Cleo says. The others have moved on to a milk-bottle toss game. She jerks her head toward the lobster beanbags and the bottles painted to look like nervous lobstermen. “What do you think the narrative is here? The lobsters fighting back?” “Let’s hope it’s not prophetic, or this town’s the first to go,” I say. She turns back to me. “I guess I feel like . . . this week’s already half-over, and we’ve all barely gotten to catch up. And I know how important this is to her—to everyone. Doing all these things one last time, and I get that. “But it’s also been a long time since we’ve been together, and today just felt like kind of a bummer. Sitting through hours of movies when we could be talking.” I grab her hand. “I’m sorry. That makes complete sense.” She glances back, to where Sabrina and Parth are taunting each other in front of the game, and smiles a little. “I just want this week to be perfect for them.” “Me too.” I squeeze her hand. “But hey, the night is young and so are we. What do you want to do? I’ll go on any ride or play any game. I’ll even let you monologue about mushrooms.” She laughs and tucks her head against my shoulder. “I just want to be here with you, Har.” The weed must be hitting me hard, because I instantly tear up a little. It’s that happy-sad feeling, that intense homesick ache. It makes me think of my semester abroad. Not the old cobbled streets or tiny pubs overstuffed with drunk university students, but Sabrina and Cleo FaceTiming me at midnight to sing me “Happy Birthday.” The feeling of being so grateful to have something worth missing. We walk, we talk, we sweat and frizz and eat. Funnel cakes and lobster rolls, overstuffed whoopie pies and battered-and-fried fiddlehead ferns, caramel corn and salted popcorn. “Does anyone else feel like time’s moving really fast?” I ask when I realize it’s full dark. Cleo and Sabrina look at each other and burst into laughter. “You’re so high,” Sabrina says. “Says the woman who spent like nine minutes making us stand in one place while she googled whether corn is a nut or a vegetable,” I say. “I wanted to know!” Sabrina cries, eyes shrunken. “A nut, babe,” Cleo says. “You thought corn was a nut.” “Well, they look like little nuts before you pop them,” Parth says, coming to Sabrina’s defense. Cleo is now laughing so hard she’s doubled over. Wyn is wandering toward the Ferris wheel, saucer-eyed. “Dude, Wyn’s about to be beamed up,” Kimmy says, and I have no idea what she’s talking about, but it makes me laugh anyway. Wyn looks over his shoulder and says, “Look at it. It’s beautiful.” Sabrina stares at him for one second, then throws her head back and cackles. But he—and his not-quite-tiny gummy—is right. Everything looks soft around the edges, dreamy. Parth leads us into the Ferris wheel line. I try to pair up with Sabrina,


cousins," she said. "I hope they like you!" "Oh yes!" said Anne, eagerly, anxious to stick up for her strange cousin. "We do like George, and we like Ti ..." She was just about to say that they liked Timothy too, when she got such a kick on her ankle that she cried out in pain and the tears came into her eyes. George glared at her. "George? Why did you kick Anne like that when she was saying nice things about you?" cried her mother. "Leave the table at once. I won't have such behaviour." George left the table without a word. She went out into the garden. She had just taken a piece of bread and cut herself some cheese. It was all left on her plate. The other three stared at it in distress. Anne was upset. How could she have been so silly as to forget she mustn't mention Tim? "Oh, please call George back!" she said. "She didn't mean to kick me. It was an accident." But her aunt was very angry with George. "Finish your meal," she said to the others. "I expect George will go into the sulks now. Dear, dear, she is such a difficult child!" The others didn't mind about George going into the sulks. What they did mind was that George might refuse to take them to see the wreck now! They finished the meal in silence. Their aunt went to see if Uncle Quentin wanted any more pie. He was having his meal in the study by himself. As soon as she had gone out of the room, Anne picked up the bread and cheese from George's plate and went out into the garden. The boys didn't scold her. They knew that Anne's tongue very often ran away with her- but she always tried to make up for it afterwards. They thought it was very brave of her to go and find George. George was lying on her back under a big tree in the garden. Anne went up to her. "I'm sorry I nearly made a mistake, George," she said. "Here's your bread and cheese. I've brought it for you. I promise I'll never forget not to mention Tim again." George sat up. "I've a good mind not to take you to see the wreck," she said. "Stupid baby!" Anne's heart sank. This was what she had feared. "Well," she said, "you needn't take me, of course. But you might take the boys, George. After all, they didn't do anything silly. And anyway, you gave me an awful kick. Look at the bruise." George looked at it. Then she looked at Anne. "But wouldn't you be miserable if I took Julian and Dick without you?" she asked. "Of course," said Anne. "But I don't want to make them miss a treat, even if I have to." Then George did a surprising thing for her. She gave Anne a hug! Then she immediately looked most ashamed of herself, for she felt sure that no boy would have done that! And she


promise. Nothing bad is —” “He told me.” Jack straightens his back, eyes once again on the print. “I should have known.” “Known what?” “When he was . . . I’m not sure. Fifteen? He was still in high school. I came back from college during break.” His throat works. “He took me aside and said that he was worried. That he couldn’t imagine ever wanting to be in a romantic relationship. And I told him he shouldn’t worry. That it was still early and he’d find someone. That it was normal to be nervous before becoming sexually active. That he should just keep an open mind. And then I . . .” Something jumps in Jack’s jaw. He closes his eyes. “And then I asked to watch Battlestar Galactica together. Like a total fucking asshole.” I never came out to anyone in my family, Greg once told me. I think I tried, once. Kind of. But then I chickened out and . . . I don’t know. It’s better this way. “Have you ever heard of the ace/aro spectrum?” I ask gently. I’m being gentle to Jack, apparently. He shakes his head, eyes still closed. “It’s . . . well, some of it is what Greg told you. But there’s more. Lots of complexities. There are good resources online that you might want to look up before you guys have another talk. And he . . . I think he’s still trying to figure himself out.” Many of us are, I nearly add. But it’s more of myself than I’d rather show. “Fuck.” Jack turns to me. His expression is . . . Devastated is the only word that comes to mind. If he started slapping himself, I wouldn’t be surprised. “He should have punched me in the face.” I open my mouth. Close it. Then think, What the hell. “Would it make you feel better if I punched you in the face?” His eyebrow lifts. “Would it make you feel better?” “Oh, a lot.” He lets out a silent, wistful laugh, and my heart squeezes for both Smith brothers. “Jack, you were a kid. And ignorant. And an asshole. And . . . okay, you’re still two of these things.” I lift my hand. It hovers for a few seconds by his shoulders while I contemplate the insanity of me voluntarily offering physical and emotional comfort to Dr. Jonathan Smith-Turner. Endothermic hell must be supercooling. “Your apology isn’t mine to accept, but I know Greg cares about you as much as you care about him.” His shoulder is tight and warm under my palm. Solid. “He was paying you to pretend he was in a relationship. So my family would get off his back?” I press my lips together and nod. He swears softly. “If it makes any difference, he wasn’t paying me to . . . Not that there would be anything bad with it, but we didn’t . . .” I flush under his eyes. “Fuck?” I flush harder and nod. I’m usually pretty matter-of-fact when it comes


cost the party its majority. The base will believe him, not us.” Kirstjen added another wrinkle. Trump aide Stephen Miller had worked up a short list of people to install as DHS leaders. It included far-right extremists who would do whatever the president wanted. At the same time, it was clear our “no’s” didn’t make a difference anymore. We discussed exit planning until nightfall. “For the first time, I am actually scared for the country,” Kirstjen told me afterward. “The insanity has been loosed.” In the end, I lost the argument. The majority of my colleagues favored waiting until after the midterms, so we didn’t inadvertently hurt congressional Republicans in the election. I was dejected. Only weeks after publication, my anonymous missive was already hopelessly outdated. The Adults didn’t need to reassert themselves to contain Trump; they needed to quit their jobs and make a statement. But a midnight self-massacre—a mass group resignation from the Trump administration—never happened because the president struck first. * * * Thankfully, the Russians were unsuccessful in disrupting the midterms. But the president destabilized the U.S. political system anyway. Democrats won back the majority in the House of Representatives in a stinging repudiation of Trump’s policies, and the day after the election, he vowed a “warlike posture” in dealing with them. And he made grandiose claims about his power. Chad buried his head in his hands as we watched the news conference on television. “I could fire everybody right now,” Trump boasted. Soon he began the task. First, he sacked Attorney General Jeff Sessions. Then stories broke in the press that Trump was considering axing two other leaders he tussled with frequently, Secretary Nielsen and Director Coats. Kirstjen summoned DHS Acting Deputy Secretary Claire Grady into her office on November 13, along with me and Chad. “It’s very likely you’re going to be the secretary of homeland security this week,” Kirstjen told Claire. “Let’s start planning.” The secretary decided to move me into the role of DHS chief of staff and designate Chad as the head of the Office of Policy. We could provide some amount of continuity if the White House sacked her, though I only expected to take on the role temporarily. If I wasn’t fired with her soon, I needed to leave on my own terms. Not long after, John Kelly discovered that the president was searching for his replacement, too. On December 8, Trump casually told reporters that General Kelly would be leaving for good—announcing the departure as suddenly as the general’s shock hiring the year before. The chief told Kirstjen he had managed to buy her a little more time to insulate DHS against an anticipated onslaught. Kelly wasn’t sure how long, but his warning couldn’t have been clearer: batten down the hatches because Trump is feeling unconstrained. On December 18 and 19, I witnessed it. Sun streamed into the Oval Office as I entered in the early afternoon of the eighteenth with Kirstjen, notionally to talk to Trump about a surge in mass shootings. The president didn’t care about the issue,


once again wrap around him and hug him as his mate would have done. He wondered if the nanite constructs had already begun stalking their human prey. Humans and that peculiar robot. Chapter 29 Liquilid Empire Star System USS Adams Captain Galvin Quintos I paused the feed, sat back, and rubbed at my tired, burning eyes. Having paused Captain Stone’s final log entry several times, I’d gone back and viewed numerous earlier log entries by Stone and others of his senior staff. I’d needed to get a more complete picture of what had happened leading up to the Lincoln crew’s ultimate demise. It had been difficult to watch—seeing their growing despair—already knowing their ultimate fate. I stared at the frozen image of Captain Stone … Would this, one day, be my own epitaph? Speaking desperate, albeit altruistic, last words intended to warn others, perhaps another starship captain I would never know, never meet. I’d grown to admire the salty-dispositioned, often sarcastic, and just as often sensitive and nostalgic ship’s skipper. But the past few hours had provided me with more than just backstory. It had offered me, oddly, a different view, a new perspective on the life that I too had shared on such magnificent vessels as USS Hamilton, USS Jefferson, USS Oblivion, and USS Adams. For commanding officers like Captain Stone, him showing his true mettle in making the ultimate sacrifice, already knowing he’d never see his wife, Angie, again; never breathe Wyoming’s sweet mountain air or take a walk with his ten-year-old grandson, Trent; or hell, just sit reading a book by a raging fire with his two rambunctious Irish Setters. Choosing this life had surely been a sacrifice for Stone. But now, as I looked into the man’s eyes, I didn’t see that sacrifice or any kind of resignation. What I saw was the man’s unwavering need to still win. A need to prevail, even with his fast-approaching, all-too-imminent demise. Had he known, someday, that someone like me would be sitting here in this well-worn leather chair, a chair that still held the embedded indentations of his ample backside? Captain Stone hadn’t known me from Adam, but I felt he was letting me know personally that his cause, our mutual cause, was everything. That this shared cause was far more important, essential, than this, his, lost battle along the way. And that cause was actually so simple. It was the survival of humanity. That trumped everything. That all those personal sacrifices along the way … well, it was an honor to have those to make. Humanity not only needed to survive; it needed to prevail, and to do so right here against this new, particularly heinous foe. As terrible as the Grish were, the Varapin … I knew in my bones, these Liquilids were a fucking scourge upon all things decent. If evil even existed, these beings were evil incarnate. I motioned for Captain Stone’s eight-year-old video feed to continue. “Wave after wave of the alien fighters continued to assail us. Initially, our Arrows had a consistent record of


If Michelle had stuck her neck out, even a little bit, they might have been better prepared. They might have succeeded. “Worried enough to show up with a smile,” Alex said, “but not enough to help Darlington.” “I explained to you—” “You didn’t have to make the descent with us. We needed your knowledge. Your experience.” Michelle licked her lips. “You made the descent?” So she hadn’t talked to Anselm or the board, hadn’t met with the Praetor. Was she really just worried about Alex? Was Alex so unused to the idea of kindness that she instantly distrusted it? Or was Michelle Alameddine a champion liar? “What are you doing here, Michelle? What were you really doing in New Haven the night Dean Beekman died?” “You’re not a detective,” Michelle clipped out. “You’re barely a student. Go to class and stay out of my personal life. I won’t waste my time on you again.” She turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd. Alex was tempted to follow her. Instead she slipped into her Shakespeare lecture. Mercy had saved her a seat, and as soon as Alex was settled, she checked her phone. Dawes was headed to Tripp’s loft to cook. Alex pinged Turner privately. Michelle Alameddine is on campus and I think she just lied about why. Turner’s reply came quickly. What did she tell you? Said she was running an errand for the Butler Library. She waited, watching the screen. Doubt it. She doesn’t work at the Butler. Since when? She never did. What was this? Why had Michelle lied to her—and to Lethe—about her job at Columbia? Why was she really on campus, and why had she tracked Alex down? And what about the fact that, when Alex had referred to two murders, Michelle hadn’t blinked? As far as anyone on campus knew, there had been only one murder. Marjorie Stephen, a woman Michelle actually knew, had supposedly died of natural causes. But Michelle had no reason to hurt either professor. At least not one Alex knew about. She couldn’t concentrate on the lecture, though she’d actually done the reading. Part of the reason she’d let Mercy talk her into this class was because she’d covered two semesters of Shakespeare’s plays already. There was plenty more to read, because there always was, but at least she hadn’t had to bluff her way through every lecture. Maybe there was an upside to all this disaster. No more struggling through classes. No more watching divas swallow bird shit for the sake of a hit album. Alex tried to imagine what life might look like on the other side of all this, and it was too easy to picture. She didn’t want to go back to the hot, seasonless glare of Los Angeles. She didn’t want to work a shit job and make shit pay and get by on scraps of hope, days off, a beer and a fuck to make the month more bearable. She didn’t want to forget Il Bastone, with its tinny stereo and its velvet couches, the


and he tucked the book under his arm as he headed for the door. “Simon, thanking me,” he muttered. “I never thought I’d see the day.” When he opened the door, Lucy was standing there, as if she’d been about to come in, and Simon’s heart lurched in the most ridiculous way. It wasn’t like he had gone long without seeing her. Perhaps a part of him had wondered if yesterday had been nothing more than a dream. “You’re in luck,” William said to Lucy with a grin. “He’s in a good mood today.” Simon might have scowled at his brother if Lucy hadn’t laughed and filled the room with light. Oh, how he loved that laugh, which was so much lighter than anything he’d ever heard. If he had known how much her secrets had muted her over the last week, he would have begged her to tell him everything days ago. She looked so much more alive now, her eyes bright and a smile playing at her lips. Lips that were looking mighty tempting . . . “William,” Simon growled. “Leaving,” he replied, and he shut the door behind him. Simon forced himself not to run to her, but he still moved with laughable speed across the room until he was face-to-face with her. “You look well-rested.” He clapped a hand to his face. That was the first thing he said to her after such an eventful afternoon yesterday? What an imbecile. Fighting another laugh, Lucy glanced behind her. “Aren’t you afraid of the scandal that might come if we’re discovered here alone?” Simon moved in closer, though he worried what might happen if he touched her, so he kept an appropriate distance. Perhaps this was only a dream. “I suppose I would be forced to marry you,” he said with a wavering voice. He cleared his throat, hoping that would help. Lucy cocked her head. “Are you afraid of me, Simon?” His stomach dipped. “Immensely.” “Why?” Her suppressed grin only touched half her mouth, and it was driving Simon mad. “You make me nervous,” he admitted. The vulnerability felt good to admit. “I never know how to act around you.” “This coming from the man who chased down a coach to propose to me just yesterday?” Technically, she hadn’t given him an answer to that proposal, which was part of the reason he hesitated now. Lucy never said anything she didn’t mean. Did that mean she didn’t want to marry him? She crossed the distance between them and put a hand on his chest, sending shivers throughout his entire body. “Why weren’t you afraid yesterday?” she asked, probably thinking it was an easy question to answer. It wasn’t. The answer was terrifying. “I had already lost you,” he said quietly, “so the risk wasn’t there. Now I fear I will scare you off again.” Moving in closer, Lucy didn’t stop until she was close enough that her skirts brushed his knees. “You didn’t scare me off.” “I did, and you know it.” “I lied to you about everything, so


the air was full of dust and weird sounds. Mr. Smith heard a sound of footsteps behind him. He turned round and saw Okeke, his interpreter. Okeke had not been on the best of terms with his master since he had strongly condemned Enoch's behaviour at the meeting of the leaders of the church during the night. Okeke had gone as far as to say that Enoch should not be hidden in the parsonage, because he would only draw the wrath of the clan on the pastor. Mr. Smith had rebuked him in very strong language, and had not sought his advice that morning. But now, as he came up and stood by him confronting the angry spirits, Mr. Smith looked at him and smiled. It was a wan smile, but there was deep gratitude there. For a brief moment the onrush of the egwugwu was checked by the unexpected composure of the two men. But it was only a momentary check, like the tense silence between blasts of thunder. The second onrush was greater than the first. It swallowed up the two men. Then an unmistakable voice rose above the tumult and there was immediate silence. Space was made around the two men, and Ajofia began to speak. Ajofia was the leading egwugwu of Umuofia. He was the head and spokesman of the nine ancestors who administered justice in the clan. His voice was unmistakable and so he was able to bring immediate peace to the agitated spirits. He then addressed Mr. Smith, and as he spoke clouds of smoke rose from his head. "The body of the white man, I salute you," he said, using the language in which immortals spoke to men. "The body of the white man, do you know me?" he asked. Mr. Smith looked at his interpreter, but Okeke, who was a native of distant Umuru, was also at a loss. Ajofia laughed in his guttural voice. It was like the laugh of rusty metal. "They are strangers," he said, "and they are ignorant. But let that pass." He turned round to his comrades and saluted them, calling them the fathers of Umuofia. He dug his rattling spear into the ground and it shook with metallic life. Then he turned once more to the missionary and his interpreter. "Tell the white man that we will not do him any harm," he said to the interpreter. "Tell him to go back to his house and leave us alone. We liked his brother who was with us before. He was foolish, but we liked him, and for his sake we shall not harm his brother. But this shrine which he built must be destroyed. We shall no longer allow it in our midst. It has bred untold abominations and we have come to put an end to it." He turned to his comrades. "Fathers of Umuofia, I salute you." and they replied with one guttural voice. He turned again to the missionary. "You can stay with us if you like our ways. You can worship your own god.


the plan to Peter, he grunted. “Is it safe for her to be alone at Montgomery Place in the afternoons?” “I’m so close by. The director is in and out of her office. Construction’s done in the mansion, so no one else is around these days.” “What about that guy?” “What guy?” Did he mean Gabriel? Peter hadn’t mentioned him since that phone call on the porch. “The one that helps you. She told me he freaks her out.” “Chris? She’s misinterpreting signals. I hope you reinforced that with her.” “I’ve never met the man,” Peter said icily. “I’m simply reporting what our daughter said.” “Anyway, I was going to tell Ella to stay inside when she’s alone. That’ll be one of the rules.” If Ella were a boy, Maud thought after hanging up, would they have had that conversation? During her childhood, she used to ride her bike, helmetless, all over Burlingame. The risks existed—that man at the swimming pool—but her parents didn’t seem to register them. After school, they had no idea where she was, and as long as she showed up for dinner, no one worried. Even if she was late, no one worried; instead, they yelled at her for not checking her watch. Maybe her parents’ generation had been naive about the dangers, but parenting now seemed to demand an unhealthy level of paranoia. That afternoon, she offered Ella a deal. She could switch to the camp’s half-day horseback riding program. “But your dad and I don’t want you on your phone or watching TV all afternoon, so you’re going to have to figure out a project.” Ella leaped up from the couch and hugged her. “I’ll read half a book a week.” “A book a week.” “Thanks, Mom,” Ella said, hugging Maud again. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” By the following Tuesday, everything had been arranged, and Maud picked up Ella from the camp at noon. “It’s still kind of lame,” she said, “but way, way less lame.” Back at the farmhouse, Maud pulled peanut butter and jelly out of the cupboards as Ella unpacked her backpack. “I’ll make you a sandwich,” she said. “I can do it, Mom. I’ll be fine. I’ll eat something and then read.” “No going to the tree to FaceTime your friends, okay? Stay inside. It’s only three hours.” “I guess I can make it,” Ella said, feigning despair. “You can always text or call me. Harriet’s usually down in her office. And Gabriel gets back here around one to work in his cottage. So, if there’s an emergency, you can find one of them. But call me right away first.” “Yup,” Ella said, waving her off. “’Bye. Go to work. I’ll see you guys at three-fifteen. I’ll have read fifty pages.” On her way back to the site, Maud texted Gabriel: Oh my God. She seems so happy. Horse camp saves the day! On the Fourth of July, Maud organized a canoe trip with the girls, borrowing canoes from Frazer and Lydia. She wanted to find the remnants of a


its outskirts every irregularity of the soil was prehistoric, every channel an undisturbed British trackway; not a sod having been turned there since the days of the Caesars. Yet the exotic had grown here, suddenly as the prophet's gourd; and had drawn hither Tess. By the midnight lamps he went up and down the winding way of this new world in an old one, and could discern between the trees and against the stars the lofty roofs, chimneys, gazebos, and towers of the numerous fanciful residences of which the place was composed. It was a city of detached mansions; a Mediterranean lounging-place on the English Channel; and as seen now by night it seemed even more imposing than it was. The sea was near at hand, but not intrusive; it murmured, and he thought it was the pines; the pines murmured in precisely the same tones, and he thought they were the sea. Where could Tess possibly be, a cottage-girl, his young wife, amidst all this wealth and fashion? The more he pondered the more was he puzzled. Were there any cows to milk here? There certainly were no fields to till. She was most probably engaged to do something in one of these large houses; and he sauntered along, looking at the chamber-windows and their lights going out one by one; and wondered which of them might be hers. Conjecture was useless, and just after twelve o'clock he entered and went to bed. Before putting out his light he re-read Tess's impassioned letter. Sleep, however, he could not--so near her, yet so far from her--and he continually lifted the window-blind and regarded the backs of the opposite houses, and wondered behind which of the sashes she reposed at that moment. He might almost as well have sat up all night. In the morning he arose at seven, and shortly after went out, taking the direction of the chief post-office. At the door he met an intelligent postman coming out with letters for the morning delivery. "Do you know the address of a Mrs Clare?" asked Angel. The postman shook his head. Then, remembering that she would have been likely to continue the use of her maiden name, Clare said---- "Of a Miss Durbeyfield?" "Durbeyfield?" This also was strange to the postman addressed. "There's visitors coming and going every day, as you know, sir," he said; "and without the name of the house 'tis impossible to find 'em." One of his comrades hastening out at that moment, the name was repeated to him. "I know no name of Durbeyfield; but there is the name of d'Urberville at The Herons," said the second. "That's it!" cried Clare, pleased to think that she has reverted to the real pronunciation. "What place is The Herons?" "A stylish lodging-house. 'Tis all lodging-houses here, bless 'ee." Clare received directions how to find the house, and hastened thither, arriving with the milkman. The Herons, though an ordinary villa, stood in its own grounds, and was certainly the last place in which one would have expected to find lodgings,


believe in God anymore. Apparently this change had been brewing in her mind for some time, but it was a surprise and an outrage to conventional Mr. Evans. Only after several weeks of family tension did Marian give in, reasoning with herself that, if she didn't believe in Christianity, it was no sin to go to church just to keep the peace. Rejecting Christianity was still a daring thing for a single woman to do in nineteenth-century England. It would ruin her marriage prospects, as well as her chances of obtaining a teaching job (teaching was one of the few careers open to women). Luckily, however, Marian's new friends introduced her to a circle of people who shared some of her unorthodox views. While most of the English still followed Queen Victoria in preserving the values of home, church, and empire, new ideas were beginning to sweep through England. Scientific discoveries were shattering established ideas about the natural world. (Charles Darwin's revolutionary On the Origin Of Species by Means of Natural Selection would be published in 1859.) Not only nature, but human social systems as well, were subjected to scientific analysis. Theories such as social Darwinism, rational humanism, and Marxism would eventually grow out of this. Philosophers were suggesting entirely new moral systems to go with the revolutionary scientific views. In place of an orderly universe ruled by God, justice, and the class system, these Victorians contemplated the possibility of a vast, bleak void where nothing but scientific principles applied. This was a heady environment for Marian Evans. Her new friends, impressed by her powerful mind, gave her a sense of self-worth. Eventually she was asked to translate a book, then to write reviews for intellectual journals. After her father died she moved to London and began to edit one such journal. In the thick of the literary scene, admired by famous people, she came into her own. Interesting men paid her attention; she had a couple of awkward romances. Then she fell in love with George Henry Lewes, a prominent journalist and critic--and a married man. Lewes fell in love with her, too, but under the laws of those days it was impossible for him to get a divorce, even though his wife was flagrantly unfaithful to him. Marian, gravely weighing all factors, decided to defy society and live with Lewes. This made Marian a figure of scandal in London. No "decent" ladies would receive her in their homes (though due to a cruel double standard Lewes was still invited). Only a few radical women and progressive men kept up friendships with Marian. Her family disowned her. In her isolation she depended on Lewes' loyal, protective love. They had decided not to have children (although she soon became a second mother to his sons). Shrewdly, Lewes realized that Marian needed something to engage her emotions as well as her immense intellect. He began to urge her to write fiction. Self-conscious, afraid of criticism or rejection, Marian wrote her first story, "Amos Barton," in 1856. Before she would send it to a


pink and cozy, like it had been taken out of a girl’s dollhouse. The revani was in the tall icebox in the corner, but the scent of semolina and lemon lingered in the room, making Io’s mouth water. Revani had been a rare treat in the Ora household, reserved for Winter’s Feast or their parents’ anniversary. Thais took Io’s hand and dragged her up the stairs, explaining how they had redecorated the bedroom and renovated the bathroom before moving in. Io’s senses bubbled down to that point of contact between them: her fingers in Thais’s, like when they were children, before everything changed. They were in the guest room when Io burst out, “Are you angry with me?” Thais paused in the middle of a sentence, something about the roof needing mending on this part of the house. She faced Io fully, with a serious frown. “Why would I be angry?” Why? Thais used to scatter her anger like a queen throwing coins from her chariot. Here, this is for you. Fall to your knees to grab it—aren’t I generous? And now she could find no reasons to be angry? An image of Rosa on that windowsill, puffing out smoke, came to Io’s mind: What we did to Thais. “You asked Ava not to tell me you were back,” Io said. Thais’s bare toes stretched on the carpet. “I thought you were angry at me. I was harsh with you before I left. I didn’t think you’d forgive me.” Was this . . . an apology? Io had never seen its like on Thais’s lips; she could hardly recognize the shape and timbre of it. It resonated in the arcane hollows of her heart, and from its thrum, a tender hope was born. Things could go back, to the very beginning, when she and Thais and Ava were one soul sharing three bodies, one breath in three chests. She said, her pardon as misshapen as Thais’s apology, “It was a hard time.” “And now?” Thais’s tone was expectant, pleading even. And now—gods, how Io’s heart melted. The two words were an olive branch, extended to mend the past and walk boldly into the future. “Now it’s better,” she replied breathlessly. Her sister squeezed Io’s fingers and pulled her down the stairs. Her voice was singsong, her face beaming. “Let’s make ourselves some coffee, shall we?” Coffee and revani, comfort and safety. Io imagined sitting down and just telling her sister everything: how she had finally met her fate-thread, and he was cute and funny and asked her to wait for him. How she had stood up to Bianca Rossi. How she had argued with Ava. How she had bargained with the Nine, at a terrible cost. Thais had always been good at calming her; perhaps, with Thais by her side, Io could be brave enough to actually think about that mystifying poem and what it might mean: The cutter, the unseen blade, the reaper of fates. They entered the kitchen, filled with the sweet scent of syrup. Io wanted to savor every


acting like a crowd of kids." The booing rose and died again as Piggy lifted the white, magic shell. "Which is better--to be a pack of painted Indians like you are, or to be sensible like Ralph is?" A great clamor rose among the savages. Piggy shouted again. "Which is better--to have rules and agree, or to hunt and kill?" Again the clamor and again--"Zup!" Ralph shouted against the noise. "Which is better, law and rescue, or hunting and breaking things up?" Now Jack was yelling too and Ralph could no longer make himself heard. Jack had backed right against the tribe and they were a solid mass of menace that bristled with spears. The intention of a charge was forming among them; they were working up to it and the neck would be swept clear. Ralph stood facing them, a little to one side, his spear ready. By him stood Piggy still holding out the talisman, the fragile, shining beauty of the shell. The storm of sound beat at them, an incantation of hatred. High overhead, Roger, with a sense of delirious abandonment, leaned all his weight on the lever. Ralph heard the great rock before he saw it. He was aware of a jolt in the earth that came to him through the soles of his feet, and the breaking sound of stones at the top of the cliff. Then the monstrous red thing bounded across the neck and he flung himself flat while the tribe shrieked. The rock struck Piggy a glancing blow from chin to knee; the conch exploded into a thousand white fragments and ceased to exist. Piggy, saying nothing, with no time for even a grunt, traveled through the air sideways from the rock, turning over as he went. The rock bounded twice and was lost in the forest. Piggy fell forty feet and landed on his back across the square red rock in the sea. His head opened and stuff came out and turned red. Piggy's arms and legs twitched a bit, like a pig's after it has been killed. Then the sea breathed again in a long, slow sigh, the water boiled white and pink over the rock; and when it went, sucking back again, the body of Piggy was gone. This time the silence was complete. Ralph's lips formed a word but no sound came. Suddenly Jack bounded out from the tribe and began screaming wildly. "See? See? That's what you'll get! I meant that! There isn't a tribe for you any more! The conch is gone--" He ran forward, stooping. "I'm chief!" Viciously, with full intention, he hurled his spear at Ralph. The point tore the skin and flesh over Ralph's ribs, then sheared off and fell in the water. Ralph stumbled, feeling not pain but panic, and the tribe, screaming now like the chief, began to advance. Another spear, a bent one that would not fly straight, went past his face and one fell from on high where Roger was. The twins lay hidden behind the tribe and the anonymous devils'


He found something grisly in the inevitability of the pattern of each affair. The conventional parabola - sentiment, the touch of the hand, the kiss, the passionate kiss, the feel of the body, the climax in the bed, then more bed, then less bed, then the boredom, the tears and the final bitterness - was to him shameful and hypocritical. Even more he shunned the mise en scne for each of these acts in the play - the meeting at a party, the restaurant, the taxi, his flat, her flat, then the week-end by the sea, then the flats again, then the furtive alibis and the final angry farewell on some doorstep in the rain. But with Vesper there could be none of this. In the dull room and the boredom of his treatment her presence was each day an oasis of pleasure, something to look forward to. In their talk there was nothing but companionship with a distant undertone of passion. In the background there was the unspoken zest of the promise which, in due course and in their own time, would be met. Over all there brooded the shadow of his injuries and the tantalus of their slow healing. Whether Bond liked it or not, the branch had already escaped his knife and was ready to burst into flower. With enjoyable steps Bond recovered. He was allowed up. Then he was allowed to sit in the garden. Then he could go for a short walk, then for a long drive. And then the afternoon came when the doctor appeared on a flying visit from Paris and pronounced him well again. His clothes were brought round by Vesper, farewells were exchanged with the nurses, and a hired car drove them away. It was three weeks from the day when he had been on the edge of death, and now it was July and the hot summer shimmered down the coast and out to sea. Bond clasped the moment to him. Their destination was to be a surprise for him. He had not wanted to go back to one of the big hotels in Royale and Vesper said she would find somewhere away from the town. But she insisted on being mysterious about it and only said that she had found a place he would like. He was happy to be in her hands, but he covered up his surrender by referring to their destination as 'Trou sur Mer' (she admitted it was by the sea), and lauding the rustic delights of outside lavatories, bed-bugs, and cockroaches. Their drive was spoiled by a curious incident. While they followed the coast road in the direction of Les Noctambules, Bond described to her his wild chase in the Bentley, finally pointing out the curve he had taken before the crash and the exact place where the vicious carpet of spikes had been laid. He slowed the car down and leant out to show her the deep cuts in the tarmac made by the rims of the wheels and the broken branches in the hedge


was right. I can’t breathe for loving you and loving you is the only way I can breathe.” She shot off the floor into his lap, where she belonged, planting kisses all over his face, which he was all too happy to sit back and receive, his mind still struggling to play catch-up. God, if you’re listening, please, please give me a century just like this. “I love you just as much, August Cates,” she said, finally, against his lips. “Despite the fights. Maybe even because of them. Because there is no one more worthy of battling for.” His wife, the love of his life, kissed him with tears in her eyes. And at last the world made sense. Epilogue Eight years later Over the course of eight years of marriage, Natalie had seen August mad plenty of times. They’d always been, and continued to be, hot-tempered individuals and they ran a successful winery together. Of course they argued. The beauty was in the forgiveness—and they did forgiveness really well. Whether they fought over temperature management of the wine or planting strategy, they didn’t stay mad long. One of them usually caved after five minutes of silent treatment. And she meant “caved” in the literal sense, because the wine cave was usually where they ended up engaging in frenzied apologies out of earshot of their employees. Yes, she’d seen August plenty mad. But never so mad as today, when he found out their daughter’s dance partner hadn’t shown up for a recital. “They’ve been practicing for five months and he doesn’t show up for the recital?” August started to pace, a handful of fingers shoving through his wind-blown hair, which now contained a dusting of gray at the temples. “How is she? Is she . . .” He waved his hands in a giant X. “Princess, don’t tell me she’s crying.” They were outside the school auditorium in a huge group. Natalie, August, Hallie, Julian, Corinne, and her new husband. August’s parents were there, too, having flown in from Kansas for the big night. Truth be told, it was hard to keep August’s parents out of Napa. They’d discovered a late-in-life passion for Cabernet and were now the proud owners of summer linens and straw hats, fitting in seamlessly with the locals. August’s mother referred to her stylish new attire as her “wine pants,” and Natalie adored the woman to no end. After all, she’d raised the love of Natalie’s life. A man who’d taken to parenting like he was born to be a girl dad. Which was a very good thing, because they had three. Parker, the oldest at seven. Parks for short. Elle, the youngest, at two. Both were currently home with a babysitter—the same home where August had carried Natalie over the threshold. They’d simply kept adding on rooms. The cat was still punishing them. Samantha, their middle girl, was a very serious five and a half—and tonight was her jazz recital. Her older sister, Parker, played sports. August dedicated a lot of time to coaching her teams. When


know then whether he wished to see her or dreaded it. Once he saw a back which reminded him of hers, and for a moment he thought it was she; it gave him a curious sensation: it was a strange sharp pain in his heart, there was fear in it and a sickening dismay; and when he hurried on and found that he was mistaken he did not know whether it was relief that he experienced or disappointment. At the beginning of August Philip passed his surgery, his last examination, and received his diploma. It was seven years since he had entered St. Luke's Hospital. He was nearly thirty. He walked down the stairs of the Royal College of Surgeons with the roll in his hand which qualified him to practice, and his heart beat with satisfaction. "Now I'm really going to begin life," he thought. Next day he went to the secretary's office to put his name down for one of the hospital appointments. The secretary was a pleasant little man with a black beard, whom Philip had always found very affable. He congratulated him on his success, and then said: "I suppose you wouldn't like to do a locum for a month on the South coast? Three guineas a week with board and lodging." "I wouldn't mind," said Philip. "It's at Farnley, in Dorsetshire. Doctor South. You'd have to go down at once; his assistant has developed mumps. I believe it's a very pleasant place." There was something in the secretary's manner that puzzled Philip. It was a little doubtful. "What's the crab in it?" he asked. The secretary hesitated a moment and laughed in a conciliating fashion. "Well, the fact is, I understand he's rather a crusty, funny old fellow. The agencies won't send him anyone any more. He speaks his mind very openly, and men don't like it." "But d'you think he'll be satisfied with a man who's only just qualified? After all I have no experience." "He ought to be glad to get you," said the secretary diplomatically. Philip thought for a moment. He had nothing to do for the next few weeks, and he was glad of the chance to earn a bit of money. He could put it aside for the holiday in Spain which he had promised himself when he had finished his appointment at St. Luke's or, if they would not give him anything there, at some other hospital. "All right. I'll go." "The only thing is, you must go this afternoon. Will that suit you? If so, I'll send a wire at once." Philip would have liked a few days to himself; but he had seen the Athelnys the night before (he had gone at Once to take them his good news) and there was really no reason why he should not start immediately. He had little luggage to pack. Soon after seven that evening he got out of the station at Farnley and took a cab to Doctor South's. It was a broad low stucco house, with a Virginia creeper growing


my people.” “Alice Parker is my sister.” “Lucky you.” “Winnie Smith is my oldest friend.” “So chuck the other old tart, if you must.” Mrs. Bone crunched her own pear drops. Mrs. King held her gaze. “I’m not chucking any of them, Mrs. Bone. We’re all equals in this. I’ve made that quite clear.” “I’m offering fair terms, my girl. You give me an advance against future earnings, and I put up the rest of the credit you need to get this thing moving. I mean properly moving.” “I thought you said the whole plan was a load of nonsense.” Mrs. Bone smiled, beadily. “It may well be, my dear. But that’s on you, not on me.” Mrs. King considered this. She could pay Mrs. Bone’s advance, of course. In cash, too, just as Mrs. Bone would expect. It equaled almost everything she had saved, in a whole lifetime at Park Lane. She didn’t have any more than that. No backstop, no surety beyond it, at all. But if this job failed, a loss of savings would be the least of her worries. Mrs. Bone never loaned capital without expectation of full repayment. The cost of a default was an unspeakable punishment, whatever the family connection. Mrs. King didn’t believe in God. Logic followed that she didn’t believe in the Devil, either. But she felt the presence of something then: a power greater and darker than her own. Her shadow loomed monstrously on the wall. She felt the presence of Mr. de Vries, his roar of laughter, lost in the air. “Deal,” she said. She’d decide how to make it work later. Mrs. Bone grimaced. “Not in here. I want it signed and witnessed. Two-sevenths, in black and white.” She rapped loudly on the counter. A door at the back of the shop opened. “Through there,” she said, scratching her nose. “My boys will take care of you.” Mrs. King looked through the door to the yard beyond. Those men weren’t the same as the ones in the street. They were heavier: older, denser and entirely impassive. They looked as if they were made of granite. They were carrying knives. The chap nearest the door was smoking a pipe. He stepped to one side, making way for her. She looked through the door and saw a small table. Pen and ink. A contract, crisply minted, ready to sign. The walls in the next room had no windows, no escape routes at all. Third move. Mrs. King took one last lemon sherbet for luck. It left powdered sugar all over her hand. She licked it off, eyes on Mrs. Bone. “All right,” she said. “I’ll finish up here. Back to the house you go.” Mrs. Bone was already adjusting her diabolical hat, racing for the door. “Ta-ta,” she said, and the bell clanged on the way out. Honor thy family, thought Mrs. King wryly, as she went to sign the contract. 14 Two weeks to go Lord Ashley was coming for tea. Miss de Vries had invited him to dinner, and Lockwood had


and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice. `Who are YOU?' said the Caterpillar. This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, `I--I hardly know, sir, just at present-- at least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.' `What do you mean by that?' said the Caterpillar sternly. `Explain yourself!' `I can't explain MYSELF, I'm afraid, sir' said Alice, `because I'm not myself, you see.' `I don't see,' said the Caterpillar. `I'm afraid I can't put it more clearly,' Alice replied very politely, `for I can't understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.' `It isn't,' said the Caterpillar. `Well, perhaps you haven't found it so yet,' said Alice; `but when you have to turn into a chrysalis--you will some day, you know--and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you'll feel it a little queer, won't you?' `Not a bit,' said the Caterpillar. `Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,' said Alice; `all I know is, it would feel very queer to ME.' `You!' said the Caterpillar contemptuously. `Who are YOU?' Which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation. Alice felt a little irritated at the Caterpillar's making such VERY short remarks, and she drew herself up and said, very gravely, `I think, you ought to tell me who YOU are, first.' `Why?' said the Caterpillar. Here was another puzzling question; and as Alice could not think of any good reason, and as the Caterpillar seemed to be in a VERY unpleasant state of mind, she turned away. `Come back!' the Caterpillar called after her. `I've something important to say!' This sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back again. `Keep your temper,' said the Caterpillar. `Is that all?' said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she could. `No,' said the Caterpillar. Alice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else to do, and perhaps after all it might tell her something worth hearing. For some minutes it puffed away without speaking, but at last it unfolded its arms, took the hookah out of its mouth again, and said, `So you think you're changed, do you?' `I'm afraid I am, sir,' said Alice; `I can't remember things as I used--and I don't keep the same size for ten minutes together!' `Can't remember WHAT things?' said the Caterpillar. `Well, I've tried to say "HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE," but it all came different!' Alice replied in a very melancholy voice. `Repeat, "YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM,"' said the Caterpillar. Alice folded her hands, and began:-- `You are old, Father William,' the young man said, `And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right?' `In my youth,' Father William replied to his son, `I feared it might injure the brain; But, now that I'm perfectly sure


sun. “Er, yeah. Hi, sir.” “Well then,” he booms in a Shakespearean voice that doesn’t match his bony frame. “Come in, come in, don’t delay! Sit down, and let’s get started.” Mr. Taylor’s a great guy, so I would love to do as he asks. But the only open seat is right next to Celine. CHAPTER TWO CELINE If I’m going to study law at Cambridge next year (which I definitely am), I need at least an A in Philosophy. That’s the only reason I don’t climb out of Mr. Taylor’s window when I see Bradley standing in the doorway. He looks at me and visibly winces, like I’m dog poo or something. His mate Donno, who is deeply annoying but usually easy to ignore (much like a gnat), snickers from across the room. “Bad luck, Bradders.” My cheeks heat. With the burning hellfire of rage, obviously. People like them—“popular” people who think sports and looks and external approval are a valid replacement for actual personality—ironically don’t have the social skills to deal with anyone outside their golden circle. I should know. Once upon a time, back when I was young and clearly going through some stuff because my decision-making matrix was severely off, I used to be best friends with Bradley Graeme. Then he threw himself headfirst into the gelatinous beast that is popularity and was sucked away and transformed. Now he might as well be a slimy, shiny alien. I look him in the eye and let him see all my disdain. Bradley discovers the tiniest fragment of a spine somewhere within himself, storms over, and sits down next to me. Actually, he throws himself resentfully into the seat and smacks me in the face with his deodorant. Or his aftershave. Or whatever it is that makes him smell so strongly of just-cut grass. School chairs aren’t wide enough to cope with my thighs, and he manspreads like a walking stereotype, so our legs bump for a literally sickening second before I snatch mine away. “Celine,” Sonam whispers, leaning into my left side. “Stop looking at him like that.” “Like what?” I whisper back, but I already know what she means. I have this small problem where my feelings leak out of my face, and my feelings are often intense. “If he turns up dead tomorrow, you’re going to be arrested.” Considering Sonam’s permanently solemn expression, black-on-black fit, and the way her lanky limbs barely fit under the table, this is like receiving an ominous tarot reading from a goth spider. “You guys are crap at whispering,” Bradley butts in, “just so you know.” I jerk in my seat, appalled that he would have the gall to speak to me so casually. For God’s sake, we are enemies. There are rules to this sort of thing. He’s not supposed to address me unless he’s calling me a know-it-all or challenging me to a duel. “Don’t blame me,” Sonam murmurs back. “It’s Little Miss Lungs over here.” My jaw drops. “What is this betrayal?” Bradley grins and ignores me completely. “Hey,


as she said, in her earnest yet timid way . . . "Oh sir, they do care, very very much!" "Are you the musical girl?" he asked, without any startling "Hey!" as he looked down at her very kindly. "I'm Beth. I love it dearly, and I'll come, if you are quite sure nobody will hear me, and be disturbed," she added, fearing to be rude, and trembling at her own boldness as she spoke. "Not a soul, my dear. The house is empty half the day, so come and drum away as much as you like, and I shall be obliged to you." "How kind you are, sir!" Beth blushed like a rose under the friendly look he wore, but she was not frightened now, and gave the hand a grateful squeeze because she had no words to thank him for the precious gift he had given her. The old gentleman softly stroked the hair off her forehead, and, stooping down, he kissed herr, saying, in a tone few people ever heard . . . "I had a little girl once, with eyes like these. God bless you, my dear! Good day. madam." And away he went, in a great hurry. Beth had a rapture with her mother, and then rushed up to impart the glorious news to her family of invalids, as the girls were not home. How blithely she sang that evening, and how they all laughed at her because she woke Amy in the night by playing the piano on her face in her sleep. Next day, having seen both the old and young gentleman out of the house, Beth, after two or three retreats, fairly got in at the side door, and made her way as noiselessly as any mouse to the drawing room where her idol stood. Quite by accident, of course, some pretty, easy music lay on the piano, and with trembling fingers and frequent stops to listen and look about, Beth at last touched the great instrument, and straightway forgot her fear, herself, and everything else but the unspeakable delight which the music gave her, for it was like the voice of a beloved friend. She stayed till Hannah came to take her home to dinner, but she had no appetite,and could only sit and smile upon everyone in a general state of beatitude. After that, the little brown hood slipped through the hedge nearly every day, and the great drawing room was haunted by a tuneful spirit that came and went unseen. She never knew that Mr. Laurence opened his study door to hear the old-fashioned airs he liked. She never saw Laurie mount guard in the hall to warn the servants away. She never suspected that the exercise books and new songs which she found in the rack were put there for her especial benefit, and when he talked to her about music at home, she only thought how kind he was to tell things that helped her so much. So she enjoyed herself heartily, and found, what isn't always the case,


“Have you ever been to Paris?” Lenora curls her hand into a loose fist and gives my palm a single, sad tap. “Same here,” I say. “Was the snow globe a gift from someone who was?” Two taps this time. “Your parents?” Another two taps. “Do you miss them?” Lenora thinks about it. Not for very long. Just enough for me to notice the pause. Then she taps twice against my palm. “And your sister?” I say. “Do you miss her, too?” I get a single tap this time. One so adamant it stings my hand. No. A troubling answer, accompanied by a more troubling thought—Lenora used this hand when she killed her sister. With a rope. And her father With a knife. And her mother. That happy life. Knowing that the hand I’m holding did all those horrible things makes me let go of it with a gasp. Lenora’s hand plops into her lap, prompting a sharp look, part surprised and part hurt. But soon her expression changes into something more aware, almost amused. She knows what I was thinking. Because I’m not the first caregiver to think such things. Others have, too. Some might have also dropped her hand like a hot potato immediately after. Even Mary. Like me, they probably also wondered not just how Lenora killed her family, but why. That’s the big mystery, after all. There must be a reason. No one slaughters their entire family without motive. No one sane, that is. I look at Lenora, wondering if beneath her silence and stillness madness churns. It doesn’t seem that way, especially when Lenora stares back. I sense a keen intelligence at work behind those green eyes as she moves them from me to the typewriter at the desk. The look is urgent. Almost as if she’s trying to tell me something. “You want to use that?” I ask. Lenora taps twice. “Mary showed you how?” Another two taps. Emphatic ones that echo through the room. Even so, I have my doubts. It seems impossible that someone in Lenora’s condition could use it, even with assistance. I was fired from a typing pool. I know how hard those machines can be for someone who has the use of both hands. Still, I wheel Lenora to the desk and place her left hand on the keyboard. She’s changed subtly now that we’re alone at the typewriter. Brighter and more alert, her fingers slide over the keys, as if she’s carefully deciding which to press first. Settling on one, she uses her index finger to push down with all her might. A typebar springs from the machine and strikes the paper with a loud thwack. Lenora beams. She’s enjoying this. After pressing eight more keys, including the space bar, she exhales, satisfied. Because she can’t do it herself, it’s up to me to tap the return bar, bringing the carriage back to its starting position. The motion inches the page up a line, letting me see what she just typed. hello kit I smile despite my nervousness. “Hello.” Lenora


was interested in the sentiment it spoke. St. Aubert was refreshed by the shades, and they continued to saunter under them, following, as nearly as they could guess, the direction of the road, till they perceived that they had totally lost it. They had continued near the brow of the precipice, allured by the scenery it exhibited, while the road wound far away over the cliff above. Valancourt called loudly to Michael, but heard no voice, except his own, echoing among the rocks, and his various efforts to regain the road were equally unsuccessful. While they were thus circumstanced, they perceived a shepherd's cabin, between the boles of the trees at some distance, and Valancourt bounded on first to ask assistance. When he reached it, he saw only two little children, at play, on the turf before the door. He looked into the hut, but no person was there, and the eldest of the boys told him that their father was with his flocks, and their mother was gone down into the vale, but would be back presently. As he stood, considering what was further to be done, on a sudden he heard Michael's voice roaring forth most manfully among the cliffs above, till he made their echoes ring. Valancourt immediately answered the call, and endeavoured to make his way through the thicket that clothed the steeps, following the direction of the sound. After much struggle over brambles and precipices, he reached Michael, and at length prevailed with him to be silent, and to listen to him. The road was at a considerable distance from the spot where St. Aubert and Emily were; the carriage could not easily return to the entrance of the wood, and, since it would be very fatiguing for St. Aubert to climb the long and steep road to the place where it now stood, Valancourt was anxious to find a more easy ascent, by the way he had himself passed. Meanwhile St. Aubert and Emily approached the cottage, and rested themselves on a rustic bench, fastened between two pines, which overshadowed it, till Valancourt, whose steps they had observed, should return. The eldest of the children desisted from his play, and stood still to observe the strangers, while the younger continued his little gambols, and teased his brother to join in them. St. Aubert looked with pleasure upon this picture of infantine simplicity, till it brought to his remembrance his own boys, whom he had lost about the age of these, and their lamented mother; and he sunk into a thoughtfulness, which Emily observing, she immediately began to sing one of those simple and lively airs he was so fond of, and which she knew how to give with the most captivating sweetness. St. Aubert smiled on her through his tears, took her hand and pressed it affectionately, and then tried to dissipate the melancholy reflections that lingered in his mind. While she sung, Valancourt approached, who was unwilling to interrupt her, and paused at a little distance to listen. When she had concluded, he joined the


"No; I don't think so." "My dear Harry, why?" "I will tell you some other time. Now I want to know about the girl." "Sibyl? Oh, she was so shy, and so gentle. There is something of a child about her. Her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when I told her what I thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconscious of her power. I think we were both rather nervous. The old Jew stood grinning at the door-way of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate speeches about us both, while we stood looking at each other like children. He would insist on calling me 'My Lord,' so I had to assure Sibyl that I was not anything of the kind. She said quite simply to me, 'You look more like a prince.'" "Upon my word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how to pay compliments." "You don't understand her, Harry. She regarded me merely as a person in a play. She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother, a faded tired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta dressing-wrapper on the first night, and who looks as if she had seen better days." "I know that look. It always depresses me." "The Jew wanted to tell me her history, but I said it did not interest me." "You were quite right. There is always something infinitely mean about other people's tragedies." "Sibyl is the only thing I care about. What is it to me where she came from? From her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and entirely divine. I go to see her act every night of my life, and every night she is more marvellous." "That is the reason, I suppose, that you will never dine with me now. I thought you must have some curious romance on hand. You have; but it is not quite what I expected." "My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I have been to the Opera with you several times." "You always come dreadfully late." "Well, I can't help going to see Sibyl play, even if it is only for an act. I get hungry for her presence; and when I think of the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, I am filled with awe." "You can dine with me to-night, Dorian, can't you?" He shook his head. "To night she is Imogen," he answered, "and tomorrow night she will be Juliet." "When is she Sibyl Vane?" "Never." "I congratulate you." "How horrid you are! She is all the great heroines of the world in one. She is more than an individual. You laugh, but I tell you she has genius. I love her, and I must make her love me. You, who know all the secrets of life, tell me how to charm Sibyl Vane to love me! I want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the [29] world to hear our laughter, and grow sad. I want a breath of


bell on the tree?” My head says yes. “Christian, you must tell me when you’re hungry. You can do that. You can take Mommy’s hand and lead Mommy to the kitchen and point.” She points her long finger at me. Her nail is shiny and pink. It is pretty. But I don’t know if my new mommy is mad or not. I have finished all my dinner. Macaroni and cheese. It tastes good. “I don’t want you to be hungry, darling. Okay? Now would you like some ice cream?” My head says yes! Mommy smiles at me. I like her smiles. They are better than macaroni and cheese. 527/551 The tree is pretty. I stand and look at it and hug my blankie. The lights twinkle and are all different colors, and the orn-a-ments are all different colors. I like the blue ones. And on the top of the tree is a big star. Daddy held Lelliot up, and Lelliot put the star on the tree. Lelliot likes putting the star on the tree. I want to put the star on the tree . . . but I don’t want Daddy to hold me up high. I don’t want him to hold me. The star is sparkly and bright. Beside the tree is the piano. My new mommy lets me touch the black and the white on the piano. Black and white. I like the white sounds. The black sound is wrong. But I like the black sound, too. I go white to black. White to black. Black to white. White, white, white, white. Black, black, black, black. I like the sound. I like the sound a lot. “Do you want me to play for you, Christian?” My new mommy sits down. She touches the white and the black, and the songs come. She presses the pedals underneath. Sometimes it’s loud and some- times it’s quiet. The song is happy. Lelliot likes Mommy to sing, too. Mommy sings about an ugly duckling. Mommy makes a funny quacking noise. Lelliot makes the funny quacking noise, and he makes his arms like wings and flaps them up and down like a bird. Lelliot is funny. Mommy laughs. Lelliot laughs. I laugh. “You like this song, Christian?” And Mommy has her sad-happy face. I have a stock-ing. It is red and it has a picture of a man with a red hat and a big white beard. He is Santa. Santa brings presents. I have seen pictures of Santa. But Santa never brought me presents before. I was bad. Santa doesn’t bring presents to boys who are bad. Now I am good. My new mommy says I am good, very good. New Mommy doesn’t know. I must never tell New Mommy . . . but I am bad. I don’t want New Mommy to know that. Daddy hangs the stock-ing over the fireplace. Lelliot has a stocking, too. Lelliot can read the word on his stock-ing. It says Lelliot. There is a word on my stock- ing. Christian. New Mommy spells it out. C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N. 528/551


cousin from within the safe nest of her bedding. She still had a dry cough, and her skull felt too small for what was inside it. She must hide the earth sickness at court. Not for one moment could she appear weak. Several guards had accompanied her through the city gate. Now they continued along the Avenue of the Dawn, where fifty thousand people had gathered to see the lost Princess of Seiiki. Drums beat out her approach. Fascinated faces jostled for a look at hers. For the first time in days, she was glad she could no longer see Mount Ipyeda, though its presence was like a cold wind at her back. She could not look towards it. Only ahead. Yet how could she help but think of her mother, who had lived here as a child? Unora had slept in one of these mansions, played under the willow trees that leaned over the cart. The rooftops of Antuma had been painted every colour imaginable; from above, the city was one great rainbow. As for the palace, it was larger than Dumai had ever imagined. When she reached it, she would meet her sister, Princess Suzumai, the child she would eventually usurp. Treading with care, Emperor Jorodu meant to confirm Dumai as his heir only after three years. During those years, she would need to prove herself worthy of the throne, so the Kuposa could raise no objection. She would receive a rigorous education in politics and law. You will have to learn to be an empress, Lady Taporo had told her, in a very short amount of time. It will not be easy. The cart rolled, the drums thundered, and at last, the people of Antuma fell away, unable to follow her any farther. Dumai shut her eyes, her skin clammy. Great Kwiriki, please, let me not disgrace myself. The clay wall of the palace loomed. So did its western gate. Over it, rooftops sloped towards the ground, silver glistening in their gables. Dumai kept her eyes closed as her cart went across the moat. At last, they stopped. Courtiers and officials waited in a grand courtyard, their hair moulded into seashells, servants hovering close. In unison, they bowed. Her father stood in robes like hers. His crown was a tower of coral and cowries, fronted with two silver dragons, a fist-sized dancing pearl between them. Dumai went to her knees in front of the steps, on the mat that had been laid there. ‘Daughter,’ her father said, loud and clear. ‘Welcome to Antuma Palace. Your new home.’ ‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’ He came to her and helped her stand. Dumai looked up at him, so tired she thought she might sink through the ground. ‘I have you.’ He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. ‘Lift your face. Let them see.’ His kindness was a comfort. She did as he asked as he led her up the steps, into the largest building she had ever beheld, with ornate gables and a roof thatched with water reed. Inside


dog, for he was strong and powerful. He soon had the map in his mouth and was swimming back to the boat. The children thought he was simply marvellous! George hauled him into the boat and took the map from his mouth. There was hardly the mark of his teeth on it! He had carried it so carefully. It was wet, and the children looked anxiously at it to see if the tracing had been spoilt. But Julian had traced it very strongly, and it was quite all right. He placed it on a seat to dry, and told Dick to hold it there in the sun. "That was a narrow squeak!" he said, and the others agreed. George took the oars again, and they set off once more to the island, getting a perfect shower-bath from Timothy when he stood up and shook his wet coat. He was given a big biscuit as a reward, and crunched it up with great enjoyment. George made her way through the reefs of rocks with a sure hand. It was marvellous to the others how she could slide the boat in between the dangerous rocks and never get a scratch. They thought she was really wonderful. She brought them safely to the little inlet, and they jumped out on to the sand. They pulled the boat high up, in case the tide came far up the tiny cove, and then began to unload their goods. "We'll carry all the things to that little stone room," said Julian. "They will be safe there and won't get wet if it rains. I hope nobody comes to the island while we are here, George." "I shouldn't think they would," said George. "Father said it would be about a week before the deeds were signed, making over the island to that man. It won't be his till then. We've got a week, anyhow." "Well, we don't need to keep a watch in case anyone else arrives then," said Julian, who had half thought that it would be a good idea to make someone stay on guard at the inlet, to give a warning to the others in case anyone else arrived. "Come on! You take the spades, Dick. I'll take the food and drink with George. And Anne can take the little things." The food and drink were in a big box, for the children did not mean to starve while they were on the island! They had brought loaves of bread, butter, biscuits, jam, tins of fruit, ripe plums, bottles of ginger-beer, a kettle to make tea, and anything else they could think of! George and Julian staggered up the cliff with the heavy box. They had to put it down once or twice to give themselves a rest! They put everything into the little room. Then they went back to get the collection of blankets and rugs from the boat. They arranged them in the corners of the little room, and thought that it would be most exciting to spend the night there. "The two girls


and uncertainty until the women, being committed for trial, went flaunting out; and then was quickly relieved by the appearance of another prisoner who he felt at once could be no other than the object of his visit. It was indeed Mr. Dawkins, who, shuffling into the office with the big coat sleeves tucked up as usual, his left hand in his pocket, and his hat in his right hand, preceded the jailer, with a rolling gait altogether indescribable, and, taking his place in the dock, requested in an audible voice to know what he was placed in that 'ere disgraceful sitivation for. 'Hold your tongue, will you?' said the jailer. 'I'm an Englishman, ain't I?' rejoined the Dodger. 'Where are my priwileges?' 'You'll get your privileges soon enough,' retorted the jailer, 'and pepper with 'em.' 'We'll see wot the Secretary of State for the Home Affairs has got to say to the beaks, if I don't,' replied Mr. Dawkins. 'Now then! Wot is this here business? I shall thank the madg'strates to dispose of this here little affair, and not to keep me while they read the paper, for I've got an appointment with a genelman in the City, and as I am a man of my word and wery punctual in business matters, he'll go away if I ain't there to my time, and then pr'aps ther won't be an action for damage against them as kep me away. Oh no, certainly not!' At this point, the Dodger, with a show of being very particular with a view to proceedings to be had thereafter, desired the jailer to communicate 'the names of them two files as was on the bench.' Which so tickled the spectators, that they laughed almost as heartily as Master Bates could have done if he had heard the request. 'Silence there!' cried the jailer. 'What is this?' inquired one of the magistrates. 'A pick-pocketing case, your worship.' 'Has the boy ever been here before?' 'He ought to have been, a many times,' replied the jailer. 'He has been pretty well everywhere else. _I_ know him well, your worship.' 'Oh! you know me, do you?' cried the Artful, making a note of the statement. 'Wery good. That's a case of deformation of character, any way.' Here there was another laugh, and another cry of silence. 'Now then, where are the witnesses?' said the clerk. 'Ah! that's right,' added the Dodger. 'Where are they? I should like to see 'em.' This wish was immediately gratified, for a policeman stepped forward who had seen the prisoner attempt the pocket of an unknown gentleman in a crowd, and indeed take a handkerchief therefrom, which, being a very old one, he deliberately put back again, after trying in on his own countenance. For this reason, he took the Dodger into custody as soon as he could get near him, and the said Dodger, being searched, had upon his person a silver snuff-box, with the owner's name engraved upon the lid. This gentleman had been discovered on reference to the Court Guide,


a dozen times from Serpentine-mews, and knew all about him. When I had listened to all they had to tell, I began to walk up and down near Briony Lodge once more, and to think over my plan of campaign. "This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the matter. He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the relation between them, and what the object of his repeated visits? Was she his client, his friend, or his mistress? If the former, she had probably transferred the photograph to his keeping. If the latter, it was less likely. On the issue of this question depended whether I should continue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn my attention to the gentleman's chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate point. and it widened the field of my inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these details, but I have to let you see my little difficulties, if you are to understand the situation." "I am following you closely," I answered. "I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom cab drove up to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was a remarkably handsome man, dark, aquiline, and moustached-- evidently the man of whom I had heard. He appeared to be in a great hurry, shouted to the cabman to wait, and brushed past the maid who opened the door with the air of a man who was thoroughly at home. "He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch glimpses of him in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and down, talking excitedly, and waving his arms. Of her I could see nothing. Presently he emerged, looking even more flurried than before. As he stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and looked at it earnestly, 'Drive like the devil,' he shouted, 'first to Gross & Hankey's in Regent Street, and then to the Church of St. Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if you do it in twenty minutes!' "Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not do well to follow them when up the lane came a neat little landau, the coachman with his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie under his ear, while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of the buckles. It hadn't pulled up before she shot out of the hall door and into it. I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment, but she was a lovely woman, with a face that a man might die for. "'The Church of St. Monica, John,' she cried, 'and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.' "This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just balancing whether I should run for it, or whether I should perch behind her landau when a cab came through the street. The driver looked twice at such a shabby fare, but I jumped in before he could object.


with the watermark stylus. Taking a deep breath, Sophie hurried down to the well-lit crime scene. Unable to look at her grandfather, she focused solely on the PTS tools. Finding a small ultraviolet penlight, she slipped it in the pocket of her sweater and hurried back up the hallway toward the open doors of the Salle des Etats. Sophie turned the corner and stepped over the threshold. Her entrance, however, was met by an unexpected sound of muffled footsteps racing toward her from inside the chamber. There's someone in here! A ghostly figure emerged suddenly from out of the reddish haze. Sophie jumped back. "There you are!" Langdon's hoarse whisper cut the air as his silhouette slid to a stop in front of her. Her relief was only momentary. "Robert, I told you to get out of here! If Fache-" "Where were you?" "I had to get the black light," she whispered, holding it up. "If my grandfather left me a message-" "Sophie, listen." Langdon caught his breath as his blue eyes held her firmly. "The letters P.S.... do they mean anything else to you? Anything at all?" Afraid their voices might echo down the hall, Sophie pulled him into the Salle des Etats and closed the enormous twin doors silently, sealing them inside. "I told you, the initials mean Princess Sophie." "I know, but did you ever see them anywhere else? Did your grandfather ever use P.S. in any other way? As a monogram, or maybe on stationery or a personal item?" The question startled her. How would Robert know that? Sophie had indeed seen the initials P.S. once before, in a kind of monogram. It was the day before her ninth birthday. She was secretly combing the house, searching for hidden birthday presents. Even then, she could not bear secrets kept from her. What did Grand-pre get for me this year? She 74 dug through cupboards and drawers. Did he get me the doll I wanted? Where would he hide it? Finding nothing in the entire house, Sophie mustered the courage to sneak into her grandfather's bedroom. The room was off-limits to her, but her grandfather was downstairs asleep on the couch. I'll just take a fast peek! Tiptoeing across the creaky wood floor to his closet, Sophie peered on the shelves behind his clothing. Nothing. Next she looked under the bed. Still nothing. Moving to his bureau, she opened the drawers and one by one began pawing carefully through them. There must be something for me here! As she reached the bottom drawer, she still had not found any hint of a doll. Dejected, she opened the final drawer and pulled aside some black clothes she had never seen him wear. She was about to close the drawer when her eyes caught a glint of gold in the back of the drawer. It looked like a pocket watch chain, but she knew he didn't wear one. Her heart raced as she realized what it must be. A necklace! Sophie carefully pulled the chain from the drawer. To her surprise,


asking Mario, I’m asking you.” “I don’t want to be stuck here from the crack of dawn until midnight because you forgot to hire a person who can hold a boom mike in the right position.” “Don’t do this to me. I’ve got hundreds of units due at Videocentro and can’t run the duplicates if the master is a mess. Don’t you get overtime for this stuff? Must be a hefty check.” “I wish,” she said. Though there was the yearly discretionary bonus. The full-timers got the aguinaldo mandated by the law, but freelancers like Montserrat couldn’t count on that. They had to rely on the gratitude of their employers. At Antares, Mario gave his editors a turkey, a bottle of cheap whiskey, and a Christmas bonus. It was never a generous bonus—it shrank or expanded at whim—this despite the fact she was by far the best sound editor at Antares. She was also the only woman on the Antares team, aside from the receptionist, which was probably why she never became a full-timer, never had the right to an aguinaldo, and instead had to rely on Mario’s mercurial temper: the editing business was a boys’ club. There were a few women working at studios writing the scripts that were used for subtitling and dubbing. There were also female translators, though those were often freelancers who were contracted for single projects. But full-time female sound editors? Those were as rare as unicorns. “Look, I have to meet someone for lunch,” Montserrat said, grabbing her leather jacket from the hook by the door and slipping it on. “Why don’t you talk to Mario and we’ll see what he says? I’d love to help, but he was raging about an unpaid dubbing—” “Come on, guys, I always pay even if I’m a few days late. As soon as I offload those videos I’ll be golden, I swear.” Montserrat didn’t know how true that was. Paco had scored a modest hit with an Exorcist rip-off a few years before. Mexican horror movies were scarce these days. Paco had reaped the benefits of a nascent home video market a few years back. But he wasn’t doing well anymore. Four years before, René Cardona III had tried the same concept: shooting a low-budget horror copy of a hot American film with Vacaciones de Terror. Although Vacaciones was a blatant attempt at mixing Child’s Play with Amityville, the film had one semi-famous star in the form of Pedro Fernández, whose singing career had assured at least a few butts in seats. Vacaciones de Terror and its obligatory sequel had performed decently, but the market for local horror productions wasn’t substantial enough to support two filmmakers intent on churning out scary flicks, and Paco didn’t have a singer to put on the marquee. Not that there was a market to produce anything with a semi-decent budget at this point. The best that most people could hope for were exploitation flicks like Lola La Trailera. Paco was, if anything, a little better off than most Mexican filmmakers, since he’d managed


we head out, walking past my latest conspiracy theory. Bradley Graeme is sitting at Top Table, as always. And he’s flawless, as always, with his twists shining and his clothes immaculate but effortless, and an adorable (objectively speaking, I mean) furrow between his eyebrows as he highlights the crap out of what appears to be a history textbook. Since we got back to school, we’ve barely spoken because I no longer know how to speak to him. I should be desperate to prove my who-is-Bradley-really theory, but I’m not sure which outcome I want. If he’s always been the best friend I remember, that means— But if the way we were during the Sherwood expedition wasn’t real— My stomach churns. So that’s us these days: near-silent. No arguments in Philosophy, no bitchy comments in the halls. You’d think we were ignoring each other, but whenever our eyes meet, he gives me this tiny, tentative smile and says: “Hey.” And I reply, helplessly, “Hey.” And then we lapse into a silence I don’t know what to do with. Which is why I’ve decided to just focus on school. Unfortunately, Minnie has followed my gaze and there’s a speculative gleam in her glitter-adorned eyes. “Are you ever going to tell me how the forest thingy went?” “I did tell you,” I say firmly. I told her it was fine. “Are you ever going to tell me why you’ve been texting Jordan Cooper all day?” She smiles sunnily, her earlier mood evaporated. “Well, he’s in my English class. And since his best friend’s been acting weird and my best friend’s been acting weird…” “Brad’s acting weird?” “Brad, is it?” she repeats, pouncing like a panther in sparkly Doc Martens. “I see. Fighting off bears in the woods must forge a powerful bond.” “There are no bears in England, Michaela.” “Then what’s with the nickname?” she asks. “Bears,” I confirm. “There were so many bears. We were inundated.” “Yeah,” she says dryly. “I bet.” I clutch the straps of my rucksack tight as we pass slowly by Top Table. I don’t care if Brad says anything. I mean, I don’t mind if he does, but if he doesn’t, it’s really no skin off— He looks up from his textbook. “Hey, Cel.” If I smile, the way he does so naturally, people might infer something pathetic and needy that screams ABANDONED EX–BEST FRIEND DESPERATE TO BE REINSTATED, which is honestly light-years from the truth. I have a best friend and I love her. The way I was with Brad back then…I don’t want it back. But I don’t want to brush him off, either, so I nod and reply, “Hey, Brad.” Unfortunately, he’s not at his table alone. The popular crowd is largely present and accounted for, from Jordan Cooper to Max Kill-Me-Now Donovan. He sits at the head of the table like a king, one overbearing arm around Isabella Hollis’s slender shoulders. When Brad talks to me, Donno’s colorless lizard eyes narrow. He lets go of Brad’s ex-girlfriend, turns in his seat, and says with a


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

the garden. The way he puts his whole self into whatever he does and lets himself be emotional when he talks about his daughter. Connor Prince III should be awarded a gold medal in the Active Listening event at the Romance Olympics. It’s hard to believe I looked at him months ago and saw a plastic hero archetype. He’s no longer Hot Millionaire Executive or Hot Brit or Soft Lumberjack or even DILF… he’s just Connor. How did I once find him boring and unpleasant and cliché? Now I’m struggling to not think of him as soulmate material. And it’s good that I’m succeeding, because by the time I reach him, he’s standing with one of Peter’s high school friends, a petite blonde named—I kid you not—Ashley Simpson. When I say Ashley is hanging on Connor’s arm, I mean this: imagine a giant rock, and then imagine a barnacle. I like Ashley well enough—even though she toyed with Peter’s heart for years when he believed looks were more important than brains, and then chased him relentlessly once he figured out that brains were more important than looks—but I step up behind them right as she asks Connor if she can steal him away for the first dance, and my gut fills with a shimmering, violent heat. I jerk to a stop. He hasn’t seen me. He should accept. I won’t like it, but it would be a good way out of this weird, inappropriate, untenable thing we have going on. I’m supposed to like Isaac or Dax or Nick. (Maybe Jude. I think we can all agree Evan isn’t it. But Connor is definitely not it.) But then Connor says only a gentle “Sorry, tonight these dancing feet belong to Fizzy,” and my heart takes a gasping, free-falling tumble into my stomach. At Jess’s bachelorette party, we were doing the drunk yet predictable swoon over all the big and small ways River is perfect for her. Given that everyone else was married, inevitably the topic turned to me, and the disaster of my love affair with Rob. The group was small—only about six of us—but everyone fell into overlapping reassurance that I’m amazing, that I deserve the best man alive, that whoever this magical human is, he’s still out there for me. I didn’t believe it at the time, and despite doing this show, I’m not sure I totally believe it now. In the past couple of decades, I’ve dated a lot. I always assumed I wasn’t picky; I liked to brag that I didn’t have a type. I’ve had a thousand awesome first dates, and a handful of fun second dates. And then, that’s it. I’m attracted to a lot of people, but rarely do emotions get involved. In hindsight, my feelings for Rob benefitted from standing in the residual glow of Jess and River. But truthfully, the relationship was embarrassingly superficial. I didn’t know anything about his life (obviously), and he certainly never made me feel like this. Oh shit, that’s not bad. I open my clutch for my notebook


filled with shock and surprise. He had been suddenly jerked from the heart of civilization and flung into the heart of things primordial. No lazy, sun-kissed life was this, with nothing to do but loaf and be bored. Here was neither peace, nor rest, nor a moment's safety. All was confusion and action, and every moment life and limb were in peril. There was imperative need to be constantly alert; for these dogs and men were not town dogs and men. They were savages, all of them, who knew no law but the law of club and fang. He had never seen dogs fight as these wolfish creatures fought, and his first experience taught him an unforgetable lesson. It is true, it was a vicarious experience, else he would not have lived to profit by it. Curly was the victim. They were camped near the log store, where she, in her friendly way, made advances to a husky dog the size of a full-grown wolf, though not half so large as she. There was no warning, only a leap in like a flash, a metallic clip of teeth, a leap out equally swift, and Curly's face was ripped open from eye to jaw. It was the wolf manner of fighting, to strike and leap away; but there was more to it than this. Thirty or forty huskies ran to the spot and surrounded the combatants in an intent and silent circle. Buck did not comprehend that silent intentness, nor the eager way with which they were licking their chops. Curly rushed her antagonist, who struck again and leaped aside. He met her next rush with his chest, in a peculiar fashion that tumbled her off her feet. She never regained them, This was what the onlooking huskies had waited for. They closed in upon her, snarling and yelping, and she was buried, screaming with agony, beneath the bristling mass of bodies. So sudden was it, and so unexpected, that Buck was taken aback. He saw Spitz run out his scarlet tongue in a way he had of laughing; and he saw Francois, swinging an axe, spring into the mess of dogs. Three men with clubs were helping him to scatter them. It did not take long. Two minutes from the time Curly went down, the last of her assailants were clubbed off. But she lay there limp and lifeless in the bloody, trampled snow, almost literally torn to pieces, the swart half-breed standing over her and cursing horribly. The scene often came back to Buck to trouble him in his sleep. So that was the way. No fair play. Once down, that was the end of you. Well, he would see to it that he never went down. Spitz ran out his tongue and laughed again, and from that moment Buck hated him with a bitter and deathless hatred. Before he had recovered from the shock caused by the tragic passing of Curly, he received another shock. Francois fastened upon him an arrangement of straps and buckles. It was a harness, such


command," Stilgar said, and reluctance was heavy in his tone as he turned to obey. Communications men hurried into the room with their equipment, began setting up near the massive fireplace. The Fremen guard that augmented the surviving Fedaykin took up stations around the room. There was muttering among them, much darting of suspicious glances. This had been too long a place of the enemy for them to accept their presence in it casually. "Gurney, have an escort bring my mother and Chani," Paul said. "Does Chani know yet about our son?" "The message was sent, m'Lord." "Are the makers being taken out of the basin yet?" "Yes, m'Lord. The storm's almost spent." "What's the extent of the storm damage?" Paul asked. "In the direct path -- on the landing field and across the spice storage yards of the plain -- extensive damage," Gurney said. "As much from battle as from the storm." "Nothing money won't repair, I presume," Paul said. "Except for the lives, m'Lord," Gurney said, and there was a tone of reproach in his voice as though to say: "When did an Atreides worry first about things when people were at stake?" But Paul could only focus his attention on the inner eye and the gaps visible to him in the time-wall that still lay across his path. Through each gap the jihad raged away down the corridors of the future. He sighed, crossed the hall, seeing a chair against the wall. The chair had once stood in the dining hall and might even have held his own father. At the moment, though, it was only an object to rest his weariness and conceal it from the men. He sat down, pulling his robes around his legs, loosening his stillsuit at the neck. "The Emperor is still holed up in the remains of his ship," Gurney said. "For now, contain him there," Paul said. "Have they found the Harkonnens yet?" "They're still examining the dead." "What reply from the ships up there?" He jerked his chin toward the ceiling. "No reply yet, m'Lord." Paul sighed, resting against the back of his chair. Presently, he said: "Bring me a captive Sardaukar. We must send a message to our Emperor, It's time to discuss terms." "Yes, m'Lord." Gurney turned away, dropped a hand signal to one of the Fedaykin who took up close-guard position beside Paul. "Gurney," Paul whispered. "Since we've been rejoined I've yet to hear you produce the proper quotation for the event." He turned, saw Gurney swallow, saw the sudden grim hardening of the man's jaw. "As you wish, m'Lord," Gurney said. He cleared his throat, rasped: " 'And the victory that day was turned into mourning unto all the people: for the people heard say that day how the king was grieved for his son.' " Paul closed his eyes, forcing grief out of his mind, letting it wait as he had once waited to mourn his father. Now, he gave his thoughts over to this day's accumulated discoveries -- the mixed futures and the hidden presence


of loving wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls," said Mrs. March, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there. "Hurry and get done! Don't stop to quirk your little finger and simper over your plate, Amy," cried Jo, choking on her tea and dropping her bread, butter side down, on the carpet in her haste to get at the treat. Beth ate no more, but crept away to sit in her shadowy corner and brood over the delight to come, till the others were ready. "I think it was so splendid in Father to go as chaplain when he was too old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier," said Meg warmly. "Don't I wish I could go as a drummer, a vivan -- mdash; what's its name? Or a nurse, so I could be near him and help him," exclaimed Jo, with a groan. "It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug," sighed Amy. "When will he come home, Marmee? asked Beth, with a little quiver in her voice. "Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his work faithfully as long as he can, and we won't ask for him back a minute sooner than he can be spared. Now come and hear the letter." They all drew to the fire, Mother in the big chair with Beth at her feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and Jo leaning on the back, where no one would see any sign of emotion if the letter should happen to be touching. Very few letters were written in those hard times that were not touching, especially those which fathers sent home. In this one little was said of the hardships endured, the dangers faced, or the homesickness conquered. It was a cheerful, hopeful letter, full of lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military news, and only at the end did the writer's heart over-flow with fatherly love and longing for the little girls at home. " Give them all of my dear love and a kiss. Tell them I think of them by day, pray for them by night, and find my best comfort in their affection at all times. A year seems very long to wait before I see them, but remind them that while we wait we may all work, so that these hard days need not be wasted. I know they will remember all I said to them, that they will be loving children to you, will do their duty faithfully, fight their bosom enemies bravely, and conquer themselves so beautifully that when I come back to them I may be fonder and prouder than ever of my little women." Everybody sniffed when they came to that part. Jo wasn't ashamed of the great tear that dropped off the end of her nose, and Amy never minded the rumpling of her curls