so sorry to bother you, but—” “Didn’t you see the signs?” she asks, pulling the door open a little more. Her tone mirrors my own—very sweet and very fake. It immediately sets something off in my gut. It’s almost like she’s mocking me. “The trespassing signs?” I ask. “I’m sorry. I saw them, but I’m looking for my friends, and I know they came this way.” “Do you now?” She pulls the door all the way open but keeps her right hand behind the door itself. “And how do you know that? I haven’t seen anybody.” “You didn’t see anyone?” I ask. Tasha’s hair tie is in my pocket. She was here. “You’re sure? Please, Ms. Keane. I know what happened with you at the camp was probably just a misunderstanding.” I hate placating her this way, but it feels like it’s my only hope of getting any information out of her. “Please. We could really use your help.” There’s a soft click, and before I can move away from the door, Ms. Keane levels her shotgun at my head. I stare down the barrel, and there’s a noise from over my shoulder, a gasp as Bezi and the others register what I’m seeing. “Get in here,” Ms. Keane says. My body begins to tremble so violently, I have to grab hold of the doorframe to keep myself from collapsing. The rush of blood in my ears blurs the noises around me. “Now,” she says. She glances past me. “You too. Get in here.” I walk on unsteady legs into the living room of Ms. Keane’s house. It smells like dust and cat urine. Every square inch of the place is covered in trash. Framed pictures of Jesus hang crooked on the walls, and dozens of cats prance around like they own the place. Bezi and Javier follow me inside. I wait for Kyle to follow, but as I glance back, I realize he’s not there. Ms. Keane slams the door shut and waves the shotgun around in front of me. I wince every time the barrel whizzes past my face. “Can’t leave well enough alone,” Ms. Keane mumbles. “Sit down.” No one moves. She pumps the shotgun once and levels it at me again. We all sit on a musty cat-hair-covered couch as she paces in front of us. “Lemonade?” she asks. “Wha—what?” Javier stammers. “Lem-on-ade,” she repeats, emphasizing every syllable. “Thirsty?” “I—No,” I say. I don’t think even the threat of catching a bullet could get me to drink or eat anything from inside this house. Ms. Keane turns her back to us and lets the gun rest on her hip but keeps her finger close to the trigger. “Is she seriously offering us drinks?” Bezi whispers against my ear. Ms. Keane spins around, and I wince as she points the firearm at us again. “It’s the polite thing to do when you have guests, you know. Offer food, drinks. I’m a little rusty. Don’t have many visitors but I have some lemonade.” Javier stifles a gag. “I think we’re


193, 194 election laws passed by, 44 FBI as target of, 112, 113–15, 116–17 harsh anti-immigrant policies envisioned by, 187–89, 190–91, 192 isolationist views of, 189, 219–21, 222 judges as potentially ignored or intimidated in future by, 120, 122–23 military powers of president as potentially exploited in future by, 217, 218, 225, 226, 227–28 politics as performative in, 154–56 potential weaponization of intelligence agencies in future by, 85–86 potential weaponizing of justice system in future by, 113, 115, 117–20, 124 in silencing and punishing of opposition, 10, 11, 35–38, 41–42, 45, 77, 80, 118–20, 153–54, 155–57, 192–93, 307, 308, 309 as threat to career civil service, 82–83, 84–86 in 2022 midterms, 309 VA as target of, 72–74 “Make Trump Better Plan,” 21, 23 Mar-a-Lago, 71, 186 Marco Island, author’s sojourn on, 202–5, 210 Maria, Hurricane (2017), 126, 127 Maricopa County, Ariz., 38–41 Maricopa County Board of Supervisors, 39, 40, 41 Marine One, 63, 174 Marines, U.S., 30, 64, 268, 282 Marquardt, Kristen, 189 Marshall, John, 123 Marshall Plan, 227 Martini (dog), 312 Matthews, Chris, 15 Mattis, Jim, 6, 29, 52, 53, 60, 61, 72, 96, 142, 143, 163, 196 Atlantic reproach of Trump by, 226 resignation of, 146–47 May, Theresa, 50 McAleenan, Kevin, 184 McCabe, Andrew, 102, 110–12, 123–24 McCain, John, 16, 38, 132, 137, 295 death of, 130–32 McCarthy, Andy, 22 McCarthy, Kevin, 19, 128–29 McCaul, Michael, 22, 24–25, 28, 29 McConnell, Mitch, 101 McCool, Mike, 178 McEnany, Kayleigh, 242, 243 McGinley, Bill, 150 McMaster, H. R., 102 McMullin, Evan, 24, 260, 294, 297 Meadows, Mark, 36, 81 Messages to the World (bin Laden), 263 Mexico, 52, 80, 146, 162–63, 169–70, 171, 173, 181, 188, 217, 226 U.S. Embassy in, 176 Michigan, 173, 244, 257, 258, 259 Middle East, 21, 32, 50, 56–57, 189 Mill, John Stuart, 298–99, 301 Millennium Development Goals, 14 Miller, Stephen, 74, 75, 92, 94, 108, 109, 122, 143, 162, 170–71, 234 unlawful immigration proposals of, 187–88, 190 Mitch (pseud., Secret Service agent), 165–66 Mitnick, John, 118, 247 Mnuchin, Steve, 178–79 Moldova, 224 MoveOn.org, 206 MSNBC, 15, 294 Mueller Report (2019), 214 Mukasey, Michael, 22 Mulvaney, Mick, 20, 162, 173 Murphy, Brian, 85–86, 116 Murray, Bill, 183 Muslims, 20, 21, 22, 29, 91, 92, 188, 206 MyPillow, 171 N Nakasone, Paul, 134 National Geospatial Intelligence Agency, 247 National Journal, 154 National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), 83, 84 National Rifle Association (NRA), 78–79, 80 National Security Agency (NSA), 47, 48, 134 National Security Council (NSC), 52, 54, 75, 80, 85, 116, 133, 219, 224, 226, 264 Trump in attempt to install Christina Bobb at, 185–86 National Weather Service (NWS), 83, 84 Navarro, Peter, 75, 216 NBC News, 138, 199, 276, 284 Netherlands, 190 Neumann, Elizabeth, 51, 52, 53, 55, 69, 100, 184, 243 in public opposition to Trump, 240, 242, 247, 250 New York Post, 288 New York Times, 134, 196, 201, 211, 231, 263, 276, 280 author’s anonymous op-ed in, 3, 4–5, 132–33, 135–40, 144, 164, 196, 197–98, 200–201, 210, 231, 249, 272, 294 Stephens’s “Dear Anonymous” letter in, 147 Nick (DHS military aide), 174 Nielsen,


place you would think she’d be” was the reply he received. And Dacre, who was too impatient and angry to overturn every stone for her, decided he would call up his hounds from below. Sinewy, fire-hearted beasts, with translucent skin and teeth that spawned nightmares in dreams, the hounds roamed the land that night, searching for beauty and devouring those who got in their way. For Dacre assumed Enva was lovely to behold. But when the sun rose, the hounds were forced to go below, back to the shadows, and they had not found the one Dacre sought. So he summoned his eithrals from the deep caves of beneath. Great wyverns with filmed eyes and membranous wings and poisoned talons. They could withstand the sun, and they flew through the sky, searching for beauty and destroying whatever moved beneath them. But soon a storm came, and the eithrals’ wings threatened to tear in the fierce winds. So Dacre sent them back below, even though they too had not found the one he sought. It was only when he walked the land himself that he came upon a graveyard. And in the graveyard was a woman, ordinary by Dacre’s standards, with long dark hair and green eyes. She was dressed in homespun; she was barefoot and slender, and he decided he would not waste his time asking her where to find Enva. He passed her by without a second glance, but as he walked away … he heard the music of a harp, sweet and golden, even as the sky was gray and the breeze was cold. He heard the woman sing, and her voice pierced him. He was stunned by the beauty of her, beauty which could not be seen but felt, and he crawled back to her, over the graves of humans. “Enva,” he said. “Enva, come with me.” She did not stop her music for him. He had to wait while she sang over every grave, and he noticed the soil was richly turned, as if these humans had just been buried. When she sang the last song, she turned to look at him. “Dacre Underling, god of below, why have you wrought such chaos among innocents?” “What do you mean?” She indicated the graves. “Your hounds and your eithrals have killed these people. With your power, you could have healed their wounds. But you did not, and now I must sing their souls into eternity, for your creatures took them before it was their appointed time.” Dacre at last found the strength to rise. When Enva looked at him, he felt insignificant and unworthy, and he wanted her to behold him with something else. Something much different than sorrow and anger. “I did it to find you,” he said. “You could have found me on your own, had you taken the time to look for me.” “And now that I have found you, will you come below with me? Will you dwell where I live, breathe the air I inspire? Will you join me in ruling the world beneath?”


to me. “Yes, ma’am. Perfect,” Sawyer says, serious and straight-faced. I want the floor to swallow me up, but I turn and head for our bedroom. Sometimes you just have to brazen things out. Perhaps it’s the combination of fear and alcohol making me audacious. When I return, Mrs. Jones is surveying the mess in the foyer and Miss Prescott has joined the security team. I hand the ties to Sawyer, who slowly, and with unnecessary care, ties Hyde’s hands behind his back. Mrs. Jones disappears into the kitchen and returns with a first aid kit. She takes Ryan’s arm, leads him into the doorway of the great room, and starts tending to the cut above his eye. He flinches as she dabs it with an antiseptic wipe. Then I notice the Glock on the floor with a silencer attached. Holy shit! Jack was armed? Bile rises in my throat and I fight it down. “Don’t touch, Mrs. Grey,” says Prescott when I bend to pick it up. Sawyer emerges from Taylor’s office wearing latex gloves. “I’ll take care of that, Mrs. Grey,” he says. “It’s his?” I ask. “Yes ma’am,” says Ryan, wincing once more from Mrs. Jones’s ministra- tions. Holy crap. Ryan fought an armed man in my home. I shudder at the thought. Sawyer bends and gingerly picks up the Glock. “Should you be doing that?” I ask. “Mr. Grey would expect it ma’am.” Sawyer slides the gun into a zip-lock bag then squats to pat down Jack. He pauses and partially pulls a roll of duct tape from the man’s pocket. Sawyer blanches and pushes the tape back into Hyde’s pocket. Duct tape? My mind idly registers as I watch the proceedings with fascina- tion and an odd detachment. Then bile rises to my throat again as I realize the im- plications. Rapidly, I dismiss them from my head. Don’t go there, Ana! “Should we call the police?” I mutter, trying to hide my fear. I want Hyde out of my home, sooner rather than later. Ryan and Sawyer glance at each other. “I think we should call the police,” I say rather more forcefully, wondering what’s going on between Ryan and Sawyer. 208/551 “I’ve just tried Taylor, and he’s not answering his cell. Maybe he’s asleep.” Sawyer checks his watch. “It’s one forty-five in the morning on the East Coast.” Oh no. “Have you called Christian?” I whisper. “No, ma’am.” “Were you calling Taylor for instructions?” Sawyer looks momentarily embarrassed. “Yes, ma’am.” Part of me bristles. This man—I glance down at Hyde again—has invaded my home, and he needs to be removed by the police. But looking at the four of them, into their anxious eyes, I decide I must be missing something so I decide to call Christian. My scalp prickles. I know he’s mad at me—really, really mad at me—and I falter at the thought of what he’ll say. And how he’ll stress because he’s not here and can’t be here until tomorrow evening. I know I’ve worried him enough this evening. Perhaps I shouldn’t


make them horrible. The hair would lose its brightness, the mouth would gape or droop, would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old men are. There would be the wrinkled throat, the cold blue-veined hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in the uncle who had been so stern to him in his boyhood. The picture had to be concealed. There was no help for it. "Bring it in, Mr. Ashton, please," he said, wearily, turning round. "I am sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else." "Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray," answered the frame-maker, who was still gasping for breath. "Where shall we put it, sir?" "Oh, anywhere, Here, this will do. I don't want to have it hung up. Just lean it against the wall. Thanks." "Might one look at the work of art, sir?" Dorian started. "It would not interest you, Mr. Ashton," he said, keeping his eye on the man. He felt ready to leap upon him and fling him to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that concealed the secret of his life. "I won't trouble you any more now. I am much obliged for your kindness in coming round." "Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray. Ever ready to do anything for you, sir." And Mr. Ashton tramped down-stairs, followed by the assistant, who glanced back at Dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough, uncomely face. He had never seen any one so marvellous. When the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian locked [63] the door, and put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would ever look on the horrible thing. No eye but his would ever see his shame. On reaching the library he found that it was just after five o'clock, and that the tea had been already brought up. On a little table of dark perfumed wood thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from his guardian's wife, Lady Radley, who had spent the preceding winter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord Henry, and beside it was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly torn and the edges soiled. A copy of the third edition of the St. James's Gazette had been placed on the tea-tray. It was evident that Victor had returned. He wondered if he had met the men in the hall as they were leaving the house and had wormed out of them what they had been doing. He would be sure to miss the picture,--had no doubt missed it already, while he had been laying the tea-things. The screen had not been replaced, and the blank space on the wall was visible. Perhaps some night he might find him creeping up-stairs and trying to force the door of the room. It was a horrible thing to have a spy in one's house. He had heard of rich men who had been blackmailed all their lives by some servant who had read a


north, as far as Hardwicke place. Approaching, disparate, at relaxed walking pace they crossed both the circus before George's church diametrically, the chord in any circle being less than the arc which it subtends. Of what did the duumvirate deliberate during their itinerary? Music, literature, Ireland, Dublin, Paris, friendship, woman, prostitution, diet, the influence of gaslight or the light of arc and glowlamps on the growth of adjoining paraheliotropic trees, exposed corporation emergency dustbuckets, the Roman catholic church, ecclesiastical celibacy, the Irish nation, jesuit education, careers, the study of medicine, the past day, the maleficent influence of the presabbath, Stephen's collapse. Did Bloom discover common factors of similarity between their respective like and unlike reactions to experience? Both were sensitive to artistic impressions, musical in preference to plastic or pictorial. Both preferred a continental to an insular manner of life, a cisatlantic to a transatlantic place of residence. Both indurated by early domestic training and an inherited tenacity of heterodox resistance professed their disbelief in many orthodox religious, national, social and ethical doctrines. Both admitted the alternately stimulating and obtunding influence of heterosexual magnetism. Were their views on some points divergent? Stephen dissented openly from Bloom's views on the importance of dietary and civic selfhelp while Bloom dissented tacitly from Stephen's views on the eternal affirmation of the spirit of man in literature. Bloom assented covertly to Stephen's rectification of the anachronism involved in assigning the date of the conversion of the Irish nation to christianity from druidism by Patrick son of Calpornus, son of Potitus, son of Odyssus, sent by pope Celestine I in the year 432 in the reign of Leary to the year 260 or thereabouts in the reign of Cormac MacArt (died 266 A.D.), suffocated by imperfect deglutition of aliment at Sletty and interred at Rossnaree. The collapse which Bloom ascribed to gastric inanition and certain chemical compounds of varying degrees of adulteration and alcoholic strength, accelerated by mental exertion and the velocity of rapid circular motion in a relaxing atmosphere, Stephen attributed to the reapparition of a matutinal cloud (perceived by both from two different points of observation Sandycove and Dublin) at first no bigger than a woman's hand. Was there one point on which their views were equal and negative? The influence of gaslight or electric light on the growth of adjoining paraheliotropic trees. Had Bloom discussed similar subjects during nocturnal perambulations in the past? In 1884 with Owen Goldberg and Cecil Turnbull at night on public thoroughfares between Longwood avenue and Leonard's corner and Leonard's corner and Synge street and Synge street and Bloomfield avenue. In 1885 with Percy Apjohn in the evenings, reclined against the wall between Gibraltar villa and Bloomfield house in Crumlin, barony of Uppercross. In 1886 occasionally with casual acquaintances and prospective purchasers on doorsteps, in front parlours, in third class railway carriages of suburban lines. In 1888 frequently with major Brian Tweedy and his daughter Miss Marion Tweedy, together and separately on the lounge in Matthew Dillon's house in Roundtown. Once in 1892 and once in 1893 with Julius (Juda)


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

“We figured I should get equal screen time, but of course that isn’t possible. So, I made you something myself.” Lifting his chin, he gestures to the screen again, and the houselights dim back down. The opening notes of my favorite Wonderland song, “Joyful,” begin, and I feel a swell of emotion I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold back. There are video clips of the two of us joking on set, me throwing a wadded-up napkin at him. Footage of us eating lunch together, always separated by a few feet from the rest of the group; in another clip we’re sitting at a table alone, noodling on our phones but silently together. There’s footage of us trying to learn a TikTok dance together and cracking up, and then a quick-cut compilation of footage of me poking him in the ribs every time I walk past that has the audience in hysterics. The next few clips show Connor patiently giving us feedback on set while I watch him with trusting, wide eyes, nodding. My love is as subtle as a brick to the face, and I’d be embarrassed by the way I’m obviously infatuated with him if it weren’t so obviously reciprocated. Whoever captured the footage of him watching me cook in the industrial kitchen and plant trees with Jude is a genius; Connor looks like he’s watching his favorite show. The song ends, the screen turns black, and I think that’s the end of it until the starkly clear sound of my own voice surprises me, backed by quiet music: “Should we talk about last night?” The audience laughs at the implication, and oh God. I know what this is. The very first day of shooting, when my mic was live. Mortification washes icy cold through me. I slap a hand to my forehead and the audience vibrates with excitement over the salacious things to come. The video on-screen is still black, but Connor’s answering pause and then measured reply over audio leaves no question that he’s trying to cover for what I really meant: “You mean our conversation about today’s run of show?” My blasting, “Yes! Of course that conversation! What other thing would we have to discuss?” sends the audience into waves of laughter. Brenna appears on-screen, sitting beside Rory on the sofa in the confessional trailer. “Honestly, that those two were head over heels was obvious to all of us from the beginning.” Now Rory: “God. She was constantly looking at him.” This is followed by a hilarious quick-cut montage of all the times I glanced at Connor during filming. Sitting at the café table, in the industrial kitchen, at the park, in the spa looking for Connor when he wasn’t even there. The video speeds up, clip after clip of scores of times where I’m glancing over, looking for him. More than I ever imagined I’d done, and I knew I looked for him a lot. It’s hilarious. I bend, pressing my head into my hands as the audience cheers. But then I straighten at Brenna’s


from the Outer World." In Fremen messianic legends, an off-world prophet. Sometimes translated as "Giver of Water." (See Mahdi.) LITERJON: a one-liter container for transporting water on Arrakis; made of high-density, shatterproof plastic with positive seal. LITTLE MAKER: the half-plant-half-animal deep-sand vector of the Arrakis sandworm. The Little Maker's excretions form the pre-spice mass. MAHDI: in the Fremen messianic legend, "The One Who Will Lead Us to Paradise." MAKER: see Shai-hulud. MAKER HOOKS: the hooks used for capturing, mounting, and steering a sandworm of Arrakis. MANTENE: underlying wisdom, supporting argument, first principle. (See Giudichar.) MATING INDEX: the Bene Gesserit master record of its human breeding program aimed at producing the Kwisatz Haderach. MAULA: slave. MAULA PISTOL: spring-loaded gun for firing poison darts; range about forty meters. MELANGE: the "spice of spices," the crop for which Arrakis is the unique source. The spice, chiefly noted for its geriatric qualities, is mildly addictive when taken in small quantities, severely addictive when imbibed in quantities above two grams daily per seventy kilos of body weight. (See Ibad, Water of Life, and Pre-spice Mass.) Muad'Dib claimed the spice as a key to his prophetic powers. Guild navigators make similar claims. Its price on the Imperial market has ranged as high as 620,000 Solaris the decagram. MENTAT: that class of Imperial citizens trained for supreme accomplishments of logic. "Human computers." METAGLASS: glass grown as a high-temperature gas infusion in sheets of jasmium quartz. Noted for extreme tensile strength (about 450,000 kilos per square centimeter at two centimeters' thickness) and capacity as a selective radiation filter. MIHNA: the season for testing Fremen youths who wish admittance to manhood. MINIMIC FILM: shigawire of one-micron diameter often used to transmit espionage and counterespionage data. MISH-MISH: apricots. MISR: the historical Zensunni(Fremen) term for themselves: "The People." MISSIONARIA PROTECTIVA: the arm of the Bene Gesserit order charged with sowing infectious superstitions on primitive worlds, thus opening those regions to exploitation by the Bene Gesserit. (See Panoplia propheticus.) MONITOR: a ten-section space warcraft mounting heavy armor and shield protection. It is designed to be separated into its component sections for lift-off after planet-fall. MUAD'DIB: the adapted kangaroo mouse of Arrakis, a creature associated in the Fremen earth-spirit mythology with a design visible on the planet's second moon. This creature is admired by Fremen for its ability to survive in the open desert. MUDIR NAHYA: the Fremen name for Beast Rabban (Count Rabban of Lankiveil), the Harkonnen cousin who was siridar governor on Arrakis for many years. The name is often translated as "Demon Ruler." MUSHTAMAL: a small garden annex or garden courtyard. MUSKY: poison in a drink. (See Chaumurky.) MU ZEIN WALLAH!: Mu zein literally means "nothing good," and wallah is a reflexive terminal exclamation. In this traditional opening for a Fremen curse against an enemy, Wallah turns the emphasis back upon the words Mu zein, producing the meaning: "Nothing good, never good, good for nothing." Na-: a prefix meaning "nominated" or "next in line." Thus: na-Baron means heir apparent to a barony. NAIB: one who has sworn never to be taken alive


She sounded unsure. She sounded as if she didn’t believe it was me.

Flustered, I handed the phone to Marko, who promised that it was really me,

and that the invitation was sincere, and that the evening would be very low-

key—nothing to worry about. Pain-free. Maybe even fun.

She asked if she could bring her girlfriend. And her brother.

Of course! The more the merrier.

Hours later, there she was, sailing through the door. Turned out, my

memory hadn’t lied. She was...different. That was the word that had come to

mind when I first met her, and it immediately came to mind now, and then

again and again during the barbecue. Different.

Unlike so many people I knew, she seemed wholly unconcerned with

appearances, with propriety, with royalty. Unlike so many girls I met, she

wasn’t visibly fitting herself for a crown the moment she shook my hand.

She seemed immune to that common affliction sometimes called throne

syndrome. It was similar to the effect that actors and musicians have on

people, except with actors and musicians the root cause is talent. I had no

talent—so I’d been told, again and again—and thus all reactions to me had

nothing to do with me. They were down to my family, my title, and

consequently they always embarrassed me, because they were so unearned.

I’d always wanted to know what it might be like to meet a woman and not

have her eyes widen at the mention of my title, but instead to widen them

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myself, using my mind, my heart. With Chelsy that seemed a real possibility.

Not only was she uninterested in my title, she seemed bored by it. Oh, you’re

a prince? Yawn.

She knew nothing about my biography, less than nothing about my

family. Granny, Willy, Pa—who’re they? Better yet, she was remarkably

incurious. She probably didn’t even know about my mother; she was likely

too young to recall the tragic events of August 1997. I couldn’t be sure this

was true, of course, because to Chelsy’s credit we didn’t talk about it.

<span


Contents Cover Also by Rebecca Makkai Title Page Copyright Dedication Part I Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 #1: Omar Evans Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 #2: Thalia Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 #3: Robbie Serenho Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 #4: Puja Sharma Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 #5: Me Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 #6: Ari Hutson Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 #7: Your Wife Chapter 58 #8: You Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Part II Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 #9: Robbie Serenho Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Acknowledgments About the Author _142492537_ for CGG in joyful memory “You’ve heard of her,” I say—a challenge, an assurance. To the woman on the neighboring hotel barstool who’s made the mistake of striking up a conversation, to the dentist who runs out of questions about my kids and asks what I’ve been up to myself. Sometimes they know her right away. Sometimes they ask, “Wasn’t that the one where the guy kept her in the basement?” No! No. It was not. Wasn’t it the one where she was stabbed in—no. The one where she got in a cab with—different girl. The one where she went to the frat party, the one where he used a stick, the one where he used a hammer, the one where she picked him up from rehab and he—no. The one where he’d been watching her jog every day? The one where she made the mistake of telling him her period was late? The one with the uncle? Wait, the other one with the uncle? No: It was the one with the swimming pool. The one with the alcohol in the—with her hair around—with the guy who confessed to—right. Yes. They nod, comforted. By what? My barstool neighbor pulls the celery from her Bloody Mary, crunches down. My dentist asks me to rinse. They work her name in their mouths, their memories. “I definitely know that one,” they say. “That one,” because what is she now but a story, a story to know or not know, a story with a limited set of details, a story to master by memorizing maps and timelines. “The one from the


fields, and the rocky terrain at the foot of the palace. There, close to the gate, Clytemnestra is waiting for her. The woman sees her and dismounts the gray horse. She walks closer to Clytemnestra, her steps slow and steady. Finally, she draws off her veil, revealing brown-streaked hair and clever dark eyes. “Welcome back, Penelope.” Penelope smiles, her eyes on her cousin’s pregnant belly. “Did Uncle Tyndareus send you here? He knew I was coming.” “I came of my own accord,” Clytemnestra says, holding out a hand to her. “Come. You must be tired.” * * * She takes Penelope to the gynaeceum to wash and rest before dinner. They walk along the dark corridors, deserted at this hour of the afternoon, until they reach the baths. Two clay tubs have already been prepared by servants. Both women start undressing, the torchlight caressing their bodies, one darker and swollen, the other paler and softer. Penelope lets her cloak and tunic fall onto the cold floor, then reaches out to touch Clytemnestra’s belly. It ripples as the baby kicks. “Not long until he is born,” Penelope says. “A couple of months.” Penelope peers down at herself as if looking for changes. But her skin is still pale, her curves soft. She feels the temperature of the water with her fingertips. “Have any of the kings come yet?” she asks. Clytemnestra can’t help but think of Helen, always pulling back from cold water. “No. Most of them will arrive tomorrow.” “You know why Icarius sent me here?” “To find a husband, I presume.” “Yes.” Penelope smirks. “He wants me to marry a man who comes to Sparta to court another woman. Isn’t that pathetic?” “It is,” Clytemnestra agrees. She sinks into the water, the ends of her hair tickling her shoulders. “The palace seems quiet without your brothers,” Penelope says, wetting her arms and face. “I imagine they won’t be back soon.” “Many things have changed since you left.” Penelope gazes at her. “Like the fact that you and Helen are not speaking?” Her sweet face is sharper in the shadows of the torchlight. “You were always together before,” she adds. They are silent for a while, the water in the bath cradling them. “She wants to marry the son of Atreus, Menelaus,” Clytemnestra says finally. “That would be unfortunate,” Penelope says. “The family is cursed, their crimes bloody and unforgivable.” Clytemnestra doesn’t say anything. She already knows this. “Do you think Menelaus will come and court her?” Penelope asks. “I am afraid he will, yes.” “Let me talk to her,” Penelope says, confident. “I will persuade her.” Clytemnestra thinks about it. She hates to admit that her own sister would listen to Penelope rather than to her. But it is for a good cause. She gives a small nod, and Penelope smiles. * * * Kings start arriving the next afternoon. A thin layer of snow covers the plain; it is one of the coldest days the valley has ever seen. From the terrace in front of the main hall, Clytemnestra and


is only just for the time. Mr. Windibank draws my interest every quarter and pays it over to mother, and I find that I can do pretty well with what I earn at typewriting. It brings me twopence a sheet, and I can often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in a-day." "You have made your position very clear to me," said Holmes. "This is my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Kindly tell us now all about your connection with Mr. Hosmer Angel." A flush stole over Miss Sutherland's face, and she picked nervously at the fringe of her jacket. "I met him first at the gasfitters' ball," she said. "They used to send father tickets when he was alive, and then afterwards they remembered us, and sent them to mother. Mr. Windibank did not wish us to go. He never did wish us to go anywhere. He would get quite mad if I wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school treat. But this time I was set on going, and I would go; for what right had he to prevent? He said the folk were not fit for us to know, when all father's friends were to be there. And he said that I had nothing fit to wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never so much as taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would do, he went off to France upon the business of the firm, but we went, mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman, and it was there I met Mr. Hosmer Angel." "I suppose," said Holmes, "that when Mr. Windibank came back from France he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball." "Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying anything to a woman, for she would have her way." "I see. Then at the gasfitters' ball you met, as I understand, a gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel." "Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if we had got home all safe, and after that we met him--that is to say, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father came back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house any more." "No?" "Well, you know father didn't like anything of the sort. He wouldn't have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to say that a woman should be happy in her own family circle. But then, as I used to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to begin with, and I had not got mine yet." "But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see you?" "Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to see


Holy Michael said. “Shut up there.” Ọ̀túnba was quiet for a while; then he began grunting again, and this time he pointed his bound fists towards his mouth. Ẹniọlá threw the SIM cards he was holding on the floor and leaned closer to Ọ̀túnba. It was impossible to make out what the man was trying to say. In front, Holy Michael gave the policeman a look. “Abeg, deal with this fool. We’ve warned him enough.” Ẹniọlá reached for his knife. He only meant to brandish it. Say he could not be part of a murder and maybe explain that this man’s wife was a kind woman, but when the policeman shoved his gun towards Chief’s face, Ẹniọlá’s voice was trapped in his throat. His hand kept moving. Swiftly, just as Rashidi had taught him, Ẹniọlá slashed the policeman’s forearm. The policeman screamed in agony and dropped his gun. “What is happening? What now?” Holy Michael shouted. “Why are you shouting?” “Ẹniọlá cut ọ̀ga police,” Lápàdé said. “What? Ẹniọlá? Ayé ẹ ti bàjẹ́ lónì.” Holy Michael shut off the music and looked at the policeman. “Hold it well to stop the blood. I can’t stop now, but we’ll soon get there. Be a man, ehn, stop crying, bear it like a man.” Ẹniọlá glanced outside. He could not recognise the street, but what were his options? He opened the door and jumped. He fell facedown, scrambled up immediately and began to run. Was someone calling him? Did the footfalls behind him belong to Holy Michael or one of the people he wove past as he ran? He did not dare look back, the only way to go was forward. First, off the main road into an untarred side street, zigzagging through its length because he’d heard somewhere that it was the best way to avoid gunshots, stumbling in the darkness because there were no streetlamps. When the untarred road ended, he turned into a footpath. He ran until his sides ached, and he had to stop so he could breathe. If anyone had followed him, they would have caught him by then. He leaned against the side of a building. His cheeks were wet. From tears or sweat, he did not know. It could be both. The street he’d passed by was not busy, but there were still people outside. It could not be midnight yet. Most streets had rules about people going around after midnight, some had guards who enforced that too. He began walking as fast as he could with the pain in his sides. If he followed the pathway into a street he recognised, he could be home before midnight. * * * Bùsọ́lá was waiting for him outside when he got home. “Where have you been? Everybody is worried about you.” Without pausing for a reply, she bent her head so he could see her hair had been threaded. “I did it. It was only àjànkólokòlo they could thread for me, but I like it so much. Thank you, thank you.” She hugged him, then pulled back to give


voice, she’d do anything but hope someone else would kill me. Then there’s Thresh. All right, he’s a distinct threat. But I haven’t seen him, not once, since the Games began. I think about how Foxface grew alarmed when she heard a sound at the site of the explosion. But she didn’t turn to the Woods, she turned to whatever lies across from it. To that area of the are- na that drops off into I don’t know what. I feel almost certain that the person she ran from was Thresh and that is his do- main. He’d never have heard me from there and, even if he did, I’m up too high for someone his size to reach. So that leaves Cato and the girl from District 2, who are now surely celebrating the new rule. They’re the only ones left who benefit from it besides Peeta and myself. Do I run from them now, on the chance they heard me call Peeta’s name? No, I think. Let them come. Let them come with their night-vision glasses and their heavy, branch-breaking bodies. Right into the range of my arrows. But I know they won’t. If they didn’t come in daylight to my fire, they won’t risk what 244 could be another trap at night. When they come, it will be on their own terms, not because I’ve let them know my wherea- bouts. Stay put and get some sleep, Katniss, I instruct myself, al- though I wish I could start tracking Peeta now. Tomorrow, you’ll find him. I do sleep, but in the morning I’m extra-cautious, thinking that while the Careers might hesitate to attack me in a tree, they’re completely capable of setting an ambush for me. I make sure to fully prepare myself for the day — eating a big breakfast, securing my pack, readying my weapons — before I descend. But all seems peaceful and undisturbed on the ground. Today I’ll have to be scrupulously careful. The Careers will know I’m trying to locate Peeta. They may well want to wait until I do before they move in. If he’s as badly wounded as Ca- to thinks, I’d be in the position of having to defend us both without any assistance. But if he’s that incapacitated, how has he managed to stay alive? And how on earth will I find him? I try to think of anything Peeta ever said that might give me an indication as to where he’s hiding out, but nothing rings a bell. So I go back to the last moment I saw him sparkling in the sunlight, yelling at me to run. Then Cato appeared, his sword drawn. And after I was gone, he wounded Peeta. But how did Peeta get away? Maybe he’d held out better against the track- er jacker poison than Cato. Maybe that was the variable that allowed him to escape. But he’d been stung, too. So how far could he have gotten, 245 stabbed and filled with venom? And how has he stayed alive all these days since?


Bingley I am sure cannot. She is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr. Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the case is this. We are not rich enough, or grand enough for them; and she is the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion that when there has been one intermarriage, she may have less trouble in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But, my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that instead of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend.'' ``If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,'' replied Jane, ``your representation of all this, might make me quite easy. But I know the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving any one; and all that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived herself.'' ``That is right. -- You could not have started a more happy idea, since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived by all means. You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer.'' ``But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?'' ``You must decide for yourself,'' said Elizabeth, ``and if, upon mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him.'' ``How can you talk so?'' -- said Jane faintly smiling, -- ``You must know that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not hesitate.'' ``I did not think you would; -- and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation with much compassion.'' ``But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required. A thousand things may arise in six months!'' The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man so totally independent of every one. She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. Jane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart. They agreed that


at each other for years. “You’re too good for office jobs? Junie the Yalie won’t put in a hard day’s work like the rest of us?” “Mom, stop.” “Rory puts food on the table. Rory has a retirement account—” “I make more than enough to live on,” I snap. “I’m renting a one-bedroom in Rosslyn. I have insurance. I bought a new laptop. I’m probably richer than Rory, even—” “Then what’s the problem? What’s so important about this next book?” “I can’t rely on my old work,” I say, though I know I can’t make her understand. “I need to write the next best thing. And then another. Otherwise the sales will whittle down, and people will stop reading my work, and everyone will forget about me.” Saying this out loud makes me want to cry. I hadn’t realized how much this terrified me: being unknown, being forgotten. I sniffle. “And then when I die, I won’t have left any mark on the world. It’ll be like I was never here at all.” Mom watches me for a long while, and then places her hand on my arm. “Writing isn’t the whole world, Junie. And there’s plenty of careers that won’t give you such constant heartbreak. That’s all I’m saying.” But writing is the whole world. How can I explain this to her? Stopping isn’t an option. I need to create. It is a physical urge, a craving, like breathing, like eating; when it’s going well, it’s better than sex, and when it’s not, I can’t take pleasure in anything else. Dad played the guitar during his off time; he understood. A musician needs to be heard; a writer needs to be read. I want to move people’s hearts. I want my books in stores all over the world. I couldn’t stand to be like Mom and Rory, living their little and self-contained lives, with no great projects or prospects to propel them from one chapter to the next. I want the world to wait with bated breath for what I will say next. I want my words to last forever. I want to be eternal, permanent; when I’m gone, I want to leave behind a mountain of pages that scream, Juniper Song was here, and she told us what was on her mind. Only I don’t know what it is I want to say anymore. I don’t know if I ever did. And I’m terrified that the only thing I’ll ever be remembered for, and the only method by which I can produce good work, is slipping on someone else’s skin. I don’t want to only be the vessel for Athena’s ghost. “You could work with Aunt Cheryl,” Mom suggests, oblivious. “She’s still looking for an assistant. You could move out of DC—it’s too expensive anyhow. Come down to Melbourne with me—you could buy a whole house in Suntree with your earnings. Rory showed me—” I gape at her. “You asked Rory for my tax returns?” “We were just planning for your future.” Mom shrugs, unbothered. “So with what you have


broken by a burning sunrise of crashing planes. Life at that time had felt like a fluke, sure to come to an end at any moment, as if people were walking across a roulette table with an indifferent croupier sweeping them to the sides. On the evacuation flight from Israel there had been no seats. To maximize the number of passengers it was standing room only with people pressed so close together it was possible to fall asleep and remain upright. He’d been lucky, pressed against a window, staring out at a sky filled with planes all heading in one direction – south, diverted around the floating alien citadels now occupying the sky. To his eye, they were magnificent, more like artistic sculptures than ships, and he found it hard to imagine an intelligence capable of such innovation also being capable of the crimes they were about to commit. Few spoke on the flight, some prayed, but mostly they travelled in stunned silence, having left everything and everyone they knew behind, heading towards a life they couldn’t imagine. Unable to wait for the weather to abate, his plane had battled through extreme winds, buffeted about like a toy, attempting a landing so dangerous it bordered on the absurd. With nothing to lose, the pilots had plunged through fierce katabatic storms, touching down on the plateaus near the South Pole Station while all around planes were flipped over or smashed together. Landing on the ice, the specially designed skis hadn’t snapped, the hull hadn’t ripped apart, testament to the brilliance of the engineers and the extraordinary skill of the pilots, except that no one on board had the time to thank them, confronted with the overwhelming challenges of life on this continent. Inside the plane, shoulder to shoulder with thousands of fellow citizens, the interior serving as a temporary shelter from the elements, no one dared to open the emergency doors. Outside there were refugees dying from the cold, clambering up to the windows, pleading to be let in, freezing to the exterior like barnacles on the hull of a ship. All that remained of some nation states was a single passenger plane with three rows of seats representing the government, one row of seats for the royal family, ten lines of seats for the military and twenty lines of seats for the rest of civil society – an entire country reduced to fewer than forty rows. Days later, when the winds had calmed down, they’d departed, leaving behind the rotten husk of an airplane which no person could tolerate for another minute. Roped together in a procession, stumbling through the darkness, guided by the stars, they’d set up temporary camps, about to embark on one of the most famous expeditions in human history – the walk to the South Pole. The South Pole Station was the nearest base on the East Antarctica Ice Sheet, the largest ice sheet on the planet, three thousand metres thick, two thousand eight hundred metres above sea level – a once pristine desert plain now scorched, scratched


food, so I try to keep up. “Maybe I did it for myself, Peeta, did you ever think of that? Maybe you aren’t the only one who . . . who worries about . . . what it would be like if. . .” I fumble. I’m not as smooth with words as Peeta. And while I was talking, the idea of actually losing Peeta hit me again and I realized how much I don’t want him to die. And it’s not about the sponsors. And it’s not about what will happen back home. And it’s not just that I don’t want to be alone. It’s him. I do not want to lose the boy with the bread. “If what, Katniss?” he says softly. I wish I could pull the shutters closed, blocking out this moment from the prying eyes of Panem. Even if it means los- ing food. Whatever I’m feeling, it’s no one’s business but mine. 293 “That’s exactly the kind of topic Haymitch told me to steer clear of,” I say evasively, although Haymitch never said any- thing of the kind. In fact, he’s probably cursing me out right now for dropping the ball during such an emotionally charged moment. But Peeta somehow catches it. “Then I’ll just have to fill in the blanks myself,” he says, and moves in to me. This is the first kiss that we’re both fully aware of. Neither of us hobbled by sickness or pain or simply unconscious. Our lips neither burning with fever or icy cold. This is the first kiss where I actually feel stirring inside my chest. Warm and cu- rious. This is the first kiss that makes me want another. But I don’t get it. Well, I do get a second kiss, but it’s just a light one on the tip of my nose because Peeta’s been dis- tracted. “I think your wound is bleeding again. Come on, lie down, it’s bedtime anyway,” he says. My socks are dry enough to wear now. I make Peeta put his jacket back on. The damp cold seems to cut right down to my bones, so he must be half frozen. I insist on taking the first watch, too, although neither of us think it’s likely anyone will come in this weather. But he won’t agree unless I’m in the bag, too, and I’m shivering so hard that it’s pointless to object. In stark contrast to two nights ago, when I felt Peeta was a mil- lion miles away, I’m struck by his immediacy now. As we set- tle in, he pulls my head down to use his arm as a pillow, the other rests protectively over me even when he goes to sleep. No one has held me like this in such a long time. Since my fa- 294 ther died and I stopped trusting my mother, no one else’s arms have made me feel this safe. With the aid of the glasses, I lie watching the drips of water splatter on the cave floor. Rhythmic and lulling. Several times, I


ghost of a little murdered child haunts the corner up by Idlewild; it creeps up behind you and lays its cold fingers on your hand-so. Oh, Marilla, it gives me a shudder to think of it. And there's a headless man stalks up and down the path and skeletons glower at you between the boughs. Oh, Marilla, I wouldn't go through the Haunted Wood after dark now for anything. I'd be sure that white things would reach out from behind the trees and grab me." "Did ever anyone hear the like!" ejaculated Marilla, who had listened in dumb amazement. "Anne Shirley, do you mean to tell me you believe all that wicked nonsense of your own imagination?" "Not believe EXACTLY," faltered Anne. "At least, I don't believe it in daylight. But after dark, Marilla, it's different. That is when ghosts walk." "There are no such things as ghosts, Anne." "Oh, but there are, Marilla," cried Anne eagerly. "I know people who have seen them. And they are respectable people. Charlie Sloane says that his grandmother saw his grandfather driving home the cows one night after he'd been buried for a year. You know Charlie Sloane's grandmother wouldn't tell a story for anything. She's a very religious woman. And Mrs. Thomas's father was pursued home one night by a lamb of fire with its head cut off hanging by a strip of skin. He said he knew it was the spirit of his brother and that it was a warning he would die within nine days. He didn't, but he died two years after, so you see it was really true. And Ruby Gillis says-" "Anne Shirley," interrupted Marilla firmly, "I never want to hear you talking in this fashion again. I've had my doubts about that imagination of yours right along, and if this is going to be the outcome of it, I won't countenance any such doings. You'll go right over to Barry's, and you'll go through that spruce grove, just for a lesson and a warning to you. And never let me hear a word out of your head about haunted woods again." Anne might plead and cry as she liked-and did, for her terror was very real. Her imagination had run away with her and she held the spruce grove in mortal dread after nightfall. But Marilla was inexorable. She marched the shrinking ghostseer down to the spring and ordered her to proceed straightaway over the bridge and into the dusky retreats of wailing ladies and headless specters beyond. "Oh, Marilla, how can you be so cruel?" sobbed Anne. "What would you feel like if a white thing did snatch me up and carry me off?" "I'll risk it," said Marilla unfeelingly. "You know I always mean what I say. I'll cure you of imagining ghosts into places. March, now." Anne marched. That is, she stumbled over the bridge and went shuddering up the horrible dim path beyond. Anne never forgot that walk. Bitterly did she repent the license she had given to her imagination. The goblins of her


not be some curious scientific reason for it all? If thought could exercise its [52] influence upon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon dead and inorganic things? Nay, without thought or conscious desire, might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods and passions, atom calling to atom, in secret love or strange affinity? But the reason was of no importance. He would never again tempt by a prayer any terrible power. If the picture was to alter, it was to alter. That was all. Why inquire too closely into it? For there would be a real pleasure in watching it. He would be able to follow his mind into its secret places. This portrait would be to him the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body, so it would reveal to him his own soul. And when winter came upon it, he would still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer. When the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallid mask of chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. Not one blossom of his loveliness would ever fade. Not one pulse of his life would ever weaken. Like the gods of the Greeks, he would be strong, and fleet, and joyous. What did it matter what happened to the colored image on the canvas? He would be safe. That was everything. He drew the screen back into its former place in front of the picture, smiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom, where his valet was already waiting for him. An hour later he was at the Opera, and Lord Henry was leaning over his chair. CHAPTER VII [...52] As he was sitting at breakfast next morning, Basil Hallward was shown into the room. "I am so glad I have found you, Dorian," he said, gravely. "I called last night, and they told me you were at the Opera. Of course I knew that was impossible. But I wish you had left word where you had really gone to. I passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy might be followed by another. I think you might have telegraphed for me when you heard of it first. I read of it quite by chance in a late edition of the Globe, that I picked up at the club. I came here at once, and was miserable at not finding you. I can't tell you how heart-broken I am about the whole thing. I know what you must suffer. But where were you? Did you go down and see the girl's mother? For a moment I thought of following you there. They gave the address in the paper. Somewhere in the Euston Road, isn't it? But I was afraid of intruding upon a sorrow that I could not lighten. Poor woman! What a state she must be in! And her only child, too! What did she say about it all?" "My dear Basil, how do


trolls say what they want. You’re going to be fine.” I nod and bite back what I want to say. Brett’s right—there’s no point in escalating this, since any response only gives the allegations legitimacy. “Okay.” “Okay? Good.” Brett sounds like he’s ready to be done with this call. “Don’t worry so much, all right?” “Hey, wait . . .” The thought has just crossed my mind. “Have you heard anything from the Greenhouse people?” “Hmm? Oh, nah. But it’s only been a week, they’re probably resting up from their trip. Give them some time.” I feel a niggling dread then, but I tell myself I’m being silly. It’s not like these two things are connected. Justin and Harvey aren’t necessarily glued to Twitter, following the latest book gossip. They’ve got better things to do. “Okay.” “Just relax, June. You’re going to get some haters. It comes with the territory. If it’s not true, then you have nothing to worry about.” Brett pauses for a moment. “I mean, it’s not true, is it?” “No! God. Of course not.” “Then block and ignore them.” Brett snorts. “Or better yet, block Twitter altogether. You writers are too online to begin with. This will blow over. These things always do.” BRETT’S WRONG. THIS WON’T BLOW OVER. TWITTER SCANDALS ARE like snowballs; the more people that see it, the more who feel it necessary to weigh in with their own opinions and agendas, creating an explosion of discourse branching off the instigating conversation. Past a critical mass of visibility, everyone in the industry starts talking about it. And @AthenaLiusGhost, whoever they are, has nearly a thousand followers by now. They’ve reached that critical mass. The Athena-June scandal, as it’s being now referred to, has become the Discourse of the Moment. This is wholly different from the Lily Wu discourse, which involved a dozen people at most. This time, there’s blood in the water. Silence isn’t an option. Everyone has to declare a side, or they’re accused of complicity. (SMH at so many supposed allies staying silent now that their friend’s been exposed, tweet anonymous accounts happily stirring the pot.) A lot of high-profile writers straddle the line, trying to cover their asses but also establish loyalties at the same time. Plagiarism is terrible, writes one author. If Hayward really did plagiarize—and we don’t know yet if she did—then she owes her royalties back to Athena Liu’s family. It’s awful if it’s true, writes another. But until there’s substantiated proof, I hesitate to join this lynch mob. There’s then a heated debate over whether it’s appropriate to use the words “lynch mob” when describing a white woman, and it ends with dozens of people calling the above referenced author a racist. Said author’s account is locked within hours. It’s the Twitter accounts that are non-notable public figures, who have nothing to lose and everything to gain by digging their claws into me, that are most vicious. She used to write as June Hayward, tweets a user named reyl089. But she published her book about China as June


historian came along.” Esperanza reappeared, its silver roofs glinting. Clark waited at the trailhead with his muzzle resting on his front paws. “You don’t miss sculpting?” Maud said. “You don’t miss that feeling?” “It doesn’t matter if I miss it,” Alice said. Clark nosed her leg, and she scratched his ears. You do, Maud thought, watching her still face. That’s why those barn windows are whitewashed. But you don’t know how to have it without all the rest. “Want lunch?” Alice said. “Yes, please,” Maud said. “And I want to go on that hike with you again.” “Then I guess you’re coming back next Wednesday.” Monday morning, while Maud was running irrigation lines at Tennessee Hollow, her phone rang. It was the nurse at Ella’s school. “There’s been an incident,” she said, and Maud’s body seized. “The cut isn’t deep,” the nurse added. On her way out of the Presidio, Maud called Rita’s office at Lone Pines. She left a message for Peter, who was at a conference. She called the mother of one of Louise’s friends to ask if she’d take Louise home, and then called Annette to ask her to get Louise from the friend’s house after work. Under all of this management, she shook and screamed. In the nurse’s office, Ella sat on a vinyl bed. She leaned into Maud’s hug and didn’t resist when Maud took her hand in the parking lot. Maud waited until they got to the car to ask, “Where?” Ella lifted her T-shirt, then a bandage. A line—about an inch and a half, still eking blood—skirted the side of her belly button. She’d never cut there before. Was that significant? Why had she done it again? “What did you use?” Maud said, evening out her words. Ella took the scissors out of her pencil case and handed them to Maud. “I self-reported, Mom.” “I’m glad you did, sweetie.” Maud put the scissors in her purse. “But why did you do it in the first place?” She regretted asking the question. She had shown how upset she was. “I want to talk about it with Rita first.” Maud let out the parking brake. “Your appointment isn’t for three hours. Are you okay going to work with me? I left in the middle of something.” “Yeah, sure,” Ella said. Maud wanted to grab her and shout into her ear, Why? Instead, she started the car and drove onto the road. At Tennessee Hollow, Ella sat under the pomegranate tree while Maud finished running irrigation lines. She checked her phone, but Peter still hadn’t texted back. She felt horribly alone and afraid. She will never get better, she thought. This will never end. “We still have an hour,” she told Ella. “I want to show you something.” She didn’t want to go to Lone Pines early and sit in that office. A half-mile toward the ocean, she parked on the side of the road, and they hiked through a eucalyptus grove to a clearing strewn with chunks of serpentine rock. The Raven’s Manzanita, an evergreen shrub, hunkered


a whim that I'd better humour. I know you're obstinate and headstrong. What on earth d'you want to leave for now? You've only got another term in any case. You can get the Magdalen scholarship easily; you'll get half the prizes we've got to give." Philip looked at him sullenly. He felt that he had been tricked; but he had the promise, and Perkins would have to stand by it. "You'll have a very pleasant time at Oxford. You needn't decide at once what you're going to do afterwards. I wonder if you realise how delightful the life is up there for anyone who has brains." "I've made all my arrangements now to go to Germany, sir," said Philip. "Are they arrangements that couldn't possibly be altered?" asked Mr. Perkins, with his quizzical smile. "I shall be very sorry to lose you. In schools the rather stupid boys who work always do better than the clever boy who's idle, but when the clever boy works--why then, he does what you've done this term." Philip flushed darkly. He was unused to compliments, and no one had ever told him he was clever. The headmaster put his hand on Philip's shoulder. "You know, driving things into the heads of thick-witted boys is dull work, but when now and then you have the chance of teaching a boy who comes half-way towards you, who understands almost before you've got the words out of your mouth, why, then teaching is the most exhilarating thing in the world." Philip was melted by kindness; it had never occurred to him that it mattered really to Mr. Perkins whether he went or stayed. He was touched and immensely flattered. It would be pleasant to end up his school-days with glory and then go to Oxford: in a flash there appeared before him the life which he had heard described from boys who came back to play in the O.K.S. match or in letters from the University read out in one of the studies. But he was ashamed; he would look such a fool in his own eyes if he gave in now; his uncle would chuckle at the success of the headmaster's ruse. It was rather a come-down from the dramatic surrender of all these prizes which were in his reach, because he disdained to take them, to the plain, ordinary winning of them. It only required a little more persuasion, just enough to save his self-respect, and Philip would have done anything that Mr. Perkins wished; but his face showed nothing of his conflicting emotions. It was placid and sullen. "I think I'd rather go, sir," he said. Mr. Perkins, like many men who manage things by their personal influence, grew a little impatient when his power was not immediately manifest. He had a great deal of work to do, and could not waste more time on a boy who seemed to him insanely obstinate. "Very well, I promised to let you if you really wanted it, and I keep my promise. When do you go to Germany?"


as if it was created with the worst spare parts. What is it? Someone needs to put it out of its misery, my word.” “I do not know,” Hap said. “It refuses to speak.” The spider machine shuddered. “See that it is decommissioned first. I don’t even like looking at it. You, there.” It tapped the side of Vic’s helmet. “What is your designation?” Vic said nothing. “He can’t speak,” Rambo said helpfully. “He started following us right before we were captured. We threw rocks at him, but he wouldn’t leave us alone.” “Grotesque,” the spider machine said. “I hope there aren’t more of him.” It reached over Vic’s shoulder, pressing the tip of his leg against Vic’s pack. “And this?” “Mine,” Hap said. “I made it carry my tools for me.” “Good,” it said. “At least it served some use to you in the end. Poor, disgusting thing. It doesn’t even look aware. Its circuits are probably cooked. Such shoddy work. Oh well. It’ll be over soon. You may proceed, HARP.” Hap nodded. “L-long live the Authority.” The spider machine stepped back, allowing them to pass. “Yes, of course! Long live the—wait a minute.” They stopped. Vic bit his tongue to keep from screaming. “Your barcode,” the spider machine said. “I need to scan it before you enter, just to make sure we have a log of your arrival.” “I must g-get them inside,” Hap said. “They n-need to—” The sphere flashed red. “Your barcode, HARP.” “Right,” Hap said quickly, shoving his hand toward the spider machine. The skin parted. A little knob poked through. A barcode appeared above his palm, flickering. The spider machine didn’t seem to notice that Vic was frozen as it scanned the barcode. It beeped once. Twice. Its sphere flashed red again. “That’s never happened before.” “T-try it again.” The spider machine didn’t move. Hap started forward, but the machine beeped, and scanned the barcode. This time, the sphere turned green. “Welcome, HARP 926. You may enter the Benevolent Tower.” It lowered back toward the ground before turning to the rest of them. “Welcome, dissidents. Proceed to decommissioning.” It moved back toward the doors. Vic watched as it jumped, its legs pulling up underneath it as it fitted itself back into the slot it’d fallen from. The sphere darkened as the doors to the tower swung open with a low groan. “M-move,” Hap said loudly. “And n-no talking, prisoners. You w-will not spew your propaganda here.” “Spew,” Nurse Ratched said. “I do not spew.” “I do,” Rambo said. “Well, maybe not spew. Discharge? Yes, I discharge —” He squeaked as Nurse Ratched rolled forward. As Vic followed, he looked up toward the sky. He wondered if he’d ever see it again. “The Blue Fairy’s m-modification of the b-barcode worked,” Hap muttered as the doors closed behind them. “At least we know they’re on our side,” Vic whispered back. “F-for now.” Vic would need to talk to Hap about optimism, though now probably wasn’t the best time for such a conversation, especially since Vic wasn’t very optimistic


Perth, where our friend expected us. But I was in no mood to laugh and talk with strangers or enter into their feelings or plans with the good humour expected from a guest; and accordingly I told Clerval that I wished to make the tour of Scotland alone. "Do you," said I, "enjoy yourself, and let this be our rendezvous. I may be absent a month or two; but do not interfere with my motions, I entreat you; leave me to peace and solitude for a short time; and when I return, I hope it will be with a lighter heart, more congenial to your own temper. Henry wished to dissuade me, but seeing me bent on this plan, ceased to remonstrate. He entreated me to write often. "I had rather be with you," he said, "in your solitary rambles, than with these Scotch people, whom I do not know; hasten, then, my dear friend, to return, that I may again feel myself somewhat at home, which I cannot do in your absence." Having parted from my friend, I determined to visit some remote spot of Scotland and finish my work in solitude. I did not doubt but that the monster followed me and would discover himself to me when I should have finished, that he might receive his companion. With this resolution I traversed the northern highlands and fixed on one of the remotest of the Orkneys as the scene of my labours. It was a place fitted for such a work, being hardly more than a rock whose high sides were continually beaten upon by the waves. The soil was barren, scarcely affording pasture for a few miserable cows, and oatmeal for its inhabitants, which consisted of five persons, whose gaunt and scraggy limbs gave tokens of their miserable fare. Vegetables and bread, when they indulged in such luxuries, and even fresh water, was to be procured from the mainland, which was about five miles distant. On the whole island there were but three miserable huts, and one of these was vacant when I arrived. This I hired. It contained but two rooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness of the most miserable penury. The thatch had fallen in, the walls were unplastered, and the door was off its hinges. I ordered it to be repaired, bought some furniture, and took possession, an incident which would doubtless have occasioned some surprise had not all the senses of the cottagers been benumbed by want and squalid poverty. As it was, I lived ungazed at and unmolested, hardly thanked for the pittance of food and clothes which I gave, so much does suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations of men. In this retreat I devoted the morning to labour; but in the evening, when the weather permitted, I walked on the stony beach of the sea to listen to the waves as they roared and dashed at my feet. It was a monotonous yet ever-changing scene. I thought of Switzerland; it was far different from this desolate and appalling landscape. Its hills


a distant impression of Dumai reminded her. The Nadama were flocking to her court at Ginura Castle. Nikeya meant to bring greater change to Seiiki, as the years went on – but she would still have to be slow, always slow. She would rule for a time as if she were queen, and see what other ways opened for her. The remaining Kuposa had not been pleased with her choice of name. Still, without her father, they were already proving less of a force. Most of them wanted to distance themselves from the man who had betrayed Seiiki. She could work them to her will, now they were shaken from his web of intrigue. Soon she would spin a web of her own. The wyrms and their creatures had gone into a deep sleep, as the gods once had. Every last one would need to be hunted, to ensure they could never rise again. The red sickness would not only have to be forced out, but kept out. As for the imbalance that had caused it all, that would need to be rightened, and soon. Nikeya meant to righten it. She was Dowager Queen and First Warlord. For her crest, she took the golden fish with the rainbow arching over it, and two swords to defend them, as if the bell had been reforged – silver, to balance the gold. She would not let anyone forget the House of Noziken. She would not let them forget Queen Dumai. Her throne overlooked the sea without end. By day, she was the iron leader, laughing and strong. At night, she wandered alone through her castle, listening to the waves, dreaming of what could have been. For the rest of her life, she would be wrapped around an emptiness. I will see you in the Palace of Many Pearls, she thought. Wait for me, Mai. I will not be long. **** Months into the Age of Starlight, the First Warlord of Seiiki pored over her latest edict. Outside, snow fell where thick ash once had. Eyes dry from reading in the gloom, she glanced up from her work. A figure stood in the corner of her study, wearing the robes and veiled headdress of the Maiden Officiant. ‘Unora,’ Nikeya said in surprise. ‘No.’ The visitor inclined her head. ‘Please excuse my unannounced arrival. I know you have a duty of great import to perform tonight.’ ‘Indeed, which is why I ordered my so-called guards to let no one into my private study. Yet here you are.’ Nikeya tapped the end of her brush on the table, too intrigued to mind the intrusion. ‘Still, plenty of time to admonish them later. Who are you?’ ‘Unora of Afa has withdrawn from her duties as Maiden Officiant, to devote herself to caring for the Grand Empress. I am her successor.’ ‘It is a long road to here from Antuma. Why come so far from the mountain, godsinger?’ ‘To wish you a long and prosperous rule,’ came the soft answer. ‘And to give you a token of my regard.’


her eyes as she beheld my emaciated frame and feverish cheeks. I saw a change in her also. She was thinner and had lost much of that heavenly vivacity that had before charmed me; but her gentleness and soft looks of compassion made her a more fit companion for one blasted and miserable as I was. The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not endure. Memory brought madness with it, and when I thought of what had passed, a real insanity possessed me; sometimes I was furious and burnt with rage, sometimes low and despondent. I neither spoke nor looked at anyone, but sat motionless, bewildered by the multitude of miseries that overcame me. Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me from these fits; her gentle voice would soothe me when transported by passion and inspire me with human feelings when sunk in torpor. She wept with me and for me. When reason returned, she would remonstrate and endeavour to inspire me with resignation. Ah! It is well for the unfortunate to be resigned, but for the guilty there is no peace. The agonies of remorse poison the luxury there is otherwise sometimes found in indulging the excess of grief. Soon after my arrival my father spoke of my immediate marriage with Elizabeth. I remained silent. "Have you, then, some other attachment?" "None on earth. I love Elizabeth and look forward to our union with delight. Let the day therefore be fixed; and on it I will consecrate myself, in life or death, to the happiness of my cousin." "My dear Victor, do not speak thus. Heavy misfortunes have befallen us, but let us only cling closer to what remains and transfer our love for those whom we have lost to those who yet live. Our circle will be small but bound close by the ties of affection and mutual misfortune. And when time shall have softened your despair, new and dear objects of care will be born to replace those of whom we have been so cruelly deprived." Such were the lessons of my father. But to me the remembrance of the threat returned; nor can you wonder that, omnipotent as the fiend had yet been in his deeds of blood, I should almost regard him as invincible, and that when he had pronounced the words "I SHALL BE WITH YOU ON YOUR WEDDING-NIGHT," I should regard the threatened fate as unavoidable. But death was no evil to me if the loss of Elizabeth were balanced with it, and I therefore, with a contented and even cheerful countenance, agreed with my father that if my cousin would consent, the ceremony should take place in ten days, and thus put, as I imagined, the seal to my fate. Great God! If for one instant I had thought what might be the hellish intention of my fiendish adversary, I would rather have banished myself forever from my native country and wandered a friendless outcast over the earth than have consented to this miserable marriage. But, as if possessed of magic powers, the


makeup after the show but it hadn’t hurt and she’d attended the after-parties that lasted long into Sunday morning. When the blotch hadn’t gone away by Monday, she’d seen TNO’s set nurse, who recommended Viv make an appointment with an ophthalmologist just to be safe. I texted back, Take a pic where I can see your whole face A few seconds later, another photo arrived of Viv’s entire and very pretty face, in this moment unsmiling and preoccupied-looking, with both her eyebrows raised. Viv was Black and thirty-one, five years younger than I. I knew that both she and Henrietta, who was white and thirty-two, used preemptive antiaging measures like Botox and chemical peels. At the same time, Viv appeared in a recurring sketch where she played a famously well-preserved middle-aged TV host talking to her reflection in her dressing room mirror, uttering with pleasure the phrase “Black don’t crack.” It really doesn’t look that bad, I texted. I’d decide about dinner based on how you feel Still doesn’t hurt, Viv replied. But She sent the female zombie emoji, green skinned and holding out curled fingers. No you look fine, I wrote. By which I mean great! I think ok to go to dinner or ok to skip but you don’t need to skip to spare anyone On Monday nights around eleven o’clock, Nigel always took that week’s host and a few cast members to dinner at a fancy restaurant. The only writer ever included was the head writer, which I actually didn’t mind because even after nine years, I was more comfortable having fleeting rather than sustained encounters with Nigel. Many people in- and outside of TNO were obsessed with the man who’d created the show in 1981 and produced it ever since. Born Norman Piekarkski in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, in 1947, Nigel Petersen was indisputably the comedy kingmaker of twentieth- and twenty-first-century America, and it was often said that your relationship with your father was revealed by the relationship you had, or thought you had, with Nigel. But I’d long believed that being quietly competent would serve me better than trying to curry favor with him directly. For my entire first year, I hadn’t even been sure he knew my name, and then at the after-party following the season finale, he’d said in his surprisingly soft and understated voice, “The field trip sketch was very funny, Sally.” These eight words were possibly the greatest compliment of my life, which might have revealed that I had daddy issues if I hadn’t already been well aware I had daddy issues. The following year, we’d interacted more because I had many more sketches on air, but we spoke only when he was giving notes on them. Our annual superfluous exchange came after he’d complimented with similar brevity a sketch I’d set at a Kansas City barbecue restaurant, when I’d dared not just to mumble thank you but to follow up by saying, “I know you’re from Oklahoma. Do you think of that as the Midwest or the South?” Again in his soft and


you've got a lovely island. We'd be simply thrilled if you'd share it sometimes. And you've got a wreck. We'd like to look at it and share it too. Ices and sweets aren't so good as those things- but it would be nice to make a bargain and share with each other." George looked at the brown eyes that gazed steadily into hers. She couldn't help liking Julian. It wasn't her nature to share anything. She had always been an only child, a lonely, rather misunderstood little girl, fierce and hot-tempered. She had never had any friends of her own. Timothy looked up at Julian and saw that he was offering something nice and chocolately to George. He jumped up and licked the boy with his friendly tongue. "There you are, you see- Tim wants to be shared," said Julian, with a laugh. "It would be nice for him to have three new friends." "Yes- it would," said George, giving in suddenly, and taking the chocolate bar. "Thank you, Julian. I will share with you. But promise you'll never tell anyone at home that I'm still keeping Timothy?" "Of course we'll promise," said Julian. "But I can't imagine that your father or mother would mind, so long as Tim doesn't live in their house. How's the ice? Is it nice?" "Ooooh- the loveliest one I've ever tasted!" said George nibbling at it. "It's so cold. I haven't had one this year. It's simply DELICIOUS!" Timothy tried to nibble it too. George gave him a few crumbs at the end. Then she turned and smiled at the three children. "You're nice," she said. "I'm glad you've come after all. Let's take a boat out this afternoon and row round the island to have a look at the wreck, shall we?" "Rather!" said all three at once- and even Timothy wagged his tail as if he understood! Chapter Four AN EXCITING AFTERNOON Contents- Prev/Next They all had a bathe that morning, and the boys found that George was a much better swimmer than they were. She was very strong and very fast, and she could swim under water, too, holding her breath for ages. "You're jolly good," said Julian, admiringly. "It's a pity Anne isn't a bit better. Anne, you'll have to practise your swimming strokes hard, or you'll never be able to swim out as far as we do." They were all very hungry at lunch time. They went back up the cliff-path, hoping there would be lots to eat- and there was! Cold meat and salad, plum-pie and custard, and cheese afterwards. How the children tucked in! "What are you going to do this afternoon?" asked George's mother. "George is going to take us out in a boat to see the wreck on the other side of the island," said Anne. Her aunt looked most surprised. "George is going to take you!" she said. "Why George- what's come over you? You've never taken a single person before, though I've asked you to dozens of times!" George said nothing, but went on eating


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

spiritual pride’s sake; but no man that ever I heard of, ever committed a diabolical murder for sweet charity’s sake. Mere self-interest, then, if no better motive can be enlisted, should, especially with high-tempered men, prompt all beings to charity and philanthropy. At any rate, upon the occasion in question, I strove to drown my exasperated feelings towards the scrivener by benevolently construing his conduct. Poor fellow, poor fellow! thought I, he don’t mean any thing; and besides, he has seen hard times, and ought to be indulged. I endeavored also immediately to occupy myself, and at the same time to comfort my despondency. I tried to fancy that in the course of the morning, at such time as might prove agreeable to him. Bartleby, of his own free accord, would emerge from his hermitage, and take up some decided line of march in the direction of the door. But no. Half-past twelve o’clock came; Turkey began to glow in the face, overturn his inkstand, and become generally obstreperous; Nippers abated down into quietude and courtesy; Ginger Nut munched his noon apple; and Bartleby remained standing at his window in one of his profoundest dead-wall reveries. Will it be credited? Ought I to acknowledge it? That afternoon I left the office without saying one further word to him. Some days now passed, during which, at leisure intervals I looked a little into “Edwards on the Will,” and “Priestly on Necessity.” Under the circumstances, those books induced a salutary feeling. Gradually I slid into the persuasion that these troubles of mine touching the scrivener, had been all predestinated from eternity, and Bartleby was billeted upon me for some mysterious purpose of an all-wise Providence, which it was not for a mere mortal like me to fathom. Yes, Bartleby, stay there behind your screen, thought I; I shall persecute you no more; you are harmless and noiseless as any of these old chairs; in short, I never feel so private as when I know you are here. At last I see it, I feel it; I penetrate to the predestinated purpose of my life. I am content. Others may have loftier parts to enact; but my mission in this world, Bartleby, is to furnish you with office-room for such period as you may see fit to remain. I believe that this wise and blessed frame of mind would have continued with me, had it not been for the unsolicited and uncharitable remarks obtruded upon me by my professional friends who visited the rooms. But thus it often is, that the constant friction of illiberal minds wears out at last the best resolves of the more generous. Though to be sure, when I reflected upon it, it was not strange that people entering my office should be struck by the peculiar aspect of the unaccountable Bartleby, and so be tempted to throw out some sinister observations concerning him. Sometimes an attorney having business with me, and calling at my office and finding no one but the scrivener there, would undertake to obtain some sort of


occurred instances, well authenticated ones too, where the captain has been known for an uncommonly critical moment or two, in a sudden squall say --to seize hold of the nearest oarsman's hair, and hold on there like grim death. .. <p 240 > .. < chapter liv 26 THE TOWN-HO'S STORY > ( As told at the Golden Inn.) The Cape of Good Hope, and all the watery region round about there, is much like some noted four corners of a great highway, where you meet more travellers than in any other part. It was not very long after speaking the Goney that another .. <p 241 > homeward-bound whaleman, the Town-Ho, was encountered. She was manned almost wholly by Polynesians. In the short gam that ensued she gave us strong news of Moby Dick. To some the general interest in the White Whale was now wildly heightened by a circumstance of the Town-Ho's story, which seemed obscurely to involve with the whale a certain wondrous, inverted visitation of one of those so called judgments of God which at times are said to overtake some men. This latter circumstance, with its own particular accompaniments, forming what may be called the secret part of the tragedy about to be narrated, never reached the ears of Captain Ahab or his mates. For that secret part of the story was unknown to the captain of the Town-Ho himself. It was the private property of three confederate white seamen of that ship, one of whom, it seems, communicated it to Tashtego with Romish injunctions of secresy, but the following night Tashtego rambled in his sleep, and revealed so much of it in that way, that when he was wakened he could not well withhold the rest. Nevertheless, so potent an influence did this thing have on those seamen in the Pequod who came to the full knowledge of it, and by such a strange delicacy, to call it so, were they governed in this matter, that they kept the secret among themselves so that it never transpired abaft the Pequod's main-mast. Interweaving in its proper place this darker thread with the story as publicly narrated on the ship, the whole of this strange affair I now proceed to put on lasting record. For my humor's sake, I shall preserve the style in which I once narrated it at Lima, to a lounging circle of my Spanish friends, one saint's eve, smoking upon the thick-gilt tiled piazza of the Golden Inn. Of those fine cavaliers, the young Dons, Pedro and Sebastian, were on the closer terms with me; and hence the interluding questions they occasionally put, and which are duly answered at the time. Some two years prior to my first learning the events which I am about rehearsing to you, gentlemen, the Town-Ho, Sperm .. <p 242 > Whaler of Nantucket, was cruising in your Pacific here, not very many days' sail westward from the eaves of this good Golden Inn. She was somewhere to the northward of the Line. One morning upon handling the pumps,


the traces were unfastened, and whimpering broken-heartedly when he saw Sol-leks in the position he had held and served so long. For the pride of trace and trail was his, and, sick unto death, he could not bear that another dog should do his work. When the sled started, he floundered in the soft snow alongside the beaten trail, attacking Sol-leks with his teeth, rushing against him and trying to thrust him off into the soft snow on the other side, striving to leap inside his traces and get between him and the sled, and all the while whining and yelping and crying with grief and pain. The half-breed tried to drive him away with the whip; but he paid no heed to the stinging lash, and the man had not the heart to strike harder. Dave refused to run quietly on the trail behind the sled, where the going was easy, but continued to flounder alongside in the soft snow, where the going was most difficult, till exhausted. Then he fell, and lay where he fell, howling lugubriously as the long train of sleds churned by. With the last remnant of his strength he managed to stagger along behind till the train made another stop, when he floundered past the sleds to his own, where he stood alongside Sol-leks. His driver lingered a moment to get a light for his pipe from the man behind. Then he returned and started his dogs. They swung out on the trail with remarkable lack of exertion, turned their heads uneasily, and stopped in surprise. The driver was surprised, too; the sled had not moved. He called his comrades to witness the sight. Dave had bitten through both of Sol-leks's traces, and was standing directly in front of the sled in his proper place. He pleaded with his eyes to remain there. The driver was perplexed. His comrades talked of how a dog could break its heart through being denied the work that killed it, and recalled instances they had known, where dogs, too old for the toil, or injured, had died because they were cut out of the traces. Also, they held it a mercy, since Dave was to die anyway, that he should die in the traces, heart-easy and content. So he was harnessed in again, and proudly he pulled as of old, though more than once he cried out involuntarily from the bite of his inward hurt. Several times he fell down and was dragged in the traces, and once the sled ran upon him so that he limped thereafter in one of his hind legs. But he held out till camp was reached, when his driver made a place for him by the fire. Morning found him too weak to travel. At harness-up time he tried to crawl to his driver. By convulsive efforts he got on his feet, staggered, and fell. Then he wormed his way forward slowly toward where the harnesses were being put on his mates. He would advance his fore legs and drag up his body with


says that since Eppie has come to him, "I've had light enough to trusten by"--the darkness of life no longer troubles him. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CONCLUSION In Chapter 6, Mr. Macey said that winter was a strange season for the Lammeters' wedding. The Lammeters were outsiders, but Eppie isn't--she gets married in spring, the right season. Symbolically, the spring is lovely and fertile, filled with flowers and new life. But Eliot also tells you the villagers' practical reasons why spring is best--they have more time for weddings then, and it's better weather for a light dress. This wedding scene works to restore a sense of harmony after the crisis in Chapter 19. Eppie accepts her wedding dress from Nancy, smoothing over hard feelings. Godfrey has provided the wedding feast, and soon you'll see he's made additions to Silas' cottage in preparation for Aaron's moving in. Everyone in town, from Priscilla Lammeter to Mr. Macey, is on hand to watch the wedding party walk to church. But there is an undertone of sadness. Nancy needs to be kept company; Godfrey has some vague excuse for being away. How do you think they feel today? All of the village rituals are observed. Mr. Macey makes a little speech to Silas, blessing the marriage. Guests gather in the churchyard early so they can tell their old stories about Silas and Eppie over again. The men head for the Rainbow after the service. NOTE: A FAMILY Ben Winthrop conveniently goes to the Rainbow so that the final group consists of Dolly, Aaron, Eppie, and Silas. Sharp-tongued Ben might disrupt this group, which is like a little family. Silas and Dolly have a close partnership; Dolly is like a mother to Eppie. Eppie and Aaron have such an innocent relationship, it seems to some readers to be more like a brother-sister love than a sexual love. Eliot's own childhood was not totally happy. Her mother seems to have ignored her, and although she was very close to her older brother at first, they fell out with each other later. To some readers, this perfect family picture at the end of this book--"four united people"--is Eliot's nostalgic dream of a family bound by love and respect, not just by blood. As the wedding party heads home, notice that Eppie's garden is flourishing. Though it's protected, it isn't blocked off from society; an open fence on one side allows flowers to peek through. The novel ends with Eppie's loving, contented comment, "O father, what a pretty home ours is! I think nobody could be happier than we are." ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: GLOSSARY ATHANASIAN CREED A Christian creed defining belief in the holy Trinity and the incarnation of God in Christ. BAKEHUS Dialect: "bakehouse." A building or room where an oven is made available for baking. CATALEPSY A state of temporary paralysis and loss of sensation. CHINES A cut of meat from around the backbone. COLLOGUE Dialect: "conspire." COLLY Dialect: "to make black as coal." 'CUTE Dialect: "acute." Perceptive, sharp, clever. DOUBT Dialect: "suspect." FARRIER One who attends to or


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

you there and take him away while it's still dark. Send me an answer as soon as possible. Love, Charlie They looked at one another. "We've got the invisibility cloak," said Harry. "It shouldn't be too difficult -- I think the cloaks big enough to cover two of us and Norbert." It was a mark of how bad the last week had been that the other two agreed with him. Anything to get rid of Norbert -- and Malfoy. *** There was a hitch. By the next morning, Ron's bitten hand had swollen to twice its usual size. He didn't know whether it was safe to go to Madam Pomfrey -- would she recognize a dragon bite? By the afternoon, though, he had no choice. The cut had turned a nasty shade of green. It looked as if Norbert's fangs were poisonous. Harry and Hermione rushed up to the hospital wing at the end of the day to find Ron in a terrible state in bed. "It's not just my hand," he whispered, "although that feels like it's about to fall off. Malfoy told Madam Pomfrey he wanted to borrow one of my books so he could come and have a good laugh at me. He kept threatening to tell her what really bit me -- I've told her it was a dog, but I don't think she believes me -- I shouldn't have hit him at the Quidditch match, that's why he's doing this." Harry and Hermione tried to calm Ron down. "It'll all be over at midnight on Saturday," said Hermione, but this didn't soothe Ron at all. On the contrary, he sat bolt upright and broke into a sweat. "Midnight on Saturday!" he said in a hoarse voice. "Oh no oh no -- I've just remembered -- Charlie's letter was in that book Malfoy took, he's going to know we're getting rid of Norbert." Harry and Hermione didn't get a chance to answer. Madam Pomfrey came over at that moment and made them leave, saying Ron needed sleep. *** "It's too late to change the plan now," Harry told Hermione. "We haven't got time to send Charlie another owl, and this could be our only chance to get rid of Norbert. We'll have to risk it. And we have got the invisibility cloak, Malfoy doesn't know about that." They found Fang, the boarhound, sitting outside with a bandaged tail when they went to tell Hagrid, who opened a window to talk to them. "I won't let you in," he puffed. "Norbert's at a tricky stage -- nothin' I can't handle." When they told him about Charlie's letter, his eyes filled with tears, although that might have been because Norbert had just bitten him on the leg. "Aargh! It's all right, he only got my boot -- jus' playin' -- he's only a baby, after all." The baby banged its tail on the wall, making the windows rattle. Harry and Hermione walked back to the castle feeling Saturday couldn't come quickly enough. *** They would have felt sorry for Hagrid


moves, grabbing me with one hand to the back of my neck and the other around my backside. He pulls me against him, then his mouth is on mine, and he’s kissing me like his life depends on it. Whoa! He walks me backward, our tongues entwined, until I feel the wooden cross behind me. He leans into me, the contours of his body pressing into mine. “Let’s get rid of this dress,” he says, peeling my dress up my thighs, my hips, my belly . . . deliciously slowly, the material skimming over my skin, skimming over my breasts. “Lean forward,” he says. I comply, and he pulls my dress over my head and discards it on the floor, leaving me in my sandals, panties, and bra. His eyes blaze as he grasps both my hands and raises them over my head. He blinks once and tilts his head to one side, and I know he’s asking for my permission. What is he going to do to me? I swallow, then nod, and a trace of an admiring, almost proud, smile touches his lips. He clips my wrists into the leather cuffs on the bar above and produces the scarf once more. “Think you’ve seen enough,” he murmurs. He wraps it around my head, blindfolding me again, and I feel a frisson run through me as all my other senses heighten; the sound of his soft breathing, my own excited response, the blood pulsing in my ears, Christian’s scent mixed with the citrus and polish in the room—all are bought into sharper focus because I can’t see. His nose touches mine. 237/551 “I’m going to drive you wild,” he whispers. His hands grasp my hips, and he moves down, removing my panties as his hands glide down my legs. Drive me wild . . . wow. “Lift your feet, one at a time.” I oblige and he removes first my panties, then each sandal in turn. Gently grasping my ankle, he tugs my leg gently to the right. “Step,” he says. He cuffs my right ankle to the cross then proceeds to do the same with my left. I am helpless, spread-eagled on the cross. Standing, Christian steps toward me, and my body is bathed in his warmth once more though he doesn’t touch me. After a moment he grasps my chin, tilts my head up, and kisses me chastely. “Some music and toys, I think. You look beautiful like this, Mrs. Grey. I may take a moment to admire the view.” His voice is soft. Everything clenches deep inside. After a moment, maybe two, I hear him pad quietly to the museum chest and open one of the drawers. The butt drawer? I have no idea. He takes something out and places it on the top, followed by something else. The speakers spring to life, and after a moment the strains of a single piano playing a soft, lilting melody fill the room. It’s familiar—Bach, I think—but I don’t know what piece it is. So- mething about the music makes