was the crudest possible forgery. Bond leapt for the Bentley, blessing the impulse which had made him drive it over after dinner. With the choke full out, the engine answered at once to the starter and the roar drowned the faltering words of the commissionaire who jumped aside as the rear wheels whipped gravel at his piped trouser-legs. As the car rocked to the left outside the gate, Bond ruefully longed for the front-wheel drive and low chassis of the Citroen. Then he went fast through the gears and settled himself for the pursuit, briefly savoring the echo of the huge exhaust as it came back at him from either side of the short main street through the town. Soon he was out on the coast road, a broad highway through the sand-dunes which he knew from his morning's drive had an excellent surface and was well cat's-eyed on the bends. He pushed the revs up and up, hurrying the car to eighty then to ninety, his huge Marchal headlights boring a safe white tunnel, nearly half a mile long, between the walls of the night. He knew the Citron must have come this way. He had heard the exhaust penetrate beyond the town, and a little dust still hung on the bends. He hoped soon to see the distant shaft of its headlights. The night was still and clear. Only out at sea there must be a light summer mist for at intervals he could hear the fog-horns lowing like iron cattle down the coast. As he drove, whipping the car faster and faster through the night, with the other half of his mind he cursed Vesper, and M for having sent her on the job. This was just what he had been afraid of. These blithering women who thought they could do a man's work. Why the hell couldn't they stay at home and mind their pots and pans and stick to their frocks and gossip and leave men's work to the men. And now for this to happen to him, just when the job had come off so beautifully. For Vesper to fall for an old trick like that and get herself snatched and probably held to ranson like some bloody heroine in a strip cartoon. The silly bitch. Bond boiled at the thought of the fix he was in. Of course. The idea was a straight swop. The girl against his cheque for forty million. Well, he wouldn't play: wouldn't think of playing. She was in the Service and knew what she was up against. He wouldn't even ask M. This job was more important than her. It was just too bad. She was a fine girl, but he wasn't going to fall for this childish trick. No dice. He would try and catch the Citron and shoot it out with them and if she got shot in the process, that was too bad too. He would have done his stuff - tried to rescue her before they got her off to some hideout - but if he


and studied them, writing her observations by the light that filtered through their branches. While her friends were always careful to note landmarks—trees with odd depressions in their sides, patches of earth covered with rotting fruit and buzzing flies—before going too far from the clearing that marked where their school began, Bùsọ́lá wanted to wander endlessly in the forest. Its unknown depths did not terrify her; instead it called to her. All she had already seen, the constant chirping and rustling, the mix of wetness, ripeness, rot and greenery that she breathed in when she was surrounded by trees, promised even more wonder to be discovered. That morning, when her mother had insisted that she show up in school even though not one naira of her school fees had been paid, Bùsọ́lá had headed straight into the bushes after telling Tèmi and Zainab where she would be. For what must have been the first time, she did not wander. Instead, she had sat on the exposed roots of a tree she could not name and waited while hours crawled by, each as long as a decade. Maybe she would have felt better if the yellow-tinged snake passed by. She had hoped it would, although she knew she would probably never see that particular one again. The yellow-tinged snake was special to her; it had made her decide last term that she wanted to become someone who spent her life wandering through forests and making notes about what she saw. Later, Hakeem had said all she needed to do was study forestry in the university and the rest should be easy. He had helped her to give a name to what she wanted when she told him about it, but that desire had begun with the snake. On the day Bùsọ́lá saw the yellow-tinged snake, Tèmi had said something during the short break that made Bùsọ́lá want to cry. She had run off into the forest. Away from the playground, where Tèmi and other girls were playing ten-ten, past the boys who were peeing against the grass at the forest’s edge, and then further in until the foliage overhead only allowed sunlight to filter through in thin threads. Bùsọ́lá was approaching a mango tree when she saw the snake wrapped around another tree. She stood still and breathed as quietly as she could, watching as it made its way up the trunk and disappeared into the branches. She counted the colours of its shimmering skin. Green, black and that brilliant shade of yellow she had never seen anywhere else. After school, she’d asked Hakeem what someone who studied forests was called, and when she got home, she’d told her father she wanted to study forestry. It was one of the few times she heard her father’s voice swell into a shout. He had stood over her and screamed that she was going to be a doctor or an engineer, declaring that she would not waste her life like he’d wasted his. While her mother pleaded with him, Bùsọ́lá left the room. She went


what he needed to do. Lucy had thought the worst of him, that he couldn’t be trusted, and that was something he needed to fix before he ruined other relationships or brought more businesses to failure. One thing at a time. First, he had to make sure his family had endured the blow. They hadn’t known about her false name ahead of time, and he could only imagine how his mother had taken the news. It was late enough that he found his mother and sister in the sitting room, both of them working on their embroidery and perfectly content with life. He had to wonder, with how calmly they sat, if they had even learned the truth, but he knew from experience that it was easy to hide behind a wall of indifference when one was suffering. Besides, Forester had said the family did know the full truth. It was the one thing Simon had heard him say last night. The rest had been nonsense—lies designed to manipulate him into being blinded by the woman who had split his heart in two. He didn’t know how Forester had fallen under Lucy’s spell, but Simon refused to yield. For his family’s sake. Perhaps Lucy had trusted Forester. He hadn’t been nearly as surprised by the truth as he should have been, which only made Simon feel worse. He was no better to her than a man who spoke only falsehoods. Taking a steeling breath, he forced himself into the drawing room, ready to fix things. “Good mor—” He stopped halfway through the word when he realized there was a third woman in the room, one he had never seen before. Despite that, she looked just as comfortably situated as Olivia or Mother, and she was dressed finely enough that she couldn’t be a neighbor. In fact, the jeweled ring on her finger put her as wife to someone rather well off, and no one within thirty miles could boast of that level of wealth outside of the Thatchers. As the woman was neither one of the Misses Thatcher, Simon was at a loss. “Simon, dear, I was wondering when you would wake.” Mother offered a small but somewhat strained smile as she waved him inward. “You are usually up so much earlier.” He remained where he was. “Mother,” he acknowledged. Olivia wasn’t looking at him. In fact, she seemed rather put out with him, her needle moving a tad too aggressively through her fabric for Simon to want to get anywhere close to her. Just what had he done to get on her bad side? He hadn’t even realized she had a bad side. It couldn’t be because of their failed race yesterday, could it? That hadn’t been his fault. He cleared his throat, hoping that would be enough for someone to acknowledge that an introduction was required. The strange woman smiled, resting her needle and thread on her lap with utmost delicacy. “He will learn soon enough,” she said to the room in general, her accent decidedly French. Mother sighed, all


deal in childish hiding-places. The ball-cock in the lavatory yielded an interesting little code-book and we found some more of your papers taped to the back of a drawer. All the furniture has been taken to pieces and your clothes and the curtains and bedclothes have been cut up. Every inch of the room has been searched and all the fittings removed. It is most unfortunate for you that we didn't find the cheque. If we had, you would now be comfortably in bed, perhaps with the beautiful Miss Lynd, instead of this.' He lashed upwards. Through the red mist of pain, Bond thought of Vesper. He could imagine how she was being used by the two gunmen. They would be making the most of her before she was sent for by Le Chiffre. He thought of the fat wet lips of the Corsican and the slow cruelty of the thin man. Poor wretch to have been dragged into this. Poor little beast. Le Chiffre was talking again. 'Torture is a terrible thing,' he was saying as he puffed at a fresh cigarette, 'but it is a simple matter for the torturer, particularly when the patient,' he smiled at the word, 'is a man. You see, my dear Bond, with a man it is quite unnecessary to indulge in refinements. With this simple instrument, or with almost any other object, one can cause a man as much pain as is possible or necessary. Do not believe what you read in novels or books about the war. There is nothing worse. It is not only the immediate agony, but also the thought that your manhood is being gradually destroyed and that at the end, if you will not yield, you will no longer be a man. 'That, my dear Bond, is a sad and terrible thought - a long chain of agony for the body and also for the mind, and then the final screaming moment when you will beg me to kill you. All that is inevitable unless you tell me where you hid the money.' He poured some more coffee into the glass and drank it down leaving brown corners to his mouth. Bond's lips were writhing. He was trying to say something. At last he got the word out in a harsh croak: 'Drink,' he said and his tongue came out and swilled across his dry lips. 'Of course, my dear boy, how thoughtless of me.' Le Chiffre poured some coffee into the other glass. There was a ring of sweat drops on the floor round Bond's chair. 'We must certainly keep your tongue lubricated.' He laid the handle of the carpet-beater down on the floor between his thick legs and rose from his chair. He went behind Bond and taking a handful of his soaking hair in one hand, he wrenched Bond's head sharply back. He poured the coffee down Bond's throat in small mouthfuls so that he would not choke. Then he released his head so that it fell forward again on his chest. He went back to


and aloft; everyone was in the bravest spirits because we ties of the HISPANIOLA. Every man on board seemed well were now so near an end of the first part of our adventure. Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 86 87 Now, just after sundown, when all my work was over and I was on my way to my berth, it occurred to me that I should like an apple. I ran on deck. The watch was all forward looking out for the island. The man at the helm was watch- ing the luff of the sail and whistling away gently to himself, and that was the only sound excepting the swish of the sea against the bows and around the sides of the ship. In I got bodily into the apple barrel, and found there was scarce an apple left; but sitting down there in the dark, what with the sound of the waters and the rocking movement of the ship, I had either fallen asleep or was on the point of Chapter 11. doing so when a heavy man sat down with rather a clash close What I Heard in the Apple Barrel. by. The barrel shook as he leaned his shoulders against it, and I was just about to jump up when the man began to speak. It “NO, not I,” said Silver. “Flint was cap’n; I was quarter- was Silver’s voice, and before I had heard a dozen words, I master, along of my timber leg. The same broadside I lost my would not have shown myself for all the world, but lay there, leg, old Pew lost his deadlights. It was a master surgeon, him trembling and listening, in the extreme of fear and curiosity, that ampytated me—out of college and all—Latin by the for from these dozen words I understood that the lives of all bucket, and what not; but he was hanged like a dog, and sun- the honest men aboard depended upon me alone. dried like the rest, at Corso Castle. That was Roberts’ men, that was, and comed of changing names to their ships— ROYAL FORTUNE and so on. Now, what a ship was chris- tened, so let her stay, I says. So it was with the CASSANDRA, as brought us all safe home from Malabar, after England took Contents the viceroy of the Indies; so it was with the old WALRUS, Flint’s old ship, as I’ve seen amuck with the red blood and fit to sink with gold.” Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 88 89 “Ah!” cried another voice, that of the youngest hand on I would have killed him through the barrel. Meantime, he board, and evidently full of admiration. “He was the flower ran on, little supposing he was overheard. of the flock, was Flint!” “Here it is about gentlemen of fortune. They lives rough, “Davis was a man too, by all accounts,” said Silver. “I never and they risk swinging, but they eat and drink like fighting- sailed along of him; first with England, then with Flint, that’s cocks, and


pain or blood.” “The coward’s way then.” My father sweeps his eyes across the audience to convey his opinion of the doctor’s complete lack of honor or courage. “Let me begin by saying that I was raised in a household devoted equally to scholarly endeavors and to medicine. From my mother, in particular, I learned that in medicine we must look at the entire cosmos—both within and without the body. Are they in harmony?” He gestures to me. “What pride I have in this moment to see that my daughter has learned to see these patterns not only in those who ail but in the world around her, which is how she was able to bring this matter to me. Just as my daughter or my parents might have felt the pulses, asked questions, and so on, I now follow a similar course to find what in the evidence is out of harmony with the cosmos and what traces have been left behind that reveal past movements.” My father pauses so his secretaries can take down all his words. Once their brushes stop moving, he picks up again. “Fame is a dream some men chase. Sometimes they catch it and manage to hold on to it as if hanging on to the tail of a kite in a tempest. Sometimes they are blinded by desire for recognition or influence, as if they have drunk a flask of fairy wine. We are talking about the basic elements of yin and yang, are we not? The constant push and pull between good and evil, love and hate, honor and disgrace, all of which follow each other in an unending cycle. In this case, Doctor Wong, you were not alone in your misdeeds. I now ask Midwife Shi and Miss Chen to stand next to you.” Once the two women are in place, my father says, “All punishments are dictated by the Great Ming Code: beheading, banishment, penal servitude, and flogging.” Hearing these words, Midwife Shi seems resigned. Miss Chen stays silent beneath her veil. Doctor Wong goes pale, perhaps reconsidering his choice of the coward’s way. “I will begin with Midwife Shi,” my father goes on. “The punishment for lying at an inquest is severe—one hundred blows with a heavy rod.” “No!” Meiling cries out. This is far worse than what she received at the palace. My father ignores the outburst. “While the Great Ming Code says I can’t suspend a sentence, it can be reduced, which I believe is warranted in this case. After all, Midwife Shi—as a woman and as one of the Six Grannies—could not disobey Doctor Wong’s orders. At the same time, we must admire her Confucian fealty. She sacrificed her reputation to secure her daughter’s future. That daughter—another member of the Six Grannies—has also exhibited the precepts of Confucius. In helping to expose Doctor Wong, Young Midwife has helped clear her mother’s name. Midwife Shi will receive one hundred blows from the lightest bamboo rod available in the district.” Hearing the sentence, Meiling’s mother remains as still as stone.


at Our Lady of Paris in London, which was designed by a former Grand Master of the Priory of Sion, Jean Cocteau." Sophie weighed the information. "I'll admit, the hidden M's are intriguing, although I assume nobody is claiming they are proof of Jesus' marriage to Magdalene." "No, no," Teabing said, going to a nearby table of books. "As I said earlier, the marriage of Jesus and Mary Magdalene is part of the historical record." He began pawing through his book collection. "Moreover, Jesus as a married man makes infinitely more sense than our standard biblical view of Jesus as a bachelor." "Why?" Sophie asked. "Because Jesus was a Jew," Langdon said, taking over while Teabing searched for his book, "and the social decorum during that time virtually forbid a Jewish man to be unmarried. According to Jewish custom, celibacy was condemned, and the obligation for a Jewish father was to find a suitable wife for his son. If Jesus were not married, at least one of the Bible's gospels would have mentioned it and offered some explanation for His unnatural state of bachelorhood." Teabing located a huge book and pulled it toward him across the table. The leatherbound edition was poster-sized, like a huge atlas. The cover read: The Gnostic Gospels. Teabing heaved it open, and Langdon and Sophie joined him. Sophie could see it contained photographs of what appeared to be magnified passages of ancient documents-tattered papyrus with handwritten text. She did not recognize the ancient language, but the facing pages bore typed translations. "These are photocopies of the Nag Hammadi and Dead Sea scrolls, which I mentioned earlier," Teabing said. "The earliest Christian records. Troublingly, they do not match up with the gospels in the Bible." Flipping toward the middle of the book, Teabing pointed to a passage. "The Gospel of Philip is always a good place to start." Sophie read the passage: And the companion of the Saviour is Mary Magdalene. Christ loved her more than all the disciples and used to kiss her often on her mouth. The rest of the disciples were offended by it and expressed disapproval. They said to him, "Why do you love her more than all of us?" The words surprised Sophie, and yet they hardly seemed conclusive. "It says nothing of marriage." "Au contraire." Teabing smiled, pointing to the first line. "As any Aramaic scholar will tell you, the word companion, in those days, literally meant spouse." Langdon concurred with a nod. Sophie read the first line again. And the companion of the Saviour is Mary Magdalene. Teabing flipped through the book and pointed out several other passages that, to Sophie's surprise, clearly suggested Magdalene and Jesus had a romantic relationship. As she read the passages, Sophie recalled an angry priest who had banged on her grandfather's door when she was a schoolgirl. "Is this the home of Jacques Saunire?" the priest had demanded, glaring down at young Sophie when she pulled open the door. "I want to talk to him about this editorial he wrote." The priest held up a


walked away. Natalie followed, smiling and thanking people who congratulated her as she passed. When they reached a quiet corner of the train car, Corinne kept a serene smile on her face, but there was no mistaking the temper in her eyes. “Don’t you think it would have been nice to give us a little prewarning before roping your brother and me into this stunt?” “Yes, I do, actually. That was my intention—” “In the space of thirty minutes, you and this . . . ape have turned us into a spectacle.” All at once, Natalie’s blood rose to a rollicking boil. “He’s a war veteran. A Navy SEAL. Don’t ever talk about him like that again.” Her mother’s mouth snapped shut, but she regrouped quickly. Natalie, however, did not. Since when was she so passionate about defending this man who was supposed to be her enemy? She could insult him until the cows came home, but someone else attempted it and she bit their head off? “You threw wine in this man’s face at the Bouquets and Beginners competition two days ago. Do you not think everyone in town knows about it? Do you not think they’re wondering how you could go from enemies to engaged so quickly?” Natalie’s cheeks heated. At this rate, she was going to burn off a layer of skin. “Couples argue. You should know that better than anyone. It’s not so hard to swallow the idea that we were in the middle of a spat.” The other woman was already shaking her head. “You are going to humiliate this family, the same way you did in high school.” Natalie reared back like she’d been slapped. Her body retreated from the sharp reprimand—and her back came up hard against an immovable object. Startled, she tilted her head to find August behind her, frowning. First at her and then at her mother. “Everything okay, princess?” Corinne scoffed at the nickname. Natalie watched her mother wage a war between manners and her obvious anger. Surprisingly, the anger won. Instead of shaking hands with August and saying something to smooth over the uncomfortable situation as she normally would, Corinne sailed past them with a tight smile and approached a different group, launching into a boring round of small talk about the train’s restored vintage fixtures. “How much did you hear?” Natalie asked without turning around. A beat passed. “Some.” Based on his gruff tone, he’d heard the part about her humiliating the family. “Great. I guess I spoke too soon.” She didn’t know what to do with her arms. Cross them. Gesture without purpose. Hug her middle. “You win tonight’s battle.” They stood in silence a moment. Then August surprised her by taking hold of her right hand and leading her back toward the Lovers’ Nest. He dropped into the seat and pulled her down after him. She didn’t have the energy to fight him or pretend his warmth wasn’t welcome and, a moment later, she found her head tucked beneath August’s chin, her legs draped over his thighs, watching


minutes later, General Resnick entered, leading two other men. The first was in his mid-forties, with dark hair, graying at the temples, and an equally dark five o’clock shadow. Pristy caught sight of captain’s bars on his light gray uniform and an infinity patch upon one shoulder. The second man was short and barrel-chested, with a mullet, and also wore a gray jumpsuit. “I am Captain Church,” said the first man, tension filling his voice. “This is Doogan. General Resnick has given me your names and said you brought the timeline 20 percent closer to normal. Good work.” Despite the compliment, Church sounded grim and irritated. “General, the floor is yours.” When the captain and Doogan had taken seats, Resnick sat at the head of the table. “I need everyone here to see what you are facing. Lieutenant, viewscreens, please.” Lieutenant Chan touched the bulkhead and spoke a short command into a now-active display menu. All around them, the conference room transitioned into a 3D, three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the asteroid field. The level of clarity made even USS Hercules’ sensor optics seem as weak as a child’s telescope. “Magnify the top right quadrant,” Resnick said. When Chan had, Resnick pointed to three red dots that could have passed for small moons. “Those, full magnification.” They weren’t moons, and the realization instigated curses from Pristy and her team. The ships were red, and while they appeared spherical from the front, the repositioned magnified view showed them to be more bullet shaped. Up close, their exteriors bristled with weapons and missile ports. The aft drive engines were so large they dwarfed any dreadnought Pristy had ever seen. At the bottom of each ship protruded a round cylinder, large enough to park a US Space-Navy frigate. “Those are the red ships,” Resnick said. “The Liquilids have hundreds of them, and two months from now, they’ve destroyed a dozen star systems. And by destroyed, I mean turned every planet in them to asteroid fields except the ones they’re keeping for food storage.” “Well,” said Doogan. “Fuck.” “Exactly,” Resnick said. “The red ships weren’t supposed to attack EUNF worlds for another hundred years. At that time, humanity kicked the royal shit out of them and destroyed every ship with advanced quantum disruptor capability. Then they decimated the Liquilids’ colonies back to the stone age.” “That’s a tad harsh,” Aubrey said. “So is using nanites to keep captive human crew members in suspended animation until they’re ready to feed on them,” General Resnick said. “Which they did with the crew of USS Lincoln until they were no longer edible. Then they just left them in agony.” “Oh God …” Aubrey said, her face going pale. “Something happened that screwed up the timeline,” he said. “The Grand Consortium noticed it two months from now—three months in Captain Pristy’s timeline. By then, the Liquilids were destroying Earth colonies and our allies. The Consortium traced it back to this star system and Adams, Wrath, and Portent blundering into the Liquilids’ trap.” “Blundering?” Captain Church went rigid in his seat, clearly taking


mean he's a stranger?" "Oh, very much!" "Yet you didn't tell me?" "No--for reasons. But now that you've guessed--" Mrs. Grose's round eyes encountered this charge. "Ah, I haven't guessed!" she said very simply. "How can I if YOU don't imagine?" "I don't in the very least." "You've seen him nowhere but on the tower?" "And on this spot just now." Mrs. Grose looked round again. "What was he doing on the tower?" "Only standing there and looking down at me." She thought a minute. "Was he a gentleman?" I found I had no need to think. "No." She gazed in deeper wonder. "No." "Then nobody about the place? Nobody from the village?" "Nobody--nobody. I didn't tell you, but I made sure." She breathed a vague relief: this was, oddly, so much to the good. It only went indeed a little way. "But if he isn't a gentleman--" "What IS he? He's a horror." "A horror?" "He's--God help me if I know WHAT he is!" Mrs. Grose looked round once more; she fixed her eyes on the duskier distance, then, pulling herself together, turned to me with abrupt inconsequence. "It's time we should be at church." "Oh, I'm not fit for church!" "Won't it do you good?" "It won't do THEM--! I nodded at the house. "The children?" "I can't leave them now." "You're afraid--?" I spoke boldly. "I'm afraid of HIM." Mrs. Grose's large face showed me, at this, for the first time, the faraway faint glimmer of a consciousness more acute: I somehow made out in it the delayed dawn of an idea I myself had not given her and that was as yet quite obscure to me. It comes back to me that I thought instantly of this as something I could get from her; and I felt it to be connected with the desire she presently showed to know more. "When was it--on the tower?" "About the middle of the month. At this same hour." "Almost at dark," said Mrs. Grose. "Oh, no, not nearly. I saw him as I see you." "Then how did he get in?" "And how did he get out?" I laughed. "I had no opportunity to ask him! This evening, you see," I pursued, "he has not been able to get in." "He only peeps?" "I hope it will be confined to that!" She had now let go my hand; she turned away a little. I waited an instant; then I brought out: "Go to church. Goodbye. I must watch." Slowly she faced me again. "Do you fear for them?" We met in another long look. "Don't YOU?" Instead of answering she came nearer to the window and, for a minute, applied her face to the glass. "You see how he could see," I meanwhile went on. She didn't move. "How long was he here?" "Till I came out. I came to meet him." Mrs. Grose at last turned round, and there was still more in her face. "_I_ couldn't have come out." "Neither could I!" I laughed again. "But I did come.


a notepad that included “check map ID references” and “pharmacy pickup.” I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. Some hint about where she would have gone, or why she would have called suddenly in the middle of the night. What had changed between yesterday morning and last night? I tapped the touchpad, and a password login popped up. No dice. I tried the drawer. There were pencils, a sketchbook, rubber bands, paper clips, hair ties, three pill organizers—which seemed to indicate that she’d taken all of her pills including last night’s, though not this morning’s—and loose photographs, snapshots that had been printed at a drugstore. Most of the photos were of her parents and the cats. Apparently there was a big fluffy gray one in addition to the marmalade gentleman I’d seen on the couch. But there were about a dozen random, poorly framed and badly lit photos of the woods, too. The sketchbook was full of detailed studies of plants, insects, and birds. She was her parents’ daughter, that was for sure. She’d always had her father’s love of art, her mother’s attention to detail. For a while, she’d had to stop drawing—the antipsychotics she was on made her hands shake too much. That was when we’d almost lost her. But now she had different meds, a lower dose, and beauty spilled from her again. I turned the page and froze. This sketch was different. Looser, for one thing, drawn from memory rather than life—at least, I hoped so. It showed the top third or so of a human skeleton. Flowers had been placed in the eye sockets, and around it were arrayed seashells and stones and stranger objects—a set of four jacks, a playing card, a collection of coins. “Persephone,” she had written at the bottom corner of the image, in her tiny, precise writing. I turned the page. Another grinning skull greeted me. And another, and another, and another—page after page, growing less detailed, more gestural, with each one. Darkness seemed to radiate from the bones until on the last page they were roughly hewn patches of negative space in a field of scribbled pencil lines. I thought the drawings must have gone back months, but the sketch before the first portrait of Persephone was dated only three days ago. Liv had done all of these since Stahl died. Since she decided to tell us what she’d found. There was one more thing in the drawer. A small velvet jewelry box. I eased the lid open, praying to find a set of pearl earrings. It was a bone. The tip of a finger. It might have belonged to any finger, might not have been human at all, except that I knew it was. It was from the right ring finger. I knew because I’d watched Liv take it. I looked again at the photographs. They weren’t random at all. They were landmarks. The reading rock, the crooked tree, the creek. It was a road map back to Persephone. I slipped the earring box into my pocket before I


I want to give the citizen the hard word about it. So we went around by the Linenhall barracks and the back of the courthouse talking of one thing or another. Decent fellow Joe when he has it but sure like that he never has it. Jesus, I couldn't get over that bloody foxy Geraghty, the daylight robber. For trading without a licence, says he. In Inisfail the fair there lies a land, the land of holy Michan. There rises a watchtower beheld of men afar. There sleep the mighty dead as in life they slept, warriors and princes of high renown. A pleasant land it is in sooth of murmuring waters, fishful streams where sport the gurnard, the plaice, the roach, the halibut, the gibbed haddock, the grilse, the dab, the brill, the flounder, the pollock, the mixed coarse fish generally and other denizens of the aqueous kingdom too numerous to be enumerated. In the mild breezes of the west and of the east the lofty trees wave in different directions their firstclass foliage, the wafty sycamore, the Lebanonian cedar, the exalted planetree, the eugenic eucalyptus and other ornaments of the arboreal world with which that region is thoroughly well supplied. Lovely maidens sit in close proximity to the roots of the lovely trees singing the most lovely songs while they play with all kinds of lovely objects as for example golden ingots, silvery fishes, crans of herrings, drafts of eels, codlings, creels of fingerlings, purple seagems and playful insects. And heroes voyage from afar to woo them, from Eblana to Slievemargy, the peerless princes of unfettered Munster and of Connacht the just and of smooth sleek Leinster and of Cruahan's land and of Armagh the splendid and of the noble district of Boyle, princes, the sons of kings. And there rises a shining palace whose crystal glittering roof is seen by mariners who traverse the extensive sea in barks built expressly for that purpose, and thither come all herds and fatlings and firstfruits of that land for O'Connell Fitzsimon takes toll of them, a chieftain descended from chieftains. Thither the extremely large wains bring foison of the fields, flaskets of cauliflowers, floats of spinach, pineapple chunks, Rangoon beans, strikes of tomatoes, drums of figs, drills of Swedes, spherical potatoes and tallies of iridescent kale, York and Savoy, and trays of onions, pearls of the earth, and punnets of mushrooms and custard marrows and fat vetches and bere and rape and red green yellow brown russet sweet big bitter ripe pomellated apples and chips of strawberries and sieves of gooseberries, pulpy and pelurious, and strawberries fit for princes and raspberries from their canes. I dare him, says he, and I doubledare him. Come out here, Geraghty, you notorious bloody hill and dale robber! And by that way wend the herds innumerable of bellwethers and flushed ewes and shearling rams and lambs and stubble geese and medium steers and roaring mares and polled calves and longwoods and storesheep and Cuffe's prime springers and culls and sowpigs and baconhogs and the various different


at dinner sometimes, when the men’s hands found their way under the servants’ tunics as they passed to pour their wine. Helen would look at them as they asked for more mutton, forcing the girls to come back, and Clytemnestra would see a flicker of rage in her sister’s eyes. It was always the small things that made Helen angry. A wrong comment, a sharp pinch, an unsaid thought. Clytemnestra, on the other hand, kept her anger for the whipping and the fighting, for the beatings and the executions. If Clytemnestra’s rage was a fire, Helen’s was a lamp, warm and thin in the darkness but burning if you came too close. And now Menelaus has made her sister angry, and she has left. Did Helen leave before Castor was killed? How could she leave Polydeuces alone and little Hermione behind? She tries to picture her sister on a ship to Troy with Paris, but the thought slips away like sea breeze. Some drunken men stumble in the street, walking back to their houses. The trees are one with the sky, and the last sounds of the night are dying out. “Do goddesses sleep?” Castor asked her once. She chuckled. “I don’t think so. Why?” “I want to catch one. I want to see what they look like.” “And then what will you do?” “Seduce her, of course,” he said, and they laughed. So that night, when everyone slept, they sneaked outside and walked to the river. There they waited and waited for Artemis to appear until Clytemnestra fell asleep on Castor’s shoulder. Artemis never came, and for years after, Castor would make fun of that night spent together shivering, wishing to see a goddess who wouldn’t pay them any attention. Clytemnestra feels her heart clench. He’s gone. He’s dead and now you must live with that. * * * In front of the door that leads to the gynaeceum, Calchas is waiting for her. His head looks like a crumpled, sickly leaf in the torchlight. She has the urge to walk past him but instead she asks, “Have you come to give me the news of someone else’s death?” “No,” he says. “Your remaining brother and sisters will live for a long time.” “That is good to hear.” He tilts his head as if to study her better. “Do I unnerve you?” “I am not easily unnerved.” “I thought so. Yet you don’t respect me. You should be careful with that. Disrespecting me means disrespecting the gods.” She has never heard such a sweet voice speak such menacing words. It is like drinking mulled wine, savoring it on the tongue before realizing it is poisoned. “We each serve the gods in our own ways. You kill a sheep and tear open its belly to look at the liver. I rule a city and its people.” “Your husband rules.” “We both do. I am sure he would agree with me.” Calchas sighs. The sound is a hiss. “Power is strange. All men want it, but few achieve it.” “I am sure you


front porch. “Go,” Winnie breathed, to the others. And then, louder: “Go.” 39 4:00 a.m. Hephzibah watched it play out from the pavement. Miss de Vries emerged from the house, shoulders bare, eyes on the crowd. A cry went up: “Are you safe? The fire!” “There is no fire,” she said to those near at hand. “And no cause for alarm. Everybody should go home.” Disbelief and confusion rippled out across the crowd. It was strange, thought Hephzibah, watching Miss de Vries: this tiny creature, guarding the front porch. It was the men who tried to push their way in first. Shepherd. Then Lord Ashley. But she held her hands to the door frame, a small smile on her face, barring the way. Hephzibah couldn’t hear what Lord Ashley said. She only saw what everybody else witnessed, too. His betrothed didn’t bow to him, didn’t bend: she sent him on his way. Mr. Lockwood was next. He knifed his way across the pavement. But Hephzibah was on him. “No, no,” she murmured, gripping his arm. He swung around, startled. “Come with me.” He resisted. “What on earth?” He shook her off. “I can assure you,” she said, keeping her voice low, “it will be worth your client’s while.” Earlier, while the crowds were surging outside the house, Winnie had grabbed Hephzibah. She’d given her the paper, pressed it right into her hands. “We’re going to put this right,” she’d said. She was out of breath, eyes fierce, clinging to the Inventory. “I promise you. On my honor.” Hephzibah had unfolded the paper, reading the names: Eunice, Eileen, Ada... It had stopped the breath in her throat. “When?” she had said, voice dry. “Now,” Winnie had said. “We’re going to fix it now.” So Hephzibah led Mr. Lockwood to Tilney Street. The dessert trolley was laden high with trifles. They smelled sour, as if they’d begun curdling in the heat. She closed the door behind Mr. Lockwood with a firm and uncompromising click. “What on earth,” he said, “is this all about?” Hephzibah kept her hand over her veil. She took a piece of paper from her sleeve. “Crawl over here,” she said with disdain, “and have a read of this.” He took it from her outstretched hand, scanned it carefully, from top to bottom. She guessed lawyers always did that with pieces of paper. “It’s a copy,” she warned him. “Don’t bother doing anything silly with it.” Clearly, it required a whole long minute for him to comprehend it, to really take it in, line by line. Name by name. “What do you want?” he said at last, looking up, face ashen. Hephzibah leaned forward. She felt something uncoiling inside her. It wasn’t glee; it wasn’t giddiness. It was tiredness. Fatigue, bone-deep. Grief: for herself, and all the others. “Never underestimate the kitchen girls, Mr. Lockwood,” she said. “They’ve got brains the same as anyone. They see everyone coming and going.” * * * Miss de Vries stayed at the front door for a very long time. People kept coming. “Miss de


she could have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; "but their going to Bath was quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced that the place might suit her better than her father." And then, to prevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly. "I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon these occasions, a lady's character generally precedes her; and Highbury has long known that you are a superior performer." "Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A superior performer!--very far from it, I assure you. Consider from how partial a quarter your information came. I am doatingly fond of music--passionately fond;--and my friends say I am not entirely devoid of taste; but as to any thing else, upon my honour my performance is mediocre to the last degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play delightfully. I assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction, comfort, and delight to me, to hear what a musical society I am got into. I absolutely cannot do without music. It is a necessary of life to me; and having always been used to a very musical society, both at Maple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most serious sacrifice. I honestly said as much to Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future home, and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should be disagreeable; and the inferiority of the house too--knowing what I had been accustomed to--of course he was not wholly without apprehension. When he was speaking of it in that way, I honestly said that the world I could give up--parties, balls, plays--for I had no fear of retirement. Blessed with so many resources within myself, the world was not necessary to me. I could do very well without it. To those who had no resources it was a different thing; but my resources made me quite independent. And as to smaller-sized rooms than I had been used to, I really could not give it a thought. I hoped I was perfectly equal to any sacrifice of that description. Certainly I had been accustomed to every luxury at Maple Grove; but I did assure him that two carriages were not necessary to my happiness, nor were spacious apartments. `But,' said I, `to be quite honest, I do not think I can live without something of a musical society. I condition for nothing else; but without music, life would be a blank to me.'" "We cannot suppose," said Emma, smiling, "that Mr. Elton would hesitate to assure you of there being a very musical society in Highbury; and I hope you will not find he has outstepped the truth more than may be pardoned, in consideration of the motive." "No, indeed, I have no doubts at all on that head. I am delighted to find myself in such a circle. I hope we shall have many sweet little concerts together. I think, Miss Woodhouse, you and I must establish a musical club, and have regular


on the coffee table. “Why so soon?” “When I saw her yesterday, she had a black eye.” Jesse winces, but I continue. “And she’s ready. She has her documents and cash.” I swallow. “She’s leaving money for me.” “Really?” He cocks an eyebrow. “How much?” “Fifty grand.” He lets out a low whistle. “That’s not why I’m doing it, though. Hazel has been a really good friend to me.” My only friend, I do not say. My only comfort, companionship, and support. “I know.” He squeezes my socked feet in his lap. “You’re a good person.” I am not a good person, but Jesse doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know that helping Hazel is an attempt to atone for past sins. The money is nice, I’d be a fool to turn it down, but this is about saving my friend. And it is about my karma. “It’s a lot of money,” he says. “She must be really rich.” “She is. Her husband’s a criminal lawyer.” “Promise me you’ll be careful.” “I’ll be careful.” He pulls me toward him for a kiss. It’s gentle at first, but as always, it escalates quickly. Ever since that night in the alley, Jesse’s hunger for me seems almost rabid. Our first night together had been tentative and tender, but as our relationship has developed, our sex life has become more… athletic. I’m fine with it. I enjoy it. But I can’t help but miss the tender, romantic lovemaking of that first time. “Let’s go to bed,” he growls in my ear. We get up off the couch, and I grab the canvas bag near my feet. In it, I have a toothbrush, some makeup, a clean T-shirt, and panties. I never know when Jesse will be waiting for me after a shift, when I’ll end up following him home in my car and spending the night. All my belongings are stuffed in the trunk, but I’ve taken to being prepared with my mini overnight bag. The sack feels suspiciously light, and I peer inside. My keys. I was sure I’d dropped them in here after I’d parked on the street. I root around in my belongings, but they’re not there. “What’s wrong?” Jesse asks, sidling up beside me. “I thought I put my keys in here.” He buries his face in my neck while his hands explore my body. “We can look for them after.” “I’d rather find them now.” I try to sound casual, but my voice is tight. I can’t admit that my car is on the street containing all my worldly possessions. If someone found my keys and opened my car, they could clean me out. Jesse shifts away from me. “Okay. Check your pockets.” The keys are not in my pants. My khaki jacket is hanging near the door. I move to it and stuff my hands into each pocket. Nothing. “Could you have left them in your car?” Jesse asks. “I couldn’t have,” I say, but panic burbles up in my chest. If my car is stolen, my entire life will


she had assumed its sole purpose was to encourage DCPJ to call in their cryptographers and get Sophie involved. Later, she realized the numbers were also a clue as to how to decipher the other lines-a sequence out of order... a numeric anagram. Now, utterly amazed, she saw the numbers had a more important meaning still. They were almost certainly the final key to opening her grandfather's mysterious safe-deposit box. "He was the master of double-entendres," Sophie said, turning to Langdon. "He loved anything with multiple layers of meaning. Codes within codes." Langdon was already moving toward the electronic podium near the conveyor belt. Sophie grabbed the computer printout and followed. The podium had a keypad similar to that of a bank ATM terminal. The screen displayed the bank's cruciform logo. Beside the keypad was a triangular hole. Sophie wasted no time inserting the shaft of her key into the hole. The screen refreshed instantly. ACCOUNT NUMBER: _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ The cursor blinked. Waiting. Ten digits. Sophie read the numbers off the printout, and Langdon typed them in. ACCOUNT NUMBER: 1332211185 When he had typed the last digit, the screen refreshed again. A message in several languages appeared. English was on top. CAUTION: Before you strike the enter key, please check the accuracy of your account number. For your own security, if the computer does not recognize your account number, this system will automatically shut down. "Fonction terminer," Sophie said, frowning. "Looks like we only get one try." Standard ATM machines allowed users three attempts to type a PIN before confiscating their bank card. This was obviously no ordinary cash machine. "The number looks right," Langdon confirmed, carefully checking what they had typed and comparing it to the printout. He motioned to the ENTER key. "Fire away." Sophie extended her index finger toward the keypad, but hesitated, an odd thought now hitting her. "Go ahead," Langdon urged. "Vernet will be back soon." "No." She pulled her hand away. "This isn't the right account number." "Of course it is! Ten digits. What else would it be?" "It's too random." Too random? Langdon could not have disagreed more. Every bank advised its customers to choose PINs at random so nobody could guess them. Certainly clients here would be advised to choose their account numbers at random. Sophie deleted everything she had just typed in and looked up at Langdon, her gaze self-assured. "It's far too coincidental that this supposedly random account number could be rearranged to form the Fibonacci sequence." 127 Langdon realized she had a point. Earlier, Sophie had rearranged this account number into the Fibonacci sequence. What were the odds of being able to do that? Sophie was at the keypad again, entering a different number, as if from memory. "Moreover, with my grandfather's love of symbolism and codes, it seems to follow that he would have chosen an account number that had meaning to him, something he could easily remember." She finished typing the entry and gave a sly smile. "Something that appeared random...


the morning. wrong while I was absent. My foot struck something yielding—it was a sleeper’s leg; I stole round by the eastern end, keeping close in shadow, and he turned and groaned, but without awaking. and at a convenient place, where the darkness was thickest, And then, all of a sudden, a shrill voice broke forth out of crossed the palisade. the darkness: To make assurance surer, I got upon my hands and knees “Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight! Pieces of and crawled, without a sound, towards the corner of the house. eight! Pieces of eight!” and so forth, without pause or change, As I drew nearer, my heart was suddenly and greatly light- like the clacking of a tiny mill. ened. It is not a pleasant noise in itself, and I have often Silver’s green parrot, Captain Flint! It was she whom I complained of it at other times, but just then it was like mu- had heard pecking at a piece of bark; it was she, keeping bet- sic to hear my friends snoring together so loud and peaceful ter watch than any human being, who thus announced my Contents in their sleep. The sea-cry of the watch, that beautiful “All’s arrival with her wearisome refrain. well,” never fell more reassuringly on my ear. I had no time left me to recover. At the sharp, clipping Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 226 227 tone of the parrot, the sleepers awoke and sprang up; and with a mighty oath, the voice of Silver cried, “Who goes?” I turned to run, struck violently against one person, re- coiled, and ran full into the arms of a second, who for his part closed upon and held me tight. “Bring a torch, Dick,” said Silver when my capture was thus assured. Part 6. And one of the men left the log-house and presently re- Captain Silver turned with a lighted brand. Chapter 28. In the Enemy’s Camp. THE red glare of the torch, lighting up the interior of the block house, showed me the worst of my apprehensions real- ized. The pirates were in possession of the house and stores: there was the cask of cognac, there were the pork and bread, as before, and what tenfold increased my horror, not a sign of any prisoner. I could only judge that all had perished, and my heart smote me sorely that I had not been there to perish with them. There were six of the buccaneers, all told; not another man was left alive. Five of them were on their feet, flushed and Contents swollen, suddenly called out of the first sleep of drunkenness. The sixth had only risen upon his elbow; he was deadly pale, and the blood-stained bandage round his head told that he Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 228 229 had recently been wounded, and still more recently dressed. Silver took a whiff or two of his pipe with great compo- I remembered the man who had been shot and had run back sure and then ran


They like to play the field.’ Minnie toyed with her salad. ‘Handsome boys, both of them.’ ‘Their dad was handsome too. Fergal always had admirers. He didn’t settle down until he was almost in middle age.’ Lin leaned a hand on her cheek. ‘Who’d want to live on a barge with three men? I bet it’s chaos on the small boat, all that testosterone…’ ‘Devlin and Finn have their share of girlfriends; I’ve seen them on the village green and in The Sun,’ Josie agreed. ‘But Fergal’s heart is still with his wife. There won’t be anyone to replace her. I can understand that.’ ‘Ros Toomey kept those men in order,’ Minnie said, then a thought occurred to her. ‘Talking of strong women, I bought you some books by two of my favourite writers.’ ‘Oh, that’s lovely.’ Lin clapped her hands together as Minnie delved into her bag and pulled out neatly wrapped packages, handing one to Lin and one to Josie. Josie peeked inside. ‘Jeanette Winterson?’ ‘Sarah Winman? I haven’t read anything by her.’ Lin unwrapped the paper from the book in one impatient movement. She tugged out the book, turning it over to read the blurb. ‘Looks great – thanks, Minnie.’ ‘I haven’t told you about what happened to me while I was trying to leave the bookshop. So, this man, Felix…’ Minnie made a humph! sound. ‘An admirer?’ Josie clapped her hands. ‘Another admirer?’ Lin leaned forward. ‘We can’t keep track of all these men, Minnie…’ ‘Well, Felix is a retired economics lecturer… he’s nice enough and we have lots of friends in common. I went to the theatre with him and we went to a party somewhere. He brought flowers to my front door…’ ‘He’s not for you, though?’ Lin asked. ‘No, I’m happiest sticking with my very good friends.’ Minnie took their hands. ‘What did Miss Hamilton write in our notebooks when we left primary school? A good friend is like a four-leaf clover; hard to find and lucky to have.’ ‘Isn’t that the truth?’ Josie murmured. ‘Why did you go out with him then?’ Lin asked. ‘We went to see a play.’ Minnie shrugged as if it was obvious. ‘I don’t mind going to the theatre alone, but sometimes it’s nice to have someone to talk to afterwards. You know – “Why do you think the bride rebelled against the constraints of Spanish society?” That sort of thing.’ Lin nodded eagerly; she knew exactly what Minnie meant. ‘Sometimes Neil and I have those sorts of conversations about TV, Happy Valley… Coronation Street.’ Josie sighed. ‘I think it’s companionship I miss the most.’ ‘It is,’ Minnie insisted. ‘That’s why we all get on so well. We need the stimulation of others from time to time. I’m fine with a book, but we all need human contact from those we trust.’ She squeezed Josie’s hand, a gesture of empathy. ‘Are you okay, Josie?’ Josie nodded. ‘I manage, yes.’ She forced a grin. ‘Thank goodness for our lunches together.’ ‘Yes, the Silver Ladies’ lunches.’ Minnie was suddenly excited. ‘We


spent working on their start-up. Of course, she’d accepted, because smart was smart. Natalie’s loyal friend may have even seemed a little happy that her marriage to August was going to stick. Not that she would ever admit it. Natalie had also left a message with Savage’s assistant letting him know they would no longer require the investment. Unless he fancied putting his money behind a winery with a one-star Yelp rating. No word back yet. Julian and Corinne had been waiting in August’s driveway when they pulled up, having been alerted of their arrival back in Napa via text from August. Her mother actually apologized—and meant it, unless Natalie was totally mistaken. Her mother genuinely hadn’t wanted to bother Natalie with business on “her honeymoon” but would be including her in all interactions with VineWatch going forward. “Not only that, I’ll be grateful for your input,” her mother had said. Yeah. The air felt different today. Easier to inhale. Natalie stopped short in front of the production barn. Even after August’s assurance that no part of the winery was off-limits to her anymore, she still couldn’t bring herself to simply walk inside. Her husband stepped into view inside the barn, waving at her from the dusky interior, a leather apron pulled on over his white T-shirt. “Morning, princess.” Warmth trickled through her at the husky familiarity in his voice and she had to force a sip of coffee past the lump in her throat. “Morning.” He cleaned his hands on a rag a lot longer than seemed necessary, all while looking her over. “I was hoping you could help me out in here today.” Her fingers flexed around the coffee mug, happiness popping like bubbles below her throat. “You’re sure?” “Yeah,” he said gruffly, his attention falling to the wine barrels briefly, then shooting back to her eyes. “I need you.” Natalie shook her head. “You can take some time letting me in, August.” He looked prepared for that response, because his expression didn’t change one iota. His voice remained even, though the latter seemed to require an effort. “You’re in, Natalie. You’re in deep and that’s where I want you. I can’t do this for Sam by myself. I need you with me. I’ve needed you with me all along.” He paused. “That’s probably why I couldn’t hear him the other day. He was giving me the silent treatment until I pulled my head out of my ass. He’s back now.” Natalie breathed in and out very carefully, positive too big of an inhale would snap her in half. “I’m so glad, August,” she whispered unevenly. “I’m glad he’s back.” “I was trying to beat back my guilt for not saving Sam by doing this all myself, but the truth is . . . he never would have wanted that.” He looked around at the interior of the barn, as if seeing it for the first time. “He never would have wanted me to succeed at his dream . . . at the cost of you.” His eyes found their


walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…” One of the wolves cocked its head, like a dog that didn’t understand a command. Another whimpered, but it wasn’t a sound of distress. It sounded almost like a laugh. The largest of the wolves padded toward them, head lowered. “For thou art with me,” Turner proclaimed. “Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies—” The big wolf opened its mouth, its tongue lolled out. The word that emerged from its jaws was low and growling, but unmistakable: “Thief.” Without thinking Alex took a step backward, terror rising like a scream in her head at the wrongness of it. Tripp’s mouth hung open, and Dawes groaned, panic overtaking them both. Only Turner stood fast, but she could see he was trembling as he shouted, “Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me—” The wolf’s lips split, showing its jagged teeth, its black gums. It was smiling. “If a thief is found breaking in,” it said, the words rolling like growls, “and is struck so that he dies, there shall be no bloodguilt for him.” Turner dropped his hands. He shook his head. “Exodus. That fucking wolf is quoting scripture at me.” Now another wolf was creeping forward, head low. “All who came before me are thieves and robbers.” Alex caught movement from the left and right. They were being surrounded. “But the sheep did not listen to them.” The last word was little more than a snarl. “It’s because we tried to take Darlington,” said Dawes. “We tried to take him home.” “Back-to-back!” Alex cried. “Everyone with me!” She had no idea what she was doing, but she had to try something. Tripp was crying now and Dawes had squeezed her eyes shut. Turner was still shaking his head. She’d warned him this wasn’t some grand battle between good and evil. Alex slapped her hands together, rubbing her palms against each other as if she were trying to keep warm, and sure enough the flames leapt. “Come on,” she muttered to them, to herself, still unsure of what she was asking for or who she was pleading with. The unwanted magic that had plagued her from her birth. Her grandmother’s spirit. Her mother’s crystals. Her absent father’s blood. “Come on.” The big wolf lunged forward. Alex swept her hand out and the blue flame went with it, unfurling with a crack like a whip. The wolves leapt back. Again she lashed out, letting the flame course through her, an extension of her arm, her fear and anger flooding through her and finding form in blue fire. Crack. Crack. Crack. “What is this?” Turner demanded. “What are you doing?” Alex wasn’t sure. The blazing arcs of flame weren’t dissipating. As Alex released them, they hung in the air, writhing, seeking direction, finally finding one another—and when they did they began to churn, forming a circle around her and


and tail slithering across the street. Io stopped a safe distance away from the guards, who were pointedly ignoring her. Her voice came out like a croak in the deserted district. “Tell the Nine that Io Ora is here to see them. Tell them I’ll do anything they ask.” A security woman with a swirly tattoo sleeve retreated to the small cubicle by the gates and spoke in hushed whispers to whatever device linked them to the main house. A few moments later, she beckoned for the three other security guards to fall around Io, Edei, and Bianca, and the seven of them started on an awkward procession to the mansion. A gravel path curved around the building and ended in a domed greenhouse overlooking the West Canal. A dozen lamps bathed the greenhouse in white light, which reflected like snowfall on the indigo marble floor and indigo-and-gold furniture. Dark blue gossamer curtains embroidered with stars mushroomed in the soft breeze coming through the open panels. The Nine were positioned statuesquely around the room in their elegant gowns and gleaming brown skin, fuzzy chimerini furs draped on their necks and arms. Calliope and Erato sipped champagne on one of the sofas. Polyhymnia and Urania, the younger ones, lounged on a settee, a plate of mini canapes on the orange fur between them. Four other women were sprawled around the room, in armchairs or on big pillows on the floor. They must be the Muses Io hadn’t met: Euterpe, Muse of music; Thalia, Muse of comedy; Terpsichore, Muse of dance; and Melpomene, Muse of tragedy. Clio was the only sister standing, arms on the back of one of the sofas. She was dressed exquisitely in a dark blue gown and golden jewelry that looked like it cost as much as an entire apartment at the Silts. “Cutter,” Clio said, inclining her head. “Have you come to pay your debt at last?” The other Muses snickered, like they were all in on an inside joke. Edei took a step around the security guards, his face a hard mask. “Stop playing,” he told them. “This woman requires your help. Tell us how to save her and we will do whatever you ask.” The Muses slid to the edge of their seats, leaning to see around the security guards. Erato’s champagne sloshed over the brim of her glass, but none of them cared. Clio’s mouth stretched back over her teeth, showing all her gums. It was an ugly sight, like the snarl of a wild beast. “Who is that?” Clio asked. “What have you brought to us, girl?” Before Io could reply, Bianca began shaking. Edei and Io shared a look of alarm, clasping the mob queen’s arms tighter. Her shoulders were rolling with silent laughter, her head thrown back to face the gray sky. A haunting sound filled the greenhouse, the wild cackling of a demon, muffled by the makeshift gag Io had made from her scarf. The security guards reached for the guns on their hips. The Nine craned their necks, even more riveted


to bed there was a bowl of cornflakes with sugar and cream. And the books--they stood on the shelf by the bed, leaning together with always two or three laid flat on top because he had not bothered to put them back properly. They were dog-eared and scratched. There was the bright, shining one about Topsy and Mopsy that he never read because it was about two girls; there was the one about the magician which you read with a kind of tied-down terror, skipping page twenty-seven with the awful picture of the spider; there was a book about people who had dug things up, Egyptian things; there was _The Boy's Book of Trains_, _The Boy's Book of Ships_. Vividly they came before him; he could have reached up and touched them, could feel the weight and slow slide with which _The Mammoth Book for Boys_ would come out and slither down. . . . Everything was all right; everything was good-humored and friendly. The bushes crashed ahead of them. Boys flung themselves wildly from the pig track and scrabbled in the creepers, screaming. Ralph saw Jack nudged aside and fall. Then there was a creature bounding along the pig track toward him, with tusks gleaming and an intimidating grunt. Ralph found he was able to measure the distance coldly and take aim. With the boar only five yards away, he flung the foolish wooden stick that he carried, saw it hit the great snout and hang there for a moment. The boar's note changed to a squeal and it swerved aside into the covert. The pig-run filled with shouting boys again, Jack came running back, and poked about in the undergrowth. "Through here--" "But he'd do us!" "Through here, I said--" The boar was floundering away from them. They found another pig-run parallel to the first and Jack raced away. Ralph was full of fright and apprehension and pride. "I hit him! The spear stuck in--" Now they came, unexpectedly, to an open space by the sea. Jack cast about on the bare rock and looked anxious. "He's gone." "I hit him," said Ralph again, "and the spear stuck in a bit." He felt the need of witnesses. "Didn't you see me?" Maurice nodded. "I saw you. Right bang on his snout--Wheee!" Ralph talked on, excitedly. "I hit him all right. The spear stuck in. I wounded him!" He sunned himself in their new respect and felt that hunting was good after all. "I walloped him properly. That was the beast, I think!" Jack came back. "That wasn't the beast. That was a boar." "I hit him." "Why didn't you grab him? I tried--" Ralph's voice ran up. "But a boar!" Jack flushed suddenly. "You said he'd do us. What did you want to throw for? Why didn't you wait? He held out his arm. "Look." He turned his left forearm for them all to see. On the outside was a rip; not much, but bloody. "He did that with his tusks. I couldn't get my spear down in time." Attention


there is a narrow opening into the harbour, which then suddenly widens. It is nice at high water, but when the tide is out it shoals away to nothing,and there is merely the stream of the Esk, running between banks of sand, with rocks here and there. Outside the harbour on this side there rises for about half a mile a great reef, the sharp of which runs straight out from behind the south lighthouse. At the end of it is a buoy with a bell, which swings in bad weather, and sends in a mournful sound on the wind. They have a legend here that when a ship is lost bells are heard out at sea. I must ask the old man about this. He is coming this way. . . He is a funny old man. He must be awfully old, for his face is gnarled and twisted like the bark of a tree. He tells me that he is nearly a hundred, and that he was a sailor in the Greenland fishing fleet when Waterloo was fought. He is, I am afraid, a very sceptical person, for when I asked him about the bells at sea and the White Lady at the abbey he said very brusquely, "I wouldn't fash masel' about them, miss. Them things be all wore out. Mind, I don't say that they never was, but I do say that they wasn't in my time. They be all very well for comers and trippers, an' the like, but not for a nice young lady like you. Them feet-folks from York and Leeds that be always eatin'cured herrin's and drinkin' tea an' lookin' out to buy cheap jet would creed aught. I wonder masel' who'd be bothered tellin' lies to them, even the newspapers, which is full of fool-talk." I thought he would be a good person to learn interesting things from, so I asked him if he would mind telling me something about the whale fishing in the old days. He was just settling himself to begin when the clock struck six, whereupon he laboured to get up, and said, "I must gang ageeanwards home now, miss. My grand-daughter doesn't like to be kept waitin' when the tea is ready, for it takes me time to crammle aboon the grees, for there be a many of `em, and miss, I lack belly-timber sairly by the clock." He hobbled away, and I could see him hurrying, as well as he could, down the steps. The steps are a great feature on the place. They lead from the town to the church, there are hundreds of them, I do not know how many, and they wind up in a delicate curve. The slope is so gentle that a horse could easily walk up and down them. I think they must originally have had something to do with the abbey. I shall go home too. Lucy went out, visiting with her mother, and as they were only duty calls, I did not go. 1 August.--I came up here an


brain, blacking out the sense of danger, making a simpleton of him. A third idea would be to hide so well that the advancing line would pass without discovering him. He jerked his head off the ground and listened. There was another noise to attend to now, a deep grumbling noise, as though the forest itself were angry with him, a somber noise across which the ululations were scribbled excruciatingly as on slate. He knew he had heard it before somewhere, but had no time to remember. Break the line. A tree. Hide, and let them pass. A nearer cry stood him on his feet and immediately he was away again, running fast among thorns and brambles. Suddenly he blundered into the open, found himself again in that open space--and there was the fathom-wide grin of the skull, no longer ridiculing a deep blue patch of sky but jeering up into a blanket of smoke. Then Ralph was running beneath trees, with the grumble of the forest explained. They had smoked him out and set the island on fire. Hide was better than a tree because you had a chance of breaking the line if you were discovered. Hide, then. He wondered if a pig would agree, and grimaced at nothing. Find the deepest thicket, the darkest hole on the island, and creep in. Now, as he ran, he peered about him. Bars and splashes of sunlight flitted over him and sweat made glistening streaks on his dirty body. The cries were far now, and faint. At last he found what seemed to him the right place, though the decision was desperate. Here, bushes and a wild tangle of creeper made a mat that kept out all the light of the sun. Beneath it was a space, perhaps a foot high, though it was pierced everywhere by parallel and rising stems. If you wormed into the middle of that you would be five yards from the edge, and hidden, unless the savage chose to lie down and look for you; and even then, you would be in darkness--and if the worst happened and he saw you, then you had a chance to burst out at him, fling the whole line out of step and double back. Cautiously, his stick trailing behind him, Ralph wormed between the rising stems. When he reached the middle of the mat he lay and listened. The fire was a big one and the drum-roll that he had thought was left so far behind was nearer. Couldn't a fire outrun a galloping horse? He could see the sun-splashed ground over an area of perhaps fifty yards from where he lay, and as he watched, the sunlight in every patch blinked at him. This was so like the curtain that flapped in his brain that for a moment he thought the blinking was inside him. But then the patches blinked more rapidly, dulled and went out, so that he saw that a great heaviness of smoke lay between the island and the sun. If anyone peered under the bushes


side and spread the bùbá out carefully, so his fingers did not snag the lace fabric. “Ẹniọlá?” “It was in church ma.” “Oh,” Aunty Caro said. “I didn’t know you people go to the same church.” Ẹniọlá said nothing. “Quick, quick. Iron that bùbá.” “Yes ma.” He held a finger against the iron to test it and yelped when it seared his skin. * * * Bùsọ́lá was pacing the corridor when he returned home after nightfall. She ran to him while he was still standing in the doorway. “Did you see any three on your way back home?” Bùsọ́lá asked. “Did you count?” “What are you talking about?” He could not see her face clearly. There was power, but the current was so low, the single bulb in the corridor was no better than a candle. “I saw three eggs in the bush behind the school—” “Not this again, Bùsọ́lá.” She grabbed his arm. “Wait, wait, don’t go inside. Mọ̀ọmi came to my school to give me my teller, then I went there during short break after she left, because she told me she had not paid your own fees yet and I was not happy. That’s when I—” “She paid yours but didn’t pay mine?” “And she said you’re not going to Glorious Destiny again.” “You don’t know what you’re saying.” “Look, she told me—” He shook her hand off. “You’re wrong.” Ẹniọlá knew she was not wrong when his parents smiled at him as he stepped into the room. They were seated side by side on their bed, and while his mother gripped his father’s knee, he realised that he could not remember the last time he had seen his father smile. “Welcome, Ẹniọlá,” his father said. “How are you?” Ẹniọlá took a step back and bumped into Bùsọ́lá. His mother stood. “Are you ready to eat?” “What is going on?” Ẹniọlá asked. “Why are you people acting strange?” His mother went to the food cupboard and opened a pot, releasing the wonderful aroma of the stone-ground pepper and crayfish that gave her concoction rice dishes life. The last time she made the concoction was during a Christmas so long ago he could not remember which one it was. Now she was offering him a steaming plate of his favourite meal before he’d even taken off his shoes. Just how he liked it, topped with a big ọ̀fọ́ọ̀rọ̀. Ọ̀fọ́ọ̀rọ̀? When was the last time they’d had any type of fish? And why would he be getting a whole ọ̀fọ́ọ̀rọ̀ to himself? Ẹniọlá went past his mother to his father. “Bùsọ́lá said I’m not going to Glorious Destiny again.” “Ẹniọlá, I’m the one who told Bùsọ́lá that. Don’t shout, leave your father and let him—” “I’m not talking to you. He’s the one I’m asking a question.” “Please, just keep your voice down. You know how we’ve been struggling with everything. School fees, rent, everything. We just think we should lessen the pressure on everybody. Look at me, Ẹniọlá, please, look here. They keep beating you, you don’t even have


in the spring and the last to resume leather in the fall; he never had to wash, nor put on clean clothes; he could swear wonderfully. In a word, everything that goes to make life precious that boy had. So thought every harassed, hampered, respectable boy in St. Petersburg. Tom hailed the romantic outcast: "Hello, Huckleberry!" "Hello yourself, and see how you like it." "What's that you got?" --------------------------------------------------------- -72- "Dead cat." "Lemme see him, Huck. My, he's pretty stiff. Where'd you get him ?" "Bought him off'n a boy." "What did you give?" "I give a blue ticket and a bladder that I got at the slaughter-house." "Where'd you get the blue ticket?" "Bought it off'n Ben Rogers two weeks ago for a hoop-stick." "Say -- what is dead cats good for, Huck?" "Good for? Cure warts with." "No! Is that so? I know something that's better." "I bet you don't. What is it?" "Why, spunk-water." "Spunk-water! I wouldn't give a dern for spunk-water." "You wouldn't, wouldn't you? D'you ever try it?" "No, I hain't. But Bob Tanner did." "Who told you so!" "Why, he told Jeff Thatcher, and Jeff told Johnny Baker, and Johnny told Jim Hollis, and Jim told Ben Rogers, and Ben told a nigger, and the nigger told me. There now!" "Well, what of it? They'll all lie. Leastways all but the nigger. I don't know him . But I never see a nigger that wouldn't lie. Shucks! Now you tell me how Bob Tanner done it, Huck." --------------------------------------------------------- -73- "Why, he took and dipped his hand in a rotten stump where the rain-water was." "In the daytime?" "Certainly." "With his face to the stump?" "Yes. Least I reckon so." "Did he say anything?" "I don't reckon he did. I don't know." "Aha! Talk about trying to cure warts with spunk-water such a blame fool way as that! Why, that ain't a-going to do any good. You got to go all by yourself, to the middle of the woods, where you know there's a spunk-water stump, and just as it's midnight you back up against the stump and jam your hand in and say: 'Barley-corn, barley-corn, injun-meal shorts, Spunk-water, spunk-water, swaller these warts,' and then walk away quick, eleven steps, with your eyes shut, and then turn around three times and walk home without speaking to anybody. Because if you speak the charm's busted." "Well, that sounds like a good way; but that ain't the way Bob Tanner done." "No, sir, you can bet he didn't, becuz he's the wartiest boy in this town; and he wouldn't have a wart on him if he'd knowed how to work spunk-water. I've took off thousands of warts off of my hands that way, Huck. I play with frogs so much that I've always got considerable many warts. Sometimes I take 'em off with a bean." --------------------------------------------------------- -74- "Yes, bean's good. I've done that." "Have you? What's your way?" "You take and split the bean, and cut the wart so as to get some blood, and then you put the


shall have to go without," said Jo, who never troubled herself much about dress. "You must have gloves, or I won't go," cried Meg decidedly. "Gloves are more important than anything else. You can't dance without them, and if you don't I should be so mortified." "Then I'll stay still. I don't care much for company dancing. It's no fun to go sailing round. I like to fly about and cut capers." "You can't ask Mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are so careless. She said when you spoiled the others that she shouldn't get you any more this winter. Can't you make them do?" "I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how stained they are. That's all I can do. No! I'll tell you how we can manage, each wear one good one and carry a bad one. Don't you see?" "Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove dreadfully," began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her. "Then I'll go without. I don't care what people say!" cried Jo, taking up her book. "You may have it, you may! Only don't stain it, and do behave nicely. Don't put your hands behind you, or stare, or say `Christopher Columbus!' will you?" "Don't worry about me. I'll be as prim ad I can and not get into any scrapes, if I can help it. Now go and answer your note, and let me finish this splendid story." So Meg went away to `accept with thanks', look over her dress, and sing blithely as she did up her one real lace frill, while Jo finished her story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble. On New Year's Eve the parlor was deserted, for the two younger girls played dressing maids and the two elder were absorbed in the all-important business of `getting ready for the party'. Simple as the toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing and talking, and at one time a strong smell of burned hair pervaded the house. Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs. "Ought they to smoke like that?" asked Beth from her perch on the bed. "It's the dampness drying," replied Jo. "What a queer smell! It's like burned feathers," observed Amy, smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air. "There, now I'll take off the papers and you'll see a cloud of little ringlets," said Jo, putting down the tongs. She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the hair came with the papers, and the horrified hairdresser laid a row of little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim. "Oh, oh, oh! What have you done? I'm spoiled! I can't go! My hair, oh, my hair!" wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her forehead. "Just my luck! You shouldn't have asked


the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but on beholding it (for every thing announced it to be from a circulating library), he started back, and begging pardon, protested that he never read novels. -- Kitty stared at him, and Lydia exclaimed. -- Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he chose Fordyce's _Sermons_. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she interrupted him with, ``Do you know, mama, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away Richard, and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town.'' Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said, ``I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes me, I confess; -- for certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin.'' Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia's interruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill will, and should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon. __ CHAPTER XV (15) MR. COLLINS was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he had merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up had given him originally great humility of manner, but it was now a good deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected prosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he felt for her high rank and his veneration for her as his patroness, mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a clergyman, and his rights as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility. Having now a good house and very sufficient income, he intended to marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had a wife in view, as he meant to chuse one of


don’t mean, like, never. It’s not a chastity-belt thing. I … It’s just never happened.” I lower my hands, and Ben is smiling and rubbing my arms. “How is that possible? Look at you.” I want to ask if he really means that but end up burying my face in my hands again. “Stop that.” He gently encircles my wrists. I still keep my eyes closed and he sighs. “So, I take it tonight’s not the night.” Behind me, bones are crunching and I assume the lion has won. “Granted, not the best setting,” he adds. “Sorry.” “Don’t apologize.” He lifts me off his lap but lies back and pulls me on top of him. I rest my head under his chin, grateful that yesterday was hair wash day. After a while, I say, “Is it bad that I was rooting for the lion?” “Instead of Bambi?” “Lions have to eat.” “What about Bambi’s future plans?” “Bambi had future plans. Not anymore.” Ben pauses. “So you have a dark side?” He finds my bum and squeezes. “Good to know.” Chapter Fifteen OTP is going with my idea, only, no one knows it was my idea. Kris is getting the credit because, according to the minutes of the last Creative meeting, instead of Cooking Combos, she proposed Flavor Pairings. Which is more refined, I suppose, but swapping words for synonyms doesn’t make it her idea! Does it? At our catch-up, I say, “Good news about Flavor Pairings.” “Yes,” Kris says, looking directly at me. “Penny loved the idea, so well done, but we’ve got a lot to do to turn the concept into an actual book. We’ve yet to whittle down which of our food writers we want to approach.” I brighten up. She said “we’ve”—twice. I’m still in. “I’ve got a lot of ideas,” I say, opening my notebook. “Even some ‘pair’ ideas for the cover.” Kris tilts her head at my inverted comma gesture. “I thought it might be funny,” I explain, “to have a pear on the cover with one of its classic flavor combos, like chocolate, a bar of chocolate, I mean. Or chocolate chips, but they might look like droppings, so maybe the bar…” “Ah, well, Design is in charge of covers, but I can certainly mention your idea this afternoon.” “I can take the minutes for the meeting,” I offer. “Their assistant Kelsey takes minutes for all Design-led meetings, but don’t worry,” Kris says, “there’s lots of important bits to get stuck into and I can tell you want to be involved. Here.” She hands me a list of admin tasks, some of which have nothing to do with Flavor Pairings. “Great.” I smile tightly. “I’ll get started.” * * * They went with my pear idea! Not pear and chocolate, but pear and cinnamon. I hear cinnamon was Georgina’s (one of the senior designers) idea, so naturally the pear-pair motif was hers too. Clearly, my ideas are good and there’s solace in that, but only a little when no one knows or acknowledges that they’re mine.


had the pleasure of meeting you; and Henry and John had seen more drops than they could count long before. The post-office has a great charm at one period of our lives. When you have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth going through the rain for." There was a little blush, and then this answer, "I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the midst of every dearest connexion, and therefore I cannot expect that simply growing older should make me indifferent about letters." "Indifferent! Oh! no--I never conceived you could become indifferent. Letters are no matter of indifference; they are generally a very positive curse." "You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters of friendship." "I have often thought them the worst of the two," replied he coolly. "Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does." "Ah! you are not serious now. I know Mr. John Knightley too well-- I am very sure he understands the value of friendship as well as any body. I can easily believe that letters are very little to you, much less than to me, but it is not your being ten years older than myself which makes the difference, it is not age, but situation. You have every body dearest to you always at hand, I, probably, never shall again; and therefore till I have outlived all my affections, a post-office, I think, must always have power to draw me out, in worse weather than to-day." "When I talked of your being altered by time, by the progress of years," said John Knightley, "I meant to imply the change of situation which time usually brings. I consider one as including the other. Time will generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within the daily circle--but that is not the change I had in view for you. As an old friend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten years hence you may have as many concentrated objects as I have." It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A pleasant "thank you" seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering lip, a tear in the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh. Her attention was now claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to his custom on such occasions, making the circle of his guests, and paying his particular compliments to the ladies, was ending with her--and with all his mildest urbanity, said, "I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out this morning in the rain. Young ladies should take care of themselves.-- Young ladies are delicate plants. They should take care of their health and their complexion. My dear, did you change your stockings?" "Yes, sir, I did indeed; and I am very much obliged by your kind solicitude about me." "My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be cared for.-- I hope your good grand-mama and aunt are well. They


done over there" (pointing to the two stalwart women). "The rest, too, have done better than you." "They've all practised it before, and I have not. And I thought it made no difference to you as it is task work, and we are only paid for what we do." "Oh, but it does. I want the barn cleared." "I am going to work all the afternoon instead of leaving at two as the others will do." He looked sullenly at her and went away. Tess felt that she could not have come to a much worse place; but anything was better than gallantry. When two o'clock arrived the professional reed-drawers tossed off the last half-pint in their flagon, put down their hooks, tied their last sheaves, and went away. Marian and Izz would have done likewise, but on hearing that Tess meant to stay, to make up by longer hours for her lack of skill, they would not leave her. Looking out at the snow, which still fell, Marian exclaimed, "Now, we've got it all to ourselves." And so at last the conversation turned to their old experiences at the dairy; and, of course, the incidents of their affection for Angel Clare. "Izz and Marian," said Mrs Angel Clare, with a dignity which was extremely touching, seeing how very little of a wife she was: "I can't join in talk with you now, as I used to do, about Mr Clare; you will see that I cannot; because, although he is gone away from me for the present, he is my husband." Izz was by nature the sauciest and most caustic of all the four girls who had loved Clare. "He was a very splendid lover, no doubt," she said; "but I don't think he is a too fond husband to go away from you so soon." "He had to go--he was obliged to go, to see about the land over there!" pleaded Tess. "He might have tided 'ee over the winter." "Ah--that's owing to an accident--a misunderstanding; and we won't argue it," Tess answered, with tearfulness in her words. "Perhaps there's a good deal to be said for him! He did not go away, like some husbands, without telling me; and I can always find out where he is." After this they continued for some long time in a reverie, as they went on seizing the ears of corn, drawing out the straw, gathering it under their arms, and cutting off the ears with their bill-hooks, nothing sounding in the barn but the swish of the straw and the crunch of the hook. Then Tess suddenly flagged, and sank down upon the heap of wheat-ears at her feet. "I knew you wouldn't be able to stand it!" cried Marian. "It wants harder flesh than yours for this work." Just then the farmer entered. "Oh, that's how you get on when I am away," he said to her. "But it is my own loss," she pleaded. "Not yours." "I want it finished," he said doggedly, as he crossed the barn and went


Holmes with an air of professional interest, and Sir Henry Baskerville turned a pair of puzzled dark eyes upon me. "I don't know much about the tariff and things of that kind," said he, "but it seems to me we've got a bit off the trail so far as that note is concerned." "On the contrary, I think we are particularly hot upon the trail, Sir Henry. Watson here knows more about my methods than you do, but I fear that even he has not quite grasped the significance of this sentence." "No, I confess that I see no connection." "And yet, my dear Watson, there is so very close a connec- tion that the one is extracted out of the other. 'You,' 'your,' 'your,' 'life,' 'reason,' 'value,' 'keep away,' 'from the.' Don't you see now whence these words have been taken?" "By thunder, you're right! Well, if that isn't smart!" cried Sir Henry. "If any possible doubt remained it is settled by the fact that 'keep away' and 'from the' are cut out in one piece." "Well, now -- so it is!" "Really, Mr. Holmes, this exceeds anything which I could have imagined," said Dr. Mortimer, gazing at my friend in amazement. "I could understand anyone saying that the words were from a newspaper; but that you should name which, and add that it came from the leading article, is really one of the most remarkable things which I have ever known. How did you do it?" "I presume, Doctor, that you could tell the skull of a negro from that of an Esquimau?" "Most certainly." "But how?" "Because that is my special hobby. The differences are obvi- ous. The supra-orbital crest, the facial angle, the maxillary curve, the --" "But this is my special hobby, and the differences are equally obvious. There is as much difference to my eyes between the leaded bourgeois type of a Times article and the slovenly print of an evening half-penny paper as there could be between your negro and your Esquimau. The detection of types is one of the most elementary branches of knowledge to the special expert in crime, though I confess that once when I was very young I confused the Leeds Mercury with the Western Morning News. But a Times leader is entirely distinctive, and these words could have been taken from nothing else. As it was done yesterday the strong probability was that we should find the words in yester- day's issue." "So far as I can follow you, then, Mr. Holmes," said Sir Henry Baskerville, "someone cut out this message with a scissors --" "Nail-scissors," said Holmes. "You can see that it was a very short-bladed scissors, since the cutter had to take two snips over 'keep away.' " "That is so. Someone, then, cut out the message with a pair of short-bladed scissors, pasted it with paste --" "Gum," said Holmes. "With gum on to the paper. But I want to know why the word 'moor' should have been written?" "Because he could not find it in print.


line will not be Mason and Dixon’s, but between patriotism and intelligence on the one side, and superstition, ambition, and ignorance on the other.” In the wake of the Trump presidency, the term “civil war” that often gets thrown around in politics has taken on all-too-literal meaning. Jason Van Tatenhove invoked the shadow of national conflict in testimony on Capitol Hill in July 2022. The former spokesman for the Oath Keepers, a pro-Trump militia group, quit the organization because of its support for violence. During questioning, Representative Jamie Raskin asked Van Tatenhove why the head of the Oath Keepers wanted Donald Trump to invoke the Insurrection Act in 2020. The ex-spokesman responded that it was because they wanted Trump to use the military to remain in power, regardless of the election outcome. “This could have been the spark that started a new civil war,” Van Tatenhove said matter-of-factly. “We need to stop mincing words and just call things what they are. It was going to be an armed revolution.” A month after his testimony, something chilling happened. The FBI raided ex-President Trump’s home in search of missing classified documents. Talk of “civil war” exploded on social media. Twitter posts with the term skyrocketed nearly 3,000 percent in the hours after the raid, and the same happened on conservative sites, where “civil war” and “lock and load” became trending topics. Media monitors saw a doubling in usage of the phrase on radio and podcasts, according to The New York Times, as the president’s allies equated the law-enforcement action with a declaration of war. If I’ve learned anything in counterterrorism, it’s that you should listen to the other side. You don’t assume what they’ll do or what they believe. You listen carefully to their words and take them seriously. Several years after 9/11, I picked up a copy of Messages to the World: The Statements of Osama bin Laden and kept it on my desk. The terrorist leader of al Qaeda had laid out his plans and intentions—extensively—in the years leading up to the attack and afterward. Many observers made false assumptions about bin Laden’s motivations and kept underestimating him, which resulted in costly setbacks in the effort to counter the group. Yet bin Laden’s own words proved to be a fairly reliable guide to the group’s anti-imperialist quest and messianic aims. Similarly, domestic extremists have made their goals clear. Rebellion. Civil war. Secession. They believe that our democracy is so damaged and that the other side is so evil that conflict is inevitable. They are preparing for it, and in doing so, they might actually precipitate it. The actual numbers are striking. Over 50 percent of self-described “strong Republicans” reported believing that civil war was “likely” in the next ten years in the United States, according to polling by The Economist and YouGov two years after Trump left office. Some want to manifest it. During the same period, 66 percent of Republicans in the South said they supported “leaving the United States and forming a new country”—i.e., seceding from the Union. Only 20


As I go, I reach into my pocket and pull out the corkscrew. An act that boggles my mind. This is my father. The man who raised me. I can’t imagine needing to protect myself from him. Yet, under the circumstances, it feels necessary. Rather than head into Virginia’s room, I duck into mine, startled by how different it feels. The floor is noticeably more slanted, forcing me to think twice before each step. On my way to the adjoining door, I notice the mattress bunched at the foot of the bed. A couple of books have fallen from the shelf and the mirror hanging on the wall appears tilted when in reality it’s the rest of the room that’s askew. The door to Virginia’s room is shut. Whether it’s the work of my father or the ever-shifting house remains to be seen. Gripping the corkscrew tight, I crack open the door and peek inside. The room is dim, lit only by moonlight coming through windows leaning precariously closer to the sea. In that muted light, I see Virginia in her bed, awake and alert. I rush to her side and whisper, “My father’s on his way.” She knows I’m talking about Ricky. She’s known since our first meeting, when she barely registered my presence until I told her my full name. That’s when she finally snapped to attention. “I’m going to get you out of here.” I set the corkscrew on Virginia’s nightstand and fetch her wheelchair from the corner. While it would be quicker to lift her out of bed and carry her down the stairs, I know my limitations. Wheeling her down the Grand Stairs the same way I did during our ill-fated trip outside is the only option. Lifting her by the underarms, I manage to get her out of bed and halfway to the wheelchair before I hear a noise in the hallway. Virginia hears it, too, and flashes a startled, stricken look. We both recognize the sound. Footsteps. Coming up the service stairs. Slowly. Uncertainly. The moment I hear them, I know they belong to my father. For a second, I’m frozen. I don’t know what to do. Even if I get Virginia into the wheelchair before my father enters the room, he’ll surely spot us as I try to wheel her out. But staying where we are is also a bad idea. Holding Virginia upright, I can’t do anything to protect her or me. Her life is literally in my hands. Virginia nods toward the far corner of the room, in a pitch-black space between the wall and the divan. Although barely enough space for Virginia to fit, it might be enough to hide her if my father merely peeks into the room and moves on. Also, with his footsteps getting louder on the creaking service stairs, it’s our only option. I drag Virginia to the space by the wall and drop her into it. Then I sprint for my own hiding place—my bedroom. There I huddle in a shadow-filled corner, hoping it, too, is