every one of his good points. Those full, lazy eyes with the lashes curling sharply away like drawn scimitars. The lean, over-padded shoulders and narrow waist. Even nice! He was jumping her king! She screamed in protest against losing the king she had had such a hard time acquir- ing. Before she knew it she had grabbed his hand to stop him. He struggled gallantly to free himself. That is he struggled, but not hard enough to wrench a lady’s fingers. “Ah got uh right tuh take it. You left it right in mah way.” “Yeah, but Ah wuz lookin’ off when you went and stuck yo’ men right up next tuh mine. No fair!” “You ain’t supposed tuh look off, Mis’ Starks. It’s de biggest part uh de game tuh watch out! Leave go mah hand.” “No suh! Not mah king. You kin take another one, but not dat one.” They scrambled and upset the board and laughed at that. Their Eyes Were Watching God 115 “Anyhow it’s time for uh Coca-Cola,” he said. “Ah’ll come teach yuh some mo’ another time.” “It’s all right tuh come teach me, but don’t come tuh cheat me.” “Yuh can’t beat uh woman. Dey jes won’t stand fuh it. But Ah’ll come teach yuh agin. You gointuh be uh good player too, after while.” “You reckon so? Jody useter tell me Ah never would learn. It wuz too heavy fuh mah brains.” “Folks is playin’ it wid sense and folks is playin’ it with- out. But you got good meat on yo’ head. You’ll learn. Have uh cool drink on me.” “Oh all right, thank yuh. Got plenty cold ones tuhday. Nobody ain’t been heah tuh buy none. All gone off tuh de game.” “You oughta be at de next game. ’Tain’t no use in you stayin’ heah if everybody else is gone. You don’t buy from yo’- self, do yuh?” “You crazy thing! ’Course Ah don’t. But Ah’m worried ’bout you uh little.” “How come? ’Fraid Ah ain’t gointuh pay fuh dese drinks?” “Aw naw! How you gointuh git back home?” “Wait round heah fuh a car. If none don’t come, Ah got good shoe leather. ’Tain’t but seben miles no how. Ah could walk dat in no time. Easy.” “If it wuz me, Ah’d wait on uh train. Seben miles is uh kinda long walk.” 116 Zora Neale Hurston “It would be for you, ’cause you ain’t used to it. But Ah’m seen women walk further’n dat. You could too, if yuh had it tuh do.” “Maybe so, but Ah’ll ride de train long as Ah got railroad fare.” “Ah don’t need no pocket-full uh money to ride de train lak uh woman. When Ah takes uh notion Ah rides anyhow— money or no money.” “Now ain’t you somethin’! Mr. er—er—You never did tell me whut yo’ name wuz.” “Ah sho didn’t. Wuzn’t expectin’ fuh it to be needed. De name mah mama gimme is Vergible Woods. Dey calls me Tea Cake for short.” “Tea Cake! So you sweet as all dat?”


have to take it from there.” “I will. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that, and I promise I won’t disappoint you.” “The key, my dear, is to make sure you don’t disappoint yourself.” We come to a stop, facing the long line of brass doors tucked under the marquee. They resemble a golden mouth, luring the public inside before swallowing them whole. “Very well, then,” I say. “I’m ready. It’s time.” CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX DECEMBER 1956 Marion opened her eyes, confused that she wasn’t in her room at the Rehearsal Club. With a rush, the evening’s events came back to her. The roof, the man, the hammer. “She’s awake.” Peter’s face loomed over her. She looked around and realized she was on the couch in the greenroom. Somers was talking to a policeman near the door. Peter handed her a glass of water and she sat upright to take a sip. “How did I get down here?” “I carried you after you fainted,” said Peter. “You didn’t hit your head or anything, I caught you on the way down.” Embarrassment ran through her. Peter patted her arm; it was as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. “It was very ladylike, I assure you. Only a dancer could faint that gracefully. Most people sink like a bag of bricks.” Somers came over. “How are you doing?” “I’m fine,” she said. “It was just the shock of it all.” “I’ll have one of our patrol cars take you home. I’d recommend you not be alone for the next few days.” She knew exactly where she wanted to go. “I’d like to go to Bronxville.” Somers nodded and left the room to arrange it. “Are you sure?” said Peter. “You can come to my place, if you like. I can sleep on the couch.” “No, that’s kind of you. But I’m sure you have enough to deal with right now. I have a lot to think about, a lot to sort out.” Peter studied her. “Is there something else going on? I mean, beyond the fact that you were attacked by a madman.” She thought of the painful conversation she’d overheard between Russell and Emily and involuntarily grimaced at the memory of kicking out earlier that evening. Mr. Leonidoff was no doubt calling for her head. She’d let Russell and Emily down, as well as the other dancers. It was over. “I’m going to quit the Rockettes.” There, she’d said it. Peter nodded. “I understand why, at least temporarily. It’s not safe for you, not until they catch the bomber. But I think they’re close. He’s making mistakes, getting desperate. You can always go back, right?” “No. I’m done. I love being a Rockette, but I’m not a good fit, as much as I hate to admit that. Not to mention the fact that my presence lured the bomber backstage, where anyone else could’ve been attacked or worse. I need to stop thinking of myself and what I want. Stop being so selfish.” Peter looked like he wanted to say more,


melt steel, just know that they know and they’re choosing for it to be that way. I can pretty easily access my most hurt teenage feelings, and I remember my aunt telling me once that I looked terrible and needed to “pick my titties up.” That quote tells you everything you need to know about both my aunt and my teenage style and body. The last thing that will endear you to a kid is pointing out how wrecked their shit looks. The way they dress is supposed to be confusing and upsetting to you, and the only way to deal with it is to pretend they’re a hologram or standing behind one of those carnival cutout things until life forces them into a middle management job and flat-front khaki pants while you shut up and wait for it to happen for real. Let them drive your car. I mean, not…my car? But your hypothetical car is the perfect thing to hand over to a large child who rolls their eyes at everything else you suggest if you want that kid to think you’re cool. Wow, the way their immature little eyes light up! I put in a few hours as the designated driver’s ed instructor for the driving-age teenage boy in my house last summer, and let me tell you something: I hated it. Mostly because I had no idea I even knew the phrase “keep pace with the flow of traffic” until I heard my disembodied voice saying it, sternly, to a child who kept fucking with the radio stations when he should’ve had his eyes on the goddamn road. All that cool stepmom shit flew right out the window as soon as he made a left without signaling (!!!!!!!!!) and I said, “Sir?? Hello???????” I was like, OH NOOOOO, I’M MY OWN DAD AND I GOTTA GET OUT OF THIS CAR WHILE I STILL HAVE AN OUNCE OF YOUNGNESS, but that didn’t stop the words “why are you speeding up to a yellow light” from coming out of my mouth. His response, of course, was “you do it,” and then I had to do another awful old-person thing, which is to say, “I’ve been driving for twentysomething [redacted] years,” then ask him, “Who pays the note on this [redacted] car” as he laughed and offered to get me some Metamucil since we were right by Walgreens. Talk about smoking weed, but never let them see evidence that you smoke weed just in case you need some plausible deniability. One of my friends’ dumb-ass kids got busted with fake edibles, and I cried laughing when he told me the story. Imagine looking into a kitchen cluttered with primary-colored Hasbro beakers and a Disney-branded microscope with supersized heart eyes like, “Aww, Lil Blobbo has a passion for science just like his dada,” as you watch your kid melting boba or whatever and then finding out he bagged the results and tried to sell them on the playground like Nino Brown. I would cough up my esophagus laughing!!!!!!!!!!! How do you even


years Okonkwo had been in exile. The church had come and led many astray. Not only the low-born and the outcast but sometimes a worthy man had joined it. Such a man was Ogbuefi Ugonna, who had taken two titles, and who like a madman had cut the anklet of his titles and cast it away to join the Christians. The white missionary was very proud of him and he was one of the first men in Umuofia to receive the sacrament of Holy Communion, or Holy Feast as it was called in Ibo. Ogbuefi Ugonna had thought of the Feast in terms of eating and drinking, only more holy than the village variety. He had therefore put his drinking-horn into his goatskin bag for the occasion. But apart from the church, the white men had also brought a government. They had built a court where the District Commissioner judged cases in ignorance. He had court messengers who brought men to him for trial. Many of these messengers came from Umuru on the bank of the Great River, where the white men first came many years before and where they had built the centre of their religion and trade and government. These court messengers were greatly hated in Umuofia because they were foreigners and also arrogant and high-handed. They were called kotma, and because of their ash-coloured shorts they earned the additional name of Ashy Buttocks. They guarded the prison, which was full of men who had offended against the white man's law. Some of these prisoners had thrown away their twins and some had molested the Christians. They were beaten in the prison by the kotma and made to work every morning clearing the government compound and fetching wood for the white Commissioner and the court messengers. Some of these prisoners were men of title who should be above such mean occupation. They were grieved by the indignity and mourned for their neglected farms. As they cut grass in the morning the younger men sang in time with the strokes of their machetes: "Kotma of the ashy buttocks, He is fit to be a slave. The white man has no sense, He is fit to be a slave." The court messengers did not like to be called Ashy-Buttocks, and they beat the men. But the song spread in Umuofia. Okonkwo's head was bowed in sadness as Obierika told him these things. "Perhaps I have been away too long," Okonkwo said, almost to himself. "But I cannot understand these things you tell me. What is it that has happened to our people? Why have they lost the power to fight?" "Have you not heard how the white man wiped out Abame?" asked Obierika. "I have heard," said Okonkwo. "But I have also heard that Abame people were weak and foolish. Why did they not fight back? Had they no guns and machetes? We would be cowards to compare ourselves with the men of Abame. Their fathers had never dared to stand before our ancestors. We must fight these men and drive them


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

Dedalus. We are in Cork, in Ireland. Cork is a city. Our room is in the Victoria Hotel. Victoria and Stephen and Simon. Simon and Stephen and Victoria. Names. The memory of his childhood suddenly grew dim. He tried to call forth some of its vivid moments but could not. He recalled only names. Dante, Parnell, Clane, Clongowes. A little boy had been taught geography by an old woman who kept two brushes in her wardrobe. Then he had been sent away from home to a college, he had made his first communion and eaten slim jim out of his cricket cap and watched the firelight leaping and dancing on the wall of a little bedroom in the infirmary and dreamed of being dead, of mass being said for him by the rector in a black and gold cope, of being buried then in the little graveyard of the community off the main avenue of limes. But he had not died then. Parnell had died. There had been no mass for the dead in the chapel and no procession. He had not died but he had faded out like a film in the sun. He had been lost or had wandered out of existence for he no longer existed. How strange to think of him passing out of existence in such a way, not by death but by fading out in the sun or by being lost and forgotten somewhere in the universe! It was strange to see his small body appear again for a moment: a little boy in a grey belted suit. His hands were in his side-pockets and his trousers were tucked in at the knees by elastic bands. On the evening of the day on which the property was sold Stephen followed his father meekly about the city from bar to bar. To the sellers in the market, to the barmen and barmaids, to the beggars who importuned him for a lob Mr Dedalus told the same tale--that he was an old Corkonian, that he had been trying for thirty years to get rid of his Cork accent up in Dublin and that Peter Pickackafax beside him was his eldest son but that he was only a Dublin jackeen. They had set out early in the morning from Newcombe's coffee-house, where Mr Dedalus's cup had rattled noisily against its saucer, and Stephen had tried to cover that shameful sign of his father's drinking bout of the night before by moving his chair and coughing. One humiliation had succeeded another--the false smiles of the market sellers, the curvetings and oglings of the barmaids with whom his father flirted, the compliments and encouraging words of his father's friends. They had told him that he had a great look of his grandfather and Mr Dedalus had agreed that he was an ugly likeness. They had unearthed traces of a Cork accent in his speech and made him admit that the Lee was a much finer river than the Liffey. One of them, in order to put his Latin to the proof,


way over by the orange juice station. So, yeah, it was mostly about the flask. She doesn’t remember Thalia drinking, she only admitted to passing the flask around. And then they basically took her back through what she’d told the police in ’95.” “Oh. Wait, no, I didn’t want you to answer that. I can’t—” “Shush shush shush, you’re not listening to a podcast, you’re not talking to another witness. You’re just eating oatmeal. Look at you sitting there, eating the hell out of that oatmeal.” I shoved a spoonful in my mouth. “She didn’t come off well. The defense, like—honestly, they made her look pretty racist, or at least classist. Her whole thing was ‘everyone knew’ about Omar, and they go, So you’re saying you put a lot of stock in rumors.” I said, “They’re broadcasting the actual testimony?” The last I’d talked to Alder, he hadn’t been sure if he’d be allowed to, or if he could even pick up the sound well enough. “The juicy parts,” Geoff said. “You ever sat through one of these things? It’s ninety-nine percent tedium.” I said, “Okay. I’m taking one more bite of oatmeal. Just tell me if anything completely shocking came up. Like, anything you think I don’t already know.” “Doubtful. Oh, they were asking if she’d ever been in the equipment shed, if she knew other kids who’d been in there. Because you know the state, in their opening, they argued the location change didn’t matter since Omar would’ve had a key to the shed. Did that door even have a lock? She’s, uh—shit.” He looked down at his plate, suddenly interested in the syrup-soaked dregs. I glanced back in time to see Beth Docherty striding toward our table. She’d aged like someone who spent every vacation at a yoga retreat on an island. Her face was weathered, but rich weathered. No sag to it, just fine lines she could have Botoxed away but was confident enough not to. Her blond hair was short, tucked behind her ears, still beautifully highlighted. She barely paused beside our table, a kid in a John Hughes cafeteria. She said, “What a shocker to see you here.” I should have smiled and said it was lovely to see her, too, but before she could finish walking away I said, “I’m here as a witness. Just like you.” Beth wheeled around, sucked her tongue against her teeth, let out two small puffs of laughter. She said, “You didn’t witness jack shit, Bodie. This whole thing is the most pathetic attention grab. You have a book deal yet?” Geoff said, “No, but her album drops Tuesday.” Beth squinted at Geoff like she was trying to place him but didn’t care enough to think too hard about it. He said, “I’m pretty sure this is witness tampering.” Gratifyingly, Beth looked alarmed. She didn’t know if he was a lawyer or what. She wiped her hands on her sweater, as if that would get rid of us, and left without saying more. Lord knows why I felt the need


the darkness of a path severed from thee, Diana. Oh, just say it once again." "I love you devotedly, Anne," said Diana stanchly, "and I always will, you may be sure of that." "And I will always love thee, Diana," said Anne, solemnly extending her hand. "In the years to come thy memory will shine like a star over my lonely life, as that last story we read together says. Diana, wilt thou give me a lock of thy jet-black tresses in parting to treasure forevermore?" "Have you got anything to cut it with?" queried Diana, wiping away the tears which Anne's affecting accents had caused to flow afresh, and returning to practicalities. "Yes. I've got my patchwork scissors in my apron pocket fortunately," said Anne. She solemnly clipped one of Diana's curls. "Fare thee well, my beloved friend. Henceforth we must be as strangers though living side by side. But my heart will ever be faithful to thee." Anne stood and watched Diana out of sight, mournfully waving her hand to the latter whenever she turned to look back. Then she returned to the house, not a little consoled for the time being by this romantic parting. "It is all over," she informed Marilla. "I shall never have another friend. I'm really worse off than ever before, for I haven't Katie Maurice and Violetta now. And even if I had it wouldn't be the same. Somehow, little dream girls are not satisfying after a real friend. Diana and I had such an affecting farewell down by the spring. It will be sacred in my memory forever. I used the most pathetic language I could think of and said `thou' and `thee.' `Thou' and `thee' seem so much more romantic than `you.' Diana gave me a lock of her hair and I'm going to sew it up in a little bag and wear it around my neck all my life. Please see that it is buried with me, for I don't believe I'll live very long. Perhaps when she sees me lying cold and dead before her Mrs. Barry may feel remorse for what she has done and will let Diana come to my funeral." "I don't think there is much fear of your dying of grief as long as you can talk, Anne," said Marilla unsympathetically. The following Monday Anne surprised Marilla by coming down from her room with her basket of books on her arm and hip lips primmed up into a line of determination. "I'm going back to school," she announced. "That is all there is left in life for me, now that my friend has been ruthlessly torn from me. In school I can look at her and muse over days departed." "You'd better muse over your lessons and sums," said Marilla, concealing her delight at this development of the situation. "If you're going back to school I hope we'll hear no more of breaking slates over people's heads and such carryings on. Behave yourself and do just what your teacher tells you." "I'll try to be a


still. The knocking still continued, and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, and unlocked the door. "I am so sorry for it all, my dear boy," said Lord Henry, coming in. "But you must not think about it too much." [46] "Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?" asked Dorian. "Yes, of course," answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair, and slowly pulling his gloves off. "It is dreadful, from one point of view, but it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see her after the play was over?" "Yes." "I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?" "I was brutal, Harry,--perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am not sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know myself better." "Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse, and tearing your nice hair." "I have got through all that," said Dorian, shaking his head, and smiling. "I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us. Don't sneer at it, Harry, any more,--at least not before me. I want to be good. I can't bear the idea of my soul being hideous." "A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?" "By marrying Sibyl Vane." "Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up, and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian--" "Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don't say it. Don't ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife." "Your wife! Dorian! . . . Didn't you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down, by my own man." "Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn't like." Lord Henry walked across the room, and, sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his, and held them tightly. "Dorian," he said, "my letter--don't be frightened--was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain rose from the lad's lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry's grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie!" "It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to


smile. And then he was a shrieking blaze, a jumping, sprawling, gibbering mannikin, no longer human or known, all writhing flame on the lawn as Montag shot one continuous pulse of liquid fire on him. There was a hiss like a great mouthful of spittle banging a redhot stove, a bubbling and frothing as if salt had been poured over a monstrous black snail to cause a terrible liquefaction and a boiling over of yellow foam. Montag shut his eyes, shouted, shouted, and fought to get his hands at his ears to clamp and to cut away the sound. Beatty flopped over and over and over, and at last twisted in on himself like a charred wax doll and lay silent. The other two firemen did not move. Montag kept his sickness down long enough to aim the flame-thrower. "Turn around!" They turned, their faces like blanched meat, streaming sweat; he beat their heads, knocking off their helmets and bringing them down on themselves. They fell and lay without moving. The blowing of a single autumn leaf. He turned and the Mechanical Hound was there. It was half across the lawn, coming from the shadows, moving with such drifting ease that it was like a single solid cloud of black-grey smoke blown at him in silence. It made a single last leap into the air, coming down at Montag from a good three feet over his head, its spidered legs reaching, the procaine needle snapping out its single angry tooth. Montag caught it with a bloom of fire, a single wondrous blossom that curled in petals of yellow and blue and orange about the metal dog, clad it in a new covering as it slammed into Montag and threw him ten feet back against the bole of a tree, taking the flame-gun with him. He felt it scrabble and seize his leg and stab the needle in for a moment before the fire snapped the Hound up in the air, burst its metal bones at the joints, and blew out its interior in the single flushing of red colour like a skyrocket fastened to the street. Montag lay watching the dead-alive thing fiddle the air and die. Even now it seemed to want to get back at him and finish the injection which was now working through the flesh of his leg. He felt all of the mingled relief and horror at having pulled back only in time to have just his knee slammed by the fender of a car hurtling by at ninety miles an hour. He was afraid to get up, afraid he might not be able to gain his feet at all, with an anaesthetized leg. A numbness in a numbness hollowed into a numbness.... And now...? The street empty, the house burnt like an ancient bit of stage-scenery, the other homes dark, the Hound here, Beatty there, the three other firemen another place, and the Salamander . . . ? He gazed at the immense engine. That would have to go, too. Well, he thought, let's see how


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

to you. Now what sort of business would you like to engage in? Would you like to re-engage in copying for some one?” “No; I would prefer not to make any change.” “Would you like a clerkship in a dry-goods store?” “There is too much confinement about that. No, I would not like a clerkship; but I am not particular.” “Too much confinement,” I cried, “why you keep yourself confined all the time!” “I would prefer not to take a clerkship,” he rejoined, as if to settle that little item at once. “How would a bar-tender’s business suit you? There is no trying of the eyesight in that.” “I would not like it at all; though, as I said before, I am not particular.” His unwonted wordiness inspirited me. I returned to the charge. “Well then, would you like to travel through the country collecting bills for the merchants? That would improve your health.” “No, I would prefer to be doing something else.” “How then would going as a companion to Europe, to entertain some young gentleman with your conversation,—how would that suit you?” “Not at all. It does not strike me that there is any thing definite about that. I like to be stationary. But I am not particular.” “Stationary you shall be then,” I cried, now losing all patience, and for the first time in all my exasperating connection with him fairly flying into a passion. “If you do not go away from these premises before night, I shall feel bound—indeed I am bound—to—to—to quit the premises myself!” I rather absurdly concluded, knowing not with what possible threat to try to frighten his immobility into compliance. Despairing of all further efforts, I was precipitately leaving him, when a final thought occurred to me—one which had not been wholly unindulged before. “Bartleby,” said I, in the kindest tone I could assume under such exciting circumstances, “will you go home with me now—not to my office, but my dwelling—and remain there till we can conclude upon some convenient arrangement for you at our leisure? Come, let us start now, right away.” “No: at present I would prefer not to make any change at all.” I answered nothing; but effectually dodging every one by the suddenness and rapidity of my flight, rushed from the building, ran up Wall-street towards Broadway, and jumping into the first omnibus was soon removed from pursuit. As soon as tranquility returned I distinctly perceived that I had now done all that I possibly could, both in respect to the demands of the landlord and his tenants, and with regard to my own desire and sense of duty, to benefit Bartleby, and shield him from rude persecution. I now strove to be entirely care-free and quiescent; and my conscience justified me in the attempt; though indeed it was not so successful as I could have wished. So fearful was I of being again hunted out by the incensed landlord and his exasperated tenants, that, surrendering my business to Nippers, for a few days I drove about the upper part


29 She began to cry. “Ah wants things sweet wid mah marriage lak when you sit under a pear tree and think. Ah . . .” “’Tain’t no use in you cryin’, Janie. Grandma done been long uh few roads herself. But folks is meant to cry ’bout somethin’ or other. Better leave things de way dey is. Youse young yet. No tellin’ whut mout happen befo’ you die. Wait awhile, baby. Yo’ mind will change.” Nanny sent Janie along with a stern mien, but she dwin- dled all the rest of the day as she worked. And when she gained the privacy of her own little shack she stayed on her knees so long she forgot she was there herself. There is a basin in the mind where words float around on thought and thought on sound and sight. Then there is a depth of thought untouched by words, and deeper still a gulf of formless feel- ings untouched by thought. Nanny entered this infinity of conscious pain again on her old knees. Towards morning she muttered, “Lawd, you know mah heart. Ah done de best Ah could do. De rest is left to you.” She scuffled up from her knees and fell heavily across the bed. A month later she was dead. So Janie waited a bloom time, and a green time and an orange time. But when the pollen again gilded the sun and sifted down on the world she began to stand around the gate and expect things. What things? She didn’t know exactly. Her breath was gusty and short. She knew things that nobody had ever told her. For instance, the words of the trees and the wind. She often spoke to falling seeds and said, “Ah hope you fall on soft ground,” because she had heard seeds saying 30 Zora Neale Hurston that to each other as they passed. She knew the world was a stallion rolling in the blue pasture of ether. She knew that God tore down the old world every evening and built a new one by sun-up. It was wonderful to see it take form with the sun and emerge from the gray dust of its making. The famil- iar people and things had failed her so she hung over the gate and looked up the road towards way off. She knew now that marriage did not make love. Janie’s first dream was dead, so she became a woman. 4 Long before the year was up, Janie noticed that her husband had stopped talking in rhymes to her. He had ceased to wonder at her long black hair and finger it. Six months back he had told her, “If Ah kin haul de wood heah and chop it fuh yuh, look lak you oughta be able tuh tote it inside. Mah fust wife never bothered me ’bout choppin’ no wood nohow. She’d grab dat ax and sling chips lak uh man. You done been spoilt rotten.” So Janie had told him, “Ah’m just as stiff as you is stout. If you can


have a country accent. Eliot doesn't write their speeches in dialect because Victorian readers expected major characters to use standard English. This accent, however, distinguishes Nancy from the Miss Gunns. Ironically, they too have an accent--but they think theirs is the right one. (How is this trivial prejudice related to the religious prejudices in the previous chapter?) Although the Miss Gunns dwell on this difference, Eliot remarks that Nancy is more of a lady than they are, despite her lack of education. Next you see Nancy beside another Raveloe lady, her sister Priscilla. By comparison, Nancy's special qualities shine out. Priscilla definitely talks like a country girl. The same dress that makes Nancy look lovely makes Priscilla look sallow and dumpy. Nancy, however, insists that as sisters they should dress alike. (What does this tell you about Nancy?) Priscilla does have common sense. Compare her realistic attitude toward staying home and keeping house for their father (as George Eliot did) to Nancy's high-minded reluctance about Godfrey. Downstairs at tea, Nancy reflects that marrying Godfrey would make her mistress of this house. She admits to herself that she loves him but her morals won't let her unbend. Eliot speaks of this as Nancy's "inward drama." Do you think she approves or disapproves of Nancy's attitude? While Godfrey and Nancy sit silently, highly conscious of each other, the rest of the party comes alive. Squire Cass is in a loud, merry, patronizing mood. Mr. Lammeter sits in self-contained dignity. Dr. Kimble busily chats to everyone in the room. Eliot points out that these people aren't aristocrats. The Squire's comments about Godfrey and Nancy are boorish. Even Dr. Kimble is not a great doctor--he inherited his practice. Imagine how Godfrey and Nancy feel as they sit here. Music, which is so important to Raveloe, is introduced by white-haired Solomon Macey, the fiddler. He respects the gentry but he respects his music, too, and it gives him a special role. He plays the tunes people expect to hear, old songs rich in memories. Music gives him power over them, like a Pied Piper, as he leads the party into the parlor to dance. Not only are all the gentry here, selected villagers round out the scene. An elaborate social ritual is at work, which everyone seems to enjoy. The villagers comment as they watch the gentry dance, much as people today may comment upon a TV show they're watching. From this quarter, you get another view of Nancy and Godfrey. The villagers agree on Nancy's beauty, but opinion on Godfrey is divided. An accident (fate or bad luck?) calls Nancy and Godfrey off the dance floor. Nancy's dress has been torn, and she must sit in the next room until Priscilla can help her fix it. Eliot presents the lovers' conversation dramatically, letting you know just enough of what each is feeling to add an undertone of passion to the careful banter. Godfrey tries to tell Nancy he loves her. She rebuffs him coldly, firmly, but with a trace of hurt pride that gives him hope.


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


charming friend he had ever had, with a sympathy that he had never found in a man. The sexual relationship was no more than the strongest link in their friendship. It completed it, but was not essential. And because Philip's appetites were satisfied, he became more equable and easier to live with. He felt in complete possession of himself. He thought sometimes of the winter, during which he had been obsessed by a hideous passion, and he was filled with loathing for Mildred and with horror of himself. His examinations were approaching, and Norah was as interested in them as he. He was flattered and touched by her eagerness. She made him promise to come at once and tell her the results. He passed the three parts this time without mishap, and when he went to tell her she burst into tears. "Oh, I'm so glad, I was so anxious." "You silly little thing," he laughed, but he was choking. No one could help being pleased with the way she took it. "And what are you going to do now?" she asked. "I can take a holiday with a clear conscience. I have no work to do till the winter session begins in October." "I suppose you'll go down to your uncle's at Blackstable?" "You suppose quite wrong. I'm going to stay in London and play with you." "I'd rather you went away." "Why? Are you tired of me?" She laughed and put her hands on his shoulders. "Because you've been working hard, and you look utterly washed out. You want some fresh air and a rest. Please go." He did not answer for a moment. He looked at her with loving eyes. "You know, I'd never believe it of anyone but you. You're only thinking of my good. I wonder what you see in me." "Will you give me a good character with my month's notice?" she laughed gaily. "I'll say that you're thoughtful and kind, and you're not exacting; you never worry, you're not troublesome, and you're easy to please." "All that's nonsense," she said, "but I'll tell you one thing: I'm one of the few persons I ever met who are able to learn from experience." CHAPTER LXVII PHILIP looked forward to his return to London with impatience. During the two months he spent at Blackstable Norah wrote to him frequently, long letters in a bold, large hand, in which with cheerful humour she described the little events of the daily round, the domestic troubles of her landlady, rich food for laughter, the comic vexations of her rehearsals--she was walking on in an important spectacle at one of the London theatres--and her odd adventures with the publishers of novelettes. Philip read a great deal, bathed, played tennis, and sailed. At the beginning of October he settled down in London to work for the Second Conjoint examination. He was eager to pass it, since that ended the drudgery of the curriculum; after it was done with the student became an out-patients' clerk, and was brought in contact with men and


uneasiness, anger, impatience or impertinence in his manner; in other words, had there been any thing ordinarily human about him, doubtless I should have violently dismissed him from the premises. But as it was, I should have as soon thought of turning my pale plaster-of-paris bust of Cicero out of doors. I stood gazing at him awhile, as he went on with his own writing, and then reseated myself at my desk. This is very strange, thought I. What had one best do? But my business hurried me. I concluded to forget the matter for the present, reserving it for my future leisure. So calling Nippers from the other room, the paper was speedily examined. A few days after this, Bartleby concluded four lengthy documents, being quadruplicates of a week’s testimony taken before me in my High Court of Chancery. It became necessary to examine them. It was an important suit, and great accuracy was imperative. Having all things arranged I called Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut from the next room, meaning to place the four copies in the hands of my four clerks, while I should read from the original. Accordingly Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut had taken their seats in a row, each with his document in hand, when I called to Bartleby to join this interesting group. “Bartleby! quick, I am waiting.” I heard a slow scrape of his chair legs on the uncarpeted floor, and soon he appeared standing at the entrance of his hermitage. “What is wanted?” said he mildly. “The copies, the copies,” said I hurriedly. “We are going to examine them. There”—and I held towards him the fourth quadruplicate. “I would prefer not to,” he said, and gently disappeared behind the screen. For a few moments I was turned into a pillar of salt, standing at the head of my seated column of clerks. Recovering myself, I advanced towards the screen, and demanded the reason for such extraordinary conduct. “Why do you refuse?” “I would prefer not to.” With any other man I should have flown outright into a dreadful passion, scorned all further words, and thrust him ignominiously from my presence. But there was something about Bartleby that not only strangely disarmed me, but in a wonderful manner touched and disconcerted me. I began to reason with him. “These are your own copies we are about to examine. It is labor saving to you, because one examination will answer for your four papers. It is common usage. Every copyist is bound to help examine his copy. Is it not so? Will you not speak? Answer!” “I prefer not to,” he replied in a flute-like tone. It seemed to me that while I had been addressing him, he carefully revolved every statement that I made; fully comprehended the meaning; could not gainsay the irresistible conclusions; but, at the same time, some paramount consideration prevailed with him to reply as he did. “You are decided, then, not to comply with my request—a request made according to common usage and common sense?” He briefly gave me to


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

on. "We wondered who Dumbledore had trusted enough to help him, apart from you." Hagrid's chest swelled at these last words. Harry and Ron beamed at Hermione. "Well, I don' s'pose it could hurt ter tell yeh that...let's see...he borrowed Fluffy from me...then some o' the teachers did enchantments...Professor Sprout -- Professor Flitwick -- Professor McGonagall -- " he ticked them off on his fingers, "Professor Quirrell -- an' Dumbledore himself did somethin', o' course. Hang on, I've forgotten someone. Oh yeah, Professor Snape." "Snape?" "Yeah -- yer not still on abou' that, are yeh? Look, Snape helped protect the Stone, he's not about ter steal it." Harry knew Ron and Hermione were thinking the same as he was. If Snape had been in on protecting the Stone, it must have been easy to find out how the other teachers had guarded it. He probably knew everything -- except, it seemed, Quirrell's spell and how to get past Fluffy. "You're the only one who knows how to get past Fluffy, aren't you, Hagrid?" said Harry anxiously. "And you wouldn't tell anyone, would you? Not even one of the teachers?" "Not a soul knows except me an' Dumbledore," said Hagrid proudly. "Well, that's something," Harry muttered to the others. "Hagrid, can we have a window open? I'm boiling." "Can't, Harry, sorry," said Hagrid. Harry noticed him glance at the fire. Harry looked at it, too. "Hagrid -- what's that?" But he already knew what it was. In the very heart of the fire, underneath the kettle, was a huge, black egg. "Ah," said Hagrid, fiddling nervously with his beard, "That's er..." "Where did you get it, Hagrid?" said Ron, crouching over the fire to get a closer look at the egg. "It must've cost you a fortune." "Won it," said Hagrid. "Las' night. I was down in the village havin' a few drinks an' got into a game o' cards with a stranger. Think he was quite glad ter get rid of it, ter be honest." "But what are you going to do with it when it's hatched?" said Hermione. "Well, I've bin doin' some readin'," said Hagrid, pulling a large book from under his pillow. "Got this outta the library -- Dragon Breeding for Pleasure and Profit -- it's a bit outta date, o' course, but it's all in here. Keep the egg in the fire, 'cause their mothers breathe on I em, see, an' when it hatches, feed it on a bucket o' brandy mixed with chicken blood every half hour. An' see here -- how ter recognize diff'rent eggs -- what I got there's a Norwegian Ridgeback. They're rare, them." He looked very pleased with himself, but Hermione didn't. "Hagrid, you live in a wooden house," she said. But Hagrid wasn't listening. He was humming merrily as he stoked the fire. *** So now they had something else to worry about: what might happen to Hagrid if anyone found out he was hiding an illegal dragon in his hut. "Wonder what it's like to have a peaceful life," Ron sighed,


the cupboard. For lunch we have baloney sandwiches on white bread with mayonnaise and lettuce. Fun fact: I’ve been a pescatarian for seven years. But is baloney REALLY meat? 12:30-4:45: Pretend to write screenplay, read more articles about anosmia and cytokine storms 5: Online “Chair Yoga for Seniors” with Jerry in the living room. The instructor is a foxy sixty-year-old named Marie, and Jerry would never in a million years discuss this with me, but I think he has a tiny crush on her. Not to brag, but as a non-senior (a junior?), I eschew the chair in Chair Yoga. 5:30: Jerry fixes a Manhattan for himself and a grapefruit seltzer water on the rocks for me, grills a pork steak for himself and a veggie burger for me, and we eat on the back deck if it’s not too hot. In that case, we usually end up talking to the family next door (the daughters are 9 and 11, and the 11-year-old is the one who caused the pandemic by telling her mom she traveled too much for work). They ask us lots of questions like “If you could eat only one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?” and “If Sugar spoke human, what do you think she’d say?” 6:30: Another long walk for Sugar. For this one, I usually talk to Viv, Henrietta, or both. Viv is in the city—her husband is still seeing patients, which understandably makes her worry—but Henrietta and her wife have rented a place upstate. 7-9: I’m Jerry’s tour guide through the Golden Age of Television. I try to find shows he wouldn’t know about that might expand his horizons but won’t horrify him. Yes: dramas set in the English countryside, wholesome reality show competitions, sit-coms about people who aren’t white or straight. No: dating reality shows, fast-paced and extremely ironic millennial or Gen Z shows. When he doesn’t like something, he says, “There’s a lot going on, isn’t there?” When he does like it, he says it was “very interesting” or “very amusing.” 9:15: Jerry retires to his room, I can hear him puttering, I go to my room, two roads diverge and I try to take the one less traveled by putting away my laptop and phone and pulling out a book. I succeed about a third of the time. Midnight: Lights out, peaceful slumber. Just kidding, lights out then logistical, corporeal, and spiritual panic. Lather, rinse, repeat! Have you ever been to Missouri? Also have you ever had a pen pal or am I, um, your first? (Re: Annabel etc., I appreciate your honesty. I don’t think there’s much point in having a pandemic pen pal if you’re not going to be honest. I actually just typed a whole other paragraph here about Annabel and life and my existential confusion, but I’ve decided to spare us both and deleted it. It’s water under the bridge. If this makes you feel better, Danny is now happily dating Nigel’s daughter Lucy, who recently graduated from Brown, works in publishing, and


on you," he said. "It's simply a business arrangement, I'm giving you board and lodging in return for your work. You don't owe me anything. And there's nothing humiliating to you in it." She did not answer, but tears rolled heavily down her cheeks. Philip knew from his experience at the hospital that women of her class looked upon service as degrading: he could not help feeling a little impatient with her; but he blamed himself, for it was clear that she was tired and ill. He got up and helped her to lay another place at the table. The baby was awake now, and Mildred had prepared some Mellin's Food for it. The liver and bacon were ready and they sat down. For economy's sake Philip had given up drinking anything but water, but he had in the house a half a bottle of whiskey, and he thought a little would do Mildred good. He did his best to make the supper pass cheerfully, but Mildred was subdued and exhausted. When they had finished she got up to put the baby to bed. "I think you'll do well to turn in early yourself," said Philip. "You look absolute done up." "I think I will after I've washed up." Philip lit his pipe and began to read. It was pleasant to hear somebody moving about in the next room. Sometimes his loneliness had oppressed him. Mildred came in to clear the table, and he heard the clatter of plates as she washed up. Philip smiled as he thought how characteristic it was of her that she should do all that in a black silk dress. But he had work to do, and he brought his book up to the table. He was reading Osler's _Medicine_, which had recently taken the place in the students' favour of Taylor's work, for many years the text-book most in use. Presently Mildred came in, rolling down her sleeves. Philip gave her a casual glance, but did not move; the occasion was curious, and he felt a little nervous. He feared that Mildred might imagine he was going to make a nuisance of himself, and he did not quite know how without brutality to reassure her. "By the way, I've got a lecture at nine, so I should want breakfast at a quarter past eight. Can you manage that?" "Oh, yes. Why, when I was in Parliament Street I used to catch the eight-twelve from Herne Hill every morning." "I hope you'll find your room comfortable. You'll be a different woman tomorrow after a long night in bed." "I suppose you work till late?" "I generally work till about eleven or half-past." "I'll say good-night then." "Good-night." The table was between them. He did not offer to shake hands with her. She shut the door quietly. He heard her moving about in the bed-room, and in a little while he heard the creaking of the bed as she got in. CHAPTER XCII THE following day was Tuesday. Philip as usual hurried through his breakfast and dashed off


these occasions. But his greatest trials were in the churchyard: which had the appearance of a primeval forest, with a kind of small ecclesiastical wash-house on one side, and a turnpike gate on the other. Mr. Wopsle in a comprehensive black cloak, being descried entering at the turnpike, the gravedigger was admonished in a friendly way, "Look out! Here's the undertaker a-coming, to see how you're a-getting on with your work!" I believe it is well known in a constitutional country that Mr. Wopsle could not possibly have returned the skull, after moralizing over it, without dusting his fingers on a white napkin taken from his breast; but even that innocent and indispensable action did not pass without the comment "Wai-ter!" The arrival of the body for interment (in an empty black box with the lid tumbling open), was the signal for a general joy which was much enhanced by the discovery, among the bearers, of an individual obnoxious to identification. The joy attended Mr. Wopsle through his struggle with Laertes on the brink of the orchestra and the grave, and slackened no more until he had tumbled the king off the kitchen-table, and had died by inches from the ankles upward. We had made some pale efforts in the beginning to applaud Mr. Wopsle; but they were too hopeless to be persisted in. Therefore we had sat, feeling keenly for him, but laughing, nevertheless, from ear to ear. I laughed in spite of myself all the time, the whole thing was so droll; and yet I had a latent impression that there was something decidedly fine in Mr. Wopsle's elocution - not for old associations' sake, I am afraid, but because it was very slow, very dreary, very up-hill and down-hill, and very unlike any way in which any man in any natural circumstances of life or death ever expressed himself about anything. When the tragedy was over, and he had been called for and hooted, I said to Herbert, "Let us go at once, or perhaps we shall meet him." We made all the haste we could down-stairs, but we were not quick enough either. Standing at the door was a Jewish man with an unnatural heavy smear of eyebrow, who caught my eyes as we advanced, and said, when we came up with him: "Mr. Pip and friend?" Identity of Mr. Pip and friend confessed. "Mr. Waldengarver," said the man, "would be glad to have the honour." "Waldengarver?" I repeated - when Herbert murmured in my ear, "Probably Wopsle." "Oh!" said I. "Yes. Shall we follow you?" "A few steps, please." When we were in a side alley, he turned and asked, "How did you think he looked? - I dressed him." I don't know what he had looked like, except a funeral; with the addition of a large Danish sun or star hanging round his neck by a blue ribbon, that had given him the appearance of being insured in some extraordinary Fire Office. But I said he had looked very nice. "When he come to the grave,"


throw like clay on a wheel, to be turned and worked and smoothed into a shape she might one day be able to hold within herself. But she also felt relief. He had believed her story, not condemned her as a witch. He knew the Mother. He had grown up to be a warrior, as kind and gentle by nature as Meren. And she loved him just as much now as she had when she held him for the first time. 88 East Dumai lay in a nest of bedding. In her arms, Nikeya rested, engoldened by the faint glow of a candle. Outside the tent, all was dark. They had set out into the forest at dawn, as they had every day since Nikeya had come, and helped Unora and the others chop wood for the crossbows. Later, Nikeya had helped Dumai refine her archery before shooting down a deer for supper. To hide her clan, she had named herself Tonra, after the woman on Brhazat. ‘Do you think it belongs to the gods?’ Dumai glanced at Nikeya. She was studying the dark stone, tilting it into the light. ‘Furtia said it was a remnant of the star,’ Dumai said. ‘That it held a great and terrible power.’ ‘It unsettles me.’ Nikeya stifled a cough. Dumai stroked her hair, taking a deep breath. ‘I have thought on your proposal,’ she said. ‘At last. I was almost starting to feel embarrassed. A rare experience, for me.’ Nikeya sat up. ‘What was the outcome of all that rumination, wise sage of the forest?’ ‘I am sorry it took so long. I have never been with anyone, the way you and I are—’ ‘Dumai, I know. I’m teasing. Have you not met me?’ ‘Fortunately.’ Dumai traced the line of her back, stroking the last of the bruising there. ‘I was born into a temple. I know the bones and stomach of every ritual of Seiiki, from the ancient to the new.’ She met that bright and curious gaze. ‘We pledged our love by water, under the night sky. If you still want to be wed to me, then you already are, Nikeya.’ Nikeya linked their fingers. ‘Then I am.’ Dumai smiled back, brushing the start of a tear from her cheek. Nikeya lay at her side again. ‘Of course, the courtly tradition is that one is always discovered in bed, the morning after a secret marriage,’ she said, a coy light in her eyes. ‘Sooner or later, the world comes to know.’ ‘We should keep it a secret for now.’ ‘Queen Dumai, are you ashamed of your silver consort?’ ‘I simply want to treasure these hours, with no one to remark on us. Besides,’ Dumai said, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear, ‘a clever woman once told me that our world floats on secrets.’ Nikeya laughed at that. ‘You are sweeter with your words than you were. I credit myself.’ ‘As you should.’ Dumai kissed her, breathing in the smell of woodsmoke from the fires. ‘Furtia has been gone for some


purpose, and that the Oath of Fanor is again at work. For the Silmarils are cursed with an oath of hatred, and he that even names them in desire moves a great power from slumber; and the sons of Fanor would lay all the Elf-kingdoms in ruin rather than suffer any other than themselves to win or possess a Silmaril, for the Oath drives them. And now Celegorm and Curufin are dwelling in my halls; and though I, Finarfin's son, am King, they have won a strong power in the realm, and lead many of their own people. They have shown friendship to me in every need, but I fear that they will show neither love nor mercy to you, if your quest be told. Yet my own oath holds; and thus we are all ensnared.' Then King Felagund spoke before his people, recalling the deeds of Barahir, and his vow and he declared that it was laid upon him to aid the son of Barahir in his need, and he sought the help of his chieftains. Then Celegorm arose amid the throng, and drawing his sword he cried: 'Be he friend or foe, whether demon of Morgoth, of Elf, or child of Men, or any other living thing in Arda, neither law, nor love, nor league of hell, nor might of the Valar, nor any power of wizardry, shall defend him from the pursuing hate of Fanor's sons, if he take or find a Silmaril and keep it. For the Silmarils we alone claim, until the world ends.' Many other words he spoke, as potent as were long before in Tirion the words of his father that first inflamed the Noldor to rebellion. And after Celegorm Curufin spoke, more softly but with no less power, conjuring in the minds of the Elves a vision of war and the ruin of Nargothrond. So great a fear did he set in their hearts that never after until the time of Trin would any Elf of that realm go into open battle; but with stealth and ambush, with wizardry and venomed dart, they pursued all strangers, forgetting the bonds of kinship. Thus they fell from the valour and freedom of the Elves of old, and their land was darkened. And now they murmured that Finarfin's son was not as a Vala to command them, and they turned their faces from him. But the curse of Mandos came upon the brothers, and dark thoughts arose in their hearts, thinking to send forth Felagund alone to his death, and to usurp, it might be, the throne of Nargothrond; for they were of the eldest line of the princes of the Noldor. And Felagund seeing that he was forsaken took from his head the silver crown of Nargothrond and cast it at his feet, saying: 'Your oaths of faith to me you may break, but I must hold my bond. Yet if there be any on whom the shadow of out curse has not yet fallen, I should find at least a few to follow me, and


until it’s time. * * * — The Heraklion is the biggest tower as you walk along the Chersenesos east shore, the one that gets the sun in the morning. On the west side, where people love sunsets, there’s the Perseid. It’s the same building facing the other way, except that the Heraklion is where Athena has a penthouse. The security is a lot better than it is on my apartment. “She dropped by my place,” I tell Ken the doorman. “Yes, sir,” Ken says. “It was a movie scene. She sat behind my desk. Surprised me.” “That must have been very dramatic, sir.” “I figured I could pay her back. Just head right on up.” “Yes, sir.” “You’re good with that?” “Of course, sir.” “So I can go right on up?” “As soon as she confirms, sir.” There are sixteen Tonfamecasca apartments in this building. Figure Ken has seen some shit. Figure Ken is not remotely interested in mine. I wait for Athena to confirm. * * * — “Come on in, Cal,” she says. She has a shoe in one hand, something from that Portuguese designer, custom-made for her. The heels have to be flared just before the stiletto tip or the weight of her body will put them through most engineered hardwoods. “I’m just getting ready.” “I don’t mean to intrude.” “You’re not. Come on in. I’ve got about forty minutes.” She’s wearing a blue silk thing that looks like she stole midnight and wrapped it around her shoulders. I go to sit down in the living room. “I’m not getting dressed out there, Cal.” “I thought you were done.” “This is a bathrobe. Don’t be an ass, get in here.” So I get the chair in the bedroom instead. Athena glances over one shoulder. “Okay, what’s up?” “I need the history.” “We did this. It’s not really my thing. You need—” “Maurice does not like me.” “He’s offended on my behalf. It’s not that he dislikes you.” “Kinda is.” She picks something out of the wardrobe in silver sequins and dumps the blue thing on the bed. Too late, I shut my eyes. The afterimage of her flashes on my retinas like a shadow cabaret: perfect silhouette stretching. I hear her chuckle, and the sound of something sheer on skin. “It’s safe to look now, Cal.” “I doubt that.” I’m right. She’s dressed, but I don’t want to touch her any less. She turns her back on me and indicates the zip. Goddammit, Athena. I zip her up. I try not to notice the heat coming off her, but I’m clumsy, and the nape of her neck is higher than it was when I used to do this. My fingers brush her spine. She doesn’t move at all, or make a sound. The stillness makes it worse. We stand that way, my arm out holding the zip at eye level, knowing it can go down as well as up, and that if I exert the tiniest tug in that direction I will begin something which cannot be stopped.


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 can sleep together on this pile of rugs," said Julian. "And we two boys will have this pile." George looked as if she didn't want to be put with Anne, and classed as a girl. But Anne didn't wish to sleep alone in her corner, and she looked so beseechingly at George that the bigger girl smiled at her and made no objection. Anne thought that George was getting nicer and nicer! "Well, now we'll get down to business," said Julian, and he pulled out his map. "We must study this really carefully, and find out exactly under what spot the entrances to the dungeons are. Now- come around and let's do our best to find out! It's up to us to use our brains- and beat that man who's bought the island!" They all bent over the traced map. It was quite dry now, and the children looked at it earnestly. It was plain that in the old days the castle had been a very fine place. "Now look," said Julian, putting his finger on the plan of the dungeons. "These seem to run all along under the castle- and here- and here- are the marks that seem to be meant to represent steps or stairs." "Yes," said George. "I should think they are. Well, if so, there appear to be two ways of getting down into the dungeons. One lot of steps seems to begin somewhere near this little room- and the other seems to start under the tower there. And what do you suppose this thing is here, Julian?" She put her finger on a round hole that was shown not only in the plan of the dungeons, but also in the plan of the ground floor of the castle. "I can't imagine what that is," said Julian, puzzled. "Oh yes, I


and explained many of its elementary terms. After having made a few preparatory experiments, he concluded with a panegyric upon modern chemistry, the terms of which I shall never forget: "The ancient teachers of this science," said he, "promised impossibilities and performed nothing. The modern masters promise very little; they know that metals cannot be transmuted and that the elixir of life is a chimera but these philosophers, whose hands seem only made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pore over the microscope or crucible, have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the recesses of nature and show how she works in her hiding-places. They ascend into the heavens; they have discovered how the blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows." Such were the professor's words--rather let me say such the words of the fate--enounced to destroy me. As he went on I felt as if my soul were grappling with a palpable enemy; one by one the various keys were touched which formed the mechanism of my being; chord after chord was sounded, and soon my mind was filled with one thought, one conception, one purpose. So much has been done, exclaimed the soul of Frankenstein--more, far more, will I achieve; treading in the steps already marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation. I closed not my eyes that night. My internal being was in a state of insurrection and turmoil; I felt that order would thence arise, but I had no power to produce it. By degrees, after the morning's dawn, sleep came. I awoke, and my yesternight's thoughts were as a dream. There only remained a resolution to return to my ancient studies and to devote myself to a science for which I believed myself to possess a natural talent. On the same day I paid M. Waldman a visit. His manners in private were even more mild and attractive than in public, for there was a certain dignity in his mien during his lecture which in his own house was replaced by the greatest affability and kindness. I gave him pretty nearly the same account of my former pursuits as I had given to his fellow professor. He heard with attention the little narration concerning my studies and smiled at the names of Cornelius Agrippa and Paracelsus, but without the contempt that M. Krempe had exhibited. He said that "These were men to whose indefatigable zeal modern philosophers were indebted for most of the foundations of their knowledge. They had left to us, as an easier task, to give new names and arrange in connected classifications the facts which they in a great degree had been the instruments of bringing to light. The labours of men of genius, however erroneously directed, scarcely ever fail in ultimately turning to the solid advantage of


you told me to get my pants hemmed is so depressing. I can’t believe you go there.” I leaned against my open front door, in a fraying hoodie and soiled pajama bottoms, blinking at her over my first Diet Coke of the day. What did she want from me? What was I supposed to say? “I can’t believe you go there!” she repeated, and it became clear to me that she wanted…an explanation. An apology. Unfortunately, I was in no mood to be forced to atone for a place I: did not conceptualize. did not build. do not own. do not live in. do not profit from. frequently use with satisfaction. told her about as a courtesy because she asked me! Wanting to keep this early-morning interaction as brief as possible, my brain cycled through the possibilities of how to respond. I could: apologize for, uhh, helping her and solving her problem? apologize for having poor taste in local shopping plazas? apologize for being alive? apologize, then snarkily ask how her dry cleaning turned out, and then immediately and reflexively apologize for being snarky? Imagine me saying, “I’m sorry that the home of Bill’s Greeting Card Hut and Lucy’s Luxury Lashes wasn’t up to your exacting standards, and I apologize for making you look at dull brown bricks.” I would rather live inside the Value City that’s next door to Glamour Nails! But I didn’t say anything, and she chuckled again, saying, “It’s so ugly!” followed by an anticipative pause. And I dunno, man, the smoothie spot is pretty good and the out-of-business DVD store is oddly comforting to me, so I arranged my face into something resembling cheerfulness and said, in my highest octave, “I like it!” Gotcha, bitch. I watched as she searched for something to say next since I’d dodged the trap she’d set and whatever further insults she had prepared to hit me with. “I like it!” I chirped again. “I like it! I like it a lot!” I don’t remember if I slammed the door in her face or kicked her backward down my concrete steps, but what I do know is, that day a new person was born, an upgraded version of myself that no longer felt shamed by some smarty-pants making fun of the John Grisham novel poking out of my backpack. I’d need a sociology degree to write about this in a real way, but we live in such a hilariously stupid time, where everyone is just hurling expectations of justification at each other constantly, and I’m sorry, lads, but I don’t like it. I have no idea what news is real or which celebrity is an actual good person or what zeitgeisty show most deserves my attention or which cause is the correct one for me to text my $10 monetary support to, but I do know that if I pick the wrong one, someone I don’t know very well, or maybe don’t even know at all, is going to demand to know “WHY?” I can’t live in hell and make excuses for


bang. Either we need to punch up Jay and Dillon’s lines or make Noah and Henrietta do something more dramatic.” “Well—” I said. The sketch ended with Noah and Henrietta doing yoga, and the idea that immediately occurred to me was simultaneously obvious, reliable, and, because of Noah’s presence, slightly embarrassing to articulate. But because approximately 30 percent of me had developed a crush on Noah while 120 percent of me was a comedy writer, I said it anyway. “Why don’t we have one of them fart? Or both of them, and that’s the one time Jay and Dillon actually listen?” Dillon said, “Or I turn to Jay and am like, ‘Wait, did you hear something?’ And he’s like, ‘Nope, I don’t think so.’ ” “Alternatively,” Elliot said, “while, Sally, I hate to deny you that old chestnut, you know when kids play the game Airplane? What if that’s what they’re doing, with Noah on the ground holding Henrietta up on his legs. Is that doable, Noah and Henri?” One of the ways it was obvious that Noah was a good sport was that he didn’t hesitate before lying flat on his back on the not especially clean stage floor, his golden hair draped over TNO dust and debris. He lifted his legs and arms, and Henrietta leaned over him so his heels lined up with her hipbones, their hands clasped. As he bent his knees, he said to her, “Want me to take off my shoes?” “Nah,” she replied—Henrietta was also a very good sport—and then she leaned in even farther and suddenly was aloft on his feet. Watching them, I felt a strange and not immediately identifiable feeling, though I knew it wasn’t good. “Can we get some airplane sound effects?” Abraham said. “Or they just make them with their mouths?” “Vroom, vroom,” Henrietta said. “Or no, that’s cars.” “Let’s try it both ways,” I said to Abraham. We went through the sketch again, start to finish, and when we got to the airplane part a second time, I understood. I was jealous. Not because Henrietta was famous and I wasn’t, or because she was objectively prettier than I was. I was jealous because she got to tussle in this silly way with Noah, to hold hands with him. I was jealous of the physical contact and the proximity. I thought then of Gene and his dick pic. Apparently, I was due for a session with him after all, to stave off exactly this type of inconvenient yearning. After Bob, the camera guys, and the control room had decided which camera would cut to Noah and Henrietta on the floor, rehearsal was finished, and I thanked everyone. “Hey, Sally,” Noah called and waved me over from the stage, where Elliot had joined him. “Breaking news on the wildlife front. Turns out Nigel suggested a snake instead of a panther.” I glanced at Elliot. “Like Britney Spears at the VMAs way back when?” “I know she’s not the Indigo Girls or Diana Ross,” Noah said, “but don’t you think a Britney


(n) misfortune. conformable, consistent, impolite, improper, misbehaving, unceremonious: (adj) informal, corresponding, respondent; (adv) unsuitable, unrefined, relaxed, familiar, casual, abrupt, uncivil, correspondingly, accordingly. inappropriate, rowdy, undignified, ungracious, rough, sharp, curt, brethren: (n) congregation, assembly, defiant, unseemly. unceremonial, bluff. ANTONYMS: brother, people, laity, family, flock, futurity: (n) hereafter, futurition, (adj) formal, gracious. fold. timing, millennium, offing, future unquiet: (adj) restless, anxious, consolatory: (adj) consoling, soothing, tense, afterlife, time to come; (v) Int nervous, turbulent, unsettled, cheering. he womb of time. ANTONYMS: (n) disturbed, fussy, tumultuous; (v) decorous: (adj) decent, appropriate, past, pastness. movable, saltatory, shifting. conventional, sedate, correct, modest, meditations: (n) contemplation, ANTONYM: (adj) quiet. Nathaniel Hawthorne 41 were falling: and at last, after subsisting for four years on the mercy of a hostile administration, to be compelled then to define his position anew, and claim the yet more humiliating mercy of a friendly one.% Meanwhile, the press had taken up my affair, and kept me for a week or two careering through the public prints, in my decapitated state, like Irving's Headless Horseman, ghastly and grim, and longing to be buried, as a political dead man ought. So much for my figurative self. The real human being all this time, with his head safely on his shoulders, had brought himself to the comfortable conclusion that everything was for the best; and making an investment in ink, paper, and steel pens, had opened his long-disused writing desk, and was again a literary man. Now it was that the lucubrations of my ancient predecessor, Mr. Surveyor Pue, came into play. Rusty through long idleness, some little space was requisite before my intellectual machinery could be brought to work upon the tale with an effect in any degree satisfactory. Even yet, though my thoughts were ultimately much absorbed in the task, it wears, to my eye, a stern and sombre aspect: too much ungladdened by genial sunshine; too little relieved by the tender and familiar influences which soften almost every scene of nature and real life, and undoubtedly should soften every picture of them. This uncaptivating effect is perhaps due to the period of hardly accomplished revolution, and still seething turmoil, in which the story shaped itself. It is no indication, however, of a lack of cheerfulness in the writer's mind: for he was happier while straying through the gloom of these sunless fantasies than at any time since he had quitted the Old Manse. Some of the briefer articles, which contribute to make up the volume, have likewise been written since my involuntary withdrawal from the toils and honours of public life, and the remainder are gleaned from annuals and magazines, of such antique date, that they have gone round the circle, and come back to novelty again. Keeping up the metaphor of the political guillotine, the whole may be considered as the POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF A DECAPITATED SURVEYOR: and the sketch which I am now bringing to a close, if too autobiographical for a modest person to publish in his lifetime, will readily be excused in a gentleman who writes from Thesaurus cheerfulness: (n)


Police. They might’ve been racist, I don’t know, but they weren’t inexperienced. I like how you’ve laid out not just the subject but a thesis statement, too. One danger with that—” I sipped my coffee, buying time. I felt adrenal, wondered what on earth I’d started. “One danger is that if you lay out your theories at the beginning, and then change your mind as you investigate, you’ll be stuck.” “I won’t change my mind,” Britt said. “I’ve already done a ton of research. The case was so flaky.” I assumed she meant flimsy. She asked if I’d seen the Diane Sawyer interview with Omar’s mother. I hadn’t; she told me she’d send it. “When you hear her speak you’ll understand,” she said. I was sure his mother believed with every cell of her body that he was innocent. I was sure that came through on camera. I said, “Maybe there were flaws in the case. But they had his DNA on her swimsuit. One of his hairs was in her mouth. They had him in the building when she died, and they can’t put anyone else there. They had a confession. They had the motive, at least according to her friends. They had that noose he drew in the directory. People get convicted on much less.” I heard myself, a parrot. But Britt was only parroting the Reddit boards. I didn’t want her to swing into obstinacy in either direction. I wanted her to do a good job, to wake all the sleeping tigers and ask all the questions I couldn’t wrap my own head around. Because there were things I could never quite reconcile. In real life, you don’t get the murderer telling you exactly what he did and why he did it. Even Omar’s confession, taken at face value, left major gaps. What I wanted, but could never get, was to go back and see it happen. Not the grisly parts, not the death, but every step leading up to it, every moment when fate could have stepped just an inch to the side and left Thalia intact. “What does everyone think?” I asked the group. “In general, is it better to go in asking questions, or positing answers?” “But I listen to your podcast,” Jamila said, “and you’re, like, Everything you know about Judy Garland is wrong. That’s how you hook people, right?” I said, “Sure, and I did a year of research on Judy Garland before we started. I wasn’t still learning as we produced.” Alder said to Britt, “Okay, so who did it? Isn’t that the unanswered part? Or do you know?” She shrugged. “There’s a ton of people it could be, but no one obvious. Like, her boyfriend was this guy Robbie Serenho, but he was at a party in the woods with tons of witnesses, but if the time of her death is wrong that doesn’t matter. And also, it might not have even been murder. There’s a theory that she jumped into the pool from the observation deck, and she hit her head


Now he is dead. Anything you can tell us would be helpful." Vernet broke a sweat. "We need to get out of the building. I'm afraid the police will arrive shortly. My watchman felt obliged to call Interpol." Sophie had feared as much. She took one last shot. "My grandfather said he needed to tell me the truth about my family. Does that mean anything to you?" "Mademoiselle, your family died in a car accident when you were young. I'm sorry. I know your grandfather loved you very much. He mentioned to me several times how much it pained him that you two had fallen out of touch." Sophie was uncertain how to respond. Langdon asked, "Do the contents of this account have anything to do with the Sangreal?" Vernet gave him an odd look. "I have no idea what that is." Just then, Vernet's cell phone rang, and he snatched it off his belt. "Oui?" He listened a moment, his expression one of surprise and growing concern. "La police? Si rapidement?" He cursed, gave some quick directions in French, and said he would be up to the lobby in a minute. Hanging up the phone, he turned back to Sophie. "The police have responded far more quickly than usual. They are arriving as we speak." Sophie had no intention of leaving empty-handed. "Tell them we came and went already. If they want to search the bank, demand a search warrant. That will take them time." "Listen," Vernet said, "Jacques was a friend, and my bank does not need this kind of press, so for those two reasons, I have no intention of allowing this arrest to be made on my premises. Give me a minute and I will see what I can do to help you leave the bank undetected. Beyond that, I cannot get involved." He stood up and hurried for the door. "Stay here. I'll make arrangements and be right back." "But the safe-deposit box," Sophie declared. "We can't just leave." "There's nothing I can do," Vernet said, hurrying out the door. "I'm sorry." Sophie stared after him a moment, wondering if maybe the account number was buried in one of the countless letters and packages her grandfather had sent her over the years and which she had left unopened. Langdon stood suddenly, and Sophie sensed an unexpected glimmer of contentment in his eyes. "Robert? You're smiling." "Your grandfather was a genius." "I'm sorry?" "Ten digits?" Sophie had no idea what he was talking about. "The account number," he said, a familiar lopsided grin now craning his face. "I'm pretty sure he left it for us after all." "Where?" Langdon produced the printout of the crime scene photo and spread it out on the coffee table. Sophie needed only to read the first line to know Langdon was correct. 13-3-2-21-1-1-8-5 O, Draconian devil! Oh, lame saint! P.S. Find Robert Langdon 126 CHAPTER 44 "Ten digits," Sophie said, her cryptologic senses tingling as she studied the printout. 13-3-2-21-1-1-8-5 Grand-pre wrote his account number on the Louvre floor! When Sophie had


overcoats there. Why had she bidden him to come early if she was having people to dine? On a closer inspection of the garments besides which Nastasia was laying his own, his resentment gave way to curiosity. The overcoats were in fact the very strangest he had ever seen under a polite roof; and it took but a glance to assure himself that neither of them belonged to Julius Beaufort. One was a shaggy yellow ulster of "reach-me- down" cut, the other a very old and rusty cloak with a cape--something like what the French called a "Macfarlane." This garment, which appeared to be made for a person of prodigious size, had evidently seen long and hard wear, and its greenish-black folds gave out a moist sawdusty smell suggestive of prolonged sessions against bar-room walls. On it lay a ragged grey scarf and an odd felt hat of semiclerical shape. Archer raised his eyebrows enquiringly at Nastasia, who raised hers in return with a fatalistic "Gia!" as she threw open the drawing-room door. The young man saw at once that his hostess was not in the room; then, with surprise, he discovered another lady standing by the fire. This lady, who was long, lean and loosely put together, was clad in raiment intricately looped and fringed, with plaids and stripes and bands of plain colour disposed in a design to which the clue seemed missing. Her hair, which had tried to turn white and only succeeded in fading, was surmounted by a Spanish comb and black lace scarf, and silk mittens, visibly darned, covered her rheumatic hands. Beside her, in a cloud of cigar-smoke, stood the owners of the two overcoats, both in morning clothes that they had evidently not taken off since morning. In one of the two, Archer, to his surprise, recognised Ned Winsett; the other and older, who was unknown to him, and whose gigantic frame declared him to be the wearer of the "Macfarlane," had a feebly leonine head with crumpled grey hair, and moved his arms with large pawing gestures, as though he were distributing lay blessings to a kneeling multitude. These three persons stood together on the hearth- rug, their eyes fixed on an extraordinarily large bouquet of crimson roses, with a knot of purple pansies at their base, that lay on the sofa where Madame Olenska usually sat. "What they must have cost at this season--though of course it's the sentiment one cares about!" the lady was saying in a sighing staccato as Archer came in. The three turned with surprise at his appearance, and the lady, advancing, held out her hand. "Dear Mr. Archer--almost my cousin Newland!" she said. "I am the Marchioness Manson." Archer bowed, and she continued: "My Ellen has taken me in for a few days. I came from Cuba, where I have been spending the winter with Spanish friends-- such delightful distinguished people: the highest nobility of old Castile--how I wish you could know them! But I was called away by our dear great friend here, Dr. Carver. You don't


Instagram and swipe over to Maddy DeMarco’s profile, trying to remember if I felt anything but agony when I was working on her book. I scroll back, back, back to when I was drafting. There’s a photo of her at some upscale cabin, a mug of coffee beside her on the table, where she sits with her laptop, next to a window with a stunning mountain landscape. Hard at work on edits! I can actually hear myself think out here, says the caption. I’m not sure how much longer I can be invisible. * * * Finn has a late-afternoon media blitz, a handful of podcast and YouTube interviews, and doesn’t get home until after dinner, after a dozen apology texts and a dozen replies assuring him that it’s fine, that I can fend for myself. And it is fine, but it’s also given me too much to think about. About the job. About the future. About us. Because that’s a fun side effect of Stella’s call: now that we’re officially together, I have to wonder what happens to us when the book is done, when I go back to Seattle and he prepares for the next round of cons. I save some veggie Thai takeout for him, pouring some wine and managing to figure out his sound system only to discover it’s set to a jazz playlist. Finn likes jazz—something I didn’t know about him until just now. I shouldn’t have a strong reaction to this, since we’ve only barely talked about music, but still, it makes me realize I only met him a few months ago. There is still so much I don’t know. When he tosses his bag into his office and spots the wine and food on the dining room table, the grin on his face is enough to take those worries down from an eleven to a four. There’s a coziness here, a domesticity that’s almost a bit too comfortable. I could just slide right into his life, the way I’m doing now, and maybe my career would matter a little less. And the anxiety is back. My cuticles are a war zone. “So . . . I got an interesting job offer today,” I say, after he tells me about rehearsals, about the YouTube interview that had him respond to the most popular Google search queries about himself. “Oh yeah?” he asks between spoonfuls of tom yum soup. I explain it to him, laying out as many details as Stella gave me. “And apparently he’s like, really nice? So that’s a plus.” “Hmm.” More soup. More silence. “I told my agent I’d think about it,” I say, because something about his silence sounds like disappointment, and I don’t want him to be disappointed in me. “But . . . it’s really good money.” “You’d be ghostwriting again, though.” “Well, yes. That’s my job.” Another bout of quiet. At the beginning, I used to love how Finn took his time to answer questions, but now all I want is to shake his shoulders until the words spill


Yassen’s white, colorless eyes. “Are you Jantari?” the attendant asked, surprised. “No,” Yassen responded gruffly and clipped his visor back on. “My father was.” “Hmph.” The attendant looked at his holopod and then back at him. “Purpose of your visit?” Yassen paused. The attendant peered at him, and for one wild moment, Yassen wondered if he should turn away, jump back on the boat, and go wherever the sea pushed him. But then a coldness slithered down his right elbow, and he gripped his arm. “To visit some old friends,” Yassen said. The attendant snorted, but when the holopod slid back out, Yassen saw the burning insignia of a mohanti, a winged ox, on its surface. “Welcome to the Kingdom of Jantar,” the attendant said and waved him through. Yassen stepped through the glass immigration office and into Rysanti. He breathed in the sharp salt air, intermingled with spices both foreign and familiar. A storm had passed through recently, leaving puddles in its wake. A woman ahead of Yassen slipped on a wet plank and a merchant reached out to steady her. Yassen pushed past them, keeping his head down. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the merchant swipe the woman’s holopod and hide it in his jacket. Yassen smothered a laugh. As he wandered toward the homeland dock, he scanned the faces in the crowd. The time was nearly two past the sun’s breath. Samson and his men should have been here by now. He came to the bridge connecting the receiving and homeland docks. At the other end of the bridge was a lonely tea stall, held together by worn planks—but the large holosign snagged his attention. WARM YOUR TIRED BONES FROM YOUR PASSAGE AT SEA! FRESH HOT LEMON CAKES AND RAVANI TEA SERVED DAILY! it read. It was the word Ravani that sent a jolt through Yassen. Home—the one he longed for but knew he was no longer welcome in. Yassen drew up to the tea stall. Three large hourglasses hissed and steamed. Tea leaves floated along their bottoms, slowly steeping, as a heavyset Sesharian woman flipped them in timed intervals. On her hand, Yassen spotted a tattoo of a bull. The same mark Samson had asked him to look for. When the woman met Yassen’s eyes, she twirled the hourglass once more before drying her hands on the towel around her wide waist. “Whatcha want?” she asked in a river-hoarse voice. “One tea and cake, please,” Yassen said. “You’re lucky. I just got a fresh batch of leaves from my connect. Straight from the canyons of Ravence.” “Exactly why I want one,” he said and placed his holopod in the counter insert. Yassen tapped it twice. “Keep the change,” he added. She nodded and turned back to the giant hourglasses. The brass beneath Yassen’s feet grew warmer in the yawning day. Across the docks, more boats pulled in, carrying immigrant laborers and tourists. Yassen adjusted his visor, making sure it was fully in place, as the woman simultaneously flipped the hourglass and slid off its


game, didn't you?) No; deuce a bit of a lady in the case, Mr. Pip, except one - and she wasn't of this slender ladylike sort, and you wouldn't have caught her looking after this urn - unless there was something to drink in it." Wemmick's attention being thus directed to his brooch, he put down the cast, and polished the brooch with his pocket-handkerchief. "Did that other creature come to the same end?" I asked. "He has the same look." "You're right," said Wemmick; "it's the genuine look. Much as if one nostril was caught up with a horsehair and a little fish-hook. Yes, he came to the same end; quite the natural end here, I assure you. He forged wills, this blade did, if he didn't also put the supposed testators to sleep too. You were a gentlemanly Cove, though" (Mr. Wemmick was again apostrophizing), "and you said you could write Greek. Yah, Bounceable! What a liar you were! I never met such a liar as you!" Before putting his late friend on his shelf again, Wemmick touched the largest of his mourning rings and said, "Sent out to buy it for me, only the day before." While he was putting up the other cast and coming down from the chair, the thought crossed my mind that all his personal jewellery was derived from like sources. As he had shown no diffidence on the subject, I ventured on the liberty of asking him the question, when he stood before me, dusting his hands. "Oh yes," he returned, "these are all gifts of that kind. One brings another, you see; that's the way of it. I always take 'em. They're curiosities. And they're property. They may not be worth much, but, after all, they're property and portable. It don't signify to you with your brilliant look-out, but as to myself, my guidingstar always is, "Get hold of portable property"." When I had rendered homage to this light, he went on to say, in a friendly manner: "If at any odd time when you have nothing better to do, you wouldn't mind coming over to see me at Walworth, I could offer you a bed, and I should consider it an honour. I have not much to show you; but such two or three curiosities as I have got, you might like to look over; and I am fond of a bit of garden and a summer-house." I said I should be delighted to accept his hospitality. "Thankee," said he; "then we'll consider that it's to come off, when convenient to you. Have you dined with Mr. Jaggers yet?" "Not yet." "Well," said Wemmick, "he'll give you wine, and good wine. I'll give you punch, and not bad punch. and now I'll tell you something. When you go to dine with Mr. Jaggers, look at his housekeeper." "Shall I see something very uncommon?" "Well," said Wemmick, "you'll see a wild beast tamed. Not so very uncommon, you'll tell me. I reply, that depends on the original wildness of the beast, and the


the death occurring at the time of an uncancelled appointment which was only known to him. However, both of them were under his influence, and he had nothing to fear from them. The first half of his task was successfully accomplished but the more difficult still remained. "It is possible that Stapleton did not know of the existence of an heir in Canada. In any case he would very soon learn it from his friend Dr. Mortimer, and he was told by the latter all details about the arrival of Henry Baskerville. Stapleton's first idea was that this young stranger from Canada might possibly be done to death in London without coming down to Devonshire at all. He distrusted his wife ever since she had refused to help him in laying a trap for the old man, and he dared not leave her long out of his sight for fear he should lose his influence over her. It was for this reason that he took her to London with him. They lodged, I find, at the Mexborough Private Hotel, in Craven Street, which was actually one of those called upon by my agent in search of evidence. Here he kept his wife imprisoned in her room while he, disguised in a beard, followed Dr. Mortimer to Baker Street and afterwards to the station and to the North- umberland Hotel. His wife had some inkling of his plans; but she had such a fear of her husband -- a fear founded upon brutal ill-treatment -- that she dare not write to warn the man whom she knew to be in danger. If the letter should fall into Stapleton's hands her own life would not be safe. Eventually, as we know, she adopted the expedient of cutting out the words which would form the message, and addressing the letter in a disguised hand. It reached the baronet, and gave him the first warning of his danger. "It was very essential for Stapleton to get some article of Sir Henry's attire so that, in case he was driven to use the dog, he might always have the means of setting him upon his track. With characteristic promptness and audacity he set about this at once, and we cannot doubt that the boots or chamber-maid of the hotel was well bribed to help him in his design. By chance, however, the first boot which was procured for him was a new one and, therefore, useless for his purpose. He then had it returned and obtained another -- a most instructive incident, since it proved conclusively to my mind that we were dealing with a real hound, as no other supposition could explain this anxiety to obtain an old boot and this indifference to a new one. The more outre and grotesque an incident is the more carefully it deserves to be examined, and the very point which appears to complicate a case is, when duly considered and scientifically handled, the one which is most likely to elucidate it. "Then we had the visit from our friends


realized he knew I hadn’t gone to the movies. Heading to the garage was just a way of throwing me off his trail.” I get her gist. Instead of entering through the back, he went to the garage before going around to the front of the house and using the main door. “I marched right into that house, ready to catch the two of them in the act and then tell Winston Hope exactly what his daughter was doing with my husband. I was certain he’d pay up. After firing Ricardo, of course. And probably me, as well. Which was even more reason to try to get as much money as I could.” “But it didn’t work out that way.” “No,” Berniece says quietly. “It didn’t.” I glance at my watch. My five minutes are up. But I can’t leave. Not until I hear the full story. Trying to move her along, I say, “What happened when you went inside?” “I got as far as the kitchen before that bitch ran in.” I can only assume the bitch in question is Lenora. “She looked scared,” Berniece says. “At first I thought it was because of me. That she knew they’d been found out. But then I noticed her hands.” My chair starts to vibrate. I look down and notice I’m tapping my right foot, set into motion by both impatience and suspense. “What about them?” “They were bloody.” My foot stills instantly, as does the rest of my body as I picture young Lenora standing in the kitchen, blood dripping from her hands. A horrible image for many reasons. “Did she say anything?” “Not at first,” Berniece says. “She just stared at me, shocked to see me there. And then we both heard a scream. It came from upstairs, echoing down the service stairs.” “Do you know who it was?” I say. “Either Mrs. Hope or the younger daughter,” Berniece says. “It was definitely a woman. As she kept on screaming, Lenora grabbed a knife from the kitchen counter. Then she glared at me and said, ‘Get out right now.’ ” “What did you say?” “Nothing. I just nodded and left. I was too scared to do anything else. But I knew something awful was happening inside that house. It wasn’t until the police came that I realized just how awful it really was.” Berniece looks down at her lap, ashamed. “I think about that moment a lot. If I’d refused to go, maybe Lenora would have killed me on the spot. Or maybe the other killings wouldn’t have happened. Maybe some of them could have been saved. Especially the younger daughter. Virginia. The poor thing. In such a state, too.” “Why didn’t you tell the police any of this?” “Because I wanted to protect Ricardo,” Berniece says, a catch in her throat. “I knew it wasn’t just Lenora responsible for those murders. Ricardo was part of it, too. He had to be. Because he never came back to the cottage. Not that night. Not ever. Once he disappeared, I knew deep