she was quite in accord. She had been made to break an accepted social law, but no law know to the environment in which she fancied herself such an anomaly. XIV It was a hazy sunrise in August. The denser nocturnal vapours, attacked by the warm beams, were dividing and shrinking into isolated fleeces within hollows and coverts, where they waited till they should be dried away to nothing. The sun, on account of the mist, had a curious sentient, personal look, demanding the masculine pronoun for its adequate expression. His present aspect, coupled with the lack of all human forms in the scene, explained the old-time heliolatries in a moment. One could feel that a saner religion had never prevailed under the sky. The luminary was a golden-haired, beaming, mild-eyed, God-like creature, gazing down in the vigour and intentness of youth upon an earth that was brimming with interest for him. His light, a little later, broke though chinks of cottage shutters, throwing stripes like red-hot pokers upon cupboards, chests of drawers, and other furniture within; and awakening harvesters who were not already astir. But of all ruddy things that morning the brightest were two broad arms of painted wood, which rose from the margin of yellow cornfield hard by Marlott village. They, with two others below, formed the revolving Maltese cross of the reaping-machine, which had been brought to the field on the previous evening to be ready for operations this day. The paint with which they were smeared, intensified in hue by the sunlight, imparted to them a look of having been dipped in liquid fire. The field had already been "opened"; that is to say, a lane a few feet wide had been hand-cut through the wheat along the whole circumference of the field for the first passage of the horses and machine. Two groups, one of men and lads, the other of women, had come down the lane just at the hour when the shadows of the eastern hedge-top struck the west hedge midway, so that the heads of the groups were enjoying sunrise while their feet were still in the dawn. They disappeared from the lane between the two stone posts which flanked the nearest field-gate. Presently there arose from within a ticking like the love-making of the grasshopper. The machine had begun, and a moving concatenation of three horses and the aforesaid long rickety machine was visible over the gate, a driver sitting upon one of the hauling horses, and an attendant on the seat of the implement. Along one side of the field the whole wain went, the arms of the mechanical reaper revolving slowly, till it passed down the hill quite out of sight. In a minute it came up on the other side of the field at the same equable pace; the glistening brass star in the forehead of the fore horse first catching the eye as it rose into view over the stubble, then the bright arms, and then the whole machine. The narrow lane of stubble encompassing the field grew


between him and a British architect. After I’d googled Noah Brewster Los Angeles house, the Internet suggested that I also google Noah Brewster net worth, and who was I to decline? The answer, which may have been accurate or completely wrong, was ninety-five million dollars. On the phone, there was a brief silence, then Noah said, “So I think you should come visit me. And I think we should hang out and keep talking about all the things we’ve been talking about over email. What do you think of that?” “Okay.” “Wait, do you think I’m kidding?” “Are you kidding?” “No.” “I wasn’t kidding, either. And as luck would have it, my schedule is pretty open now.” He laughed. “So is mine. So how about, I don’t know, tomorrow? The next day? You’ll probably make fun of me for this, but one option is for my P.A. to arrange a plane to bring you.” “That sounds very Fifty Shades of Grey.” “Yeah, somehow I haven’t gotten around to reading that. But if we charter a flight, you skip the terminal and security, which I assume are the germ hotspots.” “I got the Fifty Shades books for some quick research for a sketch, and the next thing I knew I’d consumed fifteen hundred pages about Ben Wa balls and riding crops.” I hesitated. I didn’t know how much it cost to charter a flight, but it seemed like a destabilizing way to start things with Noah. I said, “A private plane sounds a little, uh, intense. But visiting you sounds great.” “You don’t have to decide about the plane now. If you end up flying commercial, just promise me you’ll wear a KN95.” “Do you know what people like me call flying commercial?” I said. “We call it flying.” “Yeah, I guess I asked for that.” This conversation had started after midnight, and we were then on the phone for two and a half hours more, discussing how the kids of one of his side project band members were sewing masks for residents of nursing homes; and how while walking Sugar that evening I’d passed a slim white woman in a T-shirt that said Good Vibes Only, and how that seemed like a thing a slim white woman shouldn’t be wearing at this particular cultural moment; and how I was reading a novel set in Communist Romania; and how he was reading a book of nonfiction about the future of artificial intelligence but the truth was that he read it only at night and rarely got through more than a few pages before falling asleep; and how the previous week, he had started writing a new song for the first time since he’d had Covid and it hadn’t gone incredibly well but also hadn’t been a disaster; and about how in the Indigo Girls’ “Dairy Queen,” there was a lyric I’d never been clear on because it kind of sounded like “to hold you” but it also kind of sounded like “to haunt you” and if you looked it up online it said


Daimler. Vast and rumbling gently. She longed to keep hold of his hand, not let go. But she repressed this. Too soon. Not safe. Nothing was settled. “I’m taking myself out of circulation for a while,” she said stolidly. She withdrew her hand from his, denying herself the comfort of it. “But I’ll let you know.” * * * Outside the post office, Alice saw the newspapers tied up with string, stacked on the pavement. They were all carrying the same story, the one that grew wilder by the day: the greatest robbery of the age, the biggest search in history... She glanced over her shoulder. She half expected to glimpse a man waiting for her at the end of the lane. Her nostrils were flared and ready, searching for an unsettling hint of gardenias. No one there. She entered the post office. It cost a lot of money to send a postcard to Florence. It cost even more to wire a large sum to a foreign bank. She chose the one opposite the Grand Hotel. “No message,” she said. “No need.” She felt lighter once it was done. She felt free. Alice met her sister the next morning, at dawn, five minutes from the Mile End Road. The light was creeping up, birds sounding their chorus. The cemetery smelled fresh, clean, not grim at all. Mrs. King came in a white dress, not black or navy. She looked strangely loose, untethered, hair swept over her shoulders. There was a fierce color in her cheeks. Alice wondered if she’d been out all night, just walking. “Where is it?” Mrs. King said. Alice took her to the grave. She adjusted her crucifix. “It’s very peaceful, isn’t it?” “Don’t be morbid, Alice.” Alice put her hands in her pockets. “Want a moment by yourself?” “Yes.” Mrs. King stood there for a long time, staring down at the tombstone. The breeze pulled on her skirts and from a distance it made her appear almost small, like a little girl. Alice had to turn away. Afterward they walked together through the graves. “I’m going abroad,” Alice said. “Good,” said Mrs. King. There was a calmness about her. “I might need to do the same.” “I mean, really abroad. To America, if I can manage it. To take in the latest fashions.” “You can manage it.” Mrs. King looked at her seriously. “You can do anything you like.” Alice considered very carefully what she wanted to say. “I wish Mother had been able to see the ocean,” she said. “I wish she’d been able to do anything at all.” The thought carried its own pain: dull, right in the center of the chest, immovable. Mrs. King nodded, lips pressed together. Evidently, she felt it, too. “Shall we write to one another?” Alice said. Mrs. King stopped. Straightened her cuffs. “Would you like that?” Alice laughed, feeling her nerves. “I don’t know. We’re family. I suppose we ought to be in touch.” Mrs. King reached out and touched her on the arm. “Write if you want to,” she


reversed. The windows were shuttered, the tables covered with all the paraphernalia of a sickroom: pillboxes and towels and bowls ready for the nurse to collect. There was a sulfurous smell in the air. She wondered if the master had brought it with him from the gaming tables and watering holes of the spa towns. She made herself look at the bed. Mr. de Vries was lying there, propped up with silk cushions, curtains pulled back. Even from a distance, she could hear his breathing, the grating sound of his lungs. “Good evening, sir,” she said. His eyes were closed, but he took a breath, a painful little sip of air. “Come here.” Evidently, he wasn’t going to waste words. Mrs. King crossed the room. The carpets absorbed her footsteps; she moved completely without sound. “Your present,” he said, resting his hand on a prayer book, there beside him on the bed. His fingers were thin, very nearly elegant. But there was something gross about them, encrusted with rings, prominent knuckles, hairs sprouting at odd angles. Hands for touching, prodding, peeling back layers. Fingers that carried disease under the nails. She didn’t touch the book. Someone would bring it down later. Pile it with the others, by her door. “Thank you,” she said—because it seemed like a kindness, because it didn’t cause anyone any harm. “I wrote a letter,” he said, hoarse. “If you want to know the truth.” She felt her body grow very still. “What?” “It’s in the house,” he said. “The letter.” Later she tried to recall the moment, to pinpoint what she had felt. Surprise? Curiosity? It was a wriggle in her gut, certainly, but it was more like—unease. He was being economical with words, and so was she. It took care, and skill, and precision, not to say too much. And looking at him lying there, flat against the pillows, she felt something cold entering her heart. He’s on the edge, she realized. He’s dealing with the final things. “What letter?” she asked, at length. His eyes flickered at that. He still had it: the taste for a game, the nose for a tease. “Find it,” he said, “and you’ll know, won’t you?” She yearned to move toward him, and she wanted to creep away, all at the same time. As if blood spoke to blood, repelling and seeking in equal measure. “Are you comfortable?” she said, at last. She asked because she was curious. She wondered what it felt like to be there, right on the brink. Because surely this was the end? Surely they were very near it now? You only had to measure the shrinking line of his neck, see the way the weight had fallen away from his cheeks. His movements were growing slower and slower, the degradation unstoppable. He let out a shallow breath. His eyes moved toward the blur of the medicine cabinet, the bowls, the pillboxes. “I’m bored,” he whispered. She loathed him in that moment, but she wanted to laugh, too. I would be bored, she thought. Oh, I


wanted you to know who I was,” he said, meeting her gaze. Iris fell silent, pulling a loose thread from her sleeve. “I wasn’t about to let you die.” “I know,” Roman said, and a smile broke over his face. “And yes. Stubborn is my middle name. Don’t you know it by now?” “I believe that name is already taken, Carver.” “Do you know what Carver would like right about now? Some tea.” “Make your own tea, lazybones,” Iris said, but she was already rising from her chair, thankful that he had given her something to do. A moment to step away from the memories that were flooding her. By the time she had prepared two cups, Roman had started to transcribe soldier stories. Iris decided it would be best for her to write about the actual attack, since she had been lucid the entire time. She fed a fresh page into her typewriter and stared at its crisp blankness for a long moment, sipping her tea. It was strangely comforting to hear Roman type. She almost laughed when she remembered how it had once irked her, to know his words were flowing while she worked on classifieds and obituaries. She needed to break this ice. Her fingers touched the keys, tentatively at first. As if remembering their purpose. She began to write, and the words felt slow and thick at first. But she fell into a rhythm with Roman, and soon her keys were rising and falling, the accompaniment to his, as if they were creating a metallic song together. She caught him smiling a few times, as if he had been waiting to hear her words strike. Their tea went cold. Iris stopped to freshen up their cups. She noticed that the wind was still blowing. Every now and then, a tendril would sneak into the kitchen, fluttering the papers on the table. The breeze smelled like warm soil and moss and freshly cut grass, and she watched as the garden beyond danced with it. She continued with her article, cutting up her memories and setting them back down on paper. She made it to the moment when the grenade went off and she paused, glancing up at Roman. He tended to scowl while he wrote, and there was deep furrow between his brows. But his eyes were alight, and his lips were pressed into a line, and he tilted his head to the side, so his hair would drift out of his eyes. “See something you like?” he asked, not missing a beat. His gaze remained on his paper, his fingertips flying over the keys. Iris frowned. “You’re distracting me, Kitt.” “I’m pleased to hear it. Now you know how I’ve felt all this bloody time, Iris.” “If I was distracting you for such a long period of time … you should have done something about it.” Without another word, Roman reached for a piece of paper and crumpled it into a ball, hurling it across the table at her. Iris blocked it, eyes flashing. “And to think I


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

has it? An encyclopaedia of faeries? This will form a cornerstone of all scholarship on the subject for years to come. Probably it will lead to the formation of new methodologies that will enhance our core understanding of the Folk.” He said it without any hint of flattery. I could only reply honestly, a little overwhelmed, “Yes, that was the intention.” He smiled. “I thought so. You don’t need the chapter on the Hidden Ones, you know.” “It will be less impressive without it.” “And who is it you are wishing to impress? Ah.” He leaned back in his chair. “The faculty position. That’s it, isn’t it?” “And if it is?” I couldn’t interpret the look on his face. “You don’t think I have a chance?” “Well, you’re a little young—” “And you’re not?” Cambridge had given him tenure two years ago, the bastard. “I’m an exception.” He said it absently, looking down at the pages, and a smile came over his face. “When is old Sutherland retiring?” “This fall.” I was leaning forward, twisting my fingers together. “I plan to put my name forward when I return. It would give me money. Resources. I wouldn’t have to scrape together the funding for a one-month expedition; I could run multiple field studies at once if I chose. Think of the discoveries I could make, the mysteries I could solve. And—” And I would never have to leave Cambridge, I almost said. “Yes.” He flicked another page. “And you shall shut yourself away forever in those old stones with your books and your mysteries like a dragon with her hoard, having as little association with the living as possible and emerging only to breathe fire at your students.” He has an irritating way of understanding me, at least in part, which is more than anyone else does—no doubt some faerie gift of his. “You intend to stay here, do you?” I said, to change the subject. “Where else? This is not the sort of place for a hotel, is it? I received your host’s assent to my enquiry the day after I wrote to you, and departed Cambridge immediately thereafter. I assumed he would have told you.” I winced. “Egilson and I have not been on the best of terms.” “What?” He gave an exaggerated affectation of surprise. “Dear Emily. Don’t tell me you’ve had trouble making friends.” My scowl was interrupted by the creak of the door. As before, Krystjan strode into the cottage without knocking. I could tell by his expression that Bambleby’s message had been as well received as I had guessed. Lizzie trailed behind him, looking uselessly apologetic. “Mr. Egilson!” Bambleby was on his feet immediately, his smile broadening. “I see that you don’t stand for formalities, my good man. How refreshing. I must convey how much I appreciate your hospitality at such short notice. I had heard tales of the warmth and generosity of your compatriots, but you have gone above and beyond.” He said all of this in accented but fluent Ljoslander. It stopped Egilson in his


was a shop of cheap sweetstuffs at the bottom), and it was opened by an elderly Frenchwoman in a dirty apron. Philip asked her if Cronshaw was in. "Ah, yes, there is an Englishman who lives at the top, at the back. I don't know if he's in. If you want him you had better go up and see." The staircase was lit by one jet of gas. There was a revolting odour in the house. When Philip was passing up a woman came out of a room on the first floor, looked at him suspiciously, but made no remark. There were three doors on the top landing. Philip knocked at one, and knocked again; there was no reply; he tried the handle, but the door was locked. He knocked at another door, got no answer, and tried the door again. It opened. The room was dark. "Who's that?" He recognised Cronshaw's voice. "Carey. Can I come in?" He received no answer. He walked in. The window was closed and the stink was overpowering. There was a certain amount of light from the arc-lamp in the street, and he saw that it was a small room with two beds in it, end to end; there was a washing-stand and one chair, but they left little space for anyone to move in. Cronshaw was in the bed nearest the window. He made no movement, but gave a low chuckle. "Why don't you light the candle?" he said then. Philip struck a match and discovered that there was a candlestick on the floor beside the bed. He lit it and put it on the washing-stand. Cronshaw was lying on his back immobile; he looked very odd in his nightshirt; and his baldness was disconcerting. His face was earthy and death-like. "I say, old man, you look awfully ill. Is there anyone to look after you here?" "George brings me in a bottle of milk in the morning before he goes to his work." "Who's George?" "I call him George because his name is Adolphe. He shares this palatial apartment with me." Philip noticed then that the second bed had not been made since it was slept in. The pillow was black where the head had rested. "You don't mean to say you're sharing this room with somebody else?" he cried. "Why not? Lodging costs money in Soho. George is a waiter, he goes out at eight in the morning and does not come in till closing time, so he isn't in my way at all. We neither of us sleep well, and he helps to pass away the hours of the night by telling me stories of his life. He's a Swiss, and I've always had a taste for waiters. They see life from an entertaining angle." "How long have you been in bed?" "Three days." "D'you mean to say you've had nothing but a bottle of milk for the last three days? Why on earth didn't you send me a line? I can't bear to think of you lying here all day long


go step by step inside that fat head of his, only Piggy was no chief. But Piggy, for all his ludicrous body, had brains. Ralph was a specialist in thought now, and could recognize thought in another. The sun in his eyes reminded him how time was passing, so he took the conch down from the tree and examined the surface. Exposure to the air had bleached the yellow and pink to near-white, and transparency. Ralph felt a kind of affectionate reverence for the conch, even though he had fished the thing out of the lagoon himself. He faced the place of assembly and put the conch to his lips. The others were waiting for this and came straight away. Those who were aware that a ship had passed the island while the fire was out were subdued by the thought of Ralph's anger; while those, including the littluns who did not know, were impressed by the general air of solemnity. The place of assembly filled quickly; Jack, Simon, Maurice, most of the hunters, on Ralph's right; the rest on the left, under the sun. Piggy came and stood outside the triangle. This indicated that he wished to listen, but would not speak; and Piggy intended it as a gesture of disapproval. "The thing is: we need an assembly." No one said anything but the faces turned to Ralph were intent. He flourished the conch. He had learnt as a practical business that fundamental statements like this had to be said at least twice, before everyone understood them. One had to sit, attracting all eyes to the conch, and drop words like heavy round stones among the little groups that crouched or squatted. He was searching his mind for simple words so that even the littluns would understand what the assembly was about. Later perhaps, practiced debaters--Jack, Maurice, Piggy--would use their whole art to twist the meeting: but now at the beginning the subject of the debate must be laid out clearly. "We need an assembly. Not for fun. Not for laughing and falling off the log"--the group of littluns on the twister giggled and looked at each other--"not for making jokes, or for"--he lifted the conch in an effort to find the compelling word--"for cleverness. Not for these things. But to put things straight." He paused for a moment. "I've been alone. By myself I went, thinking what's what. I know what we need. An assembly to put things straight. And first of all, I'm speaking." He paused for a moment and automatically pushed back his hair. Piggy tiptoed to the triangle, his ineffectual protest made, and joined the others. Ralph went on. "We have lots of assemblies. Everybody enjoys speaking and being together. We decide things. But they don't get done. We were going to have water brought from the stream and left in those coconut shells under fresh leaves. So it was, for a few days. Now there's no water. The shells are dry. People drink from the river." There was a murmur of assent. "Not that there's anything


cock can be spotted the very day it hatches. I have done my best to make Nwoye grow into a man, but there is too much of his mother in him." "Too much of his grandfather," Obierika thought, but he did not say it. The same thought also came to Okonkwo's mind. But he had long learned how to lay that ghost. Whenever the thought of his father's weakness and failure troubled him he expelled it by thinking about his own strength and success. And so he did now. His mind went to his latest show of manliness. "I cannot understand why you refused to come with us to kill that boy," he asked Obierika. "Because I did not want to," Obierika replied sharply. "I had something better to do." "You sound as if you question the authority and the decision of the Oracle, who said he should die." "I do not. Why should I? But the Oracle did not ask me to carry out its decision." "But someone had to do it. If we were all afraid of blood, it would not be done. And what do you think the Oracle would do then?" "You know very well, Okonkwo, that I am not afraid of blood and if anyone tells you that I am, he is telling a lie. And let me tell you one thing, my friend. If I were you I would have stayed at home. What you have done will not please the Earth. It is the kind of action for which the goddess wipes out whole families." "The Earth cannot punish me for obeying her messenger," Okonkwo said. "A child's fingers are not scalded by a piece of hot yam which its mother puts into its palm." "That is true," Obierika agreed. "But if the Oracle said that my son should be killed I would neither dispute it nor be the one to do it." They would have gone on arguing had Ofoedu not come in just then. It was clear from his twinkling eyes that he had important news. But it would be impolite to rush him. Obierika offered him a lobe of the kola nut he had broken with Okonkwo. Ofoedu ate slowly and talked about the locusts. When he finished his kola nut he said: "The things that happen these days are very strange." "What has happened?" asked Okonkwo. "Do you know Ogbuefi Ndulue?" Ofoedu asked. "Ogbuefi Ndulue of Ire village," Okonkwo and Obierika said together. "He died this morning," said Ofoedu. "That is not strange. He was the oldest man in Ire," said Obierika. "You are right," Ofoedu agreed. "But you ought to ask why the drum has not beaten to tell Umuofia of his death." "Why?" asked Obierika and Okonkwo together. "That is the strange part of it. You know his first wife who walks with a stick?" "Yes. She is called Ozoemena." "That is so," said Ofoedu. "Ozoemena was, as you know, too old to attend Ndulue during his illness. His younger wives did that. When he died this morning, one


girl falls silent and works on the last touches. Two small earrings to match the diadem. A white tunic, smooth and thin. A lynx’s skin to cover her shoulders. The servant brings a basin of cold water, and Clytemnestra plunges her face into it. She is ready. * * * When the servants open the wooden doors of the megaron, suitors fill the room like locusts. They are all wearing their best tunics, gold, silver, and crimson, the symbols of their islands and cities visible on their cloak pins and daggers. Tyndareus sits on the throne near the hearth, his beard trimmed, a thin golden crown on his gray hair. Next to him, Leda looks beautiful with anemone earrings dangling down her neck and lambskins hanging over her shoulders. Clytemnestra smiles. It is like looking into a clear stream and seeing herself in twenty years. Helen is already seated on a chair, draped with brown cowhide, on a small dais positioned in front of the painted wall. There is a veil around her head, covering her golden hair. She is quite still, so that the colorful frescoes of dancing women frame her perfectly. She could be part of the painting, and indeed, exposed like that on the dais, she looks more like a fading fresco. Feeling her sister’s gaze on her, she turns and their eyes lock. Clytemnestra wants to run to her, grab her, and take her away from this, to the tall reeds of the river or among the trees that grow on the mountains. But then Helen looks away. “They should have let her sit next to your father,” Penelope whispers in Clytemnestra’s ear, suddenly at her side. Clytemnestra didn’t even hear her coming. “Did you speak to her?” she asks quietly. “I did,” Penelope says. She has also plaited her hair, and the style enhances her soft lips and gentle features. “And?” “She seemed convinced. I praised Idomeneus, who is quite handsome,” she says, turning quickly to her left, where the Cretan prince stands, “and Machaon, because Helen has an interest in the art of healing, does she not?” “She does,” says Clytemnestra, impressed by her cousin’s attentiveness. She cranes her neck to see Machaon. He has calloused yet gentle-seeming hands and long, curly hair. Clytemnestra tries to picture her sister next to him, her gleaming beauty clashing with his coarse looks. As the men stand in the center of the room, their servants holding precious gifts, Clytemnestra notices the son of Laertes leaning casually against one of the columns, his hands empty and his servants nowhere to be seen. How does he think to woo Helen without a gift? Leda beckons to Clytemnestra, and she approaches the throne. Phoebe and Philonoe stand next to their mother, each wearing a thick cloak adorned with a golden pin. Tyndareus seems annoyed. “What is it?” Clytemnestra asks. “Find your sister Timandra,” Leda says. “She is not here.” “Be quick,” Tyndareus orders. “The Atreidai are coming, so we will start soon.” Clytemnestra nods and walks out of the hall. A few


weather was sultry, her arm, from her dabbling in the curds, was as cold and damp to his mouth as a new-gathered mushroom, and tasted of the whey. But she was such a sheaf of susceptibilities that her pulse was accelerated by the touch, her blood driven to her finder-ends, and the cool arms flushed hot. Then, as though her heart had said, "Is coyness longer necessary? Truth is truth between man and woman, as between man and man," she lifted her eyes and they beamed devotedly into his, as her lip rose in a tender half-smile. "Do you know why I did that, Tess?" he said. "Because you love me very much!" "Yes, and as a preliminary to a new entreaty." "Not AGAIN!" She looked a sudden fear that her resistance might break down under her own desire. "O, Tessy!" he went on, "I CANNOT think why you are so tantalizing. Why do you disappoint me so? You seem almost like a coquette, upon my life you do--a coquette of the first urban water! They blow hot and blow cold, just as you do, and it is the very last sort of thing to expect to find in a retreat like Talbothays. ... And yet, dearest," he quickly added, observing now the remark had cut her, "I know you to be the most honest, spotless creature that ever lived. So how can I suppose you a flirt? Tess, why don't you like the idea of being my wife, if you love me as you seem to do?" "I have never said I don't like the idea, and I never could say it; because--it isn't true!" The stress now getting beyond endurance her lip quivered, and she was obliged to go away. Clare was so pained and perplexed that he ran after and caught her in the passage. "Tell me, tell me!" he said, passionately clasping her, in forgetfulness of his curdy hands: "do tell me that you won't belong to anybody but me!" "I will, I will tell you!" she exclaimed. "And I will give you a complete answer, if you will let me go now. I will tell you my experiences--all about myself--all!" "Your experiences, dear; yes, certainly; and number." He expressed assent in loving satire, looking into her face. "My Tess, no doubt, almost as many experiences as that wild convolvulus out there on the garden hedge, that opened itself this morning for the first time. Tell me anything, but don't use that wretched expression any more about not being worthy of me." "I will try--not! And I'll give you my reasons tomorrow--next week." "Say on Sunday?" "Yes, on Sunday." At last she got away, and did not stop in her retreat till she was in the thicket of pollard willows at the lower side of the barton, where she could be quite unseen. Here Tess flung herself down upon the rustling undergrowth of spear-grass, as upon a bed, and remained crouching in palpitating misery broken by momentary shoots of joy, which her fears about the ending could not


sorry, what?” Marion’s heart raced. There was a finality to Miss Beaumont’s tone that frightened her. Not working out? “There are a number of teachers with storied professional careers in the dance world who are eager to join our faculty, and I’ve been putting off the inevitable out of respect for your long association with Miss Stanwich. But enough’s enough. Your services are no longer needed here at Broadway Ballet and Dance Studio.” She picked up the cigarette that was smoldering in the ashtray and took a long drag, aiming her exhale at the open window. “Effective immediately.” * * * “What are you doing home so early?” Marion’s sister, Judy, sat at the antique rolltop desk in the living room of the house in Bronxville, paying bills, and from the sour look on her face, she wasn’t pleased at the interruption. Marion dumped her dance bag on the floor and plopped on the couch, legs wide, arms flung out. Judy was the last person she wanted to share her day with. Yet that hadn’t always been the case. When Marion was a little girl, Judy had been her entire world. It was Judy’s idea to put on a variety show for the neighbors and charge admission. She rode her bike around, pasting flyers up on the telephone poles, cut out paper tickets, and collected the coins in a coffee can. Marion happily danced about the stage in her leotard and tights for a good fifteen minutes before an older boy who juggled shoved her off. At the end of the show, the parents in attendance praised Marion for her lovely performance while Judy sat counting their riches at the bridge table that served as a ticket booth. Judy paid Marion ten cents, which seemed like an enormous sum at the time. Their father doted on Judy, whose affinity for order and logic matched his own, while their mother, Lucille, demonstrated a flair for glamour that aligned more with Marion’s nature. When Lucille was preparing for a night out, she never minded if Marion rummaged through her closet and tried on her too-big high heels or draped herself with layers of long silk scarves; once she’d even dabbed her favorite perfume on Marion’s tiny wrist. Marion would watch as her mother transformed into a veritable movie star, lining her eyes with kohl and spraying her strawberry-blonde hair into a tower of curls before stepping out for a night at the theater or a jazz club. After the shock of Lucille’s death when Judy was ten and Marion seven, the sisters were left grieving, confused, and angry, but for their father’s sake they sublimated their misery. He went back to work the day after the funeral and they were expected to return to school, carry on with their lives. Each night, Marion would crawl into Judy’s bed and listen as her older sister made up stories about dancing monkeys and singing turtles until sleep finally came. For a time, they were inseparable. But as Marion filled out in all the right places and


off. Julian turned to the others. "We'll have to hide," he said. "Now that the tide is out we'll hide over yonder, behind those uncovered rocks. I don't somehow think the men will do any hunting for Dick and Anne -but they might. Come on! Quick!" They all hid themselves behind the rocks, and heard the motor-boat come chugging into the tiny harbour. They could hear men calling to one another. There sounded to be more than two men this time. Then the men left the inlet and went up the low cliff towards the ruined castle. Julian crept behind the rocks and peeped to see what the men were doing. He felt certain they were pulling away the slabs of stone that had been piled on top of the entrance to prevent Dick and Anne going down to rescue the others. "George! Come on!" called Julian in a low tone. "I think the men have gone down the steps into the dungeons now. We must go and try to put those big stones back. Quick!" George, Julian and Anne ran softly and swiftly to the old courtyard of the castle. They saw that the stones had been pulled away from the entrance to the dungeons. The men had disappeared. They had plainly gone down the steps. The three children did their best to tug at the heavy stones to drag them back. But their strength was not the same as that of the men, and they could not manage to get any very big stones across. They put three smaller ones, and Julian hoped the men would find them too difficult to move from below. "If only Dick has managed to bolt them into that room!" he said to the others. "Gome on, back to the well now. Dick will have to come up there, because he won't be able to get out of the entrance." They all went to the well. Dick had removed the old wooden cover, and it was lying on the ground. The children leaned over the hole of the well and waited anxiously. What was Dick doing? They could hear nothing from the well and they longed to know what was happening. There was plenty happening down below! The two men, and another, had gone down into the dungeons, expecting, of course, to find Julian, George and the dog still locked up in the store-room with the ingots. They passed the well-shaft not guessing that an excited small boy was hidden there, ready to slip out of the opening as soon as they had passed. Dick heard them pass. He slipped out of the well-opening and followed behind quietly, his feet making no sound. He could see the beams made by the men's powerful torches, and with his heart thumping loudly he crept along the smelly old passages, between great caves, until the men turned into the wide passage where the storecave lay. "Here it is," Dick heard one of the men say, as he flashed his torch on to the great door. "The gold's in


cheek. “This is the price of treason.” “No,” August said quietly, using the last of his strength to speak. “It’s the price of jealousy. Who’s sinning now, brother?” Anton’s blood-speckled face went cold. In one motion, he let go of his twin’s shoulders, stepped back. The Sainted King crumpled to the ground. August was still gulping in useless air, still twitching as Anton turned to the crowd. None of the gathered courtiers looked surprised. They’d expected this. Everyone August had trusted had turned their loyalty to Anton instead, the Church finally winning over the crown. The only stricken face was Alie, still in Bellegarde’s grip, hand clapped over her mouth. Alie, and Bastian. Bastian looked like he’d collapse at any moment, still kneeling in his own blood. His head had stopped bleeding, crusting the side of his face in rust, the lurid color making the whites of his widened eyes stand out. Anton raised his hands, the exact same stance August had taken. “Faithful,” he intoned. “We all knew that August wasn’t the one to lead us into our new—” A scream interrupted him. Lore didn’t realize it was her own until she felt her jaw stretch. Pain bloomed in her abdomen, white-hot and burning. The Presque Mort holding her let go, startled; she slid to her knees. The knife. August’s knife, silver and gold and sticking out of her side. Behind Anton, the bloody heap of the King listed over, hand outstretched from where he’d thrown the blade. His palm hit the dais with a meaty thump, a smile revealing gore-streaked teeth. “It won’t be him,” he said, the words slurred with blood and bile, with all the fluids a dying body releases when the balance finally tips. “Not if I kill her.” Lore’s vision seeped to monotone, everything colored black or white or a gray in-between. Her own body was a chaos of black and white glow, Mortem and Spiritum tangled together, both from the ritual August had performed and from the wound in her gut. Distantly, she heard someone calling her name. Bastian. But Anton didn’t seem fazed. He lifted his eyes to the sky, sighing like a parent with an unruly child, then turned around to the fallen King. “A gut wound takes time to kill someone,” he said. “A fact I’m beginning to regret.” Anton lifted his foot, clad in heavy boots, and brought it down on August’s head. The white light around the King billowed away like a breeze, a cloud of darkness taking its place. Brain matter caked the sole of Anton’s boot as he lifted it from the ruin of August’s skull. Lore heaved up wine. It puddled sticky in her lap, mixing with blood from her stomach. More shouting, but it sounded like it was coming from underwater. She couldn’t focus her eyes, couldn’t organize her thoughts into straight lines. All was pain, and all was fading. Bastian’s voice cut through the din, the timbre recognizable even if the words weren’t. Gabe’s, the same, soundless roars, growls, clashes of steel and the meaty


panels and triptychs and angels. You could go up on a ladder, take them down one by one, if you had half a day to spare. The men broke off what they were doing to watch. Winnie didn’t scold them. She clasped her fingers together, pressed her hands to her heart. “Don’t worry,” said Mrs. Bone thinly. “My Janes can do anything.” Winnie felt her stomach looping as the girls climbed up onto their perches. Slowly they began to swing. The men gazed, transfixed. There was something unutterably lovely about it when Jane-one let go, forming a giant curve, slicing through the air. Up Jane-one went, a reverse dive, landing perfectly on the ledge just underneath the dome. She couldn’t have had more than two inches to land on. Didn’t pause. Lifted a frame from the wall. Didn’t turn. Leaped backward into the air, gilt gleaming as she fell. Jane-two swung out from the other side, caught her by the feet. Together they swung toward the French doors. Out went the painting, a straight throw, to the nets and waiting hands beyond. Back to their perches. And this time Jane-two was off. It’s happening, Winnie thought. She felt an extraordinary sense of rightness, of purpose. Perhaps it was hubris. “Can they go any faster?” she asked Mrs. Bone. Did the girls hear? Jane-two was lifting a diptych from the wall. Its hinges creaked as she did so. Its illuminated boards must have swung open as she lifted off, affecting her balance, breaking her dive. Winnie gasped as she slipped from her swing. A cry, piercing the silence. Jane-one, already launching off from her swing. A shriek from Jane-two as the diptych and gravity pulled her toward the marble floor. Winnie couldn’t help it. She closed her eyes. “Aah...” grunted Mrs. Bone, rigid beside her. Winnie opened her eyes. Jane-one had latched her ankles to the second swing. She had swung out to grab Jane-two. The girls were dangling together, the diptych hovering—safely—above the floor. “Faster, my arse,” said Mrs. Bone, clutching Winnie’s arm. * * * Out in the garden, Mrs. King shook William’s hand away. Mrs. Bone’s men circled them, eyes dark. “You shouldn’t be here,” Mrs. King gasped. He stood back. “You think I don’t know that?” His eyes flashed. “I’ve been watching your lot all night. You think I don’t know what it means when half a dozen packing crates go up in the lift for no reason? When half the guests keep sending me off for more wine and then tip it straight out of the window? When someone comes down shouting ‘Fire!’ because she’s having a fag?” The men drew closer. “For heaven’s sake, Dinah,” William said. “What do you need?” Her heart tilted. It was gratitude. It ran right through her. “Well?” “Give us a hand,” she said, letting out her breath. “I need to find my sister.” She turned and ran. * * * Alice had raced to the park. She crossed Rotten Row, her boots leaving footprints in the sand. She didn’t bother to


cease--for the time, at least-- to have him to reckon with; and during the minute, accordingly, the thing was as human and hideous as a real interview: hideous just because it WAS human, as human as to have met alone, in the small hours, in a sleeping house, some enemy, some adventurer, some criminal. It was the dead silence of our long gaze at such close quarters that gave the whole horror, huge as it was, its only note of the unnatural. If I had met a murderer in such a place and at such an hour, we still at least would have spoken. Something would have passed, in life, between us; if nothing had passed, one of us would have moved. The moment was so prolonged that it would have taken but little more to make me doubt if even _I_ were in life. I can't express what followed it save by saying that the silence itself-- which was indeed in a manner an attestation of my strength-- became the element into which I saw the figure disappear; in which I definitely saw it turn as I might have seen the low wretch to which it had once belonged turn on receipt of an order, and pass, with my eyes on the villainous back that no hunch could have more disfigured, straight down the staircase and into the darkness in which the next bend was lost. X I remained awhile at the top of the stair, but with the effect presently of understanding that when my visitor had gone, he had gone: then I returned to my room. The foremost thing I saw there by the light of the candle I had left burning was that Flora's little bed was empty; and on this I caught my breath with all the terror that, five minutes before, I had been able to resist. I dashed at the place in which I had left her lying and over which (for the small silk counterpane and the sheets were disarranged) the white curtains had been deceivingly pulled forward; then my step, to my unutterable relief, produced an answering sound: I perceived an agitation of the window blind, and the child, ducking down, emerged rosily from the other side of it. She stood there in so much of her candor and so little of her nightgown, with her pink bare feet and the golden glow of her curls. She looked intensely grave, and I had never had such a sense of losing an advantage acquired (the thrill of which had just been so prodigious) as on my consciousness that she addressed me with a reproach. "You naughty: where HAVE you been?"--instead of challenging her own irregularity I found myself arraigned and explaining. She herself explained, for that matter, with the loveliest, eagerest simplicity. She had known suddenly, as she lay there, that I was out of the room, and had jumped up to see what had become of me. I had dropped, with the joy of her reappearance, back into my chair--feeling then, and then


it a little higher to catch the moonlight. I carried on this way until the last moment, at which point I threw my will against the enchantment with all my might. For the briefest of seconds, I was free. I thought the enchantment was surprised, but probably that was only my fancy. I knew I would not have more than that single second—certainly it would not allow me a second chance—and drove the axe towards my finger. I did it the way Lilja had taught me—fixing my eyes on the target, letting the weight of the axe do the work. My other fingers I folded against the side of the stump, to keep them out of the way. I was half convinced I would miss and drive the axe into my hand—it was not at all the same as aiming for a crack in a log, no matter what I tried to tell myself—but I heard Lilja’s voice in my head, her offhanded good cheer, as if there was nothing in the world more ordinary than what I was doing, and I didn’t hesitate. My aim was true, and suddenly I was gazing at my finger, and it was not at the end of my hand. It was the most curious sensation. At first, I was conscious only of the enchantment leaving me—it felt like falling, that dream sensation in which there is no ground to hit, only wakefulness. I awoke, and then immediately after that, the pain rolled over me in a red wave. I staggered about, fading in and out of consciousness. I threw up at one point, I think. But somehow, when I fully returned to my senses, I found that I had wrenched off my glove and pressed my scarf against the hollow where my third finger had been. I sobbed there in the snow for a moment or two, from relief as much as from the pain. When I’d got that out of my system, I returned to the cottage and bandaged my hand. Then I set off again for the white tree. 3rd December (?) I just read over that again. It sounds irrational, if not insane—but I assure you, my mind was quite clear. Of course I considered waking Wendell. But that would have given me away—the king in the tree would have known I wasn’t enchanted if I arrived with Wendell in tow. As a general rule, the Folk do not take kindly to mortals who find ways to break their enchantments—they see it as an affront to their craftsmanship—and so to travel there in an unenchanted state would have been a risky prospect indeed. I suppose most would ask why I wished to go to the king at all. I cannot answer that adequately, other than by posing more questions. If you give an astronomer a telescope through which he can view an undiscovered galaxy, but allow him only a glimpse of a single star, will he be content? By freeing the king in the tree, I would witness not only the ascension


times. Wouldn't your grandpa let you?" "I think he would, if your mother asked him. He's very kind, though he does not look so, and he lets me do what I like, pretty much, only he's afraid I might be a bother to strangers," began Laurie, brightening more and more. "We are not strangers, we are neighbors, and you needn't think you'd be a bother. We want to know you, and I've been trying to do it this ever so long. We haven't been here a great while, you know, but we have got acquainted with all our neighbors but you." "You see, Grandpa lives among his books, and doesn't mind much what happens outside. Mr. Brooke, my tutor, doesn't stay here, you know, and I have no one to go about with me, so I just stop at home and get on as I can." "That's bad. You ought to make an effort and go visiting everywhere you are asked, then you'll have plenty of friends, and pleasant places to go to. Never mind being bashful. It won't last long if you keep going." Laurie turned red again, but wasn't offended at being accused of bashfulness, for there was so much good will in Jo it was impossible not to take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were meant. "Do you like your school?" asked the boy, changing the subject, after a little pause, during which he stared at the fire and Jo looked about her, well pleased. "Don't go to school, I'm a businessman -- mdash; girl, I mean. I go to wait on my great-aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too," answered Jo. Laurie opened his mouth to ask another question, but remembering just in time that it wasn't manners to make too many inquiries into people's affairs, he shut it again, and looked uncomfortable. Jo liked his good breeding, and didn't mind having a laugh at Aunt March, so she gave him a lively description of the fidgety old lady, her fat poodle, the parrot that talked Spanish, and the library where she reveled. Laurie enjoyed that immensely, and when she told about the prim old gentleman who came once to woo Aunt March, and in the middle of a fine speech, how Poll had tweaked his wig off to his great dismay, the boy lay back and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and a maid popped her head in to see what was the matter. "Oh! That does me no end of good. Tell on, please," he said, taking his face out of the sofa cushion, red and shining with merriment. Much elated with her success, Jo did `tell on', all about their plays and plans, their hopes and fears for Father, and the most interesting events of the little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got to talking about books, and to Jo's delight, she found that Laurie loved them as well as she did, and had read even more than herself. "If you like them so


not enough, you will both be painfully killed and I shall reluctantly leave your bodies and make my way abroad to a comfortable house which is waiting for me. There I shall take up a useful and profitable career and live to a ripe and peaceful old age in the bosom of the family I shall doubtless create. So you see, my dear boy, that I stand to lose nothing. If you hand the money over, so much the better. If not, I shall shrug my shoulders and be on my way.' He paused, and his wrist lifted slightly on his knee. Bond's flesh cringed as the cane surface just touched him. 'But you, my dear fellow, can only hope that I shall spare you further pain and spare your life. There is no other hope for you but that. Absolutely none.' 'Well?' Bond closed his eyes and waited for the pain. He knew that the beginning of torture is the worst. There is a parabola of agony. A crescendo leading up to a peak and then the nerves are blunted and react progressively less until unconsciousness and death. All he could do was to pray for the peak, pray that his spirit would hold out so long and then accept the long free-wheel down to the final black-out. He had been told by colleagues who had survived torture by the Germans and the Japanese that towards the end there came a wonderful period of warmth and languor leading into a sort of sexual twilight where pain turned to pleasure and where hatred and fear of the torturers turned to a masochistic infatuation. It was the supreme test of will, he had learnt, to avoid showing this form of punch-drunkenness. Directly it was suspected they would either kill you at once and save themselves further useless effort, or let you recover sufficiently your nerves had crept back to the other side of the parabola. Then they would start again. He opened his eyes a fraction. Le Chiffre had been waiting for this and like a rattlesnake the cane instrument leapt from the floor. It struck again and again so that Bond screamed and his body jangled in the chair like a marionette. Le Chiffre desisted only when Bond's tortured spasms showed a trace of sluggishness. He sat for a while sipping his coffee and frowning slightly like a surgeon watching a cardiograph during a difficult operation. When Bond's eyes flickered and opened he addressed him again, but now with a trace of impatience. 'We know that the money is somewhere in your room,' he said. 'You drew a cheque to cash for forty million francs and I know that you went back to the hotel to hide it.' For a moment Bond wondered how he had been so certain. 'Directly you left for the night club,' continued Le Chiffre, 'your room was searched by four of my people.' The Muntzes must have helped, reflected Bond. 'We found a good deal in childish hiding-places. The ball-cock in the lavatory yielded an interesting little


one?” “Nante yiye.” “Let’s go now.” “The address. What’s the address?” “Kyerɛ me kwan no.” Twi and English are flying in the air. Heels on the pavement, engines revving, and car doors slamming. For a moment, I stand alone because if Dad were here, his would be the car I’d sit in. For years, wherever he went, by bus or by train, to the supermarket or the GP, I’d go with him, until I had to begin going instead of him. Aunt Abena gently pulls on my arm and tells me to get into the silver car. The man at the wheel is familiar, belonging to the group from Mum’s church, but I don’t know his name. He’s a friend of the family, or a family friend, or family but not blood-related, whichever one, it doesn’t matter. We pull away from the house and travel down the road. We’re the third car behind the procession. Every time the hearse turns a corner and I see the photograph of Dad, large and framed, sat at the end of his coffin, the tears resurface. People on the street turn to watch us. A dog barks. One old man makes the sign of the cross. When their eyes meet mine, my chest opens and I feel exposed. I hope I remember never to stare at a funeral procession as it passes ever again. * * * I’ve never been through a graveyard before; I used to avoid cemeteries because I worried it would tempt fate. Looks like fate found me anyway. The sun is hot and the ground is uneven. My black cotton dress feels too heavy when I watch the cemetery workers lower my dad into a burial plot. They talk amongst themselves as they work because this is their own personal brand of “just another day at the office.” People I didn’t greet at the house come up to me, but I don’t really see any of them. Hello, Uncle. How are you? Me ho yε. My condolences. Medaase. You’re so big now. Aane. Do you remember me? Sure. Then we’re all stood surrounding a rectangle of hollowed-out earth. In there, at the bottom, is my dad. Aunt Abena is adjusting her headpiece and my uncle Osei swats at a fly. James is staring at the ground, Mum is pinching the bridge of her nose, Auntie Mabel has her head bowed and Uncle Freddie dabs his eyes with a white handkerchief. Suddenly I miss the noise from before: the Twi, the cars, the movement. “Are we all here?” Mum’s pastor asks. He’s a tall, lean Black man who must duck to avoid a tree’s swooping branches. “Yes,” Mum says. “Then let us pray. Lord God, we commit this day into Your hands,” he says. “We are gathered here to celebrate the life of Mr. George Wright…” He finishes by telling us that Dad is in a better place and that we as Christians need not mourn, but give thanks to God that we have a place where we will reunite with loved ones


sooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly: you know me sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness whenever the safety of others is committed to my care. I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of my undertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you a conception of the trembling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful, with which I am preparing to depart. I am going to unexplored regions, to "the land of mist and snow," but I shall kill no albatross; therefore do not be alarmed for my safety or if I should come back to you as worn and woeful as the "Ancient Mariner." You will smile at my allusion, but I will disclose a secret. I have often attributed my attachment to, my passionate enthusiasm for, the dangerous mysteries of ocean to that production of the most imaginative of modern poets. There is something at work in my soul which I do not understand. I am practically industrious-- painstaking, a workman to execute with perseverance and labour-- but besides this there is a love for the marvellous, a belief in the marvellous, intertwined in all my projects, which hurries me out of the common pathways of men, even to the wild sea and unvisited regions I am about to explore. But to return to dearer considerations. Shall I meet you again, after having traversed immense seas, and returned by the most southern cape of Africa or America? I dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear to look on the reverse of the picture. Continue for the present to write to me by every opportunity: I may receive your letters on some occasions when I need them most to support my spirits. I love you very tenderly. Remember me with affection, should you never hear from me again. Your affectionate brother, Robert Walton Letter 3 To Mrs. Saville, England July 7th, 17- My dear Sister, I write a few lines in haste to say that I am safe--and well advanced on my voyage. This letter will reach England by a merchantman now on its homeward voyage from Archangel; more fortunate than I, who may not see my native land, perhaps, for many years. I am, however, in good spirits: my men are bold and apparently firm of purpose, nor do the floating sheets of ice that continually pass us, indicating the dangers of the region towards which we are advancing, appear to dismay them. We have already reached a very high latitude; but it is the height of summer, and although not so warm as in England, the southern gales, which blow us speedily towards those shores which I so ardently desire to attain, breathe a degree of renovating warmth which I had not expected. No incidents have hitherto befallen us that would make a figure in a letter. One or two stiff gales and the springing of a leak are accidents which experienced navigators scarcely remember to record, and I shall be well content if nothing worse happen to us during


or won’t remember what happened.” “How do you know that?” “Caught up with an EMT who came with her in the ambulance. He spilled.” “And from that you figured she was attacked by Father John.” “Two guys found her in the swamp. Saw what looked like a priest who got away.” “A priest?” “They said a guy in black robes, but they didn’t go after him. They were more concerned with the victim. One stayed with her, the other boated up to a spot in the bayou where he could get cell phone service and called nine-one-one.” “You talked to them?” “Not yet. I got all this from the deputy who secured the location.” “But you’re sure this was Father John?” Montoya asked, wishing he had a cigarette. “MO doesn’t jibe.” “She’s got a ring of cuts around her neck and sharp red beads caught in her hair.” Bentz held Montoya’s gaze. “It’s him.” “What’s she say?” “Nothing. Remember, she was pretty out of it. Not talking.” Bentz glanced up at the stucco building. “This could take a while. Why don’t we go talk to the fishermen who brought her in? They’re waiting at the station.” “Good. I’ll drive.” Bentz climbed into the Mustang and Montoya made short work of the drive. The station was still quiet as there were nearly two hours before the shift changed. Even the construction workers hadn’t shown up yet. The two men, Robert “Bobby-Dean” Clements and Clive Jones, were waiting in an interrogation room with a deputy who had taken their statements. Bentz and Montoya sat down. “We’ve got it from here,” Bentz told the deputy, who left the written statements. He turned his attention to the two fishermen. “I’m Detective Bentz, this is Detective Montoya. We’d like you to go over the story once again, if you don’t mind, and we’ll have a few more questions.” Both men nodded. They obviously weren’t happy about it. Bobby-Dean, the scrawny one with a bad case of acne beneath a scraggly beard, was antsy, barely able to sit still. He was wearing cut-off overalls and a Saints’ cap rammed over dirty blond hair and kept glancing nervously at his fishing partner. Jones was a bear of a man, as black as his friend was white. He sported a cleaved eyebrow, a nose that had been broken once or twice, and a deep, baritone voice. His eyes were gold and intelligent, his gaze direct as he explained that they’d been out checking their crawfish traps and heard “a scuffling,” then witnessed what they thought was a man in a black robe. “Looked like a priest, y’know,” Bobby-Dean interjected. He kept taking off his hat and wadding it between his gnarled fingers before setting it back on his head and starting the process all over again. They both agreed upon what they’d seen, could not ID the attacker, swore they thought he’d killed the woman, and hadn’t given chase. “I wish to high heaven I had,” Bobby-Dean insisted. “Shit, I had my daddy’s Winchester. Coulda wounded him good.” “Or blown


miss your rat about six or seven foot. Throw stiff-armed from the shoulder, like there was a pivot there for it to turn on, like a girl; not from the wrist and elbow, with your arm out to one side, like a boy. And, mind you, when a girl tries to catch anything in her lap she throws her knees apart; she don't clap them together, the way you did when you catched the lump of lead. Why, I spotted you for a boy when you was threading the needle; and I contrived the other things just to make certain. Now trot along to your uncle, Sarah Mary Williams George Elexander Peters, and if you get into trouble you send word to Mrs. Judith Loftus, which is me, and I'll do what I can to get you out of it. Keep the river road all the way, and next time you tramp take shoes and socks with you. The river road's a rocky one, and your feet'll be in a condition when you get to Goshen, I reckon." I went up the bank about fifty yards, and then I doubled on my tracks and slipped back to where my canoe was, a good piece below the house. I jumped in, and was off in a hurry. I went up-stream far enough to make the head of the island, and then started across. I took off the sun-bonnet, for I didn't want no blinders on then. When I was about the middle I heard the clock begin to strike, so I stops and listens; the sound come faint over the water but clear -- eleven. When I struck the head of the island I never waited to blow, though I was most winded, but I shoved right into the timber where my old camp used to be, and started a good fire there on a high and dry spot. Then I jumped in the canoe and dug out for our place, a mile and a half below, as hard as I could go. I landed, and slopped through the timber and up the ridge and into the cavern. There Jim laid, sound asleep on the ground. I roused him out and says: "Git up and hump yourself, Jim! There ain't a minute to lose. They're after us!" Jim never asked no questions, he never said a word; but the way he worked for the next half an hour showed about how he was scared. By that time every- thing we had in the world was on our raft, and she was ready to be shoved out from the willow cove where she was hid. We put out the camp fire at the cavern the first thing, and didn't show a candle outside after that. I took the canoe out from the shore a little piece, and took a look; but if there was a boat around I couldn't see it, for stars and shadows ain't good to see by. Then we got out the raft and slipped along down in the shade, past


upon the plains; till the white sails that glided beneath the mountains, where the Garonne wandered, became dim, and the gloom of evening stole over the landscape. It was a melancholy but not unpleasing gloom. St. Aubert and his family rose, and left the place with regret; alas! Madame St. Aubert knew not that she left it for ever. When they reached the fishing-house she missed her bracelet, and recollected that she had taken it from her arm after dinner, and had left it on the table when she went to walk. After a long search, in which Emily was very active, she was compelled to resign herself to the loss of it. What made this bracelet valuable to her was a miniature of her daughter to which it was attached, esteemed a striking resemblance, and which had been painted only a few months before. When Emily was convinced that the bracelet was really gone, she blushed, and became thoughtful. That some stranger had been in the fishing-house, during her absence, her lute, and the additional lines of a pencil, had already informed her: from the purport of these lines it was not unreasonable to believe, that the poet, the musician, and the thief were the same person. But though the music she had heard, the written lines she had seen, and the disappearance of the picture, formed a combination of circumstances very remarkable, she was irresistibly restrained from mentioning them; secretly determining, however, never again to visit the fishing-house without Monsieur or Madame St. Aubert. They returned pensively to the chateau, Emily musing on the incident which had just occurred; St. Aubert reflecting, with placid gratitude, on the blessings he possessed; and Madame St. Aubert somewhat disturbed, and perplexed, by the loss of her daughter's picture. As they drew near the house, they observed an unusual bustle about it; the sound of voices was distinctly heard, servants and horses were seen passing between the trees, and, at length, the wheels of a carriage rolled along. Having come within view of the front of the chateau, a landau, with smoking horses, appeared on the little lawn before it. St. Aubert perceived the liveries of his brother-in-law, and in the parlour he found Monsieur and Madame Quesnel already entered. They had left Paris some days before, and were on the way to their estate, only ten leagues distant from La Vallee, and which Monsieur Quesnel had purchased several years before of St. Aubert. This gentleman was the only brother of Madame St. Aubert; but the ties of relationship having never been strengthened by congeniality of character, the intercourse between them had not been frequent. M. Quesnel had lived altogether in the world; his aim had been consequence; splendour was the object of his taste; and his address and knowledge of character had carried him forward to the attainment of almost all that he had courted. By a man of such a disposition, it is not surprising that the virtues of St. Aubert should be overlooked; or that his pure taste, simplicity, and moderated


if they take away your sleep sometimes they give it back again.” It was the best he could do. He watched the bodies burn. Part of him wanted to tell Alex not to stop there, to let the whole house burn down to nothing, to let them burn with it too. Instead they stood together in the dark shadows of Black Elm, until there was nothing left but ashes and the old stones that might stand forever but would never mourn. 46 The Mercedes was parked in the Black Elm driveway. For a long minute, Alex couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing. She was still back on the basement stairs, looking down into a crowded grave. When the fire had finished, the walls had been charred black and there was nothing left—no boxes or old clutter, no bodies, no bones. Anything that burned that hot should have consumed them too. But this was no ordinary fire. When Darlington had spoken for his parents, Alex wondered if she should say something for Eitan. She knew the right prayer from her grandmother. Zikhrono livrakha. Let his memory be a blessing. But as Darlington would say, that didn’t quite suit. “Mors irrumat omnia,” she had whispered to the flames. It was all she could offer a man who had been willing to send her to her death for the sake of a little more profit. The car shouldn’t be there. It looked freshly washed, its burgundy paint gleaming in the late-afternoon light. Reiter. Alex’s heart stumbled into a gallop. “You left it in Old Greenwich?” whispered Dawes. “It’s daytime,” Alex managed. “The sun is out. How did he bring it here?” And why now? Had he been watching them? Following them? “He has a familiar,” Darlington said. “Maybe more than one.” Alex remembered the person walking beside Reiter in the JE courtyard, holding his white umbrella, keeping him safe. She scanned the trees, the cloudless sky, grateful for the harsh winter sun. “We should get somewhere warded,” said Dawes. “Regroup.” Alex wanted nothing more than to do just that. Her body had broken out in a cold sweat, and she was struggling to breathe. But they weren’t done here. She made herself walk toward the car. “Alex, don’t!” Dawes said, grabbing her arm. “It could be a trap.” Alex shook her off. The driver’s-side door was unlocked and the interior was spotless. He’d left the keys tucked in the glove compartment. They were heavy in Alex’s hand. “Give them to me,” Darlington said. Alex wished she had the balls to argue, but she was too scared. She dropped them into his palm. They gathered around the trunk, and Darlington slid the key into the lock. The trunk popped open with a sigh. He nudged it upward. Dawes released a high, helpless cry. Michelle Alameddine lay curled on her side, her hands tucked under her chin as if she’d fallen asleep praying. Alex took a step backward. Another death to lay at her feet. Michelle, who had warned them not to use the Gauntlet,


bits of fabric he usually left for one of the girls to take care of the next morning. It was dark out already, but he was not ready to go home. And once he had given Aunty Caro the bag, what was left but to go there? “Ẹniọlá! Have you not found the bag yet?” Aunty Caro shouted. Yèyé was speaking when he stepped into Aunty Caro’s living room. “Help me to beg Wúràọlá o, tell her that she should be on top of everything. This dress, I’ve been asking her to come and pick it up since Monday and try it on.” “I just haven’t had the time to come here.” Yèyé scoffed at her daughter. “No time, no time. But she still had time to travel to Ifẹ̀ yesterday.” Dr. Wúrà shook her head. “I went for my friend’s burial.” “What?” Yèyé said. “Which friend?” “The bag ma,” Ẹniọlá said, unsure if he was to give it to Aunty Caro or one of the other women. * * * “Wúràọlá, which friend?” Yèyé shifted forward to the edge of her chair. Wúràọlá turned to Ẹniọlá and stretched out her hand. “Thank you, give it to me.” “You didn’t tell me anything about one of your friends dying.” Wúràọlá took the cloth bag from Ẹniọlá and set it on her lap. She lifted her mother’s shimmery ìró and bùbá to reveal the dress she was to wear for the introduction ceremony on Saturday. Only Friday stood between her and the ceremony where her relatives and Kúnlé’s would be formally introduced to each other. Aunties, uncles and an assortment of cousins and friends bearing witness as her parents and Kúnlé’s gave blessings to set them firmly, almost irrevocably, on the road to matrimony. She held up the dress. Peach and coffee-brown fabric, because Yèyé thought it would make Wúràọlá’s skin look gorgeous, just so gorgeous. The fabric had been lined from bust to knee with coffee-brown satin so her arms and legs would be visible through the dainty lace. “Do you like it?” Aunty Caro asked. Wúràọlá nodded without considering the question. All day, her mother’s breathless concern about the dress had seemed vulgar to her. Kingsley was dead. How was she supposed to care so much about a few yards of lace and satin? During Kingsley’s burial, Tifẹ́ had shocked everyone by wailing with such abandon, Wúràọlá worried she might fling herself across the coffin. Her own eyes were dry throughout and after, but for days she had to ask people to repeat what they were saying to her. Even then, a single repetition was not always sufficient to pull her back into the present, away from the way Kingsley flipped his tie over a shoulder as he strode towards his car after postings or the exact shade of the wallet he had used for as long as she knew him. An orange billfold that reminded her of a bank’s logo. She’d always wanted to ask him if it was given to him by the bank as a souvenir but never


described, I saw at the open window a figure the most hideous and abhorred. A grin was on the face of the monster; he seemed to jeer, as with his fiendish finger he pointed towards the corpse of my wife. I rushed towards the window, and drawing a pistol from my bosom, fired; but he eluded me, leaped from his station, and running with the swiftness of lightning, plunged into the lake. The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I pointed to the spot where he had disappeared, and we followed the track with boats; nets were cast, but in vain. After passing several hours, we returned hopeless, most of my companions believing it to have been a form conjured up by my fancy. After having landed, they proceeded to search the country, parties going in different directions among the woods and vines. I attempted to accompany them and proceeded a short distance from the house, but my head whirled round, my steps were like those of a drunken man, I fell at last in a state of utter exhaustion; a film covered my eyes, and my skin was parched with the heat of fever. In this state I was carried back and placed on a bed, hardly conscious of what had happened; my eyes wandered round the room as if to seek something that I had lost. After an interval I arose, and as if by instinct, crawled into the room where the corpse of my beloved lay. There were women weeping around; I hung over it and joined my sad tears to theirs; all this time no distinct idea presented itself to my mind, but my thoughts rambled to various subjects, reflecting confusedly on my misfortunes and their cause. I was bewildered, in a cloud of wonder and horror. The death of William, the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and lastly of my wife; even at that moment I knew not that my only remaining friends were safe from the malignity of the fiend; my father even now might be writhing under his grasp, and Ernest might be dead at his feet. This idea made me shudder and recalled me to action. I started up and resolved to return to Geneva with all possible speed. There were no horses to be procured, and I must return by the lake; but the wind was unfavourable, and the rain fell in torrents. However, it was hardly morning, and I might reasonably hope to arrive by night. I hired men to row and took an oar myself, for I had always experienced relief from mental torment in bodily exercise. But the overflowing misery I now felt, and the excess of agitation that I endured rendered me incapable of any exertion. I threw down the oar, and leaning my head upon my hands, gave way to every gloomy idea that arose. If I looked up, I saw scenes which were familiar to me in my happier time and which I had contemplated but the day before in the


briskly. "Mother sent her love, and was glad if I could do anything for you. Meg wanted me to bring some of her blancmange, she makes it very nicely, and Beth thought her cats would be comforting. I knew you'd laugh at them, but I couldn't refuse, she was so anxious to do something." It so happened that Beth's funny loan was just the thing, for in laughing over the kits, Laurie forgot his bashfulness, and grew sociable at once. "That looks too pretty to eat," he said, smiling with pleasure, as Jo uncovered the dish, and showed the blancmange, surrounded by a garland of green leaves, and the scarlet flowers of Amy's pet geranium. "It isn't anything, only they all felt kindly and wanted to show it. Tell the girl to put it away for your tea. It's so simple you can eat it, and being soft, it will slip down without hurting your sore throat. What a cozy room this is!" "It might be it it was kept nice, but the maids are lazy, and I don't know how to make them mind. It worries me though." "I'll right it up in two minutes, for it only needs to have the hearth brushed, so -- mdash; and the things made straight on the mantelpiece, so -- mdash; and the books put here, and the bottles there, and your sofa turned from the light, and the pillows plumped up a bit. Now then, you're fixed." And so he was, for, as she laughed and talked, Jo had whisked things into place and given quite a different air to the room. Laurie watched her in respectful silence, and when she beckoned him to his sofa, he sat down with a sigh of satisfaction, saying gratefully . . . "How kind you are! Yes, that's what it wanted. Now please take the big chair and let me do something to amuse my company." "No, I came to amuse you. Shall I read aloud?" and Jo looked affectionately toward some inviting books near by. "Thank you! I've read all those, and if you don't mind, I'd rather talk," answered Laurie. "Not a bit. I'll talk all day if you'll only set me going. Beth says I never know when to stop." "Is Beth the rosy one, who stays at home good deal and sometimes goes out with a little basket?" asked Laurie with interest. "Yes, that's Beth. She's my girl, and a regular good one she is, too." "The pretty one is Meg, and the curly-haired one is Amy, I believe?" Laurie colored up, but answered frankly, "Why, you see I often hear you calling to one another, and when I'm alone up here, I can't help looking over at your house, you always seem to be having such good times. I beg your pardon for being so rude, but sometimes you forget to put down the curtain at the window where the flowers are. And when the lamps are lighted, it's like looking at a picture to see the fire, and you all


whose fault is that?” “You just have to blame me for everything.” “I don’t blame you for everything. You actually do everything.” But she leaned in. “Your persecution complex is unreal.” “I don’t have a persecution complex!” I said. “I am literally being persecuted.” “It’s not my fault your mother died,” Parker said then. “It’s not my fault your dad married my mom. It’s not my fault we sold our house, and I gave up my room, and we got thrown together every minute of every day. I didn’t ask for that, and I certainly didn’t ask for you. I was not consulted—about any of it! And yes, I did all those terrible things! I framed you and lied about you and coaxed them both into pushing you away. But your dad not loving you? That’s not my fault, either. He stopped loving you well before we met. You lost him all on your own. And you want to know how you did that? Because you”—and here she seemed to rise up on her dragon haunches—“are the reason that your mother died.” I guess our voices had accidentally gotten loud. When she stopped talking, there was not a sound in the gallery. I could hear the A/C dripping into my bucket. I could hear a toilet flush. And I could hear all those people who’d been ignoring me earlier suddenly taking a new kind of interest. I lowered my voice, in a comical shot at privacy. “What are you talking about right now?” “I overheard them talking one night—Dad and Lucinda. He told her what happened. That your mom had a messed-up blood vessel in her brain. That he’d begged her to get surgery to fix it. But she refused. She put it off till summer. The two of you had planned a spring break trip, to go visit some artist’s museum, and she wasn’t going to disappoint you. Your dad told her to cancel the trip. He begged her. But she wouldn’t listen. She went anyway. And then one week later, she collapsed.” What was she saying? I felt a weird pain in my chest, like the shell of my heart was cracking. “That’s what he said that night,” Parker went on. “That it was your fault. That try as he might, he couldn’t help but blame you. I heard him say those words out loud. So you can stop thinking I ruined your relationship with your father. It’s not my fault he doesn’t love you. It’s not my fault you lost your family. You did all that to yourself.” Was something going on with the floor? It felt like the room was shaking. So much for staying until the end. I looked up for an escape route, and that’s when I saw my father. I knew it was him at a glance from that navy polka-dot bowtie he’d been wearing to fancy events ever since I was little. And I’d know his stance—not to mention his outline—anywhere. And there he stood, a forgotten bouquet of grocery store flowers in his


I home is the resort Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where, Supporting and supported, polish'd friends And dear relations mingle into bliss.* *Thomson On the pleasant banks of the Garonne, in the province of Gascony, stood, in the year 1584, the chateau of Monsieur St. Aubert. From its windows were seen the pastoral landscapes of Guienne and Gascony stretching along the river, gay with luxuriant woods and vine, and plantations of olives. To the south, the view was bounded by the majestic Pyrenees, whose summits, veiled in clouds, or exhibiting awful forms, seen, and lost again, as the partial vapours rolled along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed through the blue tinge of air, and sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy pine, that swept downward to their base. These tremendous precipices were contrasted by the soft green of the pastures and woods that hung upon their skirts; among whose flocks, and herds, and simple cottages, the eye, after having 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


nose and mouth. He smiles when he realizes he’s got me pinned. He presses his forearm against my neck, and my vision starts to blur around the edges. The man suddenly howls in absolute agony and lets up the pressure on my neck just long enough for me to bring my knee up in one quick motion, catching him right between the legs. He stumbles back and knocks into the man called Alex. I duck into the wall locker and scramble down the ladder. As I make my descent, I catch a glimpse of the gray-haired man’s ankle and understand why he was suddenly writhing in pain—a short carving knife is stuck in the tender flesh of his Achilles. I jump the rest of the way down, and Bezi has her flashlight out, shining it into the tunnel. “You stabbed him?” I ask. She nods, her eyes wide, like she can’t believe what she just did. “I love you,” I say. Bezi grabs my hand. “Come on!” We take off down the darkened tunnel. Behind me, someone comes crashing down, and then there’s a loud bang and an anguished scream. I look back, and Bezi shines her light on the two men. Alex is crumpled at the bottom of the ladder, screaming like a wounded animal. Blood spurts from his shin, and the light from Bezi’s flashlight glints off the shining white bone protruding from the torn skin. It’s like he decided to skip the ladder, jumped, and landed wrong, snapping his bone clean in half. I can’t look any more or I’ll be sick, so I turn and run, pushing Bezi ahead of me until we get to the other end of the tunnel. Bezi climbs the ladder and pushes on the trapdoor above our heads. “It won’t open!” she screams. I scramble up the ladder next to her and push on the hatch. It groans as we force it open. A rush of footsteps sounds in the tunnel beneath me. I glance down to see the gray-haired man stumble to the bottom of the ladder. Bezi makes it up, and I climb up after her, my sweaty hands slipping on the rungs. I claw my way up, and just as I drag myself out of the opening, a hand clamps down on my ankle. I’m pulled back into the mouth of the trapdoor. I kick and scream and try to dig my fingertips into the wood planks of the arts-and-crafts-lodge floor. The nails on my thumbs and forefingers break off, exposing the bloody pink beds beneath. I scream. I kick at the man behind me, driving my foot back as hard as I can. I connect with something soft. There’s a groan, but the grip on my ankle doesn’t relent. I’m pulled back again. My gaze darts wildly around the room. “Bezi!” I scream. “Help me!” Bezi is scrambling around in the dark, and the man is pulling me deeper into the hatch with each passing second. I search wildly for something, anything that I can use to defend myself


can I ask, to be sure – what do you see in the sky?’ Atto glanced up. ‘I see ships. Alien ships.’ ‘So this is it?’ ‘Yes, this is it. Let’s go.’ Still holding hands, they hurried out of the square, passing a homeless man looting cigarettes from a kiosk, petty opportunism so out of step with the scale of their predicament it seemed almost comical to Liza. They passed the Starbucks coffee shop which Atto had mentioned earlier, decorated with banners for elaborate cream-covered coffee concoctions, the team of staff gathered outside wearing their aprons as though they expected their corporate employer to rescue them. Nearby, an immaculately dressed older gentleman with a silk cravat and an antique cane was trying to solicit answers, under the impression that he was the only one who hadn’t been let in on the secret of what was going on. Liza caught sight of a man standing on the rooftop of a municipal building, as if to get a better view of the alien ships, only to watch him deliberately step off the edge and fall to his death, deciding that this was not a world he wanted to be part of anymore. Having remained calm up until this point, she suddenly felt overwhelmed – not afraid, simply incapable of movement or action. ‘I need to stop.’ Atto stopped and she hunched over, staring at the ground, unable to cope with the multitude of extraordinary occurrences happening all around, wondering if she was going to be sick. Feeling his arm across her back, she told herself to breathe, and the sensation of being overwhelmed passed, her body resetting to this new level of uncertainty and anxiety. She stood up straight. ‘Okay?’ She nodded, watching over his shoulder as two cars smashed into each other. At Avenida da Liberdade, one of the most prestigious shopping streets in the city, lined with global luxury brands such as Dior and Chanel, they were blocked by a crowd many hundreds deep, growing larger by the minute. Forced to shout over the noise, Atto asked those on the fringes what was going on: ‘O que está acontecendo?’ They told him that there were two police officers trapped in the middle being asked variations of the same question: ‘What is happening?’ Liza understood the impulse to seek confirmation; she’d done it herself, but this was something different. People were grasping for the comfort of denial, talking about it being a hoax, a conspiracy. As representatives of the State, the police officers were expected to have answers. Atto shook his head. ‘They’re not going to know anything.’ ‘How can you be sure?’ ‘Our government would never have allowed the world to continue as normal if they’d known an invasion was coming – they would never have allowed tourists to fly, supermarkets to sell food.’ ‘We shouldn’t stay here.’ With each passing minute the crowd’s mood was spiralling out of control. The first fights were breaking out, scuffles and punches, violence spreading like an airborne virus. Unable to pass through the crowd, Liza


I quickly lower my hand. “I was looking for Jack.” “I think he went straight home after the faculty meeting.” Shit. No. Not shit. This is good. I can go to his place. I know where he lives. I’ve basically lived there, too, for a couple of weekends. So this is perfect—it gives me more time to think about what I’m going to tell him, since I have no idea. Why am I here? Just swept by the currents, like a salmon during mating season. I shoot Michi a quick smile and speed-walk down the hallway. I think she yells after me that she followed me on Twitter, but I don’t stop to investigate. Instead I rehearse my conversation with Jack. Hi. Hey. Oh, hello. I’ve seen the article sounds like a good beginning. But I could also start softer. I was just in the area, and my dog ran away. Will you help me find it? It’s a blackand-white Newfie with a big lolling tongue, and yes, if I have to make up an imaginary pet, I’m going to choose a cute one— I’m thinking so hard, I barely register that someone is calling me. And it takes a “Dr. Hannaway, is that you?” for me to recognize the voice. I turn around. It’s Volkov. And behind him, Ikagawa and Massey. At their side, Monica, Sader, Andrea, half a dozen more people whose names I don’t remember from my interview, and behind, an entire head taller, a million miles wider, only just stepping out of the conference room . . . Jack. Of course. Michi was wrong. Faculty meeting only just ended. “Dr. Hannaway,” Volkov says fondly, like I’m his niece who should visit more often, and even though there are twenty people staring at me and I’d like to disappear into the woods, I actually lift my hand and smile weakly. “Are you an ocean?” he asks. “Because you just . . . waved!” Oh God. When did this become my life? “Elsie?” Monica butts in warily. “Is everything okay?” My heart slams with mortification. I bet she’s afraid I’ll make a scene. “Um, I . . .” I got lost. Forgot my colonics paraphernalia in the bathroom a few weeks ago. Have you seen a Newfie? No. No. Come on, Elsie. Honesty. “I need to talk to Jack,” I say in my newly found firm voice. Jack. Who has, by now, noticed me. And is coming toward me. Standing in front of me. Towering toweringly with a puzzled, towered frown directed at me. Deep breaths. It’s okay. This is fine. “I didn’t know you two talked,” Monica says, looking skeptically between us. “I learned a few years ago,” Jack tells her calmly, staring only at me. She’s little more than a fly buzzing around us. “And Elsie’s in the process of mastering the art of speaking for herself.” I glare. His mouth twitches. “Elsie, has Jonathan been bothering you? Because I—” “No. Not at all. We . . .” I’m beet red. “We do talk.” Her eyes widen in


the other foot. He doesn’t think he’s ever looked after anyone in his life, probably because someone who needed looking after would go to anyone in the world before they went to Andy. After turning on the television, Andy sits beside Nick. Usually he keeps to one side of the sofa, because it isn’t terribly large and it seems only polite not to crowd its actual owner. But today he plants himself right next to Nick, maybe because he wants to reassure himself that Nick is all right, maybe for other reasons. Maybe he just isn’t going to look too closely into any of his thoughts right now and instead watch some television. Nick falls asleep almost right away, promptly tipping over onto Andy’s shoulder. That can’t be comfortable, so Andy tugs him lower, until Nick is using Andy’s lap as a pillow. Andy doesn’t even try to pay attention to what’s happening on the television. Instead he brushes Nick’s hair off his forehead, and then—God, he hopes he isn’t being a creep—combs his fingers through Nick’s hair. Nick’s eyes blink open and Andy goes still. “No, keep doing that,” Nick mumbles into the fabric of Andy’s trousers. “Feels good.” And so Andy keeps doing it, careful to avoid any cuts or bruises, and lets his other hand rest on Nick’s bare shoulder. * * * When Andy wakes up, there’s nothing but static on the television screen and the sort of silence from the street below that means it’s after four a.m. last call. Nick is still asleep, his head in Andy’s lap, one hand hanging off the edge of the sofa and the other on Andy’s leg. He slides out from under Nick and gets up to turn the television off, then fills a glass with water and puts it on the end table within Nick’s reach. He sets a bottle of aspirin beside it, then takes the blanket off Nick’s bed and covers him. He tells himself that the ache in his chest is what anyone would feel when a friend is injured. But Andy has dozens of friends and has never felt the urge to curl up beside them on the sofa. There’s no need for him to stay near Nick. Nick’s asleep, and he isn’t so badly injured that he needs someone to hover over him all night. Still, before stepping into his bedroom, he glances back for one last look. Chapter Six When Andy wakes up on Saturday morning, Nick is standing in the kitchen, looking blearily into the refrigerator. “Sit down,” Andy says. “I can make coffee and toast.” Nick grunts and slopes off to the sofa. Andy tries not to wince when he sees Nick’s face. One side is mottled with purple bruises mingling luridly with the lingering orange of the Mercurochrome. He’s halfway to a black eye and his lip is puffy and red. “You can tell me what happened now,” Andy says as he measures out the coffee grounds. “Because what I’m imagining is probably worse than the truth.” “Guess it depends


and sit there being cleaned up like a child. “This is the worst.” “You’re welcome.” He gives me another tissue. “Blow.” I do as I am told. “Put that in here.” He has yet another, clean tissue—clearly he stays prepared, and why am I surprised?—spread open in his hand. I pop mine on top of it, and he wraps the whole thing up in a little parcel and puts it in his pocket. Then he pulls hand sanitizer out from his other pocket and squirts a healthy amount into my palm, and two colossal realizations hit me at once, which is deeply unfair, because lightning’s not supposed to strike twice. I love Bradley Graeme. As in, would give him a kidney, would wash his socks, would turn into a supervillain if he died. I love him so much I almost want to say it out loud, a dangerous and horrifying prospect I am not remotely equipped to deal with right now. Luckily, I have something else to distract me. Giselle was right. “What if everything about me is just a reaction to him?” I whisper. The band has moved on to “Despacito.” I am convinced they’re doing this on purpose. Brad puts a hand on my knee and squeezes. “Are you listening to me?” I blink. “Yes?” “Your dad is just something that happened to you,” he says. “Like that time you were sick and you ate a tub of Phish Food and all your vomit tasted like chocolate ice cream, so you don’t eat it anymore.” I grimace. “Brad. Ew.” “What? It’s an example. Your entire personality is not because of Phish Food,” Brad says seriously, “and it’s not because of your dad, either.” He makes it sound so simple, but believing it is much harder. “That’s just ice cream. This is—” My whole life plan. “My Steps to Success board says—” “Change it.” “But that’s not the point! The point is, how many things have I done or wanted to do just to…to show someone who is never going to care and never going to change? How pathetic does that make me?” It feels like everything is slightly twisted, like my vision doesn’t align with the angle of the world around me. I thought I was someone strong. I might be the opposite. “You know what you said to me before?” Brad asks, his voice low, his eyes pinned to mine. “You said it’s not fair. Because you, Celine, are the kind of person who cares about fairness. You’re the kind of person who wants justice, and that’s not him—that’s the opposite of him. It’s all you. So you’ve been doing the most to balance the scales. So what? That doesn’t make you pathetic. It makes you yourself. You just needed to figure out on your own that…that fairness is about you being happy, not him being punished.” A stubborn part of me wants to insist that he’s wrong, that I’m still fucked up and this is the end of the world, but the thing is, he’s making sense. And