End behind. FORTY-ONE Let me get this straight,” Carter says. “Mrs. Baker is actually Lenora Hope. And Lenora is really Virginia Hope. And she’s the one who killed her parents?” “Correct.” We’ve been on the road for ten minutes, during which time I managed to tell him all that I’ve learned during this long, surreal night. Still, I get why he’s confused. It’s a lot to take in, especially when it means he came to Hope’s End for nothing. “And I’m not related to any of them,” Carter says with a sigh, resigned to the fact that his birth family remains a mystery. “I’m sorry. I know how much you wanted to know.” “I thought I did know.” Carter stares out the window, watching the scrubby pines of the Cliffs zip past as we descend into town. “The timeline seemed to fit perfectly.” What neither of us counted on was the possibility of a premature birth, which I learned during my health aide training is more common in teenage mothers. As a result, Virginia likely has a child living somewhere in Canada, oblivious to who his mother is or what she’s done, and Carter, who knows both of those things, still has no idea who his real grandmother could be. And Mary is dead because of it—a horrible truth temporarily forgotten in a night filled with them. “I can’t stop thinking about Mary,” I say. “How she was killed for no reason whatsoever.” Carter looks away from the window long enough to say, “You still think she was pushed?” “Don’t you?” “I don’t know anymore.” He sighs again. “I’m not Lenora’s—sorry, Virginia’s—grandson. So there’d be no reason for someone to kill her because of that.” “But she knew all the other secrets about that place,” I say. “Lenora’s true identity. Virginia’s guilt. The fact that both have been lying about it for decades. Someone felt the need to stop her before she could reveal it all.” “So that leaves either Archie or Lenora.” “Maybe,” I say. “But I don’t think so.” Both Lenora and Archie laid bare all their secrets tonight. Yes, I’d forced Lenora’s hand when I told her I knew she wasn’t really Mrs. Baker. But both were forthcoming after that. They did what Virginia had promised to do my first night at Hope’s End—tell me everything. What they didn’t do was swear me to secrecy or threaten me in any way. If one of them was so concerned about Mary knowing the truth that they felt the need to murder her, then why am I still alive? Because I’m not a threat to them. I doubt Mary was, either. But she was to someone. My left hand slips off the steering wheel, leaving a smear of blood, sticky and hot. Using my right hand to steer, I glance at the wound. It’s still bleeding and probably infected, but I’ll survive. That gate, however, should be melted into scrap metal. I wipe my hand on the skirt of my uniform, not caring about the stain it will leave. I’ll never


had hoped they would have to themselves, they found a strident party of innocent-looking young men and women--school-teachers on a holiday, the landlord told them--and Archer's heart sank at the idea of having to talk through their noise. "This is hopeless--I'll ask for a private room," he said; and Madame Olenska, without offering any objection, waited while he went in search of it. The room opened on a long wooden verandah, with the sea coming in at the windows. It was bare and cool, with a table covered with a coarse checkered cloth and adorned by a bottle of pickles and a blueberry pie under a cage. No more guileless-looking cabinet particulier ever offered its shelter to a clandestine couple: Archer fancied he saw the sense of its reassurance in the faintly amused smile with which Madame Olenska sat down opposite to him. A woman who had run away from her husband-- and reputedly with another man--was likely to have mastered the art of taking things for granted; but something in the quality of her composure took the edge from his irony. By being so quiet, so unsurprised and so simple she had managed to brush away the conventions and make him feel that to seek to be alone was the natural thing for two old friends who had so much to say to each other. . . . XXIV. They lunched slowly and meditatively, with mute intervals between rushes of talk; for, the spell once broken, they had much to say, and yet moments when saying became the mere accompaniment to long duologues of silence. Archer kept the talk from his own affairs, not with conscious intention but because he did not want to miss a word of her history; and leaning on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands, she talked to him of the year and a half since they had met. She had grown tired of what people called "society"; New York was kind, it was almost oppressively hospitable; she should never forget the way in which it had welcomed her back; but after the first flush of novelty she had found herself, as she phrased it, too "different" to care for the things it cared about--and so she had decided to try Washington, where one was supposed to meet more varieties of people and of opinion. And on the whole she should probably settle down in Washington, and make a home there for poor Medora, who had worn out the patience of all her other relations just at the time when she most needed looking after and protecting from matrimonial perils. "But Dr. Carver--aren't you afraid of Dr. Carver? I hear he's been staying with you at the Blenkers'." She smiled. "Oh, the Carver danger is over. Dr. Carver is a very clever man. He wants a rich wife to finance his plans, and Medora is simply a good advertisement as a convert." "A convert to what?" "To all sorts of new and crazy social schemes. But, do you know, they interest me more than


scheme for him, by and by. We shall see!" "Ah, Mr. Clifford Pyncheon!" said the man of patches, "you may scheme for me as much as you please; but I'm not going to give up this one scheme of my own, even if I never bring it really to pass. It does seem to me that men make a wonderful mistake in trying to heap up property upon property. If I had done so, I should feel as if Providence was not bound to take care of me; and, at all events, the city wouldn't be! I'm one of those people who think that infinity is big enough for us all--and eternity long enough." "Why, so they are, Uncle Venner," remarked Phoebe after a pause; for she had been trying to fathom the profundity and appositeness of this concluding apothegm. "But for this short life of ours, one would like a house and a moderate garden-spot of one's own." " It appears to me," said the daguerreotypist, smiling, "that Uncle Venner has the principles of Fourier at the bottom of his wisdom; only they have not quite so much distinctness in his mind as in that of the systematizing Frenchman." "Come, Phoebe," said Hepzibah, "it is time to bring the currants." And then, while the yellow richness of the declining sunshine still fell into the open space of the garden, Phoebe brought out a loaf of bread and a china bowl of currants, freshly gathered from the bushes, and crushed with sugar. These, with water,--but not from the fountain of ill omen, close at hand,--constituted all the entertainment. Meanwhile, Holgrave took some pains to establish an intercourse with Clifford, actuated, it might seem, entirely by an impulse of kindliness, in order that the present hour might be cheerfuller than most which the poor recluse had spent, or was destined yet to spend. Nevertheless, in the artist's deep, thoughtful, all-observant eyes, there was, now and then, an expression, not sinister, but questionable; as if he had some other interest in the scene than a stranger, a youthful and unconnected adventurer, might be supposed to have. With great mobility of outward mood, however, he applied himself to the task of enlivening the party; and with so much success, that even dark-hued Hepzibah threw off one tint of melancholy, and made what shift she could with the remaining portion. Phoebe said to herself,--"How pleasant he can be!" As for Uncle Venner, as a mark of friendship and approbation, he readily consented to afford the young man his countenance in the way of his profession,--not metaphorically, be it understood, but literally, by allowing a daguerreotype of his face, so familiar to the town, to be exhibited at the entrance of Holgrave's studio. Clifford, as the company partook of their little banquet, grew to be the gayest of them all. Either it was one of those up-quivering flashes of the spirit, to which minds in an abnormal state are liable, or else the artist had subtly touched some chord that made musical vibration. Indeed, what with the


the matching slippers she’d found lined up beneath the canopied bed. Either the seamstress who’d made it had a dress form exactly her size— unlikely, as she was a good deal curvier than most mannequins she’d seen— or it’d been tailored to her measurements. Gooseflesh raised the small hairs on the back of her neck. The Presque Mort had known about her since she raised Cedric years ago—Val had told her as much. Still, the knowledge that she’d been watched didn’t settle easily. Thoughts of Val didn’t settle easily, either. Lore swallowed, hard, forcing down the constriction that wanted to close around her throat, the liquid heat gathering in the corners of her eyes. No time for all that. Letting go was a skill she’d had extensive practice developing. Val and Mari weren’t part of her life anymore. Her life now was silk dresses and matching slippers and a golden leash held by the Sainted King and Priest Exalted. She tilted up her head, blinked until that prickly feeling in her eyes was gone. All she’d ever done was adapt; this was just one more thing to get used to. She’d survive. She always did. Lore hastily braided her hair in a crown around her brow, the fanciest hairstyle she knew how to do, and pushed open her door with a sarcastic flourish. “Behold, a lady.” “Close enough, at least,” Anton said drily. Behind him, Malcolm tapped at the side of his head. “You have a braiding mishap, my lady.” “Shit.” Lore turned to an age-spotted mirror hanging on the wall behind the couch. A strand of hair stuck out of her quick braid, making it look like she had half a set of horns. Scowling, she took her hair down and braided it again. The other bedroom door opened, and Gabriel stepped out, looking decidedly un-monk-like. Dark-blue breeches were tucked into shining black boots, and a trim torso was covered in a close-fitting white linen shirt with a matching midnight vest. The clothes were almost nice enough to distract from the thunderous scowl on his face, highlighted by the rough leather of his eye patch. Malcolm made a noise that might’ve been a laugh, but swallowed it down when Anton shot him a pointed look. “You clean up nicely, Gabe,” he said instead. Gabriel shifted his weight, the new leather of his boots squeaking. “Father, are you sure that—” “I am sure. More important, so is Apollius.” Anton narrowed his eyes. “Do not continue to question Him, Gabriel.” The Presque Mort nodded. There was a faraway look on his face, like he was trying to pretend he was somewhere else. That chord in Lore’s chest twinged, the one that seemed attuned to him. She pressed a hand against her collarbones, rubbed. The Mort’s hurting was hard to watch. Malcolm didn’t care to witness it, either. “I’m headed back to the library.” He clapped Gabriel on the shoulder. “You’ll be all right,” he said softly, then slipped out the door, his tread fast on the hallway carpet beyond. Apparently, the other Presque


the road. Near Albert Bridge. Beaten,

shaken. We took him to the nearest police station, where he signed a

statement. Then we drove him home.

Along the way he kept thanking me for coming to his rescue.

I hugged him tightly. What friends are for.

63.

| WAS GIVEN A DESK AT Wattisham Airfield, which I hated. I’d never wanted

a desk. I couldn’t bear sitting at a desk. My father loved his desk, seemed

pinned to it, enamored of it, surrounded by his books and mailbags. That

was never me.

I was also given a new task. Refine my knowledge of the Apache.

Perhaps on the way to becoming an instructor. That was a job I thought

might be fun. Teaching others to fly.

But it wasn’t. It just didn’t feel like my calling.

Once again I broached the idea of going back to the war. Once again the

answer was a hard no. Even if the Army was inclined to send me,

Afghanistan was winding down.

Libya was heating up, though. How about that?

No, the Army said—in every way they knew how, officially and

unofficially, they denied my request.

Everyone has had quite enough of Harry in a war zone.

At the end of a typical working day I’d leave Wattisham, drive back to

Kensington Palace. I was no longer staying with Pa and Camilla: I’d been

assigned my own place, a flat on KP’s “lower ground floor,” in other words,

halfway underground.

The flat had three tall windows, but they admitted little light, so the

differences between dawn, dusk and midday were nominal at best.

243

https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t.:me/Afghansalarlibrary

Sometimes the question was rendered moot by Mr. R, who lived directly

upstairs. He liked to park his massive gray Discovery hard against the

windows, blotting out all light entirely.

I wrote him a note, politely asking if he might perhaps pull his car

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“It’s good outside of bed, too. You know it is. We’re just figuring it out. I . . .” This was what he’d secretly been worried about, all hopped up on adrenaline. Saying those three words too early. Scaring her. Don’t push for too much too soon. “I need my wife. I’ll always fucking need my wife.” Her breath caught and she blinked rapidly several times. Her response probably could have been delayed until later. There was a lot going on, between the pouring rain, thunder, the fact that he was thrusting into her body like humankind depended on him hitting that release button. But she surprised him, moved him, by pushing her back up against his chest, nuzzling her hair into his hand until his fingers loosened automatically to stroke her face. “I need my husband so badly, too.” Oh boy. That did it. His dizziness increased due to the palpitations of his heart and the pressure between his legs. It was system overload. Desperate to bring her with him, never wanting to go anywhere without her ever again, he rubbed her clit the way he knew would roll her eyes back in her head—and with a pair of strangled moans, they lost it. August dropped his face into the valley of her neck and came like a motherfucker, roaring through some rough punches of his hips, making her scream, kicking that second orgasm into overdrive until they were in a heap, draped over the front of the driver’s seat. He kissed her hair with what little strength he had left. “As long as you need me, Natalie, I’m with you. Whatever you decide, whatever happens, I’m your goddamn man.” “I know.” Several seconds ticked by, his chest swelling with every single one. “I love that you know.” I love you. He kept those words from running loose by dragging his lips along the slope of her shoulder. She’d admitted she needed him, that she wanted longer than a month. He needed to be grateful and patient. For now. “Going to take you home—our home—and do everything I can to make sure you don’t forget.” Chapter Twenty-Three Natalie would say this for August. He was making a very convincing case for staying in Napa. She’d lost count of how many times they’d made love last night—the only marathon she’d ever participate in. They’d collapsed into bed after returning from the water rescue that afternoon, their naked skin pressed together head to toe, limbs intwined like they’d never let go. Hours later, she’d woken up aching for him. Aching. So badly that tears had escaped her eyes while she rode him, his fingers buried and twisting in her hair, his hips slamming upward while they feasted on each other’s mouths. The rest of the night and subsequent morning—a lot of which had been spent together in the shower—were a blur. But this wasn’t. He was back in the barn without her, and it hurt more and more every time. And maybe it shouldn’t. He’d hesitated in the doorway a few hours ago,


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

sorts—was considerably increased by receiving the master’s office. There was now great work for scriveners. Not only must I push the clerks already with me, but I must have additional help. In answer to my advertisement, a motionless young man one morning, stood upon my office threshold, the door being open, for it was summer. I can see that figure now—pallidly neat, pitiably respectable, incurably forlorn! It was Bartleby. After a few words touching his qualifications, I engaged him, glad to have among my corps of copyists a man of so singularly sedate an aspect, which I thought might operate beneficially upon the flighty temper of Turkey, and the fiery one of Nippers. I should have stated before that ground glass folding-doors divided my premises into two parts, one of which was occupied by my scriveners, the other by myself. According to my humor I threw open these doors, or closed them. I resolved to assign Bartleby a corner by the folding-doors, but on my side of them, so as to have this quiet man within easy call, in case any trifling thing was to be done. I placed his desk close up to a small side-window in that part of the room, a window which originally had afforded a lateral view of certain grimy back-yards and bricks, but which, owing to subsequent erections, commanded at present no view at all, though it gave some light. Within three feet of the panes was a wall, and the light came down from far above, between two lofty buildings, as from a very small opening in a dome. Still further to a satisfactory arrangement, I procured a high green folding screen, which might entirely isolate Bartleby from my sight, though not remove him from my voice. And thus, in a manner, privacy and society were conjoined. At first Bartleby did an extraordinary quantity of writing. As if long famishing for something to copy, he seemed to gorge himself on my documents. There was no pause for digestion. He ran a day and night line, copying by sun-light and by candle-light. I should have been quite delighted with his application, had he been cheerfully industrious. But he wrote on silently, palely, mechanically. It is, of course, an indispensable part of a scrivener’s business to verify the accuracy of his copy, word by word. Where there are two or more scriveners in an office, they assist each other in this examination, one reading from the copy, the other holding the original. It is a very dull, wearisome, and lethargic affair. I can readily imagine that to some sanguine temperaments it would be altogether intolerable. For example, I cannot credit that the mettlesome poet Byron would have contentedly sat down with Bartleby to examine a law document of, say five hundred pages, closely written in a crimpy hand. Now and then, in the haste of business, it had been my habit to assist in comparing some brief document myself, calling Turkey or Nippers for this purpose. One object I had in placing Bartleby so handy to me


Aunt Fanny is delighted about it. She says it will be awfully good for Georgina to have company, because she's such a lonely little girl, always going off by herself. And she will love looking after you all. Only you'll have to be careful not to disturb your Uncle Quentin. He is working very hard, and he isn't very good-tempered when he is disturbed." "We'll be as quiet as mice in the house!" said Dick. "Honestly we will. Oh, goody, goody- when are we going, Daddy?" "Next week, if Mother can manage it," said Daddy. Mother nodded her head. "Yes," she said, "There's nothing much to get ready for them- just bathing suits and jerseys and shorts. They all wear the same." "How lovely it will be to wear shorts again," said Anne, dancing round. "I'm tired of wearing school tunics. I want to wear shorts, or a bathing suit, and go bathing and climbing with the boys." "Well, you'll soon be doing it," said Mother, with a laugh. "Remember to put ready any toys or books you want, won't you? Not many, please, because there won't be a great deal of room." "Anne wanted to take all her fifteen dolls with her last year," said Dick, "Do you remember, Anne? Weren't you funny?" "No, I wasn't," said Anne, going red. "I love my dolls, and I just couldn't choose which to take- so I thought I'd take them all. There's nothing funny about that." "And do you remember, the year before, Anne wanted to take the rocking-horse?" said Dick, with a giggle. Mother chimed in. "You know, I remember a little boy called Dick who put aside two golliwogs, one teddy bear, three toy dogs, two toy cats and his old monkey to take down to Polseath one year," she said. Then it was Dick's turn to go red. He changed the subject at once. "Daddy, are we going by train or by car?" he asked. "By car," said Daddy. "We can pile everything into the boot. Well- what about Tuesday?" "That would suit me well," said Mother. "Then we could take the children down, come back, and do our own packing at leisure, and start off for Scotland on the Friday. Yes- we'll arrange for Tuesday." So Tuesday it was. The children counted the days eagerly, and Anne marked one off the calendar each night. The week seemed a very long time in going. But at last Tuesday did come. Dick and Julian, who shared a room, woke up at about the same moment, and stared out of the nearby window. "It's a lovely day, hurrah!" cried Julian, leaping out of bed. "I don't know why, but it always seems very important that it should be sunny on the first day of a holiday. Let's wake Anne." Anne slept in the next room. Julian ran in and shook her. "Wake up! It's Tuesday! And the sun's shining." Anne woke up with a jump and stared at Julian joyfully. "It's come at last!" she said. "I thought it never would. Oh,


an obi and three huts for his wives. He then installed his personal god and the symbols of his departed fathers. Each of Uchendu's five sons contributed three hundred seed-yams to enable their cousin to plant a farm, for as soon as the first rain came farming would begin. At last the rain came. It was sudden and tremendous. For two or three moons the sun had been gathering strength till it seemed to breathe a breath of fire on the earth. All the grass had long been scorched brown, and the sands felt like live coals to the feet. Evergreen trees wore a dusty coat of brown. The birds were silenced in the forests, and the world lay panting under the live, vibrating heat. And then came the clap of thunder. It was an angry, metallic and thirsty clap, unlike the deep and liquid rumbling of the rainy season. A mighty wind arose and filled the air with dust. Palm trees swayed as the wind combed their leaves into flying crests like strange and fantastic coiffure. When the rain finally came, it was in large, solid drops of frozen water which the people called "the nuts of the water of heaven." They were hard and painful on the body as they fell, yet young people ran about happily picking up the cold nuts and throwing them into their mouths to melt. The earth quickly came to life and the birds in the forests fluttered around and chirped merrily. A vague scent of life and green vegetation was diffused in the air. As the rain began to fall more soberly and in smaller liquid drops, children sought for shelter, and all were happy, refreshed and thankful. Okonkwo and his family worked very hard to plant a new farm. But it was like beginning life anew without the vigour and enthusiasm of youth, like learning to become left-handed in old age. Work no longer had for him the pleasure it used to have, and when there was no work to do he sat in a silent half-sleep. His life had been ruled by a great passion--to become one of the lords of the clan. That had been his life-spring. And he had all but achieved it. Then everything had been broken. He had been cast out of his clan like a fish onto a dry, sandy beach, panting. Clearly his personal god or chi was not made for great things. A man could not rise beyond the destiny of his chi. The saying of the elders was not true--that if a man said yea his chi also affirmed. Here was a man whose chi said nay despite his own affirmation. The old man, Uchendu, saw clearly that Okonkwo had yielded to despair and he was greatly troubled. He would speak to him after the isa-ifi ceremony. The youngest of Uchendu's five sons, Amikwu, was marrying a new wife. The bride-price had been paid and all but the last ceremony had been performed. Amikwu and his people had taken palm-wine to the bride's kinsmen


of his lips lifting only a tad. “I guess you can see now why it’s a bad idea to interview me. I’m a crazy old man.” “You’re not crazy,” Tristán said. Montserrat was surprised by the sureness and honesty in his voice. So far, Tristán’s attitude had been one of wry amusement. But he sounded sincere. He did like the old man. “Maybe you had bad taste in friends back in the sixties, but you’re not crazy,” Tristán added with a shrug, showing a little of his trademark mordancy after all. “Thank you for that.” They were quiet. Urueta’s living room, which she’d found cozy on previous occasions, now seemed to her stuffy, and the man’s antiques and knickknacks had an air of stale sadness. The broken glass shards lay scattered between them. “I don’t normally talk about this, this story…about Ewers because…when I said I talked about ‘the curse’ at parties, I did, but I was drunk when I brought it up. I learned not to, after a while. People stare, they think you’re a nut. But I like you both. You’re good people and I’m telling you the whole story, the whole truth,” Urueta said, looking at Tristán, then at Montserrat. “I don’t want to be interviewed about that movie, but I will agree to do it if you help me. I do need help.” “I can ask the TV show if they’d pay for the interview,” Montserrat suggested. Urueta shook his head. “I don’t want money. I want your help in completing the film.” “I don’t get it.” Urueta placed his hands on the album, gripping it tight. He looked like a starlet who is about to sign an important contract, all nerves and sudden shyness. “I’ve thought long and hard about what happened with Beyond the Yellow Door. All that lousy luck. I abandoned any magic practices after that, but my friend José kept at it, and he had a theory that everything that happened was because we didn’t complete the spell. Ewers died, Alma confiscated the reels, and we were never able to finish the dubbing. He said we caused a short circuit. And we didn’t pull the breaker. I want to finalize that film.” “But you can’t,” Montserrat said. “You don’t have the film anymore, and Ewers is dead. He can’t provide the voice work. You said you needed three people.” “Two men, one woman: that’s us,” Urueta said excitedly. “I’ve played many roles, Abel, but I’m no sorcerer and neither is Montserrat,” Tristán said. “I know that, but maybe it’ll work anyway. We dubbed two of the three scenes. It was the third scene that we didn’t get to work on. And I still have the pages Ewers gave us. I didn’t throw them out.” “Even if we agreed to provide the voices, we don’t have the film.” Urueta sat up straight. His nervousness was bleeding away. “I have that scene. It’s the only can of film I was able to hide before Alma pounced on us.” “You have a can with a nitrate print


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

the parlour and looked very hard at his wife's furniture, just to show that the stranger wasn't master there, and scrutinised closely and a little contemptuously a sheet of mathematical computation the stranger had left. When retiring for the night he instructed Mrs. Hall to look very closely at the stranger's luggage when it came next day. "You mind your own business, Hall," said Mrs. Hall, "and I'll mind mine." She was all the more inclined to snap at Hall because the stranger was undoubtedly an unusually strange sort of stranger, and she was by no means assured about him in her own mind. In the middle of the night she woke up dreaming of huge white heads like turnips, that came trailing after her at the end of interminable necks, and with vast black eyes. But being a sensible woman, she subdued her terrors and turned over and went to sleep again. Chapter 3 The Thousand and One Bottles Thus it was that on the ninth day of February, at the beginning of the thaw, this singular person fell out of infinity into Iping Village. Next day his luggage arrived through the slush. And very remarkable luggage it was. There was a couple of trunks indeed, such as a rational man might need, but in addition there were a box of books,--big, fat books, of which some were just in an incomprehensible handwriting,--and a dozen or more crates, boxes, and cases, containing objects packed in straw, as it seemed to Hall, tugging with a casual curiosity at the straw--glass bottles. The stranger, muffled in hat, coat, gloves, and wrapper, came out impatiently to meet Fearenside's cart, while Hall was having a word or so of gossip preparatory to helping bring them in. Out he came, not noticing Fearenside's dog, who was sniffing in a dilettante spirit at Hall's legs. "Come along with those boxes," he said. "I've been waiting long enough." And he came down the steps towards the tail of the cart as if to lay hands on the smaller crate. No sooner had Fearenside's dog caught sight of him, however, than it began to bristle and growl savagely, and when he rushed down the steps it gave an undecided hop, and then sprang straight at his hand. "Whup!" cried Hall, jumping back, for he was no hero with dogs, and Fearenside howled, "Lie down!" and snatched his whip. They saw the dog's teeth had slipped the hand, heard a kick, saw the dog execute a flanking jump and get home on the stranger's leg, and heard the rip of his trousering. Then the finer end of Fearenside's whip reached his property, and the dog, yelping with dismay, retreated under the wheels of the waggon. It was all the business of a half-minute. No one spoke, every one shouted. The stranger glanced swiftly at his torn glove and at his leg, made as if he would stoop to the latter, then turned and rushed up the steps into the inn. They heard him go headlong across the passage and up


air there is moist, the light scarce. An older servant approaches to wash her feet. She stands still as the woman unties her sandals and cleans her in the footbath. When her feet have been wiped with a dry cloth, she steps forward into the bright light of the megaron. The hall is richly adorned. Its walls are decorated with frescoes of warriors and lions fighting, their spears flying, chasing the fleeing beasts. The first time she saw the frightened lions, Clytemnestra laughed—no one who ever hunted lions saw the animals in such a state. “This speaks of the power of our city,” Agamemnon had said. “It is a lie,” she replied. “It is a story. Stories draw people together; they lead armies and form alliances.” As much as she hated him, she knew he was right. Four guards stand with their backs to the walls, holding spears and shields. Clytemnestra waits by the columned entrance as one moves forward to announce her presence to the king. Beyond the hearth that occupies the center of the room, she can see Agamemnon seated on his raised throne, the steps that lead to it gilded and shiny. A boy is seated at his feet while a group of older men whisper, their voices hissing. “The queen is here,” the guard announces, and the king and elders turn. Clytemnestra walks past the frescoed battles of Mycenaeans against barbaroi, the lions, and deer toward the throne. Orestes jumps to his feet about to run to her, then stops, controlling himself. He is olive-skinned, like his mother, with dark curls that fall around his face. The elders kneel, their faces touching the floor at Clytemnestra’s feet. “Please stand,” she says. “There is no need.” It troubles her to see them so obliging, when all they do when her husband isn’t here is challenge and contradict her. “My queen,” one says, straightening. He is a brutal man called Polydamas, whom her husband respects above all. “I hope the journey from Sparta was not too tiring?” His breath smells like fresh flowers, but Clytemnestra knows there is something murky about him, like the mud that hides under the bulrushes after a wet season. “It was pleasant,” she says. “And how is your sister?” “Helen is well. She has plenty of time to spend with little Hermione, especially now that King Menelaus has taken an interest in the helots around the palace.” Orestes looks at his feet. Your father has taught you never to look down in front of his counselors, Clytemnestra wants to say. She will tell him later. The elders close their mouths, embarrassed. “Leave us,” Agamemnon says, and they nod, relieved. They walk away slowly, their limbs old and knotty as oaks. When they disappear into the anteroom, Clytemnestra caresses her son’s curls. He doesn’t draw away but relaxes under her touch. Agamemnon steps down from his throne, his eyes wary. “The merchants I asked you to deal with are complaining again,” he says. No greeting or questions, but then she doesn’t expect her husband to behave


against Halleck, who had briefed him on how to behave with the Duke and ducal heir. "You may call the Duke 'my Lord ' or 'Sire.' 'Noble Born' also is correct, but usually reserved for more formal occasions. The son may be addressed as 'young Master' or 'my Lord.' The Duke is a man of much leniency, but brooks little familiarity." And Kynes thought as he watched the group approach: They'll learn soon enough who's master on Arrakis. Order me questioned half the night by that Mentat, will they? Expect me to guide them on an inspection of spice mining, do they? The import of Hawat's questions had not escaped Kynes. They wanted the Imperial bases. And it was obvious they'd learned of the bases from Idaho. I will have Stilgar send Idaho's head to this Duke, Kynes told himself. The ducal party was only a few paces away now, their feet in desert boots crunching the sand. Kynes bowed. "My Lord, Duke." As he had approached the solitary figure standing near the ornithopter, Leto had studied him: tall, thin, dressed for the desert in loose robe, stillsuit, and low boots. The man's hood was thrown back, its veil hanging to one side, revealing long sandy hair, a sparse beard. The eyes were that fathomless blue-within-blue under thick brows. Remains of dark stains smudged his eye sockets. "You're the ecologist," the Duke said. "We prefer the old title here, my Lord," Kynes said. "Planetologist." "As you wish," the Duke said. He glanced down at Paul. "Son, this is the Judge of the Change, the arbiter of dispute, the man set here to see that the forms are obeyed in our assumption of power over this fief." He glanced at Kynes. "And this is my son." "My Lord," Kynes said. "Are you a Fremen?" Paul asked. Kynes smiled. "I am accepted in both sietch and village, young Master. But I am in His Majesty's service, the Imperial Planetologist." Paul nodded, impressed by the man's air of strength. Halleck had pointed Kynes out to Paul from an upper window of the administration building: "The man standing there with the Fremen escort--the one moving now toward the ornithopter." Paul had inspected Kynes briefly with binoculars, noting the prim, straight mouth, the high forehead. Halleck had spoken in Paul's ear: "Odd sort of fellow. Has a precise way of speaking--clipped off, no fuzzy edges--razor-apt." And the Duke, behind them, had said: "Scientist type." Now, only a few feet from the man, Paul sensed the power in Kynes, the impact of personality, as though he were blood royal, born to command. "I understand we have you to thank for our stillsuits and these cloaks," the Duke said. "I hope they fit well, my Lord," Kynes said. "They're of Fremen make and as near as possible the dimensions given me by your man Halleck here." "I was concerned that you said you couldn't take us into the desert unless we wore these garments," the Duke said. "We can carry plenty of water. We don't intend to be out


be here to do that, Daddy. Please. Ray remains immobile, the ventilator sucking and expelling and the mono- tonous but reassuring beep, beep, beep of his heart monitor his only response. 349/551 When I look up, Christian is sitting quietly at the end of the bed. I don’t know how long he’s been there. “Hi,” he says, his eyes glowing with compassion and concern. “Hi.” “So, I’m going fishing with your dad, Mr. Rodriguez, and José?” he asks. I nod. “Okay. Let’s go eat. Let him sleep.” I frown. I don’t want to leave him. “Ana, he’s in a coma. I’ve given our cell numbers to the nurses here. If there’s any change, they’ll call us. We’ll eat, check into a hotel, rest up, then come back this evening.” The suite at the Heathman looks just as I remember it. How often have I thought about that first night and morning I spent with Christian Grey? I stand in the en- trance to the suite, paralyzed. Jeez, it all started here. “Home away from home,” says Christian, his voice soft, putting my briefcase down beside one of the overstuffed couches. “Do you want a shower? A bath? What do you need, Ana?” Christian gazes at me, and I know he’s rudderless—my lost boy dealing with events beyond his control. He’s been withdrawn and contemplative all afternoon. This is a situation he cannot manipulate and predict. This is real life in the raw, and he’s kept him- self from that for so long, he’s exposed and helpless now. My sweet, sheltered Fifty Shades. “A bath. I’d like a bath.” I murmur, aware that keeping him busy will make him feel better, useful even. Oh, Christian—I’m numb and I’m cold and I’m scared, but I’m so glad you’re here with me. “Bath. Good. Yes.” He strides into the bedroom and out of sight into the pala- tial bathroom. A few moments later, the roar of water gushing to fill the tub echoes from the room. Finally, I galvanize myself to follow him into the bedroom. I’m dismayed to see several bags from Nordstrom on the bed. Christian reenters, sleeves rolled up, tie and jacket discarded. 350/551 “I sent Taylor to get some things. Nightwear. You know,” he says, eyeing me warily. Of course he did. I nod my approval to make him feel better. Where is Taylor? “Oh, Ana,” Christian murmurs. “I’ve not seen you like this. You’re normally so brave and strong.” I don’t know what to say. I merely gaze wide-eyed at him. I have nothing to give right now. I think I’m in shock. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to keep the pervading cold at bay, even though I know it’s a fruitless task as this cold comes from within. Christian pulls me into his arms. “Baby, he’s alive. His vital signs are good. We just have to be patient,” he murmurs. “Come.” He takes my hand and leads me into the bathroom. Gently, he slips my jacket off my shoulders and places it on the bathroom chair, then


vicious; even that sorrow, which is amiable in its origin, becomes a selfish and unjust passion, if indulged at the expence of our duties--by our duties I mean what we owe to ourselves, as well as to others. The indulgence of excessive grief enervates the mind, and almost incapacitates it for again partaking of those various innocent enjoyments which a benevolent God designed to be the sun-shine of our lives. My dear Emily, recollect and practise the precepts I have so often given you, and which your own experience has so often shewn you to be wise. 'Your sorrow is useless. Do not receive this as merely a commonplace remark, but let reason THEREFORE restrain sorrow. I would not annihilate your feelings, my child, I would only teach you to command them; for whatever may be the evils resulting from a too susceptible heart, nothing can be hoped from an insensible one; that, on the other hand, is all vice--vice, of which the deformity is not softened, or the effect consoled for, by any semblance or possibility of good. You know my sufferings, and are, therefore, convinced that mine are not the light words which, on these occasions, are so often repeated to destroy even the sources of honest emotion, or which merely display the selfish ostentation of a false philosophy. I will shew my Emily, that I can practise what I advise. I have said thus much, because I cannot bear to see you wasting in useless sorrow, for want of that resistance which is due from mind; and I have not said it till now, because there is a period when all reasoning must yield to nature; that is past: and another, when excessive indulgence, having sunk into habit, weighs down the elasticity of the spirits so as to render conquest nearly impossible; this is to come. You, my Emily, will shew that you are willing to avoid it.' Emily smiled through her tears upon her father: 'Dear sir,' said she, and her voice trembled; she would have added, 'I will shew myself worthy of being your daughter;' but a mingled emotion of gratitude, affection, and grief overcame her. St. Aubert suffered her to weep without interruption, and then began to talk on common topics. The first person who came to condole with St. Aubert was a M. Barreaux, an austere and seemingly unfeeling man. A taste for botany had introduced them to each other, for they had frequently met in their wanderings among the mountains. M. Barreaux had retired from the world, and almost from society, to live in a pleasant chateau, on the skirts of the woods, near La Vallee. He also had been disappointed in his opinion of mankind; but he did not, like St. Aubert, pity and mourn for them; he felt more indignation at their vices, than compassion for their weaknesses. St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to see him; for, though he had often pressed him to come to the chateau, he had never till now accepted the invitation; and now he came without ceremony


play with Constance and Mercy’s younger ones, and as their shrieks rang out over the dead bodies lying underground, and Aunt Honey began to deliver a soliloquy about what Freddie had been like as a child, Louise slipped away from the tent and stood over to one side, watching her family. “Hey,” Mark said, coming toward her, holding out an extra can of hard seltzer. “Hey,” she said, taking it. “You feeling okay?” He looked pale and clammy. Their night at the house had traumatized his surgical site and the doctors had had to shave down some damaged tissue in his right arm. It hadn’t been fun. “It just hurts a little,” he said. “And by ‘a little’ I mean ‘a lot’ and also ‘all the time.’ ” They stood next to each other, watching Aunt Honey hold court, listening to the kids playing among the graves. “Do you think he’s happy?” Louise asked. “Freddie?” Mark asked. “After all that, he’d better be.” “And Pupkin?” she asked. Over by the tent, Aunt Honey cackled loudly and everyone standing in the circle around her laughed. “I hope so,” Mark said. “How’re the renovations coming?” Louise asked. Mercy had told them not to expect much from the house. In fact, she’d told them it probably wouldn’t sell for a while. “You find a cadaver in the backyard,” she’d said, “suddenly everyone wants to knock a hundred thousand off the asking price. Maybe we’ll find someone who’s deaf and blind and doesn’t read the newspapers, or maybe someone from LA, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up that we’ll find a real buyer anytime soon.” That hadn’t stopped Mark from taking out a loan and starting to renovate. He’d told Louise he needed something to do and there wasn’t much of a market for one-armed bartenders. “Look, we need to talk about something,” Mark said. Oh, no, Louise thought. I can’t take more bad news, I can’t— Poppy slammed into Louise’s legs from behind, face flushed, completely out of breath, panting and laughing. “Are you having a good time?” Louise asked. “This is the most fun I’ve ever had!” Poppy said. Poppy didn’t know what to do with all the joy inside her body. It shortcircuited her nerve endings. It made her shake. Her hands clenched into fists and she pressed her face against Louise’s legs, then she pushed herself away and charged off after her cousins again, arms and legs flailing. Louise watched her go, then turned and faced Mark. “Okay,” she said. “What is it?” “We might have a buyer,” Mark said. “What?” Louise asked, struggling to put a sentence together. “How?” “Mercy said he’s some software guy from Toronto. He doesn’t care about the thing with Freddie. He’s coming down next week to walk through.” “What about the renovation?” Louise asked. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Mark said. “It’s pretty much done.” He stood there like a magician who’d just completed a trick, waiting for applause. Poppy came around a gravestone too fast and wiped out hard. Louise


hoped to force William into a marriage. But no, she had made her thoughts on that idea clear, and though he knew little about the woman, he could tell she truly hated the idea of anyone being forced to do anything. With the death of her father, she had lived a life of little choice and wouldn’t wish that on someone else. Simon empathized with that completely. Was she after the Calloway fortune, then? Simon would pay her off, happily, if it meant he could be rid of the questions that made him dizzy as he sat in his study pretending to do something useful. He had a whole stack of correspondence from his man of business, Mr. North, and many of his contacts around the country, but he knew he would never be able to focus. Not with Lucy on his mind. How in the world had Father loved his wife, raised his family, seen to his estate and other holdings, and run so many thriving businesses? The answer to that question remained elusive, so Simon asked it out loud. “How did you balance it all?” “I do believe you are rather young to begin talking to yourself, Simon.” Simon jumped to his feet as his mother stepped into the room, and he couldn’t figure out why it was so strange to see her in the study until she touched a finger to the chair in front of the desk. The chair that Simon had only kept because his father had been the one to put it there when this was his study. No one ever sat in it, plush as it was, and North had utterly refused to touch the thing, though he had never explained why. He had always taken the much harder and plainer chair farther back in the room. Simon realized now it was Mother’s chair. And she had not been in this room since the death of her husband. “Mama,” Simon said, though he didn’t have the words to smooth the sorrowed expression on her face. She did smile a little, though she kept her gaze on the chair, where her fingers rested. “You haven’t called me Mama in years,” she said. Probably not since he had taken over as baron, though it had never been a conscious decision. Simon had simply grown up, though he had not realized how much it might have hurt his mother to lose that little part of her first child. “Did you know I used to spend hours in this chair?” she said, and her smile grew at the memory. Simon furrowed his brow. Had she come to talk about a chair? “Why?” “Because your father wanted the company, and I was happy to give it to him. I know nothing of business or trade, but I think it comforted him to have me there. It helped him think, having someone with whom he could talk things through.” Suddenly the room felt suffocating. Simon glanced around, trying to figure out what had changed, but everything looked the same as it


the chesnut avenue, the turreted corners of the chateau. He sighed to think of what had passed since he was last there, and that it was now the property of a man who neither revered nor valued it. At length he entered the avenue, whose lofty trees had so often delighted him when a boy, and whose melancholy shade was now so congenial with the tone of his spirits. Every feature of the edifice, distinguished by an air of heavy grandeur, appeared successively between the branches of the trees--the broad turret, the arched gate-way that led into the courts, the drawbridge, and the dry fosse which surrounded the whole. The sound of carriage wheels brought a troop of servants to the great gate, where St. Aubert alighted, and from which he led Emily into the gothic hall, now no longer hung with the arms and ancient banners of the family. These were displaced, and the oak wainscotting, and beams that crossed the roof, were painted white. The large table, too, that used to stretch along the upper end of the hall, where the master of the mansion loved to display his hospitality, and whence the peal of laughter, and the song of conviviality, had so often resounded, was now removed; even the benches that had surrounded the hall were no longer there. The heavy walls were hung with frivolous ornaments, and every thing that appeared denoted the false taste and corrupted sentiments of the present owner. St. Aubert followed a gay Parisian servant to a parlour, where sat Mons. and Madame Quesnel, who received him with a stately politeness, and, after a few formal words of condolement, seemed to have forgotten that they ever had a sister. Emily felt tears swell into her eyes, and then resentment checked them. St. Aubert, calm and deliberate, preserved his dignity without assuming importance, and Quesnel was depressed by his presence without exactly knowing wherefore. After some general conversation, St. Aubert requested to speak with him alone; and Emily, being left with Madame Quesnel, soon learned that a large party was invited to dine at the chateau, and was compelled to hear that nothing which was past and irremediable ought to prevent the festivity of the present hour. St. Aubert, when he was told that company were expected, felt a mixed emotion of disgust and indignation against the insensibility of Quesnel, which prompted him to return home immediately. But he was informed, that Madame Cheron had been asked to meet him; and, when he looked at Emily, and considered that a time might come when the enmity of her uncle would be prejudicial to her, he determined not to incur it himself, by conduct which would be resented as indecorous, by the very persons who now showed so little sense of decorum. Among the visitors assembled at dinner were two Italian gentlemen, of whom one was named Montoni, a distant relation of Madame Quesnel, a man about forty, of an uncommonly handsome person, with features manly and expressive, but whose countenance exhibited, upon the whole, more


shelter that was silent except for the sounds of nightmare. "We can't leave the littluns alone with Piggy. Not all night." The other boys said nothing but stood round, watching him. "If we went back we should take hours." Jack cleared his throat and spoke in a queer, tight voice. "We mustn't let anything happen to Piggy, must we?" Ralph tapped his teeth with the dirty point of Eric's spear. "If we go across--" He glanced round him. "Someone's got to go across the island and tell Piggy we'll be back after dark." Bill spoke, unbelieving. "Through the forest by himself? Now?" "We can't spare more than one." Simon pushed his way to Ralph's elbow. "I'll go if you like. I don't mind, honestly." Before Ralph had time to reply, he smiled quickly, turned and climbed into the forest. Ralph looked back at Jack, seeing him, infuriatingly, for the first time. "Jack--that time you went the whole way to the castle rock." Jack glowered. "Yes?" "You came along part of this shore--below the mountain, beyond there." "Yes." "And then?" "I found a pig-run. It went for miles." "So the pig-run must be somewhere in there." Ralph nodded. He pointed at the forest. Everybody agreed, sagely. "All right then. We'll smash a way through till we find the pig-run." He took a step and halted. "Wait a minute though! Where does the pig-run go to?" "The mountain," said Jack, "I told you." He sneered. "Don't you want to go to the mountain?" Ralph sighed, sensing the rising antagonism, understanding that this was how Jack felt as soon as he ceased to lead. "I was thinking of the light. We'll be stumbling about." "We were going to look for the beast." "There won't be enough light." "I don't mind going," said Jack hotly. "I'll go when we get there. Won't you? Would you rather go back to the shelters and tell Piggy?" Now it was Ralph's turn to flush but he spoke despairingly, out of the new understanding that Piggy had given him. "Why do you hate me?" The boys stirred uneasily, as though something indecent had been said. The silence lengthened. Ralph, still hot and hurt, turned away first. "Come on." He led the way and set himself as by right to hack at the tangles. Jack brought up the rear, displaced and brooding. The pig-track was a dark tunnel, for the sun was sliding quickly toward the edge of the world and in the forest shadows were never far to seek. The track was broad and beaten and they ran along at a swift trot. Then the roof of leaves broke up and they halted, breathing quickly, looking at the few stars that pricked round the head of the mountain. "There you are." The boys peered at each other doubtfully. Ralph made a decision. "We'll go straight across to the platform and climb tomorrow." They murmured agreement; but Jack was standing by his shoulder. "If you're frightened of course--" Ralph turned on him. "Who went first on the castle rock?" "I went


“Oh, Dad.” The coffin lid is propped up, resting against the wall. Waiting. That’s it. He really is gone. “No.” I shake my head. “No.” Mum rubs my back. “It’s okay, Maame.” “No! It’s not okay!” Mum pulls me to her, and I cry into her jumper until my throat is tight. I step away and roughly dry my eyes because I need to see him. This will be my last chance to see him. I turn my head and notice he looks … the same, except maybe his lips have thinned a little. He could be sleeping. I stare until I realize I’m waiting for his eyes to open. There’s no look of frustration or uncertainty on his face, the expressions I’d grown used to seeing. His forehead is smooth, and his hands, placed on his stomach, are still. He’s not in pain anymore. He has on his gray wedding suit, a white shirt underneath, and I press a hand to my mouth when I see he also wears his chunky silver bracelet, the bracelet he has on in the photograph I have of him, the bracelet that has been on his wrist through sickness and in health. Mum speaks to him in Twi. “May God bless you, Fiifi. Go with Him, okay? Go with God; see your parents again; they’re calling you and waiting for you. Have peace and have rest.” She’s crying harder than I’ve ever seen before. Tears are streaming from her eyes and she punctuates her sentences with hiccups. “You have suffered so much,” she says to him, “trapped, but now you are finally free. See? Look at you already? Your swollen foot is no more. You’re already free. Go with God and be free.” It’s comforting to hear, not so much the words, but my mother tongue. The language of my parents—they rarely spoke to each other in English. You really should learn to speak Twi. Before we leave, I look at his face one last time and say, “I love you, Dad. Very much, okay?” * * * An intense peace settles on me when I board the train, almost like I’ll never cry again. I know that isn’t true, but I’m happy to believe it for now. It was Nia’s idea to do something after so that I didn’t have to go straight home. She knew that before seeing Dad, I wouldn’t be able to stomach breakfast, so she suggested lunch. I said, sure, but so long as it was somewhere I haven’t tried before. Somewhere new. Nia picked a spot in London Bridge called Casa de Maria. A Portuguese restaurant she went to years ago with an old boyfriend. It’s lowly lit and the tables and chairs are wooden. There are plants in the corners and posters on the wall. Each table has a glass bottle of water and an unlit candle. We order mushroom and caramelized onion empanadas, green rice, batatas fritas, and half a chicken to share. Nia chooses a beetroot smoothie to drink. “What? Sounds interesting,” she says. “So does


while, she once more continued to read. But, alas! the story which followed, of his designs on Miss Darcy, received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam himself -- from whom she had previously received the information of his near concern in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character she had no reason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and at length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never have hazarded such a proposal if he had not been well assured of his cousin's corroboration. She perfectly remembered every thing that had passed in conversation between Wickham and herself in their first evening at Mr. Philips's. Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was now struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear of seeing Mr. Darcy -- that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that _he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball the very next week. She remembered also, that till the Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but herself; but that after their removal, it had been every where discussed; that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy's character, though he had assured her that respect for the father would always prevent his exposing the son. How differently did every thing now appear in which he was concerned! His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at any thing. His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most incautiously shewn. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not but allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the affair; that, proud and repulsive as were his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their acquaintance -- an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much together, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways -- seen any thing that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust -- any thing that spoke him of irreligious or immoral habits. That among his own connections he was esteemed and valued -- that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a brother,


leaves to keep an eye on his estates. I imagine she also collects information.’ ‘There is no information she can gather on me.’ Dumai placed a hand on his chest. ‘Knowing I have you nearby has made this so much easier to bear.’ ‘There is nowhere in the world I would rather be than here,’ he told her. ‘With you.’ Wading birds chirped in the rushes. They both turned to behold Mount Ipyeda. As dawn gilded the horizon, Dumai gazed at the third peak and knew that her mother was looking straight back. **** She was abed and wide awake by the time the suncaller arrived with his bell, to rouse everyone for a ceremony day. He started with her handmaidens, and they soon came for her. They combed oil through her hair and dabbed her eyelids with dew, chattering as they worked. ‘I saw her crossing the pine grove this morning,’ Juri told the others. She was the youngest handmaiden, always cheerful, often blushing. ‘She cut such an elegant figure.’ ‘She was visiting Lady Imwo.’ A snort of disbelief. ‘Imwo is too serious for her.’ ‘Ah, Puryeda, everyone is serious when they’re widowed. Do you not remember her before?’ Dumai pretended not to listen. Osipa had told her that every morsel of gossip she heard at court could be key to her success. Kuposa pa Yapara, the tallest and proudest of the handmaidens, was silent throughout. More than once, she yanked too hard with the comb, making Dumai grit her jaw. Osipa spotted it. ‘Lady Yapara,’ she said, ‘fetch the princess her cloak. I will finish her hair.’ Lady Yapara did as she was ordered without protest. She had finally learned not to spar with Osipa, who now took over, tucking in the last strands of hair with her stiff, knotted fingers. Emperor Jorodu awaited Dumai in the sitting room of his private residence, the Water Pavilion. It overlooked a walled and flooded garden, which reflected the weave of blues and reds in the sky. ‘Dumai,’ he said, with a smile that touched his weary eyes. ‘Join me, please. You may leave us,’ he added to his guards. They withdrew, taking their collared spears with them. Dumai knelt beside the table and removed her cloak. She still tried to eat as she had on the mountain, but it was difficult in the palace, where sea salt even seasoned fowl and greens. ‘It’s good to see you,’ the emperor said. A black kitten slunk up to him, and he scratched between its ears, making it mew. ‘I trust that you are still comfortable, and treated kindly.’ ‘Yes, Father. Thank you.’ ‘Truly?’ Dumai took a pair of eating sticks from their rest. She had never used such things in the temple. ‘Empress Sipwo does not often acknowledge me,’ she said, ‘and not all of my handmaidens are inclined towards friendship.’ She chose a slice of grilled pheasant. ‘Suzu is always sweet and kind.’ ‘And that makes what you are here to do all the harder.’ ‘Yes.’ He served her a cup of barley


to fear what I was capable of ignoring. “So you aren’t angry anymore?” He lifted a shoulder. “The power you displayed will encourage the Urabi to utilize every resource to capture you. When they come again, I’ll be ready.” He didn’t elaborate, and I did not ask him to. No matter what the voice inside me urged, this was not my battle. I wouldn’t let it be. “Sylvia.” There was a strange note in the way he said my name. “You helped me in the Pass. The magic might have driven me from my mind if you had not stopped it.” “Arin.” I said his name the same. “You are more miserly with your gratitude than with your praise. Just say thank you.” Arin gifted me one of his rare smiles. My stomach clenched, and it took an inordinate amount of time to tear my gaze from his mouth. He should know better than to share his smiles with me. I should know better than to crave them. “Thank you,” he said softly. Rarely did fortune place me in an advantageous position, and I would not see the opportunity wasted. I hadn’t forgotten Arin’s agonized state in the Pass. “How can you sense magic?” In Arin’s world, information was a transaction. He did not gift it freely, and he certainly never wasted it. The price for this information was prohibitively high. I had nothing to barter for it. I hadn’t possessed an ulterior motive for helping him in the Pass, but Arin would sleep better if he thought I helped in anticipation of this moment. Just another material exchange removed from the vagaries of emotion. He nodded to himself, as though he had been prepared for my question. “I will satisfy your curiosity, Suraira.” He lowered himself to the chair across the bed. With the moon casting half his face in shadow, his back straight and gloved hands curled over the arms of the chair, he was an artist’s dream. “As Heirs, we inherit the enemies and debts of our father. I am my father’s sole child. I represented an invaluable emotional currency for his enemies. The Citadel was well protected, and my mother rarely left my side.” Arin turned his cheek to the window. His eyes dissolved in the moonlight, swirling in its colors. “When I was two years old, my father executed a Jasadi merchant found guilty of enchanting the weapons of Nizahlan dissidents in the lower villages. There was an outcry from Malik Niyar and Malika Palia. They had wanted him punished in Jasad. Two weeks later, a musrira misted past our guards and into my bedroom.” I frowned, tempted to interrupt. I had begged Dawoud to introduce me to a musrira when I was a child. Most Jasadi magic did not show a preference in how it was expressed or exhibit an affinity toward a particular use. Musriras were one of the rare exceptions. These Jasadis possessed the ability to move through space in spirit. They could vacate their physical forms in a safe place and spirit themselves


“Really?” he said. “I don’t understand it, either, to be honest. But here we are.” I took a deep breath. “Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry.” But Joe shook his head like sorry was the most useless word in the world. Worse than useless, even. Insulting. He turned to leave. Then he stopped and turned halfway back. “I’m moving out, by the way,” he said then. “So stop coming by my place. And stop calling me. And for god’s sake … stop texting.” Twenty-Five THE FIRST INSULT of the art show—before all the injuries—was placement. I arrived at the gallery to find my portrait hung in the worst conceivable spot—half under a staircase, fully at the back, right near the bathrooms, under an exposed air-conditioning vent that was literally dripping into a bucket. There was a moldy smell to the area—not to mention a tinge of Lysol. You’d think that a bright, airy, recently renovated art gallery wouldn’t have a dank corner—but you’d be wrong. And that’s where they stuck me. At the art gallery equivalent of a restaurant’s sucker table. Worst of all, the spot was hard to get to, but because of the U-shaped layout of the gallery, it was easy to see. Everybody entering the building could get a full view of my indefensibly tragic situation. So any and all humiliations to come would be on full display. And there were plenty of humiliations to come. Starting with the fact that no one was there. Oh, people were there—at the show. The show itself was packed. Just—no one came to my shadowy, mildewy, forgotten corner. I stood courageously next to my portrait, under the cold, damp, blowing air of that drippy vent, feeling as exposed as a hermit crab out of its shell—as I watched the entire gallery milling with eager art patrons. Everywhere—except where I was. No one came up to me and said hello. No one talked to me at all. Only a few freakish outliers even glanced at my portrait, which was clearly, easily, the big loser of the night from minute one. I scanned people’s outfits and hair and gaits for identifying clues, but I did not recognize one person. The artist closest to me, layout-wise, was a guy named Bradley Winterbottom, who’d done a portrait of a child on the beach. He had at least twenty people gathered in his area—chatting companionably about the composition, delighting over the way he’d captured that late-afternoon sunlight, swooning over the sweetness of the child’s face. I mean, nothing against Bradley Winterbottom, but I really hated that guy right then. He had more admirers than he deserved. I, in contrast, had zero. I didn’t even need admirers. I would’ve been happy for someone to talk to. A person who needed directions, say. A lost hiker. But no luck. It was just me. Alone. Nothing to do but panic over life-altering decisions about where to rest my hands. They were too posed and awkward at my sides, but they felt hostile if I crossed them over my chest, and they


pregnancy; the modifications were too experimental, the divergence from the human genome too great. Morally reprehensible, an indelible stain on their consciences, one that wasn’t mitigated by the fact that all the women had been repeatedly informed there was a high risk of death. Their desire for a child who could survive this cold made them vulnerable to promises of a family and their dream of being a mother to a marvellous new child. This deception was justified as the only way to prevent humankind’s extinction, with the hope of creating a species that could reproduce independently so that soon no more hosts would be needed. The mother had lain on the bed for months, unconscious, while her womb swelled, disturbingly distended upwards like a jagged mountain range, her skin hardening and discolouring, turning dark purple. The established procedure was that, upon detecting clear signs of self-supporting life, the infant was to be cut free, whatever form it might take. But in this case signs of life had proved elusive. Scans had proved hard to interpret, the infant seemed not to be flesh and blood but a jigsaw puzzle of bone. Without warning one night the child had burst free, more like an eruption than a birth, tearing apart the mother, ripping and gnashing like a creature at war with the very tissue that had given it life. So violent was the birth there was almost nothing left of the woman by the end, a head clamped under an artificial respirator, the remains of her shoulders and arms, a horrific sight. As the newborn continued to thrash in confusion, there were concerns that the birthing tank itself might be broken, injuring the infant and doing damage to precious equipment, much of which was now irreplaceable. For this reason, the valves were opened, the mother’s blood and amniotic fluids running to the floor, allowing this new life to appear for the first time. Leg by leg, it had poked through the access hole, highly capable and intelligent from the very first seconds of its life, making a peculiar sound, like whale song, a sound that no one could understand until Yotam had realized it was in pain and he gave the order to lower the room’s temperature. As soon as the temperature dropped, the mother’s blood freezing on the floor, the infant became calmer. It remained stationary, on the cusp of the birthing chamber, studying its surroundings until finally fixing its stare on the mirrored window in front of it. Behind that window were the leading scientists from the Cold People Project, present for any significant new species event. Some had reacted with thinly veiled disgust, as if to say this thing couldn’t be the future of mankind. In contrast, Yotam had remarked with admiration: ‘It’s looking at us. It knows we’re here.’ It was born with four jointed legs arranged two on each side of the thorax, from which a clearly human torso rose, perfect in form. Nimbly the infant had left the birthing chamber, its clawed feet clicking like stiletto heels


Mary's questions except by a grunt, but this morning he said more than usual. He stood up and rested one hobnailed boot on the top of his spade while he looked her over. "How long has tha' been here?" he jerked out. "I think it's about a month," she answered. "Tha's beginnin' to do Misselthwaite credit," he said. "Tha's a bit fatter than tha' was an' tha's not quite so yeller. Tha' looked like a young plucked crow when tha' first came into this garden. Thinks I to myself I never set eyes on an uglier, sourer faced young 'un." Mary was not vain and as she had never thought much of her looks she was not greatly disturbed. "I know I'm fatter," she said. "My stockings are getting tighter. They used to make wrinkles. There's the robin, Ben Weatherstaff." There, indeed, was the robin, and she thought he looked nicer than ever. His red waistcoat was as glossy as satin and he flirted his wings and tail and tilted his head and hopped about with all sorts of lively graces. He seemed determined to make Ben Weatherstaff admire him. But Ben was sarcastic. "Aye, there tha' art!" he said. "Tha' can put up with me for a bit sometimes when tha's got no one better. Tha's been reddenin' up thy waistcoat an' polishin' thy feathers this two weeks. I know what tha's up to. Tha's courtin' some bold young madam somewhere tellin' thy lies to her about bein' th' finest cock robin on Missel Moor an' ready to fight all th' rest of 'em." "Oh! look at him!" exclaimed Mary. The robin was evidently in a fascinating, bold mood. He hopped closer and closer and looked at Ben Weatherstaff more and more engagingly. He flew on to the nearest currant bush and tilted his head and sang a little song right at him. "Tha' thinks tha'll get over me by doin' that," said Ben, wrinkling his face up in such a way that Mary felt sure he was trying not to look pleased. "Tha' thinks no one can stand out against thee--that's what tha' thinks." The robin spread his wings--Mary could scarcely believe her eyes. He flew right up to the handle of Ben Weatherstaff's spade and alighted on the top of it. Then the old man's face wrinkled itself slowly into a new expression. He stood still as if he were afraid to breathe--as if he would not have stirred for the world, lest his robin should start away. He spoke quite in a whisper. "Well, I'm danged!" he said as softly as ifhe were saying something quite different. "Tha' does know how to get at a chap--tha' does! Tha's fair unearthly, tha's so knowin'." And he stood without stirring--almost without drawing his breath--until the robin gave another flirt to his wings and flew away. Then he stood looking at the handle of the spade as if there might be Magic in it, and then he began to dig again and said nothing for several minutes. But because he kept


down a row of several dozen books. Sophie tilted her head and scanned the list of titles: THE TEMPLAR REVELATION: Secret Guardians of the True Identity of Christ THE WOMAN WITH THE ALABASTER JAR: Mary Magdalene and the Holy Grail THE GODDESS IN THE GOSPELS Reclaiming the Sacred Feminine "Here is perhaps the best-known tome," Teabing said, pulling a tattered hardcover from the stack and handing it to her. The cover read: HOLY BLOOD, HOLY GRAIL The Acclaimed International Bestseller Sophie glanced up. "An international bestseller? I've never heard of it." "You were young. This caused quite a stir back in the nineteen eighties. To my taste, the authors made some dubious leaps of faith in their analysis, but their fundamental premise is sound, and to their credit, they finally brought the idea of Christ's bloodline into the mainstream." "What was the Church's reaction to the book?" "Outrage, of course. But that was to be expected. After all, this was a secret the Vatican had tried to bury in the fourth century. That's part of what the Crusades were about. Gathering and destroying information. The threat Mary Magdalene posed to the men of the early Church was potentially ruinous. Not only was she the woman to whom Jesus had assigned the task of founding the Church, but she also had physical proof that the Church's newly proclaimed deity had spawned a mortal bloodline. The Church, in order to defend itself against the Magdalene's power, perpetuated her image as a whore and buried evidence of Christ's marriage to her, thereby defusing any potential claims that Christ had a surviving bloodline and was a mortal prophet." Sophie glanced at Langdon, who nodded. "Sophie, the historical evidence supporting this is substantial." "I admit," Teabing said, "the assertions are dire, but you must understand the Church's powerful motivations to conduct such a cover-up. They could never have survived public knowledge of a bloodline. A child of Jesus would undermine the critical notion of Christ's divinity and therefore the Christian Church, which declared itself the sole vessel through which humanity could access the divine and gain entrance to the kingdom of heaven." 171 "The five-petal rose," Sophie said, pointing suddenly to the spine of one of Teabing's books. The same exact design inlaid on the rosewood box. Teabing glanced at Langdon and grinned. "She has a good eye." He turned back to Sophie. "That is the Priory symbol for the Grail. Mary Magdalene. Because her name was forbidden by the Church, Mary Magdalene became secretly known by many pseudonyms-the Chalice, the Holy Grail, and the Rose." He paused. "The Rose has ties to the five-pointed pentacle of Venus and the guiding Compass Rose. By the way, the word rose is identical in English, French, German, and many other languages." "Rose," Langdon added, "is also an anagram of Eros, the Greek god of sexual love." Sophie gave him a surprised look as Teabing plowed on. "The Rose has always been the premiere symbol of female sexuality. In primitive goddess cults, the five petals represented the five stations of


for the railways which engirdled this interior tract of country had never yet struck across it. While waiting, however, there came along a farmer in his spring cart, driving approximately in the direction that she wished to pursue. Though he was a stranger to her she accepted his offer of a seat beside him, ignoring that its motive was a mere tribute to her countenance. He was going to Weatherbury, and by accompanying him thither she could walk the remainder of the distance instead of travelling in the van by way of Casterbridge. Tess did not stop at Weatherbury, after this long drive, further than to make a slight nondescript meal at noon at a cottage to which the farmer recommended her. Thence she started on foot, basket in hand, to reach the wide upland of heath dividing this district from the low-lying meads of a further valley in which the dairy stood that was the aim and end of her day's pilgrimage. Tess had never before visited this part of the country, and yet she felt akin to the landscape. Not so very far to the left of her she could discern a dark patch in the scenery, which inquiry confirmed her in supposing to be trees marking the environs of Kingsbere--in the church of which parish the bones of her ancestors--her useless ancestors--lay entombed. She had no admiration for them now; she almost hated them for the dance they had led her; not a thing of all that had been theirs did she retain but the old seal and spoon. "Pooh--I have as much of mother as father in me!" she said. "All my prettiness comes from her, and she was only a dairymaid." The journey over the intervening uplands and lowlands of Egdon, when she reached them, was a more troublesome walk than she had anticipated, the distance being actually but a few miles. It was two hours, owing to sundry wrong turnings, ere she found herself on a summit commanding the long-sought-for vale, the Valley of the Great Dairies, the valley in which milk and butter grew to rankness, and were produced more profusely, if less delicately, than at her home--the verdant plain so well watered by the river Var or Froom. It was intrinsically different from the Vale of Little Dairies, Blackmoor Vale, which, save during her disastrous sojourn at Trantridge, she had exclusively known till now. The world was drawn to a larger pattern here. The enclosures numbered fifty acres instead of ten, the farmsteads were more extended, the groups of cattle formed tribes hereabout; there only families. These myriads of cows stretching under her eyes from the far east to the far west outnumbered any she had ever seen at one glance before. The green lea was speckled as thickly with them as a canvas by Van Alsloot or Sallaert with burghers. The ripe hue of the red and dun kine absorbed the evening sunlight, which the white-coated animals returned to the eye in rays almost dazzling, even at the distant elevation on which she


plan on spending the night with him, but some old-fashioned sense of decorum has me playing coy. Or maybe it’s just fear of rejection. I’m still unsure of his feelings for me. And I’m still brittle from Hazel’s dismissive treatment. The apartment is just as I remember it—tidy but sparse. We settle on the dark gray sofa with two beers and the remote. “What should we watch?” He has to know the movie was a ploy to get here, a euphemism for what I really want to do. I cock an eyebrow and shrug. “I don’t care.” His smile is slow but knowing. He sets the remote on the coffee table and turns toward me. His arm is on the back of the sofa, his knee raised so it rests against my thigh. I swallow a mouthful of beer: liquid courage. “How’s your friend doing? The one with the abusive husband?” I hadn’t planned to go there tonight, but I find I’m eager to talk about it. “We had a bit of a falling out, actually.” “How come?” I can’t tell him that Hazel is ashamed to know me. That she offered me money like a panhandler. “She acts a lot differently around her other friends,” I say. “She treats me badly.” “Do her other friends know about the abuse?” “I don’t know. I doubt it.” “My mom got really good at keeping up appearances.” His fingers travel to my shoulder, touch the ends of my hair. “My sister and I knew what went on behind closed doors, but she’d act like everything was perfect with her friends. It drove me crazy. But it was a survival mechanism.” His words resonate. Hazel was playing a part with those other women. They don’t know what I know. Why didn’t I think of that before? “I’m sorry you got hurt, though.” “I’m fine,” I say, because suddenly, I am. Jesse’s fingers are playing with my hair, his knee is pressed against my leg, and I’ve had just enough beer to make the first move. I lean in and kiss him. It is slow and soft at first but quickly gathers force. My hands rove over his strong chest, his muscular arms, the stubble on his jaw. As it was with our first kiss, my desire for him is powerful. It’s sexual but also physical. It’s a need to touch him, to be close to him, to be connected. I’ve been drowning in loneliness and Jesse is oxygen. And then he pulls away. “Lee. Stop.” For a moment, I am left panting and confused, and then the humiliation descends. He doesn’t want me. I should have known. He is out of my league now. Because I am worthless. The lowest of the low. “I’m sorry,” I say, my voice hoarse. “I’ll go.” He grabs my hand as I try to get up and pulls me back to the couch. “Don’t,” he says. “I just want to make sure that you’re okay with this. Things are moving so fast between us.” I stifle a snort. I


wouldn't be alive two days if that got found out. You know that." Tom felt more comfortable. After a pause: "Huck, they couldn't anybody get you to tell, could they?" "Get me to tell? Why, if I wanted that half-breed devil to drownd me they could get me to tell. They ain't no different way." "Well, that's all right, then. I reckon we're safe as long as we keep mum. But let's swear again, anyway. It's more surer." "I'm agreed." So they swore again with dread solemnities. "What is the talk around, Huck? I've heard a power of it." "Talk? Well, it's just Muff Potter, Muff Potter, Muff Potter all the time. It keeps me in a sweat, constant, so's I want to hide som'ers." "That's just the same way they go on round me. I reckon he's a goner. Don't you feel sorry for him, sometimes?" "Most always -- most always. He ain't no account; but then he hain't ever done anything to hurt anybody. Just fishes a little, to get money to get drunk on -- and loafs around considerable; but lord, we all do that -- leastways most of us -- --------------------------------------------------------- -218- preachers and such like. But he's kind of good -- he give me half a fish, once, when there warn't enough for two; and lots of times he's kind of stood by me when I was out of luck." "Well, he's mended kites for me, Huck, and knitted hooks on to my line. I wish we could get him out of there." "My! we couldn't get him out, Tom. And besides, 'twouldn't do any good; they'd ketch him again." "Yes -- so they would. But I hate to hear 'em abuse him so like the dickens when he never done -- that." "I do too, Tom. Lord, I hear 'em say he's the bloodiest looking villain in this country, and they wonder he wasn't ever hung before." "Yes, they talk like that, all the time. I've heard 'em say that if he was to get free they'd lynch him." "And they'd do it, too." The boys had a long talk, but it brought them little comfort. As the twilight drew on, they found themselves hanging about the neighborhood of the little isolated jail, perhaps with an undefined hope that something would happen that might clear away their difficulties. But nothing happened; there seemed to be no angels or fairies interested in this luckless captive. The boys did as they had often done before -- went to the cell grating and gave Potter some tobacco --------------------------------------------------------- -219- and matches. He was on the ground floor and there were no guards. His gratitude for their gifts had always smote their consciences before -- it cut deeper than ever, this time. They felt cowardly and treacherous to the last degree when Potter said: "You've been mighty good to me, boys -- better'n anybody else in this town. And I don't forget it, I don't. Often I says to myself, says I, 'I used to mend all the boys' kites


had some irrational fear that, having survived all these years, it might somehow crumble in my hands. I searched the drawer for a magnifying glass, as the script was so small and squashed on the page, it was difficult to make out. I brought my desk lamp closer and leaned over the little booklet. The black ink was messy and words were crossed out with new ones pushed out into what remained of the margins. Having viewed some of the sisters’ original diary entries at Haworth, I felt sure that this was the penmanship of Emily, but I would need to have it authenticated. Unless … That was when I spotted it – a minuscule signature. EJB. It felt like fireworks exploding in my veins. The baby kicked, the air crackled and a whooshing sound went through my ears. Was this the second novel, or at least the drafting of it? My head felt light and my feet tapped a jig on the floorboards. I closed my eyes and traced the joy on my face with my fingertips and tried to commit it to memory. My heart was beating against my ribcage like a bird at the window. I read on. With the death of my father and the forced liquidation of my debts to my creditors in London, I was now returning to the estate in Ireland. … an impervious gloom haunted every corner of its cursed country and a week of driving rain had soaked the ground and reduced it to mud. Famine ravaged the land … The text became unreadable at this point and the next paragraph seemed to jump ahead of sequence. This would be my penance, my banishment to this hellish place. I passed through two great pillars and entered the avenue that swept up to Wrenville Hall. Lined with towering yews, it held a singular tranquillity that was tinged with terror. On my one and only sojourn in this place as a child, I recalled the old house servant speaking of spectres and ghouls that lived in the woods beyond. The house stood strongly defined against the dark sky. The gargoyles that came into view at the front-facing aspect of the grey fortress of a house stared down through the afternoon mist in delightful horror … ‘It was night and the candles were lit as I dined alone on a passable meal of turbot in the dining room. A ferocious storm raged outside, driving the rain in sheets against the window, when all of a sudden, lightning flashed and I saw her face at the window. I ran to it and loosened the latch. A flame-haired girl, soaked to the skin, wearing a plain white dress that clung to her fragile frame like a winding sheet. She was deathly pale and did not struggle when I pulled her through the window and we landed on the floor like two drowned pups. Her skin was translucent, white as a ghoul or a vampire, and yet her beauty was like nothing upon the face of God’s creation. Furious


a life as though they were working in South Kensington. Philip, with his passion for the romantic, welcomed the opportunity to get in touch with a Spaniard; he used all his persuasiveness to overcome the man's reluctance. "I'll tell you what I'll do," said the Spaniard at last. "I'll sit to you, but not for money, for my own pleasure." Philip expostulated, but the other was firm, and at length they arranged that he should come on the following Monday at one o'clock. He gave Philip a card on which was printed his name: Miguel Ajuria. Miguel sat regularly, and though he refused to accept payment he borrowed fifty francs from Philip every now and then: it was a little more expensive than if Philip had paid for the sittings in the usual way; but gave the Spaniard a satisfactory feeling that he was not earning his living in a degrading manner. His nationality made Philip regard him as a representative of romance, and he asked him about Seville and Granada, Velasquez and Calderon. But Miguel bad no patience with the grandeur of his country. For him, as for so many of his compatriots, France was the only country for a man of intelligence and Paris the centre of the world. "Spain is dead," he cried. "It has no writers, it has no art, it has nothing." Little by little, with the exuberant rhetoric of his race, he revealed his ambitions. He was writing a novel which he hoped would make his name. He was under the influence of Zola, and he had set his scene in Paris. He told Philip the story at length. To Philip it seemed crude and stupid; the naive obscenity-- _c'est la vie, mon cher, c'est la vie_, he cried--the naive obscenity served only to emphasise the conventionality of the anecdote. He had written for two years, amid incredible hardships, denying himself all the pleasures of life which had attracted him to Paris, fighting with starvation for art's sake, determined that nothing should hinder his great achievement. The effort was heroic. "But why don't you write about Spain?" cried Philip. "It would be so much more interesting. You know the life." "But Paris is the only place worth writing about. Paris is life." One day he brought part of the manuscript, and in his bad French, translating excitedly as he went along so that Philip could scarcely understand, he read passages. It was lamentable. Philip, puzzled, looked at the picture he was painting: the mind behind that broad brow was trivial; and the flashing, passionate eyes saw nothing in life but the obvious. Philip was not satisfied with his portrait, and at the end of a sitting he nearly always scraped out what he had done. It was all very well to aim at the intention of the soul: who could tell what that was when people seemed a mass of contradictions? He liked Miguel, and it distressed him to realise that his magnificent struggle was futile: he had everything to make a good writer but talent.


the U.S. Navy hymn,” he said quietly, finally looking up at her. “Yes.” She tucked a strand of loose hair back into her low chignon. “I had to google it obviously. I don’t just know hymns off the top of my head.” “Natalie . . .” “Sam can’t be here, but you can put that in your pocket and . . . I don’t know. Maybe it’ll feel a tiny bit like he is. Like I said, it’s just a small thing—” He moved quickly, his firm mouth pressing to hers and cutting her off mid-sentence, staying there for a long moment while neither one of them seemed to breathe. “No, it’s not,” he said, releasing her lips, but staying close. So close she’d tilted her head all the way back to receive the kiss. “This isn’t small, princess.” She couldn’t think of an adequate response to that and talking at all seemed like it might be difficult, so she just nodded, the pressure on her chest increasing the longer he held her eyes, searching them. “Your present is back at the house,” he said, carefully tucking the picture into his breast pocket. “Great.” She had to swallow because her throat was utterly dry. “I can’t wait to open my lube from the gas station. Which flavor did you get me?” “Tropical. Obviously.” “Pity we’ll never use it.” “I know, right?” He let his gaze trail down her body to the knot of her robe. “You don’t need any help in that department. Not when you’ve got me to look at.” “That’s beautiful. If only we’d decided to write our own wedding vows, you could have included it.” “Who says I didn’t write my own?” That gave her serious pause. Was he joking? “Did you?” August held up the cat’s paw in a little wave and strolled past her toward the house. “I don’t know, did I?” “August!” “Meet you at the end of the aisle, Natalie.” Her intended had just moved out of earshot when her phone buzzed in her pocket. When she saw her father’s name on the screen, the warm fuzzies she’d—admittedly—gotten from her conversation with August vanished. It couldn’t be a coincidence that he’d called on her wedding day. She stepped into a small tent at the edge of the property that appeared to be set up as a coat check. And she answered. “Father.” There was a short burst of Italian on the other end, then Dalton’s voice came through clear. “Natalie.” His sigh was woven with resignation. “You’re going to call off this ridiculous spectacle immediately. What are people going to think when I’m not in attendance at my own daughter’s wedding?” That rendered her momentarily speechless. “Who told you I was getting married? I know damn well it wasn’t my mother.” “I have a lot of friends in the Valley. A better question is: Who didn’t tell me?” “And just to recap, you’re more upset about how this reflects on you . . . than the fact that you aren’t close enough to your family


I turned. There, in the hedgerow. One eye. And one glassy lens.

Then: that chubby face.

Then: that demonic rictus.

Tweedle Dumb.

48.

T HE ONE GOOD THING about Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber was that

they made me ready for war. They filled me with choking rage, always

a good precursor for battle. They also made me want to be anywhere but

England. Where are my goddamned orders?

Please send my orders.

And then, of course, as so often happens...

I was at a music festival and my cousin tapped me on the shoulder.

Harry, this is my friend Cressida.

Oh. Um. Hello.

214

https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t.me/Afghansalarlibrary

The setting was inauspicious. Lots of people, zero privacy. Also, I was

still suffering a broken heart. On the other hand, the landscape was lovely,

the music was good, the weather was fine.

There were sparks.

Soon after that day we went to dinner. She told me about her life, her

family, her dreams. She wanted to be an actress. She was so soft-spoken and

shy, acting was the last profession I’d have imagined for her, and I said so.

But she confessed that it made her feel alive. Free. She made it sound like

flying.

Weeks later, at the end of another date, I gave her a lift home. /’m just off

the King’s Road. We pulled up to a large house on a well-kept street.

You live here? This is your house?

No.

She explained that she was staying for a few days with an aunt.

I walked her up the steps. She didn’t invite me in. I didn’t expect her to,

didn’t want her to. Take it slow, I thought. I leaned in to give her a kiss, but

my aim was off. I could take out a cactus from three miles away with a<span


raised, and a clear voice demanded "What name?" To which my conductor replied, "Pumblechook." The voice returned, "Quite right," and the window was shut again, and a young lady came across the court-yard, with keys in her hand. "This," said Mr. Pumblechook, "is Pip." "This is Pip, is it?" returned the young lady, who was very pretty and seemed very proud; "come in, Pip." Mr. Pumblechook was coming in also, when she stopped him with the gate. "Oh!" she said. "Did you wish to see Miss Havisham?" "If Miss Havisham wished to see me," returned Mr. Pumblechook, discomfited. "Ah!" said the girl; "but you see she don't." She said it so finally, and in such an undiscussible way, that Mr. Pumblechook, though in a condition of ruffled dignity, could not protest. But he eyed me severely - as if I had done anything to him! - and departed with the words reproachfully delivered: "Boy! Let your behaviour here be a credit unto them which brought you up by hand!" I was not free from apprehension that he would come back to propound through the gate, "And sixteen?" But he didn't. My young conductress locked the gate, and we went across the court-yard. It was paved and clean, but grass was growing in every crevice. The brewery buildings had a little lane of communication with it, and the wooden gates of that lane stood open, and all the brewery beyond, stood open, away to the high enclosing wall; and all was empty and disused. The cold wind seemed to blow colder there, than outside the gate; and it made a shrill noise in howling in and out at the open sides of the brewery, like the noise of wind in the rigging of a ship at sea. She saw me looking at it, and she said, "You could drink without hurt all the strong beer that's brewed there now, boy." "I should think I could, miss," said I, in a shy way. "Better not try to brew beer there now, or it would turn out sour, boy; don't you think so?" "It looks like it, miss." "Not that anybody means to try," she added, "for that's all done with, and the place will stand as idle as it is, till it falls. As to strong beer, there's enough of it in the cellars already, to drown the Manor House." "Is that the name of this house, miss?" "One of its names, boy." "It has more than one, then, miss?" "One more. Its other name was Satis; which is Greek, or Latin, or Hebrew, or all three - or all one to me - for enough." "Enough House," said I; "that's a curious name, miss." "Yes," she replied; "but it meant more than it said. It meant, when it was given, that whoever had this house, could want nothing else. They must have been easily satisfied in those days, I should think. But don't loiter, boy." Though she called me "boy" so often, and with a carelessness that was far from complimentary, she was