it mean?"     "St. John was only twenty-nine, sir."     "'Jeune encore,' as the French say. Is he a person of low stature, phlegmatic, and plain? a person whose goodness consists rather in his guiltlessness of vice than his prowess in virtue?"     "He is untiringly active. Great and exalted deeds are what he lives to perform."     "But his brain? That is probably rather soft? He means well; but you shrug your shoulders to hear him talk?"     "He talks little, sir; what he does say is ever to the point. His brain is first-rate, I should think not impressible, but vigorous."     "Is he an able man, then?"     "Truly able."     "A thoroughly educated man?"     "St. John is an accomplished and profound scholar."     "His manners, I think you said, are not to your taste? priggish and parsonic?"     "I never mentioned his manners; but unless I had a very bad taste, they must suit it; they are polished, calm, and gentleman-like."     "His appearance I forget what description you gave of his appearance a sort of raw curate, half strangled with his white neckcloth, and stilted up on his thick-soled high-lows, eh?"     "St. John dresses well. He is a handsome man: tall, fair, with blue eyes and a Grecian profile."     (Aside.)"D him!"(To me.) "Did you like him, Jane?"     "Yes, Mr. Rochester, I liked him; but you asked me that before."     I perceived, of course, the drift of my interlocutor. Jealousy had got hold of him: she stung him; but the sting was salutary; it gave him respite from the gnawing fang of melancholy. I would not, therefore, immediately charm the snake.     "Perhaps you would rather not sit any longer on my knee, Miss Eyre?" was the next somewhat unexpected observation.     "Why not, Mr. Rochester?"     "The picture you have just drawn is suggestive of a rather too overwhelming contrast. Your words have delineated very prettily a graceful Apollo: he is present to your imagination tall, fair, with blue eyes and a Grecian profile. Your eyes dwell on a Vulcan, a real, blacksmith, brown, broad-shouldered; and blind and lame into the bargain."     "I never thought of it before; but you certainly are rather like Vulcan, sir."     "Well you can leave me, ma'am; but before you go" (and he retained me by a firmer grasp than ever), "you will be pleased just to answer me a question or two." He paused.     "What questions, Mr. Rochester?"     Then followed this cross-examination.     "St. John made you school-mistress of Morton before he knew you were his cousin?"


be bored. You’ll have camp.” “I’m too old for camp. I told you guys that.” Ella’s jaw jutted and her cheeks flared. She was having an updated version of the tantrums she used to have as a toddler, when she’d lie prostrate on the kitchen floor, pounding her fists and feet and wailing because she didn’t want a nap. And Maud felt that old irritation, that internal battle to stay patient. “Give me the phone,” she said. “What are you going to do with it?” Throw it in the Hudson, Maud thought. “See if I can figure it out. You unpack.” She had no idea what the problem could be with Ella’s phone. Hers worked fine in the farmhouse, although she never used FaceTime—few people her age did, and she’d never been good at technology. As for using the internet, Harriet had advised her to plug her computer into the modem with an ethernet cord. She called Peter to see if he had any ideas. “FaceTime uses more bandwidth,” he said. “But if the router’s dodgy, she should be able to use cellular.” He told her to check the indicator, which showed only one square at the farmhouse, so she headed down the hill toward the offices, watching the phone like a divining rod. Past the table, two bars showed. By a dogwood tree, four. “Bingo,” she said. “I’ll FaceTime her phone to try,” Peter said. Behind his stippled face, San Francisco skyscrapers loomed through the window. His office was on the top floor of a building that resembled a needle jammed into the streets near Chinatown. “Too bad,” he said. “You’ll never get her off that thing now.” “I’m so happy to have them here,” Maud said. “And I’m already tired.” She was also disappointed in herself for losing her cool with Ella so quickly. “I miss them already,” Peter said. “Even the pouty one.” “We’ll try you again tonight when Ella has calmed down,” Maud said. She said goodbye and hung up, feeling guilty. Peter missed his daughters. Of course he did. There were these windows of connection with him when she forgot herself, forgot their history, when the problems of parenting distracted from the problem of themselves. But if she didn’t stick to her intentions and leave him this summer, she feared she never would. Not wanting to reward a fit, she waited until she and the girls had finished eating dinner to tell Ella about the hot spot. They were sitting outside at the table—with Harriet’s approval, she’d dragged a barbecue from behind the farmhouse to grill burgers. “You can go to that tree if you want to call,” she said. “It’s not called calling,” Ella said, as she got up from the table with her phone. “But thanks.” By seven, Maud was starting to wonder why Gabriel hadn’t texted. His truck had been parked at the cottage for two hours. As she drew the girls’ bedroom curtains shut, Ella said, “What’s that noise?” “Crickets.” “If there are deer, are there mountain lions?” Louise said from her bed.


crack.” So it had to be something else. Something with meaning. Marsha kept a little rack of cheap bracelet charms by the register. I nipped in, paid for the Snickers for once, and pocketed a silver dolphin the size of my pinky nail. Even then I was good at lying. I spent forever counting out coins and shuffled off like I was embarrassed to have to scrounge for the last five cents, and Marsha was so exasperated she never noticed what I’d taken. I came around the side of the building, away from the road—the fastest way back to the trail that would get me close to Persephone—and Oscar was there. He had a cigarette pinched between his fingers, the glowing end ready to kiss his fingertips if he took another drag. He flicked it onto the ground and looked at me with hooded, lazy eyes. “Got milk?” he asked, and laughed at his own shitty joke. I started past him. “Come on, little girl. I didn’t mean anything by it.” “Fuck off, Oscar,” I said. It was maybe the first time I’d spoken to him in more than a mumble, and it came out feral. “Pussycat’s got claws,” he said with a chuckle. He ambled toward me, hands in his pockets. “You want to bite and scratch, is that it? Grrr.” He swiped at me with a lopsided grin. I danced away. “Leave me alone.” Still trying to sound fierce. Still failing. “Come on,” he said again. He grabbed my wrist, spun me around like we were dancing. Like we were playing. “You know when a guy is mean to you, it just means he likes you.” “You don’t like me,” I told him, knocked off-balance in more ways than one. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Want to find out?” He tugged me in closer. I could smell the booze on his breath. It was eleven in the morning and he smelled like liquor. I knew the smell, and I knew the way it made my dad, maudlin but harmless. I didn’t think Oscar was the same kind of drunk. “Just let me go,” I said, barely a squeak. It only made him laugh again. He swung me around, one hand on my waist, and then my back was up against the wall of the convenience store. The scents of malt liquor and tobacco and gasoline mixed together. I felt sick. “We are destined to be together, did you know that?” Oscar asked. His head tilted, a sly smile playing over his lips. I looked at him in mute incomprehension. “Oscar the Grouch loves trash, see? I’m Oscar, you’re trash. You and me were meant to be.” He said the last sentence in a crooning song, a leer on his lips. “You wish,” I bit out. Stupid thing to say. He just grinned wider. “You mean you wish, don’t you?” he said. His hand snaked up under my sweatshirt, scrunched up the fabric of my T-shirt. “Do you even really have anything under there?” His questing fingers dug into my


through solid rock up to her hip pockets.” “Mah Janie is uh high time woman and useter things. Ah didn’t git her outa de middle uh de road. Ah got her outa uh big fine house. Right now she got money enough in de bank tuh buy up dese ziggaboos and give ’em away.” “Hush yo’ mouf! And she down heah on de muck lak anybody else!” “Janie is wherever Ah wants tuh be. Dat’s de kind uh wife she is and Ah love her for it. Ah wouldn’t be knockin’ her around. Ah didn’t wants whup her last night, but ol’ Mis’ Turner done sent for her brother tuh come tuh bait Janie in and take her way from me. Ah didn’t whup Janie ’cause she done nothin’. Ah beat her tuh show dem Turners who is boss. Ah set in de kitchen one day and heard dat woman tell mah wife Ah’m too black fuh her. She don’t see how Janie can stand me.” “Tell her husband on her.” 174 Zora Neale Hurston “Shucks! Ah b’lieve he’s skeered of her.” “Knock her teeth down her throat.” “Dat would look like she had some influence when she ain’t. Ah jus’ let her see dat Ah got control.” “So she live offa our money and don’t lak black folks, huh? O.K. we’ll have her gone from here befo’ two weeks is up. Ah’m goin’ right off tuh all de men and drop rocks aginst her.” “Ah ain’t mad wid her for whut she done, ’cause she ain’t done me nothin’ yet. Ah’m mad at her for thinkin’. Her and her gang got tuh go.” “Us is wid yuh, Tea Cake. You know dat already. Dat Turner woman is real smart, accordin’ tuh her notions. Reckon she done heard ’bout dat money yo’ wife got in de bank and she’s bound tuh rope her in tuh her family one way or another.” “Sop, Ah don’t think it’s half de money as it is de looks. She’s color-struck. She ain’t got de kind of uh mind you meet every day. She ain’t a fact and neither do she make a good story when you tell about her.” “Ah yeah, she’s too smart tuh stay round heah. She fig- gers we’se jus’ uh bunch uh dumb niggers so she think she’ll grow horns. But dat’s uh lie. She’ll die butt-headed.” Saturday afternoon when the work tickets were turned into cash everybody began to buy coon-dick and get drunk. By dusk dark Belle Glade was full of loud-talking, staggering men. Plenty women had gotten their knots charged too. The police chief in his speedy Ford was rushing from jook to jook and eating house trying to keep order, but making few Their Eyes Were Watching God 175 arrests. Not enough jail-space for all the drunks so why bother with a few? All he could do to keep down fights and get the white men out of colored town by nine o’clock. Dick Sterrett and Coodemay seemed to be the worst off. Their likker told them to


toward the coast. And so he speeds south, in pursuit of the blinking signifier that is Michael Mace. He lives to kill and kills to live again, a product of the New Truth in which he does not believe any more than he believes in the old truth. A MOMENT ON THE EARTH As midnight fast approaches, robes of cloud slide northward down the sky, and in the clear high dark, stars map the universe beyond the silver moon. While the solid and quiet Bentley floats through the dripping night, John sleeps in the back, upon a multimillion-dollar bed. With so much to process from this frantic day, he has material to inspire nightmares, but if dreams assault him, he keeps them to himself. He lies silently in the fetal position. Perhaps the purr of the sedan and the susurration of the tires on the highway approximate the sounds of life in the womb, the sustaining rush of umbilical blood, and bring him peace. “He’s so young,” Nina says. “How can he cope with all this? What will it do to him?” “Make him stronger,” Michael says. “I hope that’s true.” “That’s who he is. Most children are adaptable, survivors, if they’re allowed to be, if adults don’t layer their own neuroses on their kids. John’s never going to need safe spaces like the infants in universities require these days. He won’t waste his life being offended by ‘microaggressions.’ He knows the world is a hard place for everyone, that taking solace from—or finding virtue in—being a victim is a sure path to lifelong misery. He’ll roll with whatever life throws at him, and he’ll always find a way to be happy.” “I wish I could be sure of that,” she says. “How can you be?” “That’s who he is because of you.” She sits taller, not in pride, but in humble resistance to what he has said. “Don’t snow me. I’ve given him so little.” He almost smiles but doesn’t want a smile to seem patronizing. “You’ve given him love, stability, proper guidance, and confidence. That’s all any kid needs, and what too few receive.” “Because of me,” Nina says, “John had a murderer—a monster—for a father.” “You took full responsibility for what you did. Because of you, John lives, and the world is better with him in it.” “You let me off the hook too easily.” “It only seems that way to you because you never let yourself off the hook to any extent at all.” She closes her eyes and rides in silence for a while. When he glances at her, he sees that she is biting her lower lip. Her cheeks are dry, but her eyelashes are jeweled. Eventually she opens her eyes and says, “It feels so strange.” “What does?” “Not being in control. Not knowing what’s next or where.” “I’m just a bridge, remember?” “Troubled water. But you’re . . . more than a bridge.” “When we’re across the flood, you’ll soon be in control of your life, no less than you’ve always been.” “Their kind,”


It makes the magic go sour. Which makes sense, if you think you’ve been hexed, you live looking for signs of danger.” “I would think that is logical.” “Not the way he saw it. You had to be fearless.” “Why are you following this guy’s advice?” he asked, irked by the way she spoke. She sounded almost pleased. “I’m trying to understand the logic he employed, the underlying mechanism. Like Abel said, Ewers wasn’t coming up with these ideas out of nowhere. He was mixing and matching. He wasn’t that original.” “What is original? Every soap I was ever on was another soap with different names.” “Precisely. So even if Ewers thought a little much about himself, he might have stumbled onto a few good tips.” Tristán paused at a corner and looked down at Montserrat, taking off his sunglasses and staring into her eyes. “Be careful. I mean it, Momo,” he said, dropping his voice. “This shit is dangerous.” She didn’t blink, tilting up her determined chin, and spoke with a polished brashness. “I was caught off guard at Abel’s apartment, but I won’t be caught again.” “You’re a terror,” he muttered, and he meant it. 16 It was colder that morning, and Montserrat’s leg ached. She could do nothing about it except rub the limb and plug in the electric blanket. She dallied in bed, comforted by its warmth, and went through the notes she had gathered. Her meeting with Nando wasn’t until two p.m., so she had time to craft a defensive charm. Ewers’s book was at first glance disorganized. But this was a mirage intended to either ward off dilettantes or enhance the book’s mystique. Anyway, Montserrat had grasped the method he used to explain his magic knowledge. He divided magic into a system of levels and elements, with corresponding runes. According to him, adepts could only grasp the barest glimpses of this magic, while hierophants were able to wield it. Water was associated with death—Ewers made his case by citing both Lethe and the Styx—and therefore with the past. Necromancy, automatic writing, retrocognition were detailed in the chapter he called “The Permutation of Water.” “The Whispers of the Earth” focused on the earth element, and therefore was associated with precious metals and with minerals. He also connected earth with plants and fungi, and thus, it was not difficult to discern why Ewers associated this element with potions and medicine—but also with hexes, as the same elements that could heal someone could also kill them. Ewers tied earth to visions of the future and clairvoyant powers, reasoning that all mirrors and crystals, which can be used for scrying, ultimately came from the depths of the earth. He even mentioned John Dee’s obsidian mirror, made from volcanic glass mined in Mexico, which he used to foretell events. “The Cipher of Fire” included long paragraphs on radiesthesia. This was not surprising, considering it was Ewers’s specialty. Ewers associated fire with passion, transformation, and willpower—the phoenix, reborn from its ashes, appeared as a common motif, but the fire salamander also received


A lot like Natalie’s, but much smaller. His future wife was halfway down the aisle now. Getting more and more beautiful with every step she took. Damn, even her shoes were sparkly. The music swelled along with August’s throat. How did he get here? How? He had no earthly clue, but he knew one thing. The richest man in the world couldn’t pay him to be anywhere else. Especially when Natalie’s eyes found his and held on, as if gathering strength. She was nervous. Sweat was slipping down his spine, so yeah, he could relate. They shared an exaggerated breath while staring at each other and . . . Jesus Christ, was he crying? Yeah. Actual moisture flooded his eyes. Too much to blink away. Natalie paused ever so slightly, looking dumbfounded. “Sorry.” He laughed, swiping his sleeve across his eyes. “Who’s cutting onions?” The tent full of strangers laughed. Except for Julian, who August could feel staring at him, speculating. Corinne sat in the front row, Menace curled at her feet, looking back and forth between August and Natalie and for some reason, her shoulders seemed to relax over whatever she saw. August would have given a million dollars to find out what it was, because he had no idea what was happening in his chest. A fucking racket, that’s what. She’d brought him a picture of Sam. She’d printed it out, found the hymn. Had it all laminated. Until she handed over the card, he’d had no idea how badly he needed it. Again, he felt the slight weight of it behind his pocket square and it calmed him. Someone had his back. The person he’d grown to trust the most out of anyone in his life . . . was present. In his thoughts, if not physically. And he had the woman in front of him to thank. The woman clutching her flowers with white knuckles. Calm her down. “Your tits look insane.” She looked like she wanted to clock him over the head with her bouquet. But at least the blood was back in her fingers. Damn. He had it so bad. Chapter Fourteen Natalie watched in horror as August unfolded the piece of paper that he’d removed from the pocket of his tuxedo. Yellow legal-pad paper, to be exact, on which lines had been crossed out and arrows had been drawn. It looked like the first draft of a football playbook. What in God’s actual name was he going to say? More importantly, had she actually passed on an offer to get her trust fund and remain single? With her money in hand, she probably could have even afforded to reimburse Corinne for the catering. Sure, the last-minute flake out wouldn’t have been good for her relationship with Corinne or the Vos family reputation, but neither of those things were stellar at the moment to begin with! Although, wow. If she’d taken the money and skedaddled, she would have missed the sight of August in front of an altar—a portable one, sure—looking at her in a wedding


slow." The room was blazing hot, he was all fire, he was all coldness; they sat in the middle of an empty desert with three chairs and him standing, swaying, and him waiting for Mrs. Phelps to stop straightening her dress hem and Mrs. Bowles to take her fingers away from her hair. Then he began to read in a low, stumbling voice that grew firmer as he progressed from line to line, and his voice went out across the desert, into the whiteness, and around the three sitting women there in the great hot emptiness: "`The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world."' The chairs creaked under the three women. Montag finished it out: "'Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.'" Mrs. Phelps was crying. The others in the middle of the desert watched her crying grow very loud as her face squeezed itself out of shape. They sat, not touching her, bewildered by her display. She sobbed uncontrollably. Montag himself was stunned and shaken. "Sh, sh," said Mildred. "You're all right, Clara, now, Clara, snap out of it! Clara, what's wrong?" "I-I,", sobbed Mrs. Phelps, "don't know, don't know, I just don't know, oh oh..." Mrs. Bowles stood up and glared at Montag. "You see? I knew it, that's what I wanted to prove! I knew it would happen! I've always said, poetry and tears, poetry and suicide and crying and awful feelings, poetry and sickness; all that mush! Now I've had it proved to me. You're nasty, Mr. Montag, you're nasty! " Faber said, "Now..." Montag felt himself turn and walk to the wall-slot and drop the book in through the brass notch to the waiting flames. "Silly words, silly words, silly awful hurting words," said Mrs. Bowles. "Why do people want to hurt people? Not enough hurt in the world, you've got to tease people with stuff like that ! " "Clara, now, Clara," begged Mildred, pulling her arm. "Come on, let's be cheery, you turn the `family' on, now. Go ahead. Let's laugh and be happy, now, stop crying, we'll have a party!" "No," said Mrs. Bowles. "I'm trotting right straight home. You want to visit my house and `family,' well and good. But I won't come in this fireman's crazy house again in my lifetime! " "Go home." Montag fixed his eyes upon her, quietly. "Go home and think of your first husband divorced and your second husband killed in a jet


and was free and satisfied. But Tom Sawyer he hunted me up and said he was going to start a band of robbers, and I might join if I would go back to the widow and be respectable. So I went back. The widow she cried over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and she called me a lot of other names, too, but she never meant no harm by it. She put me in them new clothes again, and I couldn't do nothing but sweat and sweat, and feel all cramped up. Well, then, the old thing commenced again. The widow rung a bell for supper, and you had to come to time. When you got to the table you couldn't go right to eating, but you had to wait for the widow to tuck down her head and grumble a little over the victuals, though there warn't really anything the matter with them, -- that is, nothing only everything was cooked by itself. In a barrel of odds and ends it is different; things get mixed up, and the juice kind of swaps around, and the things go better. After supper she got out her book and learned me about Moses and the Bulrushers, and I was in a sweat to find out all about him; but by and by she let it out that Moses had been dead a considerable long time; so then I didn't care no more about him, because I don't take no stock in dead people. Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. But she wouldn't. She said it was a mean practice and wasn't clean, and I must try to not do it any more. That is just the way with some people. They get down on a thing when they don't know nothing about it. Here she was a-bothering about Moses, which was no kin to her, and no use to any- body, being gone, you see, yet finding a power of fault with me for doing a thing that had some good in it. And she took snuff, too; of course that was all right, because she done it herself. Her sister, Miss Watson, a tolerable slim old maid, with goggles on, had just come to live with her, and took a set at me now with a spelling-book. She worked me middling hard for about an hour, and then the widow made her ease up. I couldn't stood it much longer. Then for an hour it was deadly dull, and I was fidgety. Miss Watson would say, "Don't put your feet up there, Huckleberry;" and "Don't scrunch up like that, Huckleberry -- set up straight;" and pretty soon she would say, "Don't gap and stretch like that, Huckleberry -- why don't you try to be- have?" Then she told me all about the bad place, and I said I wished I was there. She got mad then, but I didn't mean no harm. All I wanted was to go somewheres; all I wanted


the scheme as a particular compliment to themselves.--Emma and Harriet professed very high expectations of pleasure from it; and Mr. Weston, unasked, promised to get Frank over to join them, if possible; a proof of approbation and gratitude which could have been dispensed with.-- Mr. Knightley was then obliged to say that he should be glad to see him; and Mr. Weston engaged to lose no time in writing, and spare no arguments to induce him to come. In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the party to Box Hill was again under happy consideration; and at last Donwell was settled for one day, and Box Hill for the next,--the weather appearing exactly right. Under a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer, Mr. Woodhouse was safely conveyed in his carriage, with one window down, to partake of this al-fresco party; and in one of the most comfortable rooms in the Abbey, especially prepared for him by a fire all the morning, he was happily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk with pleasure of what had been achieved, and advise every body to come and sit down, and not to heat themselves.-- Mrs. Weston, who seemed to have walked there on purpose to be tired, and sit all the time with him, remained, when all the others were invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and sympathiser. It was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as soon as she was satisfied of her father's comfort, she was glad to leave him, and look around her; eager to refresh and correct her memory with more particular observation, more exact understanding of a house and grounds which must ever be so interesting to her and all her family. She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewed the respectable size and style of the building, its suitable, becoming, characteristic situation, low and sheltered-- its ample gardens stretching down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with all the old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight--and its abundance of timber in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance had rooted up.--The house was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike it, covering a good deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many comfortable, and one or two handsome rooms.--It was just what it ought to be, and it looked what it was--and Emma felt an increasing respect for it, as the residence of a family of such true gentility, untainted in blood and understanding.--Some faults of temper John Knightley had; but Isabella had connected herself unexceptionably. She had given them neither men, nor names, nor places, that could raise a blush. These were pleasant feelings, and she walked about and indulged them till it was necessary to do as the others did, and collect round the strawberry-beds.--The whole party were assembled, excepting Frank Churchill, who was expected every moment from Richmond; and Mrs. Elton, in all her apparatus of


shreds high up in the branches. Bond felt himself starting to vomit. It was Mathis who got to him first, and by that time Bond was standing with his arm round the tree which had saved his life. Stupefied, but unharmed, he allowed Mathis to lead him off towards the Splendide from which guests and servants were pouring in chattering fright. As the distant clang of bells heralded the arrival of ambulances and fire-engines, they managed to push through the throng and up the short stairs and along the corridor to Bond's room. Mathis paused only to turn on the radio in front of the fireplace, then, while Bond stripped off his blood-flecked clothes, Mathis sprayed him with questions. When it came to the description of the two men, Mathis tore the telephone off its hook beside Bond's bed. '... and tell the police,' he concluded, 'tell them that the Englishman from Jamaica who was knocked over by the blast is my affair. He is unhurt and they are not to worry him. I will explain to them in half an hour. They should tell the Press that it was apparently a vendetta between two Bulgarian Communists and that one killed the other with a bomb. They need say nothing of the third Bulgar who must have been hanging about somewhere, lout they must get him at all costs. He will certainly head for Paris. Road-blocks everywhere. Understand? Alors, bonne chance.' Mathis turned back to Bond and heard him to the end. 'Merde, but you were lucky,' he said when Bond had finished. 'Clearly the bomb was intended for you. It must have been faulty. They intended to throw it and then dodge behind their tree. But it all came out the other way round. Never mind. We will discover the facts.' He paused. 'But certainly it is a curious affair. And these people appear to be taking you seriously.' Mathis looked affronted. 'But how did these sacr Bulgars intend to escape capture? And what was the significance of the red and the blue cases? We must try and find some fragments of the red one.' Mathis bit his nails. He was excited and his eyes glittered. This was becoming a formidable and dramatic affair, in many aspects of which he was now involved personally. Certainly it was no longer just a case of holding Bond's coat while he had his private battle with Le Chiffre in the Casino. Mathis jumped up. 'Now get a drink and some lunch and a rest,' he ordered Bond. 'For me, I must get my nose quickly into this affair before the police have muddied the trail with their big black boots.' Mathis turned off the radio and waved an affectionate farewell. The door slammed and silence settled on the room. Bond sat for a while by the window and enjoyed being alive. Later, as Bond was finishing his first straight whisky 'on the rocks' and was contemplating the pat de foie gras and cold langouste which the waiter had just laid out for him, the


I could be there at eleven instead of noon. No problem—that would give me more time to get back to Chester afterward. “I’ve got to answer this. I’ll call you back in just a sec, okay?” I shouldered the door open and stepped into the room. “I’m not going anywhere. Talk to you later.” I hung up and shut the door behind me with my foot, then typed out a reply as I moved farther into the room. The shadow was in my peripheral vision. I didn’t notice it until it moved—and in the same instant I realized it was a man, lunging toward me. A man with brown hair and a cold look in his eyes. Pure white panic flashed through me. He was in my room. He was going to kill me. I struck out in blind fear, swinging with the hand holding my phone. It clipped him in the temple, and with a yell I drew my arm back to hit him again. Swearing, he grabbed the phone from my hand, tearing it out of my grip, but I didn’t stop, clawing at his face. I wouldn’t go without a fight, not this time. His hand closed around my wrist. He yanked hard, spinning me half around, then shoved me hard in the back. I hit the wall face-first and rebounded with a cry of pain. I sprawled backward, my hip and ribs catching the hard bed frame on my way down, and I lay in a heap on the floor, my vision blurry. I stared up at him, blinking to try to clear my vision, waiting for him to attack me again—but he only bent, grabbed my phone from where it had fallen, and ran out the door. The door slammed shut. The pain in my ribs throbbed with my frantic heartbeat, but I sucked down a breath and then another. He hadn’t killed me. I was alive. Every part of me hurt. I dragged myself up holding on to the end of the bed. I tasted blood and realized that my nose was bleeding. The closet mirrors showed a wild-eyed woman, red smeared over lips and cheeks and chin. I tried to get my feet under me, but standing up made the room spin. I crabbed my way over to the bedside table and fumbled for the room phone. And then I stopped. Who was I going to call? The police? Yes. Obviously. That was the sensible thing. And then I’d explain to them about the man, about the Camry, about Chester. Persephone, Liv, Stahl—they were all tangled up in this, and if I gave the police the end of that thread they would follow it. This is stupid. Call the cops. Because that had worked out so well before. The cops were at least half the reason I’d ended up on that witness stand, testifying against the wrong man. They’d wanted Stahl, and they’d used me to get him. I gathered up my things in a rush, clawing everything into my suitcase and barely getting it


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

gentlemen as have friends here, hire me to provide them with something good to eat.” “Is this so?” said I, turning to the turnkey. He said it was. “Well then,” said I, slipping some silver into the grub-man’s hands (for so they called him). “I want you to give particular attention to my friend there; let him have the best dinner you can get. And you must be as polite to him as possible.” “Introduce me, will you?” said the grub-man, looking at me with an expression which seem to say he was all impatience for an opportunity to give a specimen of his breeding. Thinking it would prove of benefit to the scrivener, I acquiesced; and asking the grub-man his name, went up with him to Bartleby. “Bartleby, this is Mr. Cutlets; you will find him very useful to you.” “Your sarvant, sir, your sarvant,” said the grub-man, making a low salutation behind his apron. “Hope you find it pleasant here, sir;—spacious grounds—cool apartments, sir—hope you’ll stay with us some time—try to make it agreeable. May Mrs. Cutlets and I have the pleasure of your company to dinner, sir, in Mrs. Cutlets’ private room?” “I prefer not to dine to-day,” said Bartleby, turning away. “It would disagree with me; I am unused to dinners.” So saying he slowly moved to the other side of the inclosure, and took up a position fronting the dead-wall. “How’s this?” said the grub-man, addressing me with a stare of astonishment. “He’s odd, aint he?” “I think he is a little deranged,” said I, sadly. “Deranged? deranged is it? Well now, upon my word, I thought that friend of yourn was a gentleman forger; they are always pale and genteel-like, them forgers. I can’t pity’em—can’t help it, sir. Did you know Monroe Edwards?” he added touchingly, and paused. Then, laying his hand pityingly on my shoulder, sighed, “he died of consumption at Sing-Sing. So you weren’t acquainted with Monroe?” “No, I was never socially acquainted with any forgers. But I cannot stop longer. Look to my friend yonder. You will not lose by it. I will see you again.” Some few days after this, I again obtained admission to the Tombs, and went through the corridors in quest of Bartleby; but without finding him. “I saw him coming from his cell not long ago,” said a turnkey, “may be he’s gone to loiter in the yards.” So I went in that direction. “Are you looking for the silent man?” said another turnkey passing me. “Yonder he lies—sleeping in the yard there. ‘Tis not twenty minutes since I saw him lie down.” The yard was entirely quiet. It was not accessible to the common prisoners. The surrounding walls, of amazing thickness, kept off all sounds behind them. The Egyptian character of the masonry weighed upon me with its gloom. But a soft imprisoned turf grew under foot. The heart of the eternal pyramids, it seemed, wherein, by some strange magic, through the clefts, grass-seed, dropped by birds, had sprung. Strangely huddled at the base of the wall,


here.” He tugs my hand, pulling me onto his lap. “I like having unfettered access to you.” He runs a hand up my thigh to my behind. He grasps the nape of my neck with his other hand and kisses me, holding me firmly in place. He tastes of white wine and apple pie and Christian. I run my fingers through his hair, holding him to me while our tongues explore and curl and twist around each other, my blood heating in my veins. We’re breathless when Christian pulls away. “Let’s go to bed,” he murmurs against my lips. “Bed?” He pulls back further and tugs my hair so I am looking up at him. “Where would you prefer, Mrs. Grey?” My inner goddess stops stuffing her face with tarte Tatin. I shrug, feigning in- difference. “Surprise me.” He smirks. “You’re feisty this evening.” He runs his nose along mine. “Maybe I need to be restrained.” “Maybe you do. You’re getting mighty bossy in your old age.” He narrows his eyes, but can’t disguise the latent humor there. “What are you going to do about it?” I challenge. His eyes glitter. “I know what I’d like to do about it. Depends if you’re up to it.” “Oh, Mr. Grey, you’ve been very gentle with me these last couple of days. I’m not made of glass, you know.” “You don’t like gentle?” “With you, of course. But you know . . . variety is the spice of life.” I bat my lashes at him. 378/551 “You’re after something less gentle?” “Something life-affirming.” He raises his brows in surprise. “Life-affirming,” he repeats, astonished hu- mor in his voice. I nod. He gazes at me for a moment. “Don’t bite your lip,” he whispers then rises suddenly with me in his arms. I gasp and grab his biceps, fearful that he’ll drop me. He walks over to the smallest of the three couches and deposits me on to it. “Wait here. Don’t move.” He gives me a brief hot, intense look and turns on his heel, stalking toward the bedroom. Oh . . . Christian barefoot. Why are his feet so hot? He’s back a few moments later, taking me by surprise as he leans over me from behind. “I think we’ll dispense with this.” He grabs my T-shirt and drags it over my head, leaving me naked except for my panties. He pulls my ponytail back and kisses me. “Stand up,” he orders against my lips and releases me. I comply immediately. He lays a towel out on the sofa. Towel? “Take your panties off.” I swallow but do as I’m told, discarding them by the sofa. “Sit.” He grabs my ponytail again and pulls my head back. “You’ll tell me to stop if this gets too much, yes?” I nod. “Say it.” His voice is stern. “Yes,” I squeak. He smirks. “Good. So, Mrs. Grey . . . by popular demand, I’m going to re- strain you.” His voice drops to a breathless whisper. Desire streaks through my body like lightning simply at


there on the occasion of my marriage." "Dear, dear, that's bad!" said Holmes, shaking his head. Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment. "Why was it bad?" "Only that you have disarranged our little deductions. Your marriage, you say?" "Yes, sir. I married, and so left the hospital, and with it all hopes of a consulting practice. It was necessary to make a home of my own." "Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after all," said Holmes. "And now, Dr. James Mortimer --" "Mister, sir, Mister -- a humble M.R.C.S." "And a man of precise mind, evidently." "A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on the shores of the great unknown ocean. I presume that it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes whom I am addressing and not --" "No, this is my friend Dr. Watson." "Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned in connection with that of your friend. You interest me very much, Mr. Holmes. I had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull or such well-marked supra-orbital development. Would you have any objection to my running my finger along your parietal fissure? A cast of your skull, sir, until the original is available, would be an ornament to any anthropological museum. It is not my intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I covet your skull." Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. "You are an enthusiast in your line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am in mine," said he. "I observe from your forefinger that you make your own cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one." The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the other with surprising dexterity. He had long, quivering fin- gers as agile and restless as the antennae of an insect. Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me the interest which he took in our curious companion. "I presume, sir," said he at last, "that it was not merely for the purpose of examining my skull that you have done me the honour to call here last night and again to-day?" "No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity of doing that as well. I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I recognized that I am myself an unpractical man and because I am suddenly confronted with a most serious and extraordinary prob- lem. Recognizing, as I do, that you are the second highest expert in Europe --" "Indeed, sir! May I inquire who has the honour to be the first?" asked Holmes with some asperity. "To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of Mon- sieur Bertillon must always appeal strongly." "Then had you not better consult him?" "I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a practical man of affairs it is acknowledged that you stand alone. I trust, sir, that I have not inadvertently --" "Just a little," said Holmes. "I think, Dr. Mortimer, you would do wisely if without more ado


ceremony was infinitely dreadful in the cold gray morning. Half a dozen people who had worked with Fanny Price at the studio came to the funeral, Mrs. Otter because she was _massiere_ and thought it her duty, Ruth Chalice because she had a kind heart, Lawson, Clutton, and Flanagan. They had all disliked her during her life. Philip, looking across the cemetery crowded on all sides with monuments, some poor and simple, others vulgar, pretentious, and ugly, shuddered. It was horribly sordid. When they came out Albert Price asked Philip to lunch with him. Philip loathed him now and he was tired; he had not been sleeping well, for he dreamed constantly of Fanny Price in the torn brown dress, hanging from the nail in the ceiling; but he could not think of an excuse. "You take me somewhere where we can get a regular slap-up lunch. All this is the very worst thing for my nerves." "Lavenue's is about the best place round here," answered Philip. Albert Price settled himself on a velvet seat with a sigh of relief. He ordered a substantial luncheon and a bottle of wine. "Well, I'm glad that's over," he said. He threw out a few artful questions, and Philip discovered that he was eager to hear about the painter's life in Paris. He represented it to himself as deplorable, but he was anxious for details of the orgies which his fancy suggested to him. With sly winks and discrect sniggering he conveyed that he knew very well that there was a great deal more than Philip confessed. He was a man of the world, and he knew a thing or two. He asked Philip whether he had ever been to any of those places in Montmartre which are celebrated from Temple Bar to the Royal Exchange. He would like to say he had been to the Moulin Rouge. The luncheon was very good and the wine excellent. Albert Price expanded as the processes of digestion went satisfactorily forwards. "Let's 'ave a little brandy," he said when the coffee was brought, "and blow the expense." He rubbed his hands. "You know, I've got 'alf a mind to stay over tonight and go back tomorrow. What d'you say to spending the evening together?" "If you mean you want me to take you round Montmartre tonight, I'll see you damned," said Philip. "I suppose it wouldn't be quite the thing." The answer was made so seriously that Philip was tickled. "Besides it would be rotten for your nerves," he said gravely. Albert Price concluded that he had better go back to London by the four o'clock train, and presently he took leave of Philip. "Well, good-bye, old man," he said. "I tell you what, I'll try and come over to Paris again one of these days and I'll look you up. And then we won't 'alf go on the razzle." Philip was too restless to work that afternoon, so he jumped on a bus and crossed the river to see whether there were any pictures on view at


I met and married Tanya.” “Back then you were just tall, dark, handsome, amusing, and reputed to be smart. You weren’t successful yet.” “I was too tall, broad as a truck, big hands like a strangler for hire, with a tendency to glower. I’m still all those things.” “Just smile, and your face lights up, cute as a kitten.” Shelby’s eyes roll in their sockets as if he’s one of those novelty dolls with counterweighted eyeballs. “That’s just it. When I’m around Nina, I’m so worried about making a good impression that I forget to smile. I’m so nervous and earnest, I look scary.” Pushing aside his plate of half-finished creamed beef on whole-wheat toast with carrots and red-beet slaw, Michael shakes his head. “It’s a mystery how you produced two children with Tanya.” “Tanya wasn’t just beautiful. She was uncannily insightful. Ten minutes after we met, she knew me better than I knew myself.” “Maybe this Nina also knows you better than you think she does, knows just what a prince among men you are.” Shelby swallows a forkful of beet slaw, and his face puckers. He washes the slaw down with iced tea, and his face puckers again. “Don’t you think that’s more luck than any man should expect—to meet two women who totally get who he is in his heart?” After pretending to think about that, Michael says, “Are there really stranglers for hire?” “Given our ever-darkening world, why wouldn’t there be?” “Do they use their bare hands or a wire garrote?” “Hands, wire, rope, scarves, rubber tubing—they have to switch it up, otherwise the job would get boring. Another thing is the age difference. I’m forty-four, and Nina is thirty.” “Humbert Humbert salivates over Lolita. I’m making a civilian arrest, you pervert.” “Maybe it’s funny to you, but it’s a serious consideration. When Nina’s sixty-five, I’ll be seventy-nine.” “Yeah, you’re right. And when she’s a hundred and ten, you’ll be a hundred and twenty-four. Be careful, or your eyes will roll right out of your head.” Shelby sips more iced tea. “I think the people who make this stuff also make the brew you drink before a colonoscopy.” “You know what I think? Although it’s been eight years since cancer took Tanya, you feel that getting serious about Nina is like cheating on Tanya.” “No, no, it’s nothing like that.” “Betraying her.” “You can’t betray someone who has passed away.” “Dishonoring her memory.” Shelby sighs. “You’re relentless. You’d have made a great prosecutor during the Spanish Inquisition.” “Your kids are grown, and you miss having them in the house.” “What does that have to do with anything?” “You live alone. You’re not the kind of guy who can live alone. Right now, you’re a lonely, forlorn, miserable stylite who could be happy if you’d allow yourself to reach out to Nina.” “‘Stylite.’ Been reading more than your usual comic books?” “You said her son is special.” Shelby’s scowl softens into a sweet expression. “John. He’s a good kid. He’s the kind of kid who’s the hope of the


taking a candle; I crossed the passage and listened a minute at Miles's door. What, under my endless obsession, I had been impelled to listen for was some betrayal of his not being at rest, and I presently caught one, but not in the form I had expected. His voice tinkled out. "I say, you there--come in." It was a gaiety in the gloom! I went in with my light and found him, in bed, very wide awake, but very much at his ease. "Well, what are YOU up to?" he asked with a grace of sociability in which it occurred to me that Mrs. Grose, had she been present, might have looked in vain for proof that anything was "out." I stood over him with my candle. "How did you know I was there?" "Why, of course I heard you. Did you fancy you made no noise? You're like a troop of cavalry!" he beautifully laughed. "Then you weren't asleep?" "Not much! I lie awake and think." I had put my candle, designedly, a short way off, and then, as he held out his friendly old hand to me, had sat down on the edge of his bed. "What is it," I asked, "that you think of?" "What in the world, my dear, but YOU?" "Ah, the pride I take in your appreciation doesn't insist on that! I had so far rather you slept." "Well, I think also, you know, of this queer business of ours." I marked the coolness of his firm little hand. "Of what queer business, Miles?" "Why, the way you bring me up. And all the rest!" I fairly held my breath a minute, and even from my glimmering taper there was light enough to show how he smiled up at me from his pillow. "What do you mean by all the rest?" "Oh, you know, you know!" I could say nothing for a minute, though I felt, as I held his hand and our eyes continued to meet, that my silence had all the air of admitting his charge and that nothing in the whole world of reality was perhaps at that moment so fabulous as our actual relation. "Certainly you shall go back to school," I said, "if it be that that troubles you. But not to the old place--we must find another, a better. How could I know it did trouble you, this question, when you never told me so, never spoke of it at all?" His clear, listening face, framed in its smooth whiteness, made him for the minute as appealing as some wistful patient in a children's hospital; and I would have given, as the resemblance came to me, all I possessed on earth really to be the nurse or the sister of charity who might have helped to cure him. Well, even as it was, I perhaps might help! "Do you know you've never said a word to me about your school-- I mean the old one; never mentioned it in any way?" He seemed to wonder; he smiled with the


it had kept my head and hands employed, and had given force and fixedness to the new impressions I wished to stamp indelibly on my heart.     Ere long I had reason to congratulate myself on the course of wholesome discipline to which I had thus forced my feelings to submit; thanks to it, I was able to meet subsequent occurrences with a decent calm; which, had they found me unprepared, I should probably have been unequal to maintain, even externally.       |Go to Contents |               Chapter XVII     A WEEK passed, and no news arrived of Mr. Rochester; ten days, and still he did not come. Mrs. Fairfax said she should not be surprised if he were to go straight from the Leas to London, and thence to the continent, and not show his face again at Thornfield for a year to come; he had not unfrequently quitted it in a manner quite as abrupt and unexpected. When I heard this, I was beginning to feel a strange chill and failing at the heart. I was actually permitting myself to experience a sickening sense of disappointment; but rallying my wits, and recollecting my principles, I at once called my sensations to order; and it was wonderful how I got over the temporary blunder how I cleared up the mistake of supposing Mr. Rochester's movements a matter in which I had any cause to take a vital interest. Not that I humbled myself by a slavish notion of inferiority; on the contrary, I just said: "You have nothing to do with the master of Thornfield, further than to receive the salary he gives you for teaching his protg, and to be grateful for such respectful and kind treatment, as, if you do your duty, you have a right to expect at his hands. Be sure that is the only tie he seriously acknowledges between you and him; so don't make him the object of your fine feelings, your raptures, agonies and so forth. He is not of your order; keep to your caste, and be too self-respecting to lavish the love of the whole heart, soul and strength, where such a gift is not wanted and would be despised."     I went on with my day's business tranquilly, but ever and anon vague suggestions kept wandering across my brain of reasons why I should quit Thornfield; and I kept involuntarily framing advertisements and pondering conjectures about new situations; these thoughts I did not think it necessary to check; they might germinate and bear fruit if they could.     Mr. Rochester had been absent upward of a fortnight, when the post brought Mrs. Fairfax a letter.     "It is from the master," said she, as she looked at the direction. "Now I suppose we shall know whether we are to expect his return or not."


a waist small enough to make you worry. There’s some crazy whaleboning around the back so she can breathe deep enough to sing. Under the beehive wig her hair’s so pale it’s almost silver, and her dark eyes make her seem ghostly in the warm light of the dressing room fireplace. She wears ear studs, black pearls, but she’s hardly the only woman in the city with pierced ears. The shawl is silver brocade, just different enough to match. “Wait a minute,” she says, reaching behind with both hands. I look away, and hear a whomp and a thump as the dress hits the ground. “You can look,” she says, amused. “I’m decent.” That might be an overstatement, though it’s technically true. Some kind of strapless sports top and shorts. She laughs at me and wraps the shawl around her middle like a beach dress. “Better?” Actually now instead of looking like an attractive woman in sweaty workout gear she looks like an attractive woman wrapped in a silk thing that’s not really big enough for the job, but never mind. “Cal Sounder,” I say. She laughs. “Mr. Sounder, there’s no one in Victor’s tonight who doesn’t know that.” “I guess not.” “What can I do for you?” “You can tell me about the bulletproof scarf.” She touches it gently. “A gift.” “Someone worried about your safety.” “I’m a singer. I get the wrong kinds of fans sometimes. I get letters, flowers, even visits. People see me onstage and they’re moved, but they don’t have the sophistication to understand the difference between an emotional response and a relationship. A little extra protection never hurts. Besides, I think it’s beautiful. Don’t you?” She shifts her shoulders, making the shawl shimmer. “And the…concerned party? They understand that difference?” “Yes. He does.” “A boyfriend.” “I hope that isn’t disappointing to you, Mr. Sounder. This is going to be a conversation, between us. Nothing more.” “No, that’s what I came for: to talk.” “So talk. I’m secretly hoping you work for a record label.” “I’m a police consultant. What can you tell me about the man who gave you the scarf?” “Roddy? Is he in trouble?” “No.” Which is not exactly a lie. “I promise I’ll explain, but I’d like to talk first so your answers aren’t coloured by the situation now.” “Consultant, you said. Not detective.” “No. Officially retained, but not actually police.” “I don’t know whether I want to help you. How do I know you’re on my side?” “Ask Victor.” “Because everyone trusts Victor.” “Everyone who knows her.” Which is true. Victor is a whole bucket of crazy in that velvet catsuit, but in the end, she has rules and she follows them all the way down into the mud. “And what would Victor say about you?” “That I can help you. That I’ll do my best for Roddy. That I play straight as I can. She made me promise to be nice to you.” “Doesn’t that mean she thought you might not?” “Means she thought my promise was worth something.” “And Sam?”


know how dese young men is wid older women. Most of de time dey’s after whut dey kin git, then dey’s gone lak uh turkey through de corn.” “Tea Cake don’t talk dat way. He’s aimin’ tuh make his- self permanent wid me. We done made up our mind tuh marry.” 134 Zora Neale Hurston “Janie, you’se yo’ own woman, and Ah hope you know whut you doin’. Ah sho hope you ain’t lak uh possum—de older you gits, de less sense yuh got. Ah’d feel uh whole heap better ’bout yuh if you wuz marryin’ dat man up dere in San- ford. He got somethin’ tuh put long side uh whut you got and dat make it more better. He’s endurable.” “Still and all Ah’d ruther be wid Tea Cake.” “Well, if yo’ mind is already made up, ’tain’t nothin’ nobody kin do. But you’se takin’ uh awful chance.” “No mo’ than Ah took befo’ and no mo’ than anybody else takes when dey gits married. It always changes folks, and sometimes it brings out dirt and meanness dat even de per- son didn’t know they had in ’em theyselves. You know dat. Maybe Tea Cake might turn out lak dat. Maybe not. Anyhow Ah’m ready and willin’ tuh try ’im.” “Well, when you aim tuh step off?” “Dat we don’t know. De store is got tuh be sold and then we’se goin’ off somewhere tuh git married.” “How come you sellin’ out de store?” “’Cause Tea Cake ain’t no Jody Starks, and if he tried tuh be, it would be uh complete flommuck. But de minute Ah mar- ries ’im everybody is gointuh be makin’ comparisons. So us is goin’ off somewhere and start all over in Tea Cake’s way. Dis ain’t no business proposition, and no race after property and titles. Dis is uh love game. Ah done lived Grandma’s way, now Ah means tuh live mine.” “What you mean by dat, Janie?” “She was borned in slavery time when folks, dat is black folks, didn’t sit down anytime dey felt lak it. So sittin’ on Their Eyes Were Watching God 135 porches lak de white madam looked lak uh mighty fine thing tuh her. Dat’s whut she wanted for me—don’t keer whut it cost. Git up on uh high chair and sit dere. She didn’t have time tuh think whut tuh do after you got up on de stool uh do nothin’. De object wuz tuh git dere. So Ah got up on de high stool lak she told me, but Pheoby, Ah done nearly lan- guished tuh death up dere. Ah felt like de world wuz cryin’ extry and Ah ain’t read de common news yet.” “Maybe so, Janie. Still and all Ah’d love tuh experience it for just one year. It look lak heben tuh me from where Ah’m at.” “Ah reckon so.” “But anyhow, Janie, you be keerful ’bout dis sellin’ out and goin’ off wid strange men. Look whut happened tuh Annie Tyler. Took whut little she had and went off tuh Tampa wid


to help her. “I have never had a better night’s rest,” she replied and gave him her sweetest smile, the sort of smile that could get her father to give her anything. As he sat in his place at the head of the table, Lord Calloway’s eyes flicked up to Lucy’s hair, and the sparkle in his eyes grew. “Your hair seems to tell a different story,” he said. “I happen to have an incredibly skilled maid at my disposal.” “So it would seem. You must be an excellent judge of character.” Though Lucy couldn’t explain it, she was suddenly warm, and she hurried over to the sideboard to fill her plate with the barest amount of food before either of the Calloways noticed how flushed she had become. She wished she could eat more, but she felt guilty enough taking from the family when they had no reason to give to her. “What is Miss Calloway upset about?” she asked, hoping the change in subject would make her feel less under scrutiny. Lord Calloway had a way of gazing at her so directly that Lucy was sure he would discover the truth simply by looking at her. “She seems to think she can outride me,” the man said, his voice light. “I heartily disagree.” “But I have Cordelia now,” Miss Calloway argued. “She is remarkably quick on her feet and could easily outpace Hermes.” “No animal can outpace Hermes.” Lucy took her seat across from Miss Calloway, all too aware of Lord Calloway’s eyes on her from her left. “I cannot say, as I have not seen either of you ride,” she said, “but Miss Calloway does seem rather determined. Perhaps you should not underestimate her, my lord.” “And I’ve been practicing every day since you left the last time,” Miss Calloway added, her head bobbing up and down. “I am sure I can win this time.” Lord Calloway let out a low chuckle, and suddenly Lucy shivered. Was there something odd happening with the temperature of the room? “You say that every time, Olivia,” he said. “And I beat you every time.” “Not this time. Even Lucy thinks so; you heard her.” Turning to Lucy, Lord Calloway lifted one dark eyebrow. She could not deny he was a handsome man, but his gaze unnerved her. He was far too powerful and intimidating for her to be comfortable with him studying her. “What makes you doubt my ability to ride?” he asked her. Lucy swallowed her bite of toast. It was as if he was tempting her to speak out again, hoping for her frankness on a subject she had no business speaking of. “It is not doubt in you, my lord,” she said slowly, “but faith in Miss Calloway.” Miss Calloway beamed, but then she pointed at Lucy as if accusing her of something. “Do you hear her, Simon?” she said, sighing deeply. “She simply refuses to call me Olivia, even though we are practically sisters now.” Not technically, Lucy thought, trying not to frown. Miss Calloway had requested Lucy


kids and grandkids, and she talked the whole time about the Arizona sun, how the gloom up here was half her problem. I stayed with her near Sedona that June, but I hated her faux-hippie boyfriend and the Airstream we were crammed in. She and I fought viciously, and I returned to Indiana a month early. By the time you got to know me, sophomore year, I fully lived at the Robesons’, spent vacations hiding in my room or perched with a book on their velveteen sofa hoping no one would make small talk. I’d go to church with them because I felt obliged. They pressured me only gently to get baptized, and didn’t disown me when I declined. They’d ask about my mother as if I were in touch with her beyond the occasional postcard. You’re so much better off with me out of the way, she wrote on one of them. To other students, I called the Robesons my aunt and uncle; for more official purposes I called them foster parents. But neither term covered the guest room aspect of the whole thing, the way Margaret Robeson would slip in to make my bed when I was in the shower, the relief we all felt when their son, Ammon, came home with his twins and I had a role to play, corralling them in front of Disney movies for five dollars an hour. Fran knew all this; I told her in pieces as our friendship jelled over the course of freshman year. First I told her my father and brother were both dead, one death causing the drug problem that caused the other, tragedy breeding tragedy. Fran’s older sister Liza, who’d just spent a year in Japan, had taught us to make matcha with a bamboo whisk, and we’d sit in the Hoffnungs’ kitchen (stacks of ungraded tests, the fish tank right on the table surrounded by ancient New Yorkers, a half-finished cake always on the counter) getting caffeinated until my check-in. This was winter, when I didn’t have to rise at four a.m. for crew. I told Fran the details of my father’s death, playing with the whisk as I answered her follow-up questions. I’d never answered anyone’s questions before, not even the gentle Mormon therapist the Robesons had found me. I told her he’d been drunk that night, not a typical state of affairs. The bar he owned was generic, neon-signs-in-the-windows, and my brother worked for him that summer, serving fried onions and fried cheese in red plastic baskets. My brother asked for an advance on his pay, and my father refused—although he’d granted the same to other employees. They argued out on the back deck after closing as Ace cleaned the grill. My father, not falling-down drunk but drunk, said things that triggered a fifteen-year-old with temper problems, and my brother yelled and my father yelled and my father pushed my brother and my brother jabbed him with the grill brush he was holding—not a spatula, forgive my poetic license—and my father fell back over the low


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

He'd done it, he'd shown Snape... And speaking of Snape... A hooded figure came swiftly down the front steps of the castle. Clearly not wanting to be seen, it walked as fast as possible toward the forbidden forest. Harry's victory faded from his mind as he watched. He recognized the figure's prowling walk. Snape, sneaking into the forest while everyone else was at dinner -- what was going on? Harry jumped back on his Nimbus Two Thousand and took off. Gliding silently over the castle he saw Snape enter the forest at a run. He followed. The trees were so thick he couldn't see where Snape had gone. He flew in circles, lower and lower, brushing the top branches of trees until he heard voices. He glided toward them and landed noiselessly in a towering beech tree. He climbed carefully along one of the branches, holding tight to his broomstick, trying to see through the leaves. Below, in a shadowy clearing, stood Snape, but he wasn't alone. Quirrell was there, too. Harry couldn't make out the look on his face, but he was stuttering worse than ever. Harry strained to catch what they were saying. "...d-don't know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of all p-places, Severus..." "Oh, I thought we'd keep this private," said Snape, his voice icy. "Students aren't supposed to know about the Sorcerer's Stone, after all." Harry leaned forward. Quirrell was mumbling something. Snape interrupted him. "Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid's yet?" "B-b-but Severus, I -- " "You don't want me as your enemy, Quirrell," said Snape, taking a step toward him. "I-I don't know what you -- " "You know perfectly well what I mean." An owl hooted loudly, and Harry nearly fell out of the tree. He steadied himself in time to hear Snape say, " -- your little bit of hocus-pocus. I'm waiting." "B-but I d-d-don't -- " "Very well," Snape cut in. "We'll have another little chat soon, when you've had time to think things over and decided where your loyalties lie." He threw his cloak over his head and strode out of the clearing. It was almost dark now, but Harry could see Quirrell, standing quite still as though he was petrified. *** "Harry, where have you been?" Hermione squeaked. "We won! You won! We won!" shouted Ron, thumping Harry on the back. "And I gave Malfoy a black eye, and Neville tried to take on Crabbe and Goyle single-handed! He's still out cold but Madam Pomfrey says he'll be all right -- talk about showing Slytherin! Everyone's waiting for you in the common room, we're having a party, Fred and George stole some cakes and stuff from the kitchens." "Never mind that now," said Harry breathlessly. "Let's find an empty room, you wait 'til you hear this..." He made sure Peeves wasn't inside before shutting the door behind them, then he told them what he'd seen and heard. "So we were right, it is the Sorcerer's Stone, and Snape's trying to force Quirrell to help


in need of comfort and a limitless source of uncomplicated love. More than once, I thought of what my mother said when she got Buster: He’s good for me. He gets me out of the house. No matter how I feel or what I want, I have to take him for his walk. I’m never alone anymore. In the last weeks of her life, Buster was always with her, curled up beside her in the hospital bed. My aunt takes care of him now, in the house he used to share with my mom, and I like to think that he remembers her as well as he can—the rooms may yet hold traces of her that a dog’s sharp nose can sniff out. I’m thankful that he was with her until the end. Now full grown at one year old, Peggy remains a puppy—curious, affectionate, high-energy, ready to greet and be devoted to anyone who crosses her path. Her name is forever bouncing off the walls of our house: an excited greeting when we come home to find her waiting, tail wagging; a grumble of irritation when she does something naughty; a murmur of appreciation when she curls up next to us to offer comfort. She isn’t allowed in my office, because I don’t know that I could trust her exuberant bulk or wide-swinging tail around the breakables there, and suspect she might also try to nose some of my books down from the shelves. Now I write at the kitchen table, with Peggy napping at my feet. Though I’m highly allergic to most dogs, no one has spent more time cuddling with her, ruffling her silky-soft fur and scratching her ears, than I have. I end most days on the couch or the floor, her head in my lap, and these moments never fail to slow my anxious thoughts and soothe my heart. I think she immediately recognized that I was broken and needed her, which could be why the two of us have such a deep soul bond. (Or it could be because she has learned that I have the freest hand with the dog biscuits, who can say.) I don’t want to say that she saved us from our grief, because neither loss nor healing works that way. But with her, we’ve been able to access a kind of effortless happiness we hadn’t known for a long time. She has given our weary, grieving family another place to put our love, a shared focus that isn’t all about what we’ve lost, and I am often reminded that this, too, is part of mourning: trying to find new joy where we can. Pets represent an ongoing expense, and there were many years when it would have been easier if my parents hadn’t had to pay for their care and feeding. I think Dad would have gladly skipped the experience: when we had a dog in the house, it was because my mother loved them. I grew up hearing stories about the family pets who’d chased her around the farm growing


inn will undertake to do this: and I can trust to you to see it done, I know.' Oliver could make no reply, but looked his anxiety to be gone at once. 'Here is another letter,' said Mrs. Maylie, pausing to reflect; 'but whether to send it now, or wait until I see how Rose goes on, I scarcely know. I would not forward it, unless I feared the worst.' 'Is it for Chertsey, too, ma'am?' inquired Oliver; impatient to execute his commission, and holding out his trembling hand for the letter. 'No,' replied the old lady, giving it to him mechanically. Oliver glanced at it, and saw that it was directed to Harry Maylie, Esquire, at some great lord's house in the country; where, he could not make out. 'Shall it go, ma'am?' asked Oliver, looking up, impatiently. 'I think not,' replied Mrs. Maylie, taking it back. 'I will wait until to-morrow.' With these words, she gave Oliver her purse, and he started off, without more delay, at the greatest speed he could muster. Swiftly he ran across the fields, and down the little lanes which sometimes divided them: now almost hidden by the high corn on either side, and now emerging on an open field, where the mowers and haymakers were busy at their work: nor did he stop once, save now and then, for a few seconds, to recover breath, until he came, in a great heat, and covered with dust, on the little market-place of the market-town. Here he paused, and looked about for the inn. There were a white bank, and a red brewery, and a yellow town-hall; and in one corner there was a large house, with all the wood about it painted green: before which was the sign of 'The George.' To this he hastened, as soon as it caught his eye. He spoke to a postboy who was dozing under the gateway; and who, after hearing what he wanted, referred him to the ostler; who after hearing all he had to say again, referred him to the landlord; who was a tall gentleman in a blue neckcloth, a white hat, drab breeches, and boots with tops to match, leaning against a pump by the stable-door, picking his teeth with a silver toothpick. This gentleman walked with much deliberation into the bar to make out the bill: which took a long time making out: and after it was ready, and paid, a horse had to be saddled, and a man to be dressed, which took up ten good minutes more. Meanwhile Oliver was in such a desperate state of impatience and anxiety, that he felt as if he could have jumped upon the horse himself, and galloped away, full tear, to the next stage. At length, all was ready; and the little parcel having been handed up, with many injunctions and entreaties for its speedy delivery, the man set spurs to his horse, and rattling over the uneven paving of the market-place, was out of the town, and galloping along the turnpike-road, in a couple


you were eating your lunch when it happened. I thought I remembered every second of that day.” She sounded disturbed. “It’s been a long time,” I said. I kept my pace slow, keeping level with her. Don’t let anybody be at your back, my instincts said. In these woods, I wasn’t going to even try to talk my hindbrain out of it. “I don’t want you to think that I’ve forgotten. Like I don’t think about it anymore. About you,” she said. “I’ve done so much therapy, you wouldn’t even believe it.” I grunted in amusement. “In a competition of who’s had more time getting psychoanalyzed, I do not think you would win, Cassidy Green.” “I’m not saying it’s a competition.” “Then you have changed,” I replied, flashing her a smile to take the edge off it, and she sighed. “I was a little shit back then,” she said. “So was I. That’s why we got along,” I reminded her. I paused. “And it’s not like I can blame you.” “What do you mean?” she asked. I paused. “I know it wasn’t easy for you at home. Your parents…” “I’m not about to whine about my rich parents to you,” she said. “Even I’m not that clueless.” “At least my dad never hit me,” I said quietly. I’d seen her bruises. Always where they wouldn’t be noticed. She looked away. “Granted, he was neglectful as fuck and it’s a miracle I didn’t get carted off by raccoons to raise as their own.” She laughed at that, but quickly fell silent. “It wasn’t that bad. Oscar got it way worse, until he got bigger. And when he was around…” She didn’t finish the thought. I’d never really understood why Cassidy worshipped her brother so much, but if he was protecting her, that explained it. I’d never known him as a protector. To me, he had been something else entirely. She was looking at me sidelong. “I know you never liked Oscar.” “I guess,” I said dismissively. As if he’d never done anything to me. As if I’d never let him. There were things I’d never told Cassidy Green. They would only earn her pity—or her hate. I didn’t want either. “The past is the past,” she said, like a mantra. She picked up her pace. “All I can do is be a good mom now. Take care of my own, you know? Nothing good comes from digging up old trouble.” “Like Liv wants to.” “You can’t tell me you’re not worried about what will happen when everything gets dragged into the open,” Cass said. “When people start asking questions about what else might have been going on.” “You mean about Stahl.” I stopped, foot braced against a root. I could never quite sort out my own memories. I didn’t remember deciding to lie about seeing Stahl. I wasn’t sure when I had realized—admitted—that it was a lie. After the hospital. Before the trial. There was agony in not knowing the truth of my own recollections. Agony, and hope—because if things were that scattered,


go from old to young in a week, which is to say the skin gets flexible and the body changes so quickly they have to be sedated and fed through a tube. They start aging backwards, hypersenescence kicking out dead cells and erasing keloid scars, then crash through a repeat of the transition from child to adult in a matter of weeks. For six months they’re hungry all the time, they sleep a lot, and from month three to five they’re in constant low-grade pain because their bones are still up-massing so fast you can almost watch it happen. The company keeps them in a healthcare environment for the worst of it. Towards the end of the process they’re notionally functional but batshit crazy. They’re pissed off, horny and overstimulated but think they’re bored. That can last a few years, and it’s during that time that they go to Victor’s. It’s a bar with a speakeasy vibe: a velvet door that you go through from a smart-looking foyer in the business district. The ground level belongs to the bar—they keep the booze fridges, food and paperwork up there, and there’s overnight rooms you can book which are basically fuck hutches but double as drunk tanks for new-minted god children who can’t hold their liquor. The first floor is a gym, also owned by Victor, which means they can make as much noise as they like and no one gives a shit. If you want to get in, you go to the admin layer and they vet you. If you want to work there, same thing. Victor’s has what you call a rep, and that’s fair enough. Some crazy shit goes down here, though Victor keeps it—not legal, by any means, but law-abiding, in the grand scheme. It’s not a murder house, blackmail is frowned upon, and if you don’t want to play the games—games which can get pretty fucked up—you can just leave at any time. Vic will make sure you do, in good order. Though you also won’t be getting back in; Victor’s is strictly a one-chance venue. That knowledge also keeps the Titans in line when they come. Which they do more seldom than the cool crowd here would like to think. There just aren’t that many Titans in the world, though by definition, the number is increasing. Less so this week, I guess. The door is 154 Mapleton, where Roddy Tebbit sent a bulletproof shawl for Susan Green, and the doorman is called Sam. Sam and I go way back. That’s why I walk in with my hands where he can see them. * * * — Sam is stocky, built ordinary scale, but you’d have to be an idiot not to see him for a hard case. The cooler in a place like this is by definition one dangerous son of a bitch. Sam did some kind of private military thing that isn’t the kind you talk about and now he does this instead. Turns out he likes danger and money but he’s not great with air travel.


to help me.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘I’m not sure you’ve ever done anything for anyone unless it somehow benefits you.’ He looked at me as though he wanted to strike me, and the woman inside of me that I was still in the process of becoming raised her chin to him. His eyes burned and his jaw tightened. ‘Perhaps you thought I could be of value to you, another contact.’ For the first time, I could see how insecure he was, underneath that glossy veneer. ‘Because deep down, you don’t believe you’re capable of achieving anything on your own, do you? That’s why you charm people into giving away secrets, so you can steal them and make them your own.’ ‘Ferme ta gueule, salope.’ I wasn’t terribly familiar with French slang, but I knew the word for whore. With that, he turned on his heels and walked out, never to return. Chapter Thirty-Two MARTHA I woke before dawn. I had tossed and turned all night and it sounded like the house had too. Something caught my eye in the morning gloom. The ceiling. I reached over to turn on my bedside lamp and looked up. Where the light pendant used to be, at the centre of the room, were now roots. A knot of tiny tendrils was growing out of the hole in the ceiling, like a chandelier. I stared at them for a while, until all I could see was their intricate beauty. Each root was made up of tiny, smaller roots, which broke into smaller roots again. All playing a vital role. Suspended, they seemed to search the air for something of value to nourish them. I wanted to reach out and touch them but jumped when my alarm rang. ‘I feel like I’m going to vomit.’ I stood behind Madame Bowden, brushing her hair, as she sat regally at her dressing table. The room was gloomy, as she kept the curtains closed to the cold, grey morning. Today would be my first day as a student in Trinity (albeit an evening class in literature) and I was, frankly, shitting myself. ‘Dry toast.’ ‘I thought that was for pregnancy?’ ‘Good God, you’re not pregnant, are you?’ ‘Of course not!’ I stole a glance at her reflection in the mirror. It’s strange how people can look so different in a mirror – the features seem to shift around, like shadows as the sun passes overhead. ‘Listen to me, Martha – if you’re not scared, then you’re not living.’ I wasn’t sure I wanted a weird pep talk at that moment, but it was what I got. I pursed my lips, gave her a withering look and hurried downstairs to make us both some toast before I set off. My mind was frazzled and full of doubts. What if I humiliated myself by not knowing anything? Would I make any friends or end up sitting alone for the entire term? What if, what if, what if … The thoughts were endless. Where had the feeling of strength from the other


to watch. Harry was faster than Higgs -- he could see the little round ball, wings fluttering, darting up ahead -- he put on an extra spurt of speed -- WHAM! A roar of rage echoed from the Gryffindors below -- Marcus Flint had blocked Harry on purpose, and Harry's broom spun off course, Harry holding on for dear life. "Foul!" screamed the Gryffindors. Madam Hooch spoke angrily to Flint and then ordered a free shot at the goal posts for Gryffindor. But in all the confusion, of course, the Golden Snitch had disappeared from sight again. Down in the stands, Dean Thomas was yelling, "Send him off, ref! Red card!" "What are you talking about, Dean?" said Ron. "Red card!" said Dean furiously. "In soccer you get shown the red card and you're out of the game!" "But this isn't soccer, Dean," Ron reminded him. Hagrid, however, was on Dean's side. "They oughta change the rules. Flint coulda knocked Harry outta the air." Lee Jordan was finding it difficult not to take sides. "So -- after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating..." "Jordan!" growled Professor McGonagall. "I mean, after that open and revolting foul..." "Jordan, I'm warning you -- " "All right, all right. Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor Seeker, which could happen to anyone, I'm sure, so a penalty to Gryffindor, taken by Spinner, who puts it away, no trouble, and we continue play, Gryffindor still in possession." It was as Harry dodged another Bludger, which went spinning dangerously past his head, that it happened. His broom gave a sudden, frightening lurch. For a split second, he thought he was going to fall. He gripped the broom tightly with both his hands and knees. He'd never felt anything like that. It happened again. It was as though the broom was trying to buck him off. But Nimbus Two Thousands did not suddenly decide to buck their riders off. Harry tried to turn back toward the Gryffindor goal-posts -- he had half a mind to ask Wood to call time-out -- and then he realized that his broom was completely out of his control. He couldn't turn it. He couldn't direct it at all. It was zigzagging through the air, and every now and then making violent swishing movements that almost unseated him. Lee was still commentating. "Slytherin in possession -- Flint with the Quaffle -- passes Spinnet -- passes Bell -- hit hard in the face by a Bludger, hope it broke his nose -- only joking, Professor -- Slytherins score -- A no..." The Slytherins were cheering. No one seemed to have noticed that Harry's broom was behaving strangely. It was carrying him slowly higher, away from the game, jerking and twitching as it went. "Dunno what Harry thinks he's doing," Hagrid mumbled. He stared through his binoculars. "If I didn' know better, I'd say he'd lost control of his broom...but he can't have..." Suddenly, people were pointing up at Harry all over the stands. His broom had started to roll over and over, with him only just


child's part, and innocent, folly. but the passion in her voice revealed everything. Cacilie looked at her for a moment with flaming eyes, and then with a shrug of her shoulders went out of the room. Frau Erlin kept the details of the interview to herself, and a day or two later altered the arrangement of the table. She asked Herr Sung if he would not come and sit at her end, and he with his unfailing politeness accepted with alacrity. Cacilie took the change indifferently. But as if the discovery that the relations between them were known to the whole household made them more shameless, they made no secret now of their walks together, and every afternoon quite openly set out to wander about the hills. It was plain that they did not care what was said of them. At last even the placidity of Professor Erlin was moved, and he insisted that his wife should speak to the Chinaman. She took him aside in his turn and expostulated; he was ruining the girl's reputation, he was doing harm to the house, he must see how wrong and wicked his conduct was; but she was met with smiling denials; Herr Sung did not know what she was talking about, he was not paying any attention to Fraulein Cacilie, he never walked with her; it was all untrue, every word of it. "_Ach_, Herr Sung, how can you say such things? You've been seen again and again." "No, you're mistaken. It's untrue." He looked at her with an unceasing smile, which showed his even, little white teeth. He was quite calm. He denied everything. He denied with bland effrontery. At last the Frau Professor lost her temper and said the girl had confessed she loved him. He was not moved. He continued to smile. "Nonsense! Nonsense! It's all untrue." She could get nothing out of him. The weather grew very bad; there was snow and frost, and then a thaw with a long succession of cheerless days, on which walking was a poor amusement. One evening when Philip had just finished his German lesson with the Herr Professor and was standing for a moment in the drawing-room, talking to Frau Erlin, Anna came quickly in. "Mamma, where is Cacilie?" she said. "I suppose she's in her room." "There's no light in it." The Frau Professor gave an exclamation, and she looked at her daughter in dismay. The thought which was in Anna's head had flashed across hers. "Ring for Emil," she said hoarsely. This was the stupid lout who waited at table and did most of the housework. He came in. "Emil, go down to Herr Sung's room and enter without knocking. If anyone is there say you came in to see about the stove." No sign of astonishment appeared on Emil's phlegmatic face. He went slowly downstairs. The Frau Professor and Anna left the door open and listened. Presently they heard Emil come up again, and they called him. "Was anyone there?" asked the Frau Professor. "Yes, Herr Sung was there."


country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most eminent physicians. This she would not hear of, but she was not so unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness, however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every possible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister. __ CHAPTER IX (9) ELIZABETH passed the chief of the night in her sister's room, and in the morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the enquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid, and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her own judgment of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast. Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her, that her illness was not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She would not listen therefore to her daughter's proposal of being carried home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss Bingley's appearance and invitation the mother and three daughters all attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected. ``Indeed I have, Sir,'' was her answer. ``She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness.'' ``Removed!'' cried Bingley. ``It must not be thought of. My sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal.'' ``You may depend upon it, Madam,'' said Miss Bingley, with cold civility, ``that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she remains with us.'' Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments. ``I am sure,'' she added, ``if it was not for such good friends I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world -- which is always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to _her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over


Mrs. Bone snapped her fingers at Winnie. “You. Tell us. What do you know?” Winnie rubbed her hand over her face. Her voice was low, hoarse. “I was here. I mean...here, in the garden. The mews house has a loft above it. There’s a little staircase that comes down to the stables. They used to keep a carriage there, but it’s empty now. I saw a man, someone I didn’t recognize. He had a beautiful coat on. It was... I don’t know. Seal gray. Sealskin.” She took a shuddering breath. “It was very smooth, like silk. I thought: Oh, what a lovely coat.” She paused, frowning. “He was walking a girl down the stairs. I mean, he had his hand on her shoulder. He was pressing her down. Pushing her along. Like he was shoving her out. I knew at once it was wrong. I mean, my whole body felt it.” Mrs. King watched her the whole time she was speaking. Her face changed, grew ashen. “It was Ida,” said Winnie. “One of the kitchen girls. And I didn’t know the man at all.” Mrs. Bone knew that mews house. She’d seen it every time she crossed the yard. Pale gray plasterwork, ivy beginning to climb the walls. One small window. “How old?” she said. “I don’t know.” “How old, Winnie?” said Mrs. King, voice hard. “Not old, not old enough. She looked...” Winnie screwed up her face. “Sick. As if he’d made her sick. She looked like she was going to...to throw up.” Silence. Mrs. Bone absorbed this, felt the knowledge shifting in her gut. Mrs. King asked, “Did they see you?” “No.” “What happened to that girl?” Winnie clasped her hands together. Didn’t reply. Mrs. King took a step closer. “Winnie.” Winnie squeezed her eyes shut, as if to hide from it. “Shepherd told me one of the housemaids had given notice. That I’d better let the agency know. I must have asked him who it was. Just to...test him. And he must have told me—he must have said it was Ida.” Winnie looked at the ceiling. “He just told me as if it was nothing, as if it meant nothing at all.” “Shepherd,” said Mrs. Bone. Her mind was working quickly. “Mr. Shepherd. So Danny might not have known, either. He might not have had a thing to do with it.” Winnie lowered her voice. “Oh, he knew.” Mrs. Bone pictured her house in Deal. The treasures she’d stockpiled. The banker’s order from her brother, the foundations of her whole fortune. She began chuckling, pain crisscrossing her breast. “What a set of stupid girls,” she said, crooking a finger at Mrs. King. “Here’s one.” Pointed to Winnie. “Here’s another.” Pointed to herself. Dug her nails into her palm. “Here’s a third.” Mrs. King stared back at her. Then at Winnie. “You never told me.” Winnie looked agonized. But Mrs. Bone didn’t have any patience for that. “Who else?” she said. “Who else knew? Mr. Doggett? Cook?” Winnie shook her head again. “You don’t understand. You can’t understand what it


this Gladstone bag. Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock." We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap, with the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and away we dashed down the London Road. A few country carts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a dream. "It has been in some points a singular case," said Holmes, flicking the horse on into a gallop. "I confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all." In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side. Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force, and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the horse's head while the other led us in. "Who is on duty?" asked Holmes. "Inspector Bradstreet, sir." "Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?" A tall, stout official had come down the stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. "I wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet." "Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Step into my room here." It was a small, office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table, and a telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk. "What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?" "I called about that beggarman, Boone--the one who was charged with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee." "Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries." "So I heard. You have him here?" "In the cells." "Is he quiet?" "Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel." "Dirty?" "Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is as black as a tinker's. Well, when once his case has been settled, he will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you would agree with me that he needed it." "I should like to see him very much." "Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave your bag." "No, I think that I'll take it." "Very good. Come this way, if you please." He led us down a passage, opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side. "The third on the right is his," said the inspector. "Here it is!" He quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door and glanced through. "He is asleep,"


“Àní, Honourable Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé will never die. The food is free, but if you don’t want to go with us, there is no problem. Sàámú, lets go.” Rashidi crushed his cigarette with his sandal while Sàámú threw the bowl and cutlery into the black polythene bag. “Wait,” Ẹniọlá said when the boys got to the door. “Wait for me.” Ẹniọlá still did not believe all that Rashidi had said. He followed them only because he was curious. The boys went behind the classroom block and walked a short distance to the school’s fence. Rashidi and Sàámú scaled the fence with swift movements. “Are you not coming with us again?” Rashidi asked. Ẹniọlá moved further down along the fence until he got to a place where it was broken down, and then he stepped over the debris to the other side. * * * Honourable Kọ́lápọ̀ Timothy Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé was known by many names. To the university girlfriend who became his first wife, he was Kọ́lá. Before they all died on the day their father was to be buried, his brother and eleven stepsiblings had called him Timo or Brother Timo, depending on whether they were older or younger than him. During one of the many family meetings before their father’s funeral ceremonies, the eldest son had suggested that they all commute together in a hired coaster bus during the celebrations, and though Honourable Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé would later explain to reporters that he had been opposed to the idea, it took hold. Since everyone else at the meeting was dead by the time he was giving interviews, it was impossible to know if he had actually spoken up against using the coaster bus. Some reporters would also point out that no one could verify that it was the eldest son who suggested this idea. A few even claimed the idea had been Honourable Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé’s. Of all the children, Honourable Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé was the only one who was not in the coaster bus when it crashed into a petrol tanker and burst into flames. His first wife, then in her last year as his only wife, was not on board either. The fire spread to other cars in the convoy, such that Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé also lost several uncles, aunts and cousins on that same day. Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé and his wife would later claim they hadn’t been on the bus because they needed to use the restroom, whereas the other siblings, eager to arrive at their father’s graveside, decided to leave. The only close relatives of Honourable Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé’s father who survived the inferno were his five wives. They had left the church with the hearse long before their children were done greeting the well-wishers who delayed their departure. But four of the five died within a year after the incident. The only one who stayed alive for another decade was Honourable Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé’s mother. There had always been suspicions that Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé’s mother was able to shape-shift in the middle of the night, fly into trees and hold court while drinking the blood of newborns. Her co-wives claimed that she slept with her