Nico said carefully, “and see how it goes, yeah, love?” Io scrunched her eyebrows in fake confusion. “Sure.” “Adam!” Horatio called out to a boy across the fighting pit. “Let’s show these folks what they’re paying for.” A roar of excitement filled the air. The fence in front of Io shook from the force of two dozen spectators beating it with their fists. The boy pulled a fragile-looking rope, and the cloths covering the cages fell away to reveal . . . There was no other word to describe them but “chimeras.” The first, on Io’s right, was a cross between a hare and a crab. A furry snout caked with mud, long, twitching ears, four normal legs and four extra ones that sprouted from its spine and ended in curved, pointy pincers. Its crab legs shot through the bars, longer than Io had expected. The audience on that side of the fence jumped away, screaming ecstatically. The second, on the left, looked like a small crocodile but moved like a mouse, scurrying up and down the metal bars so fast Io’s eyes couldn’t follow. Its body was scaled and its tail spiked. But it was the last one, across from her, that inspired true terror: smaller than the others, with six spidery legs, a shiny, black shell, and three tails curving forward like a scorpion’s. It sat in its cage with the unnatural stillness of a true predator. “That one. Three notes on that one,” Io said, the awe in her voice genuine. Careful to hide her wallet from Horatio, as though she had quite a large amount in there, she produced three notes and placed them in his palm. “Good choice, pet,” Horatio replied. To the crowd, he roared, “All bets are placed?” Io and Nico must have been the last to arrive—the crowd shrieked in reply, stomping on the wood. Horatio nodded at the boy, and the bottom of the cages dropped open, spilling the malformed beasts into the muddy arena. Io stepped a little closer, holding her breath. The hare immediately took the lead, dashing across the pit and pinching the crocodile’s front leg. The latter retaliated by bringing its spiked tail down on the claw. It was sliced clean off;


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

of which there appeared an image of himself, grown older and sadder, standing in a moonlit garden with Mercedes who had so many years before slighted his love, and with a sadly proud gesture of refusal, saying: --Madam, I never eat muscatel grapes. He became the ally of a boy named Aubrey Mills and founded with him a gang of adventurers in the avenue. Aubrey carried a whistle dangling from his buttonhole and a bicycle lamp attached to his belt while the others had short sticks thrust daggerwise through theirs. Stephen, who had read of Napoleon's plain style of dress, chose to remain unadorned and thereby heightened for himself the pleasure of taking counsel with his lieutenant before giving orders. The gang made forays into the gardens of old maids or went down to the castle and fought a battle on the shaggy weed-grown rocks, coming home after it weary stragglers with the stale odours of the foreshore in their nostrils and the rank oils of the seawrack upon their hands and in their hair. Aubrey and Stephen had a common milkman and often they drove out in the milk-car to Carrickmines where the cows were at grass. While the men were milking the boys would take turns in riding the tractable mare round the field. But when autumn came the cows were driven home from the grass: and the first sight of the filthy cowyard at Stradbrook with its foul green puddles and clots of liquid dung and steaming bran troughs, sickened Stephen's heart. The cattle which had seemed so beautiful in the country on sunny days revolted him and he could not even look at the milk they yielded. The coming of September did not trouble him this year for he was not to be sent back to Clongowes. The practice in the park came to an end when Mike Flynn went into hospital. Aubrey was at school and had only an hour or two free in the evening. The gang fell asunder and there were no more nightly forays or battles on the rocks. Stephen sometimes went round with the car which delivered the evening milk and these chilly drives blew away his memory of the filth of the cowyard and he felt no repugnance at seeing the cow hairs and hayseeds on the milkman's coat. Whenever the car drew up before a house he waited to catch a glimpse of a well scrubbed kitchen or of a softly lighted hall and to see how the servant would hold the jug and how she would close the door. He thought it should be a pleasant life enough, driving along the roads every evening to deliver milk, if he had warm gloves and a fat bag of gingernuts in his pocket to eat from. But the same foreknowledge which had sickened his heart and made his legs sag suddenly as he raced round the park, the same intuition which had made him glance with mistrust at his trainer's flabby stubble-covered face as it bent heavily over his long stained fingers,


his domestics. Emily seldom opposed her father's wishes by questions or remonstrances, or she would now have asked why he did not take a servant, and have represented that his infirm health made one almost necessary. But when, on the eve of their departure, she found that he had dismissed Jacques, Francis, and Mary, and detained only Theresa the old housekeeper, she was extremely surprised, and ventured to ask his reason for having done so. 'To save expences, my dear,' he replied--'we are going on an expensive excursion.' The physician had prescribed the air of Languedoc and Provence; and St. Aubert determined, therefore, to travel leisurely along the shores of the Mediterranean, towards Provence. They retired early to their chamber on the night before their departure; but Emily had a few books and other things to collect, and the clock had struck twelve before she had finished, or had remembered that some of her drawing instruments, which she meant to take with her, were in the parlour below. As she went to fetch these, she passed her father's room, and, perceiving the door half open, concluded that he was in his study--for, since the death of Madame St. Aubert, it had been frequently his custom to rise from his restless bed, and go thither to compose his mind. When she was below stairs she looked into this room, but without finding him; and as she returned to her chamber, she tapped at his door, and receiving no answer, stepped softly in, to be certain whether he was there. The room was dark, but a light glimmered through some panes of glass that were placed in the upper part of a closet-door. Emily believed her father to be in the closet, and, surprised that he was up at so late an hour, apprehended he was unwell, and was going to enquire; but, considering that her sudden appearance at this hour might alarm him, she removed her light to the stair-case, and then stepped softly to the closet. On looking through the panes of glass, she saw him seated at a small table, with papers before him, some of which he was reading with deep attention and interest, during which he often wept and sobbed aloud. Emily, who had come to the door to learn whether her father was ill, was now detained there by a mixture of curiosity and tenderness. She could not witness his sorrow, without being anxious to know the subject of; and she therefore continued to observe him in silence, concluding that those papers were letters of her late mother. Presently he knelt down, and with a look so solemn as she had seldom seen him assume, and which was mingled with a certain wild expression, that partook more of horror than of any other character, he prayed silently for a considerable time. When he rose, a ghastly paleness was on his countenance. Emily was hastily retiring; but she saw him turn again to the papers, and she stopped. He took from among them a small case, and from thence


took my paddle and slid out from shore just a step or two, and then let the canoe drop along down amongst the shadows. The moon was shining, and out- side of the shadows it made it most as light as day. I poked along well on to an hour, everything still as rocks and sound asleep. Well, by this time I was most down to the foot of the island. A little ripply, cool breeze begun to blow, and that was as good as saying the night was about done. I give her a turn with the paddle and brung her nose to shore; then I got my gun and slipped out and into the edge of the woods. I sat down there on a log, and looked out through the leaves. I see the moon go off watch, and the darkness begin to blanket the river. But in a little while I see a pale streak over the treetops, and knowed the day was coming. So I took my gun and slipped off towards where I had run across that camp fire, stopping every minute or two to listen. But I hadn't no luck somehow; I couldn't seem to find the place. But by and by, sure enough, I catched a glimpse of fire away through the trees. I went for it, cautious and slow. By and by I was close enough to have a look, and there laid a man on the ground. It most give me the fantods. He had a blanket around his head, and his head was nearly in the fire. I set there behind a clump of bushes in about six foot of him, and kept my eyes on him steady. It was getting gray daylight now. Pretty soon he gapped and stretched himself and hove off the blanket, and it was Miss Watson's Jim! I bet I was glad to see him. I says: "Hello, Jim!" and skipped out. He bounced up and stared at me wild. Then he drops down on his knees, and puts his hands together and says: "Doan' hurt me -- don't! I hain't ever done no harm to a ghos'. I alwuz liked dead people, en done all I could for 'em. You go en git in de river agin, whah you b'longs, en doan' do nuffn to Ole Jim, 'at 'uz awluz yo' fren'." Well, I warn't long making him understand I warn't dead. I was ever so glad to see Jim. I warn't lone- some now. I told him I warn't afraid of HIM telling the people where I was. I talked along, but he only set there and looked at me; never said nothing. Then I says: "It's good daylight. Le's get breakfast. Make up your camp fire good." "What's de use er makin' up de camp fire to cook strawbries en sich truck? But you got a gun, hain't you? Den we kin git sumfn better den strawbries." "Strawberries and such truck," I says. "Is that what you live on?" "I couldn' git nuffn else,"


open the wardrobe doors, searching for any hidden jewelry chests. “Why would it?” Sefa moved to the opposite bedside table. “Just because I have no interest in such affairs does not mean I expect the same from Marek.” My curiosity chose this inopportune moment to demand satisfaction. I flipped the cushions on Vaida’s chairs, digging into the corners of the divan. “Was there ever a time when Marek wanted more than friendship?” Sefa pursed her lips before groping under the pillows piled on Vaida’s cavern of a bed. “Yes, and then that time passed. I have encouraged him to find someone in Mahair, to build a life with a partner who welcomes his passion and devotion.” She crawled under the bed, and I went through the washroom. When we emerged, she continued. “He refuses.” “Where you go, he will follow. A relationship with another person will falter under his commitment to you,” I pointed out. Sefa heaved a sigh, opening the doors to the second wardrobe adjacent to the bed. A dozen ivory gowns hung inside. “We have depended on each other for too long. He thinks letting himself love someone will break his attachment to me. I don’t know how to prove to him he doesn’t owe me his life.” Sefa admired the stitching on the hem of a delicate silk gown. She glanced over as I slit open a cushion and stuffed my arm inside. “Are these questions new to you?” I flipped the cushion to its good side and shoved it back to the seat. “It was not my place to ask before.” “But it is now?” Sefa asked, smiling. She parsed the items on Vaida’s beauty table, knocking perfumes and powders together. “If it means anything, it has always been your place to ask.” I stopped slashing Vaida’s cushions. Sefa always did this. Casually offered her heart to me. I had thought it was a personal failing, the ease with which she gave it away. But Sefa—Sefa was stingy with her confidences. She simply chose to trust me, in particular, over and over again. “Sylvia? What is it?” Sefa abandoned the table, perching on the divan beside me. Essiya, Hanim warned. I swallowed past my dry throat. “You were right.” “Right about what?” Sefa frowned. She scrutinized my downcast gaze. Understanding flashed across her features, and her jaw dropped. “Oh, Sylvia, no.” The words spilled with the force of blood bursting from a severed artery. “The Heir—he enrages me, Sefa. I have never encountered a more paranoid man in my life. He lives from one theory to the next, manipulating people with utter detachment, and I can never guess what horrors his mind will concoct. Did you know he eats with his right hand when he is in a good mood and his left when he isn’t? Why do I even remember that? And if he touches me, it does not—I don’t—” I shoved the dagger into the cushion, tearing a diagonal line across the velvet surface. I could not bear to look at Sefa. “He is Nizahl’s


fills my mouth. Nervousness seeps into terror as I anticipate what is to come. I could be dead, flat-out dead, in an hour. Not even. My fingers obsessively trace the hard little lump on my forearm where the woman injected the tracking device. I press on it, even though it hurts, I press on it so hard a small bruise be- gins to form. “Do you want to talk, Katniss?” Cinna asks. I shake my head but after a moment hold out my hand to him. Cinna encloses it in both of his. And this is how we sit un- til a pleasant female voice announces it’s time to prepare for launch. Still clenching one of Cinna’s hands, I walk over and stand on the circular metal plate. “Remember what Haymitch said. Run, find water. The rest will follow,” he says. I nod. “And re- member this. I’m not allowed to bet, but if I could, my money would be on you.” “Truly?” I whisper. “Truly,” says Cinna. He leans down and kisses me on the forehead. “Good luck, girl on fire.” And then a glass cylinder is lowering around me, breaking our handhold, cutting him off from me. He taps his fingers under his chin. Head high. I lift my chin and stand as straight as I can. The cylinder be- gins to rise. For maybe fifteen seconds, I’m in darkness and 145 then I can feel the metal plate pushing me out of the cylinder, into the open air. For a moment, my eyes are dazzled by the bright sunlight and I’m conscious only of a strong wind with the hopeful smell of pine trees. Then I hear the legendary announcer, Claudius Temples- mith, as his voice booms all around me. “Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!” 146 Sixty seconds. That’s how long we’re required to stand on our metal circles before the sound of a gong releases us. Step off before the minute is up, and land mines blow your legs off. Sixty seconds to take in the ring of tributes all equidistant from the Cornucopia, a giant golden horn shaped like a cone with a curved tail, the mouth of which is at least twenty feet high, spilling over with the things that will give us life here in the arena. Food, containers of water, weapons, medicine, gar- ments, fire starters. Strewn around the Cornucopia are other supplies, their value decreasing the farther they are from the horn. For instance, only a few steps from my feet lays a three- foot square of plastic. Certainly it could be of some use in a downpour. But there in the mouth, I can see a tent pack that would protect from almost any sort of weather. If I had the guts to go in and fight for it against the other twenty-three tri- butes. Which I have been instructed not to do. We’re on a flat, open stretch of ground. A plain of hard- packed dirt. Behind the tributes across from me, I can see nothing, indicating


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

and despairing at his intolerable fate, and sheltering at last, heated and weary, amid the thickets of Hintondean, to piece together again his shattered schemes against his species. That seems the most probable refuge for him, for there it was he re-asserted himself in a grimly tragical manner about two in the afternoon. One wonders what his state of mind may have been during that time, and what plans he devised. No doubt he was almost ecstatically exasperated by Kemp's treachery, and though we may be able to understand the motives that led to that deceit, we may still imagine and even sympathise a little with the fury the attempted surprise must have occasioned. Perhaps something of the stunned astonishment of his Oxford Street experiences may have returned to him, for evidently he had counted on Kemp's co-operation in his brutal dream of a terrorised world. At any rate he vanished from human ken about midday, and no living witness can tell what he did until about half-past two. It was a fortunate thing, perhaps, for humanity, but for him it was a fatal inaction. During that time a growing multitude of men scattered over the countryside were busy. In the morning he had still been simply a legend, a terror; in the afternoon, by virtue chiefly of Kemp's drily worded proclamation, he was presented as a tangible antagonist, to be wounded, captured, or overcome, and the countryside began organising itself with inconceivable rapidity. By two o'clock even he might still have removed himself out of the district by getting aboard a train, but after two that became impossible. Every passenger train along the lines on a great parallelogram between Southampton, Manchester, Brighton, and Horsham, travelled with locked doors, and the goods traffic was almost entirely suspended. And in a great circle of twenty miles round Port Burdock, men armed with guns and bludgeons were presently setting out in groups of three and four, with dogs, to beat the roads and fields. Mounted policemen rode along the country lanes, stopping at every cottage and warning the people to lock up their houses, and keep indoors unless they were armed, and all the elementary schools had broken up by three o'clock, and the children, scared and keeping together in groups, were hurrying home. Kemp's proclamation--signed indeed by Adye--was posted over almost the whole district by four or five o'clock in the afternoon. It gave briefly but clearly all the conditions of the struggle, the necessity of keeping the Invisible Man from food and sleep, the necessity for incessant watchfulness and for a prompt attention to any evidence of his movements. And so swift and decided was the action of the authorities, so prompt and universal was the belief in this strange being, that before nightfall an area of several hundred square miles was in a stringent state of siege. And before nightfall, too, a thrill of horror went through the whole watching nervous countryside. Going from whispering mouth to mouth, swift and certain over the length and breadth of the county, passed the


a gentle press, testing its depth. ‘I must have stumbled.’ ‘But why would you go out in the dark, without anything to keep you warm?’ ‘I was foolish.’ She sounded tired. ‘I panicked, Dumai. I remembered the storm that froze your fingers, how many died on the mountain that night. I didn’t want to lose anyone else.’ ‘There are rules for survival,’ Dumai said, her voice straining. ‘You taught me that.’ ‘I know.’ Unora drew her breath. ‘Dumai, how would you feel if we moved to a different temple?’ Dumai frowned. ‘What?’ ‘The South Mountains have beautiful temples. Or we could go west, to the coast,’ Unora said, almost feverishly. ‘Would you not like that, my kite, to swim in the sea – to see more of the world?’ ‘Our home is enough.’ Dumai was unnerved. ‘Mama, you’re tired and hurt. You don’t mean this.’ She stopped when Kanifa slid the door open, sweat on his brow. ‘The Kuposa lady is gone.’ Unora stared at him, her face bloodless. ‘She, too?’ She sat up with trembling arms. ‘When did she leave?’ ‘Tirotu went to wake them at sunrise and found their footprints. I came as soon as—’ ‘Stop her,’ Unora barked, making Dumai flinch in surprise. ‘Follow their tracks.’ When Kanifa and Dumai exchanged a bewildered look, she spoke through clenched teeth: ‘Kanifa, you can overtake her. You’re faster and stronger than any of the others. No matter what her protests, bring that woman back. Do not let her reach Antuma.’ With little choice, Kanifa left. Dumai made to follow him, but her mother caught her arm, steel in her fingers. ‘Kanifa will manage,’ she said, quieter. ‘You stay here with me, Dumai.’ **** By evening, Kanifa had not returned, but Dumai knew he would have taken shelter in the mountain village. He would never be fool enough to try to climb back up the steps in darkness. While she waited, she looked after her mother, bringing her meals and icing her ankle. Unora moved little and said less. Each time the wind shook the shutters, or the temple gave one of its placid creaks, her eyes would snap open, her gaze darting to the corridor. After a time, she dozed off, her forehead crinkled even in sleep. When Tirotu came with hot wine, Dumai whispered, ‘Will you send word to the village tomorrow, to see if Kanifa arrived?’ ‘Of course,’ they said. ‘I’m sure he’s fine, Dumai. Don’t worry.’ ‘I’ll try.’ Tirotu slid the door shut, and Dumai lay close to her mother, wondering why Unora would ever want to bring a guest back to the temple by force – and how she meant to keep her there. **** The next day broke like ice, cold and clear. As Dumai walked to the sky platform, she noticed the snow had shallowed, and the frozen spines on the eaves were dripping. Strange in the darker half of the year. She watched the slopes for a long time. At the sight of the tiny figure in the snow, the tension in her chest


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

a roll of parchment. With his tongue between his teeth he scribbled a note that Harry could read upside down: Dear Professor Dumbledore, Given Harry his letter. Taking him to buy his things tomorrow. Weather's horrible. Hope you're well. Hagrid Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which clamped it in its beak, went to the door, and threw the owl out into the storm. Then he came back and sat down as though this was as normal as talking on the telephone. Harry realized his mouth was open and closed it quickly. "Where was I?" said Hagrid, but at that moment, Uncle Vernon, still ashen-faced but looking very angry, moved into the firelight. "He's not going," he said. Hagrid grunted. "I'd like ter see a great Muggle like you stop him," he said. "A what?" said Harry, interested. "A Muggle," said Hagrid, "it's what we call nonmagic folk like thern. An' it's your bad luck you grew up in a family o' the biggest Muggles I ever laid eyes on." "We swore when we took him in we'd put a stop to that rubbish," said Uncle Vernon, "swore we'd stamp it out of him! Wizard indeed!" "You knew?" said Harry. "You knew I'm a -- a wizard?" "Knew!" shrieked Aunt Petunia suddenly. "Knew! Of course we knew! How could you not be, my dratted sister being what she was? Oh, she got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that -- that school -- and came home every vacation with her pockets full of frog spawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the only one who saw her for what she was -- a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in the family!" She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went ranting on. It seemed she had been wanting to say all this for years. "Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married and had you, and of course I knew you'd be just the same, just as strange, just as -- as -- abnormal -- and then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up and we got landed with you!" Harry had gone very white. As soon as he found his voice he said, "Blown up? You told me they died in a car crash!" "CAR CRASH!" roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily that the Dursleys scuttled back to their corner. "How could a car crash kill Lily an' James Potter? It's an outrage! A scandal! Harry Potter not knowin' his own story when every kid in our world knows his name!" "But why? What happened?" Harry asked urgently. The anger faded from Hagrid's face. He looked suddenly anxious. "I never expected this," he said, in a low, worried voice. "I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble gettin' hold of yeh, how much yeh didn't know. Ah, Harry, I don' know if I'm


to program it to say What? and I don't understand and Where's the tea? - who'd know the difference?" "What?" cried Arthur, backing away still further. "See what I mean?" said Zaphod and howled with pain because of something that Trillian did at that moment. "I'd notice the difference," said Arthur. "No you wouldn't," said Frankie mouse, "you'd be programmed not to." Ford made for the door. "Look, I'm sorry, mice old lads," he said. "I don't think we've got a deal." "I rather think we have to have a deal," said the mice in chorus, all the charm vanishing fro their piping little voices in an instant. With a tiny whining shriek their two glass transports lifted themselves off the table, and swung through the air towards Arthur, who stumbled further backwards into a blind corner, utterly unable to cope or think of anything. Trillian grabbed him desperately by the arm and tried to drag him towards the door, which Ford and Zaphod were struggling to open, but Arthur was dead weight - he seemed hypnotized by the airborne rodents swooping towards him. She screamed at him, but he just gaped. With one more yank, Ford and Zaphod got the door open. On the other side of it was a small pack of rather ugly men who they could only assume were the heavy mob of Magrathea. Not only were they ugly themselves, but the medical equipment they carried with them was also far from pretty. They charged. So - Arthur was about to have his head cut open, Trillian was unable to help him, and Ford and Zaphod were about to be set upon by several thugs a great deal heavier and more sharply armed than they were. All in all it was extremely fortunate that at that moment every alarm on the planet burst into an earsplitting din. ================================================================= Chapter 32 "Emergency! Emergency!" blared the klaxons throughout Magrathea. "Hostile ship has landed on planet. Armed intruders in section 8A. Defence stations, defence stations!" The two mice sniffed irritably round the fragments of their glass transports where they lay shattered on the floor. "Damnation," muttered Frankie mouse, "all that fuss over two pounds of Earthling brain." He scuttled round and about, his pink eyes flashing, his fine white coat bristling with static. "The only thing we can do now," said Benji, crouching and stroking his whiskers in thought, "is to try and fake a question, invent one that will sound plausible." "Difficult," said Frankie. He thought. "How about What's yellow and dangerous?" Benji considered this for a moment. "No, no good," he said. "Doesn't fit the answer." They sank into silence for a few seconds. "Alright," said Benji. "What do you get if you multiply six by seven?" "No, no, too literal, too factual," said Frankie, "wouldn't sustain the punters' interest." Again they thought. Then Frankie said: "Here's a thought. How many roads must a man walk down?" "Ah," said Benji. "Aha, now that does sound promising!" He rolled the phrase around a little. "Yes," he said, "that's excellent! Sounds


do what?” Hephzibah’s eyes darkened. “To—charm someone,” Winnie said, casting about for the right word. She couldn’t afford to be overheard. She wasn’t used to this sort of business at all. “Charm someone?” “Yes! The way only you could do it.” The silence was dreadful. Hephzibah took another cherry, examined it. “Not all actresses are tarts, you know,” she said. Winnie felt herself grow cold. “That’s not at all what I mean.” Hephzibah’s eyes flashed upward. “I don’t need money that badly. I’ve got money.” “Hephzibah...” “I’ve got any number of jobs coming.” Winnie sat forward in her chair. “Let me explain myself,” she said. Hephzibah snatched the program, held it up to the lamplight. “It’s a bad night tonight. Rough acts, top to bottom. You should’ve come on a Saturday. Then you’d see some talent. Not this rubbish.” “Hephzibah...” “If I ran this place, it would go like a dream. I’d write the bloody plays myself. I’ve got a great talent.” “I know.” “A rare talent. It deserves proper cultivation.” She sent another cherry stone bouncing into the bowl. Perfect aim. “It’s pretty rich, you marching in here, out of the blue. I haven’t heard from you for months.” Winnie opened her mouth. Closed it again. “I always write,” she said uneasily. “And I reply!” “Well,” said Winnie, not able to help herself, “you send me pictures of yourself.” Hephzibah shot her a look. “Picture postcards.” Winnie wilted. “Yes.” “Very fetching ones.” Sometimes the moment was presented to you, the window opened just a crack. Winnie forced herself not to be a coward. “Hephzibah. I’m so—” The words came in a rush. “I’m so enormously—sorry.” That face! Immaculate, the expression smoothing out, like the tide sweeping the sands. Hephzibah said nothing. Winnie remembered the day Hephzibah had left. Upped and vanished in the night, they said. Yet another runaway. It had infuriated everybody, Winnie included, who’d been left with the task of clearing out Hephzibah’s rubbish and sad, much-mended uniforms. Dinah King had laughed. “You know how she is,” she’d said. “She’s got dreams. She wants to be onstage.” They hadn’t asked any questions. Hephzibah crumpled the program in her hands, tossed it aside. Grabbed her glass of sherry, spilling a little over the brim. “If you weren’t so bloody pious,” she said, “and po-faced, then I shouldn’t get so annoyed with you. Honestly, it’s too bad. Every time you come plodding down to see me you just make me feel beastly. It brings everything up again. You do understand that, don’t you?” Winnie nodded. “I don’t mean to.” Hephzibah handed Winnie her own glass. “Here. Put some color in your cheeks. I can’t sit here and watch you sweating all night.” Winnie grasped it. “Thanks.” “So, tell me.” Winnie took a swig. “There’s something delicate we want you to do,” she said, feeling the burn in her throat. “We?” “Me and Dinah King.” Hephzibah’s eyes widened. Winnie raised a palm. “She doesn’t know, Hephzibah. On my honor, she doesn’t know a thing.” Hephzibah leaned back in her chair. “Lucky her.


opposite, the latter was always disposed to resent him as a direct personal affront. He now retorted in a coarse lumpish way, and Startop tried to turn the discussion aside with some small pleasantry that made us all laugh. Resenting this little success more than anything, Drummle, without any threat or warning, pulled his hands out of his pockets, dropped his round shoulders, swore, took up a large glass, and would have flung it at his adversary's head, but for our entertainer's dexterously seizing it at the instant when it was raised for that purpose. "Gentlemen," said Mr. Jaggers, deliberately putting down the glass, and hauling out his gold repeater by its massive chain, "I am exceedingly sorry to announce that it's half-past nine." On this hint we all rose to depart. Before we got to the street door, Startop was cheerily calling Drummle "old boy," as if nothing had happened. But the old boy was so far from responding, that he would not even walk to Hammersmith on the same side of the way; so, Herbert and I, who remained in town, saw them going down the street on opposite sides; Startop leading, and Drummle lagging behind in the shadow of the houses, much as he was wont to follow in his boat. As the door was not yet shut, I thought I would leave Herbert there for a moment, and run up-stairs again to say a word to my guardian. I found him in his dressing-room surrounded by his stock of boots, already hard at it, washing his hands of us. I told him I had come up again to say how sorry I was that anything disagreeable should have occurred, and that I hoped he would not blame me much. "Pooh!" said he, sluicing his face, and speaking through the water-drops; "it's nothing, Pip. I like that Spider though." He had turned towards me now, and was shaking his head, and blowing, and towelling himself. "I am glad you like him, sir," said I - "but I don't." "No, no," my guardian assented; "don't have too much to do with him. Keep as clear of him as you can. But I like the fellow, Pip; he is one of the true sort. Why, if I was a fortune-teller--" Looking out of the towel, he caught my eye. "But I am not a fortune-teller," he said, letting his head drop into a festoon of towel, and towelling away at his two ears. "You know what I am, don't you? Good-night, Pip." "Good-night, sir." In about a month after that, the Spider's time with Mr. Pocket was up for good, and, to the great relief of all the house but Mrs. Pocket, he went home to the family hole. Chapter 27 "MY DEAR MR PIP, "I write this by request of Mr. Gargery, for to let you know that he is going to London in company with Mr. Wopsle and would be glad if agreeable to be allowed to see you. He would call at Barnard's Hotel Tuesday morning 9 o'clock,


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


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

I might give alms to his body; but his body did not pain him; it was his soul that suffered, and his soul I could not reach. I did not accomplish the purpose of going to Trinity Church that morning. Somehow, the things I had seen disqualified me for the time from church-going. I walked homeward, thinking what I would do with Bartleby. Finally, I resolved upon this;—I would put certain calm questions to him the next morning, touching his history, etc., and if he declined to answer them openly and unreservedly (and I supposed he would prefer not), then to give him a twenty dollar bill over and above whatever I might owe him, and tell him his services were no longer required; but that if in any other way I could assist him, I would be happy to do so, especially if he desired to return to his native place, wherever that might be, I would willingly help to defray the expenses. Moreover, if, after reaching home, he found himself at any time in want of aid, a letter from him would be sure of a reply. The next morning came. “Bartleby,” said I, gently calling to him behind his screen. No reply. “Bartleby,” said I, in a still gentler tone, “come here; I am not going to ask you to do any thing you would prefer not to do—I simply wish to speak to you.” Upon this he noiselessly slid into view. “Will you tell me, Bartleby, where you were born?” “I would prefer not to.” “Will you tell me any thing about yourself?” “I would prefer not to.” “But what reasonable objection can you have to speak to me? I feel friendly towards you.” He did not look at me while I spoke, but kept his glance fixed upon my bust of Cicero, which as I then sat, was directly behind me, some six inches above my head. “What is your answer, Bartleby?” said I, after waiting a considerable time for a reply, during which his countenance remained immovable, only there was the faintest conceivable tremor of the white attenuated mouth. “At present I prefer to give no answer,” he said, and retired into his hermitage. It was rather weak in me I confess, but his manner on this occasion nettled me. Not only did there seem to lurk in it a certain calm disdain, but his perverseness seemed ungrateful, considering the undeniable good usage and indulgence he had received from me. Again I sat ruminating what I should do. Mortified as I was at his behavior, and resolved as I had been to dismiss him when I entered my offices, nevertheless I strangely felt something superstitious knocking at my heart, and forbidding me to carry out my purpose, and denouncing me for a villain if I dared to breathe one bitter word against this forlornest of mankind. At last, familiarly drawing my chair behind his screen, I sat down and said: “Bartleby, never mind then about revealing your history; but let me entreat you, as a friend,


them out to-day. Then indeed you would have had him at your mercy!" It was evident to us that all pursuit was in vain until the fog had lifted. Meanwhile we left Lestrade in possession of the house while Holmes and I went back with the baronet to Baskerville Hall. The story of the Stapletons could no longer be withheld from him, but he took the blow bravely when he learned the truth about the woman whom he had loved. But the shock of the night's adventures had shattered his nerves, and before morning he lay delirious in a high fever under the care of Dr. Mortimer. The two of them were destined to travel together round the world before Sir Henry had become once more the hale, hearty man that he had been before he became master of that ill-omened estate. And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of this singular narrative, in which I have tried to make the reader share those dark fears and vague surmises which clouded our lives so long and ended in so tragic a manner. On the morning after the death of the hound the fog had lifted and we were guided by Mrs. Stapleton to the point where they had found a pathway through the bog. It helped us to realize the horror of this woman's life when we saw the eagerness and joy with which she laid us on her husband's track. We left her standing upon the thin peninsula of firm, peaty soil which tapered out into the widespread bog. From the end of it a small wand planted here and there showed where the path zigzagged from tuft to tuft of rushes among those green-scummed pits and foul quagmires which barred the way to the stranger. Rank reeds and lush, slimy water-plants sent an odour of decay and a heavy miasmatic vapour onto our faces, while a false step plunged us more than once thigh-deep into the dark, quivering mire, which shook for yards in soft undulations around our feet. Its tenacious grip plucked at our heels as we walked, and when we sank into it it was as if some malignant hand was tugging us down into those obscene depths, so grim and purposeful was the clutch in which it held us. Once only we saw a trace that someone had passed that perilous way before us. From amid a tuft of cotton grass which bore it up out of the slime some dark thing was projecting. Holmes sank to his waist as he stepped from the path to seize it, and had we not been there to drag him out he could never have set his foot upon firm land again. He held an old black boot in the air. "Meyers, Toronto," was printed on the leather inside. "It is worth a mud bath," said he. "It is our friend Sir Henry's missing boot." "Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight." "Exactly. He retained it in his hand after using it to set the hound upon the track.


with the new customer. It was a perfectly normal scene. They exchanged smiles over some item on the menu and apparently agreed that it would suit for the patron took the card and with, Bond guessed, a final exchange about the wine, he withdrew. The man seemed to realize that he was being watched. He looked up and gazed incuriously at them for a moment. Then he reached for a brief-case on the chair beside him, extracted a newspaper and started to read it his elbows propped up on the table. When the man had turned his face towards them, Bond noticed that he had a black patch over one eye. It was not tied with a tape across the eye, but screwed in like a monocle. Otherwise he seemed a friendly middle-aged man, with dark brown hair brushed straight back, and, as Bond had seen while he was talking to the patron, particularly large, white teeth. He turned back to Vesper. 'Really, darling. He looks very innocent. Are you sure he's the same man? We can't expect to have this place entirely to ourselves.' Vesper's face was still a white mask. She was clutching the edge of the table with both hands. He thought she was going to faint and almost rose to come round to her, but she made a gesture to stop him. Then she reached for a glass of wine and took a deep draught. The glass rattled on her teeth and she brought up her other hand to help. Then she put the glass down. She looked at him with dull eyes. 'I know it's the same.' He tried to reason with her, but she paid no attention. After glancing once or twice over his shoulder with eyes that held a curious submissiveness, she said that her headache was still bad and that she would spend the afternoon in her room. She left the table and walked indoors without a backward glance. Bond was determined to set her mind at rest. He ordered coffee to be brought to the table and then he rose and walked swiftly to the courtyard. The black Peugeot which stood there might indeed have been the saloon they had seen, but it might equally have been one of a million others on the French roads. He took a quick glance inside, but the interior was empty and when he tried the boot, it was locked. He made a note of the Paris number-plate then he went quickly to the lavatory adjoining the dining-room, pulled the chain and walked out on to the terrace. The man was eating and didn't look up. Bond sat down in Vesper's chair so that he could watch the other table. A few minutes later the man asked for the bill, paid it and left. Bond heard the Peugeot start up and soon the noise of its exhaust had disappeared in the direction of the road to Royale. When the patron came back to his table, Bond explained that Madame had unfortunately a slight touch of sunstroke. After


to see these boys as the stars, to fall at their sweaty feet. What bothers me now is those boys internalizing girls as audience, there only to act as mirrors, to make their accomplishments realer.) But out on the boat, we were neither watchers nor watched; there was only the sound of water and of our cox’s voice calling for a power ten, only the muscle burn, only cold air on wet skin. By spring I was signing up again, this time for sprint season, and then I was in it for life. Or at least till senior year, when I flaked out in every way—when I quietly dropped to 115 pounds, when I stopped going to calculus, when I smoked ten cigarettes a day and started mixing Tylenol and vodka. I got in the boat that first week of sprint season and couldn’t do it, quite literally couldn’t pull my weight. I dropped off the team, blamed it on senioritis. But in college I sometimes subbed in for practice, and in New York and LA I joined rowing clubs. When I think of Granby, I see the Tigerwhip and the Connecticut before I see campus itself. I see Robin Facer’s back, her braid swishing as she rows. I see us celebrating at Stotesbury for not embarrassing ourselves, pelting each other with M&M’s in the hotel hallway. This current-day coach pointed out all the crew girls she could see in the dining hall. “There’s one,” she said, indicating a tall girl by the sandwich station. “There are three, those three together.” I said, “I love them at first sight.” I did. They seemed utterly themselves, laughing loudly, filling tall glasses with chocolate milk. The Dorian Cullers of 2018 would be out of their minds to mess with them. As we stood with our dishes, Mr. Levin said, “You know, I always knew you were going to be okay.” I felt like crying—out of bitterness? out of tenderness?—because if that was true, he was the only one who’d ever thought so. I certainly hadn’t thought it myself. He said, “You were always going to be just fine.” 11 That night, I told Fran about Britt’s podcast. “I don’t want people thinking it was my idea,” I said. Anne had taken the boys home for their bath; Fran walked me back to check out the new guesthouse, stayed for wine. “Nah.” She was opening and closing each cabinet, each drawer. “No one would even, like, put it together that you knew Thalia.” She was talking about what the faculty would think, when I meant everyone: our classmates, Thalia’s family, the world. “If you’d been best friends with Thalia, maybe they’d remember. If you were Robbie Serenho or someone. But like I was saying at dinner—what kids were here together, it’s a blur.” My housemate came out into the kitchen and introduced himself to Fran. Oliver Coleman. I was grateful for the reminder, repeated his name in my head. Oliver-Oliver-Oliver. I asked how his first day went. “They’re smart,” he said. “You were right. And


the condition you were in, it wouldn’t have been hard to get you to ID Stahl. Even to convince you that you had seen him.” “For a long time, I told myself that I must have,” I said. I pushed off the bed, started pacing. “I let myself believe it. I had to. If I said I was wrong, that it wasn’t him, everyone would have hated me. I was an idiot. I was a coward. I—” “Slow down, Naomi,” Ethan said. I stopped in my circuit. He stood, but kept his distance. “Let’s take this one thing at a time. Start with Persephone. Who is she?” “Her name is Jessi Walker.” I pulled up the file on my phone and showed him. He read through it with a faint frown. “She fits the type,” he said, more to himself than me. “So she could be another victim.” “Maybe.” He handed me back my phone. “There’s a trap that investigations tend to fall into. They get tunnel vision. They ram the evidence into place around a single theory, instead of staying open to the possibilities. We have a theory: Stahl killed Jessi Walker. But the only thing we know for sure is that Jessi Walker died. It might have been misadventure, not murder.” “But it makes sense. It explains why Stahl was in the woods. It means—” “It means that the right person got locked up for attacking you. It absolves you,” Ethan said. If he’d said it gently, tenderly, I think I would have hated him for it. But there was no forgiveness in his voice, just cold truth. “You need to decide if you’re trying to find out what really happened, or if you’re trying to prove you didn’t do anything wrong.” I looked away. “I never wanted to know too much about Stahl—the things he did. I’ve always just accepted that he killed all those women.” I’d never thought about his son, either—the damage done to him. The life he must have lived. I swallowed against a hard lump in my throat. “I didn’t want to think about what it would mean if everyone was wrong, and I sent an innocent man to prison,” I said. “You didn’t,” Ethan said sharply, and I glanced at him in surprise. “That is one thing you do not need to feel guilty about.” “They didn’t have enough evidence to convict him.” “That doesn’t mean they didn’t have enough to know it was him. Don’t waste any energy fretting over Stahl. He’s dead and the world’s a better place without him.” His certainty would have been comforting, if I was capable of being comforted. But I was thinking of the letter now. “Even if that’s true, if Stahl didn’t attack me, it means that whoever did got away with it. Maybe even did it again.” To a girl who wasn’t as fortunate as me, I didn’t add. Ethan rubbed a hand over his chin. “For now, let’s focus on Jessi. It’s been a long time, and Stahl sometimes drove with his victims for


having my back, man. I forgot about the whole thing with the photographer.” “I didn’t.” Julian swirled his wine. “I also remember when she threw wine in your face and you only looked angry at yourself for arguing with her in the first place.” “Yeah, that sounds like me.” Julian shook his head. Sighed. “You’re in love with her.” Suddenly, August couldn’t swallow. The music swelled in his ears. Was he in love with Natalie? No idea. If the key to her happiness was at the bottom of the ocean, he’d strap on some flippers and goggles to dive down and get it. If she showed any signs of illness, even a common cold, he would consider bringing her to the ER. If she asked him to dress like Zack Morris at Halloween so she could dress like Kelly Kapowski . . . he’d already have suggested it first. Did all of that equal love? To him? Yes. He loved her. Really, really bad. It couldn’t have seemed less natural for Julian to lay his arm across August’s shoulders, but he did. Briefly. “I have faith in you.” He stepped back. “I also have faith that she wouldn’t have gone through with this unless something was there.” “Thanks, Julian,” he managed through his parched throat. “And if you hurt her, I’ll break your nose.” “Heard you the first two times.” When Julian returned to his girlfriend’s side, August picked up an uneaten plate of food from one of the tables and dug into it with a tiny fork. Cold sea bass was not the most appetizing of choices, but God knew he’d eaten worse. How to get Natalie’s attention. How to get . . . The DJ booth released a slow plume of fog out onto the dance floor. August smiled mid-chew, finally landing on a plan. A few minutes later, the opening strains of “Brick House” filled the tent and Natalie’s shoulder blades twitched, then she was turning around and sending daggers at him with her eyes. He only winked back. When the lyrics kicked in, August strutted out onto the dance floor and pointed directly at his new wife with an open challenge. At first, he was positive she was going to throw the closest heavy object at his head, but to his everlasting happiness, she joined him in the center of the floor, causing the drunk guests in attendance to applaud. “Are you serious?” Natalie mouthed at him over the music. August unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket with a flourish and dropped it on the dance floor, moving on to the cuff links next. Rolling up his sleeves. And then he started to dance—although even he could admit that that term should be used loosely when applied to his series of exaggerated disco moves and jump spins. Not to mention a lot of finger guns. He’d developed this routine years ago as a way to shake the malaise that often overcame his team when they’d been away from their families too long and, frankly, it was ridiculous. But it was