she’d had since she was a little girl, the one she’d loved more than she loved them. The one who made Louise’s skin crawl. The one she hated the most. Pupkin was a red-and-yellow glove puppet with two stumpy fabric legs dangling down from his front and two little nubbin arms. His chalk-white plastic face had a big smiling mouth and a little pug nose, and he looked out of the corners of his wide eyes like he was up to some kind of mischief. His mouth and eyes were outlined in thick black lines and he wore a bloodred bodysuit with a pointed hood and a yellow stomach. Sitting here in the dark with the Home Shopping Network flickering across his face, he looked like he’d crawled straight out of a nightmare. Louise hated Pupkin, but right now she was scared of him again, the way she’d been scared of him when she was little, because how had he moved? How had he gotten into this chair? Mark. Of course. Her back unclenched and her grip around the hammer relaxed. Mark had come in after she’d left, seen the dolls in the garage, and set all this up. He knew how much she hated Pupkin and he knew she’d come by at some point and he wanted to freak her out. She turned on the hall light. One of the bulbs had burned out. Her dad always replaced bulbs the instant they went dead, but he must have fallen behind because of his ankle. “. . . doll really brings me back to my childhood, and that warm, safe feeling that everything is going to be . . .” She picked up the remote to turn off the TV, then stopped. It would be better to leave everything the way it was and not say a word to Mark. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He’d go crazy wondering if she’d even seen it. Sitting in Dad’s chair, Pupkin looked like he owned the house. He looked like he belonged here more than Louise. He made her feel like an intruder. After all, she’d broken a window to come inside. Pupkin had been here before her or Mark were even born. He’d known their mom since she was seven years old. He’d traveled with her to all her shows while they’d waited for her at home. Louise hated him. Before she could change her mind, Louise walked to the kitchen and got a plastic bag from underneath the sink. She came back into the living room and while the dolls all watched she scooped Pupkin up inside the bag and tied the top. Then she took him out to the garage, and under the blank gazes of the Mark and Louise dolls on the shelf, she opened the trash can and dropped Pupkin inside. If Mark asked where Pupkin was, she’d say she hadn’t seen him. Let him wonder what had happened. She turned off the TV, turned out the lights, and closed up the house while the dolls watched her


the clear panes of glass, protecting but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves of my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near, a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast.     I returned to my book Bewick'sHistory of British Birds . The letterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and yet there were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not pass quite as a blank. They were those which treat of the haunts of seafowl; of "the solitary rocks and promontories" by them only inhabited; of the coast of Norway, studded with isles from its southern extremity, the Lindeness, or Naze, to the North Cape     Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls,  Boils round the naked, melancholy isles  Of farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surge  Pours in among the stormy Hebrides.     Nor could I pass unnoticed the suggestions of the bleak shores of Lapland, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, Iceland, Greenland, with "the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone, and those forlorn regions of dreary space that reservoir of frost and snow, where firm fields of ice, the accumulation of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine heights above heights, surround the pole, and concenter the multiplied rigors of extreme cold." Of these death-white realms I formed an idea of my own shadowy, like the half-comprehended notions that float dim through children's brains, but strangely impressive. The words in these introductory pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes, and gave significance to the rock standing up alone in a sea of billow and spray to the broken boat stranded on a desolate coast to the cold and ghastly moon glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking.     I cannot tell what sentiment haunted the solitary churchyard, with its inscribed headstone; its gate, its two trees, its low horizon, girdled by a broken wall, and its newly-risen crescent, attesting the hour of eventide.     The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea I believed to be marine phantoms.     The fiend pinning down the thief's pack behind him I passed over quickly; it was an object of terror.     So was the black, horned thing seated aloof on a rock, surveying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows.     Each picture told a story mysterious often to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting: as interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrated on winter evenings, when she chanced to be in good humor; and when, having brought her ironing-table to the nursery hearth, she allowed us to sit about it, and while she got up Mrs. Reed's lace frills, and crimped her night-cap borders, fed our eager attention with passages of love


said she, looking, I thought, a little disturbed, 'did you give Lucy, the maid, leave to go out to-night?' "'Certainly not.' "'She came in just now by the back door. I have no doubt that she has only been to the side gate to see someone, but I think that it is hardly safe and should be stopped.' "'You must speak to her in the morning, or I will if you prefer it. Are you sure that everything is fastened?' "'Quite sure, dad.' "'Then. good-night.' I kissed her and went up to my bedroom again, where I was soon asleep. "I am endeavoring to tell you everything, Mr. Holmes, which may have any bearing upon the case, but I beg that you will question me upon any point which I do not make clear." "On the contrary, your statement is singularly lucid." "I come to a part of my story now in which I should wish to be particularly so. I am not a very heavy sleeper, and the anxiety in my mind tended, no doubt, to make me even less so than usual. About two in the morning, then, I was awakened by some sound in the house. It had ceased ere I was wide awake, but it had left an impression behind it as though a window had gently closed somewhere. I lay listening with all my ears. Suddenly, to my horror, there was a distinct sound of footsteps moving softly in the next room. I slipped out of bed, all palpitating with fear, and peeped round the comer of my dressing-room door. "'Arthur!' I screamed, 'you villain! you thief! How dare you touch that coronet?' "The gas was half up, as I had left it, and my unhappy boy, dressed only in his shirt and trousers, was standing beside the light, holding the coronet in his hands. He appeared to be wrenching at it, or bending it with all his strength. At my cry he dropped it from his grasp and turned as pale as death. I snatched it up and examined it. One of the gold corners, with three of the beryls in it, was missing. "'You blackguard!' I shouted, beside myself with rage. 'You have destroyed it! You have dishonored me forever! Where are the jewels which you have stolen?' "'Stolen!' he cried. "'Yes, thief!' I roared, shaking him by the shoulder. "'There are none missing. There cannot be any missing,' said he. "'There are three missing. And you know where they are. Must I call you a liar as well as a thief? Did I not see you trying to tear off another piece?' "'You have called me names enough,' said he, 'I will not stand it any longer. I shall not say another word about this business, since you have chosen to insult me. I will leave your house in the morning and make my own way in the world.' "'You shall leave it in the hands of the police!' I cried half-mad with grief and rage. 'I shall have this matter probed to the


tea.' Mr. Brownlow smiled; and, turning to Oliver, said that Mr. Grimwig was an old friend of his, and he must not mind his being a little rough in his manners; for he was a worthy creature at bottom, as he had reason to know. 'Shall I go downstairs, sir?' inquired Oliver. 'No,' replied Mr. Brownlow, 'I would rather you remained here.' At this moment, there walked into the room: supporting himself by a thick stick: a stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg, who was dressed in a blue coat, striped waistcoat, nankeen breeches and gaiters, and a broad-brimmed white hat, with the sides turned up with green. A very small-plaited shirt frill stuck out from his waistcoat; and a very long steel watch-chain, with nothing but a key at the end, dangled loosely below it. The ends of his white neckerchief were twisted into a ball about the size of an orange; the variety of shapes into which his countenance was twisted, defy description. He had a manner of screwing his head on one side when he spoke; and of looking out of the corners of his eyes at the same time: which irresistibly reminded the beholder of a parrot. In this attitude, he fixed himself, the moment he made his appearance; and, holding out a small piece of orange-peel at arm's length, exclaimed, in a growling, discontented voice. 'Look here! do you see this! Isn't it a most wonderful and extraordinary thing that I can't call at a man's house but I find a piece of this poor surgeon's friend on the staircase? I've been lamed with orange-peel once, and I know orange-peel will be my death, or I'll be content to eat my own head, sir!' This was the handsome offer with which Mr. Grimwig backed and confirmed nearly every assertion he made; and it was the more singular in his case, because, even admitting for the sake of argument, the possibility of scientific improvements being brought to that pass which will enable a gentleman to eat his own head in the event of his being so disposed, Mr. Grimwig's head was such a particularly large one, that the most sanguine man alive could hardly entertain a hope of being able to get through it at a sitting--to put entirely out of the question, a very thick coating of powder. 'I'll eat my head, sir,' repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick upon the ground. 'Hallo! what's that!' looking at Oliver, and retreating a pace or two. 'This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about,' said Mr. Brownlow. Oliver bowed. 'You don't mean to say that's the boy who had the fever, I hope?' said Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little more. 'Wait a minute! Don't speak! Stop--' continued Mr. Grimwig, abruptly, losing all dread of the fever in his triumph at the discovery; 'that's the boy who had the orange! If that's not the boy, sir, who had the orange, and threw this bit of peel upon the staircase, I'll eat my head, and his too.'


alone in the dark with rats creeping around him. Agamemnon had come to see him, and when Aegisthus asked him for food, Agamemnon frowned. “You wouldn’t learn anything, would you?” There is also the memory of Thyestes in a cell, how he told him that the sword Aegisthus was wielding was his and that he was his long-lost son. Aegisthus banishes the thoughts and focuses. He had gotten out by himself all those years ago, hadn’t he? He needs to do the same now. The ground stinks of piss and mud, but he sinks his fingers into it. His tied wrists ache as he searches for a stone, a shard, anything. His hands unearth a bone, a dead rat, then something that feels like a pin. He feels it between his fingers. Sharp enough. He cuts the cord that binds him and waits. When the guard turns toward the door, he jumps on him. They tumble down and Aegisthus bangs the man’s head against the wall. The guard drops, unconscious, and Aegisthus steps over him. Upstairs, he runs through the corridors, a familiar fear tearing him apart. Clytemnestra is strong and knows her husband, but Aegisthus knows him better. He grew up with him, fought with him, has hated him since he was a child. And he knows Agamemnon always wins. He stops running by the entrance of the gynaeceum, flattening himself against the wall to avoid two guards. Here the corridor divides. He could go left, toward the baths, where he knows Clytemnestra will have the king cleaned. Or he could go right, toward the temple, where the mad seer will be hiding. He can smell blood and fear coming from the garden. He follows the scent like a wolf. * * * Garden Cassandra has learned that the Greeks are two-tongued. She has watched, speechless, as Clytemnestra killed the seer by the statue of Hera, blinding him first. The queen spoke of her dead sister Polyxena, and Cassandra cried in the shadows of the columns. She thought the queen would kill her too, but she left her here. This is a strange land, and it breeds strange people. They have no respect for gods or men. They kill and rape each other in holy places and lie to their enemies with no mercy. That is how they won the war, by lying. Her mother kept saying, “We will prevail because we aren’t greedy or false.” But greed and cunning win wars, as Cassandra tried to tell her. Her mother didn’t listen, but then, no one ever really listened to her. Her sister Polyxena was the most loved, and so was her brother Hector. They were beautiful and charming, while Cassandra always said uncomfortable things. Then, back in the Greek camp, after Troy had fallen, the king of all the Greeks had chosen her. She couldn’t understand it. “This one is tough,” Agamemnon said, dragging her away among the tripods, golden weapons, and rich tapestries. “At least I won’t be bored.” Now she’d rather die than go back to him. Maybe


might do that?” “The thought crossed my mind. I was tempted. I thought you might be, too.” “Ewers offered nothing that was true.” The cat had not moved from the couch, simply regarding them with one open eye before going back to sleep. By the time they stepped out it was dark. Montserrat buried her hands in her coat pockets. They had come to return José’s car to him, to give him the album, and to make sure he was fine, and now that their tasks had been accomplished, they walked down the street in amicable silence. She thought of magic, the spells she’d cast and that had now vanished. She told herself it was fine, that she didn’t miss them and wouldn’t seek such power again. The streets around them, with their cars and houses and tiny corner stores, offered a sea of mundanity to her where once before there had stood wonders. The coat she was wearing reached her ankles, and she wrapped it tight around herself. “You were tempted, weren’t you?” Tristán said as they rounded a corner and walked by a liquor store that had decorated its windows with strings of lights. “For one millisecond,” she admitted. “You would have made a powerful sorceress,” he mused. “You’re very brave.” “You were brave, too. You came back for me.” “I was self-serving. Can’t live without you,” he said. Montserrat looked up at him, the weightiness in the tone of his voice surprising her and making her go quiet. She stuffed her hands deeper into her pockets and wiggled her fingers. “What did you think about what José said? About things that lurk in shadows?” he asked. “You want to get a tattoo?” “I’m unsure about that. But, you know, it being the longest night of the year and all, maybe we should be careful.” “Sure.” “We should go home.” “Okay.” “Back to your apartment. It would be wiser if I stuck around tonight,” Tristán said. After they’d rushed out of the burning building they’d headed to her place and slept late. Many hours later, Tristán had gone back home, but he had returned alleging that even though he’d washed off a gigantic rune from his bedroom, and even though he’d tidied up, he didn’t like his apartment anymore and felt uncomfortable there. He associated it with too many bad things. They ordered Chinese, and over chop suey Tristán talked about finding a new place. Something bigger, perhaps. She let him take over the couch and figured he’d change his mind come morning. “You stuck around yesterday, too.” “Sure. On account of the fact that we were almost murdered Sunday night and I took three aspirins for my head. I needed to crash.” “Fine. We’ll go to my apartment and order the first thing we can think of,” Montserrat said. “I didn’t want to head out for dinner, anyway.” “Maybe I should stick around your apartment until Christmas. It makes no sense to be shuffling back and forth when we are going to have dinner together anyway.” “Okay.” “In fact,


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

above his blue glasses was covered by a white bandage, and that another covered his ears, leaving not a scrap of his face exposed excepting only his pink, peaked nose. It was bright pink, and shiny just as it had been at first. He wore a dark-brown velvet jacket with a high black linen lined collar turned up about his neck. The thick black hair, escaping as it could below and between the cross bandages, projected in curious tails and horns, giving him the strangest appearance conceivable. This muffled and bandaged head was so unlike what she had anticipated, that for a moment she was rigid. He did not remove the serviette, but remained holding it, as she saw now, with a brown gloved hand, and regarding her with his inscrutable blue glasses. "Leave the hat," he said, speaking very distinctly through the white cloth. Her nerves began to recover from the shock they had received. She placed the hat on the chair again by the fire. "I didn't know, sir," she began, "that--" and she stopped embarrassed. "Thank you," he said drily, glancing from her to the door and then at her again. "I'll have them nicely dried, sir, at once," she said, and carried his clothes out of the room. She glanced at his white-swathed head and blue goggles again as she was going out of the door; but his napkin was still in front of his face. She shivered a little as she closed the door behind her, and her face was eloquent of her surprise and perplexity. "I never," she whispered. "There!" She went quite softly to the kitchen, and was too preoccupied to ask Millie what she was messing about with now, when she got there. The visitor sat and listened to her retreating feet. He glanced inquiringly at the window before he removed his serviette and resumed his meal. He took a mouthful, glanced suspiciously at the window, took another mouthful, then rose and, taking the serviette in his hand, walked across the room and pulled the blind down to the top of the white muslin that obscured the lower panes. This left the room in twilight. This done, he returned with an easier air to the table and his meal. "The poor soul's had an accident or an op'ration or something," said Mrs. Hall. "What a turn them bandages did give me, to be sure!" She put on some more coal, unfolded the clothes-horse, and extended the traveller's coat upon this. "And they goggles! Why, he looked more like a divin' helmet than a human man!" She hung his muffler on a corner of the horse. "And holding that handkerchief over his mouth all the time. Talkin' through it!...Perhaps his mouth was hurt too--maybe." She turned round, as one who suddenly remembers. "Bless my soul alive!" she said, going off at a tangent; "ain't you done them taters yet, Millie?" When Mrs. Hall went to clear away the stranger's lunch, her idea that his mouth must also have been cut or disfigured in the accident


flowers, I can't help watching it. I haven't got any mother, you know." And Laurie poked the fire to hide a little twitching of the lips that he could not control. The solitary, hungry look in his eyes went straight to Jo's warm heart. she had been so simply taught that there was no nonsense in her head, and at fifteen she was as innocent and frank as any child. Laurie was sick and lonely, and feeling how rich she was in home and happiness, she gladly tried to share it with him. Her face was very friendly and her sharp voice unusually gentle as she said . . . "We'll never draw that curtain any more, and I give you leave to look as much as you like. I just wish, though, instead of peeping, you'd come over and see us. Mother is so splendid, she'd do you heaps of good, and Beth would sing to you if I begged her to, and Amy would dance. Meg and I would make you laugh over our funny stage properties, and we'd have jolly times. Wouldn't your grandpa let you?" "I think he would, if your mother asked him. He's very kind, though he does not look so, and he lets me do what I like, pretty much, only he's afraid I might be a bother to strangers," began Laurie, brightening more and more. "We are not strangers, we are neighbors, and you needn't think you'd be a bother. We want to know you, and I've been trying to do it this ever so long. We haven't been here a great while, you know, but we have got acquainted with all our neighbors but you." "You see, Grandpa lives among his books, and doesn't mind much what happens outside. Mr. Brooke, my tutor, doesn't stay here, you know, and I have no one to go about with me, so I just stop at home and get on as I can." "That's bad. You ought to make an effort and go visiting everywhere you are asked, then you'll have plenty of friends, and pleasant places to go to. Never mind being bashful. It won't last long if you keep going." Laurie turned red again, but wasn't offended at being accused of bashfulness, for there was so much good will in Jo it was impossible not to take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were meant. "Do you like your school?" asked the boy, changing the subject, after a little pause, during which he stared at the fire and Jo looked about her, well pleased. "Don't go to school, I'm a businessman -- mdash; girl, I mean. I go to wait on my great-aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too," answered Jo. Laurie opened his mouth to ask another question, but remembering just in time that it wasn't manners to make too many inquiries into people's affairs, he shut it again, and looked uncomfortable. Jo liked his good breeding, and didn't mind having a laugh at Aunt March, so she gave


It was too much like laughing at a man when sober for his erratic deeds during intoxication. It just crossed her mind, too, that he might have a faint recollection of his tender vagary, and was disinclined to allude to it from a conviction that she would take amatory advantage of the opportunity it gave her of appealing to him anew not to go. He had ordered by letter a vehicle from the nearest town, and soon after breakfast it arrived. She saw in it the beginning of the end--the temporary end, at least, for the revelation of his tenderness by the incident of the night raised dreams of a possible future with him. The luggage was put on the top, and the man drove them off, the miller and the old waiting-woman expressing some surprise at their precipitate departure, which Clare attributed to his discovery that the mill-work was not of the modern kind which he wished to investigate, a statement that was true so far as it went. Beyond this there was nothing in the manner of their leaving to suggest a FIASCO, or that they were not going together to visit friends. Their route lay near the dairy from which they had started with such solemn joy in each other a few days back, and as Clare wished to wind up his business with Mr Crick, Tess could hardly avoid paying Mrs Crick a call at the same time, unless she would excite suspicion of their unhappy state. To make the call as unobtrusive as possible they left the carriage by the wicket leading down from the high road to the dairy-house, and descended the track on foot, side by side. The withy-bed had been cut, and they could see over the stumps the spot to which Clare had followed her when he pressed her to be his wife; to the left the enclosure in which she had been fascinated by his harp; and far away behind the cowstalls the mead which had been the scene of their first embrace. The gold of the summer picture was now gray, the colours mean, the rich soil mud, and the river cold. Over the barton-gate the dairyman saw them, and came forward, throwing into his face the kind of jocularity deemed appropriate in Talbothays and its vicinity on the re-appearance of the newly-married. Then Mrs Crick emerged from the house, and several others of their old acquaintance, though Marian and Retty did not seem to be there. Tess valiantly bore their sly attacks and friendly humours, which affected her far otherwise than they supposed. In the tacit agreement of husband and wife to keep their estrangement a secret they behaved as would have been ordinary. And then, although she would rather there had been no word spoken on the subject, Tess had to hear in detail the story of Marian and Retty. The later had gone home to her father's and Marian had left to look for employment elsewhere. They feared she would come to no good. To dissipate the sadness


and yet more ominous existence that lies beyond it. Even as that thought occurs to him, an extraordinary thing happens. A quarter of a mile earlier, leaving Protean Cybernetics, Gog and Magog crossed the nearest highway; they are a mile and a half from the next two-lane back road, between towns and in rough terrain. They top a rise, and at the bottom of the hill stands an SUV, recently arrived and warm enough to project a strong heat signature. As the dog-form robots pass the vehicle, an eerie figure materializes beyond it, a tall man, all but faceless in this green light that favors shape over detail. He isn’t as bright as the SUV, though brighter than everything else in the night. In his arms, he’s carrying what seems to be the limp body of a woman. Michael takes control of Gog and Magog, halting them, turning them toward this apparition. Man and machines face off at a distance of fifteen feet. By its fabricated shape, which contrasts with the rambled wildness of grass and brush, one other object declares its significance—what appears to be a spade that has been spiked in the earth by its blade and stands erect. After a frozen moment, the green figure, like a specter that might have risen out of dark waters deep in the hollows of the Earth and might now wither back into that sea of damnation, instead drops the body in its arms and pivots toward the SUV. The dead woman doesn’t strike the ground and lie in a pale greenness of tangled limbs, but disappears entirely into the grave that has been dug for her. The license plate of the SUV is fuzzy, the numbers and letters like smeared ink on the green background, but readable. Gog and Magog record it, and Michael burns it in his memory. Although no trial seems necessary to determine guilt, he doesn’t command the robots to shoot down the killer, and they return to the journey on which they were embarked as the engine of the SUV fires up and it wheels away from the open grave. Before his death—or something like death—Michael lamented the evil that humanity condoned. Since his return to life, he’s come to see that the evil he previously recognized was like an ultrasound image of a suspicious mass; with his new gift, he has surgically opened the patient and has found that the cancer is more widespread than he ever imagined. If it is true, as some say, that a beast of supernatural nature is the prince of this world, then no task of greater importance exists than to bring hard justice to him and his legion of princelings in the name of the innocent and generations yet unborn. Since coming to life in a makeshift morgue, Michael has not been able quite to see the shape of his future, to understand how he can best use his power. The encounter at the lonely grave has clarified his intentions for him. If he survives this night, he has a good


from the subway with the money in his pocket (he had visited the bank which was open all night and every night with robot tellers in attendance) and as he walked he was listening to the Seashell radio in one car... "We have mobilized a million men. Quick victory is ours if the war comes .. .." Music flooded over the voice quickly and it was gone. "Ten million men mobilized," Faber's voice whispered in his other ear. "But say one million. It's happier." "Faber?" "Yes?" "I'm not thinking. I'm just doing like I'm told, like always. You said get the money and I got it. I didn't really think of it myself. When do I start working things out on my own?" "You've started already, by saying what you just said. You'll have to take me on faith." "I took the others on faith ! " "Yes, and look where we're headed. You'll have to travel blind for a while. Here's my arm to hold on to." "I don't want to change sides and just be told what to do. There's no reason to change if I do that." "You're wise already!" Montag felt his feet moving him on the sidewalk.toward his house. "Keep talking." "Would you like me to read? I'll read so you can remember. I go to bed only five hours a night. Nothing to do. So if you like; I'll read you to sleep nights. They say you retain knowledge even when you're sleeping, if someone whispers it in your ear." "Yes." "Here." Far away across town in the night, the faintest whisper of a turned page. "The Book of Job." The moon rose in the sky as Montag walked, his lips moving just a trifle. He was eating a light supper at nine in the evening when the front door cried out in the hall and Mildred ran from the parlour like a native fleeing an eruption of Vesuvius. Mrs. Phelps and Mrs. Bowles came through the front door and vanished into the volcano's mouth with martinis in their hands: Montag stopped eating. They were like a monstrous crystal chandelier tinkling in a thousand chimes, he saw their Cheshire Cat smiles burning through the walls of the house, and now they were screaming at each other above the din. Montag found himself at the parlour door with his food still in his mouth. "Doesn't everyone look nice!" "Nice." "You look fine, Millie! " "Fine." "Everyone looks swell." "Swell! "Montag stood watching them. "Patience," whispered Faber. "I shouldn't be here," whispered Montag, almost to himself. "I should be on my way back to you with the money!" "Tomorrow's time enough. Careful!" "Isn't this show wonderful?" cried Mildred. "Wonderful!" On one wall a woman smiled and drank orange juice simultaneously. How does she do both at once, thought Montag, insanely. In the other walls an X-ray of the same woman revealed the contracting journey of the refreshing beverage on its way to her delightful stomach! Abruptly the room took off on a rocket flight into the clouds, it


up inside him and takes root. The room is warm despite the open windows and there’s a sink full of dishes Andy will have to deal with later. The record is playing too loudly and it’s only a matter of time before Mrs. Wojcik from downstairs has something to say about it. But meanwhile, Andy gets to be in a room with his favorite people, dancing with someone who might be a worse dancer than he is, and he’s happy. He and Linda careen into the sofa. “I have to lead,” Linda says. “Sorry, went to an all-girls school and I was too tall to follow. And right now I’m too stoned to learn new things.” Andy puts aside his worries about twisted ankles and adjusts so his left hand is on Linda’s shoulder and braces himself for the worst. “Guess we’re going to die,” he says when she starts moving. “Man up, Andrew.” She twirls him around with surprising competence and Andy promptly trips over his own foot and smacks his face into her arm. He starts laughing, because it’s ridiculous, because it’s silly, because this might be the first time dancing has ever been fun. “Do it again,” he says. This time he manages to duck under her arm when he’s supposed to. Or, rather, he manages to let himself be pulled along where she wants him. It’s exhilarating, and, sure, some of that is the wine talking, but the rest of it’s just Andy having fun while doing something badly. The song changes to something faster and unfamiliar, and he’s doing more stumbling than actual dancing, but somehow it doesn’t stop being fun. “I’m cutting in, you oafs,” says Jeanne, tapping Andy on the shoulder. Andy isn’t sure when Jeanne stopped dancing with Nick, but now Nick is dancing with Emily, and someone has opened a fourth bottle of wine. Andy turns away from Linda to dance with Jeanne, but apparently he’s gotten it wrong because Linda and Jeanne are waltzing right into the kitchen. He collapses onto the sofa and watches. It’s only natural for him to watch Nick now, right? What else is he supposed to do? And Nick is looking back at him with a small secret smile that doesn’t belong in public, but maybe this isn’t public. This is their home, and maybe they’re safe. Realistically, everyone in this room already knows about them—if Emily knows, then Jeanne probably does, too. And Linda lives next door and has seen them often enough to draw her own conclusions. Linda is also dancing cheek to cheek with another woman, and girls’ school or no, that’s mighty interesting. So he lets himself enjoy the sight of Nick moving, the way he leans close to whisper something to Emily while never taking his eyes off Andy, the way he can almost imagine Nick’s big hands on him instead. When the record ends, Jeanne looks at her watch and shrieks. “It’s past midnight.” “Pumpkins,” Emily says somberly. “Little talking mice,” Linda agrees. Andy levers himself to his feet and participates


living it up in Spain, and so is your son now – Wesley’s no better than his father, leaving those kids here with you.’ Jeannie shook her head. ‘Pete retired with Gail. I was glad to see them go. It was different with Wes – he and Sheila went there to start a business. The twins wanted to stay here because of school – I agreed they could, until they’ve finished their A levels.’ Violet huffed. ‘You’re saddled with the pair of them until then. And why are they still at school? I mean, at least Ella is bright, she’s got a brain, she’s sensible. But Caleb? Why on earth would a seventeen-year-old boy want to study drama?’ ‘He’s very talented.’ Violet cleared her plate. ‘And why photography? He should take some pictures of rosy cider apples for your new website, whatever a website is.’ She gazed up as Jeannie lifted her plate. ‘Nice egg, that, Jeannie. Not too runny. I always said you cook a good egg.’ Jeannie was tempted to kiss her mum’s cheek, soft, crumpled with furrows. Instead, she said, ‘Do you want another piece of toast?’ ‘Oh, yes, I have to have more toast, Jeannie. I’m lack-toast-intolerant.’ Violet sniggered. ‘One piece or two?’ ‘None at all.’ Violet opened her eyes wide. ‘I’m ninety-five – I’ve lost my appetite.’ She lifted a stiff hand. ‘Another cup of tea would be nice, though. You make the best tea, strong, just the right amount of milk.’ Jeannie brought the teapot over and began to pour into Violet’s cup. She thought briefly about her morning walk in the orchard, the calm peacefulness, sunlight filtering through leaves and the sweet scent of the blossom. Then Violet broke the silence. ‘You should have married again.’ Jeannie gave a single laugh. It was not the first time Violet had made this remark: she’d made it just a week ago, and the one before. ‘I’ve had offers, Mum,’ Jeannie replied crisply. ‘I have offers every January during the wassailing – lots of men drink too much and ask me to marry them. The idea of a woman who owns a cider farm is a bit of a temptation after a few jars. But that’s not really a compliment.’ ‘I suppose it’s too late now you’re old.’ Violet snorted. ‘You should have married Barney. He knows the meaning of hard graft. He’s been here since he was fifteen. That must be sixty years ago.’ ‘Fifty-seven years ago. He’s the same age as I am – we were in the same class at school.’ Jeannie suddenly remembered that she had toast on her plate and lifted the slice to nibble. ‘Barney’s marvellous. I don’t know what I’d do without him. But he’s not the marrying type. He’s very set in his ways.’ ‘His father, Jerome, was just like him, loyal to a fault. He worked here all his life, just like his son, but he didn’t make it to retirement age. He had a weak heart, high blood pressure.’ Violet turned glittering eyes towards Jeannie. ‘Barney should retire


to give orders that no one should mention the Beauforts to her again, and asked--when Dr. Bencomb appeared--what in the world her family meant by making such a fuss about her health. "If people of my age WILL eat chicken-salad in the evening what are they to expect?" she enquired; and, the doctor having opportunely modified her dietary, the stroke was transformed into an attack of indigestion. But in spite of her firm tone old Catherine did not wholly recover her former attitude toward life. The growing remoteness of old age, though it had not diminished her curiosity about her neighbours, had blunted her never very lively compassion for their troubles; and she seemed to have no difficulty in putting the Beaufort disaster out of her mind. But for the first time she became absorbed in her own symptoms, and began to take a sentimental interest in certain members of her family to whom she had hitherto been contemptuously indifferent. Mr. Welland, in particular, had the privilege of attracting her notice. Of her sons-in-law he was the one she had most consistently ignored; and all his wife's efforts to represent him as a man of forceful character and marked intellectual ability (if he had only "chosen") had been met with a derisive chuckle. But his eminence as a valetudinarian now made him an object of engrossing interest, and Mrs. Mingott issued an imperial summons to him to come and compare diets as soon as his temperature permitted; for old Catherine was now the first to recognise that one could not be too careful about temperatures. Twenty-four hours after Madame Olenska's summons a telegram announced that she would arrive from Washington on the evening of the following day. At the Wellands', where the Newland Archers chanced to be lunching, the question as to who should meet her at Jersey City was immediately raised; and the material difficulties amid which the Welland household struggled as if it had been a frontier outpost, lent animation to the debate. It was agreed that Mrs. Welland could not possibly go to Jersey City because she was to accompany her husband to old Catherine's that afternoon, and the brougham could not be spared, since, if Mr. Welland were "upset" by seeing his mother-in-law for the first time after her attack, he might have to be taken home at a moment's notice. The Welland sons would of course be "down town," Mr. Lovell Mingott would be just hurrying back from his shooting, and the Mingott carriage engaged in meeting him; and one could not ask May, at the close of a winter afternoon, to go alone across the ferry to Jersey City, even in her own carriage. Nevertheless, it might appear inhospitable --and contrary to old Catherine's express wishes--if Madame Olenska were allowed to arrive without any of the family being at the station to receive her. It was just like Ellen, Mrs. Welland's tired voice implied, to place the family in such a dilemma. "It's always one thing after another," the poor lady grieved, in one of her


and to my joy found it to be composed of wood. I quickly collected some branches, but they were wet and would not burn. I was pained at this and sat still watching the operation of the fire. The wet wood which I had placed near the heat dried and itself became inflamed. I reflected on this, and by touching the various branches, I discovered the cause and busied myself in collecting a great quantity of wood, that I might dry it and have a plentiful supply of fire. When night came on and brought sleep with it, I was in the greatest fear lest my fire should be extinguished. I covered it carefully with dry wood and leaves and placed wet branches upon it; and then, spreading my cloak, I lay on the ground and sank into sleep. "It was morning when I awoke, and my first care was to visit the fire. I uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly fanned it into a flame. I observed this also and contrived a fan of branches, which roused the embers when they were nearly extinguished. When night came again I found, with pleasure, that the fire gave light as well as heat and that the discovery of this element was useful to me in my food, for I found some of the offals that the travellers had left had been roasted, and tasted much more savoury than the berries I gathered from the trees. I tried, therefore, to dress my food in the same manner, placing it on the live embers. I found that the berries were spoiled by this operation, and the nuts and roots much improved. "Food, however, became scarce, and I often spent the whole day searching in vain for a few acorns to assuage the pangs of hunger. When I found this, I resolved to quit the place that I had hitherto inhabited, to seek for one where the few wants I experienced would be more easily satisfied. In this emigration I exceedingly lamented the loss of the fire which I had obtained through accident and knew not how to reproduce it. I gave several hours to the serious consideration of this difficulty, but I was obliged to relinquish all attempt to supply it, and wrapping myself up in my cloak, I struck across the wood towards the setting sun. I passed three days in these rambles and at length discovered the open country. A great fall of snow had taken place the night before, and the fields were of one uniform white; the appearance was disconsolate, and I found my feet chilled by the cold damp substance that covered the ground. "It was about seven in the morning, and I longed to obtain food and shelter; at length I perceived a small hut, on a rising ground, which had doubtless been built for the convenience of some shepherd. This was a new sight to me, and I examined the structure with great curiosity. Finding the door open, I entered. An old man sat in it, near


forming to the east. A group of girls was flipping and cartwheeling all over the grass, and hysteria ensued when their mothers tried to copy their movements. A group of kids was throwing a Frisbee in the grass. No one was on a cell phone or a tablet. And everyone was happy, smiling. This was the life. This was bliss. I walked toward Mary Stuart, who was smiling like her face might break in two. I was expecting another friendship bracelet, Henry’s target paper from archery. Instead, Mary Stuart handed me this month’s Sea & Sky. I looked down and gasped. The teaser said, “SAVING SUMMER CAMP WITH LEMONADE & LOVE.” And on the cover was a picture of Melanie and me, in our starched Holly Springs uniforms, arms around each other, grinning. I put my finger to it, as if I could touch her again, as if this story could bring her back to life. My eyes filled with tears. “I hope it’s okay that I sent them that picture,” Daphne said. “Mom kept it in her nightstand, and it seemed appropriate.” She kept it in her drawer. She had saved our picture. Sometimes I worried that Melanie hadn’t loved me as much as I had loved her, that my love hadn’t been enough to save her. But this was proof that she cherished our sisterhood just like I did. I nodded, overcome with emotion, and flipped to the article. I started reading aloud. “Two hundred forty-three Holly Springs campers from North Carolina to California, Maine to Texas, and everywhere in between hosted fundraising lemonade stands in their hometowns to help save their ailing all-girls summer camp that has been a staple in North Carolina for more than seventy-six years.” “What? How?” Mary Stuart smiled. “Well, to be honest, I didn’t think it was going to happen. But Amelia Saxton, the editor of Sea and Sky, switched out a monthly home feature for this spread literally the day the magazine went to press.” “She was always one of my favorite campers.” I smiled. “I need to write her a note.” As if that would be thank-you enough. I held the magazine to my chest for a moment. I pulled it away and flipped to the next page, which featured a photo of a letter from Daphne to Melanie that began, Mom, this is the best summer of my life. As I continued to skim, my eyes zeroed in on a number. I gasped. “What? They raised $56,842? From lemonade stands?” “That’s a lot of lemonade, Aunt June,” Henry said. There was even a little blurb at the bottom of the article instructing people on how they could donate. I threw my arms around Mary Stuart with about as much force as Henry had just thrown his arms around me. “There are no words to adequately thank you for this.” This article might not save our camp and the lemonade money might not get us to our goal, but it reminded me that what I had done all those years ago meant


shore, where Wulf wrenched his spear from a corpse with coiled horns and metal hooves. As the wound smoked, he watched the glow leave its eye, an ember turning cold in its socket. His own eye had puffed shut. What had struck him, he had no idea. He had lost count of the talons scraping at his mail, the beaks striking his helm. He planted the end of his long axe in the sand. Wheezing from the smoke, he scraped his hair from his eyes and peered towards Bithandun, so tired he was almost drunk with it, swaying. The Silver Hall had not yet fallen, but its roof glowed with fire, and no amount of thrown water could quench it. The wyrms had come for Virtudom, as Fýredel had sworn. When your days grow long and hot, when the sun in the North never sets, we shall come. A soldier ran into the sea to put out her burning clothes. For three days and nights, they had battled an onslaught from the Iron Mountains: housecarls, raiders, people of every trade and rank. All Hróthi were expected to be fighters, for theirs was a cruel land, a hard one. The creatures of the Dreadmount could be slain, but not with ease. Scale like tuff enclosed their bodies. Some had vulnerabilities – places where the flesh gaped, often at the shoulder of the wing – but some were so encrusted, it was hard to find a weak point for a spear or sword to pierce. He pulled off his helm and cloth mask to breathe, sweltering in his mail and wool. Einlek had commanded everyone to cover as much of their skin as they could, and even Wulf had not been given leave to break the rule. If you go about like some bare-chested berserker, so might others, Einlek had warned him. Set an example. Wulf had told him about the Inysh plan to move people underground. Einlek would not brook it in his kingdom, except for bairns and those who were too old or frail to fight. We do not hide in the dark in Hróth. No one sings songs of trembling in tunnels. If we die, we die with blades in hand. We die in a way that will be remembered. So they fought for their lives in their burning capital, hardly able to tell day from night. They fought, and they fell, and they died by the hundred. As Wulf tried to rally his strength, a lesser wyrm – a wyvern – swooped along the beach, unleashing fire. He lunged over a wattle fence and landed in a crouch, his body acting before his mind had grasped the threat. The fence burst into flame just as he rolled away from it, and the wyrmling swept its wings, lifting itself back towards Bithandun. Spears went sailing after it, and hails of arrows flashed from the walls. A gasping cry drew his attention. A woman in mail was running towards him, drenched in dark blood and heaving for breath, with three serpents –


it? Knowing what I knew? Doing what I do for a living? I could have stopped her. She could still be here right now. Our lives could have been so different. Everything could so easily have been okay.” I nodded. “She wasn’t really one to be bossed around, though.” My dad laughed a little. I went on. “You make it sound easy when you say you should have stopped her. But how would you have done that?” He shook his head. “Stolen her keys? Tied her to the newel post? Kidnapped her for the surgery?” “She wouldn’t have taken too kindly to any of that,” I said. “And then we lost her,” he said, his voice going gravelly. “And I didn’t know how to go on.” He took my hand. “This isn’t an excuse,” he said then, “but it’s true. I couldn’t look at you without seeing her, too—getting flashes of the two of you dancing to oldies, or spraying me with the hose while you washed the car, or disco skating. I don’t know how to describe it, but my chest would seize up so bad I thought I might suffocate. It hurt so much, it scared me—and I was afraid to feel that pain. So I turned away.” “I remember that,” I said. “You averting your eyes whenever you had to talk to me.” My father nodded. “I was ashamed.” Then I added, “You still do it. To this day.” We’d been talking like this was all the distant past. But so much of it was still going on. “I want to apologize to you,” my dad said then. “For what?” “For lots of things. But right now—for the way I disappeared after your mom died.” Ah. That. “I wasn’t … okay.” “Neither was I.” “I was drinking a lot. Every night in my room.” “I remember,” I said. “You’d lock the door.” “And you’d sit outside in the hallway.” I nodded. “And cry.” My dad squeezed my hands, but he kept his head down. “I can still hear the sound of you crying. In my head. I can hear you calling for me, begging me to come out.” “But you never did.” My dad shook his head. “A doctor friend gave me some sleeping pills. I’d take them and pass out. It was the best I could do. It’s not an excuse. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I left you alone when you needed me. If I could go back in time, I would. I’d rip open that door and gather you up in my arms and say everything you needed to hear: You’re not alone. We’ll be okay. I love you.” Then my dad pulled me into a hug, and I could feel that he was crying. “I’m sorry, Sadie,” he said. “Your mom would hate me so much for how I failed you.” My knee-jerk impulse was to say, You didn’t fail me. But of course he had. Not just then, but after—over and over. So instead I said, “But you’re here now. And you


there was a passenger dropped off for you-a little girl. She's sitting out there on the shingles. I asked her to go into the ladies' waiting room, but she informed me gravely that she preferred to stay outside. `There was more scope for imagination,' she said. She's a case, I should say." "I'm not expecting a girl," said Matthew blankly. "It's a boy I've come for. He should be here. Mrs. Alexander Spencer was to bring him over from Nova Scotia for me." The stationmaster whistled. "Guess there's some mistake," he said. "Mrs. Spencer came off the train with that girl and gave her into my charge. Said you and your sister were adopting her from an orphan asylum and that you would be along for her presently. That's all I know about it-and I haven't got any more orphans concealed hereabouts." "I don't understand," said Matthew helplessly, wishing that Marilla was at hand to cope with the situation. "Well, you'd better question the girl," said the stationmaster carelessly. "I dare say she'll be able to explainshe's got a tongue of her own, that's certain. Maybe they were out of boys of the brand you wanted." He walked jauntily away, being hungry, and the unfortunate Matthew was left to do that which was harder for him than bearding a lion in its den-walk up to a girl-a strange girl-an orphan girl-and demand of her why she wasn't a boy. Matthew groaned in spirit as he turned about and shuffled gently down the platform towards her. She had been watching him ever since he had passed her and she had her eyes on him now. Matthew was not looking at her and would not have seen what she was really like if he had been, but an ordinary observer would have seen this: A child of about eleven, garbed in a very short, very tight, very ugly dress of yellowish gray wincey. She wore a faded brown sailor hat and beneath the hat, extending down her back, were two braids of very thick, decidedly red hair. Her face was small, white and thin, also much freckled; her mouth was large and so were her eyes, that looked green in some lights and moods and gray in others. So far, the ordinary observer; an extraordinary observer might have seen that the chin was very pointed and pronounced; that the big eyes were full of spirit and vivacity; that the mouth was sweet-lipped and expressive; that the forehead was broad and full; in short, our discerning extraordinary observer might have concluded that no commonplace soul inhabited the body of this stray womanchild of whom shy Matthew Cuthbert was so ludicrously afraid. Matthew, however, was spared the ordeal of speaking first, for as soon as she concluded that he was coming to her she stood up, grasping with one thin brown hand the handle of a shabby, old-fashioned carpet-bag; the other she held out to him. "I suppose you are Mr. Matthew Cuthbert of Green Gables?" she said in a peculiarly clear, sweet voice. "I'm very


nodded. ‘Do you ladies need your glasses topping up? I’ll get some more punch.’ ‘Thanks.’ Lin moved closer to Josie. ‘Everyone’s talking about Bobby Ledbury being the father of Florence’s baby.’ ‘I heard it. What rubbish.’ Minnie shrugged. ‘He might be or he might not, but people should mind their own business.’ ‘Adam’s a nice young man…’ Lin sighed. Josie gazed across to where Andrew the vicar had joined Darryl and Charlotte; Dangerous Dave listened for a moment, then he moved away, bored. Josie watched as he mooched towards the barbecue, picking up a sausage, burning his fingers, then he tottered towards the trestle table that held the beer and refilled his glass. He drank it in one gulp and refilled his glass again before pausing to talk to Fergal. From where Josie was standing, she could hear him slurring his words. Lin had heard him too; she offered Josie a worried look. Minnie simply said, ‘Dangerous Dave is an accident waiting to happen.’ ‘He is,’ Lin agreed, watching. ‘Testosterone, a beautiful pregnant daughter, protective feelings. My dad wouldn’t have cared less.’ Minnie laughed once. ‘He’d have shaken the man’s hand and bought him a pint.’ Lin was immediately sympathetic. ‘How’s romance going in Oxford, Minnie? It’s been very quiet recently since… who was the last one?’ ‘Frantic Felix?’ Josie reminded her. ‘Well, there is someone, as you know…’ Minnie began. ‘It’s early days – in fact, we haven’t dated yet, but we will…’ ‘The American director?’ Lin asked, open mouthed. ‘Julius Caesar…’ ‘He won’t be able to resist me,’ Minnie said confidently. ‘Then I can’t wait for the next instalment,’ Josie smiled. Fergal was by her side with a tray of drinks. He muttered, ‘Your man Dangerous Dave has had a few too many beers, I think.’ ‘Oh, I hope it’s just catharsis.’ Minnie accepted a glass. ‘Relieving the pressure of mounting anxiety.’ Fergal looked anxious. ‘It’s a worry, for sure – he’s asking all the men here if they are the baby’s father.’ ‘Oh, surely not,’ Josie said, gazing around. Fergal sipped his beer, wiping froth from his lips. ‘He just asked me about Finn, was he seeing any local girls, did he ever mention anything to me about Florence? I told him not to be so daft…’ ‘Oh, dear…’ Lin pointed to where Devlin Toomey was chatting easily with Florence. He was laughing, patting her arm affectionately. They heard him say, ‘It’s no trouble at all, Florence – of course I’ll do that for you.’ Dave stiffened, a pint in his hand. Then he called out, ‘Hey, you.’ Minnie flashed her eyes. ‘Here we go.’ Dangerous Dave staggered across to where Devlin was standing with Florence. Dave pushed between them, moving Florence gently to one side, and then he faced Devlin. ‘What do you think you’re laughing at?’ ‘Nothing at all.’ Devlin laughed again, but this time it was awkward and defensive. ‘You’ve nothing to take offence at here, Dangerous. Florence and I were just…’ ‘There is no Florence and you…’ Dangerous Dave punched the air as Devlin ducked,


such moment, to himself, "pure as they deem him- -all spiritual as he seems--hath inherited a strong animal nature from his father or his mother. Let us dig a little further in the direction of this vein!" Then after long search into the minister's dim interior, and turning over many precious materials, in the shape of high aspirations for the welfare of his race, warm love of souls, pure sentiments, natural piety, strengthened by thought and study, and illuminated by revelation--all of which invaluable gold was perhaps no better than rubbish to the seeker--he would turn back, discouraged, and begin his quest towards another point. He groped along as stealthily, with as cautious a tread, and as wary an outlook, as a thief entering a chamber where a man lies only half asleep--or, it may be, broad awake--with purpose to steal the very treasure which this man guards as the apple of his eye. In spite of his premeditated carefulness, the floor would now and then creak; his garments would rustle; the shadow of his presence, in a forbidden proximity, would be thrown across his victim. In other words, Mr. Dimmesdale, whose sensibility of nerve often produced the effect of spiritual intuition, would become vaguely aware that something inimical to his peace had thrust itself into relation with him. But Old Roger Chillingworth, too, had perceptions that were almost intuitive; and when the minister threw his startled eyes towards him, there the physician sat; his kind, watchful, sympathising, but never intrusive friend. Yet Mr. Dimmesdale would perhaps have seen this individual's character more perfectly, if a certain morbidness, to which sick hearts are liable, had not rendered him suspicious of all mankind. Trusting no man as his friend, he could not recognize his enemy when the latter actually appeared. He therefore still kept up a familiar intercourse with him, daily receiving the old physician in his study, or visiting the laboratory, and, for recreation's sake, watching the processes by which weeds were converted into drugs of potency. Thesaurus carefulness: (n) care, precision, pernicious, repugnant, unfriendly. aforethought, premeditate. conscientiousness, prudence, ANTONYMS: (adj) helpful, friendly, ANTONYMS: (adj) accidental, diligence, cautiousness, discretion, favorable. ingenuous, spontaneous, frugality, thrift, attentiveness, morbidness: (n) jejunity, deadliness, unintentional, unpremeditated, exactness. ANTONYMS: (n) lethality, quality, fatality rate, automatic, casual. recklessness, negligence, unwholesomeness, toxicity, stealthily: (adv) furtively, sneakily, impulsiveness, incaution, putrescence, harmfulness, deathrate, surreptitiously, covertly, extravagance, foolishness, neglect, death rate. clandestinely, underhandly, messiness. premeditated: (adj) intentional, underhandedly, in secret, privately, inimical: (adj) harmful, adverse, planned, designed, conscious, sneakingly; (adj, adv) noiselessly. detrimental, malign, contrary, calculated, studied, intended, ANTONYM: (adv) brazenly. antagonistic, injurious, noxious, prearranged; (v) prepense; (adj, v) Nathaniel Hawthorne 123 One day, leaning his forehead on his hand, and his elbow on the sill of the open window, that looked towards the grave-yard, he talked with Roger Chillingworth, while the old man was examining a bundle of unsightly plants.% "Where," asked he, with a look askance at them--for it was the clergyman's peculiarity that he seldom, now-a-days, looked straight forth at any object, whether human or inanimate, "where, my kind doctor,


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

room after dinner in order to be alone with his soul, and at every step his soul seemed to sigh; at every step his soul mounted with his feet, sighing in the ascent, through a region of viscid gloom. He halted on the landing before the door and then, grasping the porcelain knob, opened the door quickly. He waited in fear, his soul pining within him, praying silently that death might not touch his brow as he passed over the threshold, that the fiends that inhabit darkness might not be given power over him. He waited still at the threshold as at the entrance to some dark cave. Faces were there; eyes: they waited and watched. --We knew perfectly well of course that though it was bound to come to the light he would find considerable difficulty in endeavouring to try to induce himself to try to endeavour to ascertain the spiritual plenipotentiary and so we knew of course perfectly well-- Murmuring faces waited and watched; murmurous voices filled the dark shell of the cave. He feared intensely in spirit and in flesh but, raising his head bravely, he strode into the room firmly. A doorway, a room, the same room, same window. He told himself calmly that those words had absolutely no sense which had seemed to rise murmurously from the dark. He told himself that it was simply his room with the door open. He closed the door and, walking swiftly to the bed, knelt beside it and covered his face with his hands. His hands were cold and damp and his limbs ached with chill. Bodily unrest and chill and weariness beset him, routing his thoughts. Why was he kneeling there like a child saying his evening prayers? To be alone with his soul, to examine his conscience, to meet his sins face to face, to recall their times and manners and circumstances, to weep over them. He could not weep. He could not summon them to his memory. He felt only an ache of soul and body, his whole being, memory, will, understanding, flesh, benumbed and weary. That was the work of devils, to scatter his thoughts and over-cloud his conscience, assailing him at the gates of the cowardly and sin-corrupted flesh: and, praying God timidly to forgive him his weakness, he crawled up on to the bed and, wrapping the blankets closely about him, covered his face again with his hands. He had sinned. He had sinned so deeply against heaven and before God that he was not worthy to be called God's child. Could it be that he, Stephen Dedalus, had done those things? His conscience sighed in answer. Yes, he had done them, secretly, filthily, time after time, and, hardened in sinful impenitence, he had dared to wear the mask of holiness before the tabernacle itself while his soul within was a living mass of corruption. How came it that God had not struck him dead? The leprous company of his sins closed about him, breathing upon him, bending over him from all sides. He


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

direction, as far away from Lore and Milo as he could get, much faster than he should be able to run with a stomach wound. Milo moved to follow, but Lore was faster. With Bastian farther away, Mortem was simple to call. It came easily, flowing from the stone walls, the trash piled in the corners, the cold steel of the dagger that was even now slicing through the air toward her. It was stronger than it ever had been, a wave that should’ve overwhelmed her senses. But Lore took the power, and took it with ease. Hands stretching out, vision graying as she held her breath and dropped into the place where death was visible, death was a tool. Lore channeled Mortem through her body, veins blackening and eyes going opaque, heart going still in her chest for one beat. Almost without thinking, she took all that death and pushed it out toward Milo. Weaving death felt like taking in air, like an intrinsic part of her that had just been waiting to bloom. Before, she’d done this without thinking, her born ability making such a careful thing easy. But now, she paid attention and reveled in just what she could do. Lore spun the Mortem like thread, knitting it around the man like a shroud. Like the roses in the garden, merely cased in stone, merely frozen. Just enough for stasis, just enough to stop him, because she didn’t have any other choice. See how easily you take to it, daughter of the dark? The voice was faint, but it was enough to break Lore’s concentration. She shook her head and opened her eyes. Milo was stone. The tip of the knife glinted mere inches from her throat. She expected his face to be frozen in a snarl, but instead, the expression he wore was open-mouthed terror. “You…” Gabe gaped, his daze shaken off, hands opening and closing on empty air as he pushed himself up from the ground. “You shouldn’t have…” “What else would you propose she have done, Remaut?” Bastian, striding up from the end of the alley. His shirt was bloodstained, but he didn’t clutch at it anymore, and he didn’t walk like a wounded man. “Waltz with him?” Gabe didn’t respond. He leaned against the wall and stared at the statue Lore had made of a living, breathing human being. Milo. He’d been a person, with a name and a job, even if that job was extorting bets on illegal boxing matches. A person she’d turned to stone. Was he still aware, somewhere in all that? Did it hurt? She shook her head. She didn’t want to know. Lore didn’t look at Gabe. She knew his expression now would be so much worse than it had been the day of the Mortem leak, and she couldn’t take it, couldn’t face it, not when there was so much else to do. “How’s your gut?” she asked Bastian, her voice thin and shaking. He glanced down like he’d forgotten, frowned at his bloody shirt. “Fine,” he said. “Must’ve


and would take his hand; and he said: "Welcome, kinsman, for so I hold you. Here you shall dwell at your pleasure, save only that you must here abide and depart not from my kingdom; for it is my law that none who finds the way hither shall depart.' But El withdrew his hand. 'I acknowledge not your law,' he said. 'No right have you or any of your kin in this land to seize realms or to set bounds, either here or there. This is the land of the Teleri, to which you bring war and all unquiet, dealing ever proudly and unjustly. I care nothing for your secrets and I came not to spy upon you, but to claim my own: my wife and my son. Yet if in Aredhel your sister you have some claim, then let her remain; let the bird go back to the cage, where soon she will sicken again, as she sickened before. But not so Maeglin. My son you shall not withhold from me. Come, Maeglin son of El! Your father commands you. Leave the house of his enemies and the slayers of his kin, or be accursed!' But Maeglin answered nothing. Then Turgon sat in his high seat holding his staff of doom, and in a stem voice spoke: 'I will not debate with you. Dark Elf. By the swords of the Noldor alone are your sunless woods defended. Your freedom to wander there wild you owe to my kin; and but for them long since you would have laboured in thraldom in the pits of Angband. And here I am King; and whether you will it or will it not, my doom is law. This choice only is given to you: to abide here, or to die here; and so also for your son.' Then El looked into the eyes of King Turgon, and he was not daunted, but stood long without word or movement while a still silence fell upon the hall; and Aredhel was afraid, knowing that he was perilous. Suddenly, swift as serpent, he seized a javelin that he held hid beneath his cloak and cast it at Maeglin, crying: 'The second choice I take and for my son also! You shall not hold what is mine!' But Aredhel sprang before the dart, and it smote her in the shoulder; and El was overborne by many and set in bonds, and led away, while others tended Aredhel. But Maeglin looking upon his father was silent. It was appointed that El should be brought on the next day to the King's judgement; and Aredhel and Idril moved Turgon to mercy. But in the evening Aredhel sickened, though the wound had seemed little, and she fell into the darkness, and in the night she died; for the point of the javelin was poisoned, though none knew it until too late. Therefore when El was brought before Turgon he found no mercy; and they led him forth to the Caragdr, a precipice of black rock upon the north side of the hill


place where the timber was so thick you couldn't find it if you didn't know where it was. He kept me with him all the time, and I never got a chance to run off. We lived in that old cabin, and he always locked the door and put the key under his head nights. He had a gun which he had stole, I reckon, and we fished and hunted, and that was what we lived on. Every little while he locked me in and went down to the store, three miles, to the ferry, and traded fish and game for whisky, and fetched it home and got drunk and had a good time, and licked me. The widow she found out where I was by and by, and she sent a man over to try to get hold of me; but pap drove him off with the gun, and it warn't long after that till I was used to being where I was, and liked it -- all but the cowhide part. It was kind of lazy and jolly, laying off comfortable all day, smoking and fishing, and no books nor study. Two months or more run along, and my clothes got to be all rags and dirt, and I didn't see how I'd ever got to like it so well at the widow's, where you had to wash, and eat on a plate, and comb up, and go to bed and get up regular, and be forever bothering over a book, and have old Miss Watson pecking at you all the time. I didn't want to go back no more. I had stopped cussing, because the widow didn't like it; but now I took to it again because pap hadn't no objec- tions. It was pretty good times up in the woods there, take it all around. But by and by pap got too handy with his hick'ry, and I couldn't stand it. I was all over welts. He got to going away so much, too, and locking me in. Once he locked me in and was gone three days. It was dreadful lonesome. I judged he had got drowned, and I wasn't ever going to get out any more. I was scared. I made up my mind I would fix up some way to leave there. I had tried to get out of that cabin many a time, but I couldn't find no way. There warn't a window to it big enough for a dog to get through. I couldn't get up the chimbly; it was too narrow. The door was thick, solid oak slabs. Pap was pretty careful not to leave a knife or anything in the cabin when he was away; I reckon I had hunted the place over as much as a hundred times; well, I was most all the time at it, because it was about the only way to put in the time. But this time I found something at last; I found an old rusty wood-saw without any handle; it was laid in


his head. I guess he has a certain image to maintain. After all, he’s the Dean. “Hi, Cal.” “Hi, Bill.” “Let’s walk.” “Sure.” But we’re not heading for his office, so I guess I’m not getting that drink just yet a while. A university is a small, fractious mini-state all its own, and it has heroes and villains and victims of circumstance and it is not always easy to tell them apart when you’re in the top chair. On the other hand, if you are just some guy, you might be able to go somewhere and ignore certain things that you see, and escort a talented young person home from what might otherwise be a bad place for them and their sparkling future. If you’re in the top chair and you’re a little devious—which is kind of a basic qualification for the job—you might seek out such a person so as to know who to call if ever the need arose, and if you were that kind of person, you might make it your business to let that be known, so that your name comes up at the right time. Nine times, actually, in six years. “It’s so good to see you, Cal. And look: the winter honeysuckle is very fine this year. And the quince.” “I’m a sucker for quince, Bill. How did you know?” Bill Styles used to be a moderate teacher of history, but he has the politics and the administration skills to run a place like this, and so these days he does. Bill is not some sort of holy educator. He’s not even a particularly nice person. But he does take care of his own, like a goddamn lioness. “I have an instinct about my friends. Horticulturally speaking.” “Is that what we are today? Friends?” “I like to think that’s always what we are, Cal.” “I can go with that, unless you shot someone in the head last night.” He laughs, white teeth almost as bright as those flat lenses in the streetlamp light. “If I did, it must have slipped my mind.” “You’d be amazed how often it does.” Bill leads the way down another little avenue of trees: Autumn Higan cherry, but I’m at least a week too late for the blossom. The bark is slick and black on either side of the path. “You should have seen them in October, Cal.” “I’m sure it was lovely.” And then, at last: “I gather I’m short a professor tomorrow.” “Yes, you are. You know him?” “Not well.” “Tell me. Off the top of your head.” “Absurdly tall, of course. Young, talented, shy to the point of rude. Marine biologist by training, synthetic biologist by career. Something something freshwater algae something. Very annoying, very fussy, but he publishes occasionally, teaches adequately, and doesn’t seduce the seniors. Or the staff. I do like the absence of emotional drama from my common rooms. Should I be concerned?” “You’re already concerned. That’s why we’re walking around with bats overhead rather than having coffee in your office tomorrow. I don’t have


Rambo. Before the floor closed above them, cocooning them in darkness, the Coachman called down, “Not a word. Trust me when I say you do not want the Authority finding you.” The floor re-formed and through the grinding noise, Vic heard the door shut firmly behind the Coachman. “Great,” Rambo said. “Now we’re in cages and it’s dark. Anyone else get the feeling that the Coachman has a few screws loose?” “V-vic?” Hap said. “Here,” Vic said. His voice cracked. He tried again. “I’m here.” He reached out between the bars, searching. He flinched when something brushed against his fingers, but then Hap gripped his hand tightly, holding on. “I aim to misbehave,” Nurse Ratched said. Vic heard one of the panels on her sides slide up, and a tentacle extended, a sound as familiar as his own heartbeat. “One moment. One moment. While I am searching, would you like to hear an interesting fact? Dolphins sleep with one eye open. Searching. Searching. Ah, there you are. I knew there had to be a port down here somewhere.” Her screen lit up in pure white, the brightness almost painful in the dark. Vic turned his face away as Hap held on to his hand. “You inserted yourself into the house?” Rambo asked. “Oh my goodness, what if it tries to hurt you?” “It will not,” Nurse Ratched said. “I am not attempting to bypass the security measures. I want to see what is—there.” The white screen disappeared, replaced by ten individual boxes, five in each row. The feed for the cameras that surrounded the exterior of the house. On the top middle picture, the Coachman stood on the porch of the house once more, smoothing down his coat and tweaking the ends of his mustache. They watched as the Coachman raised his hand in greeting to someone off camera. “Ho, hi, ho!” he called. “Welcome! Is there anything I can assist you with?” He stepped off the porch into the sand. “We n-need to get out of h-here,” Hap said. “I th-think I can break the bars. We r-run as f-f-fast as we—” He stopped. Everything stopped. On the screen, in front of the Coachman, four figures appeared. Three of them were smooth men, dressed similarly to those who’d come in the whale. Vic couldn’t tell if they were the same androids, or similar models. The smooth men all looked the same. But it was the fourth figure that commanded his attention, the fourth figure that caused Hap’s words to cut off. Because the fourth figure was Hap. Oh, there were notable differences. The Hap on the screen carried himself with purpose. Each step seemed perfectly measured, his shoulders squared. His skin and limbs were intact, no trace of wood anywhere. On the chest of his jacket was a familiar circle, the emblem in the middle that of a fox and a cat. The smooth men seemed to defer to him. When he spoke, his voice crackling through Nurse Ratched’s speakers, he did not stutter. “You there,” this strange Hap said, his


Mrs. King had hated looking after Alice. It made her long to climb the drainpipe, scale the roof, run and hide. It had felt wicked and marvelous when she didn’t have to do it anymore, when she left Alice and Mother and Mr. Parker behind, and entered Park Lane. She recalled the day she left home so well. Mother was in her chair by the mantelpiece. There was a fierce buzzing coming from the corner of the room, a wasp trapped in spider threads, trying to escape. The dust on the hearth had congealed, growing sticky. Mother’s expression was worse than usual, frayed around the edges. A man with a shiny coat and silvery hair was sitting in Mr. Parker’s chair. He had his hand pressed on Mother’s wrist. It wasn’t a friendly gesture. “You should find yourself under no anxiety,” he said. Mrs. King had been standing in the doorway. She raised her voice. “What are you saying to her?” she asked. She felt afraid, but she put it in a box. The silver-haired man turned. She remembered the look. Long, frank, disinterested. “Many things, young lady,” he said. “And not for your ears.” “Dinah...” Mother said. It wasn’t an instruction, or even a plea—but Mrs. King came in, arms steady, and lifted Alice from Mother’s lap. She averted her eyes. She didn’t want to see the vacant parts of Mother’s expression. “Your daughter will find herself in an excellent position,” said the gentleman. “A privileged position. She will earn a very comfortable wage. She might be able to send something home.” Mother faced the grimy window, and she took the daylight with her, sucked it into her skin. “I don’t know,” she said. Mrs. King remembered the feeling in her gut, an understanding that she was being discussed. That something was being arranged on her behalf. “Splendid, Mrs. Parker,” said the gentleman. He released her wrist, and examined his nails. “We’ll send a man to fetch young Dinah tonight.” Mrs. King remembered shifting Alice in her arms. “Why?” she asked. Nowadays she’d demand an answer. By any means necessary. It would be inconceivable not to get it. But back then, when she was only a girl, it wasn’t inconceivable. The gentleman looked at her again. “Hold your tongue,” he told her. Mother didn’t admonish him. She didn’t seem to hear him at all. Alice grizzled, as if she couldn’t decide whether to start crying or not. * * * Changeable, Jane-two had said. Mrs. King didn’t like that word, in relation to Alice. Of course there would come a moment when Miss de Vries would try to befriend her. Mrs. King had seen it happen to girls before: the lazy, sideways nature of it. Almost like an alligator yawning, catching flies in its mouth. Madam liked to make alliances below stairs, circumventing the natural order of things: bypassing the butler, housekeeper, the senior servants, anyone with their wits about them. There was no particular harm to it. She just liked to have one humble little person up her sleeve. No


again for the throat. This time the man succeeded only in partly blocking, and his throat was torn open. Then the crowd was upon Buck, and he was driven off; but while a surgeon checked the bleeding, he prowled up and down, growling furiously, attempting to rush in, and being forced back by an array of hostile clubs. A "miners' meeting," called on the spot, decided that the dog had sufficient provocation, and Buck was discharged. But his reputation was made, and from that day his name spread through every camp in Alaska. Later on, in the fall of the year, he saved John Thornton's life in quite another fashion. The three partners were lining a long and narrow poling-boat down a bad stretch of rapids on the Forty- Mile Creek. Hans and Pete moved along the bank, snubbing with a thin Manila rope from tree to tree, while Thornton remained in the boat, helping its descent by means of a pole, and shouting directions to the shore. Buck, on the bank, worried and anxious, kept abreast of the boat, his eyes never off his master. At a particularly bad spot, where a ledge of barely submerged rocks jutted out into the river, Hans cast off the rope, and, while Thornton poled the boat out into the stream, ran down the bank with the end in his hand to snub the boat when it had cleared the ledge. This it did, and was flying down-stream in a current as swift as a mill-race, when Hans checked it with the rope and checked too suddenly. The boat flirted over and snubbed in to the bank bottom up, while Thornton, flung sheer out of it, was carried down-stream toward the worst part of the rapids, a stretch of wild water in which no swimmer could live. Buck had sprung in on the instant; and at the end of three hundred yards, amid a mad swirl of water, he overhauled Thornton. When he felt him grasp his tail, Buck headed for the bank, swimming with all his splendid strength. But the progress shoreward was slow; the progress down-stream amazingly rapid. From below came the fatal roaring where the wild current went wilder and was rent in shreds and spray by the rocks which thrust through like the teeth of an enormous comb. The suck of the water as it took the beginning of the last steep pitch was frightful, and Thornton knew that the shore was impossible. He scraped furiously over a rock, bruised across a second, and struck a third with crushing force. He clutched its slippery top with both hands, releasing Buck, and above the roar of the churning water shouted: "Go, Buck! Go!" Buck could not hold his own, and swept on down-stream, struggling desperately, but unable to win back. When he heard Thornton's command repeated, he partly reared out of the water, throwing his head high, as though for a last look, then turned obediently toward the bank. He swam powerfully and was dragged ashore by Pete and Hans at the


earthy air. Cool and light. It was March. In the shadows of her hiding place on the staircase, she watched as the strangers swayed and chanted by flickering orange candles. I'm dreaming, Sophie told herself. This is a dream. What else could this be? The women and men were staggered, black, white, black, white. The women's beautiful gossamer gowns billowed as they raised in their right hands golden orbs and called out in unison, "I was with you in the beginning, in the dawn of all that is holy, I bore you from the womb before the start of day." The women lowered their orbs, and everyone rocked back and forth as if in a trance. They were revering something in the center of the circle. What are they looking at? The voices accelerated now. Louder. Faster. "The woman whom you behold is love!" The women called, raising their orbs again. The men responded, "She has her dwelling in eternity!" The chanting grew steady again. Accelerating. Thundering now. Faster. The participants stepped inward and knelt. In that instant, Sophie could finally see what they were all watching. 210 On a low, ornate altar in the center of the circle lay a man. He was naked, positioned on his back, and wearing a black mask. Sophie instantly recognized his body and the birthmark on his shoulder. She almost cried out. Grand-pre! This image alone would have shocked Sophie beyond belief, and yet there was more. Straddling her grandfather was a naked woman wearing a white mask, her luxuriant silver hair flowing out behind it. Her body was plump, far from perfect, and she was gyrating in rhythm to the chanting-making love to Sophie's grandfather. Sophie wanted to turn and run, but she couldn't. The stone walls of the grotto imprisoned her as the chanting rose to a fever pitch. The circle of participants seemed almost to be singing now, the noise rising in crescendo to a frenzy. With a sudden roar, the entire room seemed to erupt in climax. Sophie could not breathe. She suddenly realized she was quietly sobbing. She turned and staggered silently up the stairs, out of the house, and drove trembling back to Paris. 211 CHAPTER 75 The chartered turboprop was just passing over the twinkling lights of Monaco when Aringarosa hung up on Fache for the second time. He reached for the airsickness bag again but felt too drained even to be sick. Just let it be over! Fache's newest update seemed unfathomable, and yet almost nothing tonight made sense anymore. What is going on? Everything had spiraled wildly out of control. What have I gotten Silas into? What have I gotten myself into! On shaky legs, Aringarosa walked to the cockpit. "I need to change destinations." The pilot glanced over his shoulder and laughed. "You're joking, right?" "No. I have to get to London immediately." "Father, this is a charter flight, not a taxi." "I will pay you extra, of course. How much? London is only one hour farther north and requires almost no change of direction,


calling, "Marilla" over the banisters. "Well?" she said, going into the hall. "I'm sorry I lost my temper and said rude things, and I'm willing to go and tell Mrs. Lynde so." "Very well." Marilla's crispness gave no sign of her relief. She had been wondering what under the canopy she should do if Anne did not give in. "I'll take you down after milking." Accordingly, after milking, behold Marilla and Anne walking down the lane, the former erect and triumphant, the latter drooping and dejected. But halfway down Anne's dejection vanished as if by enchantment. She lifted her head and stepped lightly along, her eyes fixed on the sunset sky and an air of subdued exhilaration about her Marilla beheld the change disapprovingly. This was no meek penitent such as it behooved her to take into the presence of the offended Mrs. Lynde. "What are you thinking of, Anne?" she asked sharply. "I'm imagining out what i must say to Mrs. Lynde," answered Anne dreamily. This was satisfactory-or should have been so. But Marilla could not rid herself of the notion that something in her scheme of punishment was going askew. Anne had no business to look so rapt and radiant. Rapt and radiant Anne continued until they were in the very presence of Mrs. Lynde, who was sitting knitting by her kitchen window. Then the radiance vanished. Mournful penitence appeared on every feature. Before a word was spoken Anne suddenly went down on her knees before the astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly. "Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry," she said with a quiver in her voice. "I could never express all my sorrow, no, not if I used up a whole dictionary. You must just imagine it. I behaved terribly to you-and I've disgraced the dear friends, Matthew and Marilla, who have let me stay at Green Gables although I'm not a boy. I'm a dreadfully wicked and ungrateful girl, and I deserve to be punished and cast out by respectable people forever. It was very wicked of me to fly into a temper because you told me the truth. It WAS the truth; every word you said was true. My hair is red and I'm freckled and skinny and ugly. What i said to you was true, too, but I shouldn't have said it. Oh, Mrs. Lynde, please, please, forgive me. If you refuse it will be a lifelong sorrow on a poor little orphan girl would you, even if she had a dreadful temper? Oh, I am sure you wouldn't. Please say you forgive me, Mrs. Lynde." Anne clasped her hands together, bowed her head, and waited for the word of judgment. There was no mistaking her sincerity-it breathed in every tone of her voice. Both Marilla and Mrs. Lynde recognized its unmistakable ring. But the former understood in dismay that Anne was actually enjoying her valley of humiliation-was reveling in the thoroughness of her abasement. Where was the wholesome punishment upon which she, Marilla, had plumed herself? Anne had turned it


the town right gallantly. The night was very dark. A damp mist rose from the river, and the marshy ground about; and spread itself over the dreary fields. It was piercing cold, too; all was gloomy and black. Not a word was spoken; for the driver had grown sleepy; and Sikes was in no mood to lead him into conversation. Oliver sat huddled together, in a corner of the cart; bewildered with alarm and apprehension; and figuring strange objects in the gaunt trees, whose branches waved grimly to and fro, as if in some fantastic joy at the desolation of the scene. As they passed Sunbury Church, the clock struck seven. There was a light in the ferry-house window opposite: which streamed across the road, and threw into more sombre shadow a dark yew-tree with graves beneath it. There was a dull sound of falling water not far off; and the leaves of the old tree stirred gently in the night wind. It seemed like quiet music for the repose of the dead. Sunbury was passed through, and they came again into the lonely road. Two or three miles more, and the cart stopped. Sikes alighted, took Oliver by the hand, and they once again walked on. They turned into no house at Shepperton, as the weary boy had expected; but still kept walking on, in mud and darkness, through gloomy lanes and over cold open wastes, until they came within sight of the lights of a town at no great distance. On looking intently forward, Oliver saw that the water was just below them, and that they were coming to the foot of a bridge. Sikes kept straight on, until they were close upon the bridge; then turned suddenly down a bank upon the left. 'The water!' thought Oliver, turning sick with fear. 'He has brought me to this lonely place to murder me!' He was about to throw himself on the ground, and make one struggle for his young life, when he saw that they stood before a solitary house: all ruinous and decayed. There was a window on each side of the dilapidated entrance; and one story above; but no light was visible. The house was dark, dismantled: and the all appearance, uninhabited. Sikes, with Oliver's hand still in his, softly approached the low porch, and raised the latch. The door yielded to the pressure, and they passed in together. CHAPTER XXII THE BURGLARY 'Hallo!' cried a loud, hoarse voice, as soon as they set foot in the passage. 'Don't make such a row,' said Sikes, bolting the door. 'Show a glim, Toby.' 'Aha! my pal!' cried the same voice. 'A glim, Barney, a glim! Show the gentleman in, Barney; wake up first, if convenient.' The speaker appeared to throw a boot-jack, or some such article, at the person he addressed, to rouse him from his slumbers: for the noise of a wooden body, falling violently, was heard; and then an indistinct muttering, as of a man between sleep and awake. 'Do you hear?' cried the same voice. 'There's


Santa has been here. Santa does not know I have been bad. I am glad Santa does not know. I have a train and a plane and a helicopter and a car and a helicopter. My helicopter can fly. My helicopter is blue. It flies around the Christmas tree. It flies over the piano and lands in the middle of the white. It flies over Mommy and flies over Daddy and flies over Lelliot as he plays with the Lego. The helicopter flies through the house, through the dining room, through the kitchen. He flies past the door to Daddy’s study and upstairs in my bedroom, in Lelliot’s bedroom, Mommy and Daddy’s bedroom. He flies through the house, because it’s my house. My house where I live. Monday, May 9, 2011 “Tomorrow,” I mutter, dismissing Claude Bastille as he stands on the threshold of my office. “Golf, this week, Grey.” Bastille grins with easy arrogance, knowing that his victory on the golf course is assured. 530/551 I scowl after him as he turns and leaves. His parting words rub salt into my wounds because despite my heroic attempts in the gym this morning, my personal trainer has kicked my ass. Bastille is the only one who can beat me, and now he wants another pound of flesh on the golf course. I detest golf, but so much busi- ness is done on the fairways I have to endure his lessons there too . . . and though I hate to admit it, Bastille does go some way to improving my game. As I stare out at the Seattle skyline, the familiar ennui seeps into my con- sciousness. My mood is as flat and gray as the weather. My days are blending to- gether with no distinction, and I need some kind of diversion. I’ve worked all weekend and now, in the continued confines of my office, I’m restless. I shouldn’t feel this way, not after several bouts with Bastille. But I do. I frown. The sobering truth is that the only thing to capture my interest re- cently has been my decision to send two freighters of cargo to Sudan. This re- minds me—Ros is supposed to come back to me with numbers and logistics. What the hell is keeping her? Intent on finding out what she’s playing at, I glance at my schedule and reach for the phone. Oh, Christ! I have to endure an interview with the persistent Miss Kavanagh for the WSU student magazine. Why the fuck did I agree to this? I loathe interviews—inane questions from inane, ill-informed, vacuous idiots. The phone buzzes. “Yes,” I snap at Andrea as if she’s to blame. At least I can keep this interview short. “Miss Anastasia Steele is here to see you, Mr. Grey.” “Steele? I was expecting Katherine Kavanagh.” “It’s Miss Anastasia Steele who’s here, sir.” I scowl. I hate the unexpected. “Show her in,” I mutter, aware that I sound like a sulky teen but not giving a fuck. Well, well . . . Miss Kavanagh is unavailable. I


felt happy in his success, for he knew it was the boat's last trip for the night. At the end of a long twelve or fifteen minutes the wheels stopped, and Tom slipped overboard and swam ashore in the dusk, landing fifty yards downstream, out of danger of possible stragglers. He flew along unfrequented alleys, and shortly found himself at his aunt's back fence. He climbed over, approached the "ell," and looked in at the sitting-room window, for a light was burning there. There sat Aunt Polly, Sid, Mary, and Joe Harper's mother, grouped together, talking. They were by the bed, and the bed was between them and the door. Tom went to the door and began to softly lift the latch; then he pressed gently and the door yielded a crack; he continued pushing cautiously, and quaking every time it creaked, till he judged he might squeeze through on his knees; so he put his head through and began, warily. "What makes the candle blow so?" said Aunt Polly. Tom hurried up. "Why, that door's open, I believe. Why, of course it is. No end of strange things now. Go 'long and shut it, Sid." Tom disappeared under the bed just in time. He lay and "breathed" himself for a time, and then crept to where he could almost touch his aunt's foot. --------------------------------------------------------- -155- "But as I was saying," said Aunt Polly, "he warn't bad, so to say -- only mischeevous. Only just giddy, and harum-scarum, you know. He warn't any more responsible than a colt. He never meant any harm, and he was the best-hearted boy that ever was" -- and she began to cry. "It was just so with my Joe -- always full of his devilment, and up to every kind of mischief, but he was just as unselfish and kind as he could be -- and laws bless me, to think I went and whipped him for taking that cream, never once recollecting that I throwed it out myself because it was sour, and I never to see him again in this world, never, never, never, poor abused boy!" And Mrs. Harper sobbed as if her heart would break. "I hope Tom's better off where he is," said Sid, "but if he'd been better in some ways -- " "Sid !" Tom felt the glare of the old lady's eye, though he could not see it. "Not a word against my Tom, now that he's gone! God'll take care of him -- never you trouble yourself, sir! Oh, Mrs. Harper, I don't know how to give him up! I don't know how to give him up! He was such a comfort to me, although he tormented my old heart out of me, 'most." "The Lord giveth and the Lord hath taken away -- Blessed be the name of the Lord! But it's so hard -- Oh, it's so hard! Only last Saturday my Joe busted a firecracker right under my nose and I knocked him sprawling. Little did I know then, --------------------------------------------------------- -156- how soon --


angular jaw and his all-juice diet and his sleeping and running habits. He’d mentioned in-person Synthesis a few times to the reporter, who’d quoted him as saying that it was the “Bliss-Mini on a cosmic level.” Orson had insisted on accepting the invites to the gala because there would be real money there, people who, even if we couldn’t get them involved in NuLife, would at the very least provide object lessons in how to act rich and successful. It was more his kind of thing than mine, but who was I to object? It would be good for NuLife, and more important, it would be good for him. At the ballroom’s entrance he told me we should split up so each of us could cover more territory. “You just find people to socialize with, okay? And then back in the room we confab.” “Back in the room we confab,” I said, dropping my voice in imitation of his. He poked me in the ribs. I laughed. “This is important,” he said. “Aye-aye.” He looked at me with mock severity. “I mean, colonel—I’ll do the best I can, sir,” I said. He went left and I went right, in the direction of a small circle of what turned out to be tall and toned women engaged in a very technical conversation about thermodynamics. When they saw me coming, they awkwardly opened the circle to welcome me in. “You’re the NuLife guy,” one of them said, her upturned nose like an electrical socket in the middle of her face. “Oh my god, yes. I knew I recognized you from somewhere,” another said. “I’m the CFO,” I said in a guilty-as-charged voice. “And also sort of the COO. But your conversation honestly sounded much more interesting than anything I do.” “I doubt it,” the one with the electrical socket nose said, and then offered her hand to shake. “I’m Amanda.” The other three in the circle made up some flimsy excuse to go get more drinks, leaving me and Amanda to talk. “I’m really intrigued by the Bliss-Mini,” she said. “I’m a physicist and I don’t understand the first thing about behavioral science. I hope you’re not offended, but it always seemed so—I don’t know—woo-woo to me.” I laughed, wondering how I’d bullshit my way through this particular conversation. “It seems woo-woo to me, too,” I said. “Honestly, Orson is the brains behind everything. I’m just the development guy.” “So he designed the Bliss-Mini and you, like—” “Put it into practical application,” I said. “Built it, market tested it, yeah.” Amanda nodded. I couldn’t tell if she was impressed or bored. “I think it’s so great what you two are doing,” she said. “It’s like a whole new frontier.” I wanted to shuffle my way out of the spotlight, so I asked about her research. “Oh, it’s nothing interesting, really. I’m just working on the atomization and reconstitution of tangibles.” “Wow,” I said, nodding as if I, too, could reconstitute tangibles. “That’s very impressive.” “Not exactly. Actually, can I ask you something?” “Shoot.” She