them. I had all my girls to comfort me at home, and his last son was waiting, miles away, to say good-by to him, perhaps! I felt so rich, so happy thinking of my blessings, that I made him a nice bundle, gave him some money, and thanked him heartily for the lesson he had taught me." "Tell another story, Mother, one with a moral to it, like this. I like to think about them afterward, if they are real and not too preachy," said Jo, after a minute's silence. Mrs. March smiled and began at once, for she had told stories to this little audience for many years, and knew how to please them. "Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and parents who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented." (Here the listeners stole sly looks at one another, and began to sew diligently.) "These girls were anxious to be good and made many excellent resolutions, but they did not keep them very well, and were constantly saying, `If only we had this,' or `If we could only do that,' quite forgetting how much they already had, and how many things they actually could do. So they asked an old woman what spell they could use to make them happy, and she said, `When you feel discontented, think over your blessings, and be grateful.'" (Here Jo looked up quickly, as if about to speak, but changed her mind, seeing that the story was not done yet.) "Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon were surprised to see how well off they were. One discovered that money couldn't keep shame and sorrow out of rich people's houses, another that, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her youth, health, and good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old lady who couldn't enjoy her comforts, a third that, disagreeable as it was to help get dinner, it was harder still to go begging for it and the fourth, that even carnelian rings were not so valuable as good behavior. So they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the blessings already possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they should be taken away entirely, instead of increased, and I believe they were never disappointed or sorry that they took the old woman's advice." "Now, Marmee, that is very cunning of you to turn our own stories against us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!" cried Meg. "I like that kind of sermon. It's the sort Father used to tell us," said Beth thoughtfully, putting the needles straight on Jo's cushion. "I don't complain near as much as the others do, and I shall be more careful than ever now, for I've had warning from Susies's downfall," said Amy morally. "We needed that lesson, and we won't forget it. If we do so, you just say to us, as old Chloe did in


be, asleep or awake, working or resting, in his bath or in bed, he can be inspected without warning and without knowing that he is being inspected. Nothing that he does is indifferent. His friendships, his relaxations, his behaviour towards his wife and children, the expression of his face when he is alone, the words he mutters in sleep, even the characteristic movements of his body, are all jealously scrutinized. Not only any actual misdemeanour, but any eccentricity, however small, any change of habits, any nervous mannerism that could possibly be the symptom of an inner struggle, is certain to be detected. He has no freedom of choice in any direction whatever. On the other hand his actions are not regulated by law or by any clearly formulated code of behaviour. In Oceania there is no law. Thoughts and actions which, when detected, mean certain death are not formally forbidden, and the endless purges, arrests, tortures, imprisonments, and vaporizations are not inflicted as punishment for crimes which have actually been committed, but are merely the wiping-out of persons who might perhaps commit a crime at some time in the future. A Party member is required to have not only the right opinions, but the right instincts. Many of the beliefs and attitudes demanded of him are never plainly stated, and could not be stated without laying bare the contradictions inherent in Ingsoc. If he is a person naturally orthodox (in Newspeak a GOODTHINKER), he will in all circumstances know, without taking thought, what is the true belief or the desirable emotion. But in any case an elaborate mental training, undergone in childhood and grouping itself round the Newspeak words CRIMESTOP, BLACKWHITE, and DOUBLETHINK, makes him unwilling and unable to think too deeply on any subject whatever. A Party member is expected to have no private emotions and no respites from enthusiasm. He is supposed to live in a continuous frenzy of hatred of foreign enemies and internal traitors, triumph over victories, and self-abasement before the power and wisdom of the Party. The discontents produced by his bare, unsatisfying life are deliberately turned outwards and dissipated by such devices as the Two Minutes Hate, and the speculations which might possibly induce a sceptical or rebellious attitude are killed in advance by his early acquired inner discipline. The first and simplest stage in the discipline, which can be taught even to young children, is called, in Newspeak, CRIMESTOP. CRIMESTOP means the faculty of stopping short, as though by instinct, at the threshold of any dangerous thought. It includes the power of not grasping analogies, of failing to perceive logical errors, of misunderstanding the simplest arguments if they are inimical to Ingsoc, and of being bored or repelled by any train of thought which is capable of leading in a heretical direction. CRIMESTOP, in short, means protective stupidity. But stupidity is not enough. On the contrary, orthodoxy in the full sense demands a control over one's own mental processes as complete as that of a contortionist over his body. Oceanic society rests ultimately on the


an inequality in the deeper analysis of the thing. For, thought Ahab, while even the highest earthly felicities ever have a certain unsignifying pettiness lurking in them, but, at bottom, all heart-woes, a mystic significance, and, in some men, an archangelic grandeur; so do their diligent tracings-out not belie the obvious deduction. To trail the genealogies .. <p 461 > of these high mortal miseries, carries us at last among the sourceless primogenitures of the gods; so that, in the face of all the glad, hay-making suns, and soft-cymballing, round harvest-moons, we must needs give in to this: that the gods themselves are not for ever glad. The ineffaceable, sad birth-mark in the brow of man, is but the stamp of sorrow in the signers. Unwittingly here a secret has been divulged, which perhaps might more properly, in set way, have been disclosed before. With many other particulars concerning Ahab, always had it remained a mystery to some, why it was, that for a certain period, both before and after the sailing of the Pequod, he had hidden himself away with such Grand-Lama-like exclusiveness; and, for that one interval, sought speechless refuge, as it were, among the marble senate of the dead. Captain Peleg's bruited reason for this thing appeared by no means adequate; though, indeed, as touching all Ahab's deeper part, every revelation partook more of significant darkness than of explanatory light. But, in the end, it all came out; this one matter did, at least. That direful mishap was at the bottom of his temporary recluseness. And not only this, but to that ever-contracting, dropping circle ashore, who, for any reason, possessed the privilege of a less banned approach to him; to that timid circle the above hinted casualty --remaining, as it did, moodily unaccounted for by Ahab --invested itself with terrors, not entirely underived from the land of spirits and of wails. So that, through their zeal for him, they had all conspired, so far as in them lay, to muffle up the knowledge of this thing from others; and hence it was, that not till a considerable interval had elapsed, did it transpire upon the Pequod's decks. But be all this as it may; let the unseen, ambiguous synod in the air, or the vindictive princes and potentates of fire, have to do or not with earthly Ahab, yet, in this present matter of his leg, he took plain practical procedures; --he called the carpenter. And when that functionary appeared before him, he bade him without delay set about making a new leg, and directed the mates to see him supplied with all the studs and joists of jaw-ivory (Sperm Whale) which had thus far been accumulated .. <p 462 > on the voyage, in order that a careful selection of the stoutest, clearest-grained stuff might be secured. This done, the carpenter received orders to have the leg completed that night; and to provide all the fittings for it, independent of those pertaining to the distrusted one in use. Moreover, the ship's forge was ordered to be hoisted


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

team made ready to go up on the stage: and in another moment the excited prefect was hustling the boys through the vestry like a flock of geese, flapping the wings of his soutane nervously and crying to the laggards to make haste. A little troop of Neapolitan peasants were practising their steps at the end of the chapel, some circling their arms above their heads, some swaying their baskets of paper violets and curtsying. In a dark corner of the chapel at the gospel side of the altar a stout old lady knelt amid her copious black skirts. When she stood up a pink-dressed figure, wearing a curly golden wig and an old-fashioned straw sunbonnet, with black pencilled eyebrows and cheeks delicately rouged and powdered, was discovered. A low murmur of curiosity ran round the chapel at the discovery of this girlish figure. One of the prefects, smiling and nodding his head, approached the dark corner and, having bowed to the stout old lady, said pleasantly: --Is this a beautiful young lady or a doll that you have here, Mrs Tallon? Then, bending down to peer at the smiling painted face under the leaf of the bonnet, he exclaimed: --No! Upon my word I believe it's little Bertie Tallon after all! Stephen at his post by the window heard the old lady and the priest laugh together and heard the boys' murmurs of admiration behind him as they passed forward to see the little boy who had to dance the sunbonnet dance by himself. A movement of impatience escaped him. He let the edge of the blind fall and, stepping down from the bench on which he had been standing, walked out of the chapel. He passed out of the schoolhouse and halted under the shed that flanked the garden. From the theatre opposite came the muffled noise of the audience and sudden brazen clashes of the soldiers' band. The light spread upwards from the glass roof making the theatre seem a festive ark, anchored among the hulks of houses, her frail cables of lanterns looping her to her moorings. A side door of the theatre opened suddenly and a shaft of light flew across the grass plots. A sudden burst of music issued from the ark, the prelude of a waltz: and when the side door closed again the listener could hear the faint rhythm of the music. The sentiment of the opening bars, their languor and supple movement, evoked the incommunicable emotion which had been the cause of all his day's unrest and of his impatient movement of a moment before. His unrest issued from him like a wave of sound: and on the tide of flowing music the ark was journeying, trailing her cables of lanterns in her wake. Then a noise like dwarf artillery broke the movement. It was the clapping that greeted the entry of the dumbbell team on the stage. At the far end of the shed near the street a speck of pink light showed in the darkness and as he walked towards it


turned to look behind me: she was so far away I wouldn’t have been able to tell it was her had she not been shouting my name between heavy breaths, still calling for the police. I went several neighborhoods out of my way to get home. When I finally walked in the door, I found Orson splayed on the couch and freshly showered, reading the Upanishads. “What the fuck,” he said. “Did you go for a run in normal clothes?” “Jamie,” I gasped. “She saw me. She knows my name.” He closed the book. “What?” “She was at The Creamery.” “She knows your full name?” “I don’t know. I think so.” We had no choice: we quit Tony’s and moved to an apartment several neighborhoods away from our old one, even farther away from the old condo. After that, we looked for new straight jobs. One night Orson motioned me over to his laptop. I nestled my head in the concavity between his neck and collarbone and saw what he was looking at: a picture of Boyd Tower, the slate-and-glass eyesore on the river that ran through the city center. “Isn’t that place—” I began to ask. “Eric Boyd Sr.’s,” Orson said. “That racist real estate mogul?” He turned to me, grinning. “You forgot ‘rich.’ ” THREE WHEN ORSON WAS TWELVE YEARS old, his parents lived close enough to his elementary school that he could walk home after the final bell. In order to get home from the school, he had to cross a busy intersection, and it was at the northeast corner of this intersection that a man named Tim sat every day. The man had the unwashed brown-pink skin of the homeless and neglected and stank of sweat and urine. He held a sign that read HUNGRY, PLEASE HELP ME GOD and held out a 7-Eleven Big Gulp cup that never had more than a little change in it. The children veered away from him when they crossed. On September 11, 2001, Orson was let out of his seventh-grade math class early. He wandered out of the swarm of crying, panicked kids and harried teachers and over to Tim, who was sitting in his usual spot. Tim was having a particularly lucid day, and he started telling Orson about the Iraq War. He didn’t call it that, and Orson didn’t know what the Iraq War was, but Tim talked about being in a country called Iraq in a place called Al-Fallujah. The British had just dropped bombs on Al-Fallujah and a lot of houses were destroyed. Tim was part of a group of soldiers who had to go into Al-Fallujah and find people who were dangerous to American oil and kill them. There was a square-shaped house with a tile roof that had collapsed on one side and was still standing on the other. Tim and another soldier were supposed to go in and look around because this was something called a Shi’a household. The other soldier said he thought that everyone had been cleared out and the house was


the costume shop, a long line of seamstresses worked on candy cane–striped smocks and jeweled gloves, the buzzing of the sewing machines filling the room like a giant beehive. One dancer stood on top of a wide table, being fitted into a short skirt by a woman with pins in her mouth. “The shoe and hat department is just down the hall,” said Bunny. Marion was impressed. “Wow. The only thing missing is a restaurant.” “Basement level. We have a swell cafeteria that’s great for grabbing a muffin when you arrive in the morning. They take good care of us here.” “I can see that.” “And now for the final stop on your tour.” They’d reached the top of the stairs, and Bunny pushed open a heavy metal door. Sunlight blinded Marion as she stepped out. They were on a wide expanse of roof, about ten stories up, surrounded by the skyscrapers of Rockefeller Center. There were deck chairs scattered about, a net for some kind of ball game, and even a shuffleboard court. “This is where we relax, although if you get a sunburn, Mr. Markert will ban you from the show until it fades. Do you play Wiffle ball?” “No.” “It’s a blast.” She turned back to Marion. “I saw you dance. You’re phenomenal. You should be up on that stage with us.” Bunny was smiling, but there was a steeliness to her delivery. Marion decided to own up to the truth. “My father will kill me. He disapproves of any job that’s not secretary, nurse, or teacher. He barely tolerates that I teach dance. Taught dance, I mean. I got fired yesterday.” “Perfect timing, then. And don’t worry about your dad. When my father came to see me the first time, he wept like a baby. Everyone does when they see the show. You can’t help it, you get tingles up your spine and then you cry.” “That’s exactly what happened to me when I came to see the Rockettes as a child.” “Mr. Markert says it’s because we move as one, which is near to impossible for normal humans, and it triggers some primal response. It’s like the entrance of the Shades in La Bayadère.” Marion had seen the ballet several times and knew the moment Bunny was referring to. To the velvety sound of violins, a line of thirty-two dancers dressed in white slowly made their way down a ramp and onto the stage, repeating a simple series of steps punctuated by an arabesque. For four minutes, the hypnotic power of so many women moving in perfect unison was undeniable, and the audience never failed to burst into applause when they were finally assembled onstage. Bunny walked to the door that led back into the building and held it open. “But then again, maybe you just had a good dance day. Keeping up that level of precision is not for the weak.” “You’re trying some reverse psychology on me, aren’t you?” said Marion with a grin. She liked Bunny’s energy, her confidence. “I’m onto you.” “Just telling


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

could assume under such exciting circumstances, “will you go home with me now—not to my office, but my dwelling—and remain there till we can conclude upon some convenient arrangement for you at our leisure? Come, let us start now, right away.” “No: at present I would prefer not to make any change at all.” I answered nothing; but effectually dodging every one by the suddenness and rapidity of my flight, rushed from the building, ran up Wall-street towards Broadway, and jumping into the first omnibus was soon removed from pursuit. As soon as tranquility returned I distinctly perceived that I had now done all that I possibly could, both in respect to the demands of the landlord and his tenants, and with regard to my own desire and sense of duty, to benefit Bartleby, and shield him from rude persecution. I now strove to be entirely care-free and quiescent; and my conscience justified me in the attempt; though indeed it was not so successful as I could have wished. So fearful was I of being again hunted out by the incensed landlord and his exasperated tenants, that, surrendering my business to Nippers, for a few days I drove about the upper part of the town and through the suburbs, in my rockaway; crossed over to Jersey City and Hoboken, and paid fugitive visits to Manhattanville and Astoria. In fact I almost lived in my rockaway for the time. When again I entered my office, lo, a note from the landlord lay upon the desk. I opened it with trembling hands. It informed me that the writer had sent to the police, and had Bartleby removed to the Tombs as a vagrant. Moreover, since I knew more about him than any one else, he wished me to appear at that place, and make a suitable statement of the facts. These tidings had a conflicting effect upon me. At first I was indignant; but at last almost approved. The landlord’s energetic, summary disposition had led him to adopt a procedure which I do not think I would have decided upon myself; and yet as a last resort, under such peculiar circumstances, it seemed the only plan. As I afterwards learned, the poor scrivener, when told that he must be conducted to the Tombs, offered not the slightest obstacle, but in his pale unmoving way, silently acquiesced. Some of the compassionate and curious bystanders joined the party; and headed by one of the constables arm in arm with Bartleby, the silent procession filed its way through all the noise, and heat, and joy of the roaring thoroughfares at noon. The same day I received the note I went to the Tombs, or to speak more properly, the Halls of Justice. Seeking the right officer, I stated the purpose of my call, and was informed that the individual I described was indeed within. I then assured the functionary that Bartleby was a perfectly honest man, and greatly to be compassionated, however unaccountably eccentric. I narrated all I knew, and closed by suggesting the idea of letting


from a poison runner crew. She’d seen more than one upstart assassinated by their own captain. A yawn stretched her mouth so wide Lore’s jaw popped. She’d barely taken in the walk from the back entrance of the Citadel to the North Sanctuary, too tired to pay much attention. It was a good mile and a half, by her counting, the path cobble-paved and smooth, lined with rosebushes—a stark contrast with the rubble-strewn walkways in Dellaire proper leading to the South Sanctuary, the one meant for commoners. On either side of the path, the Citadel’s massive green spaces rolled, manicured fields and pseudoforests, rich land fenced in by the fortress of the Church’s walls. Something nudged her shoulder. Gabe. “Wake up, cousin.” “I’m awake, cousin.” But another yawn cramped her jaw as she said it. “Why in all myriad hells are First Day prayers right at the ass-crack of dawn? Surely Apollius can still hear them around noon.” Gabe inclined his head to the stained-glass window at the very front of the sanctuary. The Bleeding God’s Heart, set out in panels of red and gold and ocher. As the sun rose, its gleam traced up the window, slowly illuminating the glass until the whole thing blazed with color. “That’s why,” he answered. She couldn’t tell if he sounded reverent or resentful. Maybe a little of both. For sleeping against the doorframe all night, Gabriel seemed positively refreshed. Dressed in plainer clothes than he’d had for the masquerade—dark doublet, dark breeches, and a linen shirt beneath, this time with sensible sleeves—this was the handsomest he’d looked in their brief acquaintance. Lore, on the other hand, had carefully avoided the mirror this morning, even as she brushed out her hair. The bags under her eyes were probably deep enough to smuggle hemlock. The double doors at the back of the sanctuary remained open, emitting the last straggling courtiers. Alienor glided down the thick tapestry carpet running through the center aisle, the sun through the windows making her nearly white curls glow the same colors as the stained glass, a halo-like nimbus around her head. Her eyes were clear and her gait steady as she approached the altar at the front of the sanctuary, knelt, and kissed its polished wood. Lore and Gabe had done the same when they entered. Lore tried not to think about all the lips that had been on it before hers. When Alie straightened and went to find her seat, her eyes met Lore’s. She smiled, threw a tiny wave. Lore returned it with a genuine smile of her own. Gabriel didn’t look at Alie at all. An older man walked close behind Alienor, close enough that they had to be arriving together, though they looked nothing alike. His skin was milkpale to her warm-copper, his hair wood-brown and pin-straight instead of white-blond and curling. His expression was dour, and the lines around his mouth said that rarely changed. The man’s gaze flickered to Lore, as if taking her measure. “Who’s that?” she murmured to Gabe out of the side


are in a fix, sure. So on we prowled again. We struck for the stern of the texas, and found it, and then scrabbled along forwards on the skylight, hanging on from shutter to shutter, for the edge of the skylight was in the water. When we got pretty close to the cross-hall door there was the skiff, sure enough! I could just barely see her. I felt ever so thankful. In another second I would a been aboard of her, but just then the door opened. One of the men stuck his head out only about a couple of foot from me, and I thought I was gone; but he jerked it in again, and says: "Heave that blame lantern out o' sight, Bill!" He flung a bag of something into the boat, and then got in himself and set down. It was Packard. Then Bill HE come out and got in. Packard says, in a low voice: "All ready -- shove off!" I couldn't hardly hang on to the shutters, I was so weak. But Bill says: "Hold on -- 'd you go through him?" "No. Didn't you?" "No. So he's got his share o' the cash yet." "Well, then, come along; no use to take truck and leave money." "Say, won't he suspicion what we're up to?" "Maybe he won't. But we got to have it anyway. Come along." So they got out and went in. The door slammed to because it was on the careened side; and in a half second I was in the boat, and Jim come tumbling after me. I out with my knife and cut the rope, and away we went! We didn't touch an oar, and we didn't speak nor whisper, nor hardly even breathe. We went gliding swift along, dead silent, past the tip of the paddle- box, and past the stern; then in a second or two more we was a hundred yards below the wreck, and the darkness soaked her up, every last sign of her, and we was safe, and knowed it. When we was three or four hundred yards down- stream we see the lantern show like a little spark at the texas door for a second, and we knowed by that that the rascals had missed their boat, and was beginning to understand that they was in just as much trouble now as Jim Turner was. Then Jim manned the oars, and we took out after our raft. Now was the first time that I begun to worry about the men -- I reckon I hadn't had time to before. I begun to think how dreadful it was, even for mur- derers, to be in such a fix. I says to myself, there ain't no telling but I might come to be a murderer myself yet, and then how would I like it? So says I to Jim: "The first light we see we'll land a hundred yards below it or above it, in a place where it's a good hiding-place for you and the skiff, and


we’d all agreed—” I waited for her to continue, but she was lost in some fog. “And you haven’t mentioned that to the lawyers. You didn’t say that in your statement or in your testimony?” “They only wanted to know about the flask, and they wanted me to rehash everything about why I’d brought Omar up to the police. But there was no one else it could be. I mean, Mr. Bloch would never do that. Can you imagine? He was a perv but he was so, like, bookish and weepy. He cried in front of me once. Not that a person who cries can’t kill someone, but it just never seemed likely.” I nodded a vague agreement. She said, “If Omar—you really don’t think he did this?” “I don’t blame you for bringing up his name. None of this is your fault. But I genuinely believe Omar had nothing to do with it.” “I don’t like to think of myself as racist. And then what if I—” She put her head in her hands. I wasn’t going to contradict her, but I said—carefully, appeasingly—“You were a kid.” She didn’t move. I said, “If you’re willing to talk to the defense team about Robbie—about his hitting Thalia, about his maybe getting to the mattresses late—we have some other stuff, too. You’d only be telling the truth. It was so unfair, that teenagers had to deal with this. But we can fix it now.” “I have a life. I don’t want this to be the first thing that comes up when someone googles my name. Or my kids’ names. Christ. I don’t want to deal with any of this. I want to go home.” “I know,” I said. She said, “Bodie, can you leave me alone? Just—listen, you can leave me your number or whatever. I just need to be home with my kids.” 30 It was the one where she used her umbrella as a shield. You remember, right? Nancy Grace covered the trial. Think hard, Mr. Bloch, because I’m sure you remember. It was the one where after she threw hot water at him and escaped, no one believed her. She was probably looking for attention. She had psychological problems, after all. Those panic attacks she kept having: evidence she was unwell. What you likely saw on TV was the part about how her own brother invited the guy over, told her to apologize for dragging his name through the mud. And she did. She apologized. The next night, he came back and he stabbed her. This was the one where people had a hard time taking her seriously because her name was a stripper name. Jay Leno made jokes about her, about her name. This was the same year Lorena Bobbitt cut off her husband’s penis. It was right after sophomore year at Granby. Leno made a joke about both this woman and Lorena Bobbitt: something about their names, something about knives. She survived the stabbing. She was the one who went on Oprah with scars on her neck, scars


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

blows across her forehead, I reach up and brush it away without thinking. Our eyes meet and my heart sinks deeper into this warm, alluring place. “What did your mum mean about writing a ‘real’ novel?” She shrugs, turning to watch the guests move in large numbers now toward the seats. “She means a book with thoughtful suffering.” “Sounds engrossing.” “There are many people in the world who view romance as hobby writing,” she says, and turns her face back to me. There’s no tightness there, no hurt. “Pretty sure she thinks I’m still warming up to attempt my masterpiece.” Now might be the time to admit that I was once one of those people, or quietly contemplate the connection we share between our respective careers versus what our parents think we should be doing. But my first thought flies out instead. “I think you are the masterpiece.” She opens her mouth as if she’s got a smart comeback, but nothing happens. With a wry twist to her lips, she shakes her head at me. “You’re something else.” “Something good, I hope.” She points to the seats. “Groom’s side on the left. That’s where you’ll sit. Go make friends.” “Got it.” “I’ll see you after the ceremony.” She gathers her dress and turns to head back inside to meet the wedding party. “Miss me,” she calls over her shoulder. I watch her walk away, quietly admitting, “I already do.” thirty-three FIZZY I have been to an inordinate number of weddings in my day. I have been maid of honor twice (Alice and Jess), a bridesmaid fourteen times, performed three weddings, and twice have done a reading during the ceremony (once was a passage from one of my books, and that was very weird). I’m sure a lot of people go to weddings and take note of what they like, what they would do differently. They think about the decor and the food and the number of guests. They lean in and whisper that they would never have put so-and-so and what’s-her-name at the same table. They maybe even get business cards from the various vendors. Not me. It’s possible that the shine has been scrubbed off weddings in all my various experiences with them, but I think the wedding is the least romantic part of romance. Sure, there is splendor and catering and the opportunity to wear completely outlandish clothing. But there is also family politics and stress and the reality that many people spend the equivalent of a down payment on a house on a single day’s celebration. Love is not found in a four-foot-high floral centerpiece or a seven-tiered chocolate cake. Real romance is in the quieter details. Who proposes, and how. The way they look at each other across a room. The anticipation of what it means to be married, the nights spent side by side, shaping their forever. The first moment alone after the commitment is made. The day after, when they get to finally embark on the adventure. And, of course, all the banging. But these are


like Jesse said she’d be. I listened as she told me about the guy she’d met, watched her face light up. And then I told her how Benjamin treated me, showed her my bruises. I didn’t even have to lie to her. I asked her to help me escape. The plan was in motion. 31 OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, I jogged to the beach to see Lee each morning, bringing her pilfered food and hot coffee. We sat together on our driftwood bench, watching the sunrise and strategizing. When it rained, I joined her in her car, trying to ignore the lived-in smell of it. Lee’s current situation couldn’t be any worse. She woke each morning in pain from sleeping cramped and upright. She urinated in the bushes. When she showered, it was at a public pool. Her dignity was already gone. She couldn’t fall any lower. Sometimes she wanted to talk about Jesse. She was smitten with him, a smile dancing across her face when she recounted their time together. I told her to be careful, to look into his past, but she brushed me off. I tried to plant a seed of doubt so she could save herself, but she chose not to. When a person is falling in love, they ignore the warning signs. “Have you sold the netsuke?” I asked her one day. “I haven’t had time.” It was a key piece of evidence against her. It played into the narrative of the obsessed woman stalking me, breaking into my home, taking a souvenir. Why did she hold on to it? She clearly needed the money. Maybe her circumstances kept her from thinking straight. She was exhausted, stressed, drinking every night. She was playing right into our hands. I promised Lee new identification. A new start. As the grieving widow, I would no longer need to reinvent myself, but I pressed forward with the fake ID. I sent her to get a photo, just as Jesse had sent me. She had to believe I was helping her. At home, I played my doting slave role to perfection. Any hint of rebellion would tip Benjamin off to my plan, so I went along, meek, obsequious, and fawning. The punishments he doled out were rote, tolerable. I contacted Vanessa Vega and arranged a lunch. This would throw suspicion off me. How could a woman plotting her husband’s murder simultaneously plan a gala fundraiser? I wore a dress that day, a pale pink chiffon skirt despite the rain clouds brewing. I threw a cropped leather jacket over it to add some edge. Vanessa had suggested a trendy oyster bar in Pioneer Square, so I left early to avoid traffic. If I turned up late, word might get back to Benjamin and I’d be punished, for real. When I arrived at the restaurant, all brick walls and high ceilings, Vanessa was already seated at a central table with Laurie Gamble. My stomach danced unpleasantly. Vanessa was polished and perfect, but she had a certain warmth, unlike her BFF. Laurie was an


cock pheasant was delicately stretching his neck to peep out, and quite near him were two rabbits sitting up and sniffing with tremulous noses--and actually it appeared as if they were all drawing near to watch him and listen to the strange low little call his pipe seemed to make. When he saw Mary he held up his hand and spoke to her in a voice almost as low as and rather like his piping. "Don't tha' move," he said. "It'd flight 'em." Mary remained motionless. He stopped playing his pipe and began to rise from the ground. He moved so slowly that it scarcely seemed as though he were moving at all, but at last he stood on his feet and then the squirrel scampered back up into the branches of his tree, the pheasant withdrew his head and the rabbits dropped on all fours and began to hop away, though not at all as if they were frightened. "I'm Dickon," the boy said. "I know tha'rt Miss Mary." Then Mary realized that somehow she had known at first that he was Dickon. Who else could have been charming rabbits and pheasants as the natives charm snakes in India? He had a wide, red, curving mouth and his smile spread all over his face. "I got up slow," he explained, "because if tha' makes a quick move it startles 'em. A body 'as to move gentle an' speak low when wild things is about." He did not speak to her as if they had never seen each other before but as if he knew her quite well. Mary knew nothing about boys and she spoke to him a little stiffly because she felt rather shy. "Did you get Martha's letter?" she asked. He nodded his curly, rust-colored head. "That's why I come." He stooped to pick up something which had been lying on the ground beside him when he piped. "I've got th' garden tools. There's a little spade an' rake an' a fork an' hoe. Eh! they are good 'uns. There's a trowel, too. An' th' woman in th' shop threw in a packet o' white poppy an' one o' blue larkspur when I bought th' other seeds." "Will you show the seeds to me?" Mary said. She wished she could talk as he did. His speech was so quick and easy. It sounded as if he liked her and was not the least afraid she would not like him, though he was only a common moor boy, in patched clothes and with a funny face and a rough, rusty-red head. As she came closer to him she noticed that there was a clean fresh scent of heather and grass and leaves about him, almost as if he were made of them. She liked it very much and when she looked into his funny face with the red cheeks and round blue eyes she forgot that she had felt shy. "Let us sit down on this log and look at them," she said. They sat down and he took a


superintended by the Chief Commissioner in person maintained order in the vast throng for whom the York street brass and reed band whiled away the intervening time by admirably rendering on their blackdraped instruments the matchless melody endeared to us from the cradle by Speranza's plaintive muse. Special quick excursion trains and upholstered charabancs had been provided for the comfort of our country cousins of whom there were large contingents. Considerable amusement was caused by the favourite Dublin streetsingers L-n-h-n and M-ll-g-n who sang THE NIGHT BEFORE LARRY WAS STRETCHED in their usual mirth-provoking fashion. Our two inimitable drolls did a roaring trade with their broadsheets among lovers of the comedy element and nobody who has a corner in his heart for real Irish fun without vulgarity will grudge them their hardearned pennies. The children of the Male and Female Foundling Hospital who thronged the windows overlooking the scene were delighted with this unexpected addition to the day's entertainment and a word of praise is due to the Little Sisters of the Poor for their excellent idea of affording the poor fatherless and motherless children a genuinely instructive treat. The viceregal houseparty which included many wellknown ladies was chaperoned by Their Excellencies to the most favourable positions on the grandstand while the picturesque foreign delegation known as the Friends of the Emerald Isle was accommodated on a tribune directly opposite. The delegation, present in full force, consisted of Commendatore Bacibaci Beninobenone (the semiparalysed DOYEN of the party who had to be assisted to his seat by the aid of a powerful steam crane), Monsieur Pierrepaul Petitepatant, the Grandjoker Vladinmire Pokethankertscheff, the Archjoker Leopold Rudolph von Schwanzenbad-Hodenthaler, Countess Marha Viraga Kisaszony Putrapesthi, Hiram Y. Bomboost, Count Athanatos Karamelopulos, Ali Baba Backsheesh Rahat Lokum Effendi, Senor Hidalgo Caballero Don Pecadillo y Palabras y Paternoster de la Malora de la Malaria, Hokopoko Harakiri, Hi Hung Chang, Olaf Kobberkeddelsen, Mynheer Trik van Trumps, Pan Poleaxe Paddyrisky, Goosepond Prhklstr Kratchinabritchisitch, Borus Hupinkoff, Herr Hurhausdirektorpresident Hans Chuechli-Steuerli, Nationalgymnasiummuseumsanatoriumandsuspensoriumsordinaryprivatdocent- generalhistoryspecialprofessordoctor Kriegfried Ueberallgemein. All the delegates without exception expressed themselves in the strongest possible heterogeneous terms concerning the nameless barbarity which they had been called upon to witness. An animated altercation (in which all took part) ensued among the F. O. T. E. I. as to whether the eighth or the ninth of March was the correct date of the birth of Ireland's patron saint. In the course of the argument cannonballs, scimitars, boomerangs, blunderbusses, stinkpots, meatchoppers, umbrellas, catapults, knuckledusters, sandbags, lumps of pig iron were resorted to and blows were freely exchanged. The baby policeman, Constable MacFadden, summoned by special courier from Booterstown, quickly restored order and with lightning promptitude proposed the seventeenth of the month as a solution equally honourable for both contending parties. The readywitted ninefooter's suggestion at once appealed to all and was unanimously accepted. Constable MacFadden was heartily congratulated by all the F.O.T.E.I., several of whom were bleeding profusely. Commendatore Beninobenone having been extricated from underneath the presidential armchair, it was explained by his legal adviser Avvocato Pagamimi that the various articles secreted in his


and inconclu- sive interview, "you are taking a very great responsibility and putting yourself in a very false position by not making an absolutely clean breast of all that you know. If I have to call in the aid of the police you will find how seriously you are compro- mised. If your position is innocent, why did you in the first instance deny having written to Sir Charles upon that date?" "Because I feared that some false conclusion might be drawn from it and that I might find myself involved in a scandal." "And why were you so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy your letter?" "If you have read the letter you will know." "I did not say that I had read all the letter." "You quoted some of it." "I quoted the postscript. The letter had, as I said, been burned and it was not all legible. I ask you once again why it was that you were so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy this letter which he received on the day of his death." "The matter is a very private one." "The more reason why you should avoid a public investigation." "I will tell you, then. If you have heard anything of my unhappy history you will know that I made a rash marriage and had reason to regret it." "I have heard so much." "My life has been one incessant persecution from a husband whom I abhor. The law is upon his side, and every day I am faced by the possibility that he may force me to live with him. At the time that I wrote this letter to Sir Charles I had learned that there was a prospect of my regaining my freedom if certain expenses could be met. It meant everything to me -- peace of mind, happiness, self-respect -- everything. I knew Sir Charles's generosity, and I thought that if he heard the story from my own lips he would help me." "Then how is it that you did not go?" "Because I received help in the interval from another source." "Why then, did you not write to Sir Charles and explain this?" "So I should have done had I not seen his death in the paper next morning." The woman's story hung coherently together, and all my questions were unable to shake it. I could only check it by finding if she had, indeed, instituted divorce proceedings against her husband at or about the time of the tragedy. It was unlikely that she would dare to say that she had not been to Baskerville Hall if she really had been, for a trap would be necessary to take her there, and could not have returned to Coombe Tracey until the early hours of the morning. Such an excursion could not be kept secret. The probability was, there- fore, that she was telling the truth, or, at least, a part of the truth. I came away baffled and disheartened. Once again I had reached that dead wall which seemed to be built


into Granby—and they were certain I could, wink wink—they’d pay for tuition and room and board and books. I’d stay with them on breaks, until my mom was stable and home. Severn sang me “You Can’t Beat the Granby Dragons” to the tune of “You Can’t Ride in My Little Red Wagon.” He told me about the teacher who made him memorize ten Shakespeare soliloquies. My idea of boarding school was mostly bits of The Facts of Life plus a dim impression of something gothic and fancy. The brochure, though, showed kids laughing over plates of fries. It showed tan, muscled teenagers playing tug-of-war, as if that were a regular pastime rather than (as I would learn) a forced orientation activity. Granby looked a lot better than Indiana. It looked like a school where people wouldn’t stick gum on your locker, where they wouldn’t find it hilarious to ask if your brother killed himself because you were fat. When I left for school in the fall of ’91, my mother was in a residential program. She and two roommates had their own little house with a tiny kitchen. By Thanksgiving, she’d left for the Arizona desert with a man she’d met in group therapy. They made wind chimes and hand-bound books together. She flew back to Indiana and we had Thanksgiving with the Robesons and their kids and grandkids, and she talked the whole time about the Arizona sun, how the gloom up here was half her problem. I stayed with her near Sedona that June, but I hated her faux-hippie boyfriend and the Airstream we were crammed in. She and I fought viciously, and I returned to Indiana a month early. By the time you got to know me, sophomore year, I fully lived at the Robesons’, spent vacations hiding in my room or perched with a book on their velveteen sofa hoping no one would make small talk. I’d go to church with them because I felt obliged. They pressured me only gently to get baptized, and didn’t disown me when I declined. They’d ask about my mother as if I were in touch with her beyond the occasional postcard. You’re so much better off with me out of the way, she wrote on one of them. To other students, I called the Robesons my aunt and uncle; for more official purposes I called them foster parents. But neither term covered the guest room aspect of the whole thing, the way Margaret Robeson would slip in to make my bed when I was in the shower, the relief we all felt when their son, Ammon, came home with his twins and I had a role to play, corralling them in front of Disney movies for five dollars an hour. Fran knew all this; I told her in pieces as our friendship jelled over the course of freshman year. First I told her my father and brother were both dead, one death causing the drug problem that caused the other, tragedy breeding tragedy. Fran’s older sister Liza, who’d just spent a


felt gutted. A week not seeing the girls at all. How could she bear it? They discussed the house—there was a year left on their lease. She told him he could have it. “And I won’t ask for alimony.” She knew it was a mistake to say this, even in an unofficial conversation. But she didn’t want Peter’s money. Whatever happened now, she had to support herself on her own. “We’ll work out the details in mediation.” Peter pushed back his chair. “Wait,” Maud said. She told him that for now she wanted to get Louise from school every day and keep her until dinner. “And I want Ella to start coming to my place too in a couple weeks. Then we’ll add in weekends.” “You don’t have a place.” “Like I said, I’ll find one.” She watched Peter walk out the door. They were you and I, no longer we. Mixed into the dread and despair and guilt, she felt relief. But how to find this place she had referred to, given her salary and the Bay Area’s extortionate real estate market? That night, laptops side by side, she and Annette searched for a reasonable rental not too far from Sausalito. Finally, Annette shut her laptop. “New idea. I’ll give up the condo and move over the bridge. We can even buy something together. Mom and Dad have said they’ll help.” “They can’t afford that,” Maud said. “They might sell the lot with the garage.” “They don’t want to.” “They might anyway. Give the three of us our inheritance early, Mom says.” “I see there was a family meeting,” Maud said. “There was a family phone call.” “I’m not making them do that. Or you.” She was touched, though; for all their faults, her family always came through. “Does this mean you told Mom and Dad that I’m definitely getting divorced?” “I thought it would be better for you if I broke the news.” Maud knew what her parents’ silence meant. They had nothing good to say, so they weren’t saying anything. The world hadn’t ended, as her mother had commented, but divorce was a failure. Maud’s marriage had failed. You could comfort yourself with statistics, tell yourself that a twenty-year relationship was a good run. After all, when marriage was invented, no one lived this long. But it was still a jagged gash through your life, even if it was what you wanted. The girls left a few days later for Disneyland. Louise texted Maud pictures from Peter’s phone of the Matterhorn, a parade of princesses, the boat for “it’s a small world.” Finally, Peter seemed to get the hint, and he took videos of Louise strapped into rides, beaming and squealing. Ella stayed out of view. Maud wondered if her attitude toward Peter had changed since the last session, if she was glowering at him as they waited in line. There was some relief in not being the sole target of her anger. But Ella would probably forgive Peter soon enough, Maud thought as she stood in the shower


said. Her father let out a disappointed sigh. “Marion. That’s not what we agreed on.” “I can’t explain why, but I have to stay.” “I’m driving to the Rehearsal Club right now, then. I’ll drag you out if I have to.” “You won’t find me there.” “Is this some kind of riddle? Please, Marion, I have to know that you’re safe. How can you do this to me?” “I think that’s a question for both of us.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He paused. “Did you go to my office yesterday to collect Judy’s things? I stopped by this afternoon to catch up on some work, and Dennis said he ran into you.” “I was there, yes.” “What’s going on?” But the words didn’t have the vehemence of his earlier questions. “I have to go. I’ll be in touch when I can. I’m safe, but I can’t see you right now.” Marion hung up. With nowhere else to go, Marion stayed at Peter’s apartment again, where they solidified their plan well into the night. Even then, she couldn’t sleep, knowing that her father had an inkling of what was coming, knowing that she would be betraying the man who’d raised her and loved her dearly. She cried silently into her pillow—or thought she was silent—until Peter got up and knelt by the side of the bed. He stroked her hair and spoke in a low, soothing voice, telling her that it would all be okay. “Thank you,” she whispered once she was able to speak without crying. She moved over and he lay down on his back and allowed her to curl up into him. She pulled herself closer, letting the warmth of his body calm her own, breathing in the scent of him, and only then did she finally fall asleep. The next morning, Peter was already up as Marion emerged from a deep sleep. They didn’t speak of the fact that they had slept in the same bed all night. Instead, Marion made pancakes on the stove while Peter brewed the coffee, each one weaving around the other with an easy grace, as if they’d done this all their lives. Marion was too nervous to be hungry, but Peter insisted, saying that they needed to have energy and be at the top of their game. “And that requires fuel.” “Yes, Dr. Griggs,” she said. At the Radio City box office, Peter asked for a ticket to the one-o’clock matinee. “Seat II 514, if it’s available.” It was. He tucked it into his jacket pocket and turned to Marion. “This is it. Are you going to be okay?” he asked. “I have to be. This has to work.” “Be careful.” “You too.” He reached out and touched her cheek. She thought he might lean in for a kiss, but then a tourist jostled into her and the moment passed. Peter disappeared inside. Marion went around to the stage door and greeted the security guards, telling them she was stopping by to pick up her belongings. She passed the


and they ask me to take you down to the bridge. Call that job satisfaction? 'Cos I don't." He turned and walked back to the hated door. "Er, excuse me," said Ford following after him, "which government owns this ship?" Marvin ignored him. "You watch this door," he muttered, "it's about to open again. I can tell by the intolerable air of smugness it suddenly generates." With an ingratiating little whine the door slit open again and Marvin stomped through. "Come on," he said. The others followed quickly and the door slit back into place with pleased little clicks and whirrs. "Thank you the marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation," said Marvin and trudged desolately up the gleaming curved corridor that stretched out before them. "Let's build robots with Genuine People Personalities," they said. So they tried it out with me. I'm a personality prototype. You can tell can't you?" Ford and Arthur muttered embarrassed little disclaimers. "I hate that door," continued Marvin. "I'm not getting you down at all am I?" "Which government ..." started Ford again. "No government owns it," snapped the robot, "it's been stolen." "Stolen?" "Stolen?" mimicked Marvin. "Who by?" asked Ford. "Zaphod Beeblebrox." Something extraordinary happened to Ford's face. At least five entirely separate and distinct expressions of shock and amazement piled up on it in a jumbled mess. His left leg, which was in mid stride, seemed to have difficulty in finding the floor again. He stared at the robot and tried to entangle some dartoid muscles. "Zaphod Beeblebrox ...?" he said weakly. "Sorry, did I say something wrong?" said Marvin, dragging himself on regardless. "Pardon me for breathing, which I never do anyway so I don't know why I bother to say it, oh God I'm so depressed. Here's another of those self-satisfied door. Life! Don't talk to me about life." "No one ever mentioned it," muttered Arthur irritably. "Ford, are you alright?" Ford stared at him. "Did that robot say Zaphod Beeblebrox?" he said. ================================================================= Chapter 12 A loud clatter of gunk music flooded through the Heart of Gold cabin as Zaphod searched the sub-etha radio wavebands for news of himself. The machine was rather difficult to operate. For years radios had been operated by means of pressing buttons and turning dials; then as the technology became more sophisticated the controls were made touch-sensitive - you merely had to brush the panels with your fingers; now all you had to do was wave your hand in the general direction of the components and hope. It saved a lot of muscular expenditure of course, but meant that you had to sit infuriatingly still if you wanted to keep listening to the same programme. Zaphod waved a hand and the channel switched again. More gunk music, but this time it was a background to a news announcement. The news was always heavily edited to fit the rhythms of the music. "... and news brought to you here on the sub-etha wave band, broadcasting around the galaxy around the clock," squawked a voice, "and we'll be


Mrs. King buckled her belt, gave it a fierce tug. “It’s about the tiniest little thing. I wouldn’t even have mentioned it if you hadn’t asked.” Winnie’s hackles were up in seconds. “Tell me,” she said. Her temper was growing frayed. She’d been quick to anger ever since she’d discovered Mrs. King’s secret. Trust was such a precious thing. It broke so easily. There was no neat mending of it. “No,” she said firmly. “I won’t.” If she’d been sleeping properly, she might have kept her own cool. She might have taken Winnie further into her confidence. Winnie of all people would have understood. She was sympathetic to affairs of the heart. But Mrs. King was growing tired and edgy and she was running out of time. Winnie stood aside to let her pass. What else could she have done? Wrestled Mrs. King to the ground? She’d never win in a struggle, and they both knew it. “Good morning, then,” she said, voice tight. “Good morning,” Mrs. King replied, voice tighter. * * * Mrs. King stood outside the garden door on Park Lane. The heat was rising, scorching the door handle. Around here, in the shadow of the house, the world had grown quiet, as if it had run out of breath. The cypress trees sagged, quite still. The sky seemed bigger than ever, the color of dust. Mrs. Bone had been watching, and had reported back: he went out for a smoke at two thirty. Every day. Like clockwork. Her eyes had narrowed. “Visiting a fancy man at night, were you?” “Don’t listen to gossip, Mrs. Bone,” Mrs. King said. Her affairs were hers alone. She reminded herself of her resolve: this wasn’t a romantic rendezvous. She was taking care of loose parts. This was all about business. Right on cue, she heard footsteps on the other side of the wall. The scrape of a match, the sound of the flare. He was lighting a cigarette. Why? To calm his nerves? Buck himself up? There followed a long, suspended silence. He was taking a drag. She stood outside the garden door and took a long, deep breath—and listened. He was pacing. She could hear his footsteps circling, slowly, around that quiet shady spot behind the shrubbery. Now was the moment. “Got something on your mind?” she said through the door. A pigeon rose from the wall above, a nervy wingbeat, breaking the stillness. She sensed, rather than heard, his tiny intake of breath. “Dinah?” “Open the door,” she said. Another pause. She put her hands behind her back, looked up at the house. When she was a maid, less encumbered by her own dignity, she used to open the attic window at first light. She’d creep out onto the balustrade and walk slowly, coolly, along the whole length of it. Training herself to walk faster, then run, without fear. Will had once spotted her from a window ledge in the men’s quarters. He’d raised an eyebrow, tipped a finger, a gesture that said, Nice work. He was new then, and


think it is the most complete one in the south-west of England. By the time that you have looked through them lunch will be almost ready." But I was eager to get back to my charge. The melancholy of the moor, the death of the unfortunate pony, the weird sound which had been associated with the grim legend of the Basker- villes, all these things tinged my thoughts with sadness. Then on the top of these more or less vague impressions there had come the definite and distinct warning of Miss Stapleton, delivered with such intense earnestness that I could not doubt that some grave and deep reason lay behind it. I resisted all pressure to stay for lunch, and I set off at once upon my return journey, taking the grass-grown path by which we had come. It seems, however, that there must have been some short cut for those who knew it, for before I had reached the road I was astounded to see Miss Stapleton sitting upon a rock by the side of the track. Her face was beautifully flushed with her exertions and she held her hand to her side. "I have run all the way in order to cut you off, Dr. Watson," said she. "I had not even time to put on my hat. I must not stop, or my brother may miss me. I wanted to say to you how sorry I am about the stupid mistake I made in thinking that you were Sir Henry. Please forget the words I said, which have no application whatever to you." "But I can't forget them, Miss Stapleton," said I. "I am Sir Henry's friend, and his welfare is a very close concern of mine. Tell me why it was that you were so eager that Sir Henry should return to London." "A woman's whim, Dr. Watson. When you know me better you will understand that I cannot always give reasons for what I say or do." "No, no. I remember the thrill in your voice. I remembe the look in your eyes. Please, please, be frank with me, Miss Stapleton, for ever since I have been here I have been conscious of shadows all round me. Life has become like that great Grimpen Mire, with little green patches everywhere into which one may sink and with no guide to point the track. Tell me then what it was that you meant, and I will promise to convey your warning to Sir Henry." An expression of irresolution passed for an instant over her face, but her eyes had hardened again when she answered me. "You make too much of it, Dr. Watson," said she. "My brother and I were very much shocked by the death of Sir Charles. We knew him very intimately, for his favourite walk was over the moor to our house. He was deeply impressed with the curse which hung over the family, and when this tragedy came I naturally felt that there must be some grounds for the fears which he had expressed.


standing around so. I couldn't make it out. It was very curious, somehow. I was going to follow around, but I stooped down to look at the tracks first. I didn't notice anything at first, but next I did. There was a cross in the left boot-heel made with big nails, to keep off the devil. I was up in a second and shinning down the hill. I looked over my shoulder every now and then, but I didn't see nobody. I was at Judge Thatcher's as quick as I could get there. He said: "Why, my boy, you are all out of breath. Did you come for your interest?" "No, sir," I says; "is there some for me?" "Oh, yes, a half-yearly is in last night -- over a hundred and fifty dollars. Quite a fortune for you. You had better let me invest it along with your six thousand, because if you take it you'll spend it." "No, sir," I says, "I don't want to spend it. I don't want it at all -- nor the six thousand, nuther. I want you to take it; I want to give it to you -- the six thousand and all." He looked surprised. He couldn't seem to make it out. He says: "Why, what can you mean, my boy?" I says, "Don't you ask me no questions about it, please. You'll take it -- won't you?" He says: "Well, I'm puzzled. Is something the matter?" "Please take it," says I, "and don't ask me noth- ing -- then I won't have to tell no lies." He studied a while, and then he says: "Oho-o! I think I see. You want to SELL all your property to me -- not give it. That's the correct idea." Then he wrote something on a paper and read it over, and says: "There; you see it says 'for a consideration.' That means I have bought it of you and paid you for it. Here's a dollar for you. Now you sign it." So I signed it, and left. Miss Watson's nigger, Jim, had a hair-ball as big as your fist, which had been took out of the fourth stomach of an ox, and he used to do magic with it. He said there was a spirit inside of it, and it knowed everything. So I went to him that night and told him pap was here again, for I found his tracks in the snow. What I wanted to know was, what he was going to do, and was he going to stay? Jim got out his hair-ball and said something over it, and then he held it up and dropped it on the floor. It fell pretty solid, and only rolled about an inch. Jim tried it again, and then another time, and it acted just the same. Jim got down on his knees, and put his ear against it and listened. But it warn't no use; he said it wouldn't talk. He said sometimes it wouldn't talk without money. I told him I had


go.” Mark turned to her, looking stricken. “Lulu,” he said. “Everything else was Freddie, or Pupkin, or whatever, but this . . . it’s actually Dad . . .” She shook her head. “It’s time to go,” she repeated. He swallowed. Then nodded. Then the four of them—Mark, Louise, Poppy, and Red Rabbit—walked out of the house and closed the door behind them. And after a while, the smell of stollen faded away. — For Louise, it came and went. Sometimes it wouldn’t bother her for years, and sometimes it hit hard. The worst was when she dreamed they were still alive and it had all been a terrible mistake. In those dreams, she was still thirty-nine and when she got Mark’s call she called home and this time her dad answered the phone and she talked to him and then to her mom and she would wake up glowing. She’d open her eyes and sit up in bed full of energy and actually reach for her phone, and that’s when she’d remember they were dead and it would hit her all over again, as hard as it did the very first time. When that happened, she felt a deep ache inside her chest, like her rib cage was being split open with an axe. When that happened, she needed to call the only other person who knew how this felt. When that happened, she called her brother. In loving memory CELEBRATE THE LIVES AND ART OF Eric Joyner & Nancy Cooke Joyner ORDER OF SERVICE Call to Worship—Reverend Michael Bullin “This Little Light of Mine” performed by The Doll Wiggler Quartet (featuring Joshua Bilmes, Adam Goldworm, Harold Brown, Daniel Passman) TESTIMONIALS Miss Mouse in the House & Her Human, Eddie Schneider Monsieur Brady McReynolds with His Friends Jacques & Andre Valentina “Mrs. Snowball” Sainato “The Five Penguins” performed by Susan Velazquez Jessica “Make a Joyful Noise” Wade Kitty-Cat Camacho MUSICAL INTERLUDE A Tribute to Nancy Joyner in Body Music, performed by Doogie Horner and His Body “Candle in the Wind” performed by The Treblemakers Alexis Nixon Danielle Keir Fareeda Bullert Daniela Reidlová Jin Yu Craig Burke Gabbie Pachon Lauren Burnstein TESTIMONIALS “My Ducky Has Big Eyes” recited by Claire Zion A Silent Meditation led by Jeanne-Marie Hudson and Oliver the Ostrich Emily Osborne and Scarlett Flufflebear Laura Corless the Dancing Meerkat Anthony Ramondo and Snocchio Hosannas and Praise by The Australian Trio MUSICAL INTERLUDE Eine kleine Nachtmusik by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, performed by Megha Jain (spoons) “Where Have All the Flowers Gone” by Pete Seeger, performed by William Barr (harmonica) TESTIMONIALS “I Mime the Body Electric,” an original poem by Lydia Gittens A Guided Visualization by Frances “The Magnificent” Horton and Puppy Kevin Kolsch and His Dancing Cat, Church The Original Lounge Lizard (and His Two Frogs), Davi Lancett Dr. Ralph Moore and the Three Pigs O’Plenty Interpretive Ballet by Mr. Giraffe and Friends (Y. S. T.) A FINAL SONG “Rainbow Connection” by Kermit the Frog RECESSIONAL “When the Saints Go Marching In” Everybody (kazoo) We would like to thank the


hatch like he’s chopping wood. The handle flies so close to my face, I can feel the air brush my cheek. Kyle throws a wild haymaker and hits nothing but empty space. Bezi and I just stand there—absolutely nothing happens. There’s nothing under the hatch. “Good job, y’all,” I say. “Thank you for protecting us from nothing.” Javier rolls his eyes. “A raccoon could have jumped out of there and attacked us.” “Doubtful,” Bezi says. “No,” I say. “We had to fight a raccoon once.” Me and Javier exchange knowing glances. “It’s not a game. They’re aggressive.” “Oh, okay,” Bezi says, eyes wide. “Remind me to never come up here ever again.” I peer down into the opening in the floor. The tunnel is cut into the ground below and snakes off in the direction of the lake. “Okay,” I say. “Okay, let’s go.” I grab the top rung of the rickety wooden ladder and lower myself down. It’s a full twenty degrees colder down here, and a chill runs up my back. I strain in the inky dark to see the other end of the tunnel, but it’s no use. I drag my hand along the wall until I find the little pull cord dangling near the hatch opening. I yank down on it, and three light bulbs flicker to life along the length of the ceiling. Even with the thready light from the bulbs, the other end is completely cloaked in darkness. Bezi climbs down, followed by Javier, who’s still clutching the broom handle. On the last rung, his foot slips and he stumbles, crashing to the ground at my feet. As he lands flat on his back, the air punches out of his lungs and he groans. “Damn,” I say, offering him my hand. “You okay?” He scrambles to his feet and pretends to be fine. “I’m good,” he says through clenched teeth. Kyle descends the ladder and has to stoop to keep from hitting his head. He looks Javier over, and the corners of his mouth lift. “What the hell, Javi?” Javier is leaning on the broom, holding his breath like it hurts to breathe. “Y’all come down here every night?” Bezi asks. I grip her hand. “Kyle does. I come down here for maintenance checks, but that’s usually in the mornings.” Kyle cups his hands around his mouth. “Hello?” he yells. “Shhhhhut uuuppp!” Javier whisper-screams. “If there’s somebody down here, you just announced our presence.” Kyle’s face twists into an angry scowl. “I think hearing you fall through the hatch and the whole-ass conversation we just had already did that.” Javier huffs as I lead us down the cramped tunnel in the direction of the boathouse. It’s damp and musty and the ceiling is too low. My heartbeat creeps up. I don’t like the confined space. I have to keep telling myself that the walls are probably not closing in on me, but I don’t know if I actually believe it. Everything suddenly feels too close, too dark. It takes about ninety seconds to walk from one


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

vaults, mouth hanging open. Another blur, and it was her mother’s face staring back at her. Her hair was long and straight and pale, her eyes the same bright hazel as Lore’s. With a gentle smile Lore had never actually seen her wear, she leaned forward, pressing a hand to her daughter’s cheek. “She just never stops trying,” she murmured as her thumb brushed Lore’s skin, though the voice wasn’t right. It was unnaturally smooth, the same voice from before, everything human stripped out of it. “She doesn’t understand that He cannot allow Them to return.” The facsimile of her mother sighed, smoothed her hair. “It’s not your fault. At least we can use what She gives, this time. It will all be over soon.” The tugging feeling in Lore’s chest became unbearable, as if her body was trying to turn itself inside out. She screamed as smoke plumed gracefully across the sky. “Shit.” Lore sat up, pushing tangled, sweaty hair from her eyes. Her neck felt like it was on fire—she’d fallen asleep with it angled on the chair arm. Cursing again, she rubbed at the ache and stumbled into the main sitting room, squinting at the clock. After a day of isolation, the darkness outside the window told her it was the very early morning of her birthday. Tonight was the eclipse. Food was on the table behind the couch. Easy things, apples and bread and cheese, things that could be set out and forgotten. She read it like it was a code. No one would be opening that door, not until they were ready to escort her to the eclipse ball. Escort her to her Consecration, and whatever ritual August had planned around it to make her magic his own. A ritual she had to trust Anton to stop, or she and Bastian would both be dead. It was almost funny, how easily she accepted that Bastian was magic. That he was born to channel life the same way she was born to channel death, that she was his dark reflection. Down there in the catacombs, with the unquiet dead making their slow way to the door and threads of Mortem tangled in her fingers, she’d felt it when Bastian pulled the clinging threads away. Life, rushing, her veins flooded with too much blood, her lungs full of too much air. In that moment, he’d commanded both life and death, he’d held them both in his hands. She’d been his lightning rod, the darkness that made the light shine brighter after his Consecration. And now, hers approached. She’d felt her power growing stronger as she spent more time with Bastian, as time marched her down to twenty-four years. A moment that, for others, meant holy celebration. For her, it meant possible murder. That figured. Lore grabbed a piece of cheese and flopped back on the couch. A tear rolled down her temple and wet her hair. She didn’t realize she’d shed one until it dripped into her ear, warm and wet and distinctly unpleasant. “Fuck you, Gabe,” she murmured


fiancé this weekend?” “Oh, um, he was going to come with me, but then—” June took the stage, interrupting me. “Testing, testing,” she said, tapping the microphone. I was about to add that Bryce had to work, that he would have been here otherwise, but it was too late. My eyes locked with Rich’s, and it washed over me that he could think I didn’t bring Bryce because of him. There wasn’t time to correct myself. Did I even want to? “Ladies and gentlemen,” June began. “Welcome to the first ever Holly Springs and Rock Springs Family Camp!” The room filled with hoots and hollers, bangs on the wooden picnic tables, and as was camp tradition, kids and adults standing on the benches at their tables. Someone from the back started chanting, “Holly one!” A few more people chimed in, “Holly two! Holly me, holly you! Holly who?” And before I knew what was happening the entire room practically shouted: “Holly Springs!” Then everyone who knew our camp cheer was singing: “From sunup to sundown, any city, any town, there’s nothing better in the whole wide world, than a sweet and spunky Holly Springs girl!” It was awful. Off-key, pitchy, nothing beautiful about it. Even still, it brought tears to my eyes. And I knew when June handed Daphne the mic it was because she was too emotional to continue. This camp meant just as much to all these people as it did to us. It was a place that had affected them deep down in their hearts and souls in a way that was worth way more than a $5,000,000 development deal. And, well, that was saying a lot. June came over and put her arm around my shoulders, squeezing me to her side. “Thank you,” she whispered. Unable to control my tears, I said, “No, June, thank you.” She hugged me just as Daphne said into the mic, “Wow! That was the ugliest, most hauntingly beautiful rendition of the camp song I’ve ever heard!” More cheers and table banging. “Let’s see who we have here. This year’s Songbirds, raise your hands!” Cheers erupted again as they stood on their benches. They were so cute! This continued for Chickadees, Nightingales, Finches, Canaries, Starlings, Cardinals, Doves, Sparrows, and, finally, Blue Jays, the oldest group. If Daphne had intended for this little exercise to get all the girls in the room pumped and on their feet, she had succeeded. “Seriously, friends, I think you all know this has been a hard couple of years for Camp Holly Springs. Our fearless leader, June, has held it together with prayers and Scotch tape, but your being here tonight is a real, tangible way to help save this place. Please thank everyone you see working around here the next couple of days. They have all volunteered their time so your fees for the weekend go directly to camp. I’m going to let you get back to the party, but I just have to say that Holly Springs taught me everything I needed to know and gave


on the shoulder is torn as well as cut. This wound was not done with a knife; there have been teeth here!"     "She bit me," he murmured. "She worried me like a tigress, when Rochester got the knife from her."     "You should not have yielded; you should have grappled with her at once," said Mr. Rochester.     "But under the circumstances, what could one do?" returned Mason. "Oh, it was frightful!" he added, shuddering. "And I did not expect it; she looked so quiet at first."     "I warned you," was his friend's answer; "I said be on your guard when you go near her. Besides, you might have waited till to-morrow, and had me with you; it was mere folly to attempt the interview to-night, and alone."     "I thought I could have done some good."     "You thought! you thought! Yes, it makes me impatient to hear you; but, however, yon have suffered, and are likely to suffer enough for not taking my advice; so I'll say no more. Carter hurry! hurry! The sun will soon rise, and I must have him off."     "Directly, sir; the shoulder is just bandaged. I must look to this other wound in the arm; she has had her teeth here too, I think."     "She sucked the blood; she said she'd drain my heart," said Mason.     I saw Mr. Rochester shudder; a singularly marked expression of disgust, horror, hatred, warped his countenance almost to distortion; but he only said: "Come, be silent, Richard, and never mind her gibberish; don't repeat it."     "I wish I could forget it," was the answer.     "You will when you are out of the country: when you get back to Spanish Town you may think of her as dead and buried or rather, you need not think of her at all."     "Impossible to forget this night!"     "It is not impossible; have some energy, man. You thought you were as dead as a herring two hours since, and you are all alive and talking now. There! Carter has done with yon or nearly so: I'll make you decent in a trice, Jane;" (he turned to me for the first time since his reentrance), "take this key; go down into my bedroom, and walk straight forward into my dressing-room; open the top drawer of the wardrobe and take out a clean shirt and neck-handkerchief; bring them here; and be nimble."     I went, sought the repository he had mentioned, found the articles named, and returned with them.     "Now," said he, "go to the other side of the bed while I order his toilet; but don't leave the room; you may be wanted again."     I retired as directed.     "Was anybody stirring


have one of the little cottages when we’re married. Of course, the farmhouse is big enough for Grandad and Grandma and my parents, but Brandon and I want some privacy.’ ‘When are you getting married?’ Malia asked. ‘Next summer, after Brandon finishes his farm management course.’ Natalie leaned forward, excited. ‘I’m choosing a wedding dress already. I love going into Tadderly and Charlbury, looking in the windows of the bridal shops. Hey…’ She grabbed her friends’ hands. ‘Come with me next weekend. It’ll be fun.’ ‘We could…’ Malia glanced at Florence, who smiled half-heartedly. ‘Brandon and I are going to wait a few years before we have kids, though.’ Natalie took a deep breath. ‘Brandon wants three or four. I’m not sure. I look at people who were in our class at school who have had kids, and they look so miserable.’ ‘Not everyone ends up like that,’ Malia said quickly. She reached for Florence’s hand. ‘They do,’ Natalie insisted. ‘Do you remember Chelsea Phillips in our class who was pregnant at sixteen? Her little one is six now – can you believe it? And she’s still on her own. Nobody wants a woman with a kid in tow. She looks so awful – I don’t think she even washes her hair. And the kid is so naughty.’ Natalie stopped talking: Florence’s face was covered with tears. ‘What did I say?’ Her mind worked quickly. ‘Oh – Florence, tell me you’re not…’ She watched as Florence’s eyes squeezed closed and a sob caught in her throat. ‘I didn’t know… Florence, I’m so sorry. Who’s the father? I didn’t know you were seeing anyone…’ Florence allowed Malia to wrap her arms around her, then she took a deep breath. ‘I’m not.’ ‘Not pregnant?’ ‘Not seeing anyone, Nat. But yes, pregnant.’ ‘Oh, I’m so sorry…’ Natalie didn’t know what else to say. ‘Odile’s the only other person who knows,’ Florence whispered. ‘She promised not to say anything. She told me it’s my business and as long as I’m fit to work at the café, I’m welcome to stay as long as I can. She’s been very understanding.’ Malia said, ‘Shall we go round mine now? Make some hot chocolate, chill out.’ Florence hesitated. ‘Who will be in?’ ‘Mum and Dad have gone for a walk; Adam has a new girlfriend, I think – he went out straight after breakfast.’ ‘Then yes – thanks.’ Florence accepted the hug both girls gave her, then she added, ‘I’m going to see Dr Müller after work on Tuesday. Can I tell Dad I’m with you, Malia?’ ‘Of course…’ ‘Dr Müller’s really nice,’ Natalie said gently. ‘I went to see her about contraception advice.’ ‘Will you both come with me?’ Florence reached for both their hands. ‘I’m terrified.’ ‘Of course,’ Malia muttered. ‘You’ve got your friends around you,’ Natalie promised, then she frowned. ‘But the father should step up as well…’ Malia shook her head. ‘Florence will tell us about him when she’s ready. Until then, we don’t say anything, right?’ ‘Oh, definitely,’ Natalie agreed. ‘Thanks.’ Florence closed her


one of his fancier models that Leah had sent from California, along with some clothes, after it had become clear we’d be staying awhile—and I heard Charlotte Larsen gasp. Around his neck, Noah wore a metal contraption that at first glance looked like an intense form of orthodontia but in fact was a harmonica in a holder. He walked to the eastern side of the deck and stood with the railing behind him. Noah glanced at Jerry and me, then at the Larsens, then back at me, and said, “I want to dedicate a song to you, Sally.” Addressing the five other people and one dog, he said, “Sally and I met a couple years ago, but it’s only recently that we’ve reconnected. I feel very grateful. And since the way I express my feelings is through music, I want to sing a little something tonight. Thank you all for humoring me.” Looking at me, he said, “So, Sally Milz, this goes out to you.” Next to Jerry, sitting at the table where we’d just eaten, I experienced a sort of internal lurching. Had Noah written a song for me? Was he calling my bluff after I’d said that maybe I’d like such a thing? Could I handle this in front of Jerry and the Larsens? In a different way, could Charlotte Larsen handle this? Then Noah glanced down and began strumming. I knew right away, just from the first few chords, even before he looked at me and sang, “I heard that you were drunk and mean / Down at the Dairy Queen…” I didn’t need to fake-smile; I didn’t need to make an effort to express my delight or conceal my distress. It was better than if he’d written a song for me, though perhaps, as I realized he hadn’t, I did sort of hope he would in the future? It also was better than if he’d sung some happily-ever-after ballad. There was nothing about Noah Brewster standing on Jerry’s deck singing “Dairy Queen” that I didn’t love. He sang, “Ain’t it funny how we lose one day / And a lifetime slips away,” and in the third verse, after the lines “It was good for a time / I am told,” he pressed his lips against the harmonica and closed his eyes as the instrument’s magnificently nasal, twangy sound filled the air and Charlotte Larsen whooped and clapped. The odd part was that, although I had listened to the song hundreds of times, and seen the Indigo Girls perform it, I had always focused on what I thought of as the spectacularly devastating lines about a relationship that hadn’t lasted. I’d hardly noticed that the song ended with the lines “Hey, I love you more and more / Oh, I love you more and more”—with those lines in the present tense. Watching Noah as he sang them, as he watched me—his eyes were open again—I wondered if I’d always understood the song a little wrong, or possibly if I’d always understood life a little wrong. Wondering this was not


to a place and a people you’ve barely known, but without whom you wouldn’t exist? I’m not the biggest fan of revenge story lines, so I was stymied with her character for a while. I kept thinking, what should she do? How should she fight for her kingdom and her people? And then eventually, why should she want to? I wanted Sylvia to feel familiar to eldest daughters of immigrant families in particular, who feel the weight of duty and obligation far earlier than most. But we usually carry it out of love, even when it wears us down. Sylvia was missing love. Responsibilities were stacked so high on her shoulders that she broke, severing herself from any kind of tie or duty so thoroughly that she stopped associating herself with Jasad. In the first half of the book, she refers to them as “they” or “the Jasadis.” There’s the other her, Essiya, who represents an idealized version of herself. Once I had Sylvia’s arc (sort of) nailed down, the rest came easier. I love scheming and court machinations, magical mayhem, book versions of the Rocky training montage, and a villain who doesn’t realize he’s a villain. What was the most challenging moment of writing The Jasad Heir? The most challenging moment was after Soraya stabs Sylvia. Sylvia is vowing to take down Soraya, but her motivations when she makes the declaration are incredibly tricky to balance. She’s torn between her burgeoning sense of community and duty toward Jasad, her own lone-wolf brand of self-preservation, and a very personal pain at discovering a relationship she’d cherished was a lie. Especially since she realized trauma has rendered her own mind and memories unreliable. The guilt, the defensiveness, the stubborn hurt and anger are emotions Sylvia grapples with throughout the novel. The Jasad Heir is partially inspired by protests and uprisings of the Arab Spring. What was your approach to incorporating those ideas into your work? Did you do any specific research to build the world? I completely avoided researching Arab Spring. I was living in Egypt during the uprisings, but I was barely a teenager. My sharpest memories are of people. The fear, the wonder, the hope. My aunt complaining about the curfew and insane increase in the cost of fruit. Distracting my siblings while tanks rolled down the street (followed by my sister begging us to take a photo of her inside the wheel of a tank, because she was ten and thought they were cool). I remember standing outside with my father in bitterly cold weather and asking how anyone could bear to sleep in a tent in Tahrir Square in this temperature. I was amazed any passion or rage could survive in such conditions. Sylvia is a child when Jasad falls. She sees it happen only from a distance. She grows up feeling like she owes a debt to a place she barely remembers, that her connection to Jasad has only ever brought her trouble. To truly risk herself for something, to essentially sleep in a freezing tent with danger


and so many were the sweethearts, wives, and kin that had not rushed in, that the congested mail was taking on Alpine proportions; also, there were official orders. Fresh batches of Hudson Bay dogs were to take the places of those worthless for the trail. The worthless ones were to be got rid of, and, since dogs count for little against dollars, they were to be sold. Three days passed, by which time Buck and his mates found how really tired and weak they were. Then, on the morning of the fourth day, two men from the States came along and bought them, harness and all, for a song. The men addressed each other as "Hal" and "Charles." Charles was a middle-aged, lightish-colored man, with weak and watery eyes and a mustache that twisted fiercely and vigorously up, giving the lie to the limply drooping lip it concealed. Hal was a youngster of nineteen or twenty, with a big Colt's revolver and a hunting-knife strapped about him on a belt that fairly bristled with cartridges. This belt was the most salient thing about him. It advertised his callowness--a callowness sheer and unutterable. Both men were manifestly out of place, and why such as they should adventure the North is part of the mystery of things that passes understanding. Buck heard the chaffering, saw the money pass between the man and the Government agent, and knew that the Scotch half-breed and the mail-train drivers were passing out of his life on the heels of Perrault and Francois and the others who had gone before. When driven with his mates to the new owners' camp, Buck saw a slipshod and slovenly affair, tent half stretched, dishes unwashed, everything in disorder; also, he saw a woman. "Mercedes" the men called her. She was Charles's wife and Hal's sister--a nice family party. Buck watched them apprehensively as they proceeded to take down the tent and load the sled. There was a great deal of effort about their manner, but no businesslike method. The tent was rolled into an awkward bundle three times as large as it should have been. The tin dishes were packed away unwashed. Mercedes continually fluttered in the way of her men and kept up an unbroken chattering of remonstrance and advice. When they put a clothes-sack on the front of the sled, she suggested it should go on the back; and when they had put it on the back, and covered it over with a couple of other bundles, she discovered overlooked articles which could abide nowhere else but in that very sack, and they unloaded again. Three men from a neighboring tent came out and looked on, grinning and winking at one another. "You've got a right smart load as it is," said one of them; "and it's not me should tell you your business, but I wouldn't tote that tent along if I was you." "Undreamed of!" cried Mercedes, throwing up her hands in dainty dismay. "However in the world could I manage without a tent?" "It's springtime, and you


no one can take that away from us. I’ve made sure of that.” He clenches his jaw. “Chelsea’s toxicology came back positive for oxycodone.” She falls silent. Even though Brody told her he slipped Chelsea the pills, Sloane still hoped it wasn’t true. “You knew she had drugs in her system, didn’t you? And you made sure she wouldn’t be revived.” She shakes her head. “No!” She feels a stab of remorse. It wasn’t like her to have made an error in judgment as a physician. “I didn’t know.” She lowers herself onto the edge of the bed beside him. “You have to believe me.” He turns toward her, his eyes wide with bewilderment. “Believe you? After all your lies?” He stands from the bed. “How am I ever supposed to trust you again? I will never know for sure that you didn’t have a hand in her death.” She tilts her head back to maintain eye contact with him. “No, you won’t. But trust is a choice. It might take time, but it can be rebuilt. Remember our therapist?” “She wasn’t talking about murder, Sloane!” No, she was talking about you cheating on me when we were supposed to be trying to have a baby. Sloane stands as Ethan makes for his suitcase, stopping between him and the bed. “Move out of my way.” His voice is calm this time, but his disdain is evident. “I told you. I don’t even know you.” Sloane makes no effort to move. “You’ve been sleeping in the same bed next to me for nearly a decade, and you’re right, you don’t even know me well enough to know I’m telling the truth about Chelsea. But whose fault is that? Yours or mine?” He steps around her. She turns to see him zip his suitcase closed in one angry motion. “It’s yours, Ethan.” He looks up with one hand on his bag. “I’m leaving. Good-bye, Sloane.” Sloane presses her palm against the top of the suitcase. “If you leave, I could tell the police we plotted to kill Brody together. That you helped me lure him to the house, and we staged it to look like self-defense after you shot him.” A shadow moves across Ethan’s face. “You’ll only incriminate yourself.” He keeps his voice steady, but there’s no mistaking the trace of terror in his pupils. She shakes her head. “You’re the one who shot him. You had more reason to want Brody dead than I did. He was sleeping with your wife. When you found out, you were enraged. And when you found your opportunity to take him out of the picture, you did.” His eyes search hers. “You’re not going to turn yourself in for murder.” “That’s where you’re wrong. You keep underestimating me and look where it’s gotten you. I’d rather go to prison than accept less than I deserve. I’ve come too far in life to fall short now of getting everything I want. The family I never had. It’s all or nothing, Ethan. You can stay with me and


the moonlight on his cheek-bones and on the frowning ridges in his brow, with the moonlight distilled in each eye to form a silver cataract there. One drop of rain. Clarisse. Another drop. Mildred. A third. The uncle. A fourth. The fire tonight. One, Clarisse. Two, Mildred. Three, uncle. Four, fire, One, Mildred, two, Clarisse. One, two, three, four, five, Clarisse, Mildred, uncle, fire, sleeping-tablets, men, disposable tissue, coat-tails, blow, wad, flush, Clarisse, Mildred, uncle, fire, tablets, tissues, blow, wad, flush. One, two, three, one, two, three! Rain. The storm. The uncle laughing. Thunder falling downstairs. The whole world pouring down. The fire gushing up in a volcano. All rushing on down around in a spouting roar and rivering stream toward morning. "I don't know anything any more," he said, and let a sleep-lozenge dissolve on his tongue. At nine in the morning, Mildred's bed was empty. Montag got up quickly, his heart pumping, and ran down the hall and stopped at the kitchen door. Toast popped out of the silver toaster, was seized by a spidery metal hand that drenched it with melted butter. Mildred watched the toast delivered to her plate. She had both ears plugged with electronic bees that were humming the hour away. She looked up suddenly, saw him, and nodded. "You all right?" he asked. She was an expert at lip-reading from ten years of apprenticeship at Seashell ear-thimbles. She nodded again. She set the toaster clicking away at another piece of bread. Montag sat down. His wife said, "I don't know why I should be so hungry." "You-?" "I'm HUNGRY." "Last night," he began. "Didn't sleep well. Feel terrible," she said. "God, I'm hungry. I can't figure it." "Last night-" he said again. She watched his lips casually. "What about last night?" "Don't you remember?" "What? Did we have a wild party or something? Feel like I've a hangover. God, I'm hungry. Who was here?" "A few people," he said. "That's what I thought." She chewed her toast. "Sore stomach, but I'm hungry as all-get-out. Hope I didn't do anything foolish at the party." "No," he said, quietly. The toaster spidered out a piece of buttered bread for him. He held it in his hand, feeling grateful. "You don't look so hot yourself," said his wife. In the late afternoon it rained and the entire world was dark grey. He stood in the hall of his house, putting on his badge with the orange salamander burning across it. He stood looking up at the air-conditioning vent in the hall for a long time. His wife in the TV parlour paused long enough from reading her script to glance up. "Hey," she said. "The man's THINKING!" "Yes," he said. "I wanted to talk to you." He paused. "You took all the pills in your bottle last night." "Oh, I wouldn't do that," she said, surprised. "The bottle was empty." "I wouldn't do a thing like that. Why would I do a thing like that?" she asked. "Maybe you took two pills and forgot and took two more,


be the thankfullest soul in this world if I could believe you ever had as good a thought as that, but you know you never did -- and I know it, Tom." "Indeed and 'deed I did, auntie -- I wish I may never stir if I didn't." "Oh, Tom, don't lie -- don't do it. It only makes things a hundred times worse." "It ain't a lie, auntie; it's the truth. I wanted to keep you from grieving -- that was all that made me come." "I'd give the whole world to believe that -- it would cover up a power of sins, Tom. I'd 'most be glad you'd run off and acted so bad. But it ain't reasonable; because, why didn't you tell me, child?" --------------------------------------------------------- -193- "Why, you see, when you got to talking about the funeral, I just got all full of the idea of our coming and hiding in the church, and I couldn't somehow bear to spoil it. So I just put the bark back in my pocket and kept mum." "What bark?" "The bark I had wrote on to tell you we'd gone pirating. I wish, now, you'd waked up when I kissed you -- I do, honest." The hard lines in his aunt's face relaxed and a sudden tenderness dawned in her eyes. " Did you kiss me, Tom?" "Why, yes, I did." "Are you sure you did, Tom?" "Why, yes, I did, auntie -- certain sure." "What did you kiss me for, Tom?" "Because I loved you so, and you laid there moaning and I was so sorry." The words sounded like truth. The old lady could not hide a tremor in her voice when she said: "Kiss me again, Tom! -- and be off with you to school, now, and don't bother me any more." The moment he was gone, she ran to a closet and got out the ruin of a jacket which Tom had gone pirating in. Then she stopped, with it in her hand, and said to herself: "No, I don't dare. Poor boy, I reckon he's lied about it -- but it's a blessed, blessed lie, there's such a comfort come from it. I hope the Lord -- I know the Lord will forgive him, because it was such --------------------------------------------------------- -194- goodheartedness in him to tell it. But I don't want to find out it's a lie. I won't look." She put the jacket away, and stood by musing a minute. Twice she put out her hand to take the garment again, and twice she refrained. Once more she ventured, and this time she fortified herself with the thought: "It's a good lie -- it's a good lie -- I won't let it grieve me." So she sought the jacket pocket. A moment later she was reading Tom's piece of bark through flowing tears and saying: "I could forgive the boy, now, if he'd committed a million sins!" --------------------------------------------------------- -195- Chapter XX THERE was something about Aunt Polly's manner, when she kissed Tom, that swept away his low


How I never seem to get over owing you for that,” I say. 288 “The bread? What? From when we were kids?” he says. “I think we can let that go. I mean, you just brought me back from the dead.” “But you didn’t know me. We had never even spoken. Be- sides, it’s the first gift that’s always the hardest to pay back. I wouldn’t even have been here to do it if you hadn’t helped me then,” I say. “Why did you, anyway?” “Why? You know why,” Peeta says. I give my head a slight, painful shake. “Haymitch said you would take a lot of convinc- ing.” “Haymitch?” I ask. “What’s he got to do with it?” “Nothing,” Peeta says. “So, Cato and Thresh, huh? I guess it’s too much to hope that they’ll simultaneously destroy each other?” But the thought only upsets me. “I think we would like Thresh. I think he’d be our friend back in District Twelve,” I say. “Then let’s hope Cato kills him, so we don’t have to,” says Peeta grimly. I don’t want Cato to kill Thresh at all. I don’t want anyone else to die. But this is absolutely not the kind of thing that vic- tors go around saying in the arena. Despite my best efforts, I can feel tears starting to pool in my eyes. Peeta looks at me in concern. “What is it? Are you in a lot of pain?” I give him another answer, because it is equally true but can be taken as a brief moment of weakness instead of a ter- 289 minal one. “I want to go home, Peeta,” I say plaintively, like a small child. “You will. I promise,” he says, and bends over to give me a kiss. “I want to go home now,” I say. “Tell you what. You go back to sleep and dream of home. And you’ll be there for real before you know it,” lie says. “Okay?” “Okay,” I whisper. “Wake me if you need me to keep watch.” “I’m good and rested, thanks to you and Haymitch. Besides, who knows how long this will last?” he says. What does he mean? The storm? The brief respite ii brings us? The Games themselves? I don’t know, but I’m ion sad and tired to ask. It’s evening when Peeta wakes me again. The rain has turned to a downpour, sending streams of water through our ceiling where earlier there had been only drips. Peeta has placed the broth pot under the worst one and repositioned the plastic to deflect most of it from me. I feel a bit better, able to sit up without getting too dizzy, and I’m absolutely famished. So is Peeta. It’s clear he’s been waiting for me to wake up to eat and is eager to get started. There’s not much left. Two pieces of groosling, a small mishmash of roots, and a handful of dried fruit. “Should we try and ration it?” Peeta asks. “No, let’s just finish it. The groosling’s getting old anyway, and the