they were dead tired. It was not the dead-tiredness that comes through brief and excessive effort, from which recovery is a matter of hours; but it was the dead-tiredness that comes through the slow and prolonged strength drainage of months of toil. There was no power of recuperation left, no reserve strength to call upon. It had been all used, the last least bit of it. Every muscle, every fibre, every cell, was tired, dead tired. And there was reason for it. In less than five months they had travelled twenty-five hundred miles, during the last eighteen hundred of which they had had but five days' rest. When they arrived at Skaguay they were apparently on their last legs. They could barely keep the traces taut, and on the down grades just managed to keep out of the way of the sled. "Mush on, poor sore feets," the driver encouraged them as they tottered down the main street of Skaguay. "Dis is de las'. Den we get one long res'. Eh? For sure. One bully long res'." The drivers confidently expected a long stopover. Themselves, they had covered twelve hundred miles with two days' rest, and in the nature of reason and common justice they deserved an interval of loafing. But so many were the men who had rushed into the Klondike, and so many were the sweethearts, wives, and kin that had not rushed in, that the congested mail was taking on Alpine proportions; also, there were official orders. Fresh batches of Hudson Bay dogs were to take the places of those worthless for the trail. The worthless ones were to be got rid of, and, since dogs count for little against dollars, they were to be sold. Three days passed, by which time Buck and his mates found how really tired and weak they were. Then, on the morning of the fourth day, two men from the States came along and bought them, harness and all, for a song. The men addressed each other as "Hal" and "Charles." Charles was a middle-aged, lightish-colored man, with weak and watery eyes and a mustache that twisted fiercely and vigorously up, giving the lie to the limply drooping lip it concealed. Hal was a youngster of nineteen or twenty, with a big Colt's revolver and a hunting-knife strapped about him on a belt that fairly bristled with cartridges. This belt was the most salient thing about him. It advertised his callowness--a callowness sheer and unutterable. Both men were manifestly out of place, and why such as they should adventure the North is part of the mystery of things that passes understanding. Buck heard the chaffering, saw the money pass between the man and the Government agent, and knew that the Scotch half-breed and the mail-train drivers were passing out of his life on the heels of Perrault and Francois and the others who had gone before. When driven with his mates to the new owners' camp, Buck saw a slipshod and slovenly affair, tent half stretched, dishes unwashed, everything in disorder; also, he


invented?” “Sure, some, I guess,” Tristán said, scratching his head. “Why would that be useful?” “Because that was our language, yours and mine alone. Same as the runes were Ewers’s. Here,” she said, tearing out a piece of paper from the notebook she’d been using and handing him a pen. “Write something.” “All right. Um…there.” Montserrat looked at the letters he’d scribbled in blue ink. It was a crude, silly alphabet. A half-moon represented the “t” and a square with an X in the middle was the letter “m.” They hadn’t used it for ages. But she could still read it. “Tristán and Montserrat,” he said, tapping the page. “And we abbreviate it…here. You and me, like that.” Their initials. They’d carved that into their chairs at school and doodled it on random bits of paper, signing off their messages this way. The half-moon, filled in, and the square with the X. A line beneath each symbol served as a rudimentary flourish. It was the first signature they ever drew. The code for me and you. “Okay, write the word ‘shield,’ ” she said. 19 The restaurant Marisa Montero selected was a Spanish venue close to her home. Montserrat parked across the street and stayed behind the wheel, as if she were the driver of a getaway vehicle. Tristán felt more Cantinflas than James Bond, despite his sharp outfit. The vision of Karina remained fresh in his mind. He couldn’t shake it off and had smoked two cigarettes before they parked and he stepped out. The charm he’d made, following Montserrat’s instructions, lay heavy in his pocket. Montserrat had been correct. He was not the right person to conduct interrogations. But they’d both decided maybe this time his charisma might be more effective than Montserrat’s bluntness. Besides, Marisa had called him and made no mention of having Montserrat at their meeting. Tristán straightened his jacket and stepped into the joint. It was the kind of place that sold overpriced cabrito al horno and imported wines. Marisa had a table at the back. The lighting in the restaurant, or perhaps the makeup she wore that evening, did her no favors. He’d thought her fiftyish when they’d first met, but now he calculated she was edging close to sixty. The blouse she wore was a pale blue, the shoulder pads on her navy suit jacket were quite large, like something Joan Crawford would have worn in her heyday. Or else it was the power suit women used to favor a few years before when the look had come back in vogue. She had a martini already and was smoking a cigarette. “I’m not late, am I?” he asked. His voice was perfectly poised, despite his nerves. “Not at all. Just on time. I like a man who’s prompt.” Marisa raised her hand, summoning the waiter with a casual motion of the wrist. Tristán asked for mineral water. He was still trying to steer clear of alcohol. “You do smoke, don’t you?” she asked, opening her silver cigarette case and offering him a slim cigarette.


what. Wh-what. Have you. D-done. To me?” It was the same voice from the Scrap Yards, deep and guttural. Pointed and sharp. Angry, borderline furious, or so Vic thought. Vic’s own mind was short-circuiting. Here was what he’d worked for. Here was what he’d hoped for. Here, at last. A face, alive. Just like his father’s. Just like his own. And he couldn’t bring himself to look at it for long, glancing at the machine, then away, back, and then away again. Nurse Ratched rolled forward. “We healed you,” she said, words appearing on her screen that read YOU’RE ALIVE! CONGRATULATIONS! “You were found in a pile of rubble. We put you back together again.” The android dropped his hands. His face twisted into a dark scowl. “T-ttogether.” “Yes,” Nurse Ratched said. “You will find that certain parts needed to be replaced. I am going to run a diagnostic check. Please follow along with my instructions. Raise your right hand.” The android said, “My … m-my chest. What have you d-done t-to my chest? It b-b-burns.” His hand shook as he rubbed the skin above the heart. “We had to replace your power source,” Nurse Ratched said. “Your old one was dead. Can you tell us your make and model? Your designation? You still have not raised your right hand as I instructed. How disappointing. You need to listen to your mother. That is me. I am your mother.” The android grimaced, baring his square teeth. “I … wh-who are you. Who are y-you? Who are you?” He tried to stand. His metal right leg held his weight, but the wooden left buckled. He stumbled forward. “Ahh!” Rambo cried. “He’s attacking! I’m brave. I’m so brave!” He rolled forward, banging the broom against the android’s knees. “Die, murderous revenge machine, die!” “S-s-stop that,” the android growled. He tried to swat at the broom, but his center of gravity was off, and he missed, almost falling on top of Rambo. He managed to catch himself at the last moment, Rambo moving deftly between his feet, the broom knocking against the android’s thighs. “Do not touch Rambo,” Nurse Ratched said, one of her tentacles whipping dangerously in the air. “If you do, you will find it to be rather shocking. Because I will shock you. That was another pun. They do not get old no matter how many times I say them.” “Wh-where am I?” the android snapped. “What is this p-place?” “You are in the laboratory of the great inventor Victor Lawson,” Nurse Ratched said, the tip of her tentacle crackling. “And you would do well to show him some respect. He was the one who brought you back to life. Granted, I did most of the work, which is why I am your mother, but Victor needs positive reinforcement. Victor. You did a good job. We are all very proud of you.” The android lurched again. Victor flinched, taking a step back, fingernails digging into his palms so hard he thought he’d draw blood. Rambo, apparently having decided there was still an


between them, the high-pitched whine of a weed whacker started up across the street. Louise let it go on for a minute. “Why don’t you take the dolls?” she said, as gently as she could. “We’ll put them in your truck and you can take them home and sort through them there. Keep what you want, sell the rest, you can do it at your own pace.” He gave a quick nod. “Okay.” “We can put them in boxes,” she said. “Bags are fine,” he said quickly. “It’s fine. Let’s just do this.” The dolls stood rigid, waiting for Louise to take them. She felt like a monster. They filled two black plastic garbage bags, and finally the doll cabinet was empty. “It looks—” she started, but Mark finished for her. “Wrong,” he said. “I feel like we’re doing something wrong. Like any minute Mom and Dad are going to come through the front door and Mom’s going to flip that we moved her dolls.” They both listened to a leaf blower howl across the street. “I’m not taking those,” Mark said. He was pointing to the Mark and Louise dolls standing at the end of the couch. Louise had managed to keep them out of her line of sight so far, but now they were the only dolls left. “Then take them to the trash,” she said. “I’m not touching them,” Mark said. “You do it.” Louise stared at them, unable to make herself pick them up. Mark noticed. “Let’s leave them here,” he said. “Mercy said ‘nothing creepy’ and there’s nothing creepier.” “Here,” Mark said, grabbing the Booger Blanket off the end of the couch and dropping it over their heads. “How’s that?” The dolls looked even weirder with the old afghan draped over their heads, but Louise didn’t know another solution. “Sure,” she said. “You want help getting these bags in your truck?” “Someone’ll steal them,” he said. “I’ll keep them in the garage.” They dragged the bulging bags of dolls out to the garage, where Louise tripped over his saw. “Jesus, Mark,” she said. “Don’t you take care of your tools?” He’d quit cutting the patch halfway through and left his saw and the plywood on the concrete floor. There was sawdust everywhere. “It’s a project,” Mark said. They dropped the bags against one wall and, inspired, Louise looked around the garage and saw some collages on the plywood shelves. She grabbed them and leaned them against the rolling garbage can. She picked up the oil portraits of their family and put them there, too, then noticed Mark staring at her. “What?” “Are you throwing those away?” he asked in disbelief. “That’s the Goodwill pile,” Louise said, covering. “Take whatever you want.” Mark picked up the oil portrait of their dad, which gave him a skin condition and a lazy eye. “This is the only picture we have of Dad,” he said. “Except for the hundreds of photos we have of Dad,” Louise said. “And Mom’s clay bust of Dad, and the puppet version of Dad she made


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

laughter ripples across the assembled crowd and I smile. “You know what I mean? A little messy, slightly undercooked, but still tastes good?” The laughter intensifies, but mixed in now are a few bawdy catcalls, and I burst out laughing in realization. “See, and that wasn’t even meant to sound saucy! Look at me trying to be professional, and I’m still a mess.” I glance over my shoulder and grin at Dr. Leila Nguyen, the provost of UC San Diego’s Revelle College and my former creative writing professor. “I guess that’s what you get for inviting a romance author to give the commencement address.” Beside Dr. Nguyen sits another person struggling to smother a smile. Dr. River Peña—close friend, hot genius, and unconfirmed vampire—is also a special guest today; I guess he’s receiving yet another honorary degree for being some type of sexy prodigy. He looks like he belongs up here: stiff collar, perfectly pressed suit pants visible below the hem of his full doctoral regalia, shiny dress shoes, and an air of austerity I’ve never been able to master. Right now, I can see the knowing amusement light up his smug, thickly lashed eyes. When I first received the invitation to speak at this ceremony, River immediately slapped a twenty-dollar bill down onto the table between us and declared, “This is going to go completely sideways, Fizzy. Convince me otherwise.” I’m sure he and my best friend, Jess—his wife—expected that I would get up onstage and deliver The Vagina Monologues to the academic masses, or pull out a banana and remind everyone while I rolled a condom onto it that safe sex is still important in this here year of our Lord Harry Styles—but I swear I can play the part of a buttoned-down literary type when the situation calls for it. At the very least, I thought I’d make it further than one line into my speech before dropping a double entendre—and that one wasn’t even intentional. I turn back to the sea of black, blue, and yellow–clad grads that stretches far across RIMAC Field and experience a wave of vicarious, breathless anticipation for all these youngsters taking flight. So many opportunities ahead. So much student loan stress. But also so much great sex. “My younger sister is a neurosurgeon,” I tell them. “My little brother? Yeah, he’s the youngest partner in his firm’s history. One of my best friends, sitting right behind me, is a world-famous geneticist.” There’s genuine applause for biotech’s It boy, and once it dies back down, I go in for the kill: “But you know what? Despite all their accomplishments, none of them wrote a book called Cloaked Lust, so I think we all know who the real success story is here.” Smiling at a fresh wave of cheers, I continue. “So listen. Giving this kind of speech is a big deal. Most people invited to send off a group of young superstars like yourselves will list concrete ways to find your place in an ever-changing culture, or encourage you to amplify your impact by


Mis’ Washburn did de same. Ah reckon dey never hit us ah lick amiss ’cause dem three boys and us two girls wuz pretty aggravatin’, Ah speck. Their Eyes Were Watching God 11 “Ah was wid dem white chillun so much till Ah didn’t know Ah wuzn’t white till Ah was round six years old. Wouldn’t have found it out then, but a man come long takin’ pictures and without askin’ anybody, Shelby, dat was de old- est boy, he told him to take us. Round a week later de man brought de picture for Mis’ Washburn to see and pay him which she did, then give us all a good lickin’. “So when we looked at de picture and everybody got pointed out there wasn’t nobody left except a real dark lit- tle girl with long hair standing by Eleanor. Dat’s where Ah wuz s’posed to be, but Ah couldn’t recognize dat dark chile as me. So Ah ast, ‘where is me? Ah don’t see me.’ “Everybody laughed, even Mr. Washburn. Miss Nellie, de Mama of de chillun who come back home after her hus- band dead, she pointed to de dark one and said, ‘Dat’s you, Alphabet, don’t you know yo’ ownself?’ “Dey all useter call me Alphabet ’cause so many people had done named me different names. Ah looked at de picture a long time and seen it was mah dress and mah hair so Ah said: “‘Aw, aw! Ah’m colored!’ “Den dey all laughed real hard. But before Ah seen de picture Ah thought Ah wuz just like de rest. “Us lived dere havin’ fun till de chillun at school got to teasin’ me ’bout livin’ in de white folks’ back-yard. Dere wuz uh knotty head gal name Mayrella dat useter git mad every time she look at me. Mis’ Washburn useter dress me up in all de clothes her gran’chillun didn’t need no mo’ which still wuz better’n whut de rest uh de colored chillun 12 Zora Neale Hurston had. And then she useter put hair ribbon on mah head fuh me tuh wear. Dat useter rile Mayrella uh lot. So she would pick at me all de time and put some others up tuh do de same. They’d push me ’way from de ring plays and make out they couldn’t play wid nobody dat lived on premises. Den they’d tell me not to be takin’ on over mah looks ’cause they mama told ’em ’bout de hound dawgs huntin’ mah papa all night long. ’Bout Mr. Washburn and de sheriff puttin’ de bloodhounds on de trail tuh ketch mah papa for whut he done tuh mah mama. Dey didn’t tell about how he wuz seen tryin’ tuh git in touch wid mah mama later on so he could marry her. Naw, dey didn’t talk dat part of it atall. Dey made it sound real bad so as tuh crumple mah feathers. None of ’em didn’t even remember whut his name wuz, but dey all knowed de bloodhound part by heart. Nanny didn’t love tuh see me


or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art. Her teachers complained that instead of doing her sums she covered her slate with animals, the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy maps on, and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came fluttering out of all her books at unlucky moments. She got through her lessons as well as she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model of deportment. She was a great favorite with her mates, being good-tempered and possessing the happy art of pleasing without effort. Her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her accomplishments, for besides her drawing, she could play twelve tunes, crochet, and read French without mispronouncing more than two-thirds of the words. She had a plaintive way of saying, "When Papa was rich we did so-and-so," which was very touching, and her long words were considered `perfectly elegant' by the girls. Amy was in a fair way to be spoiled, for everyone petted her, and her small vanities and selfishnesses were growing nicely. One thing, however, rather quenched the vanities. She had to wear her cousin's clothes. Now Florence's mama hadn't a particle of taste, and Amy suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet, unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not fit. Everything was good, well made, and little worn, but Amy's artistic eyes were much afflicted, especially this winter, when her school dress was a dull purple with yellow dots and no trimming. "My only comfort," she said to Meg, with tears in her eyes, "is that Mother doesn't take tucks in my dresses whenever I'm naughty, as Maria Parks's mother does. My dear, it's really dreadful, for sometimes she is so bad her frock is up to her knees, and she can't come to school. When I think of this deggerredation, I fell that I can bear even my flat nose and purple gown with yellow skyrockets on it." Meg was Amy's confidante and monitor, and by some strange attraction of opposites Jo was gentle Beth's. To Jo alone did the shy child tell her thoughts, and over her big harum-scarum sister Beth unconsciously exercised more influence than anyone in the family. The two older girls were a great deal to one another, but each took one of the younger sisters into her keeping and watched over her in her own way, `playing mother' they called it, and put their sisters in the places of discarded dolls with the maternal instinct of little women. "Has anybody got anything to tell? It's been such a dismal day I'm really dying for some amusement," said Meg, as they sat sewing together that evening. "I had a queer time with Aunt today, and, as I got the best of it, I'll tell you about it," began Jo, who dearly loved to tell stories. "I was reading that everlasting Belsham, and droning away as I always do, for Aunt soon drops off, and then I take out some nice book, and read like fury


the cause of the seizure and found a little malformed blood vessel. They said I needed surgery to correct it, so I had surgery.” Joe shook his head, like What? “You had brain surgery?” “Yeah,” I said. “A month ago?” I nodded to confirm. Then, like a kid showing someone a boo-boo, I leaned forward and pulled my hair aside so he could see the scar behind my ear. He peered in at it. “Wow.” I hadn’t shown anybody my scar yet. Not even Sue. “Yeah,” I said. “And it’s been”—here, a tremble found its way into my voice—“a weirdly hard month. Nothing’s quite right. Things that used to be easy are now … not. Especially painting.” Joe nodded. “The day of the seizure, I’d just had my first big career break. And I was all set to win it.” I looked down at my hands. “But I’m having trouble painting now.” “That’s why you’re trying new techniques.” I nodded. I was not, not, not going to tell him about the face blindness. But maybe I could tell him about what it felt like. “My whole life, my brain was always just so … reliable. But now, not as much. I keep getting things wrong. I can’t trust myself. The whole world looks different. And so the version of me that you’re getting right now is … kind of a mess. Much more of a mess than usual.” If Joe had any sense of what a big deal it was for me to admit to anyone ever that I wasn’t A-okay, he did not show it. “You’re not that much of a mess,” Joe said, his voice softer. “I smashed a glass door today.” “That was a mess,” Joe conceded. “Anyway, I’m really sorry,” I said. “Getting super mad at people over wrong assumptions is not normally my thing.” “It’s fine. You can make it up to me.” “How?” Joe gave a shrug. “Just un-cancel the portrait.” “Funny you should ask,” I said. “That’s exactly what I came here to do.” Twenty-One BY THE TIME Joe showed at my place for the final portrait attempt, it was do or die. Mostly die. Because this portrait was going to lose. Big-time. It might turn into a really compelling piece of art. It might become a fascinating character study. It might wind up beautiful or mesmerizing or powerful. Hell, it might even be salable. But it would not be the kind of portrait the North American Portrait Society was looking for. It would not be the kind of painting that had allowed me to beat out 1,990 other competitors. And it would not look like the work of a twenty-first-century Norman Rockwell—guaranteed. Which was freeing, in a way. Knowing I was going to lose? It meant I could lose with some style. After Joe agreed to the final attempt, Sue gave me a pep talk. “Do you think I can do this?” I’d asked. “What do you mean by ‘do this’?” “Win. Do you think I can win?” “No way in hell,” Sue said.


me had wondered, later, if that was where things had gone wrong. We owed the Goddesses our blood, and if we didn’t give it willingly, they would claim it. But there had been no Goddesses. No Persephone. Only a girl, long lost. I shut the computer and its image of Jessi Walker. I jolted out of my chair. My fingers skimmed over my skin, bumping over scar tissue, a half-conscious inventory of old wounds. I combed my hand through my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, and there was relief in the pain. It was simple. Stimulus and response, a clarity of causation that was better than the mire of my mind. I gulped down a breath. This was the point at which I should call someone, but I had no one to call. My therapist, I supposed, but I hadn’t talked to her since Stahl died, and the idea of explaining everything made me feel ill. I wanted Liv. I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes. I couldn’t breathe. I dropped my hands and strode to the door, my thoughts half-formed and wild. I walked the few steps to room 4 and knocked before I could think better of it. Ethan answered the door, looking concerned. “Naomi. Are you okay? What’s up?” He’d lost the cozy sweater he usually wore and was down to an undershirt and jeans. The sweater had hidden a surprisingly muscular build and a tattoo on his left shoulder—a solid black ring about four inches across. He rubbed a thumb across it absently as he spoke. “Can I come in?” I asked. He glanced behind him. “Uh. Sure,” he said. He opened the door farther and stepped backward, letting me enter without putting my back to him. I shut the door behind me and stood there, fingers resting against the cold door. His dirty clothes were heaped in an open suitcase at the end of the bed. Recording equipment was stored more neatly by the desk, and his laptop was open, with sound-editing software up and running. I wondered if he was editing my “interview.” I walked over, trying to decode the tangle of sound waves and icons. “Naomi?” His fingers brushed my elbow. I dragged my eyes back to his face. “What’s going on?” “I don’t want to be alone,” I said. His fingertips were still on my elbow, barely touching me, like he was afraid of what would happen if he made real contact. Or if he let go. “Do you want to talk?” he asked. Did I? I needed to tell someone. I needed to speak the words to ease the aching pressure in my chest, but I had no one to tell. “Tell me what’s happening,” he said. His voice was so painfully gentle, so kind. His touch as tender as he’d been when he lifted Liv from the water. “I can’t,” I said. I stepped toward him. Some people reach for a bottle. I have never been able to silence my thoughts with alcohol. It only ever blunts my


class="s1">26.

\ \ } HEN THERE WERE NO Other boys around, no other common enemies,

Willy and I would turn on each other.

It happened most often in the back seat while Pa drove us somewhere. A

country house, say. Or a salmon stream. Once, in Scotland, on the way to the

River Spey, we started scuffling, and soon were in a full scrap, rolling back

and forth, trading blows.

Pa swerved to the side of the road, shouted at Willy to get out.

Me? Why me?

Pa didn’t feel the need to explain. Out.

Willy turned to me, furious. He felt I got away with everything. He

stepped out of the car, stomped to the backup car with all the bodyguards,

strapped himself in. (We always wore seatbelts after Mummy’s

disappearance.) The convoy resumed.

Now and then I peered out the back window.

Behind us, I could just make out the future King of England, plotting his

revenge.

27.

' HE FIRST TIME I KILLED anything, Tiggy said: Well done, darling!

64

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She dipped her long, slender fingers into the rabbit’s body, under the flap

of smashed fur, scooped out a dollop of blood and smeared it tenderly across

my forehead, down my cheeks and nose. Now, she said, in her throaty voice,

you are blooded.

Blooding—a tradition from the ages. A show of respect for the slain, an

act of communion by the slayer. Also, a way to mark the crossing from

boyhood into...not manhood. No, not that. But something close.

And so, notwithstanding my hairless torso and chirpy voice, I considered

myself, post-blooding, to be a full-fledged stalker. But around my fifteenth

birthday I was informed that I’d be undertaking the true stalker initiation.

Red deer.

It happened at Balmoral. Early morning, fog on the hills, mist in the

hollows. My guide, Sandy, was a


pace. She wanted to be sure that she’d picked the right spot. She took a seat in a first-class carriage. Important journeys deserved suitable investment. They also deserved expensive millinery. I can’t make a good hat, she told herself stolidly, but I can buy one. She purchased a slanted-cartwheel hat with magenta tips, a big boxy centerpiece, and rosettes all around the brim. It made her look a little like a banker and a little like a prize pony. It was quite something. She wondered if they would treat her differently at the station and, of course, they didn’t. She could have stood in the middle of the terminus throwing banknotes up into the air, and people would have ignored her. She was still herself. She wasn’t the queen. “All right, madam?” said the conductor as she stepped down onto the platform. “Yes, thank you,” she said, feeling her rosettes flapping, but he was back up on his plate, raising his hand to the guard, and the train was already huffing into motion. When the last carriage had turned the corner the noise suddenly died away, and there was only birdsong left behind. Winnie unpinned her hat and felt the sun on her neck. “This is the right place,” she said out loud, testing the fact. She’d copied out the particulars, but she didn’t need to check them: she’d committed them to memory. Take a right at the station, follow the road till it comes to a fork, then head uphill. I trust myself, she thought, setting off down the lane. I know where I’m going. A horse chestnut stood sentinel at the gate. The breeze lifted its boughs and the house peeped through, a flash of pale blue and white, a twinkling of diamond panes. Winnie fetched a key from the neighbor. “No, don’t come with me. I’ll judge the place better myself.” The neighbor wore a marvelously hefty jersey, and tiny wire-rimmed spectacles. She gave Winnie a shrewd, appraising look—and smiled. She had very large teeth. They seemed to indicate great strength. “Of course.” Winnie examined the bedrooms first. Judged how big they were, how comfortable they’d be, how private. Made herself ignore the gentle curves of the garden, the yellow scattering of cowslips, the dense and lovely tangle of the hedgerows. She had to be very sensible about this. She measured the cupboards and the closets. She counted Sue’s list of names. The ones she’d kept her eye on, the ones she knew were in trouble. The ones who’d left Park Lane in a hurry, without explanation, in the night. The ones who might need a place to stay. “It’s a long list,” Mrs. King had said when she looked at it. Winnie had taken her hand gingerly. “If you ever want anywhere yourself, you only need to ask.” Mrs. King had returned the pressure in her fingers. “Thanks,” she said. Winnie marched back to the neighbor’s house. The woman opened the door, frowning over her spectacles. “You’re taking it?” “I live quietly,” Winnie said, “but I shall have


far from the entrance, wearing a colourful cap, playing his guitar. The chords were light on the wind. She thought about going over to him, holding her arms out for a hug: she could do with one. Then she saw Neil and Lin Timms arrive for Sunday lunch, pausing to put money in Jack’s baked beans collection tin. Her father would be there soon for his regular pint. Florence felt the breeze lift the hem of her dress and she smoothed it flat. In the distance, two figures were approaching from Orchard Way. They waved to her and Florence waved back. It was Malia, with Natalie Ledbury. In minutes, they were beside her. Malia threw an arm around Florence’s neck. ‘What are you up to?’ ‘Watching Jack busking.’ Florence sighed, gazing towards the pub. Natalie played with her hair. ‘I used to think he was gorgeous when we were at school, but not as gorgeous as Finn Toomey.’ Malia agreed. ‘Everyone had the hots for Finn Toomey.’ Florence shook her head sadly. It wasn’t a conversation she wanted to join in; talking about boys would eventually lead to secrets she didn’t really want Natalie to know, not yet. She cupped her hands over her belly. ‘You liked Finn, didn’t you, Florence?’ Malia smiled. ‘You liked Adam once too, and I’m sure he still likes you.’ ‘Apparently lots of girls like Bobby.’ Natalie wrinkled her nose. ‘Why anyone would like my moody brother I don’t know, but they do.’ Florence stared at her fingers folded in her lap. Malia asked, ‘What’s Bobby up to nowadays?’ ‘Apart from working? He’s always out late on his bike, goodness knows where. Grandad wants him to start taking more responsibility on the farm. He’s getting on a bit and Dad’s more interested in managing the accounts.’ Natalie waved her left hand, lifting a finger to show a sparkling diamond. ‘Brandon wants to work on the admin side. Grandad will let us have one of the little cottages when we’re married. Of course, the farmhouse is big enough for Grandad and Grandma and my parents, but Brandon and I want some privacy.’ ‘When are you getting married?’ Malia asked. ‘Next summer, after Brandon finishes his farm management course.’ Natalie leaned forward, excited. ‘I’m choosing a wedding dress already. I love going into Tadderly and Charlbury, looking in the windows of the bridal shops. Hey…’ She grabbed her friends’ hands. ‘Come with me next weekend. It’ll be fun.’ ‘We could…’ Malia glanced at Florence, who smiled half-heartedly. ‘Brandon and I are going to wait a few years before we have kids, though.’ Natalie took a deep breath. ‘Brandon wants three or four. I’m not sure. I look at people who were in our class at school who have had kids, and they look so miserable.’ ‘Not everyone ends up like that,’ Malia said quickly. She reached for Florence’s hand. ‘They do,’ Natalie insisted. ‘Do you remember Chelsea Phillips in our class who was pregnant at sixteen? Her little one is six now – can you believe it? And she’s


they had been such good friends, and Griffiths knew how passionately devoted he was to Mildred: he might have spared him. He did not see Mildred again till Friday; he was sick for a sight of her by then; but when she came and he realised that he had gone out of her thoughts entirely, for they were engrossed in Griffiths, he suddenly hated her. He saw now why she and Griffiths loved one another, Griffiths was stupid, oh so stupid! he had known that all along, but had shut his eyes to it, stupid and empty-headed: that charm of his concealed an utter selfishness; he was willing to sacrifice anyone to his appetites. And how inane was the life he led, lounging about bars and drinking in music halls, wandering from one light amour to another! He never read a book, he was blind to everything that was not frivolous and vulgar; he had never a thought that was fine: the word most common on his lips was smart; that was his highest praise for man or woman. Smart! It was no wonder he pleased Mildred. They suited one another. Philip talked to Mildred of things that mattered to neither of them. He knew she wanted to speak of Griffiths, but he gave her no opportunity. He did not refer to the fact that two evenings before she had put off dining with him on a trivial excuse. He was casual with her, trying to make her think he was suddenly grown indifferent; and he exercised peculiar skill in saying little things which he knew would wound her; but which were so indefinite, so delicately cruel, that she could not take exception to them. At last she got up. "I think I must be going off now," she said. "I daresay you've got a lot to do," he answered. She held out her hand, he took it, said good-bye, and opened the door for her. He knew what she wanted to speak about, and he knew also that his cold, ironical air intimidated her. Often his shyness made him seem so frigid that unintentionally he frightened people, and, having discovered this, he was able when occasion arose to assume the same manner. "You haven't forgotten what you promised?" she said at last, as he held open the door. "What is that?" "About the money" "How much d'you want?" He spoke with an icy deliberation which made his words peculiarly offensive. Mildred flushed. He knew she hated him at that moment, and he wondered at the self-control by which she prevented herself from flying out at him. He wanted to make her suffer. "There's the dress and the book tomorrow. That's all. Harry won't come, so we shan't want money for that." Philip's heart gave a great thud against his ribs, and he let the door handle go. The door swung to. "Why not?" "He says we couldn't, not on your money." A devil seized Philip, a devil of self-torture which was always lurking within him, and, though with all his soul


times, sadly then she said. A man. Bloowho went by by Moulang's pipes bearing in his breast the sweets of sin, by Wine's antiques, in memory bearing sweet sinful words, by Carroll's dusky battered plate, for Raoul. The boots to them, them in the bar, them barmaids came. For them unheeding him he banged on the counter his tray of chattering china. And --There's your teas, he said. Miss Kennedy with manners transposed the teatray down to an upturned lithia crate, safe from eyes, low. --What is it? loud boots unmannerly asked. --Find out, miss Douce retorted, leaving her spyingpoint. --Your BEAU, is it? A haughty bronze replied: --I'll complain to Mrs de Massey on you if I hear any more of your impertinent insolence. --Imperthnthn thnthnthn, bootssnout sniffed rudely, as he retreated as she threatened as he had come. Bloom. On her flower frowning miss Douce said: --Most aggravating that young brat is. If he doesn't conduct himself I'll wring his ear for him a yard long. Ladylike in exquisite contrast. --Take no notice, miss Kennedy rejoined. She poured in a teacup tea, then back in the teapot tea. They cowered under their reef of counter, waiting on footstools, crates upturned, waiting for their teas to draw. They pawed their blouses, both of black satin, two and nine a yard, waiting for their teas to draw, and two and seven. Yes, bronze from anear, by gold from afar, heard steel from anear, hoofs ring from afar, and heard steelhoofs ringhoof ringsteel. --Am I awfully sunburnt? Miss bronze unbloused her neck. --No, said miss Kennedy. It gets brown after. Did you try the borax with the cherry laurel water? Miss Douce halfstood to see her skin askance in the barmirror gildedlettered where hock and claret glasses shimmered and in their midst a shell. --And leave it to my hands, she said. --Try it with the glycerine, miss Kennedy advised. Bidding her neck and hands adieu miss Douce --Those things only bring out a rash, replied, reseated. I asked that old fogey in Boyd's for something for my skin. Miss Kennedy, pouring now a fulldrawn tea, grimaced and prayed: --O, don't remind me of him for mercy' sake! --But wait till I tell you, miss Douce entreated. Sweet tea miss Kennedy having poured with milk plugged both two ears with little fingers. --No, don't, she cried. --I won't listen, she cried. But Bloom? Miss Douce grunted in snuffy fogey's tone: --For your what? says he. Miss Kennedy unplugged her ears to hear, to speak: but said, but prayed again: --Don't let me think of him or I'll expire. The hideous old wretch! That night in the Antient Concert Rooms. She sipped distastefully her brew, hot tea, a sip, sipped, sweet tea. --Here he was, miss Douce said, cocking her bronze head three quarters, ruffling her nosewings. Hufa! Hufa! Shrill shriek of laughter sprang from miss Kennedy's throat. Miss Douce huffed and snorted down her nostrils that quivered imperthnthn like a snout in quest. --O! shrieking, miss Kennedy cried. Will you ever forget his


pride. But there’s something more, some small voice of reason that urges Nick toward self-preservation. There’s going to be a time when Nick will want some distance from Andy. When this new thing between them comes to an end, he isn’t going to want to run into Andy in the elevator. He sure as shit isn’t going to want Andy’s signature on his paycheck. “We were thinking,” says Hollenbeck, “that you might like a column. Maybe a bit more freedom to choose which stories you want to cover.” And then he mentions a number that Nick at first thinks must be a mistake, a solid twenty percent higher than what he’s making at the Chronicle. Nick knows that the only reason other papers might want him is because they want to handicap the Chronicle by removing anything that might be a market advantage. Nick isn’t that good. There’s no harm in hearing the man out, though. It’s good to know what kind of opportunities are out there. “Yes,” Nick says. “I’d like that.” * * * First thing Friday morning there’s another fire in Gowanus. Jorgensen sends Nick to the crime scene. Ed Meyer has been covering this string of arsons, but he’s stuck on Staten Island for some godforsaken reason and won’t get to Brooklyn until noon, so Nick’s on deck. On his way out, he makes a detour to the seventh floor to let Andy know that he won’t be around for lunch. “I’ll come along,” says Andy, looking like Nick’s bailed him out of jail. He springs out from behind his enormous new desk in his enormous new office. Nick raises an eyebrow. Andy isn’t even pretending not to hate his new job. “Shut up,” Andy mutters. “And put that eyebrow away.” It’s raining when they get downstairs. The past few days were sunny and about as warm as April can get in New York, so this weather feels like a slap in the face, a lesson that nobody should get too comfortable. Andy opens his umbrella and sighs. “I’m betting that if I suggest a cab, you’re going to laugh in my face.” “No cabs in weather like this. Besides, the subway will get us there twice as fast.” Nick turns up the collar of his coat and makes for the subway entrance. The subway station is wet and muggy, with filthy-looking puddles littering the floor and drips coming from improbable places on the ceiling. It’s the sort of day when nobody even looks at one another. It feels like everyone’s mood is brittle, liable to snap at the slightest provocation. When the train arrives, the car is half empty, so they keep a seat’s worth of space between them. That empty eighteen inches of rattan is taunting Nick, as bad as the suddenly shitty weather or everyone’s shitty mood or the shitty arsonist. Nick hates that empty seat. It feels unnatural to go from touching someone constantly every evening to acting like touching that person is the furthest thing from his mind. Every night that week, they’ve


knew you were my opposite. A nemesis usually is.” “I prefer former rival.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “Tell me something more about you.” “More? Such as what?” “Anything.” “Very well. I had a pet snail when I was seven.” “A snail?” Iris nodded. “His name was Morgie. I kept him in a serving dish with a little tray of water and some rocks and a few wilted flowers. I told him all of my secrets.” “And whatever happened to Morgie?” “He slinked away one day when I was at school. I came home to discover him gone, and he was nowhere to be found. I cried for a fortnight.” “I can imagine that was devastating,” Roman said, at which Iris playfully batted him. “Don’t poke fun at me, Kitt.” “I’m not, Iris.” He effortlessly caught her hand in his, and they both came to a halt in the middle of the street. “Tell me more.” “More?” she breathed, and while her hand felt hot as kindling, she didn’t pull away from him. “If I tell you anything else today, you’ll grow tired of me.” “Impossible,” he whispered. She felt that shyness creeping over her again. What was happening right now, and why did it feel like wings were beating in her stomach? “What’s your middle name?” Roman asked suddenly. Iris arched her brow, amused. “You might have to earn that morsel of information.” “Oh, come now. Could you at least give me the initial? It would only be fair.” “I suppose I can’t argue with that,” she said. “My middle name begins with an E.” Roman smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “And whatever could it be? Iris Enchanting Winnow? Iris Ethereal Winnow? Iris Exquisite Winnow?” “My gods, Kitt,” she said, blushing. “Let me save us both from this torture. It’s Elizabeth.” “Iris Elizabeth Winnow,” Roman echoed, and she shivered to hear her name in his mouth. Iris held his stare until the mirth faded from his eyes. He was looking at her the way he had in Zeb’s office. As if he could see all of her, and Iris swallowed, telling her heart to calm, to slow. “I need to say something to you,” Roman said, tracing her knuckles with his thumb. “You mentioned the other day that you think I’m only here to ‘outshine’ you. But that’s the furthest thing from the truth. I broke my engagement, quit my job, and traveled six hundred kilometers into war-torn land to be with you, Iris.” Iris squirmed. This didn’t feel real. The way he was looking at her, holding her hand. This must be a dream on the verge of dashing. “Kitt, I—” “Please, let me finish.” She nodded, but she inwardly braced herself. “I don’t really care to write about the war,” he said. “Of course, I’ll do it because the Inkridden Tribune is paying me to, but I would much rather that your articles live on the front page. I would much rather read what you write. Even if they aren’t letters to me.” He paused, rolling


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

and automatically, but there was a brittleness in her smile that even I could recognize, and so I retreated to the fireside. Auður continued to eat and drink only when instructed to, and when the meal was complete, she sat with her head slumped and her hair in her face until her aunt took her home. “Is she always like that?” I said. Thora gave me a brief, sharp look, then nodded. “That child would carve out her own heart if someone ordered her to.” There was a cold sweat upon my brow. “What did they do to her?” “What did they do?” Thora repeated. “Did you not see? She’s hollow. There’s less substance there than the shadow of a ghost. But at least she returned.” The words had an emphasis that made me swallow. “And how many others did not?” Thora did not look at me. “Your dinner is growing cold,” she said, and there was something beneath the pleasantness in her voice that I did not dare challenge. When Shadow and I returned to the cottage, we found the embers still hot in the woodstove, a fact that filled me with an ill-fated pride. I decided I would read for a time at the fireside, if only to put Auður from my mind, for she had unsettled me more than I cared to admit. Reaching into the wood box brought me swiftly down to earth, though, for I found only two logs remaining. I chewed my lip, shivering lightly. I recalled Krystjan’s reference to the woodshed, and wished, abruptly, that I had taken Finn’s advice and “settled in” instead of spending the day charging hither and thither about the countryside. There are times when my scholarly enthusiasm gets the better of me, but I have never had cause to regret this so deeply before. Well, there was nothing for it. I lit the lantern and thrust myself back out into the snow. Fortunately, the woodshed was easily located, tucked beneath the eaves. My heart sank, however, when I looked within. The wood had not been cut into logs, but piled up in huge chunks that would never fit into my humble stove. I was shivering in earnest now. Shadow, perfectly comfortable in his bearish coat, grew anxious at my distress. Correctly intuiting the woodshed as its source, he proceeded to attack the door. “Stop that, my love,” I admonished. I hefted what appeared to be a whole segment of trunk and grimly set to work. I took up the axe set atop the woodpile and placed the trunk upon a stump. Then I swung. The first time, I missed. The second too. The third, I buried the axe in the wood, where it stuck fast and would not be dislodged. I wrenched on it. I stuck a foot against the stump and wrenched again. And though I am not usually the sort for cursing, I’ve no doubt I withered a few weeds with the stream of filth that fell from my lips. Eventually, weary and cold and aching in my


that had happened. Forty-eight hours. Ewers had been gone for forty-eight hours. “Now, hand me that.” “Oh, yes, here you go,” Tristán said and he passed the photo album to José. The nitrate print was gone, burned away to a crisp, and so was Ewers’s book. Montserrat had burned all photos of Ewers when she got home, not because any power remained in them but simply because she didn’t wish to remember him. But there were other photos in the album, pictures of Abel that José might want to keep. José flipped the pages, his hands touching the edge of a photo, and he smiled. “Thank you for this,” he said, closing the album. “Now, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m feeling tired, and it is the longest night of the year, a dangerous evening. It’s best we head to bed early.” “But Ewers and his cultists are gone,” Tristán said, frowning. “Right? You said so yourself, his magic has vanished, and they can’t harm us.” “Of course. You have nothing to fear from them. You feel it, don’t you? The absence of his magic?” Montserrat wasn’t sure about Tristán, but she did. It was like having a tooth removed, almost painful. She had grown used to Ewers’s power, the spells and runes. She hadn’t realized how enmeshed she was in his web until he had disappeared. The loss of magic, of power, hurt worse than the scrapes on their bodies. “Okay, then what’s the problem?” Tristán asked. “Problem? Nothing, maybe. But sometimes, when you’ve been around magic, you tend to attract the attention of other things that lurk in shadows. Monsters, ghosts, and the evil eye. I’ve tattooed myself for a reason,” José said, showing them his wrist, with its circle of ink. “We should tattoo ourselves against monsters and ghosts?” Tristán asked, raising an eyebrow at him. “Sure. Top to bottom.” When Tristán stared at him in anguish José laughed and slapped his leg. “Look at you! God, I think you turned purple right there.” They rose and shook hands. José shuffled after them, walking them to the door. He paused, giving Montserrat a curious look as she took her coat from a hook. “I have to admit, I wasn’t sure you’d actually destroy him,” he said. “That was the plan, wasn’t it?” Montserrat said, toying with the collar of her coat. “Yes. But Alma didn’t do it. She stole a piece of his magic and kept it hidden, used it for herself.” “Then thirty-two years later he returned. It would have been foolish to attempt to subdue him and play with his toys,” Montserrat said, and then, noticing José’s expression, she cocked her head. “Did you think you might do that?” “The thought crossed my mind. I was tempted. I thought you might be, too.” “Ewers offered nothing that was true.” The cat had not moved from the couch, simply regarding them with one open eye before going back to sleep. By the time they stepped out it was dark. Montserrat buried her hands in her coat


you know what?” “Mary never told me,” Jessie says as she stands and crosses the room to her dresser, where she drops the Polaroids into the top drawer. “At first, I thought it was some kind of physical therapy. You know, working on Lenora’s motor skills. But they were there all the time. Sometimes even after Lenora was supposed to have been put to bed.” She moves to a tape recorder sitting atop the dresser next to a hardcover copy of Lace with a library sticker on its spine. She pops a cassette from the recorder and hands it to me. “This is for Lenora. Part one of the new book. Maybe it’ll take her mind off everything.” “Thanks.” I pocket the cassette and head to the door. Before leaving, I turn back to Jessie and say, “Did anyone else know about the typing?” “I don’t think so,” Jessie says. “I only knew because I walked in on them one night. I thought it would be a cool picture, so I stood in the doorway and took it before they realized I was there. Mary kind of freaked out about it. She made me swear not to tell anyone. I probably shouldn’t have even told you.” But I’m glad she did. Because now I know why Mary knew so much about the Hope family and what happened that night. Lenora told her. I see that look you’re giving me. I’m more observant than people give me credit for. And right now I can tell that you think you won’t like where all this is going. You won’t. But I promised to tell you everything, so that’s what I’m giving you. My deepest, darkest secrets. Things I’ve never told anyone before. Only you, Mary. Only you. TWENTY-ONE The fingers of Lenora’s left hand sit atop the typewriter, atypically still. Under normal circumstances, they’d be sliding from key to key, slowly but surely adding words to the blank page I’ve wound into the carriage. But these circumstances are anything but normal. A pall has settled over the house now that the police have left. The place is quiet and the mood somber. A resident of Hope’s End is gone, and while I never knew Mary Milton, I feel her loss all the same. We were alike in so many ways. More than I ever imagined. That’s why I brought Lenora to the typewriter after dinner instead of guiding her through her circulation exercises. An infraction I know Mrs. Baker wouldn’t approve of. I stand next to Lenora, hugging myself despite the gray cardigan thrown over my uniform. Although the storm has passed, it’s left behind a damp chill that seeps through the windows, giving her room the shivery air of a ghost ship. Fitting, seeing how on the desk next to the typewriter is the page Lenora had typed on earlier. Two words catch my eye. my sister “Why did you lie to me about Mary being scared of your sister?” Lenora looks up at me, apprehension flashing in her green eyes. Then she


I hope you have welcomed Mr. Pip?" And she looked up from her book, and said, "Yes." She then smiled upon me in an absent state of mind, and asked me if I liked the taste of orange-flower water? As the question had no bearing, near or remote, on any foregone or subsequent transaction, I consider it to have been thrown out, like her previous approaches, in general conversational condescension. I found out within a few hours, and may mention at once, that Mrs. Pocket was the only daughter of a certain quite accidental deceased Knight, who had invented for himself a conviction that his deceased father would have been made a Baronet but for somebody's determined opposition arising out of entirely personal motives - I forget whose, if I ever knew - the Sovereign's, the Prime Minister's, the Lord Chancellor's, the Archbishop of Canterbury's, anybody's - and had tacked himself on to the nobles of the earth in right of this quite supposititious fact. I believe he had been knighted himself for storming the English grammar at the point of the pen, in a desperate address engrossed on vellum, on the occasion of the laying of the first stone of some building or other, and for handing some Royal Personage either the trowel or the mortar. Be that as it may, he had directed Mrs. Pocket to be brought up from her cradle as one who in the nature of things must marry a title, and who was to be guarded from the acquisition of plebeian domestic knowledge. So successful a watch and ward had been established over the young lady by this judicious parent, that she had grown up highly ornamental, but perfectly helpless and useless. With her character thus happily formed, in the first bloom of her youth she had encountered Mr. Pocket: who was also in the first bloom of youth, and not quite decided whether to mount to the Woolsack, or to roof himself in with a mitre. As his doing the one or the other was a mere question of time, he and Mrs. Pocket had taken Time by the forelock (when, to judge from its length, it would seem to have wanted cutting), and had married without the knowledge of the judicious parent. The judicious parent, having nothing to bestow or withhold but his blessing, had handsomely settled that dower upon them after a short struggle, and had informed Mr. Pocket that his wife was "a treasure for a Prince." Mr. Pocket had invested the Prince's treasure in the ways of the world ever since, and it was supposed to have brought him in but indifferent interest. Still, Mrs. Pocket was in general the object of a queer sort of respectful pity, because she had not married a title; while Mr. Pocket was the object of a queer sort of forgiving reproach, because he had never got one. Mr. Pocket took me into the house and showed me my room: which was a pleasant one, and so furnished as that I could use it with


only regrets that Godfrey kept this secret so long, depriving them of the child for many years. She knows attachments build over time, and lost time can't be recovered. Godfrey is amazed that he didn't predict Nancy's reaction better. Have you ever had a moment like this--when someone you thought you knew inside and out revealed new depths? If so, you know how unsettling it is. Godfrey probes Nancy's feelings, testing whether she really disapproves of him or not. But Nancy, like Dolly, believes that the pattern of events is mysterious and that people can't judge the ultimate outcome of their actions. She doesn't completely forgive Godfrey, but she accepts what's done as done. They agree upon their duty now--to go to Marner's cottage and offer to adopt Eppie. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 19 Eliot prevented you from thinking too much about Silas in the previous chapter. But she moves her scene now to Silas' cottage, where Silas sits contentedly with Eppie. His face is transformed by excitement, because his stolen money has been recovered. Now he has both his treasures. But he explains to Eppie that she has become more precious to him than his gold ever was. He would rather not have the gold back, if it meant losing Eppie. He speaks as though some conscious power took the money away, sent Eppie to him, and then returned the money for him and Eppie to use. Ironically, just as he's saying how forsaken he'd feel if he ever lost her, a knock comes at the door. Eppie opens it to see Mr. and Mrs. Cass, as she politely calls them. She doesn't yet know what you know--that they've come to take her from Silas. In this scene, Eliot lets you know each character's feelings and reactions at each point. In fact, she scarcely describes the physical scene at all, concentrating instead on the inner drama. The speeches themselves are dramatic, but Eliot adds to this by letting you feel the emotional currents that run beneath them. Godfrey begins by referring to that day's discovery. It sounds as if he wants to make things up to Silas for Dunstan's robbery. Godfrey's decided to hide the fact of Eppie's birth, if possible. Subtly, he's working his way toward offering to adopt Eppie as a favor to Silas. Meanwhile, the weaver answers him honestly, showing his usual respect for the upper class. Silas doesn't catch the implications of Godfrey's words at all. He simply says that he and Eppie need no help. Eppie innocently pipes up that she would like a garden. Nancy immediately responds to this. You've seen before that Eppie is as tidy as Nancy, and that both have strong family feelings. You've also seen that Eppie is unusually well bred for a village girl. Some readers think Eliot is suggesting that Nancy would be a good second mother for Eppie. If so, this adds tension to the dramatic choice Eppie will soon have to make. This conversation is more difficult for Godfrey than he expected, but he presses on. (Compare


three against the world. He hopes they will want that as much as he does, but it isn’t his place to assume what is best for them. The property features white ranch fencing that extends from a pair of massive stacked-stone columns flanking a formidable bronze gate. A post beside the driveway offers a call button and intercom, as well as a lighted keypad. There’s no one in the house to answer the call, or shouldn’t be. As John wakes and sits up in the back, Michael powers down the driver’s window and enters the guest code that’s been assigned to the family that will be in residence here for two weeks. The halves of the ornate gate swing slowly inward. The boy says, “Does a king live here?” “A tech king owns it. He developed microchips that processed data five times faster than those that existed before him.” “Crazy. Imagine if they were ten times faster.” “He’d own the world,” Michael says. The long driveway is overhung by colonnades of live oaks. Low mushroom lamps pour pools of light onto the cobbled pavement, which ends in a large moon-washed motor court. The two-story house is somewhat reminiscent of the work of Frank Lloyd Wright, with a low-pitched roof, broad overhanging eaves, and linear masonry. Michael parks near the front steps. He retrieves the AR-15 and the two spare magazines he hasn’t used. The boy brings the duffel bag, and when they climb the steps, Nina plays the beam of her Tac Light over the terrace-like front porch. All the windows are dark, and no voice calls out to demand they explain their presence. Crickets and various night birds perform their timeless chorales. The security package hasn’t been modernized; no electronic lock exists for Michael to release. He uses the buttstock of the AR-15 to smash one of the panes in the door. Evidently, glass-break detection isn’t part of the system, for no alarm sounds. He reaches inside, feels for the deadbolt, finds the thumb turn, and disengages the lock. When he opens the door, the alarm begins to beep, counting down a grace period during which he can enter a disarming code. The one he has is that of the property manager, which earlier he fished from the security company’s files. The beeping stops. Nina turns on lights, revealing limestone floors. Dark wood walls with a glossy piano finish. A Persian rug in jewel tones. They move through the main rooms, which feature more of the same, the Wrightian furniture stands on rugs worth perhaps a couple hundred thousand each. “I could live here,” John says. His mother advises, “We’re just visiting, honey.” In the kitchen, they find that the two Sub-Zeros are stocked with items apparently ordered by the guests who will be forthcoming. John is especially taken with a freezer compartment full of premium gelatos. Michael steps into the garage and switches on the lights. He finds six stalls and two vehicles, a Lincoln Continental and a Range Rover. The time has come to abandon the Bentley somewhere it


precisely as a stage set, slipping into various characters' minds. She is inside Godfrey's thoughts when an unexpected visitor appears at the door. Through Godfrey's eyes, your attention is focused not on Silas but on the child in his arms. Godfrey immediately recognizes his own child. NOTE: PARALLELS Silas interrupts this scene just as he did the scene at the Rainbow in Chapter 7. In both scenes he appears like a ghost. Here, however, rather than a literal specter, he's a ghostly reminder of Godfrey's double life. Eliot shows you this scene on two levels: the outer public event and Godfrey's inner reaction to it. The men in charge respond discreetly to Silas' news about the woman he's found in the snow, keeping the shocking news from the ladies. The ladies, however, press around Silas, naturally attracted to the pretty baby. Meanwhile Godfrey's thoughts are in turmoil, though he fights to look calm. Unlike Dunstan, who'd probably regard this as good luck, Godfrey is afraid his wife isn't really dead--and he's ashamed of that feeling. Silas makes a startling announcement--that he plans to keep the child. He speaks of this as his "right," as though she were a prize he'd won. She does cling to him, trusting him more than the motherly women around her. No one seems to take Silas' announcement seriously, however. Like the men at the Rainbow, these people stir themselves to help Silas. There are limits, however, to their charity. Mrs. Kimble is reluctant to touch the dirty baby. The Squire suggests to Kimble to send his apprentice to the woman in the snow instead of going himself. To the public eye, Godfrey appears to be helping out of a sense of duty. What do you think his real motives are? Notice how his daughter's cry tears at his heart, as if a plant ("some fibre") were growing there. Eliot emphasizes his emotional state with one detail--the thin dress shoes that, in his hurry, he wears out into the snow. Dolly Winthrop, whom he fetches for help, ironically praises him for going to such trouble. Later, his uncle Kimble tells him it was silly for him to come out to help. It seems the gentry aren't expected to help the way villagers are. As Godfrey wrestles with his conscience, waiting to hear if his wife is dead, he feels responsible for his child. He considers acknowledging her, which he knows is the right thing to do. But he realizes that if he doesn't, he'll be able to marry Nancy. Love for Nancy, not just shame over his wife, pushes him toward moral cowardice. In Silas' cottage, he takes one last look at his wife, who's been pronounced dead. (Eliot calls her "unhappy," which can mean unlucky as well as miserable.) What do you think Godfrey feels as he looks at her? NOTE: FORESHADOWING Eliot tells you that, sixteen years later, Godfrey will tell the "full story of this night." Thus, you know Godfrey won't tell his secret now, but in the future something will make him tell all.


my hand on Paige’s shoulder. “I hate to break it to you, but this whole thing”—I gesture to the surrounding woods and cabins—“it’s all fake. It’s not a movie, Paige. It’s just a little fun for people who like to be scared.” Something turns in my gut as I say the words. Like, I know they’re not entirely true. Images of the figure in the water flood my mind, and I look out over the lake. Paige crosses her arms hard over her chest. “Whatever. It’s all fun and games until you’re dead.” “Don’t worry,” Javier says against Tasha’s neck. “I’ll protect you.” Tasha smiles way too hard and loops her arm around his waist. “Well, I’m going to bed,” Porter says dramatically, clapping his hands together. “Kyle, you bunking with me tonight, ’cause I’m scared and I’m not afraid to admit that.” Kyle shrugs. “Fine, but you’re sleeping next to the door.” “The hell I am,” Porter grumbles. I take Bezi’s hand and pull her down the path toward the staff cabins. Kyle and Porter argue about who’s going to fight Ms. Nancy Keane if she shows back up and which one of them is going to cover down for Felix if he misses his morning shift again. Tasha and Javier are saying things to each other that no human ears need to hear. Passing by the lake, I look out over its glassy surface, and a deep sense of foreboding works itself inside my chest and settles there. “I saw something out in the water.” Paige stops dead in her tracks and turns to me. “What?” “In the lake,” I say. I don’t want to keep it to myself anymore. I’m bothered by what I saw in a way that I can’t shake off. “During the game yesterday. I thought one of the guests went out there and was drowning. I grabbed the life preserver from the lifeguard station and threw it in the water.” “You saw a person?” Bezi asks. Everyone is looking at me now. “I thought it was—at first. But I kept looking, and they didn’t reach for me or try to move. They didn’t make a noise or anything.” As I think about it, the initial splash was the only noise I’d heard and then nothing but silence. “There was something in the water, but I wasn’t sure exactly what.” I start to doubt what I saw. Saying it aloud makes it sound ridiculous. A person? Not a person? An animal? I shake my head. “Maybe working out here is getting to me.” Bezi squeezes my hand as she gazes across the lake. “I don’t like it.” “It was probably a carp or something,” Kyle says. “They’re all in the lakes out here and they’re huge. They can be three or four feet long. Bigger if they have a food source.” “Maybe,” I say, even though I don’t believe for one second that what I saw was a fish. This place—in the middle of the woods, far from anything—that’s scary enough as it is. It’s the


brows. As the Fuwalda passed through the narrow entrance to the harbor and out of sight behind a projecting point, Lady Alice threw her arms about Clayton's neck and burst into uncontrolled sobs. Bravely had she faced the dangers of the mutiny; with heroic fortitude she had looked into the terrible future; but now that the horror of absolute solitude was upon them, her overwrought nerves gave way, and the reaction came. He did not attempt to check her tears. It were better that nature have her way in relieving these long-pent emotions, and it was many minutes before the girl--little more than a child she was--could again gain mastery of herself. "Oh, John," she cried at last, "the horror of it. What are we to do? What are we to do?" "There is but one thing to do, Alice," and he spoke as quietly as though they were sitting in their snug living room at home, "and that is work. Work must be our salvation. We must not give ourselves time to think, for in that direction lies madness. "We must work and wait. I am sure that relief will come, and come quickly, when once it is apparent that the Fuwalda has been lost, even though Black Michael does not keep his word to us." "But John, if it were only you and I," she sobbed, "we could endure it I know; but--" "Yes, dear," he answered, gently, "I have been thinking of that, also; but we must face it, as we must face whatever comes, bravely and with the utmost confidence in our ability to cope with circumstances whatever they may be. "Hundreds of thousands of years ago our ancestors of the dim and distant past faced the same problems which we must face, possibly in these same primeval forests. That we are here today evidences their victory. "What they did may we not do? And even better, for are we not armed with ages of superior knowledge, and have we not the means of protection, defense, and sustenance which science has given us, but of which they were totally ignorant? What they accomplished, Alice, with instruments and weapons of stone and bone, surely that may we accomplish also." Chapter 2 17 "Ah, John, I wish that I might be a man with a man's philosophy, but I am but a woman, seeing with my heart rather than my head, and all that I can see is too horrible, too unthinkable to put into words. "I only hope you are right, John. I will do my best to be a brave primeval woman, a fit mate for the primeval man." Clayton's first thought was to arrange a sleeping shelter for the night; something which might serve to protect them from prowling beasts of prey. He opened the box containing his rifles and ammunition, that they might both be armed against possible attack while at work, and then together they sought a location for their first night's sleeping place. A hundred yards from the beach was a little level spot,


day. I’m going to turn in early,” she said. “You get your beauty sleep.” * * * Upstairs, Marion stepped inside Simon’s bedroom. On his bureau sat several framed photos of Marion and Judy when they were young, along with one of Lucille from her wedding day. She wore a bias-cut silk dress that skimmed her hips and fell to the floor. Simple and classic. Marion hadn’t thought about wedding dresses just yet—Nathaniel’s mother would probably want to take her into the city and help her shop for one—but she might be able to fit into her mother’s dress, if it had been saved. It would be a way to pay tribute to her and would make her father proud. She climbed into the attic and began sorting through the boxes and trunks stacked under the eaves. It had a peaked ceiling, so she could stand upright in the center but had to hunch over everywhere else. One of the trunks held some of her mother’s evening gowns, and at the very bottom lay a long white dress. She’d found it. But once she’d pulled it out and held it up to the bare lightbulb that lit the space, her heart sank. The years had slowly turned the white silk more of a tea color, and the fabric practically fell apart in her hands. If Lucille were alive, no doubt she would have made sure it was stored properly. Most of the time, Marion’s lack of a mother didn’t figure into her day-to-day life, although sometimes she’d try to recall her voice or what her hands looked like. Marion had just turned seven when Lucille was summoned to the Boston bedside of a sick friend. Marion and Judy had happily carried on with their lives, with Mrs. Hornsby seamlessly taking over in the interim, until one day after school, when Simon sat them down and shakily explained that a driver had hit and killed Lucille the night before as she was crossing Boylston Street. The name of the street always stuck in Marion’s head. Such an ugly name, like a boil. Marion shook off the memory. As she closed the lid of the trunk, a box behind it caught her eye. The cardboard was dusty and wrinkled, her mother’s handwriting on the front faded. Mementos, it read. Marion pulled it over to where she could open it without hitting her head on the ceiling. Inside were what looked like dozens of thin paperback books, but on second glance she realized they were plays: Shaw, Williams, O’Neill, Odets. There were also a good number of playbills from Broadway and off-Broadway productions. She opened a crinkled envelope and gasped. Inside was an invitation from the American Academy of Dramatic Arts to study acting, dated 1931. She did the math in her head. Lucille would’ve been eighteen. Marion’s heart began to pound, as if she’d discovered a trove of her mother’s love letters to another man. Lucille had delighted in going to the theater, but she’d never mentioned anything about attending drama school. A daily


Hope’s End was a place where young women are given the benefit of the doubt. That’s not true everywhere. It’s true hardly anywhere. Perhaps Lenora tried to tell her story all those years ago and no one believed her. Or, worse, no one even listened. Maybe she thinks I will. And that I’ll believe she’s innocent. Because she thinks the same of me. That idea—that Lenora’s urge to talk stems not from shared guilt but possibly shared innocence—is ultimately why I wheel her to the desk, where the page from last night sits next to the typewriter. Even though I don’t remember removing it, I must have. I wrack my brain, trying to recall the events of last night. Lenora offering to tell me everything. Finding Mary’s belongings. The wind and the waves and the creaking floorboards. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that I left that page in the typewriter. “Lenora, was someone in here last night?” She responds with a single-tap no against the wheelchair armrest. “Are you sure?” Two taps. I stare at Lenora. She stares back, looking utterly guileless. If she’s lying—and I see no reason why she would be—she hides it well. And even though I’m close to certain I didn’t move that page, I’m also aware someone else could have done it while Lenora was asleep. Mrs. Baker slipping in to do some snooping, for instance. Or Jessie coming in bright and early to tidy up. “It doesn’t matter,” I say, because it truly doesn’t. What matters is that Lenora is about to reveal all. And my job is to help her do it. In a desk drawer, I find a partial ream of paper and insert a new page into the carriage. I then place Lenora’s left hand on the typewriter, wondering if this is the start of something wonderful or something I’ll regret. Or if it will end up being anything at all. Lenora’s fingers twitch atop the keys, almost as if she’s unable to keep them still any longer. I inhale, exhale, nod. Then we begin. THIRTEEN The thing I remember most--the thing I still have nightmares about--is when it was all but over. That’s what Lenora typed first, hours ago, when the sun was still rising over the Atlantic. The full sentence took me by surprise. Until then, she’d only typed fragments, ignoring rules of capitalization and punctuation. It took a few confused seconds from me and a few exasperated taps from her before I realized she wanted me to press the shift key while she typed that first capital T. It took even longer for us to settle into some semblance of a rhythm. We got there eventually, though. And that’s where we remain, even though the sun has left the sky and the murky light of dusk now settles over the ocean outside. Lenora uses her good hand to brush against mine, a signal she needs me to press the shift key. When the typewriter dings, I hit the return bar, bringing the carriage back


of the public favour; and she had no intellectual superiority to make atonement to herself, or frighten those who might hate her into outward respect. She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her youth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman, and a woman whom no one named without good-will. It was her own universal good-will and contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved every body, was interested in every body's happiness, quicksighted to every body's merits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, and surrounded with blessings in such an excellent mother, and so many good neighbours and friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity to herself. She was a great talker upon little matters, which exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial communications and harmless gossip. Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School--not of a seminary, or an establishment, or any thing which professed, in long sentences of refined nonsense, to combine liberal acquirements with elegant morality, upon new principles and new systems--and where young ladies for enormous pay might be screwed out of health and into vanity--but a real, honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonable quantity of accomplishments were sold at a reasonable price, and where girls might be sent to be out of the way, and scramble themselves into a little education, without any danger of coming back prodigies. Mrs. Goddard's school was in high repute--and very deservedly; for Highbury was reckoned a particularly healthy spot: she had an ample house and garden, gave the children plenty of wholesome food, let them run about a great deal in the summer, and in winter dressed their chilblains with her own hands. It was no wonder that a train of twenty young couple now walked after her to church. She was a plain, motherly kind of woman, who had worked hard in her youth, and now thought herself entitled to the occasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having formerly owed much to Mr. Woodhouse's kindness, felt his particular claim on her to leave her neat parlour, hung round with fancy-work, whenever she could, and win or lose a few sixpences by his fireside. These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very frequently able to collect; and happy was she, for her father's sake, in the power; though, as far as she was herself concerned, it was no remedy for the absence of Mrs. Weston. She was delighted to see her father look comfortable, and very much pleased with herself for contriving things so well; but the quiet prosings of three such women made her feel that every evening so spent was indeed one of the long evenings she had fearfully anticipated. As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a


month. --All Ireland is washed by the gulfstream, Stephen said as he let honey trickle over a slice of the loaf. Haines from the corner where he was knotting easily a scarf about the loose collar of his tennis shirt spoke: --I intend to make a collection of your sayings if you will let me. Speaking to me. They wash and tub and scrub. Agenbite of inwit. Conscience. Yet here's a spot. --That one about the cracked lookingglass of a servant being the symbol of Irish art is deuced good. Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the table and said with warmth of tone: --Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines. --Well, I mean it, Haines said, still speaking to Stephen. I was just thinking of it when that poor old creature came in. --Would I make any money by it? Stephen asked. Haines laughed and, as he took his soft grey hat from the holdfast of the hammock, said: --I don't know, I'm sure. He strolled out to the doorway. Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen and said with coarse vigour: --You put your hoof in it now. What did you say that for? --Well? Stephen said. The problem is to get money. From whom? From the milkwoman or from him. It's a toss up, I think. --I blow him out about you, Buck Mulligan said, and then you come along with your lousy leer and your gloomy jesuit jibes. --I see little hope, Stephen said, from her or from him. Buck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid his hand on Stephen's arm. --From me, Kinch, he said. In a suddenly changed tone he added: --To tell you the God's truth I think you're right. Damn all else they are good for. Why don't you play them as I do? To hell with them all. Let us get out of the kip. He stood up, gravely ungirdled and disrobed himself of his gown, saying resignedly: --Mulligan is stripped of his garments. He emptied his pockets on to the table. --There's your snotrag, he said. And putting on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke to them, chiding them, and to his dangling watchchain. His hands plunged and rummaged in his trunk while he called for a clean handkerchief. God, we'll simply have to dress the character. I want puce gloves and green boots. Contradiction. Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. Mercurial Malachi. A limp black missile flew out of his talking hands. --And there's your Latin quarter hat, he said. Stephen picked it up and put it on. Haines called to them from the doorway: --Are you coming, you fellows? --I'm ready, Buck Mulligan answered, going towards the door. Come out, Kinch. You have eaten all we left, I suppose. Resigned he passed out with grave words and gait, saying, wellnigh with sorrow: --And going forth he met Butterly. Stephen, taking his ashplant from its leaningplace, followed them out and, as they went down the ladder, pulled to the slow iron door and locked it. He


over into the moving valley of his steady wake; and on either hand bright bubbles arose and danced by his side. But these were broken again by the light toes of hundreds of gay fowl softly feathering the sea, alternate with their fitful flight; and like to some flag-staff rising from the painted hull of an argosy, the tall but shattered pole of a recent lance projected from the white whale's back; and at intervals one of the cloud of soft-toed fowls hovering, and to and fro skimming like a canopy over the fish, silently perched and rocked on this pole, the long tail feathers streaming like pennons. A gentle joyousness --a mighty mildness of repose in swiftness, invested the gliding whale. Not the white bull Jupiter swimming away with ravished Europa clinging to his graceful horns; his lovely, leering eyes sideways intent upon the maid; with smooth bewitching fleetness, rippling straight for the nuptial bower in Crete; not Jove, not that great majesty Supreme! did surpass the glorified White Whale as he so divinely swam. On each soft side --coincident with the parted swell, that but once leaving him, then flowed so wide away --on each bright side, the whale shed off enticings. No wonder there had been some among the hunters who namelessly transported and allured by all this serenity, had ventured to assail it; but had fatally .. <p 540 > found that quietude but the vesture of tornadoes. Yet calm, enticing calm, oh, whale! thou glidest on, to all who for the first time eye thee, no matter how many in that same way thou may'st have bejuggled and destroyed before. And thus, through the serene tranquillities of the tropical sea, among waves whose hand-clappings were suspended by exceeding rapture, Moby Dick moved on, still withholding from sight the full terrors of his submerged trunk, entirely hiding the wrenched hideousness of his jaw. But soon the fore part of him slowly rose from the water; for an instant his whole marbleized body formed a high arch, like Virginia's Natural Bridge, and warningly waving his bannered flukes in the air, the grand god revealed himself, sounded, and went out of sight. Hoveringly halting, and dipping on the wing, the white sea-fowls longingly lingered over the agitated pool that he left. With oars apeak, and paddles down, the sheets of their sails adrift, the three boats now stilly floated, awaiting Moby Dick's reappearance. An hour, said Ahab, standing rooted in his boat's stern; and he gazed beyond the whale's place, towards the dim blue spaces and wide wooing vacancies to leeward. It was only an instant; for again his eyes seemed whirling round in his head as he swept the watery circle. The breeze now freshened; the sea began to swell. The birds! --the birds! cried Tashtego. In long Indian file, as when herons take wing, the white birds were now all flying towards Ahab's boat; and when within a few yards began fluttering over the water there, wheeling round and round, with joyous, expectant cries. Their vision was keener


George interrupted her. "I'd rather you gave the secret of the wreck away than my secret about Tim," she said. "I do think you've got a careless tongue." "Yes, I have," said Anne, sorrowfully. "I think I'd better not talk at meal-times any more. I love Tim so much I just can't seem to help wanting to talk about him." They all went to play in the other room. Julian turned a table upside down with a crash. "We'll play at wrecks," he said. "This is the wreck. Now we're going to explore it." The door flew open and an angry, frowning face looked in. It was George's father! "What was that noise?" he said. "George! Did you overturn that table?" "I did," said Julian. "I'm sorry, sir. I quite forgot you were working." "Any more noise like that and I shall keep you all in bed tomorrow!" said his Uncle Quentin. "Georgina, keep your cousins quiet." The door shut and Uncle Quentin went out. The children looked at one another. "Your father's awfully fierce, isn't he?" said Julian. "I'm sorry I made that row. I didn't think." "We'd better do something really quiet," said George. "Or he'll keep his word- and we'll find ourselves in bed tomorrow just when we want to explore the wreck." This was a terrible thought. Anne went to get one of her dolls to play with. She had managed to bring quite a number after all. Julian fetched a book. George took up a beautiful little boat she was carving out of a piece of wood. Dick lay back on a chair and thought of the exciting wreck. The rain poured down steadily, and everyone hoped it would have stopped by the morning. "We'll have to be up most awfully early," said Dick, yawning. "What about going to bed in good time tonight? I'm tired with all that rowing." In the ordinary way none of the children liked going to bed early- but with such an exciting thing to look forward to, early-bed seemed different that night. "It will make the time go quickly," said Anne, putting down her doll. "Shall we go now?" "Whatever do you suppose Mother would say if we went just after tea?" said George. "She'd think we were all ill. No, let's go after supper. We'll just say we're tired with rowing- which is perfectly true- and we'll get a good night's sleep, and be ready for our adventure tomorrow morning. And it is an adventure, you know. It isn't many people that have the chance of exploring an old, old wreck like that, which has always been at the bottom of the sea!" So, by eight o'clock, all the children were in bed, rather to Aunt Fanny's surprise. Anne fell asleep at once. Julian and Dick were not long- but George lay awake for some time, thinking of her island, her wreck- and, of course, her beloved dog! "I must take Tim too," she thought, as she fell asleep. "We can't leave old Tim out of this. He shall share


in her mind as Lore forced herself out of bed, nearly stumbling on numb legs, putting a hand on the bedpost to steady herself. He’d looked horrified. Horrified of her, horrified of what she’d done. But he’d been here. Despite what she’d done, he’d been here. What had she done? There’d been no straight answer, though the looks on the other Presque Mort’s faces, that mingled fear and disgust, said it was her fault. But if the other man had gotten in the Mortem’s path, somehow, gotten tangled in the strands that tied her to the leak, she couldn’t have stopped it. That part wasn’t her fault, and she didn’t care if the Presque Mort thought otherwise. But if Gabe thought it… That felt like a spear through the gut. Her mind kept spinning up that last image of Anton, looking at her with placid curiosity. Anton, who’d shaped Mortem in a way she’d never seen before her untrained fingers channeled it through her veins. Had he done something to it? To her? She wanted to believe that, but it felt like an excuse. And she knew Gabe would think the same thing. The burning in her chest wasn’t quite sadness, and it wasn’t quite anger, and it had more shame in it than she’d care to admit. But at least it gave her something to concentrate on as she hobbled toward her bedroom door, something other than the voice she’d heard as all that Mortem coursed through her hands, into her heart. They’ll force you to be stronger, and then break you down. Lore shook her head and pushed open the door. Someone sat on the dusty couch, the fire before them teased to roaring. Not Gabe. Bastian. She stood silent and confused in the doorway as the Sun Prince looked over his shoulder, golden-brown eyes reflecting flames. He stood, stretched casually, the hem of his pristine white shirt riding up to reveal an abdomen still bruised from boxing. “Morning,” he said. “Or, evening, as it were. You slept through dinner, which I suppose isn’t a shock, since you slept through a whole week, too. I brought you something to eat.” His voice sparked in her, like the connection she’d always felt in his presence had sunk deeper, insinuated itself into muscle and marrow. An image flashed across her mind, roses and sunlight in a mountaintop garden, but then it was gone. A tray stood on the small table behind the couch, covered with a gleaming silver cloche, wafting a rich scent Lore didn’t immediately recognize. She pulled off the cloche, barely registering what the dish was before shoving a forkful in her mouth. A bird of some kind, roasted with vegetables. “Peahen,” Bastian offered with a flip of his hand, settling on the arm of the couch to watch her eat. “I hate it, but it seems you don’t.” “I’d eat anything right about now,” Lore said around a full mouth. “See, had you not just gone through something rather traumatic, I’d be making an off-color joke about that. As


another way to prevent the jihad . . . "We'll camp for the evening meal and prayer at Cave of Birds beneath Habbanya Ridge," Stilgar said. He steadied himself with one hook against the swaying of the maker, gestured ahead at a low rock barrier rising out of the desert. Paul studied the cliff, the great streaks of rock crossing it like waves. No green, no blossom softened that rigid horizon. Beyond it stretched the way to the southern desert -- a course of at least ten days and nights, as fast as they could goad the makers. Twenty thumpers. The way led far beyond the Harkonnen patrols. He knew how it would be. The dreams had shown him. One day, as they went, there 'd be a faint change of color on the far horizon -- such a slight change that he might feel he was imagining it out of his hopes -- and there would be the new sietch. "Does my decision suit Muad'Dib?" Stilgar asked. Only the faintest touch of sarcasm tinged his voice, but Fremen ears around them, alert to every tone in a bird's cry or a cielago's piping message, heard the sarcasm and watched Paul to see what he would do. "Stilgar heard me swear my loyalty to him when we consecrated the Fedaykin," Paul said. "My death commandos know I spoke with honor. Does Stilgar doubt it?" Real pain exposed itself in Paul's voice. Stilgar heard it and lowered his gaze. "Usul, the companion of my sietch, him I would never doubt," Stilgar said. "But you are Paul-Muad'Dib, the Atreides Duke, and you are the Lisan al-Gaib, the Voice from the Outer World. These men I don't even know." Paul turned away to watch the Habbanya Ridge climb out of the desert. The maker beneath them still felt strong and willing. It could carry them almost twice the distance of any other in Fremen experience. He knew it. There was nothing outside the stories told to children that could match this old man of the desert. It was the stuff of a new legend, Paul realized. A hand gripped his shoulder. Paul looked at it, followed the arm to the face beyond it -- the dark eyes of Stilgar exposed between filter mask and stillsuit hood. "The one who led Tabr sietch before me," Stilgar said, "he was my friend. We shared dangers. He owed me his life many a time . . . and I owed him mine." "I am your friend, Stilgar," Paul said. "No man doubts it," Stilgar said. He removed his hand, shrugged. "It's the way." Paul saw that Stilgar was too immersed in the Fremen way to consider the possibility of any other. Here a leader took the reins from the dead hands of his predecessor, or slew among the strongest of his tribe if a leader died in the desert. Stilgar had risen to be a naib in that way. "We should leave this maker in deep sand," Paul said. "Yes," Stilgar agreed. "We could walk to the cave


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

understand—” Gods, there was so much she didn’t understand. This power had lived in her for nearly twenty-four years, and it was still a mystery, unknowable, a curse diamond-faceted. Bastian shouldn’t be able to see the strands of Mortem on her fingers—he couldn’t channel—but somehow, he did. The widening of his eyes and the way his mouth opened said he did. One more mystery. He rushed forward, pulled her hands away from the door. Shimmers of gold wavered in the air around his fingers, too much to be imagined, too corporeal to be a hallucination. She could see them clearly now, wrapping his palms, trailing from him the way Mortem trailed from her. The Sun Prince gathered up the strands of death in his gold-shrouded fist and yanked. The Mortem let go, tugging out of her like a thread through a needle’s eye. Lore gasped, her vision flaring bright. Life itself seemed to spill from where Bastian touched her, blushing her skin and rushing her pulse, every nerve alive and tingling. Mortem fled from him, but she could still feel it, still grasp it if she wanted. There was something else, too, a sense of duality: holding a rope made of shadow and one of light at once, like she was two things pressed into one form. Just a flicker of awareness, an answer to a question she hadn’t known to ask— The bodies in the chamber collapsed. The screaming stopped, leaving ringing silence behind. They stood in the doorway, her hands cradled in his, breathing hard. His forehead tipped down, rested on hers; she let it. The heady feeling that had rushed through her when he pulled out the strands—life, glowing and vibrant, anathema to the magic she carried—slowly faded. And with it, that flash of knowledge, of something clicking into place. Answer and question falling away. Lore pulled her hands out of Bastian’s. “How did…” Her throat felt like she’d choked down a handful of gravel; Lore cleared it, tried again. “How did you do that, Bastian?” He stared at his hands. The shimmer in the air around him had dimmed, but just barely, and it flared again when he raised his hand in her direction. Lore flinched, acting on instinct, and he let his hand drop. “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “It must be something about being in the catacombs…” Dawn was soon. Lore knew it, felt the certainty in her bones, just like she felt everything down here. They had to move; they didn’t have time for this. “What about you?” he asked, his voice still thin with nerves. “Has Mortem ever done that before?” “Clung to me like that, or made a bunch of corpses start to chase me?” Her rueful laugh came out shaky. “No, on both counts.” “Rude of them not to answer your questions before they started screaming,” Bastian said. “What was it they were muttering? Something about awakening?” “They awaken. Nearly the same thing the first one told me.” Lore frowned. “It’d be helpful if we had any idea who they


for his family.” He steepled his fingers. “I’ll be blunt, Miss Stern. I am what is fondly called a dinosaur and less fondly described as a reactionary. Yale was once dedicated to the life of the mind, and while there were diversions and distractions, nothing could be as diverting or distracting as the presence of the fairer sex.” It took Alex a long moment to process what Walsh-Whiteley was saying. “You don’t think women should have been admitted to Yale?” “No, I do not. By all means, let there be higher education for women, but blending the sexes does neither any good. Similarly, Lethe is no place for women, at least not in the role of Virgil or Dante.” “And Oculus?” “Again, best not to create an atmosphere of temptation, but as the office is solely dedicated to research and caretaking, I can make an exception.” “A kind of exalted nanny.” “Precisely.” Now Alex knew why Dawes had sounded so grumpy. Walsh-Whiteley plucked a speck of lint from his sleeve. “I have lived long enough to see the supposedly harmless bleating of the counterculture become the culture, to see venerable academic departments overtaken by prattling fools who would uproot hundreds of years of great literature and art for the appeasement of little minds.” Alex considered her options. “Couldn’t agree more.” Walsh-Whiteley blinked. “Beg pardon?” “We’re watching the death of the Western canon,” she said with what she hoped was the appropriate amount of distress. “Keats, Trollope, Shakespeare, Yeats. Did you know they have a class focusing on the lyrics of popular songs?” She had come around to loving Shakespeare and Yeats. Keats bored her. Trollope delighted her. Apparently he’d invented the postbox. But she doubted Professor Walsh-Whiteley cared much about enjoyment, and she’d also really liked a semester of studying the Velvet Underground and Tupac. He considered her. “Elliot Sandow was one such prattler. A repellent combination of self-righteous and spineless. I want it understood that I will have no trouble beneath the Lethe roof, no hanky-panky, no nonsense.” It was hard not to get hung up on a grown man unironically using the term hanky-panky, but Alex simply said, “Yes, sir.” “You have been without a Virgil or any kind of real leadership for too long. I don’t know what bad habits you’ve accrued in that time, but there will be no room for them under my watch.” “I understand.” He leaned forward. “Do you? During Dean Sandow’s ignominious tenure, a student went missing and is most likely dead. The societies were allowed to descend into a miasma of deprivation and criminal behavior. I wrote numerous complaints to the board, and I am relieved they did not fall on deaf ears.” She folded her hands in her lap, attempting to look small and vulnerable. “All I can say is that I’m grateful we’ll have a … uh … firm hand on the tiller.” Whatever the hell that meant. “Losing my Virgil was frightening. Destabilizing.” Walsh-Whiteley made a low chortling noise. “I can imagine that a woman with your background would feel