days in the week. And so excellent in the Church! Miss Nash has put down all the texts he has ever preached from since he came to Highbury. Dear me! When I look back to the first time I saw him! How little did I think!-- The two Abbots and I ran into the front room and peeped through the blind when we heard he was going by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away, and staid to look through herself; however, she called me back presently, and let me look too, which was very good-natured. And how beautiful we thought he looked! He was arm-in-arm with Mr. Cole." "This is an alliance which, whoever--whatever your friends may be, must be agreeable to them, provided at least they have common sense; and we are not to be addressing our conduct to fools. If they are anxious to see you happily married, here is a man whose amiable character gives every assurance of it;--if they wish to have you settled in the same country and circle which they have chosen to place you in, here it will be accomplished; and if their only object is that you should, in the common phrase, be well married, here is the comfortable fortune, the respectable establishment, the rise in the world which must satisfy them." "Yes, very true. How nicely you talk; I love to hear you. You understand every thing. You and Mr. Elton are one as clever as the other. This charade!--If I had studied a twelvemonth, I could never have made any thing like it." "I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of declining it yesterday." "I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever read." "I never read one more to the purpose, certainly." "It is as long again as almost all we have had before." "I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour. Such things in general cannot be too short." Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most satisfactory comparisons were rising in her mind. "It is one thing," said she, presently--her cheeks in a glow--"to have very good sense in a common way, like every body else, and if there is any thing to say, to sit down and write a letter, and say just what you must, in a short way; and another, to write verses and charades like this." Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin's prose. "Such sweet lines!" continued Harriet--"these two last!--But how shall I ever be able to return the paper, or say I have found it out?--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what can we do about that?" "Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this evening, I dare say, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense or other will pass between us, and you shall not be committed.--Your soft eyes shall chuse their own time for beaming. Trust to me." "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I


degeneracy.” Andy suddenly looks serious. “I don’t think I’m gay.” Nick gestures at Andy’s hard-on. “Coulda fooled me, champ.” Andy smacks his hand. “I mean I’m not only gay. I definitely like women. And I like men, too.” Nick nods. “Okay, fair enough.” “I just mean that I wasn’t living a lie or whatever. But if you really want to know what about you made me consider whether I like men, and we’re going to pretend that the fact that you’re my best friend has nothing to do with it, then it’s this spot here.” He touches the dip in Nick’s clavicle. “That?” He’d been ready to hear about his shoulders or his arms, or even his ass. Those are the things that get mentioned. He’s not exactly unaware of his own charms. “Every time you loosen your tie or unbutton your shirt, I can’t look away. I love that spot.” He reaches up and kisses it. “I couldn’t be in the same room as that spot without eventually considering whether I might be at least a little queer. And then when I moved in here, I saw it every day, because you don’t understand shirts, and now I’m committed to lewdness and homosexuality. And probably communism. We’ll find out, I guess.” Nick likes the idea of Andy being seduced by his collarbone. Plenty of people have looked at Nick and liked what they saw; he’s pretty sure none of them thought twice about his clavicle. “You’re already pretty committed to communism if you ask the Daily News. Or the FBI, for that matter.” “Shh,” Andy says, as if there’s anyone who might overhear, as if there’s anyone who might see the two of them naked in bed together and focus on communism. “What about you?” Andy asks. “What made you think about me like that?” He’s a little breathless, and he’s definitely looking for a compliment. Nick will give him compliments until his throat goes hoarse, if that’s what he wants. “It was these,” Nick bends his head to kiss the triangle of freckles at the corner of Andy’s mouth. “I love them.” “My birthmarks? Why?” “They’re like an arrow. Like a dare.” He doesn’t mention that he first noticed these freckles about six seconds after they were introduced and that it’s been a steady descent into helpless infatuation ever since. Andy pulls him down into a kiss but soon gentles it. “We should eat something. It’s past six and you didn’t have lunch, unless you count bourbon, which I do not.” “I can run out and get pizza,” Nick offers. “You really can’t. I left a bruise under your jaw. You look obscene. I’ll go.” “You can’t, either. There’s beard burn all over your face and neck.” Andy brings a hand up to his face and touches it with just his fingertips, as if he’ll be able to feel the redness. “We still have some sauce.” Jesus. A week of pasta, meatballs, meatball sandwiches, and more pasta and they’re only half done with that jar. He lightly smacks Andy’s hip.


taking another flash picture. “We need to brighten this space. Allow it to breathe, make it appeal to the senses.” Mercy opened the workroom door. The puppets kept it from opening more than a crack. “There’s a ton of puppets in there,” Louise apologized again. “They have to go,” Mercy said. “You guys grew up around them, so you think they’re normal, but puppets creep people out even more than dolls.” “We’re getting them out today,” Louise promised, following Mercy down the hall. Something directly overhead thumped lightly on the floor once, purposeful and deliberate. Louise’s shoulders twitched and she stopped, waiting to see if it would happen again. “There’s a lot to do here,” Mercy said, “but I see high six digits if we do this right.” maybe something just fell over Louise started down the hall after Mercy, and over her head in the attic whatever it was thumped again, then again, then again, one time for every step she took, staying right over her head, following her down the hall, and she recognized the sound—footsteps. Something in the attic was pacing her. Something small. “People used to move in and renovate,” Mercy continued as Louise stopped walking. Horribly, the tiny footsteps stopped, too. “But these days everyone wants to move into a big white box with marble on the countertops and stainless steel in the kitchen and they’ll pay through the nose. I’ve seen little doo-doo places not even in this neighborhood cover everything with Benjamin Moore off-white, do a gut renovation, and go for almost seven figures.” Louise had to start walking again or it would look weird. She started and the footsteps followed her to join Mercy, who was squatting in front of the wall. “Why is this vent open?” she asked, examining the hole in the wall. “Is there an HVAC problem?” “So stupid,” Louise said, and the silence overhead was worse than the footsteps. “I knocked it off, but we’ll get it replaced. The heating and air work great, though.” “The fluff is the fluff,” Mercy said, standing, her knees cracking. “But motivated buyers want to know the nitty-gritty: how old is the heat pump? How old is this roof? Do you have a termite—” Something slammed into the floor of the attic directly overhead. Popcorn sifted down from the ceiling and trickled down the back of Louise’s collar. “A termite?” Louise prompted. “Letter,” Mercy finished. “Down here you should also have a—” Something rolled across the attic floor directly overhead and Louise’s shoulders hunched. She didn’t want to be in this house anymore. Mercy raised a finger and pointed to the ceiling. “Do y’all have squirrels?” she asked, and Louise felt the scratches on her stomach squirm. “Maybe?” she said. Mercy scanned Louise’s face, reading it from left to right, then flicked her eyes to Louise’s parents’ bedroom door. “You’re going to have to get an exterminator,” she said. “And find the termite bond. It’ll tell you about moisture. Let’s see the primary suite.” She opened the bedroom door and walked right in. “Normally,


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

had to laugh by himself. The prefect cried: --Quick march! Hayfoot! Strawfoot! They went together down the staircase and along the corridor and past the bath. As he passed the door he remembered with a vague fear the warm turf-coloured bogwater, the warm moist air, the noise of plunges, the smell of the towels, like medicine. Brother Michael was standing at the door of the infirmary and from the door of the dark cabinet on his right came a smell like medicine. That came from the bottles on the shelves. The prefect spoke to Brother Michael and Brother Michael answered and called the prefect sir. He had reddish hair mixed with grey and a queer look. It was queer that he would always be a brother. It was queer too that you could not call him sir because he was a brother and had a different kind of look. Was he not holy enough or why could he not catch up on the others? There were two beds in the room and in one bed there was a fellow: and when they went in he called out: --Hello! It's young Dedalus! What's up? --The sky is up, Brother Michael said. He was a fellow out of the third of grammar and, while Stephen was undressing, he asked Brother Michael to bring him a round of buttered toast. --Ah, do! he said. --Butter you up! said Brother Michael. You'll get your walking papers in the morning when the doctor comes. --Will I? the fellow said. I'm not well yet. Brother Michael repeated: --You'll get your walking papers. I tell you. He bent down to rake the fire. He had a long back like the long back of a tramhorse. He shook the poker gravely and nodded his head at the fellow out of third of grammar. Then Brother Michael went away and after a while the fellow out of third of grammar turned in towards the wall and fell asleep. That was the infirmary. He was sick then. Had they written home to tell his mother and father? But it would be quicker for one of the priests to go himself to tell them. Or he would write a letter for the priest to bring. Dear Mother, I am sick. I want to go home. Please come and take me home. I am in the infirmary. Your fond son, Stephen How far away they were! There was cold sunlight outside the window. He wondered if he would die. You could die just the same on a sunny day. He might die before his mother came. Then he would have a dead mass in the chapel like the way the fellows had told him it was when Little had died. All the fellows would be at the mass, dressed in black, all with sad faces. Wells too would be there but no fellow would look at him. The rector would be there in a cope of black and gold and there would be tall yellow candles on the altar and round the catafalque. And


of its original charm, it claimed a private courtyard, pool, five bedrooms and five baths, and had been featured in several architectural and cultural magazines, the spreads including shots of the loving couple who owned the prestigious home. And it was only a few blocks from Kristi’s cottage, in a more prestigious part of the Garden District. She hadn’t realized he lived so close to her and the thought was disconcerting, but she shoved it aside. For now. So, what about his daughter? Lindsay? She’d been a child, preteen when she’d discovered her mother’s body. Kristi searched the Internet. After the second trial, Lindsay Cooke was barely mentioned in the press and seemed to be in college at a small school in the Midwest and avoiding the limelight that her father so adored. Kristi spent the next couple of hours reading articles about both Hamilton and Reggie Cooke, scrolling through one after another on her computer screen. She also checked out Hamilton Cooke’s social media accounts and Reggie Lucerno Cooke’s law firm’s Web site. Clicking through all the information on the couple, she saw photographs and watched short videos, all of which seemed slick and polished, as if professionally created and edited to show Reggie or Hamilton in perfect light. Older shots were included and displayed an earnest Dr. Hamilton Cooke in medical scrubs, often with a young patient. In the more recent images he was always dressed casually, his hair longer and peppered with gray, an easy smile and a noticeable twinkle in his blue eyes. Kristi leaned back in her chair. She twiddled a pen as she thought about Cooke. She believed to this day that beneath Cooke’s suave and debonaire veneer lay a cold-blooded killer, a man who thought he was smarter than everyone else in the room and had the credentials to prove it. Cooke was a sociopath with a dark and murderous side. During the time when she’d researched The God Complex and Murder Kristi had discovered that Cooke’s first wife had planned to divorce him. Beth Cooke had confided as much to her sister, only two weeks before her tragic, fatal accident. She had even set up an appointment with a prominent New Orleans divorce lawyer, but had died three days before the meeting. Not, in Kristi’s estimation, a coincidence. She looked again to her computer screen where the most recent image of Cooke was still displayed. It was another professionally crafted shot of him seated at his desk, leaning back in his chair, a tiny almost condescending smile playing upon his lips, his dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled up. Behind him, warm pine walls were decorated in framed diplomas and awards. As she stared at the picture, Kristi felt that same cold sweep of wariness she’d experienced when interviewing him behind the prison walls, that she was staring at a facade, that beneath the warm, friendly exterior was the soul of a cold-blooded killer. Hamilton Cooke hated her. He’d made no attempt to hide his fury that he thought she’d betrayed


It felt to Alice that they were sitting in a dark jewel box: onyx pillars, creamy marble edged with gilt, arched and pointed like blades. Golden angels glared down from the walls. Alice wound her hands together, closed her eyes. Lord, she prayed, You must protect me. She was a whole week late to repay her debt. What did it mean, if you ignored a debt collector’s summons, if you simply buried your head in the sand? Did the interest accumulate by the hour or by the minute? She pictured the debt collectors trailing her, extending a length of wire from their sleeves, ready to slice her throat... Pull yourself together, she ordered herself. All she needed to do was make it through tomorrow and to the end of the week. Then she’d earn her fee and have enough to pay her debt and any interest on top. Surely they wouldn’t exact any further punishment against her. Going out on the boat had shaken her. She’d tried to hide behind Hephzibah’s parasol. Chin up, she told herself. Men couldn’t simply come and snatch her off the street. But her whole body had been on alert. She wanted this job done, finished forever. She wanted to eradicate this constant, creeping sense of dread. Miss de Vries shifted in her tiny pew. “How’s the mood below stairs?” she asked. “I’m sure it’s all going well, Madam,” she said. A mealymouthed sort of response. Although, really, how on earth was she to know? She was locked away in the dressing room, spending her days negotiating yards of black crepe. “They’re getting in a twist about the preparations, I suppose.” Miss de Vries’s lips looked very dark under her lace, as if she’d rubbed a little stain into them. It gave them a fullness, a rawness, that was not there before. Alice swallowed. “Who is, Madam?” “Everybody below stairs.” Miss de Vries threw her prayer book aside. It fell with a thud to the tiled floor. She got to her feet, facing the altar. “And I suppose you’re getting tired of life here, too,” she said, voice short. “You’ll be wanting to move on.” The light wobbled. Alice rose slowly. She was clumsier than Madam: her skirts bunched around her boots. “Not in the least.” Miss de Vries turned. She rubbed her forehead with her fist. “But what of your ambitions?” she said. “Or don’t you have any?” There was a sting to the words. Alice observed it. It made her own feelings prickle. “I’m quite content here,” she said stiffly. “Content?” “I’m very happy with my position, Madam.” Something darkened in Miss de Vries’s gaze. She was keyed up about something. It was sharpening her, giving her new points and angles. “You understand I shall be leaving soon?” she said, voice cold. “I expect to be engaged before the week is out.” Alice took this in. The air in the chapel felt thick, crafty. “Then I should offer my congratulations, Madam,” she said, with care. Miss de Vries’s eyes came around quickly. “Hmm,” she said.


Holly and ivy for him and for Christmas. Lovely... All the people. Welcome home, Stephen! Noises of welcome. His mother kissed him. Was that right? His father was a marshal now: higher than a magistrate. Welcome home, Stephen! Noises... There was a noise of curtain-rings running back along the rods, of water being splashed in the basins. There was a noise of rising and dressing and washing in the dormitory: a noise of clapping of hands as the prefect went up and down telling the fellows to look sharp. A pale sunlight showed the yellow curtains drawn back, the tossed beds. His bed was very hot and his face and body were very hot. He got up and sat on the side of his bed. He was weak. He tried to pull on his stocking. It had a horrid rough feel. The sunlight was queer and cold. Fleming said: --Are you not well? He did not know; and Fleming said: --Get back into bed. I'll tell McGlade you're not well. --He's sick. --Who is? --Tell McGlade. --Get back into bed. --Is he sick? A fellow held his arms while he loosened the stocking clinging to his foot and climbed back into the hot bed. He crouched down between the sheets, glad of their tepid glow. He heard the fellows talk among themselves about him as they dressed for mass. It was a mean thing to do, to shoulder him into the square ditch, they were saying. Then their voices ceased; they had gone. A voice at his bed said: --Dedalus, don't spy on us, sure you won't? Wells's face was there. He looked at it and saw that Wells was afraid. --I didn't mean to. Sure you won't? His father had told him, whatever he did, never to peach on a fellow. He shook his head and answered no and felt glad. Wells said: --I didn't mean to, honour bright. It was only for cod. I'm sorry. The face and the voice went away. Sorry because he was afraid. Afraid that it was some disease. Canker was a disease of plants and cancer one of animals: or another different. That was a long time ago then out on the playgrounds in the evening light, creeping from point to point on the fringe of his line, a heavy bird flying low through the grey light. Leicester Abbey lit up. Wolsey died there. The abbots buried him themselves. It was not Wells's face, it was the prefect's. He was not foxing. No, no: he was sick really. He was not foxing. And he felt the prefect's hand on his forehead; and he felt his forehead warm and damp against the prefect's cold damp hand. That was the way a rat felt, slimy and damp and cold. Every rat had two eyes to look out of. Sleek slimy coats, little little feet tucked up to jump, black slimy eyes to look out of. They could understand how to jump. But the minds of rats could not understand trigonometry. When they were dead they lay on


girlfriend back in Indiana, and as punishment, I was sent back to the page desk on the House floor to run errands for junior members of Congress. (To me, getting sent back into the middle of the action wasn’t exactly punishment.) We trained as apprentices to wartime legislators who were grappling with an existential threat. You can’t overstate the palpable fear vibrating through Washington at the time, from worries about biological weapons to whispers of nuclear dirty bombs. A gas mask was hidden under every seat in the U.S. House. But fear gave way to cooperation, as members of Congress crossed the aisle to compromise on sweeping legislation. The master class in bipartisanship culminated, for me, in President George W. Bush’s 2005 State of the Union Address. Despite having just come off of a contentious presidential campaign, he entered the chamber’s arched doorway to applause and handshakes from Republicans and Democrats. “We have known times of sorrow and hours of uncertainty and days of victory,” he declared, as I stood by the page desk in the back. “In all this history, even when we have disagreed, we have seen threads of purpose that unite us.” The room applauded in agreement. I had found my tribe. Roaming the musty marble passageways of Congress, I grew surer of my views as a Republican. I was a “compassionate conservative,” the kind George W. Bush spoke about when he called for a government that used the free market to eliminate poverty, that openly welcomed immigrants who sought to join our country, and that championed freedom and human dignity around the globe. Joining the GOP tribe also seemed like the best way to defend the country; Republicans, after all, portrayed themselves as the party that was ready to stand up against enemies to our democracy. What was meant to be a year turned into a whirlwind decade. I could hardly stay in school, although I was obsessed with good grades. From elementary to graduate school, I was a straight-A psychopath (except for a lonely B+ on my seventh-grade report card). Valedictorian. Indiana State Debate Champion. Full ride at Indiana University as an undergrad. Full ride at Oxford University as a grad student. But I was bored. I dropped out of school multiple times to take jobs in Washington because I was more interested in sitting in secure briefing rooms, digging into intelligence gathered overseas by U.S. spies, than sitting in classrooms. I trained my strengths—and anxieties—toward supporting national leaders, from preparing research memos at the White House and Pentagon to briefing CIA directors and Homeland Security secretaries. The stainless boy from a Midwest flyover state was awestruck at having a top-secret security clearance. I grew up fast and learned to stay in the background safeguarding information, knowing that lives were in the balance and that I was responsible for protecting the “sources and methods” of our spy agencies. Just as the kid inside me had yearned, I was working alongside the good guys to fight the bad ones, or so I thought. Washington changed in the years


concubine, who’s seen far more of the outside world than I ever will, has said on more than one occasion, “Beijing is not as backward as I first believed. Yes, all that is unique or valuable comes from the south, but the people of this desolate outpost have made good use of our bounty.” Almost daily, she has another insight: “Although the Hongzhi emperor is traditional in his thoughts and deeds, women have more opportunities in Beijing than where we come from. Here you can find women who are moneylenders and merchants. And the empress’s doctor is a woman! You! And think of all the wet nurses and midwives who will benefit for years from the palace’s beneficence.” It’s true. As Grandmother used to say, a midwife can be rewarded with clothes, jewelry, position, and power that will visibly tell the world of her success. She might even end up with an aristocratic title. I will receive some of the same gifts, but this is a unique opportunity for Meiling. No wonder she’s so happy. As for me, I miss my daughters and my husband. I even miss Lady Kuo and her keeck, keeck, Miss Chen and her selfish ways, and the other women of the inner chambers in my married home. Mostly, I wish I could have my baby within the safe walls of the Garden of Fragrant Delights. Meiling saves me from my gloomiest thoughts. Each evening when we return to the lodge, we have dinner together—sometimes just the two of us, sometimes with Miss Zhao. We’re both careful to eat all the correct foods and avoid those that could cause a girl to be born. After the meal, Meiling and I usually retire to her room. Over the years, she’s had many opportunities to see how I live. She knows the carvings on my marriage bed. She understands the placement of the herbs I keep. Now it’s my turn to see into her life. Her room is identical in size and furnishings to mine, but the differences in our Snake personalities are everywhere. A lacquer-framed mirror stands on her dressing table. Rouge-stained puffs of cotton lay across the tabletop in casual disregard. The fine clothes she’s been given to wear in the empress’s presence are treated no better than if they were made of muslin, but the way she drapes them over the back of a chair or across the bed looks luxurious, creative, carefree. She lights candles instead of oil lamps, setting the room in golden flickering hues. As I do every night, I perform the Four Examinations on her. By my estimation, we are both about to enter our sixth month of pregnancy. Meiling’s energy is high, and she seems to be thriving. She looks healthy—with color in her cheeks, her hair shiny, and the flesh along her arms moist and plump. Her pulse sounds strong at every level, signaling that both mother and fetus are doing well. She smells of perfume, but it’s not there to hide sourness. I discern no rough waters in her emotions.


as herald of the Elder King summoned the Elves of Beleriand to depart from Middle-earth. But Maedhros and Maglor would not hearken, and they prepared, though now with weariness and loathing, to attempt in despair the fulfilment of their oath; for they would have given battle for the Silmarils, were they withheld, even against the victorious host of Valinor, even though they stood alone against all the world. And they sent a message therefore to Enw, bidding him yield up now those jewels which of old Fanor their father made and Morgoth stole from him. But Enw answered that the right to the work of their father, which the sons of Fanor formerly possessed, had now perished, because of their many and merciless deeds, being blinded by their oath, and most of all because of their slaying of Dior and the assault upon the Havens. The light of the Silmarils should go now into the West, whence it came in the beginning; and to Valinor must Maedhros and Maglor return, and there abide the judgement of the Valar, by whose decree alone would Enw yield the jewels from his charge. Then Maglor desired indeed to submit, for his heart was sorrowful, and he said: The oath says not that we may not bide our time, and it may be that in Valinor all shall be forgiven and forgot, and we shall come into our own in peace. But Maedhros answered that if they returned to Aman but the favour of the Valar were withheld from them, then their oath would still remain, but its fulfilment be beyond all hope; and he said: 'Who can tell to what dreadful doom we shall come, if we disobey the Powers in their own land, or purpose ever to bring war again into their holy realm?' Yet Maglor still held back, saying: 'If Manw and Varda themselves deny the fulfilment of an oath to which we named them in witness, is it not made void?' And Maedhros answered: 'But how shall our voices reach to Ilvatar beyond the Circles of the World? And by Ilvatar we swore in our madness, and called the Everlasting Darkness upon us, if we kept not our word. Who shall release us?' 'If none can release us,' said Maglor, 'then indeed the Everlasting Darkness shall be our lot, whether we keep our oath or break it; but less evil shall we do in the breaking.' Yet he yielded at last to the will of Maedhros, and they took counsel together how they should lay hands on the Silmarils. And they disguised themselves, and came in the night to the camp of Enw, and crept into the place where the Silmarils were guarded; and they slew the guards, and laid hands on the jewels. Then all the camp was raised against them, and they prepared to die, defending themselves until the last. But Enw would not permit the slaying of the sons of Fanor; and departing unfought they fled far away. Each of them took to himself a Silmaril, for they said:


winding drive led up between iron stags and blue glass balls embedded in mounds of geraniums to a front door of highly-varnished walnut under a striped verandah-roof; and behind it ran a narrow hall with a black and yellow star-patterned parquet floor, upon which opened four small square rooms with heavy flock-papers under ceilings on which an Italian house-painter had lavished all the divinities of Olympus. One of these rooms had been turned into a bedroom by Mrs. Mingott when the burden of flesh descended on her, and in the adjoining one she spent her days, enthroned in a large armchair between the open door and window, and perpetually waving a palm-leaf fan which the prodigious projection of her bosom kept so far from the rest of her person that the air it set in motion stirred only the fringe of the anti-macassars on the chair-arms. Since she had been the means of hastening his marriage old Catherine had shown to Archer the cordiality which a service rendered excites toward the person served. She was persuaded that irrepressible passion was the cause of his impatience; and being an ardent admirer of impulsiveness (when it did not lead to the spending of money) she always received him with a genial twinkle of complicity and a play of allusion to which May seemed fortunately impervious. She examined and appraised with much interest the diamond-tipped arrow which had been pinned on May's bosom at the conclusion of the match, remarking that in her day a filigree brooch would have been thought enough, but that there was no denying that Beaufort did things handsomely. "Quite an heirloom, in fact, my dear," the old lady chuckled. "You must leave it in fee to your eldest girl." She pinched May's white arm and watched the colour flood her face. "Well, well, what have I said to make you shake out the red flag? Ain't there going to be any daughters--only boys, eh? Good gracious, look at her blushing again all over her blushes! What--can't I say that either? Mercy me--when my children beg me to have all those gods and goddesses painted out overhead I always say I'm too thankful to have somebody about me that NOTHING can shock!" Archer burst into a laugh, and May echoed it, crimson to the eyes. "Well, now tell me all about the party, please, my dears, for I shall never get a straight word about it out of that silly Medora," the ancestress continued; and, as May exclaimed: "Cousin Medora? But I thought she was going back to Portsmouth?" she answered placidly: "So she is--but she's got to come here first to pick up Ellen. Ah--you didn't know Ellen had come to spend the day with me? Such fol-de-rol, her not coming for the summer; but I gave up arguing with young people about fifty years ago. Ellen--ELLEN!" she cried in her shrill old voice, trying to bend forward far enough to catch a glimpse of the lawn beyond the verandah. There was no answer, and Mrs. Mingott rapped impatiently with


party went back to the game. CHAPTER IX The Mock Turtle's Story `You can't think how glad I am to see you again, you dear old thing!' said the Duchess, as she tucked her arm affectionately into Alice's, and they walked off together. Alice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper, and thought to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so savage when they met in the kitchen. `When I'M a Duchess,' she said to herself, (not in a very hopeful tone though), `I won't have any pepper in my kitchen AT ALL. Soup does very well without--Maybe it's always pepper that makes people hot-tempered,' she went on, very much pleased at having found out a new kind of rule, `and vinegar that makes them sour--and camomile that makes them bitter--and--and barley-sugar and such things that make children sweet-tempered. I only wish people knew that: then they wouldn't be so stingy about it, you know--' She had quite forgotten the Duchess by this time, and was a little startled when she heard her voice close to her ear. `You're thinking about something, my dear, and that makes you forget to talk. I can't tell you just now what the moral of that is, but I shall remember it in a bit.' `Perhaps it hasn't one,' Alice ventured to remark. `Tut, tut, child!' said the Duchess. `Everything's got a moral, if only you can find it.' And she squeezed herself up closer to Alice's side as she spoke. Alice did not much like keeping so close to her: first, because the Duchess was VERY ugly; and secondly, because she was exactly the right height to rest her chin upon Alice's shoulder, and it was an uncomfortably sharp chin. However, she did not like to be rude, so she bore it as well as she could. `The game's going on rather better now,' she said, by way of keeping up the conversation a little. `'Tis so,' said the Duchess: `and the moral of that is--"Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love, that makes the world go round!"' `Somebody said,' Alice whispered, `that it's done by everybody minding their own business!' `Ah, well! It means much the same thing,' said the Duchess, digging her sharp little chin into Alice's shoulder as she added, `and the moral of THAT is--"Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves."' `How fond she is of finding morals in things!' Alice thought to herself. `I dare say you're wondering why I don't put my arm round your waist,' the Duchess said after a pause: `the reason is, that I'm doubtful about the temper of your flamingo. Shall I try the experiment?' `HE might bite,' Alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious to have the experiment tried. `Very true,' said the Duchess: `flamingoes and mustard both bite. And the moral of that is--"Birds of a feather flock together."' `Only mustard isn't a bird,' Alice remarked. `Right, as usual,' said the Duchess: `what a clear way you have


I’d ask my stylist, Karl, to cut her hair, make it look like mine. And then I’d suggest she enter my house and fool the cameras. Would she do that for me? It would be terrifying for her. Lee knew my husband was violent. But if I offered her money and new identification, she might just go through with it. Benjamin kept his golf clubs in the closet in his study. There were no cameras in that room. That’s where Jesse would do it. Lee wouldn’t even go in there. She’d be spared the blood and gore. She wouldn’t even know my husband was dead, stabbed with her own knife, until the police came to arrest her. The thought made me double over, and I worried I might be sick. But I pulled it together, righted myself, pushed the noxious guilt away. I directed my memory to Jesse’s assurances that Lee would be okay, even cared for, that she would get the help she needed. And I set my mind on that bubble of hope. Of anticipation. Finally, I would be free. To be with Jesse. The man I loved. 33 THE NEXT MORNING, SHE WAS there, as Jesse had promised she would be. My feet crunched on the loose rocks as I approached the car and tapped gently on the window. She opened her eyes, and they were cold when she recognized me. But she climbed out of the car, slowly, in pain, like she always was in the morning. I begged her for forgiveness, literally begged. As I served her fresh-baked scones and coffee, I told her how I’d panicked when I saw her on the street. “Vanessa and Laurie are shallow and judgmental,” I said. “If I’d introduced you as my friend, word could have got back to Benjamin. He controls all my friendships. He wouldn’t let me see you.” I watched her soften. “Fear and desperation can make you do terrible things. I should know,” she said. “I betrayed my only sister. And she’ll never forgive me.” I listened, features composed in sympathy, as she told me how she’d photographed her sister’s fiancé, how she’d attempted to extort money out of him. It was a shitty thing to do, but it seemed so trivial compared to my plot against her. “You were under so much pressure,” I said gently. “Can’t she understand that?” But Teresa hated Lee. Teresa had gone through with the wedding, despite the cheating. The family had taken her side. I realized how alone Lee was then. She had no one… except Jesse and me. “Let me take you for a spa day,” I said as she blinked her tears away. “Massage, facial, haircut—the works. On me.” “I couldn’t,” she said, but she wanted to, I could tell. So I pressed. “When’s your next day off?” “Thursday.” “I’ll book everything and meet you there at ten. Sound good?” Her face was glowing with anticipation. “Sounds amazing.” And then I saw an opportunity. “Give me your phone.” It was a casual request, but she looked slightly


to oblige the Pope I lost touch with several interesting English cases. This article, you say, contains all the public facts?" "It does." "Then let me have the private ones." He leaned back, put his finger-tips together, and assumed his most impassive and judicial expression. "In doing so," said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show signs of some strong emotion, "I am telling that which I have not confided to anyone. My motive for withholding it from the coroner's inquiry is that a man of science shrinks from placing himself in the public position of seeming to indorse a popular superstition. I had the further motive that Baskerville Hall, as the paper says, would certainly remain untenanted if anything were done to increase its already rather grim reputation. For both these reasons I thought that I was justified in telling rather less than I knew, since no practical good could result from it, but with you there is no reason why I should not be perfectly frank. "The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and those who live near each other are thrown very much together. For this reason I saw a good deal of Sir Charles Baskerville. With the exception of Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist, there are no other men of education within many miles. Sir Charles was a retiring man, but the chance of his illness brought us together, and a community of interests in science kept us so. He had brought back much scientific information from South Africa, and many a charming evening we have spent together discussing the comparative anatomy of the Bushman and the Hottentot. "Within the last few months it became increasingly plain to me that Sir Charles's nervous system was strained to the break- ing point. He had taken this legend which I have read you exceedingly to heart -- so much so that, although he would walk in his own grounds, nothing would induce him to go out upon the moor at night. Incredible as it may appear to you, Mr. Holmes, he was honestly convinced that a dreadful fate overhung his family, and certainly the records which he was able to give of his ancestors were not encouraging. The idea of some ghastly presence constantly haunted him, and on more than one occasion he has asked me whether I had on my medical journeys at night ever seen any strange creature or heard the baying of a hound. The latter question he put to me several times, and always with a voice which vibrated with excitement. "I can well remember driving up to his house in the evening some three weeks before the fatal event. He chanced to be at his hall door. I had descended from my gig and was standing in front of him, when I saw his eyes fix themselves over my shoulder and stare past me with an expression of the most dreadful horror. I whisked round and had just time to catch a glimpse of something which I took to be a


his flight. We know at least that he came so far in safety." But more than that we were never destined to know, though there was much which we might surmise. There was no chance of finding footsteps in the mire, for the rising mud oozed swiftly in upon them, but as we at last reached firmer ground beyond the morass we all looked eagerly for them. But no slightest sign of them ever met our eyes. If the earth told a true story, then Stapleton never reached that island of refuge towards which he struggled through the fog upon that last night. Somewhere in the heart of the great Grimpen Mire, down in the foul slime of the huge morass which had sucked him in, this cold and cruel- hearted man is forever buried. Many traces we found of him in the bog-girt island where he had hid his savage ally. A huge driving-wheel and a shaft half-filled with rubbish showed the position of an abandoned mine. Beside it were the crumbling remains of the cottages of the miners, driven away no doubt by the foul reek of the surrounding swamp. In one of these a staple and chain with a quantity of gnawed bones showed where the animal had been confined. A skeleton with a tangle of brown hair adhering to it lay among the debris. "A dog!" said Holmes. "By Jove, a curly-haired spaniel. Poor Mortimer will never see his pet again. Well, I do not know that this place contains any secret which we have not already fath- omed. He could hide his hound, but he could not hush its voice, and hence came those cries which even in daylight were not pleasant to hear. On an emergency he could keep the hound in the out-house at Merripit, but it was always a risk, and it was only on the supreme day, which he regarded as the end of all his efforts, that he dared do it. This paste in the tin is no doubt the luminous mixture with which the creature was daubed. It was suggested, of course, by the story of the family hell-hound, and by the desire to frighten old Sir Charles to death. No wonder the poor devil of a convict ran and screamed, even as our friend did, and as we ourselves might have done, when he saw such a creature bounding through the darkness of the moor upon his track. It was a cunning device, for, apart from the chance of driving your victim to his death, what peasant would venture to inquire too closely into such a creature should he get sight of it, as many have done, upon the moor? I said it in London, Watson, and I say it again now, that never yet have we helped to hunt down a more dangerous man than he who is lying yonder" -- he swept his long arm towards the huge mottled expanse of green- splotched bog which stretched away until it merged into the russet slopes of the moor. Chapter


"Who makes them tear around so?" "Why, whoever rubs the lamp or the ring. They belong to whoever rubs the lamp or the ring, and they've got to do whatever he says. If he tells them to build a palace forty miles long out of di'monds, and fill it full of chewing-gum, or whatever you want, and fetch an emperor's daughter from China for you to marry, they've got to do it -- and they've got to do it before sun-up next morning, too. And more: they've got to waltz that palace around over the country wherever you want it, you understand." "Well," says I, "I think they are a pack of flat- heads for not keeping the palace themselves 'stead of fooling them away like that. And what's more -- if I was one of them I would see a man in Jericho before I would drop my business and come to him for the rub- bing of an old tin lamp." "How you talk, Huck Finn. Why, you'd HAVE to come when he rubbed it, whether you wanted to or not." "What! and I as high as a tree and as big as a church? All right, then; I WOULD come; but I lay I'd make that man climb the highest tree there was in the country." "Shucks, it ain't no use to talk to you, Huck Finn. You don't seem to know anything, somehow -- perfect saphead." I thought all this over for two or three days, and then I reckoned I would see if there was anything in it. I got an old tin lamp and an iron ring, and went out in the woods and rubbed and rubbed till I sweat like an Injun, calculating to build a palace and sell it; but it warn't no use, none of the genies come. So then I judged that all that stuff was only just one of Tom Sawyer's lies. I reckoned he believed in the A-rabs and the elephants, but as for me I think different. It had all the marks of a Sunday-school. CHAPTER IV. WELL, three or four months run along, and it was well into the winter now. I had been to school most all the time and could spell and read and write just a little, and could say the multiplication table up to six times seven is thirty-five, and I don't reckon I could ever get any further than that if I was to live forever. I don't take no stock in mathematics, any- way. At first I hated the school, but by and by I got so I could stand it. Whenever I got uncommon tired I played hookey, and the hiding I got next day done me good and cheered me up. So the longer I went to school the easier it got to be. I was getting sort of used to the widow's ways, too, and they warn't so raspy on me. Living in a house and sleeping in a bed pulled on me pretty tight mostly, but before the


else, could object." "My brother is very anxious to have the Hall inhabited, for he thinks it is for the good of the poor folk upon the moor. He would be very angry if he knew that I have said anything which might induce Sir Henry to go away. But I have done my duty now and I will say no more. I must go back, or he will miss me and suspect that I have seen you. Good-bye!" She turned and had disappeared in a few minutes among the scattered boulders, while I, with my soul full of vague fears, pursued my way to Baskerville Hall. Chapter 8 First Report of Dr. Watson From this point onward I will follow the course of events by transcribing my own letters to Mr. Sherlock Holmes which lie before me on the table. One page is missing, but otherwise they are exactly as written and show my feelings and suspicions of the moment more accurately than my memory, clear as it is upon these tragic events, can possibly do. Baskerville Hall, October 13th. My dear Holmes: My previous letters and telegrams have kept you pretty well up to date as to all that has occurred in this most God-forsaken corner of the world. The longer one stays here the more does the spirit of the moor sink into one's soul, its vastness, and also its grim charm. When you are once out upon its bosom you have left all traces of modern England behind you, but, on the other hand, you are conscious everywhere of the homes and the work of the prehistoric people. On all sides of you as you walk are the houses of these forgotten folk, with their graves and the huge monoliths which are supposed to have marked their temples. As you look at their gray stone huts against the scarred hillsides you leave your own age behind you, and if you were to see a skin-clad, hairy man crawl out from the low door fitting a flint-tipped arrow on to the string of his bow, you wouid feel that his presence there was more natural than your own. The strange thing is that they should have lived so thickly on what must always have been most unfruitful soil. I am no antiquarian, but I could imagine that they were some unwarlike and harried race who were forced to accept that which none other would occupy. All this, however, is foreign to the mission on which you sent me and will probably be very uninteresting to your severely practical mind. I can still remember your complete indifference as to whether the sun moved round the earth or the earth round the sun. Let me, therefore, return to the facts concerning Sir Henry Baskerville. If you have not had any report within the last few days it is because up to to-day there was nothing of importance to relate. Then a very surprising circumstance occurred, which I shall tell you in due course. But, first of all, I must keep you


so low that she could not catch the words. At last Tess grew more and more anxious to know what they were saying, and, persuading herself that she felt better, she got up and resumed work. Then Izz Huett broke down. She had walked more than a dozen miles the previous evening, had gone to bed at midnight, and had risen again at five o'clock. Marian alone, thanks to her bottle of liquor and her stoutness of build, stood the strain upon back and arms without suffering. Tess urged Izz to leave off, agreeing, as she felt better, to finish the day without her, and make equal division of the number of sheaves. Izz accepted the offer gratefully, and disappeared through the great door into the snowy track to her lodging. Marian, as was the case every afternoon at this time on account of the bottle, began to feel in a romantic vein. "I should not have thought it of him--never!" she said in a dreamy tone. "And I loved him so! I didn't mind his having YOU. But this about Izz is too bad!" Tess, in her start at the words, narrowly missed cutting off a finger with the bill-hook. "Is it about my husband?" she stammered. "Well, yes. Izz said, 'Don't 'ee tell her'; but I am sure I can't help it! It was what he wanted Izz to do. He wanted her to go off to Brazil with him." Tess's face faded as white as the scene without, and its curves straightened. "And did Izz refuse to go?" she asked. "I don't know. Anyhow he changed his mind." "Pooh--then he didn't mean it! 'Twas just a man's jest!" "Yes he did; for he drove her a good-ways towards the station." "He didn't take her!" They pulled on in silence till Tess, without any premonitory symptoms, burst out crying. "There!" said Marian. "Now I wish I hadn't told 'ee!" "No. It is a very good thing that you have done! I have been living on in a thirtover, lackaday way, and have not seen what it may lead to! I ought to have sent him a letter oftener. He said I could not go to him, but he didn't say I was not to write as often as I liked. I won't dally like this any longer! I have been very wrong and neglectful in leaving everything to be done by him!" The dim light in the barn grew dimmer, and they could see to work no longer. When Tess had reached home that evening, and had entered into the privacy of her little white-washed chamber, she began impetuously writing a letter to Clare. But falling into doubt she could not finish it. Afterwards she took the ring from the ribbon on which she wore it next her heart, and retained it on her finger all night, as if to fortify herself in the sensation that she was really the wife of this elusive lover of hers, who could propose that Izz should go with him abroad, so shortly after


flashed across Father's face. "Enough, Sansa. More of that and you will change my mind. I am weary unto death of this endless war you two are fighting. You are sisters. I expect you to behave like sisters, is that understood?" Sansa bit her lip and nodded. Arya lowered her face to stare sullenly at her plate. She could feel tears stinging her eyes. She rubbed them away angrily, determined not to cry. The only sound was the clatter of knives and forks. "Pray excuse me," her father announced to the table. "I find I have small appetite tonight." He walked from the hall. After he was gone, Sansa exchanged excited whispers with Jeyne Poole. Down the table Jory laughed at a joke, and Hullen started in about horseflesh. "Your warhorse, now, he may not be the best one for the joust. Not the same thing, oh, no, not the same at all." The men had heard it all before; Desmond, Jacks, and Hullen's son Harwin shouted him down together, and Porther called for more wine. No one talked to Arya. She didn't care. She liked it that way. She would have eaten her meals alone in her bedchamber if they let her. Sometimes they did, when Father had to dine with the king or some lord or the envoys from this place or that place. The rest of the time, they ate in his solar, just him and her and Sansa. That was when Arya missed her brothers most. She wanted to tease Bran and play with A GAME OF THRONES 193 baby Rickon and have Robb smile at her. She wanted Jon to muss up her hair and call her "little sister" and finish her sentences with her. But all of them were gone. She had no one left but Sansa, and Sansa wouldn't even talk to her unless Father made her. Back at Winterfell, they had eaten in the Great Hall almost half the time. Her father used to say that a lord needed to eat with his men, if he hoped to keep them. "Know the men who follow you," she heard him tell Robb once, "and let them know you. Don't ask your men to die for a stranger." At Winterfell, he always had an extra seat set at his own table, and every day a different man would be asked to join him. One night it would be Vayon Poole, and the talk would be coppers and bread stores and servants. The next time it would be Mikken, and her father would listen to him go on about armor and swords and how hot a forge should be and the best way to temper steel. Another day it might be Hullen with his endless horse talk, or Septon Chayle from the library, or Jory, or Ser Rodrik, or even Old Nan with her stories. Arya had loved nothing better than to sit at her father's table and listen to them talk. She had loved listening to the men on the benches too; to freeriders tough as


scaled the cliffs above, delighted to repose. To the north, and to the east, the plains of Guienne and Languedoc were lost in the mist of distance; on the west, Gascony was bounded by the waters of Biscay. M. St. Aubert loved to wander, with his wife and daughter, on the margin of the Garonne, and to listen to the music that floated on its waves. He had known life in other forms than those of pastoral simplicity, having mingled in the gay and in the busy scenes of the world; but the flattering portrait of mankind, which his heart had delineated in early youth, his experience had too sorrowfully corrected. Yet, amidst the changing visions of life, his principles remained unshaken, his benevolence unchilled; and he retired from the multitude 'more in PITY than in anger,' to scenes of simple nature, to the pure delights of literature, and to the exercise of domestic virtues. He was a descendant from the younger branch of an illustrious family, and it was designed, that the deficiency of his patrimonial wealth should be supplied either by a splendid alliance in marriage, or by success in the intrigues of public affairs. But St. Aubert had too nice a sense of honour to fulfil the latter hope, and too small a portion of ambition to sacrifice what he called happiness, to the attainment of wealth. After the death of his father he married a very amiable woman, his equal in birth, and not his superior in fortune. The late Monsieur St. Aubert's liberality, or extravagance, had so much involved his affairs, that his son found it necessary to dispose of a part of the family domain, and, some years after his marriage, he sold it to Monsieur Quesnel, the brother of his wife, and retired to a small estate in Gascony, where conjugal felicity, and parental duties, divided his attention with the treasures of knowledge and the illuminations of genius. To this spot he had been attached from his infancy. He had often made excursions to it when a boy, and the impressions of delight given to his mind by the homely kindness of the grey-headed peasant, to whom it was intrusted, and whose fruit and cream never failed, had not been obliterated by succeeding circumstances. The green pastures along which he had so often bounded in the exultation of health, and youthful freedom--the woods, under whose refreshing shade he had first indulged that pensive melancholy, which afterwards made a strong feature of his character--the wild walks of the mountains, the river, on whose waves he had floated, and the distant plains, which seemed boundless as his early hopes--were never after remembered by St. Aubert but with enthusiasm and regret. At length he disengaged himself from the world, and retired hither, to realize the wishes of many years. The building, as it then stood, was merely a summer cottage, rendered interesting to a stranger by its neat simplicity, or the beauty of the surrounding scene; and considerable additions were necessary to make it a comfortable family residence.


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

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, as evening after evening they struggled through all the extra homework they were getting. Hermione had now started making study schedules for Harry and Ron, too. It was driving them nuts. Then, one breakfast time, Hedwig brought Harry another note from Hagrid. He had written only two words: It's hatching. Ron wanted to skip Herbology and go straight down to the hut. Hermione wouldn't hear of it. "Hermione, how many times in our lives are we going to see a dragon hatching?" "We've got lessons, we'll get into trouble, and that's nothing to what Hagrid's going to be in when someone finds out what he's doing -- " "Shut up!" Harry whispered. Malfoy was only a few feet away and he had stopped dead to listen. How much had he heard? Harry didn't like the look on Malfoy's face at all. Ron and Hermione argued all the way to Herbology and in the end, Hermione agreed to run down to Hagrid's with the other two during morning break. When the bell sounded from the castle at the end of their lesson, the three of them dropped their trowels at once and hurried through the grounds to the edge of the forest. Hagrid greeted them, looking flushed and excited. "It's nearly out." He ushered them inside. The egg was lying on the table. There were deep cracks in it. Something was moving inside; a funny clicking noise was coming from it. They all drew their chairs up to the table and watched with bated breath. All at once there was a scraping noise and the egg split open. The baby dragon flopped onto the table. It wasn't exactly pretty; Harry thought it looked like a crumpled, black umbrella. Its spiny wings were huge compared to its skinny jet body, it had a long snout with wide nostrils, the stubs of horns and bulging, orange eyes. It sneezed. A couple of sparks flew out of its snout. "Isn't he beautiful?" Hagrid murmured. He reached out a hand to stroke the dragon's head. It snapped at his fingers, showing pointed fangs. "Bless him, look, he knows his mommy!" said Hagrid. "Hagrid," said Hermione, "how fast do Norwegian Ridgebacks grow, exactly?" Hagrid was about to answer when the color suddenly drained from his face -- he leapt to his feet and ran to the window. "What's the matter?" "Someone


would be so romantic, and you’d have no trouble remembering your anniversary.” Mia claps her hands. “I’ll take that under advisement.” Elliot smirks at her. “After the champagne, can we please go clubbing?” Mia turns and gives Christian her biggest, brown-eyed look. “I think we should ask Elliot and Kate what they’d like to do.” As one, we turn expectantly to them. Elliot shrugs and Kate turns puce. Her carnal intent toward her fiancé is so clear I nearly spit four-hundred-dollar cham- pagne all over the table. 286/551 Zax is the most exclusive nightclub in Aspen—or so says Mia. Christian strolls to the front of the short line with his arm wrapped around my waist and is immedi- ately granted access. I wonder briefly if he owns the place. I glance at my watch—eleven thirty in the evening, and I’m feeling fuzzy. The two glasses of champagne and several glasses of Pouilly-Fumé during our meal are starting to have an effect, and I’m grateful Christian has his arm around me. “Mr. Grey, welcome back,” says a very attractive, leggy blonde in black sat- in, hot pants, matching sleeveless shirt, and a little red bowtie. She smiles broadly, revealing perfect all-American teeth between scarlet lips that match her bowtie. “Max will take your coat.” A young man dressed entirely in black, fortunately not satin, smiles as he of- fers to take my coat. His dark eyes are warm and inviting. I am the only one wear- ing a coat—Christian insisted I take Mia’s trench coat to cover my behind—so Max only has to deal with me. “Nice coat,” he says, gazing at me intently. Beside me Christian bristles and fixes Max with a back-off-now glare. He reddens and quickly hands Christian my coat check ticket. “Let me show you to your table.” Miss Satin Hot Pants flutters her eyelashes at my husband, flicks her long blond hair, and sashays through the entryway. I tighten my grip around Christian, and he gazes down at me questioningly for a moment, then smirks as we follow Miss Satin Hot Pants into the bar. The lighting is muted, the walls are black, and the furnishings deep red. There are booths flanking two sides of the walls and a large U-shaped bar in the middle. It’s busy, given that we’re here off-season, but not too crowded with the well-heeled of Aspen out for a good time on a Saturday night. The dress code is relaxed, and for the first time I feel a little over . . . um, underdressed. I’m not sure which. The floor and walls vibrate with the music pulsing from the dance floor behind the bar, and lights are whirling and flashing on and off. In my heady state, I idly think it’s an epileptic’s nightmare. Satin Hot Pants leads us to a corner booth that’s been roped off. It’s near the bar with access to the dance floor. Clearly the best seats in the house. “There’ll be someone along to take your order shortly.” She gives us her full megawatt smile and, with


I wish I could see Maoren to find out if this is true, but we can’t be in the same room until I’ve finished doing the month. Still, I’m heartened. The next day, Meiling comes again. I don’t know why Lady Kuo is allowing her to attend to me, but I’m not about to question anyone about it. “How are you feeling?” Meiling asks. “Where do you hurt?” I hover my hands over my chest. “Everything here is hard and swollen. The milk wants to come, but it’s as if the spout of a teapot is clogged.” “Alleviating this problem is a granny’s specialty,” she says. To help my milk come in, Meiling presses warmed stones against my aching breasts and massages them with a cooling rub. I feel something inside loosen. My daughter grabs hold of my nipple and suddenly she has milk dripping from the sides of her mouth. * * * As the days pass, my bleeding dwindles and finally ends. The better I feel, the more I’m reattuned to Meiling, and I sense a barrier between us. I had taken her reticence to be a manifestation of her profession: she was the midwife and I was a first-time mother. She was coming in daily contact with my blood—something I was trained to find repellent. But now I see the distance between us has nothing to do with those things. Rather, it’s emotional. She’s too polite to say what’s bothering her, but I think I know what’s wrong. On Yuelan’s twelfth day of life, I find the courage to bring it up. “I wrote to you many times,” I begin, expecting it will take time before she opens her heart to me. I’ve read her incorrectly, because she blurts, “Not once did I receive a letter.” “That doesn’t mean I didn’t write them.” I go on to recount what happened with Lady Kuo, but my explanation isn’t enough for Meiling, who says, “You could have sent Poppy with a note to say what had happened.” “But it was Poppy who betrayed us! She gave the letters to Lady Kuo!” “You could have sent Poppy to deliver a message with her mouth,” she presses. “This is how women like you have communicated with women like me for all eternity.” That hurts. “I was afraid of my mother-in-law—” “Who isn’t? No. This is just an excuse.” I look inside myself to find my faults and mistakes. I see them clearly, but I once again put the blame on my maid. At this, Meiling shakes her head impatiently. “Poppy snuck out of this compound and came to tell my mother and me about your labor,” she says. “Poppy probably saved your life, and she did it at great risk to herself.” Again, I question myself. Is it a measure of how weak I still must be—or how self-centered I’ve always been—that I haven’t questioned how Midwife Shi and Meiling so magically appeared at my side? Still… “But tomorrow and the next day?” I ask tentatively. “Can I trust Poppy to take a


checked too suddenly. The boat flirted over and snubbed in to the bank bottom up, while Thornton, flung sheer out of it, was carried down-stream toward the worst part of the rapids, a stretch of wild water in which no swimmer could live. Buck had sprung in on the instant; and at the end of three hundred yards, amid a mad swirl of water, he overhauled Thornton. When he felt him grasp his tail, Buck headed for the bank, swimming with all his splendid strength. But the progress shoreward was slow; the progress down-stream amazingly rapid. From below came the fatal roaring where the wild current went wilder and was rent in shreds and spray by the rocks which thrust through like the teeth of an enormous comb. The suck of the water as it took the beginning of the last steep pitch was frightful, and Thornton knew that the shore was impossible. He scraped furiously over a rock, bruised across a second, and struck a third with crushing force. He clutched its slippery top with both hands, releasing Buck, and above the roar of the churning water shouted: "Go, Buck! Go!" Buck could not hold his own, and swept on down-stream, struggling desperately, but unable to win back. When he heard Thornton's command repeated, he partly reared out of the water, throwing his head high, as though for a last look, then turned obediently toward the bank. He swam powerfully and was dragged ashore by Pete and Hans at the very point where swimming ceased to be possible and destruction began. They knew that the time a man could cling to a slippery rock in the face of that driving current was a matter of minutes, and they ran as fast as they could up the bank to a point far above where Thornton was hanging on. They attached the line with which they had been snubbing the boat to Buck's neck and shoulders, being careful that it should neither strangle him nor impede his swimming, and launched him into the stream. He struck out boldly, but not straight enough into the stream. He discovered the mistake too late, when Thornton was abreast of him and a bare half-dozen strokes away while he was being carried helplessly past. Hans promptly snubbed with the rope, as though Buck were a boat. The rope thus tightening on him in the sweep of the current, he was jerked under the surface, and under the surface he remained till his body struck against the bank and he was hauled out. He was half drowned, and Hans and Pete threw themselves upon him, pounding the breath into him and the water out of him. He staggered to his feet and fell down. The faint sound of Thornton's voice came to them, and though they could not make out the words of it, they knew that he was in his extremity. His master's voice acted on Buck like an electric shock, He sprang to his feet and ran up the bank ahead of the men to the


all the way from Tate Hill Pier up to the churchyard. Lucy came with me, and we went early to our old seat, whilst the cortege of boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came down again. We had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly all the way. The poor fellow was laid to rest near our seat so that we stood on it, when the time came and saw everything. Poor Lucy seemed much upset. She was restless and uneasy all the time, and I cannot but think that her dreaming at night is telling on her. She is quite odd in one thing. She will not admit to me that there is any cause for restlessness, or if there be, she does not understand it herself. There is an additional cause in that poor Mr. Swales was found dead this morning on our seat, his neck being broken. He had evidently, as the doctor said, fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, for there was a look of fear and horror on his face that the men said made them shudder. Poor dear old man! Lucy is so sweet and sensitive that she feels influences more acutely than other people do. Just now she was quite upset by a little thing which I did not much heed, though I am myself very fond of animals. One of the men who came up here often to look for the boats was followed by his dog. The dog is always with him. They are both quiet persons, and I never saw the man angry, nor heard the dog bark. During the service the dog would not come to its master, who was on the seat with us, but kept a few yards off, barking and howling. Its master spoke to it gently, and then harshly, and then angrily. But it would neither come nor cease to make a noise. It was in a fury, with its eyes savage, and all its hair bristling out like a cat's tail when puss is on the war path. Finally the man too got angry, and jumped down and kicked the dog, and then took it by the scruff of the neck and half dragged and half threw it on the tombstone on which the seat is fixed. The moment it touched the stone the poor thing began to tremble. It did not try to get away, but crouched down, quivering and cowering, and was in such a pitiable state of terror that I tried, though without effect, to comfort it. Lucy was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt to touch the dog, but looked at it in an agonised sort of way. I greatly fear that she is of too super sensitive a nature to go through the world without trouble. She will be dreaming of this tonight, I am sure. The whole agglomeration of things, the ship steered into port by a dead man, his attitude, tied to the wheel with a crucifix and


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

door. Expecting Lilja and the welcome distraction of another woodcutting lesson, I was surprised to instead find Aud, looking determined. “He did not like our gifts,” she said without preamble. I sighed. I considered telling her that Bambleby required no gifts, but she wouldn’t understand that—favours granted by the Folk must always be repaid in a manner that satisfies them, which is not the same as saying that the values must be equal by human standards. I cast my gaze around the room, and it fell upon Wendell’s sewing kit. “Have you any silver needles?” I said. I had observed that Wendell’s were made from bone. Aud nodded slowly, looking puzzled. “Will that suffice?” “I expect he’d like a mirror or two,” I said. “To hang on the wall. But only if they are handsome. And chocolate,” I added with some pique, because surely I deserved a gift too, for my efforts. Aud nodded, looking pleased. She went away again, and an hour later, all that I had requested was delivered by one of Bambleby’s conquests, the little dark-haired one, who looked both relieved and disappointed to find him absent. I understood how she felt, for I had finally worked out what had been bothering me and was beside myself with excitement to share it with him. But evening set in, and there was still no sign of him. I decided to go down to the tavern—no doubt I would find him there, happily ensconced in awe and admiration. But when I pushed through the door, only the familiar faces of the villagers gazed back at me. To my horror, they burst into applause and began clapping me on the shoulders. Several of the women hugged me—I didn’t note which ones, as my senses were temporarily overwhelmed by this onslaught. “Leave her be, leave her be,” Thora’s voice grumbled, and her bony hand wrapped round my wrist and pulled me to her usual cosy and out-of-the-way nook next to the fire. “Thank you,” I murmured, collapsing into the other chair. She gave a rumble of laughter. “The way you froze! You looked like a startled badger.” I didn’t argue with her unflattering choice of metaphor, merely folded myself deeper into the chair. “Have you seen Wendell?” “Why would I know where that creature’s gotten to? He’s your faerie. What’s the matter?” I nearly bit my tongue in consternation. My faerie! Good grief. “Nothing is the matter. Only I believe I’ve worked out the reason why your village has lost so many to the tall ones in recent years. And why it will keep happening, if nothing is done to stop it.” I hadn’t meant to tell her, but the words just spilled out of me in my excitement. Thora’s face hardened, and she held up a hand. “Wait a moment, girl.” Seconds later, Thora had dragged Aud over to join our tête-à-tête. “What’s all this, Emily?” she said, grasping my hand warmly. “The changeling,” I said. “Before his arrival in Hrafnsvik, your village lost few youths to the Hidden Ones. All your


say that he was not himself, and quite confounded. Mr. Peggotty stopping for us to join him: we did so, and said no more. The remembrance of this, in connexion with my former thought, however, haunted me at intervals, even until the inexorable end came at its appointed time. We insensibly approached the old boat, and entered. Mrs. Gummidge, no longer moping in her especial corner, was busy preparing breakfast. She took Mr. Peggotty's hat, and placed his seat for him, and spoke so comfortably and softly, that I hardly knew her. 'Dan'l, my good man,' said she, 'you must eat and drink, and keep up your strength, for without it you'll do nowt. Try, that's a dear soul! An if I disturb you with my clicketten,' she meant her chattering, 'tell me so, Dan'l, and I won't.' When she had served us all, she withdrew to the window, where she sedulously employed herself in repairing some shirts and other clothes belonging to Mr. Peggotty, and neatly folding and packing them in an old oilskin bag, such as sailors carry. Meanwhile, she continued talking, in the same quiet manner: 'All times and seasons, you know, Dan'l,' said Mrs. Gummidge, 'I shall be allus here, and everythink will look accordin' to your wishes. I'm a poor scholar, but I shall write to you, odd times, when you're away, and send my letters to Mas'r Davy. Maybe you'll write to me too, Dan'l, odd times, and tell me how you fare to feel upon your lone lorn journies.' 'You'll be a solitary woman heer, I'm afeerd!' said Mr. Peggotty. 'No, no, Dan'l,' she returned, 'I shan't be that. Doen't you mind me. I shall have enough to do to keep a Beein for you' (Mrs. Gummidge meant a home), 'again you come back - to keep a Beein here for any that may hap to come back, Dan'l. In the fine time, I shall set outside the door as I used to do. If any should come nigh, they shall see the old widder woman true to 'em, a long way off.' What a change in Mrs. Gummidge in a little time! She was another woman. She was so devoted, she had such a quick perception of what it would be well to say, and what it would be well to leave unsaid; she was so forgetful of herself, and so regardful of the sorrow about her, that I held her in a sort of veneration. The work she did that day! There were many things to be brought up from the beach and stored in the outhouse - as oars, nets, sails, cordage, spars, lobster-pots, bags of ballast, and the like; and though there was abundance of assistance rendered, there being not a pair of working hands on all that shore but would have laboured hard for Mr. Peggotty, and been well paid in being asked to do it, yet she persisted, all day long, in toiling under weights that she was quite unequal to, and fagging to and fro on all sorts


I must have turned around in his arms, because my back is pressed against his chest. His hand is under my shirt, splayed flat against my belly, fingers brushing my pod, but not in a creepy, sexual way. He’s just trying to keep me close so that we both fit under the thin blanket. It should feel like being spooned by a piranha, but it somehow works, and . . . Maybe it is a bit sexual. Because there’s something very hot, very, very hard, very, very, very big pressing against my ass. Jack probably needs to pee. Don’t men get hard in the mornings when they need to go to the bathroom? It’s a pee erection. A peerection. Yup. Still, I should leave. I try to slip out from under Jack’s massive biceps, but he resists in his sleep. My heart races when he hums something into my nape, fingers gripping my hip. That hard thing pushes into me, trying to nestle farther between the cheeks of my ass, and I gasp. “You smell so good,” he growls into my skin, and all of a sudden I’m glowing with heat and embarrassment and something else, something new and pulsating and unfamiliar. I squirm around the feeling. Oh God. Is this— am I turned on? He’s barely awake, and I bet he thinks I’m his pillow girlfriend or whoever he slept with last, and I’m here, all hot and— “Elsie,” he nearly grunts. His arm tightens around my waist, then abruptly relaxes. He’s still fast asleep. And this time, when I wiggle away, he lets me go. I’m running upstairs, flushing cherry red, and he’s once again breathing evenly. It’s okay. It’s fine. Kind of creepy that I’m even thinking about this, since he’s asleep. In the bathroom, I brush my teeth (yup, with my finger), wash my face, and reassure Cece that I haven’t been sex trafficked. My inbox is bloated with emails. The highlight: From: melaniesmom@gmail.com Subject: Melanie Melanie is a good person and did not mean to copy that essay from the internet, she told me so, and I believe her because I raised her and in my household we do not condone lies. She was framed (her roommate has a vendetta against her, ever since the menstrual cup incident). Please let my daughter resubmit her assignment. Melanie’s mom I sigh, twice, then stress-snoop in Jack’s cabinets. Finding some Rogaine or antifungal meds or prescription-strength deodorant would humanize him, but there’s only toothpaste (wintergreen—disgusting) and soap. So I sit back on the edge of the tub and spend an unspecified length of time thinking of a way to let Dr. L. know that I failed. I failed him. By the time I crawl downstairs, Jack’s moving around the kitchen, phone lodged between shoulder and ear, laughing softly and saying, “. . . since you’re staying three days, we—” He turns around. When he notices me standing at the bottom of the staircase, his smile fades. Yes, I’m still wearing the Northeastern shirt I slept in, and yes, my hands


the tower so there wasn’t anyone to radio to anyway. “I’d leave your phones,” Daphne said. “It’s gusting pretty hard out here, and I don’t want anything to get wet.” She had her blond hair in a long braid, and her face was clean and makeup-free. My best friend had a lot of great versions. Mommy Daphne. Lawyer Daphne. But Camp Daphne? I loved her best of all. We stepped into the boat, and like old times, Daphne handed us each a jib line while she took control of the main sail and the tiller. “Remember when we had to take the sailing test without these?” she asked. “Yeah, I remember. I failed the first two times.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Sorry. I forgot that part. But you eventually passed!” I waved it away. “I did—and at least I tried,” I said, looking pointedly at Mary Stuart. She shrugged. “I’m sorry, okay. I’m good at horses. I’m great at lacrosse. Not everyone can be a star sailor.” The wind caught the sail, and we were off on our sunset cruise, in the direction of Camp Rock Springs. It was a little loop we knew well, one that would have us back at Holly Springs in an hour or so. “Man, we had some fun nights with those guys when we were counselors, didn’t we?” Daphne asked, as if reading my mind. “Some of us more than others,” Mary Stuart said. I rolled my eyes, pretending I didn’t immediately think of Rich McNabb, about those nights I thought our love would last forever. “Guys, this is my bachelorette party. We’re supposed to be talking about my deep, forever love with Bryce, not dancing around a failed relationship from years ago.” “Nonsense!” Mary Stuart protested. “Your bachelorette party is where you wax poetic about what might have been. It’s when you get everyone out of your system before you’re legally bound to one man forever.” That was an interesting theory. I looked at Daphne. She nodded. “She’s totally right. Plus, I mean, it’s a bachelorette party. There aren’t supposed to be rules.” On that note, Mary Stuart popped the top on a tiny bottle of champagne and handed it to me. I loved the sound of the wind on the mainsail and jib sheet, the feeling of being so close to the water. And it was all the better when Daphne was captaining. I had sailed a handful of times since camp, and I loved that I could still do it well. But today, it was even better not to have to do it at all. Bryce hated sailing, so it probably wasn’t something I would do a lot of in the future. “This is the best bachelorette party I could have ever imagined,” I said. “My two favorite friends, my favorite place, low-key perfection.” “Wait until the stripper gets here on his sailboat.” Mary Stuart wriggled her eyebrows. I picked at the label on the champagne bottle and looked up at Daphne. “Since we’re in the middle of nothingness, I


And there are other possibilities, anyway. There’s the guy who killed Barbara Crocker in the ’70s, for instance.” I was a little drunk. Maybe a lot drunk. I was also starting to wake up to the fact that, in my mind, for the past twenty-three years, Thalia Keith had been stalled out at seventeen as someone more sophisticated than me. But I was a mother now, for Christ’s sake, and in ten years Leo would be as old as Thalia had been when she died. I was working with these sweet students, and they were brilliant, but they were also babies. And Omar—Omar had been a baby himself. I needed to stop seeing him as the worldly guy I’d perceived at the time, someone who surely could have handled himself in the face of police interrogation. I said, “There was so much evidence against Omar. It’s just that there have always been unanswered questions, too. Don’t you think?” What if, for instance, none of her friends had known about you and her? What if they’d been so invested in the romance of Thalia-and-Robbie that they couldn’t see what her life was? It was possible—it was possible!—that I knew things they hadn’t. Fran said, “Right, but it’s not Perry Mason. We’re never gonna have some flashback scene.” “Do you ever think about Omar in prison? Like, as you’re living your life, do you—” “I think about Thalia in the ground,” she said. “My first year at Reed, that whole year I kept wondering how long it takes a body to decompose. I kept wondering if her skin was gone yet.” “Jesus.” “That’s what I think about. Forgive me if I don’t have a ton of sympathy for the guy whose DNA was all over her.” I tried my hardest to change the subject. “I wonder what happened to the Dick List” was what I came up with. “We should donate it to the archives.” “They should put it in that display case in the admissions office!” “They should at least publish it in the alumni magazine.” Fran said, “I bet Carlotta still has it. We should put it up on one of those creepy-ass websites about Thalia. Hey, here’s some relevant info about dick size!” “I wonder,” I said, maybe too seriously, “if someone still has the Thalia Bingo sheet.” Fran stopped laughing. “You’re obsessed. You’re getting obsessed.” “I was trying not to. But is it such a bad thing? You know when the time was to pretend not to care? Adolescence. That’s when I had the energy to pretend I didn’t care.” “Do you think—” “What.” “Nothing. Just, do you think—I know you had some crazy trauma in your childhood. And then you got here, and senior year was such a nightmare. I feel bad that I wasn’t sensitive to how hard it must have hit you. I just thought, since you weren’t friends . . . Like, I assumed you going off the deep end senior year was about your family. But Thalia’s death must’ve felt personal.” I wanted to shout


it. I do say I don't care if they don't like it, right enough- but I don't say the hell with 'em, see?" Dill and I said, "No sir." "I try to give 'em a reason, you see. It helps folks if they can latch onto a reason. When I come to town, which is seldom, if I weave a little and drink out of this sack, folks can say Dolphus Raymond's in the clutches of whiskey- that's why he won't change his ways. He can't help himself, that's why he lives the way he does." "That ain't honest, Mr. Raymond, making yourself out badder'n you are already-" "It ain't honest but it's mighty helpful to folks. Secretly, Miss Finch, I'm not much of a drinker, but you see they could never, never understand that I live like I do because that's the way I want to live." I had a feeling that I shouldn't be here listening to this sinful man who had mixed children and didn't care who knew it, but he was fascinating. I had never encountered a being who deliberately perpetrated fraud against himself. But why had he entrusted us with his deepest secret? I asked him why. "Because you're children and you can understand it," he said, "and because I heard that one-" He jerked his head at Dill: "Things haven't caught up with that one's instinct yet. Let him get a little older and he won't get sick and cry. Maybe things'll strike him as being- not quite right, say, but he won't cry, not when he gets a few years on him." "Cry about what, Mr. Raymond?" Dill's maleness was beginning to assert itself. "Cry about the simple hell people give other people- without even thinking. Cry about the hell white people give colored folks, without even stopping to think that they're people, too." "Atticus says cheatin' a colored man is ten times worse than cheatin' a white man," I muttered. "Says it's the worst thing you can do." Mr. Raymond said, "I don't reckon it's- Miss Jean Louise, you don't know your pa's not a run-of-the-mill man, it'll take a few years for that to sink in- you haven't seen enough of the world yet. You haven't even seen this town, but all you gotta do is step back inside the courthouse." Which reminded me that we were missing nearly all of Mr. Gilmer's cross-examination. I looked at the sun, and it was dropping fast behind the store-tops on the west side of the square. Between two fires, I could not decide which I wanted to jump into: Mr. Raymond or the 5th Judicial Circuit Court. "C'mon, Dill," I said. "You all right, now?" "Yeah. Glad t've metcha, Mr. Raymond, and thanks for the drink, it was mighty settlin'." We raced back to the courthouse, up the steps, up two flights of stairs, and edged our way along the balcony rail. Reverend Sykes had saved our seats. The courtroom was still, and again I wondered where the babies were. Judge Taylor's cigar was a


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It went on to blow a silver barn to smithereens.

8.

HK NGLAND WAS IN THE semifinal of the 2007 Rugby World Cup. No one

had predicted that. No one had believed England was any good this

time round, and now they were on the verge of winning it all. Millions of

Britons were swept away with rugby fever, including me.

So when I was invited to attend the semifinal, that October, I didn’t

hesitate. I said yes immediately.

Bonus: The semifinal was being held that year in Paris—a city I'd never

visited.

The World Cup provided me with a driver, and on my first night in the

City of Light I asked him if he knew the tunnel where my mother...

I watched his eyes in the rearview, growing large.

He was Irish, with a kindly, open face, and I could easily discern his

thoughts: What the feck? I didn t sign on for this.

The tunnel is called Pont de |’Alma, I told him.

Yes, yes. He knew it.

I want to go through it.

You want to go through the tunnel?

At sixty-five miles per hour—to be precise.

Sixty-five?

Yes.

The exact speed Mummy’s car had supposedly been driving, according to

police, at the time of the crash. Not 120 miles per hour, as the press

originally reported.

The driver looked over at the passenger seat. Billy the Rock nodded

gravely. Let’s do it. Billy added that if the driver ever revealed to another

human that we’d asked him to do this, we’d find him and there would be

hell to pay.

The driver gave a solemn nod.

Off we went, weaving through traffic, cruising past the Ritz, where

Mummy had her last meal, with her boyfriend, that August night. Then we
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mower and gardening tools, along with the original statues and urns from the formal garden. Maud smiled as she passed the pond again. Neither Frazer nor Chris had said anything about the slippers. She was back with her people. You didn’t have to be sociable in gardening. You didn’t have to think about how you dressed or whether you were being clever. You didn’t have to do what she had been doing for the past two years in Marin, chatting with the wives of Peter’s partners at cocktail parties as she tried to balance in heels. Even grouchy Harriet, who now stood on the porch with the pitcher of lemonade and an aggrieved look on her face—she must have seen how Maud left the archives—was a relief. The farmhouse where Maud was staying perched on a hill near the front gates, close to a complex of warehouses and barns that had been repurposed for storage and as administrative offices. Across the drive, an abandoned cherry and plum orchard stretched its leafy branches from a ragweed bed. Down the hill, Saw Kill Creek raged in a foamy streak into the woods, where it filled a swimming lake before succumbing to the Hudson. Gabriel lived in a cottage on the bank, a jumble of stones under a patchy roof that had once housed workers for a woolen mill. Inside the farmhouse a couch bulged with sateen throw pillows, and the curtains frothed with lace. Stink bugs littered the windowsills, adding their burnt-rubber smell to the odor of gas from an antiquarian stove. Dust furred the wainscoting in the dining room, and the bathroom faucets plinked. When Harriet had first opened the door for Maud (“We gave you the larger accommodation because of your children,” she’d said, saying the word as if it were “lepers”), Maud had fallen in love with the moldering rooms. She was reminded of Monk’s House, Virginia and Leonard Woolf’s home in Sussex, England, where she’d kept the gardens during the three happiest years of her life. Back then, Peter stayed in London during the week for his job as an investment banker, joining the family on weekends. As Maud used to joke to her friends, their marriage worked beautifully when they lived apart. But two years ago, Peter—who was British—abruptly took a job in San Francisco and the family relocated to Marin. Maud had gone from days brimming with research and gardening and freedom to no work and the relentless disappointment of her marriage. Despite having grown up in California, she was a specialist in the history of the British garden. She knew little about the state’s native plants, and there was a dearth of major restorations in the listings she prowled. She had sent out her résumé, then sent it out again, her frustration climbing in tandem with her resentment of Peter. But that was all behind her now, she thought, as she stripped off her sweaty clothes and added them to a pile growing by the washing machine. She was here. She had made it. She had a


seen. Nonetheless Ulmo loves both Elves and Men, and never abandoned them, not even when they lay under the wrath of the Valar. At times he win come unseen to the shores of Middle-earth, or pass far inland up firths of the sea, and there make music upon his great horns, the Ulumri, that are wrought of white shell; and those to whom that music comes hear it ever after in their hearts, and longing for the sea never leaves them again. But mostly Ulmo speaks to those who dwell in Middle-earth with voices that are heard only as the music of water. For all seas, lakes, rivers, fountains and springs are in his government; so that the Elves say that the spirit of Ulmo runs in all the veins of the world. Thus news comes to Ulmo, even in the deeps, of all the needs and griefs of Arda, which otherwise would be hidden from Manw. Aul has might little less than Ulmo. His lordship is over all the substances of which Arda is made. In the beginning he wrought much in fellowship with Manw and Ulmo; and the fashioning of all lands was his labour. He is a smith and a master of all crafts, and he delights in works of skill, however small, as much as in the mighty building of old. His are the gems that lie deep in the Earth and the gold that is fair in the hand, no less than the walls of the mountains and the basins of the sea. The Noldor learned most of him, and he was ever their friend. Melkor was jealous of him, for Aul was most like himself in thought and in powers; and there was long strife between them, in which Melkor ever marred or undid the works of Aul, and Aul grew weary in repairing the tumults and disorders of Melkor. Both, also, desired to make things of their own that should be new and unthought of by others, and delighted in the praise of their skill. But Aul remained faithful to Eru and submitted all that he did to his will; and he did not envy the works of others, but sought and gave counsel. Whereas Melkor spent his spirit in envy and hate, until at last he could make nothing save in mockery of the thought of others, and all their works he destroyed if he could. The spouse of Aul is Yavanna, the Giver of Fruits. She is the lover of all things that grow in the earth, and all their countless forms she holds in her mind, from the trees like towers in forests long ago to the moss upon stones or the small and secret things in the mould. In reverence Yavanna is next to Varda among the Queens of the Valar. In the form of a woman she is tall, and robed in green; but at times she takes other shapes. Some there are who have seen her standing like a tree under heaven, crowned with the Sun; and from all


this instant, while Daggoo, on the summit of the head, was clearing the whip --which had somehow got foul of the great cutting tackles --a sharp cracking noise was heard; and to the unspeakable horror of all, one of the two enormous hooks suspending the head tore out, and with a vast vibration the enormous mass sideways swung, till the drunk ship reeled and shook as if smitten by an iceberg. The one remaining hook, upon which the entire strain now depended, seemed every instant to be on the point of giving way; an event still more likely from the violent motions of the head. Come down, come down! yelled the seamen to Daggoo, but .. <p 341 > with one hand holding on to the heavy tackles, so that if the head should drop, he would still remain suspended; the negro having cleared the foul line, rammed down the bucket into the now collapsed well, meaning that the buried harpooneer should grasp it, and so be hoisted out. In heaven's name, man, cried Stubb, are you ramming home a cartridge there? --Avast! How will that help him; jamming that iron-bound bucket on top of his head? Avast, will ye! Stand clear of the tackle! cried a voice like the bursting of a rocket. Almost in the same instant, with a thunder-boom, the enormous mass dropped into the sea, like Niagara's Table-Rock into the whirlpool; the suddenly relieved hull rolled away from it, to far down her glittering copper; and all caught their breath, as half swinging --now over the sailors' heads, and now over the water --Daggoo, through a thick mist of spray, was dimly beheld clinging to the pendulous tackles, while poor, buried-alive Tashtego was sinking utterly down to the bottom of the sea! But hardly had the blinding vapor cleared away, when a naked figure with a boarding-sword in its hand, was for one swift moment seen hovering over the bulwarks. The next, a loud splash announced that my brave Queequeg had dived to the rescue. One packed rush was made to the side, and every eye counted every ripple, as moment followed moment, and no sign of either the sinker or the diver could be seen. Some hands now jumped into a boat alongside, and pushed a little off from the ship. Ha! ha! cried Daggoo, all at once, from his now quiet, swinging perch overhead; and looking further off from the side, we saw an arm thrust upright from the blue waves; a sight strange to see, as an arm thrust forth from the grass over a grave. both! both! --it is both! --cried daggoo again with a joyful shout; and soon after, Queequeg was seen boldly striking out with one hand, and with the other clutching the long hair of the Indian. Drawn into the waiting boat, they were quickly brought to the deck; but Tashtego was long in coming to, and Queequeg did not look very brisk. .. <p 342 > Now, how had this noble rescue been accomplished? Why, diving after the slowly descending