up himself, laughing and glowing, and tousled; his eyes like a bit of the sky. "Eh!" he said. "I was up long before him. How could I have stayed abed! Th' world's all fair begun again this mornin', it has. An' it's workin' an' hummin' an' scratchin' an' pipin' an' nest-buildin' an' breathin' out scents, till you've got to be out on it 'stead o' lyin' on your back. When th' sun did jump up, th' moor went mad for joy, an' I was in the midst of th' heather, an' I run like mad myself, shoutin' an' singin'. An' I come straight here. I couldn't have stayed away. Why, th' garden was lyin' here waitin'!" Mary put her hands on her chest, panting, as if she had been running herself. "Oh, Dickon! Dickon!" she said. "I'm so happy I can scarcely breathe!" Seeing him talking to a stranger, the little bushy-tailed animal rose from its place under the tree and came to him, and the rook, cawing once, flew down from its branch and settled quietly on his shoulder. "This is th' little fox cub," he said, rubbing the little reddish animal's head. "It's named Captain. An' this here's Soot. Soot he flew across th' moor with me an' Captain he run same as if th' hounds had been after him. They both felt same as I did." Neither of the creatures looked as if he were the least afraid of Mary. When Dickon began to walk about, Soot stayed on his shoulder and Captain trotted quietly close to his side. "See here!" said Dickon. "See how these has pushed up, an' these an' these! An' Eh! Look at these here!" He threw himself upon his knees and Mary went down beside him. They had come upon a whole clump of crocuses burst into purple and orange and gold. Mary bent her face down and kissed and kissed them. "You never kiss a person in that way," she said when she lifted her head. "Flowers are so different." He looked puzzled but smiled. "Eh!" he said, "I've kissed mother many a time that way when I come in from th' moor after a day's roamin' an' she stood there at th' door in th' sun, lookin' so glad an' comfortable." They ran from one part of the garden to another and found so many wonders that they were obliged to remind themselves that they must whisper or speak low. He showed her swelling leafbuds on rose branches which had seemed dead. He showed her ten thousand new green points pushing through the mould. They put their eager young noses close to the earth and sniffed its warmed springtime breathing; they dug and pulled and laughed low with rapture until Mistress Mary's hair was as tumbled as Dickon's and her cheeks were almost as poppy red as his. There was every joy on earth in the secret garden that morning, and in the midst of them came a delight more delightful than all, because it was more wonderful. Swiftly something flew across


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

to these things resolutely. "I suppose I may have them to dry now," she said in a voice that brooked no denial. "Leave the hat," said her visitor in a muffled voice, and turning she saw he had raised his head and was sitting looking at her. For a moment she stood gaping at him, too surprised to speak. He held a white cloth--it was a serviette he had brought with him--over the lower part of his face, so that his mouth and jaws were completely hidden, and that was the reason of his muffled voice. But it was not that which startled Mrs. Hall. It was the fact that all his forehead above his blue glasses was covered by a white bandage, and that another covered his ears, leaving not a scrap of his face exposed excepting only his pink, peaked nose. It was bright pink, and shiny just as it had been at first. He wore a dark-brown velvet jacket with a high black linen lined collar turned up about his neck. The thick black hair, escaping as it could below and between the cross bandages, projected in curious tails and horns, giving him the strangest appearance conceivable. This muffled and bandaged head was so unlike what she had anticipated, that for a moment she was rigid. He did not remove the serviette, but remained holding it, as she saw now, with a brown gloved hand, and regarding her with his inscrutable blue glasses. "Leave the hat," he said, speaking very distinctly through the white cloth. Her nerves began to recover from the shock they had received. She placed the hat on the chair again by the fire. "I didn't know, sir," she began, "that--" and she stopped embarrassed. "Thank you," he said drily, glancing from her to the door and then at her again. "I'll have them nicely dried, sir, at once," she said, and carried his clothes out of the room. She glanced at his white-swathed head and blue goggles again as she was going out of the door; but his napkin was still in front of his face. She shivered a little as she closed the door behind her, and her face was eloquent of her surprise and perplexity. "I never," she whispered. "There!" She went quite softly to the kitchen, and was too preoccupied to ask Millie what she was messing about with now, when she got there. The visitor sat and listened to her retreating feet. He glanced inquiringly at the window before he removed his serviette and resumed his meal. He took a mouthful, glanced suspiciously at the window, took another mouthful, then rose and, taking the serviette in his hand, walked across the room and pulled the blind down to the top of the white muslin that obscured the lower panes. This left the room in twilight. This done, he returned with an easier air to the table and his meal. "The poor soul's had an accident or an op'ration or something," said Mrs. Hall. "What a turn them bandages did give me,


feeling come over me. But a cloak was thrown over my shoulders, and a rug across my knees, and the driver said in excellent German--"The night is chill, mein Herr, and my master the Count bade me take all care of you. There is a flask of slivovitz (the plum brandy of the country) underneath the seat, if you should require it." I did not take any, but it was a comfort to know it was there all the same. I felt a little strangely, and not a little frightened. I think had there been any alternative I should have taken it, instead of prosecuting that unknown night journey. The carriage went at a hard pace straight along, then we made a complete turn and went along another straight road. It seemed to me that we were simply going over and over the same ground again, and so I took note of some salient point, and found that this was so. I would have liked to have asked the driver what this all meant, but I really feared to do so, for I thought that, placed as I was, any protest would have had no effect in case there had been an intention to delay. By-and-by, however, as I was curious to know how time was passing, I struck a match, and by its flame looked at my watch. It was within a few minutes of midnight. This gave me a sort of shock, for I suppose the general superstition about midnight was increased by my recent experiences. I waited with a sick feeling of suspense. Then a dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far down the road, a long, agonized wailing, as if from fear. The sound was taken up by another dog, and then another and another, till, borne on the wind which now sighed softly through the Pass, a wild howling began, which seemed to come from all over the country, as far as the imagination could grasp it through the gloom of the night. At the first howl the horses began to strain and rear, but the driver spoke to them soothingly, and they quieted down, but shivered and sweated as though after a runaway from sudden fright. Then, far off in the distance, from the mountains on each side of us began a louder and a sharper howling, that of wolves, which affected both the horses and myself in the same way. For I was minded to jump from the caleche and run, whilst they reared again and plunged madly, so that the driver had to use all his great strength to keep them from bolting. In a few minutes, however, my own ears got accustomed to the sound, and the horses so far became quiet that the driver was able to descend and to stand before them. He petted and soothed them, and whispered something in their ears, as I have heard of horse-tamers doing, and with extraordinary effect, for under his caresses they became quite manageable again, though they still trembled. The driver


about it. The children were astonished at the interest that the cast-up wreck caused, and because of that, Kirrin Island became an object of great interest too. Sightseers from the places all around came to see it, and the fishermen managed to find the little inlet and land the people there. George sobbed with rage, and Julian tried to comfort her. "Listen, George! No one knows our secret yet. We'll wait till this excitement has died down, and then we'll go to Kirrin Castle and find the ingots." "If someone doesn't find them first," said George, drying her eyes. She was furious with herself for crying, but she really couldn't help it. "How could they?" said Julian. "No one has seen inside the box yet! I'm going to wait my chance and get that map out before anyone sees it!" But he didn't have a chance, because something dreadful happened. Uncle Quentin sold the old box to a man who bought antique things! He came out from his study, beaming, a day or two after the excitement began, and told Aunt Fanny and the children. "I've struck a very good bargain with that man," he said to his wife. "You know that old tin-lined box from the wreck? Well, this fellow collects curious things like that, and he gave me a very good price for it. Very good indeed. More even than I could expect for the writing of my book! As soon as he saw the old map there and the old diary he said at once that he would buy the whole collection." The children stared at him in horror. The box was sold! Now someone would study that map and perhaps jump to what 'ingots' meant. The story of the lost gold had been put into all the newspapers now. Nobody could fail to know what the map showed if they studied it carefully. The children did not dare to tell Uncle Quentin what they knew. It was true he was all smiles now, and was promising to buy them new shrimping-nets, and a raft for themselves- but he was such a changeable person. He might fly into a furious temper if he heard that Julian had taken the box and opened it himself, while his uncle was sleeping. When they were alone the children discussed the whole matter. It seemed very serious indeed to them. They half-wondered if they should let Aunt Fanny into the secret-but it was such a precious secret, and so marvellous, that they felt they didn't want to give it away to anyone at all. "Now listen!" said Julian, at last. "We'll ask Aunt Fanny if we can go to Kirrin Island and spend a day or two there- sleep there at night too, I mean. That will give us a little time to poke round and see what we can find. The sightseers won't come after a day or two, I'm sure. Maybe we'll get in before anyone tumbles to our secret. After all, the man who brought the box may not even


and B, around barricades and chains of soldiers. As she watched Attie speak affectionately to the cat. It was just one more thing they would need to grab if things fell apart. “You brought a cat back with you?” Roman exclaimed. He was sitting at the kitchen table, peeling a mountain of potatoes. His eyes flickered from Attie to the cat to finally rest on Iris, his gaze rushing up and down her body, as if he was searching for a new scratch on her. Iris flushed when she realized she was doing the same to him—searching his every bend and line to ensure he was all right. She felt heat crackle through her when their gazes united. “Yes,” Attie said, her embrace tightening around Lilac. The cat emitted a plaintive meow. “The poor thing was on the hill all alone.” “In case you didn’t know, I’m allergic to cats,” Roman drawled. “I’ll keep Lilac in my room. I promise.” “And if her fur gets on your jumpsuit, I’ll wash it for you,” Iris offered. If cats truly were good luck charms, they were going to need it. “Then I’d have nothing to wear,” Roman said, returning his attention to the potato in his hand. “Because my second jumpsuit is missing.” “What?” Iris breathed. “What do you mean, Kitt?” “I mean it was hanging in my wardrobe this morning, and now it’s gone.” She continued to study him, realizing his dark hair was damp, slicked back like in the old days at the office. His face was freshly shaven, his nails scrubbed clean. She could smell a faint trace of his cologne, and her heart quickened. “Did you just take a shower, Kitt?” It was the most ridiculous thing she could’ve asked, but it felt so strange to her. That he would wash in the middle of the day, when things were about to collapse. Although perhaps it shouldn’t take her by surprise. He had always liked to look his best. Why should the end of the world change that? Roman met her gaze. He didn’t say anything, but a flush was creeping across his cheeks, and before Iris could say anything further about it, Marisol strode through the kitchen and set a heavy basket of carrots in her hands. “Peel and chop these for me, please, Iris.” That ended the deliveries and building barricades and running through the streets and imagining Roman Kitt in the shower. As the sun began to set, they all worked together to make several pots of vegetable soup and fresh bread for the soldiers. Iris’s stomach was growling by the time Marisol said, “Attie? Why don’t you see if Iris can help you with that particular matter upstairs.” “Right,” Attie said, jumping up from her chair. “Come on, Iris.” Iris frowned but rose. “What do you need my help with?” “It’s hard to explain, so just follow me,” Attie said, waving her hands. But she glanced over Iris’s shoulder and widened her eyes, and Iris turned just in time to see Roman drop his gaze. “What’s


this conversation and that he’d suggested that particular remedy. “But then you’d always wonder what you’d left buried.” “You really think there’s anything worth saving?” “You asking about the house, or about you?” I asked. He snorted. “I get enough of that crap from my shrink, I don’t need it from you, too.” Wheels crunched on gravel. I shaded my eyes with my hand. We didn’t have much in the way of visitors these days, and I didn’t recognize the car. “Expecting someone?” I asked. “Hell, no,” Dad said. The car parked. The door opened, and Ethan stepped out, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. “Should I get the shotgun?” Dad asked. “Dad.” I gave him a look. “Maybe the baseball bat. Just in case.” He chuckled. Ethan hadn’t moved, standing by the car with one hand on the door. I approached slowly, arms crossed. “Hey,” he said. He’d lost weight since I last saw him, the hollows of his cheeks deeper. He was holding a little stuffed hedgehog, which he held out to me. “I got you this,” he said, not meeting my eyes. “When you were in the hospital, at the gift shop, but then I never … Anyway, it made me think of you.” I stepped forward, just close enough to snag it with the tips of my fingers. The hedgehog was clutching a heart between its paws that said “Get Well Soon.” “It made you think of me,” I said. “Because I’m prickly?” “No, see, I have a subtle and insightful metaphor that proves I know you deeply,” he said, rubbing the back of his head. I raised an eyebrow. “It’s because I’m prickly.” “It’s because you’re prickly,” he confirmed, wincing. “You didn’t come. At the hospital. Or after,” I said. “You didn’t call. I never heard from you at all.” “I wasn’t sure you wanted to,” he said. “The way we left things…” “I don’t know if I would have wanted to see you, either,” I said. The question hung in the air between us—was it different now? I didn’t know the answer to that, either. When I’d thought I was dying, I’d wanted to forgive him. Now I wasn’t sure. Anger and relief and affection and betrayal fought tooth and claw for dominance. I shook my head. “I want it to be easy to forgive you. But it isn’t.” “It shouldn’t be,” he said. “Things like this should never be easy. That’s how you know it’s real, if you manage it.” I held the hedgehog in both hands, wiggling its paws idly. “Cody was my hero,” I said. “He saved me. And he turned on me. How am I supposed to trust anyone ever again?” “That’s the thing about trust, isn’t it?” Ethan said. “You gather all the evidence you can, use your brain, weigh character and past actions. But the final inch of it—that’s faith. Trust means believing in someone. It’s not just a conclusion. It’s a choice.” “That’s a pretty way of putting it. You know, you should be a writer or something,” I


a small smile of genuine friendship. Simon liked Nick’s oddities, and Nick was good for him. Maybe if Lucy charged Nick with looking after his friend when she was gone, Simon would be okay. She would discuss the matter with him after they returned from Penworth. For now, Lucy would simply have to hold herself together and pray she could survive the next few hours. When Simon helped her into the carriage and settled beside her close enough that their knees brushed, she knew that would take all her courage and concentration. Chapter Twenty-One If not for Forester and the maid’s endless conversation during the short drive to Penworth, Simon was sure the coach would have remained silent. Lucy kept her eyes out the window, as did he, and neither seemed inclined to continue the conversation they had been having before the others joined them. Perhaps they should have left the maid behind, as Forester served enough as a chaperone to keep Simon and Lucy from being alone. Honestly, he wouldn’t have even thought one necessary if Forester hadn’t confronted him that morning. He and Lucy hadn’t had one before now—though they were hardly ever on their own—and Simon had only wanted to get to know his future sister-in-law better. But the longer he knew Lucy, the more difficult he found it to keep his imaginations and hopes to himself. And if Forester’s assertions were correct, Simon was not being subtle about how he was starting to feel. She is to marry William, he reminded himself for the thousandth time. The words hadn’t done him much good, however, and he hated that he even had to tell himself anything of the sort. He shouldn’t have even looked at Lucy with any sort of intention, but ignoring her was next to impossible. She got under his skin. Despite his lingering misgivings about her, something about her forced him to reconsider bachelorhood. He had feared perhaps it was simply jealousy—not for her specifically but for William’s life in general. William had always had freedom and joy in a way Simon could only dream of. He had only responsibility for himself, and he had lived his life well with that knowledge. And now he was settling down. He had found himself a wife and would soon have children running about to spoil and laugh with and watch grow. Simon wanted all of that. He always had. The problem was he was starting to want all of that with Lucy. The one woman he couldn’t have. If he really thought about his feelings toward her, his aversion to her marrying William had nothing to do with general envy. He had to admit that he loved the way she challenged him. The way she saw his struggles and didn’t belittle him for them but found ways to help him. He loved her mind and her kindness and the way she had him questioning his whole life like no one else ever had. He had never met anyone like her. She wasn’t right for William. Or, rather, William


asking him to, HARP. Keep your mouth shut before I shut it for you. Victor. Step. Forward.” Vic did, even as Hap protested. He stopped in front of the Doorman, who squinted at him. Vic stared straight ahead as the Doorman began to circle him. He reached out and flicked the battery on Vic’s chest. He tapped his fist against the metal tied to Vic’s arms and legs. When he reappeared in front of Vic, he stood on his tiptoes, his face inches from Vic’s own. “Giovanni Lawson,” he said mildly. Vic nodded. “Yes.” “I see. And that makes you…” Vic closed his eyes. “Yes.” “So, it worked then. Foolish man. Foolish, wonderful man.” Vic’s eyes snapped open. The Doorman shook his head. “He’s not here.” “We know,” Nurse Ratched said. “He was taken by the Authority.” “They flew a whale,” Rambo added. “The Terrible Dogfish,” the Doorman said, and for the first time, he looked troubled. Then, almost to himself, “After all this time, they finally found him. They’ll—” He looked back up at Vic. “You think the Blue Fairy can help you.” “I don’t know,” Vic admitted. “But Dad said they helped him once before, and I don’t know where else to go.” “Tell me, Victor Lawson,” the Doorman said. “What are you willing to do to get him back?” And Vic said, “Anything. Everything.” The Doorman spun on his heels and marched back through the door. Vic blinked after him. Before he disappeared into the darkness, the Doorman glanced over his shoulder, brow furrowed in irritation. “Are you coming? Step to it. I don’t like it when I’m kept waiting. The Blue Fairy less so.” His eyes narrowed when Hap stepped next to Vic, taking his hand once more. “I see,” he said. “Things suddenly become that much clearer. Oh, is the Blue Fairy going to enjoy this. Come, come. There is a storm overhead. You don’t want to be caught in it. I’ve heard those like you could get sick from such things. I’d hate to see that happen to you, Victor Lawson.” He turned back around and disappeared into the darkness. Vic started forward, stopping when Hap didn’t move. He looked back. “What?” Hap looked up at the pyramid. “No m-matter what, we s-stay together. Don’t allow them t-to separate us.” “Agreed,” Nurse Ratched said. “We are stronger together than we are apart.” “Go team!” Rambo cried from on top of Nurse Ratched as it began to rain harder. Together, they walked into the dark and the door to Heaven slammed shut behind them. CHAPTER 21 Darkness. Vic was surrounded by it. Surrounded, that is, until the Blue Pixie appeared as if projected on the wall beside him, wings fluttering. It looked as it had on the door, eyes big, hair flowing. It spun slowly, the curve of its buttocks there and gone. Bathed in blue light, Vic saw the Doorman just ahead of them, moving with purpose, hands clasped behind his back. The Blue Pixie laughed, and though it still sounded like bells, it now had


their parties and good jokes did Lydia, assisted by Kitty's hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she could, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham's name. Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet say voluntarily to Elizabeth, ``I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.'' Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases came to meet Maria and hear the news: and various were the subjects which occupied them. Lady Lucas was enquiring of Maria, across the table, after the welfare and poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the present fashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and on the other, retailing them all to the younger Miss Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other person's, was enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to any body who would hear her. ``Oh! Mary,'' said she, ``I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun! as we went along, Kitty and me drew up all the blinds, and pretended there was nobody in the coach; and I should have gone so all the way, if Kitty had not been sick; and when we got to the George, I do think we behaved very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest cold luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have treated you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought we never should have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then we were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so loud, that any body might have heard us ten miles off!'' To this, Mary very gravely replied, ``Far be it from me, my dear sister, to depreciate such pleasures. They would doubtless be congenial with the generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms for me. I should infinitely prefer a book.'' But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to any body for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all. In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to Meryton, and see how every body went on; but Elizabeth steadily opposed the scheme. It should not be said, that the Miss Bennets could not be at home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was another reason too, for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Wickham again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The comfort to _her_ of the regiment's approaching removal was indeed beyond expression. In a fortnight they were to go, and once gone, she hoped there could be nothing more to plague her


murdered. The rhyme again skips through my memory, taunting. At seventeen, Lenora Hope Unnerved, I pull my hand away from the typewriter, as if Lenora’s about to reach out and grab me. She notices, of course, and nods for me to hit the typewriter’s return bar. I do, quickly and abruptly, making sure there’s no contact between us. In response, Lenora types out three small but meaningful words. dont be scared Another nod from her. Another swift swipe of the return bar from me, allowing Lenora to type another line. i cant hurt you If the goal was to put me at ease, then Lenora has failed miserably. I won’t hurt you. Now that would have calmed my nerves. What Lenora ended up typing does the opposite. That insidious, apostrophe-less can’t suggests a lack of capability, not willingness. And that Lenora would hurt me if she could. SEVEN We eat dinner in silence, something I’ve become quite used to in the past six months. I sit facing Lenora, making sure our knees don’t touch. Since we left the typewriter, I’ve kept physical contact to a minimum. Our plates sit on the wooden tray I attached to Lenora’s wheelchair. Roasted chicken and glazed carrots for me, mashed acorn squash seasoned with crushed pills for Lenora. Since I don’t know who to feed first, me or her, I decide to alternate bites. One mouthful for Lenora and one for me until both plates are cleaned. After dinner is dessert. I get chocolate cake. Lenora gets pudding. After dessert, it’s time for Lenora’s evening circulation exercises. Something I’m not looking forward to because it means our limited contact must come to an end. For the rest of the evening, Lenora and I are going to be uncomfortably close. I use the Hoyer lift to get her out of the wheelchair and onto the bed. It requires sliding the sling under her, raising her out of the wheelchair, moving the whole contraption while she dangles like a kid on a swing, lowering her onto the bed, then pulling the sling out from under her. It’s easier in theory than in practice, especially because Lenora is heavier than she looks. A surprising sturdiness hides inside her birdlike frame. On the bed, I lift Lenora’s right leg before bending it, pushing the knee toward her chest. Lenora stares at the ceiling while I do it, seemingly bored. I think about how many times—with how many different nurses—she’s had to do this. Thousands, most likely. Morning and evening, day after day after day. When I move on to her left leg, Lenora lolls her head to the side, as if trying to see past me to the window. Even though it’s dark now and there’s not much to see, I understand why. It’s better than looking at the ceiling. At least there’s variety out there, even in the darkness. The full moon sits so low on the horizon it looks like it’s bobbing on the ocean’s surface. Clouds as thin as fingers drift in front of it. In the


what to do and say. Perhaps who to kill. It doesn’t feel arbitrary to me. It feels like . . . dogma.” “What does that word mean, ‘dogma’?” Edei asked. His accent was subtle, his Alantian perfect, but this was a word even native speakers might not fully understand. “A belief system. Like the principles of a religion.” “ ‘I am ascended,’ ” he quoted. She’d been thinking of that very line the wraith had said last night. Edei Rhuna went up a notch in her estimate of both him and his investigatory skills. “Exactly!” she said, perhaps a little too cheerily. His lips quirked in a soft smile as he leaned over to examine the lock on the door. It creaked open at the barest touch of his fingers. Inside, a man was standing in the living room, scrawling furiously in a notebook. A heavy camera was slung across his back. Edei’s fingers immediately jumped to his brass knuckles, but Io pushed his forearm down. “Xenophon Atreidis,” she said, ducking under the police tape. “I should have guessed the vultures would be the first ones on the scene.” Xenophon glanced away from his notes just long enough to scan her and Edei up and down. He was a short man but built like a wardrobe: big and sturdy and unbendable. His face was a jump back in time; Io was suddenly sitting at a school desk, exchanging notes with her best friend, Rosa, while Xenophon was trying to get the teacher to notice their illicit activities. They were both older now but wore the same expressions on their faces as they had back then: Xenophon one of contempt, Io one of open dislike. “I’m not the vulture here. It’s your kind that’s been lurking around this apartment the entire day.” With his pen, Xenophon indicated out of the window, to the arched bridge connecting the roofs across the street. A figure sat there, an old man hunched over the railing. The distance didn’t dim the glazed-over expression on his face, or the specks of red swimming in his eyes. As silver reflected in Io’s irises when she was in the Quilt, so did scarlet gleam in the eyes of a keres-born when they were using their powers. The old man must have been drawn here by the violent death of Jarl Magnussen. Xenophon peered around her at Edei, standing by the entrance. “I didn’t know you worked with the mob queen’s lackeys now.” It was bait. Io didn’t take it. She turned her back to the window and the keres-born and surveyed her old schoolmate. “What are you doing here?” “The same thing you are, I suppose. I smelled a good scoop, and I came to investigate.” Glass vials and lipstick tubes were scattered along the corridor, and the air was scented with strong perfume. There was no hint of blood in the living room, but Io remembered where the body had lain, neck twisted, eyes unseeing. Where Nina had cowered behind the now overturned armchair. Edei began sorting through knickknacks


She puts her arms around Athena and glowers at me. “What’s he doing here?” “I brought him,” Athena says. “He’s like Maurice. Always hanging around.” “No, mother. That’s me. Cal runs away.” Ow. Elaine gazes at me or through me for a while, then up into the sky. The moment stretches. I wonder if she’s going to fall asleep, or just stand there until she gets moss growing on her. She doesn’t seem to be aware of us at all. Athena waits. You can’t see anything on her face that says she hates this moment, fears what it means, but she does. Elaine turns around and stomps inside. “Come on, then.” The last time I was in her house, it was a different house and a different Elaine. It was a pool party and she wore a swimsuit with cutaways around the belly button and hips, and huge black sunglasses that made her look half like a rock star and half like an alien in an old movie. Maurice Tonfamecasca was there too. He could barely take his eyes off her, palpable sexual desire radiating from him as he watched her walking around, assembling a map in his mind of the body under the suit. She was Stefan’s unattainably glamorous ex, giddy and hugely popular survivor of years of Titan-style debauchery. There was a feature in Time, and rolling coverage in Paris Match. That was years ago. It occurs to me to wonder whether she’s had some work done on her face—just enough, and expensive enough, so that you might not think of it. That Elaine might have. This one…I don’t think so. Athena nods to the doorway. “Let’s go.” She waits a moment, and when I don’t move, she shrugs and leads the way. * * * — Inside the house is like the apartment you always thought you’d have one day: clean lines and ample space for furniture that looks comfortable and yet perfect; wide windows looking out over the forest and the lake. There’s a fire pit for actual logs, so well done you can barely see the extractor and the filter unit, the long pipe down to the plant room where the carbon gets molded into little black bricks and taken away once a week by the service company. I can smell pine smoke lingering in the air, the way it used to when I was a kid in the mountains. It’s like being ten years old again. Athena’s mother makes gin cocktails and pours them into thick earthenware cups. She leads us out onto the rear deck, which looks down into a canyon, water rushing down towards the lake. There are birds here, lots of them, and a late season bug drifting up from the spray to bother Athena’s hair and bumble away again when she shoos at it with her hand. “How have you been?” Athena says. “Pretty good.” “How are the bears?” “Fine.” Elaine sips at her cup, then again, harder. “I heard they got interested in your garbage.” “I talked to them. Now we


with a community youth orchestra. I was skeptical for a minute (Stanley?), but Dane’s people had done their due diligence. “Look,” Dane said in his newly posted video. He stood in a parking lot for this one, birdsong and traffic noise around him. “Having someone’s location doesn’t mean we show up in a mob. It means we reach out to people near him, people who’ve had contact since 1995, employers, coworkers, former students. I can’t emphasize that last one enough. Former students. This guy, you find him on the street, he’s not giving you anything. But little Sally the flute player who, you know, he made her sit on his lap, maybe she has a story to tell.” I was equally nauseated at the glee in his eyes and at his use of the name Sally, the clichéd innocent girl who was for some reason from 1955. Little Sally and her brother Timmy. Still: He was useful. His followers were useful. Who knew what else they could find? I had started three times that afternoon to text the defense team, telling them to talk to Beth again, but each time I’d deleted the words. I’d be telling them about Beth’s own abuse, not just Thalia’s, and without her permission. And if the defense didn’t need my accusations of Mr. Bloch, did it need Beth’s? If she’d already testified and then they called her back up there, would it look like she’d been coerced? What if the state asked if she’d spoken to me between testimonies? It should be Amy’s call, but still, I had to think it all through. And it was only Saturday; I could call Amy tomorrow. In the meantime, this—Dane’s lackeys following the bread crumbs—this was exactly what I’d wished for. “The other thing we want,” Dane said, “we want to keep an eye on him. This guy changed his name at least once. We don’t want him skipping town.” I wondered how many of them were heading to Silver Spring right that second, how many were hacking your email. How many planned something bigger than that. With a chill down my neck, down my arms, I remembered the guy who’d gone into a pizza place with a gun, looking for the nonexistent pedophile ring in the basement. I remembered how many people in America had guns. I was shocked to discover a very, very small part of me still loyal to you, a part that wanted to send you a message: Get in your car and drive. Change your last name, too. Don’t look back. 21 I tried to distract myself with a movie, but since the Calvin Inn wi-fi was too fatigued to continue the day, I was beholden to the offerings on my room’s bulky Panasonic. Here was Bus Stop, a movie I hated. Bus Stop is what happens when no women were involved in the writing process. We get, for instance, a woman who, when Marilyn Monroe sidles up to her on the bus and says she’s been kidnapped, replies: “It wouldn’t be so bad


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

journal I was jotting notes from—I was working on the bibliography for my encyclopaedia. “I’d like an early night.” “You don’t have to stay long. You’d rather sit here with your nose in a book?” “Vastly,” I said, and he shook his head at me, not in disgust but utter bemusement. “Very well, you strange creature,” he said, and to my astonishment he took off his cloak and settled himself in the other chair. “You don’t have to stay. I’m perfectly content by myself.” “Yes, I’ve noticed.” I shrugged. I didn’t mind him staying; I am in fact used to having him around, not only here but at Cambridge, where he is always poking his nose into my office. He took up that blasted sewing kit of his and attended to his cloak, tucking one leg boyishly beneath him and leaning into the chair. I am largely incapable of making conversation of a personal nature. I rarely have the inclination, fortunately, but I have had occasion to resent the lack of this particular human skill, as I did then. How many scholars have had the opportunity to question a ruler of the courtly fae? Not one, or none who lived to tell of it. And yet I could not make myself ask. I suspect that, if I could have convinced myself that my interest was of a purely intellectual nature, I could have managed it. But it was not. This was Bambleby, after all—my only friend. (God.) “Em,” he said without looking up from his work, after I had snuck yet another glance in his direction, “either you are plotting how best to have me murdered and stuffed for one of your exhibits, or you are still concerned that I am bewitched. You are so contrary that I would not be surprised by both concurrently. Perhaps you could set my nerves at ease.” “I am only wondering what in God’s name you are doing,” I said, taking refuge in the familiar banter. “What does it look like? You and your hairy accomplice ravaged my cloak.” He added a few more stitches and ran his hands over the fabric, folding it this way and that—I could not make out precisely what he was doing. “There.” He tried the cloak on, nodded. If anything, it looked even more magnificent than before, with an elegant billow in the hem, as if the weaver had cut the pattern from his shadow. He saw the expression on my face and raised his eyebrows. “I can do yours if you like.” He grimaced slightly. “And that—that dress.” I looked down at my woollen shift. “There’s nothing wrong with my clothing.” “It doesn’t fit you.” “Of course it does.” He lifted his eyes to the ceiling and muttered something that I couldn’t hear, apart from the distinct words paper bag. This offended me not at all, as I afford less than an ounce of importance to my appearance, and still less to his opinion of it. “You said before that needlework ran in your family,” I said after he’d


his compliments, but it never came. Flattery from Mr. Granger had always made her nervous, and nearly anything Lord Calloway said made her blush. Why was it so easy to take a compliment from Mr. Forester without becoming embarrassed by it? Could it be that he didn’t mean a word of what he said? “I do not see how any of these things would help Lady Calloway,” she said. “And beyond your consideration of my beauty, which is rather subjective an opinion, you cannot know whether I truly possess those other traits. You hardly know me at all.” He acknowledged that comment with a nod. “True. So perhaps I should rectify that. Where are you from, Lucy?” “Not far from London.” “Is your father a gentleman?” Her eyes went wide. “I hardly think that is an appropriate question.” “He is not, then.” “My father is dead, Mr. Forester.” He winced, properly censured for his bold question. “My apologies, Miss Staley.” “Lucy.” “Nick.” “Apology accepted. Am I allowed to ask my own questions?” His grin returning, Nick leaned in his chair and rested one elbow on the chair’s arm, fully at ease now. “You can ask what you wish, but know that my answers may not be what you want to hear.” What was that supposed to mean? My, but Nick was a strange man. As much as she wanted to ask the same questions he had asked her, she chose a different option, curious to see what his answer would be. “How did you sleep last night?” His lips rose in that crooked smile again. “Poorly,” he said, though his energy belied his answer. “I fear I was woken by the most atrocious-sounding bird I had ever heard this morning, and I had to get out of bed to shoot it dead and bring it to Cook for tonight’s supper.” What utter nonsense! Lucy put her hand over her mouth to mask her smile, determined to play the man’s game. “I do hope it wasn’t that little wren Olivia is so fond of,” she said as seriously as she could. “She said it sings such lovely songs to her each morning.” Nick’s eyes practically danced. “Oh, I really like you,” he said with a laugh. “Where is Miss Calloway, anyway? I usually can’t get her to leave my side when I visit.” “She is likely mourning the death of her fowl friend,” Lucy replied. A stifled laugh behind her made her jump, and she turned in alarm to find Lord Calloway standing in the doorway and looking at her with a curious expression. She wished he wouldn’t hide his happiness like that; he was far more handsome without the practiced sobriety he usually carried in his countenance. She had learned that morning, after prying as much servant talk from Rebecca as she could, that Lord Calloway hadn’t always been so serious. As a younger man, he had found a good deal of joy in life, and she had seen glimpses of that man when they’d gone out to the lovely little pond


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

edge of the sofa on his fat wrist, told Harry he'd be eleven in ten minutes' time. He lay and watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now. Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He hoped the roof wasn't going to fall in, although he might be warmer if it did. Four minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so full of letters when they got back that he'd be able to steal one somehow. Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea? One minute to go and he'd be eleven. Thirty seconds...twenty...ten...nine -- maybe he'd wake Dudley up, just to annoy him -- three...two...one... BOOM. The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in. CHAPTER FOUR -- THE KEEPER OF THE KEYS BOOM. They knocked again. Dudley jerked awake. "Where's the cannon?" he said stupidly. There was a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon came skidding into the room. He was holding a rifle in his hands -- now they knew what had been in the long, thin package he had brought with them. "Who's there?" he shouted. "I warn you -- I'm armed!" There was a pause. Then -- SMASH! The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and with a deafening crash landed flat on the floor. A giant of a man was standing in the doorway. His face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but you could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair. The giant squeezed his way into the hut, stooping so that his head just brushed the ceiling. He bent down, picked up the door, and fitted it easily back into its frame. The noise of the storm outside dropped a little. He turned to look at them all. "Couldn't make us a cup o' tea, could yeh? It's not been an easy journey..." He strode over to the sofa where Dudley sat frozen with fear. "Budge up, yeh great lump," said the stranger. Dudley squeaked and ran to hide behind his mother, who was crouching, terrified, behind Uncle Vernon. "An' here's Harry!" said the giant. Harry looked up into the fierce, wild, shadowy face and saw that the beetle eyes were crinkled in a smile. "Las' time I saw you, you was only a baby," said the giant. "Yeh look a lot like yet dad, but yeh've got yet mom's eyes." Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise. "I demand that you leave at once, sir!" he said. "You are breaking and entering!" "Ah, shut up, Dursley, yeh great prune," said the giant; he reached over the back of the sofa, jerked the gun out of Uncle Vernon's


sinew in that it was everything that was not death, that it was aglow and rampant, expressing itself in movement, flying exultantly under the stars and over the face of dead matter that did not move. But Spitz, cold and calculating even in his supreme moods, left the pack and cut across a narrow neck of land where the creek made a long bend around. Buck did not know of this, and as he rounded the bend, the frost wraith of a rabbit still flitting before him, he saw another and larger frost wraith leap from the overhanging bank into the immediate path of the rabbit. It was Spitz. The rabbit could not turn, and as the white teeth broke its back in mid air it shrieked as loudly as a stricken man may shriek. At sound of this, the cry of Life plunging down from Life's apex in the grip of Death, the fall pack at Buck's heels raised a hell's chorus of delight. Buck did not cry out. He did not check himself, but drove in upon Spitz, shoulder to shoulder, so hard that he missed the throat. They rolled over and over in the powdery snow. Spitz gained his feet almost as though he had not been overthrown, slashing Buck down the shoulder and leaping clear. Twice his teeth clipped together, like the steel jaws of a trap, as he backed away for better footing, with lean and lifting lips that writhed and snarled. In a flash Buck knew it. The time had come. It was to the death. As they circled about, snarling, ears laid back, keenly watchful for the advantage, the scene came to Buck with a sense of familiarity. He seemed to remember it all,--the white woods, and earth, and moonlight, and the thrill of battle. Over the whiteness and silence brooded a ghostly calm. There was not the faintest whisper of air--nothing moved, not a leaf quivered, the visible breaths of the dogs rising slowly and lingering in the frosty air. They had made short work of the snowshoe rabbit, these dogs that were ill-tamed wolves; and they were now drawn up in an expectant circle. They, too, were silent, their eyes only gleaming and their breaths drifting slowly upward. To Buck it was nothing new or strange, this scene of old time. It was as though it had always been, the wonted way of things. Spitz was a practised fighter. From Spitzbergen through the Arctic, and across Canada and the Barrens, he had held his own with all manner of dogs and achieved to mastery over them. Bitter rage was his, but never blind rage. In passion to rend and destroy, he never forgot that his enemy was in like passion to rend and destroy. He never rushed till he was prepared to receive a rush; never attacked till he had first defended that attack. In vain Buck strove to sink his teeth in the neck of the big white dog. Wherever his fangs struck for the softer flesh, they were countered by the


pouring her a cup of perfectly brewed tea when the siren sounded. Iris stiffened, listening as the distant wail rose and fell, rose and fell. Over and over, like a creature in the throes of death. “Eithrals?” Roman asked, setting the kettle down with a clang. “No,” Iris said, standing. Her gaze was on the garden, on the breeze that raked over it. “No, this is the evacuate siren.” She had never heard it before, but she had often thought of it happening. Her feet froze to the floor as the siren continued to wail. “Iris?” Roman’s voice brought her back into the moment. He was standing beside her, intently watching her face. “Kitt.” She reached for his hand as the floor began to shake beneath her. She wondered if it was the aftershocks of a distant bomb, but the rumbling only intensified, as if something was drawing closer. There was a loud pop, and Iris instantly cowered, teeth clenched. Roman pulled her back up, holding her against his chest. His voice was warm in her hair as he whispered, “It’s just a lorry. It’s just backfire. We’re safe here. You’re safe with me.” She closed her eyes, but she listened to the beat of his heart and the sounds encircling them. He was right; the rumbling she felt was from a lorry driving by the house. The icy sweat still prickled on her palms and at the nape of her neck, but she was able to steady herself in his arms. Multiple lorries must be driving by. Because the siren continued to wail, and the ground continued to shake. She opened her eyes, feeling the sudden urge to look at him. “Kitt, you don’t think…?” Roman only gazed down at her, but there was a haunted gleam in his eyes. You don’t think this is Dacre’s soldiers? You don’t think that this is the end, do you? He didn’t know, she realized as he caressed her face. He touched her the same way he always had, as if he wanted to savor it. As if it could be the last time. The front door blew open with a bang. Iris startled again, but Roman kept his arms around her. Someone was in the house, striding down the corridor with a heavy tread. And then came a voice, unfamiliar yet piercing. “Marisol!” A woman appeared in the kitchen. A tall soldier, dressed in an olive-green blood-splattered uniform. A rifle was strapped to her back, grenades to her belt. A golden star was pinned above her heart, revealing her status as a captain. Her blond hair was cut short, but a few tendrils shone in the light beneath her helmet. Her face was gaunt as if she hadn’t eaten properly over the past few months, but her brown eyes were keen, cutting across the kitchen to where Iris and Roman stood, embracing. At once, Iris knew her. She had been kneeling in this woman’s garden, preparing it for her return. “Keegan?” “Yes. Where’s my wife?” Keegan demanded. She hardly gave Iris the chance


want you by each other’s side every minute,” says Haymitch. We both start to object, but Haymitch slams his hand on the table. “Every minute! It’s not open for discussion! You agreed to do as I said! You will be to- gether, you will appear amiable to each other. Now get out. Meet Effie at the elevator at ten for training.” I bite my lip and stalk back to my room, making sure Peeta can hear the door slam. I sit on the bed, hating Haymitch, hat- ing Peeta, hating myself for mentioning that day long ago in the rain. It’s such a joke! Peeta and I going along pretending to be friends! Talking up each other’s strengths, insisting the other take credit for their abilities. Because, in fact, at some point, we’re going to have to knock it off and accept we’re bitter ad- versaries. Which I’d be prepared to do right now if it wasn’t for Haymitch’s stupid instruction that we stick together in training. It’s my own fault, I guess, for telling him he didn’t have to coach us separately. But that didn’t mean I wanted to do everything with Peeta. Who, by the way, clearly doesn’t want to be partnering up with me, either. I hear Peeta’s voice in my head. She has no idea. The effect she can have. Obviously meant to demean me. Right? but a tiny part of me wonders if this was a compliment. That he meant I 92 was appealing in some way. It’s weird, how much he’s noticed me. Like the attention he’s paid to my hunting. And apparent- ly, I have not been as oblivious to him as I imagined, either. The flour. The wrestling. I have kept track of the boy with the bread. It’s almost ten. I clean my teeth and smooth back my hair again. Anger temporarily blocked out my nervousness about meeting the other tributes, but now I can feel my anxiety ris- ing again. By the time I meet Effie and Peeta at the elevator, I catch myself biting my nails. I stop at once. The actual training rooms are below ground level of our building. With these elevators, the ride is less than a minute. The doors open into an enormous gymnasium filled with vari- ous weapons and obstacle courses. Although it’s not yet ten, we’re the last ones to arrive. The other tributes are gathered in a tense circle. They each have a cloth square with their dis- trict number on it pinned to their shirts. While someone pins the number 12 on my back, I do a quick assessment. Peeta and I are the only two dressed alike. As soon as we join the circle, the head trainer, a tall, athletic woman named Atala steps up and begins to explain the train- ing schedule. Experts in each skill will remain at their stations. We will be free to travel from area to area as we choose, per our mentor’s instructions. Some of the stations teach survival skills, others fighting techniques. We are forbidden


him, and that he had even in his Eton days, "I believe that if one man were to live his life out fully and completely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream,--I believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of mediaevalism, and return to the Hellenic ideal,-- to something finer, richer, than the Hellenic ideal, it may be. But the bravest man among us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind, and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame--" "Stop!" murmured Dorian Gray, "stop! you bewilder me. I don't know what to say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don't speak. Let me think, or, rather, let me try not to think." For nearly ten minutes he stood there motionless, with parted lips, and eyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh impulses were at work within him, and they seemed to him to have come really from himself. The few words that Basil's friend had said to him--words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in them--had yet touched some secret chord, that had never been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses. Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather a new chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! [15] They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words? Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood.


at his side. Well, except for the fact that he’d fled the scene of a homicide, driven across too many state lines to count, and was now considered a fugitive. That had been his choice rather than face the consequences of his actions in Oregon. But he had a friend working out the details of what really went down, so maybe he’d get lucky. He couldn’t run forever. But maybe, just maybe, for a little while longer. * * * Bentz’s stomach roiled. It was all he could do not to throw up right there on the bayou as he stared at the body submerged in the water. From what he could see, he guessed the skeleton was a woman, small frame and long gray hair, but the sex wouldn’t be determined until the lab analyzed what was left of the bones. From the way they’d been picked clean, he thought they’d been there a while. “This place gives me a case of the willies,” Montoya said, staring at the remains of the woman. They were seated in one of three boats that had been sent to the area where the skull had been first seen by Bobby-Dean Clements and his friend Clive Jones, the very two fishermen who had seen Father John attacking Stacy Parker just the night before. Those two men were still here, in their own boat drifting nearby, watching as divers went into the bayou to retrieve what they could. It wasn’t that the water was all that deep here, but all of the area had to be explored and examined and the sun was setting, the bayou still aside from the sound of a few birds in the trees and voices from the search team. Bentz popped three antacids from a roll he kept in his pocket and scanned the thickets and underbrush surrounding the water. Brambles and vines grew thick and he spied a huge clump of vegetation that seemed out of place. “Take us down there,” he said to the officer at the rudder. “You got it.” The deputy manning the boat eased them closer. “What is that?” Bentz said, motioning to the mass of weeds where several cypress rose, Spanish moss draping downward. Montoya lifted the sunglasses from his eyes and squinted, focusing on the weedy thicket. “Vegeta—Maybe more. Christ, is that a chimney stack?” he asked. “Or was,” Bentz said. “Let’s get more people down here.” As they drifted closer, he studied the swell of brush and dense foliage rising out of the swamp waters, a spongy island of wet earth. “Let’s check it out.” “Careful of gator nests,” the deputy warned as she guided the boat closer. Montoya stepped out, his boots sinking deep, water lapping over the tops. Bentz joined him and together they pushed their way through the cattails, reeds, and water to dryer land. “Dark as hell here,” Montoya said, and pulled a flashlight from his pocket. He trained the beam past the brambles, toward the smokestack. “Oh—here we go.” The beam cut between the vines and onto the


you.” * * * In the following days, every time boys are cut, Clytemnestra teaches them how to clean wounds and which herbs to use to stop infection. Leon helps her, and Iphigenia and Electra join the boys as they learn. Iphigenia is especially talented: her fingers are firm and gentle, her memory of the right herbs to use never wavering. She doesn’t stop in front of anything, not even the most gruesome head wounds. One morning Clytemnestra and Leon go to the practice yard to find Iphigenia cleaning a boy’s knee. He is disheveled, his knees scabbed and his hair dirty—he must have come from the village outside the city gates. Iphigenia bends forward, swiping some salve onto the injury, whistling a tune to calm him. Her profile is soft in the morning light, and Clytemnestra finds herself at a loss for words, not wanting to disturb her perfect daughter. Before she can stop him, Leon darts forward. He kneels next to Iphigenia and holds out the herbs she needs. She looks at him with a grateful smile and his face shines, like a flower in the sun. “Mother, come!” Iphigenia says when she sees her lingering at the edge of the yard. “I found him in the village outside the walls. A dog bit him.” Clytemnestra walks closer. She studies her daughter and Leon’s adoring stare as they kneel together on the dusty earth of the yard. Agamemnon once told her that Leon desired her, but he was wrong. It is Iphigenia he wants. Rage mounts inside her, as it does every time someone wants to take away her daughter. But then she sees the focus with which Leon hands Iphigenia the herbs, his care in staying far enough from her, his gentle eyes. He won’t harm her. He wants only to stay close to her and feel her light, her warmth. Who but Clytemnestra can understand that? * * * One of Agamemnon’s spies is reporting on the recent trades of Troy when the doors of the megaron are thrown open. Clytemnestra watches as a bearded warrior drags his son forward, ignoring the guards who invite him to wait by the anteroom. The boy is tall, with the face of an angry dog, and on his forehead, a gash is dripping blood down his cheek and onto the shiny floor. The spy stops talking and looks at Agamemnon, waiting for instructions. “I imagine, Eurybates, that this is your son,” Agamemnon says. Eurybates bends. He is broad-shouldered, his skin the color of walnuts. “Yes, my king. Kyros. Fourteen years old and the fastest runner his age.” As he approaches the throne, Agamemnon’s spy moves aside, blending with the shadows of the hearth columns. “And you interrupt me this morning because your son has been hurt,” Agamemnon says with amusement, looking at the gash on Kyros’s face as if it were a fleabite. Eurybates’s jaw tightens. “Yes, my king, he has been hurt but not during training or in a boys’ fight.” He falters. “Two girls did it.” Kyros’s face grows


nothing else,” I say. “You think shortbread’s too sweet.” “Thought you might want something,” he says. His eyes look more green than gray right now. I’m finding it hard to look at them, so I train my gaze on the candy. “It looks like you thought I might want everything.” His eyes flash. “Was I wrong?” “No,” I say, “but you didn’t have to do that.” “Trust me, it wasn’t intentional,” he says. “I walked up for the water, and next thing I know I’ve got a wagon filled with corn syrup.” “Well, that’s the Connor family thriftiness. If you buy a wagon, refills are free.” His laugh turns into a groan. He runs the back of his hand up his forehead. “I’m so hungover.” “Didn’t you have one drink last night?” “If we’re ignoring the half bottle I drank in the cellar,” he says. “We should probably ignore everything that happened in the cellar,” I say. He studies me for a second. “Anyway, I have no tolerance anymore. I drink less than ever these days.” “Wow, humblebrag,” I say. He laughs. “Actually, it’s just that I’ve been using edibles.” At my surprise, he says, “They’ve been really helping my mom, but she gets kind of embarrassed. About taking them on her own. So a couple times a week, I’ll split a brownie with her. She’s funny. She’d never even tried weed before, and she gets super giggly. I sort of think it’s a placebo effect, but it doesn’t matter.” I suppress a grin. “Moved back in with your mom and get high with her twice a week.” “Living the dream,” he says. “You are, though,” I say. “I’m actually jealous.” “It is fun,” he says. “But she gets so munchy. I’ve probably gained like fifteen pounds.” “It suits you.” I quickly add, “How is she, really?” He glances at me askance. “You haven’t talked to her?” I’m sure he knows I still text regularly with Gloria. I even field the odd text or two from his sisters. Mostly when his little sister, Lou, wants my opinion on a potential present for Wyn, invariably a gag gift that requires no special insight whatsoever, or when his older sister, Michael, wants an opinion on a medical ailment that invariably has nothing to do with neurosurgery. As far as his family knows, he and I are still engaged. “I do talk to her,” I say. “But I figure she’s mostly lying.” Wyn’s laugh is low. “I’m sure she is.” His gaze drops. I let mine linger on the dark fringe of his lashes, the curve of his full upper lip, until his eyes lift. “It really does help. The weed. Just . . . not enough.” Emotions tangle in my esophagus. Globus sensation, my mind supplies, as if naming it will take away the ache. It doesn’t. “I’m glad you’re there with her,” I say. His lips part, come together, part again. “I, um . . .” He sets the boxes of candy and cup atop the air hockey table beside us and shifts


and wealth, to drop the names of the schools we’d attended and the people we’d met. We’d gotten our invite after a short Forbes profile of NuLife called “Bliss for Beginners,” which identified Orson as the maverick inventor of an “unlikely product” and me as his “front-end developer.” The piece was more a profile of Orson than of NuLife, describing his angular jaw and his all-juice diet and his sleeping and running habits. He’d mentioned in-person Synthesis a few times to the reporter, who’d quoted him as saying that it was the “Bliss-Mini on a cosmic level.” Orson had insisted on accepting the invites to the gala because there would be real money there, people who, even if we couldn’t get them involved in NuLife, would at the very least provide object lessons in how to act rich and successful. It was more his kind of thing than mine, but who was I to object? It would be good for NuLife, and more important, it would be good for him. At the ballroom’s entrance he told me we should split up so each of us could cover more territory. “You just find people to socialize with, okay? And then back in the room we confab.” “Back in the room we confab,” I said, dropping my voice in imitation of his. He poked me in the ribs. I laughed. “This is important,” he said. “Aye-aye.” He looked at me with mock severity. “I mean, colonel—I’ll do the best I can, sir,” I said. He went left and I went right, in the direction of a small circle of what turned out to be tall and toned women engaged in a very technical conversation about thermodynamics. When they saw me coming, they awkwardly opened the circle to welcome me in. “You’re the NuLife guy,” one of them said, her upturned nose like an electrical socket in the middle of her face. “Oh my god, yes. I knew I recognized you from somewhere,” another said. “I’m the CFO,” I said in a guilty-as-charged voice. “And also sort of the COO. But your conversation honestly sounded much more interesting than anything I do.” “I doubt it,” the one with the electrical socket nose said, and then offered her hand to shake. “I’m Amanda.” The other three in the circle made up some flimsy excuse to go get more drinks, leaving me and Amanda to talk. “I’m really intrigued by the Bliss-Mini,” she said. “I’m a physicist and I don’t understand the first thing about behavioral science. I hope you’re not offended, but it always seemed so—I don’t know—woo-woo to me.” I laughed, wondering how I’d bullshit my way through this particular conversation. “It seems woo-woo to me, too,” I said. “Honestly, Orson is the brains behind everything. I’m just the development guy.” “So he designed the Bliss-Mini and you, like—” “Put it into practical application,” I said. “Built it, market tested it, yeah.” Amanda nodded. I couldn’t tell if she was impressed or bored. “I think it’s so great what you two are doing,” she said.


Am I’m dying? What if I’ve cracked my ribs and stabbed myself in the lung and I’m literally drowning in my own blood right now and after I die my parents are gonna receive my uni acceptance letters in the summer and forever remember me as a sneaky liar— Whatever I’ve done to myself, the pain is an excellent mindfulness tool, because I notice the too-rapid pace of my breathing by how much it hurts. I must not fear, I remind myself. Fear is the little death that…that brings…I can’t remember the rest. My head is too busy spinning. “Brad,” Celine says, her voice shaking. She’s finally done clambering down that cliff. She’s next to me. “Hey,” I say, because talking seems like an excellent distraction from my brain’s current attempts to eat itself. “Are you sure you want to break up? I really don’t think we should.” “Oh, Brad.” Crap. She’s crying. Someone punches me in the ribs with a brick fist. “Ow,” I snap. My side burns. And aches. And burns. “Call an ambulance,” Zion says. “What? No.” Now I turn my head. Like I thought, Holly and Rebecca are there, with Zion just arriving (yet already making terrible suggestions?) and a load of campers milling behind them at a distance. I can see Raj raking his hands through his hair way too hard. He’s lucky he has so much of it, or he’d be at risk of going bald. Sometimes I worry about going bald, but Dad still has hair so I’m probably safe. Of course, his hairline is slightly questionable, not that anyone notices since he keeps it so short. Maybe that’s what I’ll do. But I think Celine likes my hair long. I turn to her. “Do you like my hair?” She bites her lip as she answers. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m—” “Hey,” I say, raising a hand to her mouth. “You’ll hurt yourself.” “Ambulance service, please,” Zion says, reminding me that he’s doing something silly. He is unusually grim-faced as he talks into the phone but that’s okay because I’m going to stop him. “No. Noooo. Have to finish the expedition.” I need the scholarship. If I share a bathroom with a Mason-alike, I’ll probably end up killing him. But for some reason I can’t figure out how to explain all that, so instead I choke out, “I’m…going to be a writer.” “Brad,” Holly says, “shut up.” The ambulance arrives I-don’t-know-how-long later. At this point I’m feeling much better (physically) and this is all beyond embarrassing. A nice paramedic prods me in various places before declaring me Still Alive. Celine wrings her hands over me like a war widow and it’s starting to piss me off because every so often my brain tries to say, See, she cares about you! but then I remember she cares about me up to a point. That, while I thought we were closer than ever, she was…done with me? I don’t even know, but it hurts worse than the ache in my ribs. Then someone helps me


not there. Ms. Keane slams the door shut and waves the shotgun around in front of me. I wince every time the barrel whizzes past my face. “Can’t leave well enough alone,” Ms. Keane mumbles. “Sit down.” No one moves. She pumps the shotgun once and levels it at me again. We all sit on a musty cat-hair-covered couch as she paces in front of us. “Lemonade?” she asks. “Wha—what?” Javier stammers. “Lem-on-ade,” she repeats, emphasizing every syllable. “Thirsty?” “I—No,” I say. I don’t think even the threat of catching a bullet could get me to drink or eat anything from inside this house. Ms. Keane turns her back to us and lets the gun rest on her hip but keeps her finger close to the trigger. “Is she seriously offering us drinks?” Bezi whispers against my ear. Ms. Keane spins around, and I wince as she points the firearm at us again. “It’s the polite thing to do when you have guests, you know. Offer food, drinks. I’m a little rusty. Don’t have many visitors but I have some lemonade.” Javier stifles a gag. “I think we’re good.” “Ah well.” Ms. Keane sighs as she sits down in a rocking chair directly across from us. She rests the butt of the gun on the floor. “You’re the kids from the camp.” She sucks her teeth. Her ragged salt-and-pepper hair is hanging around her face like a shroud, but her eyes, black as coal, stand out. “I don’t like it. Not one little bit. It’s not the way things should be.” “I don’t know what you mean, but I want to,” I say. I try sucking up to her again. “I’m looking for my friends. They came out here to talk to you about the camp, about its history. We really want to understand, and they figured you’d be the best person to ask.” Her beady eyes narrow and her mouth turns down. “Its history?” Her unkempt brows push up. “What do you know about it? Can’t be too much or you wouldn’t be here.” I try to judge how quickly I can get to the door, but Ms. Keane is positioned almost directly between it and us. “Well, that’s what my friends came here to find out,” I say as I fight to keep my voice steady. “I heard what you said, Ms. Keane. You said we should be ashamed of ourselves, that if we knew what you know, it might mean something. What did you mean by that?” Ms. Keane rocks back and looks up at the ceiling but keeps her fingers curled around the barrel of the shotgun. “That camp is an abomination. Distasteful if you ask me.” She raises her face to the ceiling again. “How?” I ask. “We don’t know what you mean.” I glance at Javier, who looks down into his lap. Bezi slides her hand onto my leg and squeezes it. Hard. Her eyes are wide, and I realize she’s trying to get me to look at something in her line of sight. I follow


please.” Felton’s voice says “Yes, sir.” He sounds as happy as I am. “He’s really going to be nice?” “Sure, Cal, he actually won a charm contest in Scotia last year. He’s going to make pikelets with conserve.” The shine on his sallow head says I’m dismissed. * * * — Felton, instead, tells me about ballistics and forensics for what feels like the better part of an hour, which he does to his credit with a minimum of bullshit. There are no prints on the gun except Roddy’s. The apartment has the usual load of assorted DNA traces, but all the analysis team can say for sure right now is that it has been visited by several humans and—until Felton explained about the aquarium—apparently also a cuttlefish. There are no crucially revealing follicles, secretions or giveaway boot prints. Felton’s nose looks like it hurts a lot. I ask a few questions. He answers them. I ask more, trying to sound as smart and respectful as possible, as professional. We are polite as hell. Finally: “Hey, Sounder?” “Yeah?” “She ever tase you like that?” “Oh, Musgrave?” “Yes fucking Musgrave. You got a list of other people who— Never mind, don’t answer that. But she ever—” “No, but we have history.” “I can work with you. I don’t have to like you. But how do I go in her office now?” “You just go in. She doesn’t care.” “I honestly thought she liked me.” “Probably does.” “How can you tell?” “It’s Musgrave. I don’t mean to be a pain in your ass, you know.” “Sure, you do.” “Okay, yeah, I kinda do. But it’s not personal.” “What you said back there that made me mad? I never realised it before, but Gratton made me think it through. It’s true, isn’t it? You’re the fall guy. You do okay with detective work—actually pretty good—but the reason you’re there is so cops don’t get fired over Titans.” “You coulda said it a little nicer, but yeah, that’s a big part of it.” “What’s another part of it?” “Very occasionally I get to stop something bad happening before it happens, rather than after.” “Well, that’s nice.” “Very occasionally.” “But other than that it’s a shitty job.” “Yeah.” “Why d’you do it?” “I don’t know. I fell into it, now I’m here.” I know just fine, but I don’t want to talk about Athena with Felton. Felton looks at me a while longer. “I don’t like it, but I get it now. I can deal with it.” He puts his hand out. I shake it. We both look like we’d rather be anywhere but here. “Okay. Thank you.” “You want any more about the gun?” “You think it’s important?” “In my cop judgement? Fuck, no. It is not.” “You get anything off the security tape yet?” “Take out the residents, there’s fourteen people come in that evening. So far we got a racketball teacher, four dinner guests and a massage therapist.” “Like massage massage or the other kind?” “All I can tell you is expensive. That kind


before they left us to our fate." "I regret that they did not visit us before sailing," said Professor Porter. "I had proposed requesting them to leave the treasure with us, as I shall be a ruined man if that is lost." Jane looked at her father sadly. "Never mind, dear," she said. "It wouldn't have done any good, because it is solely for the treasure that they killed their officers and landed us upon this awful shore." "Tut, tut, child, tut, tut!" replied Professor Porter. "You are a good child, but inexperienced in practical matters," and Professor Porter turned and walked slowly away toward the jungle, his hands clasped beneath his long coat tails and his eyes bent upon the ground. His daughter watched him with a pathetic smile upon her lips, and then turning to Mr. Philander, she Chapter 17 whispered: "Please don't let him wander off again as he did yesterday. We depend upon you, you know, to keep a close watch upon him." "He becomes more difficult to handle each day," replied Mr. Philander, with a sigh and a shake of his head. "I presume he is now off to report to the directors of the Zoo that one of their lions was at large last night. Oh, Miss Jane, you don't know what I have to contend with." "Yes, I do, Mr. Philander; but while we all love him, you alone are best fitted to manage him; for, regardless of what he may say to you, he respects your great learning, and, therefore, has immense confidence in your judgment. The poor dear cannot differentiate between erudition and wisdom." Mr. Philander, with a mildly puzzled expression on his face, turned to pursue Professor Porter, and in his mind he was revolving the question of whether he should feel complimented or aggrieved at Miss Porter's rather backhanded compliment. Tarzan had seen the consternation depicted upon the faces of the little group as they witnessed the departure of the Arrow; so, as the ship was a wonderful novelty to him in addition, he determined to hasten out to the point of land at the north of the harbor's mouth and obtain a nearer view of the boat, as well as to learn, if possible, the direction of its flight. Swinging through the trees with great speed, he reached the point only a moment after the ship had passed out of the harbor, so that he obtained an excellent view of the wonders of this strange, floating house. There were some twenty men running hither and thither about the deck, pulling and hauling on ropes. A light land breeze was blowing, and the ship had been worked through the harbor's mouth under scant sail, but now that they had cleared the point every available shred of canvas was being spread that she might stand out to sea as handily as possible. Tarzan watched the graceful movements of the ship in rapt admiration, and longed to be aboard her. Presently his keen eyes caught the faintest suspicion of smoke on the far


cave hadn’t been used in a while, there was more dust in the stale air that escaped, but the cold, familiar darkness was welcome nonetheless. She opened her flashlight app and shined it in front of her, noting that August was right. The stairs were treacherous. But they were dry and the handrail wasn’t rusted as it was outside. She felt safe enough to venture inside, descending slowly into the underground. “Natalie . . . ” August said thickly. “Hold on. I think I should go first.” “I promise you, it’s okay. I’m not scared of a bat or two.” “Bats?” “Sure. They love caves. You could have a whole colony down here—” “You’re going too fast. Slow down.” Ignoring his odd tone, Natalie swung the flashlight left and revealed a long, oval-shaped room. Cobweb-covered racks lined the wall, empty, and discarded bottles of wine littered the stone floor. More darkness lay beyond in what looked to be a second, smaller room. “Oh my gosh, this is incredible, August. You could fix this up and have private parties down here. Or you could make it a storage room. There are so many different techniques . . .” She trailed off when she realized August hadn’t answered her in a while. Pausing midway down the stairs, she turned, using her flashlight to illuminate his face—and found him white as a ghost. His eyes were closed, sweat clinging to his forehead. “August,” she breathed, alarm gripping her windpipe. “I’m sorry. I don’t like this. I don’t . . .” He reached for the center of his chest, almost like he expected something to be there. Then he smacked at his waist, his outer thigh. Searching for a gun, she realized. Obviously coming up empty. That was when the situation they were in started to register differently. They were in near total darkness, traveling into an unfamiliar space. Did this remind him of being in battle? Did this remind him of . . . what happened to Sam? “Natalie, I just need you out of here, okay?” he rasped haltingly. “Yes. Yes, okay.” She started to retreat up the stairs as quickly as possible, but August met her halfway and scooped her into his arms, jogging the rest of the distance and into the sunlight. He took the outer concrete steps two at a time, at which point his legs just seemed to give out. Still holding her in his arms, he dropped into a kneel in a shaded patch of grass and instinctively, Natalie curled herself around him. She wrapped every available appendage around this shaking man and clung, moisture pooling in her eyes. “I’m sorry. Oh my God. I didn’t . . . it never occurred to me the cave might bring back bad memories—” “Of course it didn’t occur to you. It shouldn’t.” His voice just sort of unraveled into her shoulder. “I don’t want you thinking about terrible shit like that.” Natalie tightened her arms around his neck and slowly, slowly, he laid them down sideways in the grass and she


let me try again. Once I finished reading your letter—thank you for being so matterof-fact about this suicidal mission of yours; it’s not as if I had just begged you to marry me and might thus be inclined to some emotion about the whole thing—and once I had calmed down afterwards, I naturally set out for the tavern to petition the locals for assistance. Rather, I tried to set out; when I opened the cottage door a little avalanche of snow came tumbling in, sending me reeling backwards. Lovely: it had blizzarded in the night, so much that a drift was piled halfway up the door. I collected myself and went hurrying down the stairs too fast, tripped, and plunged face-first onto the snow-shrouded lawn. The wind was vicious—it was cold like I’d never felt before, not even in Ljosland. It took me a quarter of an hour just to wade down the lane, and by the time I reached the tavern, there was such a quantity of snow in my boots and sleeves that I was soaked through and shuddering. Such an enchanting place this is. Fortunately, Aud and Thora were both in attendance, as well as sundry village youths, having been bestirred from their beds to dig out the village. Aud seemed concerned by my appearance, saying something about my colouring, and it was only then that I noticed I’d forgotten to don my cloak before stepping out into the arctic chill. Aud and Thora kept trying to herd me to the fire, talking endlessly about tea and breakfast, ignoring my protestations, which were rather garbled on account of my lips being turned to ice, until finally I took up the breakfast tray and hurled it against the wall, whereupon it shattered into a plume of leaves and pine cones (I did not mean to do this, only my magic was flaring erratically). I feel rather badly about that now—I believe I scared them, though Aud didn’t show it, merely shoved me into a fireside chair with more force than necessary. “I don’t want tea,” I informed her when she pressed a mug into my hand. “Either drink it or have it emptied over your head, you mad faerie,” she replied, flinging a blanket in my face. It was a struggle to hold the mug, and I realized then the state I was in. I am so cut off from my own forests and lakes here in this land of winter, and it weakens me terribly. The tips of my fingers were blue, probably my nose also. Aud must have thought I was dying. Shadow padded up to me and put his head on my knee, all forgiven, as it always is with dogs. If I frightened my cat as I had Shadow, she’d ignore me for days, or possibly put a curse on me, but then cats have self-respect. Eventually, I was able to speak coherently again. By that time, most of Hrafnsvik had assembled in the tavern, the populace having sensed that something was afoot in that osmotic


Baker, that child grew up never knowing that his real mother was a murderer.” “And you’re punishing Virginia because of that fact.” “She deserves punishment! After what she did, a price needed to be paid. But I’m protecting her, too. I always have. Think about what would happen to a woman in her condition if the police learned what she’d done.” I shake my head. That’s not a good enough reason. Especially when, other than trying to hang herself, there’s nothing to suggest Virginia killed her parents. “Why are you so certain she did it? What about Ricardo Mayhew?” “What about him?” “He and Virginia were having an affair,” I say. “He was the baby’s father. And Berniece Mayhew followed him here that night.” Lenora laughs. The last reaction I’d expected. There’s nothing remotely funny about the fact that she’s blamed her sister for murders she might not have committed. Yet Lenora keeps laughing, a low chuckle that’s more disbelieving than amused. “That’s impossible,” she says. “Why?” I hear footsteps on the service stairs. A second later, Archie emerges into the kitchen. I have no idea how long he’s been there or how much he’s heard. All I know is it was long enough for him to answer my question. “Because Ricardo was with me that night.” It takes me a second to understand what he’s getting at. When I do, all I can say is, “Oh. The two of you were—” “Lovers,” Archie says, sparing me from having to say it. In the span of seconds, I think of a dozen follow-up questions. Archie doesn’t give me time to ask a single one. “I was as surprised as you are now,” he says. “For one, he was married, although in those days and in my limited experience, that was usually the case. It’s not like today, which allows for slightly more freedom. Back then, it had to be kept secret. Especially for someone like me. I was barely eighteen. One wrong move and my whole life could have been ruined.” Archie tells me how he and Ricardo met in secret, sneaking away whenever they could. It wasn’t easy. Ricardo shared the cottage with his wife. Archie lived in one of the rooms over the garage, which is where they usually met. “We called it our love nest.” Archie allows himself a brief smile of fondness before it fades into a frown. “It’s where we were the night of the murders.” It turns out Berniece had been wrong about her husband trying to throw her off his trail by going to the garage first before sneaking into the mansion through the front door. Then again, Berniece had been wrong about many things, including who her husband was really having an affair with. “Since everyone had been given the night off and Berniece had gone to the movies, we knew we had a few hours just to ourselves,” Archie says. “But Ricardo was upset. He said Berniece confronted him about having an affair with Lenora.” Lenora chimes in. “Which was utterly ridiculous. I


not fall ill for a trifle; and that sort of people should not, either. It's hard work bring- ing them through fevers and such things. How did it begin?" "The master will inform you," I answered; "but you are acquainted with the Earnshaws' violent dis- positions, and Mrs. Linton caps them all. I may say this; it commenced in a quarrel. She was struck during a tempest of passion with a kind of fit. That's her account, at least, for she flew off in the height of it, and locked herself up. Afterwards she refused to eat, and now she alternately raves and remains in a half dream, knowing those about her, but having her mind filled with all sorts of strange ideas and illusions." "Mr. Linton will be sorry?" observed Kenneth in- terrogatively. "Sorry? He'll break his heart should anything hap- pen!" I replied. "Don't alarm him more than necessary." "Well, I told him to beware," said my companion; "and he must bide the consequences of neglecting my warning. Hasn't he been intimate with Mr. Heathcliff lately?" "Heathcliff frequently visits at the Grange," an- swered I, "though more on the strength of the mistress having known him when a boy than because the master likes his company. At present he's discharged from the trouble of calling, owing to some presumptuous aspira- tions after Miss Linton which he manifested. I hardly think he'll be taken in again." "And does Miss Linton turn a cold shoulder on him?" was the doctor's next question. "I'm not in her confidence," returned I, reluctant to continue the subject. "No; she's a sly one," he remarked, shaking his head. "She keeps her own counsel. But she's a real little fool. I have it from good authority that last night (and a pretty night it was) she and Heathcliff were walking in the plantation at the back of your house above two hours; and he pressed her not to go in again, but just mount his horse and away with him. My informant said she could only put him off by pledging her word of honour to be prepared on their first meeting after that. When it was to be, he didn't hear; but you urge Mr. Linton to look sharp." This news filled me with fresh fears. I outstripped Kenneth, and ran most of the way back. The little dog was yelping in the garden yet. I spared a minute to open the gate for it, but instead of going to the house door, it coursed up and down snuffing the grass, and would have escaped to the road had I not seized and conveyed it in with me. On ascending to Isabella's room my suspicions were confirmed. It was empty. Had I been a few hours sooner, Mrs. Linton's illness might have arrested her rash step. But what could be done now? There was a bare possibility of overtaking them if pursued instantly. I could not pursue them, however; and I dare not rouse the family, and fill the place with confusion---still less unfold the business


Again, I yelped with laughter. It was like Pa saying he couldn’t just tell

his valet what to do.

Willy said I was a fine one to talk about cooperating with the press.

What about my chat with Oprah?

A month earlier Meg and I had done an interview with Oprah Winfrey.

(Days before it aired, those Meg-is-a-bully stories started popping up in

the papers—what a coincidence!) Since leaving Britain, the attacks on us

had been increasing exponentially. We had to try something to make it

stop. Being silent wasn’t working. It was only making it worse. We felt we

had no choice.

Several close mates and beloved figures in my life, including one of

Hugh and Emilie’s sons, Emilie herself, and even Tiggy, had chastised me

for Oprah. How could you reveal such things? About your family? I told

them that I failed to see how speaking to Oprah was any different from

what my family and their staffs, had done for decades—briefing the press

on the sly, planting stories. And what about the endless books on which

they’d cooperated, starting with Pa’s 1994 crypto-autobiography with

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https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t. me/Afghansalarlibrary

Jonathan Dimbleby? Or Camilla’s collaborations with the editor Geordie

Greig? The only difference was that Meg and I were upfront about it. We

chose an interviewer who was above reproach, and we didn’t once hide

behind phrases like “Palace sources,” we let people see the words coming

out of our mouths.

I looked at the Gothic ruin. What’s the point? I thought. Pa and Willy

weren’t hearing me and I wasn’t hearing them. They’d never had a

satisfactory explanation for their actions and inactions, and never would,

because there was no explanation. I started to say goodbye, good luck, take

care, but Willy was really steaming, shouting that if things were as bad as I

made out, then it was my fault for never asking for help.

You never came to us! You never came to me!

Since boyhood that had been Willy’s position on everything. I must

come to him. Pointedly, directly, formally—bend


to ask him why he had done such a queer thing. "People never like me and I never like people," she thought. "And I never can talk as the Crawford children could. They were always talking and laughing and making noises." She thought of the robin and of the way he seemed to sing his song at her, and as she remembered the tree-top he perched on she stopped rather suddenly on the path. "I believe that tree was in the secret garden--I feel sure it was," she said. "There was a wall round the place and there was no door." She walked back into the first kitchen-garden she had entered and found the old man digging there. She went and stood beside him and watched him a few moments in her cold little way. He took no notice of her and so at last she spoke to him. "I have been into the other gardens," she said. "There was nothin' to prevent thee," he answered crustily. "I went into the orchard." "There was no dog at th' door to bite thee," he answered. "There was no door there into the other garden," said Mary. "What garden?" he said in a rough voice, stopping his digging for a moment. "The one on the other side of the wall," answered Mistress Mary. "There are trees there--I saw the tops of them. A bird with a red breast was sitting on one of them and he sang." To her surprise the surly old weather-beaten face actually changed its expression. A slow smile spread over it and the gardener looked quite different. It made her think that it was curious how much nicer a person looked when he smiled. She had not thought of it before. He turned about to the orchard side of his garden and began to whistle--a low soft whistle. She could not understand how such a surly man could make such a coaxing sound. Almost the next moment a wonderful thing happened. She heard a soft little rushing flight through the air--and it was the bird with the red breast flying to them, and he actually alighted on the big clod of earth quite near to the gardener's foot. "Here he is," chuckled the old man, and then he spoke to the bird as if he were speaking to a child. "Where has tha' been, tha' cheeky little beggar?" he said. "I've not seen thee before today. Has tha, begun tha' courtin' this early in th' season? Tha'rt too forrad." The bird put his tiny head on one side and looked up at him with his soft bright eye which was like a black dewdrop. He seemed quite familiar and not the least afraid. He hopped about and pecked the earth briskly, looking for seeds and insects. It actually gave Mary a queer feeling in her heart, because he was so pretty and cheerful and seemed so like a person. He had a tiny plump body and a delicate beak, and slender delicate legs. "Will he always come when you call


Tess?" "He has married her," Joan whispered. "Go inside." Clare saw her efforts for reticence, and asked---- "Do you think Tess would wish me to try and find her? If not, of course----" "I don't think she would." "Are you sure?" "I am sure she wouldn't." He was turning away; and then he thought of Tess's tender letter. "I am sure she would!" he retorted passionately. "I know her better than you do." "That's very likely, sir; for I have never really known her." "Please tell me her address, Mrs Durbeyfield, in kindness to a lonely wretched man!" Tess's mother again restlessly swept her cheek with her vertical hand, and seeing that he suffered, she at last said, is a low voice---- "She is at Sandbourne." "Ah--where there? Sandbourne has become a large place, they say." "I don't know more particularly than I have said-- Sandbourne. For myself, I was never there." It was apparent that Joan spoke the truth in this, and he pressed her no further. "Are you in want of anything?" he said gently. "No, sir," she replied. "We are fairly well provided for." Without entering the house Clare turned away. There was a station three miles ahead, and paying off his coachman, he walked thither. The last train to Sandbourne left shortly after, and it bore Clare on its wheels. LV At eleven o'clock that night, having secured a bed at one of the hotels and telegraphed his address to his father immediately on his arrival, he walked out into the streets of Sandbourne. It was too late to call on or inquire for any one, and he reluctantly postponed his purpose till the morning. But he could not retire to rest just yet. This fashionable watering-place, with its eastern and its western stations, its piers, its groves of pines, its promenades, and its covered gardens, was, to Angel Clare, like a fairy place suddenly created by the stroke of a wand, and allowed to get a little dusty. An outlying eastern tract of the enormous Egdon Waste was close at hand, yet on the very verge of that tawny piece of antiquity such a glittering novelty as this pleasure city had chosen to spring up. Within the space of a mile from its outskirts every irregularity of the soil was prehistoric, every channel an undisturbed British trackway; not a sod having been turned there since the days of the Caesars. Yet the exotic had grown here, suddenly as the prophet's gourd; and had drawn hither Tess. By the midnight lamps he went up and down the winding way of this new world in an old one, and could discern between the trees and against the stars the lofty roofs, chimneys, gazebos, and towers of the numerous fanciful residences of which the place was composed. It was a city of detached mansions; a Mediterranean lounging-place on the English Channel; and as seen now by night it seemed even more imposing than it was. The sea was near at hand, but not intrusive; it murmured, and he thought it


its shelter by the wind, which had all day blown strong and full from the south, without, however, bringing a speck of rain. Instead of subsiding as night drew on, it seemed to augment its rush and deepen its roar; the trees blew steadfastly one way, never writhing round, and scarcely tossing back their boughs once in an hour, so continuous was the strain bending their branchy heads northward; the clouds drifted from pole to pole, fast following, mass on mass; no glimpse of blue sky had been visible that July day.     It was not without a certain wild pleasure I ran before the wind, delivering my trouble of mind to the measureless air-torrent thundering through space. Descending the laurel-walk, I faced the wreck of the chestnut-tree; it stood up, black and riven; the trunk, split down the center, gasped ghastly. The cloven halves were not broken from each other, for the firm base and strong roots kept them unsundered below; though community of vitality was destroyed the sap could flow no more; their great boughs on each side were dead, and next winter's tempests would be sure to fell one or both to earth; as yet, however, they might be said to form one tree a ruin, but an entire ruin.     "You did right to hold fast to each other," I said; as if the monster-splinters were living things, and could hear me. "I think, scathed as you look, and charred and scorched, there must be a little sense of life in you yet, rising out of that adhesion at the faithful, honest roots; you will never have green leaves more never more see birds making nests and singing idyls in your boughs; the time of pleasure and love is over with you; but you are not desolate: each of you has a comrade to sympathize with him in his decay." As I looked up at them, the moon appeared momentarily in that part of the sky which filled their fissure; her disk was blood-red and half overcast; she seemed to throw on me one bewildered, dreary glance, and buried herself again instantly in the deep drift of cloud. The wind fell, for a second, round Thornfield; but far away over wood and water, poured a wild, melancholy wail; it was sad to listen to, and I ran off again.     Here and there I strayed through the orchard, gathered up the apples with which the grass round the tree-roots was thickly strewn; then I employed myself in dividing the ripe from the unripe; I carried them into the house and put them away in the store-room. Then I repaired to the library to ascertain whether the fire was lit; for, though summer, I knew on such a gloomy evening Mr. Rochester would like to see a cheerful hearth when he came in; yes, the fire had been kindled some time, and burned well. I placed his arm-chair by the chimney-corner; I wheeled the table near it; I let down