releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions. CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox. To my fabulous friend Millie Warren, who took me back to camp and helped me find this story (while we may or may not have been stranded at sea) PROLOGUE CAMP HOLLY SPRINGS June 14, 1998 THE FIRST DAY OF CAMP Holly Springs is like shaking a bottle of soda and taking off the cap: an overflowing, effervescent explosion of sweet, delicious chaos. Girls and their parents, counselors, and staff members fizz over in every direction, campers squealing with joy at being reunited, first-years sobbing with fear, counselors and staff trying to comfort or celebrate, and parents seeking someone with whom to discuss their very specific list of concerns. But six-year-old Daphne Miller isn’t fizzing or sobbing. She is simply studying, taking in the green travel trunks being unloaded from back seats, the brothers and sisters—who likely spend most of their time at home bickering—promising to write, the mothers slathering layers of zinc on their daughters’ noses as if they can make it last for two weeks. Daphne’s aunt, June, owns Camp Holly Springs, and her mother, Melanie, didn’t come to camp drop-off. She is busy relocating them from the only home Daphne has ever known in sleepy Cape Carolina to Manhattan so they can live with her brand-new husband, Vincent. In fact, Melanie was so preoccupied by the move that she allowed young Daphne to fly here alone, a fact that horrified her aunt June. A six-year-old girl should not, in June’s opinion, be an unaccompanied minor. But, then again, June is not in charge. Melanie is. Last night, Daphne shared June’s double bed in her small director’s cabin, where June lives all year. “I know it’s hard to be away from your mom, but we are going to have the best summer. This is just the beginning for you, Daphne,” June said. “I came to camp for the first time when I was your age. So did your mommy. So did Grandma Laura. You are a legacy.” That made Daphne’s heart swell with pride. Her aunt, mother, and grandmother were camp-raised by this same snaking blue-green stretch of river next to June’s tiny home. Daphne has been spoon-fed stories of campouts in the woods, talent show disasters, and sneaking cookie dough from the camp kitchen her entire life. She has been preparing for this moment for as long as she can remember, when she would leave her mother to spend a summer making memories and—she’s heard—best friends. But right now, looking around at the soggy, sniveling group of babies being dropped off at the Songbird Cabin, where the youngest campers stay, Daphne feels like she’s been sold a bill of goods. She can’t imagine making friendship bracelets in the arts and crafts


but never did. Or almost perpetual motion. If you let it go on, it'd burn our lifetimes out. What is fire? It's a mystery. Scientists give us gobbledegook about friction and molecules. But they don't really know. Its real beauty is that it destroys responsibility and consequences. A problem gets too burdensome, then into the furnace with it. Now, Montag, you're a burden. And fire will lift you off my shoulders, clean, quick, sure; nothing to rot later. Antibiotic, aesthetic, practical." Montag stood looking in now at this queer house, made strange by the hour of the night, by murmuring neighbour voices, by littered glass, and there on the floor, their covers torn off and spilled out like swan-feathers, the incredible books that looked so silly and really not worth bothering with, for these were nothing but black type and yellowed paper, and ravelled binding. Mildred, of course. She must have watched him hide the books in the garden and brought them back in. Mildred. Mildred. "I want you to do this job all by your lonesome, Montag. Not with kerosene and a match, but piecework, with a flamethrower. Your house, your clean-up." "Montag, can't you run, get away!" "No!" cried Montag helplessly. "The Hound! Because of the Hound!" Faber heard, and Beatty, thinking it was meant for him, heard. "Yes, the Hound's somewhere about the neighbourhood, so don't try anything. Ready?" "Ready." Montag snapped the safety-catch on the flamethrower. "Fire!" A great nuzzling gout of flame leapt out to lap at the books and knock them against the wall. He stepped into the bedroom and fired twice and the twin beds went up in a great simmering whisper, with more heat and passion and light than he would have supposed them to contain. He burnt the bedroom walls and the cosmetics chest because he wanted to change everything, the chairs, the tables, and in the dining-room the silverware and plastic dishes, everything that showed that he had lived here in this empty house with a strange woman who would forget him tomorrow, who had gone and quite forgotten him already, listening to her Seashell radio pour in on her and in on her as she rode across town, alone. And as before, it was good to burn, he felt himself gush out in the fire, snatch, rend, rip in half with flame, and put away the senseless problem. If there was no solution, well then now there was no problem, either. Fire was best for everything! "The books, Montag!" The books leapt and danced like roasted birds, their wings ablaze with red and yellow feathers. And then he came to the parlour where the great idiot monsters lay asleep with their white thoughts and their snowy dreams. And he shot a bolt at each of the three blank walls and the vacuum hissed out at him. The emptiness made an even emptier whistle, a senseless scream. He tried to think about the vacuum upon which the nothingness had performed, but he could not. He held his breath so the vacuum could


Mark. “I like a big comfy man!” she enthused, throwing her arms around him and wriggling from side to side. “Look at your flipper!” Mark started to hug her back, but she pushed him away and ran back to Louise, bending over to face Poppy. “Look at this adorable doughnut!” she proclaimed to everyone. Then she poked Pupkin with one finger. “We’ll talk to you later, mister.” She rose to her full height and said, “We’re going to have a busy afternoon, y’all, and I am just full of praise and the Spirit.” Louise noticed that Barb dyed her bangs purple. “Barb is an expert on cursed dolls,” Aunt Gail explained. “Don’t worry!” Barb laughed, seeing Louise’s expression. “Dolls and puppets come under the same department as far as the Lord is concerned. I do dolls, I do puppets, I once even did a blow-up s-e-x doll. Now, that one was wild, let me tell you. Come on inside and let’s pray together.” She herded them into her trailer, but as Louise put her foot on its front step, Barb dropped a mighty paw onto her shoulder. “Mama needs to stay out here with baby so we can have a few minutes to compare notes.” “You’re not discussing anything without me,” Louise said. “Then Brother can hold on to her!” Barb decided. Mark lifted his stump and shrugged. “I’ve got her,” Mercy said. She took the limp pile of Poppy from Louise’s arms, and everyone else filed into Barb’s trailer and Barb closed the door. Louise felt like they’d burrowed into an enormous mountain of dolls. Shelf after shelf of them, up the walls, reaching the ceiling, a wall of tiny bonnets and straw hats and puckered red lips and shiny porcelain faces and clown faces and baby-doll faces, all staring straight ahead with empty, glass eyes. They were lined up along the base of the wall. They were piled up in corners. Fox News soundlessly played on the TV, its light flickering over old country dolls with dried-apple faces, sock monkeys, one-eyed teddy bears, grimy old dolls and crisp new dolls, and charred, burned, and scarred dolls. Their bodies absorbed all the sound, and they completely surrounded the handful of humans in the middle. Barb tiptoed nimbly between everyone, twisting like a ballerina, picking her way across the room, plucking an enormous thermal cup from beside an armchair and taking a long pull on its gnawed flexi-straw. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “I’ve got a storage unit where I keep the cursed ones. I’m not going to sleep in a house surrounded by cursed dolls. That’s crazy! Now, come on! Huddle up!” She reached out and gathered them into a loose circle, throwing her arms over their shoulders and pulling them in close. Louise could smell her perfume, something lush, like honeysuckle. “Listen, listen, listen,” Barb said. “Y’all are scared to bits, I get’cha, but you can relax because Big Barb is here.” She faced Louise. Her breath smelled like passion fruit. “You’re a very lucky lady. Cursed dolls


were my dearest friend. Do you suppose it's wrong for us to think so much about our clothes? Marilla says it is very sinful. But it is such an interesting subject, isn't it?" Marilla agreed to let Anne go to town, and it was arranged that Mr. Barry should take the girls in on the following Tuesday. As Charlottetown was thirty miles away and Mr. Barry wished to go and return the same day, it was necessary to make a very early start. But Anne counted it all joy, and was up before sunrise on Tuesday morning. A glance from her window assured her that the day would be fine, for the eastern sky behind the firs of the Haunted Wood was all silvery and cloudless. Through the gap in the trees a light was shining in the western gable of Orchard Slope, a token that Diana was also up. Anne was dressed by the time Matthew had the fire on and had the breakfast ready when Marilla came down, but for her own part was much too excited to eat. After breakfast the jaunty new cap and jacket were donned, and Anne hastened over the brook and up through the firs to Orchard Slope. Mr. Barry and Diana were waiting for her, and they were soon on the road. It was a long drive, but Anne and Diana enjoyed every minute of it. It was delightful to rattle along over the moist roads in the early red sunlight that was creeping across the shorn harvest fields. The air was fresh and crisp, and little smoke-blue mists curled through the valleys and floated off from the hills. Sometimes the road went through woods where maples were beginning to hang out scarlet banners; sometimes it crossed rivers on bridges that made Anne's flesh cringe with the old, half-delightful fear; sometimes it wound along a harbor shore and passed by a little cluster of weather-gray fishing huts; again it mounted to hills whence a far sweep of curving upland or misty-blue sky could be seen; but wherever it went there was much of interest to discuss. It was almost noon when they reached town and found their way to "Beechwood." It was quite a fine old mansion, set back from the street in a seclusion of green elms and branching beeches. Miss Barry met them at the door with a twinkle in her sharp black eyes. "So you've come to see me at last, you Anne-girl," she said. "Mercy, child, how you have grown! You're taller than I am, I declare. And you're ever so much better looking than you used to be, too. But I dare say you know that without being told." "Indeed I didn't," said Anne radiantly. "I know I'm not so freckled as I used to be, so I've much to be thankful for, but I really hadn't dared to hope there was any other improvement. I'm so glad you think there is, Miss Barry." Miss Barry's house was furnished with "great magnificence," as Anne told Marilla afterward. The two


bottom of the boat. Suddenly Queequeg started to his feet, hollowing his hand to his ear. We all heard a faint creaking, as of ropes and yards hitherto muffled by the storm. The sound came nearer and nearer; the thick mists were dimly parted by .. <p 225 > a huge, vague form. Affrighted, we all sprang into the sea as the ship at last loomed into view, bearing right down upon us within a distance of not much more than its length. Floating on the waves we saw the abandoned boat, as for one instant it tossed and gaped beneath the ship's bows like a chip at the base of a cataract; and then the vast hull rolled over it, and it was seen no more till it came up weltering astern. Again we swam for it, were dashed against it by the seas, and were at last taken up and safely landed on board. Ere the squall came close to, the other boats had cut loose from their fish and returned to the ship in good time. The ship had given us up, but was still cruising, if haply it might light upon some token of our perishing, --an oar or a lance pole. .. <p 225 > .. < chapter xlix 15 THE HYENA > There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, and more than suspects that the joke is at nobody's expense but his own. However, nothing dispirits, and nothing seems worth while disputing. He bolts down all events, all creeds, and beliefs, and persuasions, all hard things visible and invisible, never mind how knobby; as an ostrich of potent digestion gobbles down bullets and gun flints. And as for small difficulties and worryings, prospects of sudden disaster, peril of life and limb; all these, and death itself, seem to him only sly, good-natured hits, and jolly punches in the side bestowed by the unseen and unaccountable old joker. That odd sort of wayward mood I am speaking of, comes over a man only in some time of extreme tribulation; it comes in the very midst of his earnestness, so that what just before might have seemed to him a thing most momentous, now seems but a part of the general .. <p 226 > joke. There is nothing like the perils of whaling to breed this free and easy sort of genial, desperado philosophy; and with it I now regarded this whole voyage of the Pequod, and the great White Whale its object. Queequeg, said I, when they had dragged me, the last man, to the deck, and I was still shaking myself in my jacket to fling off the water; Queequeg, my fine friend, does this sort of thing often happen? Without much emotion, though soaked through just like me, he gave me to understand that such things did often happen. Mr. Stubb, said I, turning to that


away from the end of the rocky steps and explored the nearby dungeons. They were really only rocky cellars stretching under the castle. Maybe wretched prisoners had been kept there many, many years before, but mostly they had been used for storing things. "I wonder which dungeon was used for storing the ingots," said Julian. He stopped and took the map out of his pocket. He flashed his torch on to it. But although it showed him quite plainly the dungeon where INGOTS were marked, he had no idea at all of the right direction. "I say- look- there's a door here, shutting off the next dungeon!" suddenly cried Dick. "I bet this is the dungeon we're looking for! I bet there are ingots in here!" Chapter Thirteen DOWN IN THE DUNGEONS Contents- Prev/Next FOUR torches were flashed on to the wooden door. It was big and stout, studded with great iron nails. Julian gave a whoop of delight and rushed to it. He felt certain that behind it was the dungeon used for storing things. But the door was fast shut. No amount of pushing or pulling would open it. It had a great key-hole- but no key there! The four children stared in exasperation at the door. Bother it! Just as they really thought they were near the ingots, this door wouldn't open! "We'll fetch the axe," said Julian, suddenly. "We may be able to chop round the keyhole and smash the lock." "That's a good idea!" said George, delighted. "Come on back!" They left the big door, and tried to get back the way they had come. But the dungeons were so big and so rambling that they lost their way. They stumbled over old broken barrels, rotting wood, empty bottles and many other things as they tried to find their way back to the big flight of rock-steps. "This is sickening!" said Julian, at last. "I simply haven't any idea at all where the entrance is. We keep on going into one dungeon after another, and one passage after another, and they all seem to be exactly the same-dark and smelly and mysterious." "Suppose we have to stay here all the rest of our lives!" said Anne, gloomily. "Idiot!" said Dick, taking her hand. "We shall soon find the way out. Hallo!- what's this-" They all stopped. They had come to what looked like a chimney shaft of brick, stretching down from the roof of the dungeon to the floor. Julian flashed his torch on to it. He was puzzled. "I know what it is!" said George, suddenly. "It's the well, of course! You remember it was shown in the plan of the dungeons, as well as in the plan of the ground floor. Well, that's the shaft of the well going down and down. I wonder if there's any opening in it just here-so that water could be taken into the dungeons as well as up to the ground floor." They went to see. On the other side of the well-shaft was a small opening big enough


He starts to unbuckle the belt on my trench coat. “I’ll do it,” I mutter, making a halfhearted attempt to brush him off. “Let me.” I sigh. I had no idea I was this tired. “It’s the altitude. You’re not used to it. And the drinking, of course.” He smirks, divests me of my coat, and throws it on one of the bedroom chairs. Taking my hand, he leads me into the bathroom. Why are we going in here? “Sit,” he says. I sit on the chair and close my eyes. I hear him as he messes around with bottles on the vanity unit. I am too tired to open my eyes to find out what he’s do- ing. A moment later he tips my head back, and I open my eyes in surprise. “Eyes closed,” Christian says . Holy crap, he’s holding a cotton ball! Gently, he wipes it over my right eye. I sit stunned as he methodically removes my makeup. “Ah. There’s the woman I married,” he says after a few wipes. “You don’t like makeup?” “I like it well enough, but I prefer what’s beneath it.” He kisses my forehead. “Here. Take these.” He puts some Advil into my palm and hands me a glass of water. I look and pout. “Take them,” he orders. I roll my eyes, but do as I’m told. 295/551 “Good. Do you need a private moment?” he asks sardonically. I snort. “So coy, Mr. Grey. Yes, I need to pee.” He laughs. “You expect me to leave?” I giggle. “You want to stay?” He cocks his head to one side, his expression amused. “You are one kinky son of a bitch. Out. I don’t want you to watch me pee. That’s a step too far.” I stand and wave him out of the bathroom. When I emerge from the bathroom, he’s changed into his pajama bottoms. Hmm . . . Christian in PJs. Mesmerized, I gaze at his abdomen, his muscles, his happy trail. It’s distracting. He strides over to me. “Enjoying the view?” he asks wryly. “Always.” “I think you’re slightly drunk, Mrs. Grey.” “I think, for once, I have to agree with you, Mr. Grey.” “Let me help you out of what little there is of this dress. It really should come with a health warning.” He turns me around and undoes the single button at the neck. “You were so mad,” I murmur. “Yes. I was.” “At me?” “No. Not at you.” He kisses my shoulder. “For once.” I smile. Not mad at me. This is progress. “Makes a nice change.” “Yes. It does.” He kisses my other shoulder then tugs my dress down over my backside and onto the floor. He removes my panties at the same time, leaving me naked. Reaching up, he takes my hand. “Step,” he commands, and I step out of the dress, holding his hand for balance. He stands and tosses my dress and panties onto the chair with Mia’s trench coat. “Arms up,” he says softly. He slips his T-shirt over me


Allow me to sell you a couple?' `You are old,' said the youth, `and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak-- Pray how did you manage to do it?' `In my youth,' said his father, `I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life.' `You are old,' said the youth, `one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- What made you so awfully clever?' `I have answered three questions, and that is enough,' Said his father; `don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!' `That is not said right,' said the Caterpillar. `Not QUITE right, I'm afraid,' said Alice, timidly; `some of the words have got altered.' `It is wrong from beginning to end,' said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes. The Caterpillar was the first to speak. `What size do you want to be?' it asked. `Oh, I'm not particular as to size,' Alice hastily replied; `only one doesn't like changing so often, you know.' `I DON'T know,' said the Caterpillar. Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper. `Are you content now?' said the Caterpillar. `Well, I should like to be a LITTLE larger, sir, if you wouldn't mind,' said Alice: `three inches is such a wretched height to be.' `It is a very good height indeed!' said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high). `But I'm not used to it!' pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And she thought of herself, `I wish the creatures wouldn't be so easily offended!' `You'll get used to it in time,' said the Caterpillar; and it put the hookah into its mouth and began smoking again. This time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again. In a minute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth and yawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got down off the mushroom, and crawled away in the grass, merely remarking as it went, `One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter.' `One side of WHAT? The other side of WHAT?' thought Alice to herself. `Of the mushroom,' said the Caterpillar, just as if she had asked it aloud; and in another moment it was out of sight. Alice remained looking thoughtfully at the mushroom for a minute, trying to make out which were the two sides of it; and as it was perfectly round, she found this a very difficult question. However, at last she stretched her arms round it as far as they would go, and broke off


mean. The captain is not We both obeyed him to the letter, and I saw him pass what he used to be. He sits with a drawn cutlass. Another something from the hollow of the hand that held his stick gentleman—” into the palm of the captain’s, which closed upon it instantly. “Come, now, march,” interrupted he; and I never heard a “And now that’s done,” said the blind man; and at the voice so cruel, and cold, and ugly as that blind man’s. It cowed words he suddenly left hold of me, and with incredible accu- me more than the pain, and I began to obey him at once, racy and nimbleness, skipped out of the parlour and into the walking straight in at the door and towards the parlour, where road, where, as I still stood motionless, I could hear his stick our sick old buccaneer was sitting, dazed with rum. The blind go tap-tap-tapping into the distance. man clung close to me, holding me in one iron fist and lean- It was some time before either I or the captain seemed to ing almost more of his weight on me than I could carry. “Lead gather our senses, but at length, and about at the same mo- me straight up to him, and when I’m in view, cry out, ‘Here’s ment, I released his wrist, which I was still holding, and he a friend for you, Bill.’ If you don’t, I’ll do this,” and with that drew in his hand and looked sharply into the palm. he gave me a twitch that I thought would have made me “Ten o’clock!” he cried. “Six hours. We’ll do them yet,” faint. Between this and that, I was so utterly terrified of the and he sprang to his feet. blind beggar that I forgot my terror of the captain, and as I Even as he did so, he reeled, put his hand to his throat, opened the parlour door, cried out the words he had ordered stood swaying for a moment, and then, with a peculiar sound, Contents in a trembling voice. fell from his whole height face foremost to the floor. The poor captain raised his eyes, and at one look the rum I ran to him at once, calling to my mother. But haste was Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 28 29 all in vain. The captain had been struck dead by thundering apoplexy. It is a curious thing to understand, for I had cer- tainly never liked the man, though of late I had begun to pity him, but as soon as I saw that he was dead, I burst into a flood of tears. It was the second death I had known, and the sorrow of the first was still fresh in my heart. Chapter 4. The Sea-chest. I LOST no time, of course, in telling my mother all that I knew, and perhaps should have told her long before, and we saw ourselves at once in a difficult and dangerous position. Some of the man’s money—if he


together, gave a piercing shriek, and then flung herself face downward on the bed, crying and writhing in an utter abandonment of disappointment and despair. "For the land's sake!" gasped Marilla, hastening from the room. "I believe the child is crazy. No child in her senses would behave as she does. If she isn't she's utterly bad. Oh dear, I'm afraid Rachel was right from the first. But I've put my hand to the plow and I won't look back." That was a dismal morning. Marilla worked fiercely and scrubbed the porch floor and the dairy shelves when she could find nothing else to do. Neither the shelves nor the porch needed it-but Marilla did. Then she went out and raked the yard. When dinner was ready she went to the stairs and called Anne. A tear-stained face appeared, looking tragically over the banisters. "Come down to your dinner, Anne." "I don't want any dinner, Marilla," said Anne, sobbingly. "I couldn't eat anything. My heart is broken. You'll feel remorse of conscience someday, I expect, for breaking it, Marilla, but I forgive you. Remember when the time comes that I forgive you. But please don't ask me to eat anything, especially boiled pork and greens. Boiled pork and greens are so unromantic when one is in affliction." Exasperated, Marilla returned to the kitchen and poured out her tale of woe to Matthew, who, between his sense of justice and his unlawful sympathy with Anne, was a miserable man. "Well now, she shouldn't have taken the brooch, Marilla, or told stories about it," he admitted, mournfuly surveying his plateful of unromantic pork and greens as if he, like Anne, thought it a food unsuited to crises of feeling, "but she's such a little thing-such an interesting little thing. Don't you think it's pretty rough not to let her go to the picnic when she's so set on it?" "Matthew Cuthbert, I'm amazed at you. I think I've let her off entirely too easy. And she doesn't appear to realize how wicked she's been at all-that's what worries me most. If she'd really felt sorry it wouldn't be so bad. And you don't seem to realize it, neither; you're making excuses for her all the time to yourself-I can see that." "Well now, she's such a little thing," feebly reiterated Matthew. "And there should be allowances made, Marilla. You know she's never had any bringing up." "Well, she's having it now" retorted Marilla. The retort silenced Matthew if it did not convince him. That dinner was a very dismal meal. The only cheerful thing about it was Jerry Buote, the hired boy, and Marilla resented his cheerfulness as a personal insult. When her dishes were washed and her bread sponge set and her hens fed Marilla remembered that she had noticed a small rent in her best black lace shawl when she had taken it off on Monday afternoon on returning from the Ladies' Aid. She would go and mend it. The shawl was in a box in her trunk. As Marilla lifted it


half cast in shadow. He has never once doubted me, not even during that first meeting with his manager. “Okay. I—I think I’m okay. Let’s do this.” I make a move to reach for my laptop. “And—thank you.” Finn’s gaze doesn’t leave mine for a few more seconds. With the fire crackling next to us and the storm raging outside, there’s something almost . . . romantic about this moment, an adjective I regret as soon as it enters my mind. If we were two other people, it would be so easy to abandon my laptop, crawl onto his lap, and turn this into some idyllic winter escape. But we’re Chandler and Finn, and we’re here to work. It’s as though Finn blinks out of a daze at the same time I do. I force my eyes back to my laptop screen while he takes the other chair, clearing his throat and stretching out his legs. We work through the evening as quickly as we can, with Finn reading sections as soon as I finish drafting them, offering notes and corrections. Around seven thirty, Maude from the front desk knocks on the door with a tray of food. “Dinner,” she says sweetly. “Thought you two could use a hot meal.” We thank her profusely. “How about this?” I ask an hour later, stomach full of mushroom risotto, turning the laptop to him. It’s a section about his first day on set for Dad in Training. The show was seemingly made solely to enforce gender roles, plotlines revolving around questions like, How on earth will this blue-collar father watch his own kids for a full weekend while his wife’s away? Can he really handle making brownies for his daughter’s bake sale while helping his son with his science fair project? Not to mention the baby—and we all know he can barely change a diaper! Cue laugh track. Finn reads what I’ve written, about how he was so nervous, he read the stage directions, not just his lines, and how his character, who was initially supposed to skateboard on and off set, much to the annoyance of his TV parents, couldn’t manage to stay upright, so they changed it to a scooter. “This is perfect. You manage to perfectly capture what the show was about without insulting anyone too much. Although I’m not sure I’d mind—Bob Gaffney was an asshole.” “I watched a couple episodes and I was frankly appalled, if I’m being honest.” A grimace. “Yeah, if I’d been smarter, I never would have done it. But some part of me craved that nuclear family that I didn’t have. And I guess it led to The Nocturnals, so . . .” He keeps reading, pointing to one paragraph. “I don’t think I’d use the word ‘ostentatious,’ but aside from that—I love it. And you sound just like me.” His eyes leap to mine. “It’s kind of unfair that you don’t get to have your name on it, after all of this.” I shrug, swapping out ostentatious for extravagant, forcing myself not to linger


and rightly so, and she should have been forced to apologize profusely and then probably would have confessed everything at the same time because the secrets were weighing on her heart to a painful degree. And he shouldn’t have been so exceptionally handsome when he smiled at her like that. “He must be tired,” Miss Calloway said, wrapping her arm around Lucy’s waist as she frowned at the door. “He’s rarely in a bad mood like that.” Lucy had seen men in bad moods, and that was not a bad mood. In fact, she rather liked how honest he had been throughout the whole conversation, no matter how short it had been. She sincerely hoped William was similar to his brother. Not that she would be in the man’s life once she told the truth. She merely hoped there were more good men in the world, like her father. “Come,” Miss Calloway said, tugging Lucy toward the door. “You look exhausted, and I would imagine another nap would do you a world of good.” Lucy didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to tell the family who she really was, and she wanted to get out of their lives as quickly as possible. But she was tired, and she wasn’t sure she had the heart to speak out just yet. Or if she even could. Perhaps she would after she slept, when she had figured out exactly how to explain everything. Chapter Six When Lucy woke, the sky outside was dark. She must have slept right through dinner. She felt entirely disoriented, and not just because she had slept most of the day away. Somehow she had become a man’s betrothed in the course of a day. And not just any man! The brother of a baron. A wealthy baron at that. The kind of man who could ruin what little life Lucy had, no matter how warm his smiles. This was such a mess. Though she would eventually have to find one of the Calloway family—preferably Lady Calloway or her daughter—Lucy decided that for now she would simply see how Mr. Calloway fared. Perhaps he was awake and recovering by now so she could ask him for advice and he would still be the kind and thoughtful man she had met at the inn yesterday. Had it been only yesterday? The day had felt like an eternity. Slipping from beneath the covers, she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and crept toward the door. The house was quiet around her, making her think perhaps it was later than she’d realized, and she hoped that meant everyone was asleep. She would be able to slip into Mr. Calloway’s room and ensure he was improving, and then she would try to find something to wear so she could get to the nearest town, Downingham, and find a conveyance to Lowbury. If she did everything under the cover of night, perhaps she could avoid the risk of running into Granger again. She had just about reached the door when she tripped over something and landed


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

general gloom over the premises; keeping soul and body together to the last upon his savings (for doubtless he spent but half a dime a day), and in the end perhaps outlive me, and claim possession of my office by right of his perpetual occupancy: as all these dark anticipations crowded upon me more and more, and my friends continually intruded their relentless remarks upon the apparition in my room; a great change was wrought in me. I resolved to gather all my faculties together, and for ever rid me of this intolerable incubus. Ere revolving any complicated project, however, adapted to this end, I first simply suggested to Bartleby the propriety of his permanent departure. In a calm and serious tone, I commended the idea to his careful and mature consideration. But having taken three days to meditate upon it, he apprised me that his original determination remained the same in short, that he still preferred to abide with me. What shall I do? I now said to myself, buttoning up my coat to the last button. What shall I do? what ought I to do? what does conscience say I should do with this man, or rather ghost. Rid myself of him, I must; go, he shall. But how? You will not thrust him, the poor, pale, passive mortal,—you will not thrust such a helpless creature out of your door? you will not dishonor yourself by such cruelty? No, I will not, I cannot do that. Rather would I let him live and die here, and then mason up his remains in the wall. What then will you do? For all your coaxing, he will not budge. Bribes he leaves under your own paperweight on your table; in short, it is quite plain that he prefers to cling to you. Then something severe, something unusual must be done. What! surely you will not have him collared by a constable, and commit his innocent pallor to the common jail? And upon what ground could you procure such a thing to be done?—a vagrant, is he? What! he a vagrant, a wanderer, who refuses to budge? It is because he will not be a vagrant, then, that you seek to count him as a vagrant. That is too absurd. No visible means of support: there I have him. Wrong again: for indubitably he does support himself, and that is the only unanswerable proof that any man can show of his possessing the means so to do. No more then. Since he will not quit me, I must quit him. I will change my offices; I will move elsewhere; and give him fair notice, that if I find him on my new premises I will then proceed against him as a common trespasser. Acting accordingly, next day I thus addressed him: “I find these chambers too far from the City Hall; the air is unwholesome. In a word, I propose to remove my offices next week, and shall no longer require your services. I tell you this now, in order that you may


to glance out and beheld Diana down by the Dryad's Bubble beckoning mysteriously. In a trice Anne was out of the house and flying down to the hollow, astonishment and hope struggling in her expressive eyes. But the hope faded when she saw Diana's dejected countenance. "Your mother hasn't relented?" she gasped. Diana shook her head mournfully. "No; and oh, Anne, she says I'm never to play with you again. I've cried and cried and I told her it wasn't your fault, but it wasn't any use. I had ever such a time coaxing her to let me come down and say good-bye to you. She said I was only to stay ten minutes and she's timing me by the clock." "Ten minutes isn't very long to say an eternal farewell in," said Anne tearfully. "Oh, Diana, will you promise faithfully never to forget me, the friend of your youth, no matter what dearer friends may caress thee?" "Indeed I will," sobbed Diana, "and I'll never have another bosom friend-I don't want to have. I couldn't love anybody as I love you." "Oh, Diana," cried Anne, clasping her hands, "do you LOVE me?" "Why, of course I do. Didn't you know that?" "No." Anne drew a long breath. "I thought you LIKED me of course but I never hoped you LOVED me. Why, Diana, I didn't think anybody could love me. Nobody ever has loved me since I can remember. Oh, this is wonderful! It's a ray of light which will forever shine on the darkness of a path severed from thee, Diana. Oh, just say it once again." "I love you devotedly, Anne," said Diana stanchly, "and I always will, you may be sure of that." "And I will always love thee, Diana," said Anne, solemnly extending her hand. "In the years to come thy memory will shine like a star over my lonely life, as that last story we read together says. Diana, wilt thou give me a lock of thy jet-black tresses in parting to treasure forevermore?" "Have you got anything to cut it with?" queried Diana, wiping away the tears which Anne's affecting accents had caused to flow afresh, and returning to practicalities. "Yes. I've got my patchwork scissors in my apron pocket fortunately," said Anne. She solemnly clipped one of Diana's curls. "Fare thee well, my beloved friend. Henceforth we must be as strangers though living side by side. But my heart will ever be faithful to thee." Anne stood and watched Diana out of sight, mournfully waving her hand to the latter whenever she turned to look back. Then she returned to the house, not a little consoled for the time being by this romantic parting. "It is all over," she informed Marilla. "I shall never have another friend. I'm really worse off than ever before, for I haven't Katie Maurice and Violetta now. And even if I had it wouldn't be the same. Somehow, little dream girls are not satisfying after a real friend. Diana and I had such an affecting farewell down by the


him. Then he ran. He was afraid of many things. He was terrified of bushes and forests, even knee-high grass. Whenever he was in the stretch before and after the brook, covered as they were with blades of elephant grass that fluttered above his head, he could never shake the feeling that the greenery concealed one of the iwins his mother had threatened him with when he was younger. Of course, he knew now that those stories were meant to keep him from playing near bushes, but still. Still, he felt a presence bearing down on him whenever he was alone in a thicket like this one. It would be possible later to think of how this presence was nothing but his own fear, grown beyond what his body could contain, spilling out of him to form a second shadow that stalked him in the grass. For now, every time his feet touched the ground, he imagined a snake, green enough to blend in with foliage, curling itself around his ankle, sinking poisonous fangs into his skin. He ran faster and faster, stopping only when he emerged on the other side, where he stood for a long moment, gripping his knees and panting. He lifted his gaze towards the balcony of the top floor and could see that lines of students had formed there. The morning assembly was under way. He was late but not late enough to be punished. Or so he hoped as he began to walk towards the building as fast as he could manage with the cramping pain he now had in his left ankle. There was a staircase on the side of the building that had been tacked on after the ground floor became marshy during the rains. He dashed up the staircase, encountering no other student on his way, until he burst onto the third floor’s balcony. He tried to join the assembled students without attracting any teacher’s gaze and slid into the end of the closest line, not bothering to make sure that he was filing in behind his own classmates. Mr. Bísádé, the school’s only math teacher, who doubled as its principal, was addressing students. He gripped a tasselled trophy with one hand and held a whip in the other. Hakeem, the boy who had outscored everyone in Ẹniọlá’s class since they were in JSS1, stood next to the principal. Grinning as he lifted the trophy above his head, the principal droned on and on about how Hakeem had won another trophy for the school in yet another interschool quiz. Hakeem, with his deep-set eyes and a forehead that protruded as though someone had slapped it on as an afterthought, was not just the only student in Ẹniọlá’s class to have won a prize in any interschool quiz or debate; he was the only one in the whole school who had ever returned from a competition with any kind of commendation. “We are very proud of you,” Mr. Bísádé said, handing over the trophy to Hakeem. Hakeem bowed as though to prostrate, but Mr.


her that afternoon, when his day's work at the hospital was over. When as usual he went back to his rooms to tidy himself, he had no sooner put the latch-key in his door than he heard a voice behind him. "May I come in? I've been waiting for you for half an hour." It was Norah. He felt himself blush to the roots of his hair. She spoke gaily. There was no trace of resentment in her voice and nothing to indicate that there was a rupture between them. He felt himself cornered. He was sick with fear, but he did his best to smile. "Yes, do," he said. He opened the door, and she preceded him into his sitting-room. He was nervous and, to give himself countenance, offered her a cigarette and lit one for himself. She looked at him brightly. "Why did you write me such a horrid letter, you naughty boy? If I'd taken it seriously it would have made me perfectly wretched." "It was meant seriously," he answered gravely. "Don't be so silly. I lost my temper the other day, and I wrote and apologised. You weren't satisfied, so I've come here to apologise again. After all, you're your own master and I have no claims upon you. I don't want you to do anything you don't want to." She got up from the chair in which she was sitting and went towards him impulsively, with outstretched hands. "Let's make friends again, Philip. I'm so sorry if I offended you." He could not prevent her from taking his hands, but he could not look at her. "I'm afraid it's too late," he said. She let herself down on the floor by his side and clasped his knees. "Philip, don't be silly. I'm quick-tempered too and I can understand that I hurt you, but it's so stupid to sulk over it. What's the good of making us both unhappy? It's been so jolly, our friendship." She passed her fingers slowly over his hand. "I love you, Philip." He got up, disengaging himself from her, and went to the other side of the room. "I'm awfully sorry, I can't do anything. The whole thing's over." "D'you mean to say you don't love me any more?" "I'm afraid so." "You were just looking for an opportunity to throw me over and you took that one?" He did not answer. She looked at him steadily for a time which seemed intolerable. She was sitting on the floor where he had left her, leaning against the arm-chair. She began to cry quite silently, without trying to hide her face, and the large tears rolled down her cheeks one after the other. She did not sob. It was horribly painful to see her. Philip turned away. "I'm awfully sorry to hurt you. It's not my fault if I don't love you." She did not answer. She merely sat there, as though she were overwhelmed, and the tears flowed down her cheeks. It would have been easier to bear if she had reproached him.


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

a face peeped out at me. It was so white that I thought it must have been painted, topped with a dark thatch of hair. Child-sized it was, and while I could not make out any features, I sensed it was smiling. It pressed a hand to the glass as if in greeting, and I started. The hand was covered in blood. The figure was gone as abruptly as it had appeared, leaving the bloody handprint behind. Habit made me disregard my thundering heart and look away, and I counted to ten. When I looked back, there was no sign at all of blood. “Hm,” I grunted aloud. I would have to make inquiries regarding the owners of the farmstead. I wondered if they were aware they had a faerie living within their walls. My inquiries would have to be discreet, as I did not like the looks of the creature.[*] I was interrupted by the appearance of Groa, the shopkeeper. Plump and smiling, she issued a great quantity of apologies as she admitted me into the shop. Her English was not fluent, but with my smattering of Ljoslander we managed to cobble together an understanding. The shop was cheery and warm, cluttered with an impressive assemblage of goods, from food to farming and fishing implements. I nearly tripped over a sewing machine on my way to the counter. I requested flour, milk, butter, smoked fish, and tea, and Groa also encouraged me to take a few mutton sausages and a box of fresh carrots, leeks, and cabbage. Humming to herself, she wrapped my requests in paper. I felt warmed just being in her presence, and though I have not much talent for small talk, I found myself compelled to ask her a few questions about herself. She was older than I had first guessed, and had run the shop alone for twenty years since the death of her husband. She informed me that the blue house belonged to a young couple named Aslaug and Mord, who lived with their son, Ari. Her cheer dimmed a little when I broached this topic, and I did not press her. “How much?” I enquired, and she cheerily named an exorbitant sum ten times what such supplies would cost in Cambridge. I had to ask her to repeat herself. She did so, just as cheerily, seeming not to notice my consternation. She bustled about the shop, chattering absently about the buns she left outside for the wee ones—I should have pressed her on this score, but I was too flustered. I emptied my pockets—quite literally. At this rate, I would run through the entirety of my funds in less than a month. “Wait!” Groa said. She placed one of her small glazed cakes, wrapped in cloth, atop the bundle in my arms, and tapped her lips. “Aud says you do not wish to be treated as a guest, but to pay foreigners’ rates for everything. But I cannot resist. My mother’s svortkag is for everyone, and it is priceless. Please accept.” I nodded, a grimness


lost, but now redou- Contents among the waves, with only now and then a blow upon her bling my efforts, I began once more to overhaul the chase. bows and a dash of foam in my face. I was not a hundred yards from her when the wind came Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 198 199 again in a clap; she filled on the port tack and was off again, stooping and skimming like a swallow. My first impulse was one of despair, but my second was towards joy. Round she came, till she was broadside on to me—round still till she had covered a half and then two thirds and then three quarters of the distance that separated us. I could see the waves boiling white under her forefoot. Im- mensely tall she looked to me from my low station in the coracle. And then, of a sudden, I began to comprehend. I had scarce time to think—scarce time to act and save myself. I Chapter 25. was on the summit of one swell when the schooner came stoop- I Strike the Jolly Roger. ing over the next. The bowsprit was over my head. I sprang to my feet and leaped, stamping the coracle under water. With I HAD scarce gained a position on the bowsprit when the one hand I caught the jib-boom, while my foot was lodged flying jib flapped and filled upon the other tack, with a re- between the stay and the brace; and as I still clung there port like a gun. The schooner trembled to her keel under the panting, a dull blow told me that the schooner had charged reverse, but next moment, the other sails still drawing, the jib down upon and struck the coracle and that I was left without flapped back again and hung idle. retreat on the HISPANIOLA. This had nearly tossed me off into the sea; and now I lost no time, crawled back along the bowsprit, and tumbled head foremost on the deck. I was on the lee side of the forecastle, and the main- sail, which was still drawing, concealed from me a certain portion Contents of the after-deck. Not a soul was to be seen. The planks, which had not been swabbed since the mutiny, bore the print of many feet, and an empty bottle, broken by the neck, Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 200 201 tumbled to and fro like a live thing in the scuppers. wards the stern, so that his face became, little by little, hid Suddenly the HISPANIOLA came right into the wind. from me; and at last I could see nothing beyond his ear and The jibs behind me cracked aloud, the rudder slammed to, the frayed ringlet of one whisker. the whole ship gave a sickening heave and shudder, and at the At the same time, I observed, around both of them, splashes same moment the main-boom swung inboard, the sheet groan- of dark blood upon the planks and began to feel sure that ing in the blocks, and showed


with me. It tasted like cotton. We went to the livingroom. I picked up a football magazine, found a picture of Dixie Howell, showed it to Jem and said, "This looks like you." That was the nicest thing I could think to say to him, but it was no help. He sat by the windows, hunched down in a rocking chair, scowling, waiting. Daylight faded. Two geological ages later, we heard the soles of Atticus's shoes scrape the front steps. The screen door slammed, there was a pause- Atticus was at the hat rack in the hall- and we heard him call, "Jem!" His voice was like the winter wind. Atticus switched on the ceiling light in the livingroom and found us there, frozen still. He carried my baton in one hand; its filthy yellow tassel trailed on the rug. He held out his other hand; it contained fat camellia buds. "Jem," he said, "are you responsible for this?" "Yes sir." "Why'd you do it?" Jem said softly, "She said you lawed for niggers and trash." "You did this because she said that?" Jem's lips moved, but his, "Yes sir," was inaudible. "Son, I have no doubt that you've been annoyed by your contemporaries about me lawing for niggers, as you say, but to do something like this to a sick old lady is inexcusable. I strongly advise you to go down and have a talk with Mrs. Dubose," said Atticus. "Come straight home afterward." Jem did not move. "Go on, I said." I followed Jem out of the livingroom. "Come back here," Atticus said to me. I came back. Atticus picked up the Mobile Press and sat down in the rocking chair Jem had vacated. For the life of me, I did not understand how he could sit there in cold blood and read a newspaper when his only son stood an excellent chance of being murdered with a Confederate Army relic. Of course Jem antagonized me sometimes until I could kill him, but when it came down to it he was all I had. Atticus did not seem to realize this, or if he did he didn't care. I hated him for that, but when you are in trouble you become easily tired: soon I was hiding in his lap and his arms were around me. "You're mighty big to be rocked," he said. "You don't care what happens to him," I said. "You just send him on to get shot at when all he was doin' was standin' up for you." Atticus pushed my head under his chin. "It's not time to worry yet," he said. "I never thought Jem'd be the one to lose his head over this- thought I'd have more trouble with you." I said I didn't see why we had to keep our heads anyway, that nobody I knew at school had to keep his head about anything. "Scout," said Atticus, "when summer comes you'll have to keep your head about far worse things... it's not fair for you and Jem, I know that, but


the Dothraki had laughingly called him Khal Rhae Mhar, the Sorefoot King. Khal Drogo had offered him a place in a cart the next day, and Viserys had accepted. In his stubborn ignorance, he had not even known he was being mocked; the carts were for eunuchs, cripples, women giving birth, the very young and the very old. That won him yet another name: Khal Rhaggat, the Cart King. Her brother had thought it was the khal's way of apologizing for the wrong Dany had done him. She had begged Ser Jorah not to tell him the truth, lest he be shamed. The knight had replied that the king could well do with a bit of shame . . . yet he had done as she bid. It had taken much pleading, and all the 340 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN pillow tricks Doreah had taught her, before Dany had been able to make Drogo relent and allow Viserys to rejoin them at the head of the column. "Where is the city?" she asked as they passed beneath the bronze arch. There were no buildings to be seen, no people, only the grass and the road, lined with ancient monuments from all the lands the Dothraki had sacked over the centuries. "Ahead," Ser Jorah answered. "Under the mountain." Beyond the horse gate, plundered gods and stolen heroes loomed to either side of them. The forgotten deities of dead cities brandished their broken thunderbolts at the sky as Dany rode her silver past their feet. Stone kings looked down on her from their thrones, their faces chipped and stained, even their names lost in the mists of time. Lithe young maidens danced on marble plinths, draped only in flowers, or poured air from shattered jars. Monsters stood in the grass beside the road; black iron dragons with jewels for eyes, roaring griffins, manticores with their barbed tails poised to strike, and other beasts she could not name. Some of the statues were so lovely they took her breath away, others so misshapen and terrible that Dany could scarcely bear to look at them. Those, Ser Jorah said, had likely come from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai. "So many," she said as her silver stepped slowly onward, "and from so many lands." Viserys was less impressed. "The trash of dead cities," he sneered. He was careful to speak in the Common Tongue, which few Dothraki could understand, yet even so Dany found herself glancing back at the men of her khas, to make certain he had not been overheard. He went on blithely. "All these savages know how to do is steal the things better men have built . . . and kill." He laughed. "They do know how to kill. Otherwise I'd have no use for them at all." "They are my people now," Dany said. "You should not call them savages, brother." "The dragon speaks as he likes," Viserys said . . . in the Common Tongue. He glanced over his shoulder at Aggo and Rakharo, riding behind them, and favored them with a


you meant to in Avonlea." "I think perhaps I will if you will come over and talk to me occasionally," said Miss Barry. That evening Miss Barry gave Diana a silver bangle bracelet and told the senior members of the household that she had unpacked her valise. "I've made up my mind to stay simply for the sake of getting better acquainted with that Anne-girl," she said frankly. "She amuses me, and at my time of life an amusing person is a rarity." Marilla's only comment when she heard the story was, "I told you so." This was for Matthew's benefit. Miss Barry stayed her month out and over. She was a more agreeable guest than usual, for Anne kept her in good humor. They became firm friends. When Miss Barry went away she said: "Remember, you Anne-girl, when you come to town you're to visit me and I'll put you in my very sparest spareroom bed to sleep." "Miss Barry was a kindred spirit, after all," Anne confided to Marilla. "You wouldn't think so to look at her, but she is. You don't find it right out at first, as in Matthew's case, but after a while you come to see it. Kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think. It's splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world." 20. A Good Imagination Gone Wrong Spring had come once more to Green Gables-the beautiful capricious, reluctant Canadian spring, lingering along through April and May in a succession of sweet, fresh, chilly days, with pink sunsets and miracles of resurrection and growth. The maples in Lover's Lane were red budded and little curly ferns pushed up around the Dryad's Bubble. Away up in the barrens, behind Mr. Silas Sloane's place, the Mayflowers blossomed out, pink and white stars of sweetness under their brown leaves. All the school girls and boys had one golden afternoon gathering them, coming home in the clear, echoing twilight with arms and baskets full of flowery spoil. "I'm so sorry for people who live in lands where there are no Mayflowers," said Anne. "Diana says perhaps they have something better, but there couldn't be anything better than Mayflowers, could there, Marilla? And Diana says if they don't know what they are like they don't miss them. But I think that is the saddest thing of all. I think it would be TRAGIC, Marilla, not to know what Mayflowers are like and not to miss them. Do you know what I think Mayflowers are, Marilla? I think they must be the souls of the flowers that died last summer and this is their heaven. But we had a splendid time today, Marilla. We had our lunch down in a big mossy hollow by an old well-such a ROMANTIC spot. Charlie Sloane dared Arty Gillis to jump over it, and Arty did because he wouldn't take a dare. Nobody would in school. It is very FASHIONABLE to dare. Mr. Phillips gave all the Mayflowers he found to Prissy Andrews and I heard


mocking tone. They wait in silence as Leon brings Aileen to the megaron, staring at each other. The stranger’s hair is jagged, as if roughly cut with a kitchen blade. It barely hides the scars on his face: one on the bridge of the nose, the other on his cheekbone, close to the eye. He looks at her with his head slightly bent, as if afraid. She wonders what he is noticing of her. “We are ready for the cleansing, my queen.” Leon stands aside and Aileen enters, a cloth in her hands, her red hair tied back in a long plait. She takes a few steps forward, smiling at Clytemnestra, then notices the stranger and freezes. She knows him. “Wash this man’s feet, Aileen,” Clytemnestra orders. Aileen hurries forward and kneels in front of the stranger. As she unties his sandals and cleans him in the footbath, Clytemnestra studies his face for any hint of recognition, but the man seems not to remember Aileen. Still, Aileen has changed since Clytemnestra came to the palace. Whoever this stranger is, he hasn’t been to Mycenae in years, or Clytemnestra would know him too. And then she understands who he reminds her of. Aileen wipes the man’s feet with a dry cloth and ties on his sandals. Then she hurries back into the shadows of the anteroom. The stranger turns to Clytemnestra. “I will tell you my name now, since you have sworn to offer me shelter.” “There is no need,” she says, smiling coldly. “You are Aegisthus, son of Thyestes and cousin of my husband.” He starts. His jaw moves, as though he is biting his tongue. Behind him, Aileen stares at the scene, gaping. “You are clever,” he says. “And you are a fool for coming here thinking to hide your identity.” “I have lived in the shadows of forests and palaces for years. Men never recognize me.” “Well, I am no man,” she says, smiling again. He smiles back, unable to contain himself. The expression is jarring on his face, as though he hasn’t done it for years. It shows a different side of him, more childish, less alert. “You are welcome in this palace, Lord Aegisthus,” she says. “No one shall harm you. Now go. I will see you at dinner.” “My queen,” he says, bending his head slightly. Then he turns abruptly and walks away. She stares at his back as he passes the frescoes and the columns. There is a feeling in her she can’t recognize, as if a flame has been suddenly lit, burning her from within. After nine years of pain and plotting, this is unexpected. Whether good or bad, she will find out soon enough. In both cases, she holds the sword, and she is not afraid to strike. * * * By the time she has received all the petitioners for the day, dinner is almost ready. The smells of onions and spices come from the corridors, making her stomach twist. She orders the doors of the megaron closed and lets everyone out except


should have been the one to raise you. And I am so deeply sorry. I was in such a dark place.” Just the mention of that terrible time filled me with dread. “I’ll be honest: For a few years, I carried some resentment that you didn’t try to win custody. But when I found out I was pregnant with Henry, I was so terrified that I couldn’t be a good parent because of all the loss I had experienced. And I realized that you must have felt that way too. I always knew on some level, even at thirteen, that you would have taken care of me full-time if you could. But you couldn’t. And that’s okay.” I squeezed her hand. “That is precisely, exactly how I felt. I was afraid I would hurt you worse by being in your life, especially when I was at such a low point myself.” “I know,” she whispered. “And, really, even then, I didn’t want anything between us to change. Even during the worst times, I always knew that I had you and summer to look forward to. I always knew that in a few more months I would be at camp. If you had gotten custody of me, all that would have changed. I would have had to switch schools. You probably would have sold this place.” She paused. “Paula and John took care of me. Their house was happy, even when I was sad. I needed that to survive.” I leaned over to hug her. I wanted to say more. To fight for my absolution. But it seemed it had already been granted. Just like that. “You are so generous with your forgiveness, Daphne. I am so grateful for you.” “I’m grateful for you too. I’m grateful that you were always my safe place, my getaway.” She smiled. “And I am always ready and willing to be yours.” It brought tears to my eyes. “Speaking of getaways,” Daphne said. “I came here to tell you that I think we should sell Great-Aunt Gracie’s house. We could use the money to save Holly Springs.” I surprised myself at how vehemently and quickly my “No!” burst out. I hadn’t wanted to tell Daphne my plan yet because I wanted to be really sure. But this seemed like the right time. “I know I sort of mentioned this, but I’ve been thinking that maybe you are right.” “I so often am,” she joked. “But what am I right about?” “I think it’s high time I got away in the off-season; it’s high time I spent more time with you and Henry and hopefully a new baby or two. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to move to Aunt Gracie’s from September through late March or so.” Daphne squealed and clapped her hands. “Nothing could make me happier, June.” “Well, that makes me happy.” I smiled. “Facing the possibility of losing camp has made me consider what a different life could look like. I can have hope. But I also need a plan B.” Daphne sighed.


smiled at her whenever they caught her eye. Even Aunty Bíọ́lá, whom Wúràọlá had expected to hold a grudge over the disagreement about supervising the cooks during the night. The difference was there in the way her parents had danced in when they finally decided to show up, ecstatic beyond what a fiftieth birthday party called for, revelling already in all the ceremonies that would lead to Wúràọlá’s wedding. It was in how she overheard Yèyé whispering about the engagement to everyone who greeted her, Thank you, thank you. You know you’ll be back soon to celebrate with us again, our first daughter is getting married. It was her father introducing Wúràọlá and Kúnlé to his friends as the intending couple. As though they had both been reborn and needed to be reintroduced to the family friends who had known them since they were little. Wúràọlá was surprised at how pleased she was with all the attention. She had assumed it would only feel like a different kind of pressure, the flipside of being asked when she would get married at gatherings that preceded this one. Instead, her father was grinning the way he had at her first prize-giving day in secondary school when she’d won all the prizes available in her class. Tacking Most Punctual and Best-Behaved awards to prizes for mathematics and integrated science. She would never repeat the feat again, even though she continued to win prizes every year. And she would never forget the pleasure she’d felt from her parents’ pride, like light trapped beneath her skin, radiating outward and bathing everyone else in joy. What she felt now at her mother’s fiftieth birthday party was even more intense. The smiles that greeted her spread wider than they had for anything else she’d ever accomplished. The hugs lasted longer, pats on the back transitioned into rubs as though no one wanted to let go of her. The whole Mákinwá family is proud of you, her father’s brother, the retired colonel, had said to her when he arrived. You have not let your brains prevent you from being homey, we are so proud. What did it feel like to be engaged? At this party, it was like being a celebrity. Everyone wanted to touch her or talk to her. Wúràọlá did not have time to explain all of this to Grace and Tifẹ́. She would have had to shout over the music, and her voice was already getting hoarse. She’d decided to speak in whispers or via the Post-it notes she carried in her clutch for the rest of the day. It would be silly to arrive at the hospital on Monday unable to communicate with her patients. She smiled and moved to another table. This one was occupied by three of her father’s siblings. Before she’d finished scribbling her question on a Post-it, the colonel asked her to get another round of drinks for the table. She zigzagged her way towards the exit, dodging servers who were ferrying trays laden with plates of food to the guests. When


yes it’s legal. i don’t trust you. you have to. i’m paying for your kids’ college. The bubbles percolated once more and then disappeared for good. I opened my contacts list and scrolled to Karl’s name, my thumb hovering over the call button. I pressed it. He picked up on the second ring. “You always text,” he said. “You never call.” “I felt like calling.” He made a soft, shapeless noise that sounded like purring. “What’s wrong, Ez?” “Nothing’s wrong.” “Okay, well, there’s something in your voice that’s telling me otherwise.” I cleared my throat. “You don’t have to pretend to be unfeeling and macho,” he said. “You’re the least macho person I know.” There were still tears dripping into my ears. I wondered if he could tell over the phone. “I’m in Urmau,” I managed, stupidly. “And I’m bored.” “Bored in Urmau?” “They worship Orson down here.” “I’m sure they do.” I sighed. I wanted to be desired again, and to be desired I’d have to lie. “I miss you.” There was a pause, a consideration. “Say it again,” he said. “I miss you.” “Do you really?” “Yes.” “What do you want? Do you want me to turn my phone camera on?” “I don’t know.” He laughed, not unkindly. “Should I fly down from New York?” I hesitated, then remembered how Orson had battered me. “Yeah.” “When?” “As soon as you can,” I said. “We can get a hotel.” Another pause for consideration. “I have a meeting with a major investor in two days. But I could push it back.” I waited for him to say something else, and when he didn’t, I said: “You can do anything you want.” “To you?” “Yeah.” I could hear him smiling. “Good,” he said. “That’s what I like to hear.” * * * Karl was strange in shorts and a floral button-down, looking entirely out of place and pale among the massive succulents that lined the streets of Rezopol. He met me at the steps of the hotel, watching me behind his sunglasses as I squinted to see him through the midday brightness. The blind pinpricks at the corners of my vision throbbed as though electricity were attempting and failing to pass through them, exposed spots in my eyesight’s drywall where loose wires had burned themselves dim. He carried his leather suitcase past me and into the lobby. “Are you checked in?” he asked. I nodded. “Let’s go upstairs.” On the bed, he massaged my shoulders, his voice in my ear. “I know what you’re doing here,” he said. “Do you?” “I know it’s bad.” “Then why did you come?” He nestled his chin in the pocket between my neck and collarbone. “Because you’re a sweet little twink with big eyes and soft hands and you look even cuter when I mess up your hair.” I tilted my head forward, sighed with pleasure in spite of myself. “You run a criminal operation,” he said. “You falsify documents and hide money and cheat people out of their investments.” “I don’t do any of that.” “Yes,


Nizahl guardsmen stripping my clothes while I slept made me grit my teeth. I cast an assessing glance over the room once more, searching for anything I could use as a weapon. Because your last endeavor to kill the Heir was so exceedingly successful, Hanim bit out. Who said anything about trying to kill him again? My intentions began and ended with getting out of this room. I turned on the cot, setting my feet on the ground. They settled over a bulbous, springy surface. I frowned. Odd, why would the vines be— I looked down and screamed. My legs violently recoiled, knocking my knees against my chin. Stretched on the ground beside my bed was the soldier I killed. A bone of his snapped neck protruded from the waxen glaze of his skin. Insects skittered in the open gash under his belly. My stomach turned as his lips pulsed, parting briefly as a roach escaped onto his cheek. I had seen many corpses, but never quite this far into death. Yuck. He must have been a nightmare for the guards to carry. I stretched my leg to hop over him when something much more unsettling caught my eye. On the soldier’s chest lay a wrapped sesame-seed candy. The door opened. Jeru and Vaun entered, moving to opposite sides of the frame. They stood at attention. Arin strode past them. With his hair swept tidily from his face and his vest meticulously laced beneath his coat, it was hard to imagine someone with such self-possession had nearly strangled me to death. His attention found my face and settled, eradicating the small hope I had indulged that perhaps the soldier’s body had been in this room before I arrived. Arin wanted a reaction. I had a split second to decide which one I should give. I could give him innocence, feign shock and horror at the mutilated corpse and maybe break into tears. I could offer the Heir subdued distress and ask him what happened. Every option I considered fell flat, because they all inevitably led to the same consequence: my death. He had declared as much in the war room. I bent down and plucked the candy from the soldier’s chest. I studied it between two fingers, bringing it to my nose for a sniff. Filth and sugar. “I think you misplaced this,” I said, casual. No response. I may as well have spoken to a stone. He wanted a reaction? Well, that made two of us. I flicked the candy. It fell against his boot. “I do not care much for sweets, myself.” Vaun stepped forward, a hand on the hilt of his sword. Jeru grasped his elbow. “Out.” Arin did not raise his voice or move his eyes from mine. A sour-faced Vaun wrenched his elbow away and stormed out. Jeru followed, closing the door behind him. We were alone. I bit my lip. The urge to break the silence battered me, an unfortunate relic from my time with Hanim. Silence was danger. The more still he was, the more


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

handful of foreigners to subject them. Do you fancy I am going to pay in my own life and person debts they made? What for? --For our freedom, said Davin. --No honourable and sincere man, said Stephen, has given up to you his life and his youth and his affections from the days of Tone to those of Parnell, but you sold him to the enemy or failed him in need or reviled him and left him for another. And you invite me to be one of you. I'd see you damned first. --They died for their ideals, Stevie, said Davin. Our day will come yet, believe me. Stephen, following his own thought, was silent for an instant. --The soul is born, he said vaguely, first in those moments I told you of. It has a slow and dark birth, more mysterious than the birth of the body. When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets. Davin knocked the ashes from his pipe. --Too deep for me, Stevie, he said. But a man's country comes first. Ireland first, Stevie. You can be a poet or a mystic after. --Do you know what Ireland is? asked Stephen with cold violence. Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow. Davin rose from his box and went towards the players, shaking his head sadly. But in a moment his sadness left him and he was hotly disputing with Cranly and the two players who had finished their game. A match of four was arranged, Cranly insisting, however, that his ball should be used. He let it rebound twice or thrice to his hand and struck it strongly and swiftly towards the base of the alley, exclaiming in answer to its thud: --Your soul! Stephen stood with Lynch till the score began to rise. Then he plucked him by the sleeve to come away. Lynch obeyed, saying: --Let us eke go, as Cranly has it. Stephen smiled at this side-thrust. They passed back through the garden and out through the hall where the doddering porter was pinning up a hall notice in the frame. At the foot of the steps they halted and Stephen took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered it to his companion. --I know you are poor, he said. --Damn your yellow insolence, answered Lynch. This second proof of Lynch's culture made Stephen smile again. --It was a great day for European culture, he said, when you made up your mind to swear in yellow. They lit their cigarettes and turned to the right. After a pause Stephen began: --Aristotle has not defined pity and terror. I have. I say-- Lynch halted and said bluntly: --Stop! I won't listen! I am sick. I was out last night on a yellow drunk with Horan and Goggins. Stephen went on: --Pity is the feeling which arrests the mind in the


told you yesterday, I’m going to try being a Rockette. I hope you can support me in this.” “For God’s sake, you are going to ruin your life with your hardheadedness. You’re making a terrible mistake.” “I disagree.” “Well, then, I suppose we have nothing more to discuss. When you’ve come to your senses, let me know. I simply do not have time for your histrionics.” Then he hung up. Marion sat there, stunned. A girl from across the room let out a screech and fell to the floor, and it took a moment before Marion realized she was acting. She hadn’t expected much from the call with Simon; his stubbornness was not a surprise. Judy’s concern was, though. It was as if a chink had appeared in the wall of resentments and estrangement that divided them. But there was no time to process the exchange further; she had to get to rehearsal. They were to dance in full makeup and costume in the rehearsal hall for the producer, Mr. Leonidoff. After that, there were only three more days until they performed the cowboy number in front of an audience. Marion was terrified at the thought, but the other new girls were as well, which made her feel a little better. Bunny had insisted Marion take the empty place next to her in the dressing room, and as soon as Marion arrived, she carefully pulled on the fringed bolero jacket and matching short skirt in a palomino pattern that had been sewn to her specific measurements. Even though Bunny was a couple of inches shorter than Marion, their hemlines had been tailored to form a straight line when they stood side by side—a trick that added to the illusion the dancers were exactly the same height. The outfits were finished off with cowboy hats—also custom fit so they wouldn’t fall off—and a holster holding a plastic gun, which sat low on her hips. After she and Bunny finished dressing, they took the elevator up to the rehearsal hall, where Russell and Emily stood waiting along with Mr. Leonidoff, who sat in a chair against the mirrored wall. During the first run-through, with Simon’s harsh words still echoing in Marion’s mind, she missed a step and got left behind as the girls made their way to the front of the stage for the kick line. Russell called out for Beulah to stop playing. “Miss Brooks, if we were onstage right now, tell me what would happen?” “I-I’d miss the kick line?” Marion stammered. Russell shook his head. “No. You’d be lying facedown on the floor. Can you tell me why?” Of course, the stage elevators. Tape had been used to mark the edges of the three motorized hydraulic elevators that rose into place as they danced, forming three separate levels. If she missed her mark, she’d fall off the elevated section of the stage and, as Russell said, land on her face. “I’m sorry. The elevators, yes. I won’t make that mistake again.” “I should hope not,” Mr. Leonidoff said, glaring at Marion.


“Are you cold, Mr. Samson?” He glanced down at himself. He had removed his coat, revealing another beneath it. “Aslaug and I are always cold. It never leaves us, not even in midsummer.” I had my notebook out, and was scribbling my initial observations. Part of me was aware of how hard-hearted I must have seemed, but I was too caught up in my scientific interest to worry over it, and in any case, Mord did not appear offended by me. I took a step towards the stairs. Immediately, they transformed. Each stair became a gaping mouth, glittering with teeth and furred with a wolf’s dense pelt. A bitter wind funnelled into the room, smelling of snow and pines. The wolves snarled and snapped at the hem of my coat. I turned to Mord. He had started back in horror, but there was a dullness to it, and he did not cower long. “You see such visions often?” I said. He blinked. Annoyance came into his eyes, and he frowned at me as if expecting pity. His face softened when he encountered only dispassionate interest. “I know they aren’t real,” he said. “I see.” I thought about living in such a place, beset by such violent illusions. I thought about days following days, and years following years. “Mr. Samson,” I said, “would you bring me an iron nail and a little salt?” He blinked but went to fetch what I had requested. When he returned, I asked him if the small coat I had spied hanging on a hook on the door was his son’s. He nodded. “Thank you,” I said, and I placed the coat in my backpack. “I’ll return it, I promise.” I mounted the stairs. Mord drew in a sharp breath. He did not follow me, which was just as well. I would have stopped him. Shadow padded alongside me as wolves champed at my ankles. I could see the stairs through the illusion, and Shadow could not see the illusion at all —at least, I think he cannot see fae illusions. I suppose it is possible that he sees them but is indifferent. In the attic I found a little bed and a cosy rug of undyed wool. Upon the bed sat a boy, pale as moonlight on new snow. I stopped short, for the creature was nothing like the changelings I have encountered before—ugly, spindly things to a one, with the brains of animals. The boy’s long hair was bluish and translucent, and upon his skin was a glimmer like frost. He was beautiful, with an uncanny grace, his eyes sharp with intelligence. A distant part of me was struck by how much he reminded me of Bambleby. Though they looked nothing alike, there was a kinship that I could not put my finger on, which was perhaps more absence than feature, a lack of something coarse and mundane that characterizes all mortals. My stomach twisted at the realization that this creature was the first of the courtly fae I had ever questioned. I was uncertain if


for; what he meant to do with it, and whether he were mad. The master tried to explain the matter; but he was really half dead with fatigue, and all that I could make out, amongst her scolding, was a tale of his seeing it starving, and house- less, and as good as dumb, in the streets of Liverpool, where he picked it up and inquired for its owner. Not a soul knew to whom it belonged, he said; and his money and time being both limited, he thought it better to take it home with him at once, than run into vain expenses there, because he was determined be would not leave it as he found it. Well, the conclusion was that my mistress grumbled herself calm; and Mr. Earnshaw told me to wash it, and give it clean things, and let it sleep with the children. Hindley and Cathy contented themselves with look- ing and listening till peace was restored; then both be- gan searching their father's pockets for the presents he had promised them. The former was a boy of fourteen, but when he drew out what had been a fiddle, crushed to morsels in the greatcoat, he blubbered aloud; and Cathy, when she learned the master had lost her whip in attending on the stranger, showed her humour by grinning and spitting at the stupid little thing, earning for her pains a sound blow from her father to teach her cleaner manners. They entirely refused to have it in bed with them, or even in their room; and I had no more sense, so I put it on the landing of the stairs, hop- ing it might be gone on the morrow. By chance, or else attracted by hearing his voice, it crept to Mr. Earn- shaw's door, and there he found it on quitting his cham- ber. Inquiries were made as to how it got there. I was obliged to confess, and in recompense for my coward- ice and inhumanity was sent out of the house. This was Heathcliff's first introduction to the family. On coming back a few days afterwards (for I did not consider my banishment perpetual) I found they had christened him "Heathcliff." It was the name of a son who died in childhood, and it has served him ever since, both for Christian and surname. Miss Cathy and he were now very thick; but Hindley hated him, and, to say the truth, I did the same; and we plagued and went on with him shamefully, for I wasn't reasonable enough to feel my injustice, and the mistress never put in a word on his behalf when she saw him wronged. He seemed a sullen, patient child, hardened, perhaps, to ill-treatment. He would stand Hindley's blows with- out winking or shedding a tear, and my pinches moved him only to draw in a breath and open his eyes, as if he had hurt himself by accident and nobody was to blame. This endurance made old Earnshaw furious when he discovered his son persecuting the


since Lincoln traversed this rocky maze almost a decade ago. I’ll try to use rail guns sparingly.” A sudden burst of rail spikes eviscerated an asteroid the size of the Hub Gunther, clearing their slow, methodical progression deeper into the field. Seeing Akari’s profile, I glimpsed a smile—at least someone still loved her job here. Bosun Polk joined me at the captain’s mount. “Sitrep, Bosun?” “The crew is … begrudgingly making preparations to abandon ship. Only what someone can carry with them on their person goes onboard Lincoln.” “Let’s dedicate extra resources to HealthBay … kid gloves when it comes to moving the patients—” “Met with Doc Viv an hour ago; we’ll be using hovercarts to move the patients. They’ll hardly know they’re being moved.” I looked over to Polk. “Wait, she didn’t have a problem with moving them?” Polk hitched a shoulder. “I guess, but no more than anyone else has a problem with the move.” Viv’s vehement reaction earlier … What was all that about? “Just make sure anything she wants to take with her, MediBots, specialized equipment, her medication stores; hell, if she wants the deck plates—make sure it’s moved over.” “Don’t worry, Cap … We’ll take care of your … um, Doc Viv.” Polk’s cheeks flushed, catching herself misspeaking. Another burst of rail spikes shattered an even larger asteroid, Adams’ shields coming alive as an influx of gravel pieces peppered the protective barrier. I let Polk’s comment go unanswered but was curious as to what she’d almost said. My what? My main squeeze? My girlfriend? Perhaps that was the problem. Hell, if I didn’t know … Chen said, “I have confirmation both Portent and Wrath have entered the asteroid field behind us.” The halo display segmented, Hardy’s form now prominent. “My sensors are tingling.” “Okay, not sure what we’re supposed to do with that bit of news?” I said. “Liquilids are on the move. Not slow and unhurried like before. They’re making a mad dash for us.” Akari stole a quick look back at me. “He’s not wrong. Sir Calvin just pinged an alert … realizing the same thing.” “That’s all we need, to come under attack just as we’re jumping ship.” “The good news is those red ships are way too big to navigate this field,” Akari said, firing another burst of rail spikes. “Frigates are another story, though,” Hardy said. “Our timetable just narrowed. Substantially.” I looked over to the helm station. “Mr. Grimes, any possibility we can kick up our speed?” He looked to Akari; her ability to clear the way dictated much of Adams’ progress. She nodded. “Pedal to the metal. I can handle it.” I turned my attention back to Hardy. “What’s the situation with the quantum flux reverser?” “Coogong thinks he’ll have it operational within the hour. Seems Lincoln’s crew had it close but made a few miscalculations with integration with the ship’s shields.” The display segmented again, now bringing up Sonya sitting within Lincoln’s bridge. “I’ve been assessing the condition of this ship’s weapons.” I raised my brows for her to


can bet that with all she’s heard, she’s already made up her mind about you. With or without those photos.” The attorney waves his hand in the air. “All right, we’re done here.” Ethan stands from his chair, keeping his eyes trained on Carr. “The next guy she’s with should thank you. You’ve made him look like a saint.” The attorney looks at Jonah. “Get him out of here.” Jonah grabs Ethan’s arm. Ethan pulls out of his reach. He presses his palms onto the ridiculously large desk as Carr’s smug grin morphs into a frown. “A very screwable saint.” “Get out!” the attorney shouts as Jonah gives another tug on Ethan’s arm. “Let’s go,” Jonah barks in his ear. Ethan turns, shaking out of his partner’s hold as he follows him out of the office. “What was that?” Jonah asks once they’re inside the elevator. “It seemed…personal.” Ethan presses the button for the underground parking garage. “I just don’t like that guy.” Jonah studies him as they descend the thirty floors to the parking garage. “Okay. You don’t want to tell me? Fine,” he finally says. The elevator doors open. Jonah turns after stepping into the parking garage. “The caretaker of Carr’s San Juan Island home called on my way here. He said that Carr requested to be alone on the property last weekend, so he didn’t see who Carr was with. There are three security cameras outside the home, so I’m going to see if we can get a warrant for the footage from last weekend.” Ethan follows after him, trying to think of a reason to keep his partner from requesting the warrant. He could insist on being the one to check the footage, but if he lies about the contents and is found out, he’ll be looking at prison time. Jonah turns. “What if he told this woman about his plan to murder his wife? We’ll never know if we don’t ask her. Who knows, maybe she even helped him plot it.” Ethan stops. “I know,” Jonah adds. “I just hope he wasn’t preying on some teenager up there.” “That seems like something that happens down in Los Angeles, Jonah. Not the San Juans.” Jonah turns around. “Maybe. Maybe not. You coming back to homicide now?” “Actually, I wanted to interview the firefighters who responded to Carr’s 911 call. See if they noticed anything unusual about his behavior.” Jonah stops after unlocking his Ford. “I’ll join you.” “The medic’s report said they were dispatched from Fire Station 29.” “Meet you there.” Ethan pulls out his phone after getting behind the wheel. He attaches the three recovered photos from Chelsea’s phone in an email to the FBI agent he spoke to earlier that week. After sending the email, he opens the message from the local crime reporter. Hey Ethan, Got any updates for me about your investigation into Chelsea Carr’s death? Ethan hits Reply and then Attach File. His finger hovers over the last image sent by TESU, with the girl on Carr’s lap, facing away from the camera.


in Memphis, and had a different mother I had never met, so they loomed large as mythical figures in my mind, characters in bedtime stories from times I couldn’t remember. I was nervous about being rejected, for how I looked or how I talked or what I was interested in. I worried it might be weird between us because of how differently we’d been brought up. My brothers, my sisters, and I were all raised by a loose network of the same overlapping people, but each circumstance turned out to be wildly different. My mom was in high school when my two oldest sisters were born and forty when she had me, the lady who birthed us looked the same, but she was two different people. My dad is not my sisters’ dad, but he came into their lives when they were in elementary school, shortly after he’d split from my brothers’ mother. And the man who was a glowering, erratic figure in 1968 was both different, yet somehow better, than the one who made me get out of a car in the middle of the road to teach me a lesson in 1992. What was I gonna say? “How much of a psycho was Daddy when you knew him? Want to compare our parallel traumas?” I let many, many weeks go by. I mean, when was even a good time to call a person whose schedule you don’t have access to? What if they worked on the weekends and had random days off during the week? What if they worked the night shift and are asleep during the day? What if they worked the day shift and went to bed unusually early at night? What if they hate talking during their commute? Or they like to talk first thing in the morning? More important than that, people hate talking on the fucking phone! I love it, of course, but I am a monster. Is it appropriate to text someone saying, “hey idk if this is u but hi im ur sister”? I could spin out and ask a hundred more completely plausible questions like these. The longer I stalled, the more I psyched myself out. What if this was a joke? The internet is weird, man. People do fucked-up shit like this all the time, and I’m not so arrogant that I’d think it could never happen to me or that I’m so smart I’d be able to sniff out a scam. But I’m trying to be less fucking cynical all the time. I decided I would call, just to see. I told people I was gonna call, so they’d hold me accountable and follow up. I even sat on a couch next to my friend Megan and spent an hour working out a plan for what to say when I did call, like two girls hanging out after school plotting what to say when they prank call the house of the boy they think is cute. It became bigger than a catch-up phone call; suddenly, in my mind, it was


to come to my chambers.” “Please stay. We would all like to hear what you have to say.” Lady Kuo sounds solicitous, but our guests are not fooled. “Your room sounds lovely,” the widow says. “Let us retire there.” We walk slowly through the covered colonnades, stopping here and there so the visitors can enjoy the scent of jasmine and admire the plumes of a caged bird, while Poppy runs ahead to prepare. When we arrive, we settle, and Poppy pours tea. “Please tell me about your daughter,” I begin. “How old is she? What are her symptoms?” Tears well in the widow’s eyes, so Lady Liu speaks on her behalf. “My sister-in-law is thirty-five years old. When she hears people speaking, she becomes dizzy.” It’s an odd symptom, no question, but it doesn’t sound all that worrisome to me. However, we’ve reached the fifth month, when the growing heat and humidity can bring sickness and disease. “Does she have a rash?” I ask. “No cases of smallpox have been reported in Nanjing,” Lady Liu answers. Which is a relief. “You asked for me because I’m a woman,” I say. “I hope you don’t mind if I ask some intimate questions.” When both women nod, I go on. “Tell me about her stools and urine.” “She has fainted multiple times when sitting on the honeypot,” Lady Liu states. “What does her doctor say?” I inquire. “He says she’s Blood and qi deficient,” Lady Liu answers. “Now she coughs up blood.” They might have mentioned this symptom first, but hearing it, I say, “It sounds as though he’s made the correct diagnosis.” “Is she dying?” Widow Bao asks, her voice quavering. “She’s my daughter…” “I can’t do the Four Examinations from afar.” I try to sound reassuring when I add, “Tell me more. Perhaps her doctor missed something.” “Ask us anything.” “Can you describe her disposition?” “Until now, she’s always been quick-tempered and impatient,” the widow answers. “Now she stays in bed, weeping day and night.” This is another important symptom, but what is the cause? I remain silent, waiting for one of the women to tell me what brought about such sorrow. We each take sips of tea. Widow Bao’s eyes fill again; Lady Liu gives one of those sighs known through the ages to convey loss of heart. “My sister-in-law’s daughter died ten months ago,” she confides at last. “This is when she began to cry. Four months later, bandits killed her son.” Widow Bao openly weeps. When Lady Liu puts a comforting hand over her mother-in-law’s, I wish I could have a relationship like this with Lady Kuo, but she has no interest and my desires are not what matter here. “Widow Bao, I believe your daughter is suffering from a type of qi deficiency we call damage from weeping. You tell me your daughter was once quick-tempered. This is caused by qi constraint, which leads to Heat in the Liver, which, in turn, fires up Blood, which must be expelled by coughing. I don’t have a full pharmacy here,


of a man tilling the fields or performing any of the homely duties of the village. Finally his eyes rested upon a woman directly beneath him. Before her was a small cauldron standing over a low fire and in it bubbled a thick, reddish, tarry mass. On one side of her lay a quantity of wooden arrows the points of which she dipped into the seething substance, then laying them upon a narrow rack of boughs which stood upon her other side. Tarzan of the Apes was fascinated. Here was the secret of the terrible destructiveness of The Archer's tiny missiles. He noted the extreme care which the woman took that none of the matter should touch her hands, and once when a particle spattered upon one of her fingers he saw her plunge the member into a vessel of water and quickly rub the tiny stain away with a handful of leaves. Tarzan knew nothing of poison, but his shrewd reasoning told him that it was this deadly stuff that killed, and not the little arrow, which was merely the messenger that carried it into the body of its victim. How he should like to have more of those little death-dealing slivers. If the woman would only leave her work for an instant he could drop down, gather up a handful, and be back in the tree again before she drew three breaths. Chapter 10 As he was trying to think out some plan to distract her attention he heard a wild cry from across the clearing. He looked and saw a black warrior standing beneath the very tree in which he had killed the murderer of Kala an hour before. The fellow was shouting and waving his spear above his head. Now and again he would point to something on the ground before him. The village was in an uproar instantly. Armed men rushed from the interior of many a hut and raced madly across the clearing toward the excited sentry. After them trooped the old men, and the women and children until, in a moment, the village was deserted. Tarzan of the Apes knew that they had found the body of his victim, but that interested him far less than the fact that no one remained in the village to prevent his taking a supply of the arrows which lay below him. Quickly and noiselessly he dropped to the ground beside the cauldron of poison. For a moment he stood motionless, his quick, bright eyes scanning the interior of the palisade. No one was in sight. His eyes rested upon the open doorway of a nearby hut. He would take a look within, thought Tarzan, and so, cautiously, he approached the low thatched building. For a moment he stood without, listening intently. There was no sound, and he glided into the semi-darkness of the interior. Weapons hung against the walls--long spears, strangely shaped knives, a couple of narrow shields. In the center of the room was a cooking pot, and at the far end a litter of dry grasses