Mummy the day of my birth: Wonderful! Now you’ve given me an

Heir and a Spare—my work is done. A joke. Presumably. On the other hand,

minutes after delivering this bit of high comedy, Pa was said to have gone

off to meet with his girlfriend. So. Many a true word spoken in jest.

I took no offense. I felt nothing about it, any of it. Succession was like the

weather, or the positions of the planets, or the turn of the seasons. Who had

the time to worry about things so unchangeable? Who could bother with

being bothered by a fate etched in stone? Being a Windsor meant working

out which truths were timeless, and then banishing them from your mind. It

meant absorbing the basic parameters of one’s identity, knowing by instinct

who you were, which was forever a byproduct of who you weren’t.

I wasn’t Granny.

I wasn’t Pa.

I wasn’t Willy.

I was third in line behind them.

Every boy and girl, at least once, imagines themselves as a prince or

princess. Therefore, Spare or no Spare, it wasn’t half bad to actually be one.

More, standing resolutely behind the people you loved, wasn’t that the

definition of honor?

Of love?

Like bowing to Victoria as you passed?

18

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3.

EXT TO MY BEDROOM was a Sort of round sitting room. Round table, wall

mirror, writing desk, fireplace with cushioned hearth surround. In the

far corner stood a great big wooden door that led to a bathroom. The

two marble basins looked like prototypes for the first basins ever

manufactured. Everything at Balmoral was either old or made to look so.

The castle was a playground, a hunting lodge, but also a stage.

The bathroom was dominated by a claw-footed tub, and even the water

spurting from its taps seemed old. Not in a bad way. Old like the lake where

Merlin helped Arthur find his magic sword. Brownish, suggestive


garden was empty--except for the robin who had just flown across the wall and sat on a standard rose-bush watching her. "He's gone," she said woefully. "Oh! was he--was he--was he only a wood fairy?" Something white fastened to the standard rose-bush caught her eye. It was a piece of paper, in fact, it was a piece of the letter she had printed for Martha to send to Dickon. It was fastened on the bush with a long thorn, and in a minute she knew Dickon had left it there. There were some roughly printed letters on it and a sort of picture. At first she could not tell what it was. Then she saw it was meant for a nest with a bird sitting on it. Underneath were the printed letters and they said: "I will cum bak." CHAPTER XIII "I AM COLIN" Mary took the picture back to the house when she went to her supper and she showed it to Martha. "Eh!" said Martha with great pride. "I never knew our Dickon was as clever as that. That there's a picture of a missel thrush on her nest, as large as life an' twice as natural." Then Mary knew Dickon had meant the picture to be a message. He had meant that she might be sure he would keep her secret. Her garden was her nest and she was like a missel thrush. Oh, how she did like that queer, common boy! She hoped he would come back the very next day and she fell asleep looking forward to the morning. But you never know what the weather will do in Yorkshire, particularly in the springtime. She was awakened in the night by the sound of rain beating with heavy drops against her window. It was pouring down in torrents and the wind was "wuthering" round the corners and in the chimneys of the huge old house. Mary sat up in bed and felt miserable and angry. "The rain is as contrary as I ever was," she said. "It came because it knew I did not want it." She threw herself back on her pillow and buried her face. She did not cry, but she lay and hated the sound of the heavily beating rain, she hated the wind and its "wuthering." She could not go to sleep again. The mournful sound kept her awake because she felt mournful herself. If she had felt happy it would probably have lulled her to sleep. How it "wuthered" and how the big raindrops poured down and beat against the pane! "It sounds just like a person lost on the moor and wandering on and on crying," she said. She had been lying awake turning from side to side for about an hour, when suddenly something made her sit up in bed and turn her head toward the door listening. She listened and she listened. "It isn't the wind now," she said in a loud whisper. "That isn't the wind. It is different. It is that crying I heard before." The door


it kept his emotions alive (gold's value changes again). Silas feels cut off from life--yet life is beginning to reach out to him. His loss has changed his reputation in town; now people feel sorry for him. Eliot talks about how clumsy such kindness can be--but it's still well meant. Her first dramatized example is of Mr. Macey, stopping by the cottage to chat. Listen to his typical thoughtless speech as if you were Silas--which phrases would make you wince? Silas, however, sits there dumbly, too crushed to respond. The next caller, Dolly Winthrop, is more sensitive. Her role in Raveloe is as a nurse, mourner, and sympathizer. She puts up with her husband Ben's sharp jokes, but her natural inclination is toward sad, serious matters. She's drawn to the cottage by Silas' suffering. NOTE: CHURCH-GOING Both Mr. Macey and Dolly think it's important for Silas to start going to church, Neither one, however, is pushing religion on him. Going to church is important for Raveloers because it is neighborly. It isn't necessary to go every week, Eliot tells you, but it is important to go on holy days, when the sacrament (communion) is given. This forms a bond with others in the community. Notice how important the outward forms of church-going are to both of them. Compare the Raveloe attitude toward church-going to your community's attitude. How are they different? How are they alike? When Dolly knocks at Silas' door, Eliot describes his reaction to this visit in more detail than she did with Mr. Macey's. A need for other people is faintly stirring in Silas. Dolly offers him her homemade lard-cakes, speaking gently. Dolly is surprised that Silas can read the letters she traced on the tops of the--I.H.S.-which she copied from the pulpit-cloth at church. Though Dolly doesn't know the formal meaning of these letters (they stand for the Greek spelling of "Jesus"), she has the spirit right. Silas, on the other hand, can read, but these letters weren't part of his church's rituals so he can't understand their spirit. Similarly, he doesn't understand the meaning of church bells, which weren't rung in Lantern-Yard. His sect referred to worship as "chapel," so he doesn't even share the meaning of the word "church" with Dolly. Then Dolly expresses the spirit of her religion--a faith that comforts her through life's troubles. She trusts in God and Heaven, although her concept is almost pagan--she sees a group of divinities, "Them as are above us." This is totally different from the religion Silas knew, and he can't even imagine it. Silas has a hard time communicating with Dolly because he isn't used to talking with people. Yet he's trying. Dolly has brought her little boy Aaron with her, and Silas quietly offers him some cake. Dolly thinks it's good for Silas to have contact with a child (watch for another child to enter his life soon). But short-sighted Silas can hardly see Aaron's face--he's still withdrawn from humanity. Aaron sings a Christmas carol, but Silas' ears aren't used to music--just as his soul


from Lionel Reiter’s time at Yale. Rudolph Kittscher had served as Virgil then, but while his Daemonologie had been allowed to remain, his diaries were gone. All part of the cleanup job. Even so, Dawes was thrilled with the protection spell Mercy had found. It needed only ingredients from Lethe’s stores, and she thought they could manage it in Hiram’s Crucible. She gave them each a list of supplies to gather, and they spent the next hour in the dim light of the armory, searching the small drawers and glass cabinets, disturbed by nothing except Tripp humming frat rock and occasionally yelping when he touched something he wasn’t supposed to. “Why do you even have this stuff?” Tripp complained, sucking on his finger after a locket that had belonged to Jennie Churchill bit him. “Because someone has to keep it safe,” Dawes said primly. “Please focus on your list and try not to blow anything up.” Tripp’s lower lip jutted out, but he went back to work, and a minute later he was singing “Under the Bridge” in a passable falsetto. Alex didn’t have the heart to tell him she’d gladly spend the next two semesters in hell if it meant never hearing the Red Hot Chili Peppers again. The recipe was seemingly banal—a slew of herbs of protection, including sage, vervain, and mint, along with heaps of ground amethyst and black tourmaline, crow feathers bound with rosemary, and dried jackdaw eyes that struck the base of the crucible with a clatter like pebbles. With Turner’s help, Dawes removed several of the baseboards beneath the crucible, revealing a heap of coals. Dawes whispered a few words in Greek, and they glowed red, gently heating the bottom of the big golden bowl. “This is the greatest moment of my life,” Mercy said in a giddy whisper. “All of it comes with a price tag,” Alex warned. Those coals never cooled completely, never extinguished, never needed replenishing. They’d been used by Union Pacific to take dominance over the rails, and the creation of each briquette had required a human sacrifice. No one knew whose blood had been shed to create them, but the suspicion was working men, immigrants from Ireland, China, Finland. Men whom no one would come looking for. The coals had arrived at Yale through William Averell Harriman, Bonesman. Most of the coals had been lost or stolen, but these remained, another cursed gift to Lethe, another bloody map hidden in a basement. “We have enough supplies to do this once,” Dawes said as Alex and Mercy hefted sacks of salt from Prahova and the secret chamber at Zipaquirá and tipped them into the crucible. “Can someone get me an ash paddle?” Tripp snorted, then blurted a hasty sorry when Dawes glared at him. Alex found the glass cabinet hung with everything from a Model 1873 Winchester that carried the doom Sarah Winchester was so certain had followed her out to California; a broomstick that dated back to a Scottish witch-burning in the 1600s, charred black but unharmed by the pyre; what


I put on the hat I bought for five dollars on the boardwalk. Back in Seattle, I’d be wearing at least five layers. “Unless . . .” I break off with a gasp. “Does this mean you finally quit?” She pretends to be very interested in adjusting her sunbed. “Not exactly,” she says. “I, um, took on two new clients?” “Noemie.” Her sad smile reminds me of how she looked when she told me she wasn’t going to study journalism anymore. That public relations was a better fit for her, and the journalism job market terrified her. “I know. I’m going to do it. After this project. I swear.” She takes a sip of her margarita. “So. Spill it. I know you didn’t ask me to fly out here just because you miss me.” I wait a moment, worrying the frayed edge of my towel before dropping it in the sand beneath us. The beach has emptied out a bit, families collecting their sunburned children and twentysomethings trading the ocean for Miami nightlife. “It’s complicated.” All day, this secret has felt too heavy, and suddenly I feel like I might collapse with the weight of it. A few deep, cleansing breaths, the kind we learned how to do when Noemie dragged me to aerial yoga last year. “Do you remember the guy I hooked up with in September? Right before I met Finn and took this job?” “The worst sex of your life.” “Right. And remember how I had no idea who Finn was at first . . .” I trail off, hoping she’ll connect the dots so I don’t have to say it out loud. Her eyes grow wide as she twists in her chair. “No. No. That’s not—tell me they weren’t the same person, Chandler.” I drape my towel over my head. “He gave me a fake name. Neither of us knew who the other was until that lunch in Seattle.” “You slept with Oliver Huxley,” she says slowly. “Holy. Shit.” “There was absolutely nothing holy about it,” I say, my voice half muffled by the towel. She reaches forward, snatching the towel away and shaking her head in disbelief. “I’m sorry, my brain is rewriting everything it’s ever assumed about Finn Walsh, cinnamon roll nerd of my dreams. This is absolutely devastating.” “It’s been killing me, not telling anyone.” “And you still wanted to work on this book? It’s been okay? Because as much as I’ve missed you, I’ve been really, really happy that you’re doing this.” I chew on my straw, wondering what that means specifically. “We agreed we weren’t going to talk about it, that it was firmly in the past. But then I wound up telling him what that night was like for me, and it evolved into this joke that maybe wasn’t a joke at all, about me helping him improve his technique in bed. And, well . . .” “You’re giving Finnegan Walsh sex tips?” Noemie nearly falls off her sunbed. “I’ve never been happier or more shocked to be related to you.” “And


cat's meat! The wine was Golden Mediasch, which produces a queer sting on the tongue, which is, however, not disagreeable. I had only a couple of glasses of this, and nothing else. When I got on the coach, the driver had not taken his seat, and I saw him talking to the landlady. They were evidently talking of me, for every now and then they looked at me, and some of the people who were sitting on the bench outside the door-- came and listened, and then looked at me, most of them pityingly. I could hear a lot of words often repeated, queer words, for there were many nationalities in the crowd, so I quietly got my polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked them out. I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them were "Ordog"--Satan, "Pokol"--hell, "stregoica"--witch, "vrolok" and "vlkoslak"--both mean the same thing, one being Slovak and the other Servian for something that is either werewolf or vampire. (Mem., I must ask the Count about these superstitions.) When we started, the crowd round the inn door, which had by this time swelled to a considerable size, all made the sign of the cross and pointed two fingers towards me. With some difficulty, I got a fellow passenger to tell me what they meant. He would not answer at first, but on learning that I was English, he explained that it was a charm or guard against the evil eye. This was not very pleasant for me, just starting for an unknown place to meet an unknown man. But everyone seemed so kind-hearted, and so sorrowful, and so sympathetic that I could not but be touched. I shall never forget the last glimpse which I had of the inn yard and its crowd of picturesque figures,all crossing themselves, as they stood round the wide archway, with its background of rich foliage of oleander and orange trees in green tubs clustered in the centre of the yard. Then our driver, whose wide linen drawers covered the whole front of the boxseat,--"gotza" they call them--cracked his big whip over his four small horses, which ran abreast, and we set off on our journey. I soon lost sight and recollection of ghostly fears in the beauty of the scene as we drove along, although had I known the language, or rather languages, which my fellow-passengers were speaking, I might not have been able to throw them off so easily. Before us lay a green sloping land full of forests and woods, with here and there steep hills, crowned with clumps of trees or with farmhouses, the blank gable end to the road. There was everywhere a bewildering mass of fruit blossom-- apple, plum, pear, cherry. And as we drove by I could see the green grass under the trees spangled with the fallen petals. In and out amongst these green hills of what they call here the "Mittel Land" ran the road, losing itself as it swept round the grassy curve, or was shut out by the straggling ends


on. She called her foul names. "What did you say to my uncle Heinrich, Frau Professor?" the girl asked, suddenly falling from her attitude of flaunting independence. "Oh, he'll tell you himself. I expect to get a letter from him tomorrow." Next day, in order to make the humiliation more public, at supper she called down the table to Cacilie. "I have had a letter from your uncle, Cacilie. You are to pack your things tonight, and we will put you in the train tomorrow morning. He will meet you himself in Berlin at the Central Bahnhof." "Very good, Frau Professor." Herr Sung smiled in the Frau Professor's eyes, and notwithstanding her protests insisted on pouring out a glass of wine for her. The Frau Professor ate her supper with a good appetite. But she had triumphed unwisely. Just before going to bed she called the servant. "Emil, if Fraulein Cacilie's box is ready you had better take it downstairs tonight. The porter will fetch it before breakfast." The servant went away and in a moment came back. "Fraulein Cacilie is not in her room, and her bag has gone." With a cry the Frau Professor hurried along: the box was on the floor, strapped and locked; but there was no bag, and neither hat nor cloak. The dressing-table was empty. Breathing heavily, the Frau Professor ran downstairs to the Chinaman's rooms, she had not moved so quickly for twenty years, and Emil called out after her to beware she did not fall; she did not trouble to knock, but burst in. The rooms were empty. The luggage had gone, and the door into the garden, still open, showed how it had been got away. In an envelope on the table were notes for the money due on the month's board and an approximate sum for extras. Groaning, suddenly overcome by her haste, the Frau Professor sank obesely on to a sofa. There could be no doubt. The pair had gone off together. Emil remained stolid and unmoved. CHAPTER XXXI HAYWARD, after saying for a month that he was going South next day and delaying from week to week out of inability to make up his mind to the bother of packing and the tedium of a journey, had at last been driven off just before Christmas by the preparations for that festival. He could not support the thought of a Teutonic merry-making. It gave him goose-flesh to think of the season's aggressive cheerfulness, and in his desire to avoid the obvious he determined to travel on Christmas Eve. Philip was not sorry to see him off, for he was a downright person and it irritated him that anybody should not know his own mind. Though much under Hayward's influence, he would not grant that indecision pointed to a charming sensitiveness; and he resented the shadow of a sneer with which Hayward looked upon his straight ways. They corresponded. Hayward was an admirable letter-writer, and knowing his talent took pains with his letters. His temperament was receptive to the beautiful influences with


after the Downfall of Nmenor and the Changing of the World. 348-9 Strongbow Translation of Cthalion, name of Beleg. Slimo Name of Manw, rendered in the Valaquenta as 'Lord of the Breath of Arda' (literally 'the Breather'). 18, 35, 95 Swanhaven See Alqualond. Swarthy Men See Easterlings. 189 Talath Dirnen The Guarded Plain, north of Nargothrond. 176, 203, 208, 252, 258, 261 Talath Rhunen 'The East Vale', earlier name of Thargelion. 148 Taniquetil 'High White Peak', highest of the mountains of the Pelri and the highest mountain of Arda, upon whose summit are Ilmarin, the mansions of Manw and Varda; also called the White Mountain, the Holy Mountain, and the Mountain of Manw. See Oioloss, 19, 32, 35, 47, 51, 65, 81-4, 88, 93, 96, 129, 307, 344, 348 Tar-Ancalimon Fourteenth King of Nmenor, in whose time the Nmenreans became divided into opposed parties. 328 Taras Mountain on a promontory of Nevrast; beneath it was Vinyamar, the dwelling of Turgon before he went to Gondolin. 140, 295 Tar-Atanamir Thirteenth King of Nmenor, to whom the Messengers of the Valar came. 327-8 Tar-Calion Quenya name of Ar-Pharazn. 333, 359 Tar-Ciryatan Twelfth King of Nmenor 'the Shipbuilder'. 327 Tar-Elendil Fourth King of Nmenor, father of Silmarien, from whom Elendil was descended. 331 Tar-Minastir Eleventh King of Nmenor, who aided Gil-galad against Sauron. 329-30, 332 Tar-Minyatur Name of Elros Half-elven as first King of Nmenor. 336 Tar-Mriel See Mriel (2). Tarn Aeluin The lake on Dorthonion where Barahir and his companions made their lair, and where they were slain. 195-6 Tar-Palantir Twenty-third King of Nmenor, who repented of the ways of the Kings, and took his name in Quenya: 'He who looks afar'. See Inziladn. 332, 337 Taur-en-Faroth The wooded highlands to the west of the river Narog above Nargothrond; also called the High Faroth. 134, 145, 203 Taur-im-Duinath 'The Forest between Rivers', name of the wild country south of the Andram between Sirion and Gelion. 147, 184 Taur-nu-Fuin Later name of Dorthonion: 'the Forest under Night'. Cf. Deldwath. 186, 206, 212, 215-6, 221, 223, 245, 253-6 Tauron 'The Forester' (translated in the Valaquenta 'Lord of Forests'), a name of Orom among the Sindar. Cf. Aldaron. 22 Teiglin A tributary of Sirion, rising in Ered Wethrin and bounding the Forest of Brethil on the south; see also Crossings of Teiglin. 142, 145, 176, 190, 245, 251, 261, 265, 271, 273,279, 284 Telchar The most renowned of the smiths of Nogrod, the maker of Angrist and (according to Aragorn in The Two Towers III 6) of Narsil. 107, 215 Telemnar Twenty-sixth King of Gondor. 368 Teleri The third and greatest of the three hosts of the Eldar on the westward journey from Cuivinen, led by Elw (Thingol) and Olw. Their own name for themselves was Lindar the Singers; the name Teleri the Last-comers, the Hindmost, was given to them by those before them on the march. Many of the Teleri did not leave Middle-earth; the Sindar and the Nandor were Telerin Elves in origin. 36, 54-7, 60-4, 71, 79-80, 83, 96-8, 101, 107, 111,117, 159-60, 164,


of Utumno, or has explored the darkness of the counsels of Melkor? Yet this is held true by the wise of Eressa, that all those of the Quendi who came into the hands of Melkor, ere Utumno was broken, were put there in prison, and by slow arts of cruelty were corrupted and enslaved; and thus did Melkor breed the hideous race of the Orcs in envy and mockery of the Elves, of whom they were afterwards the bitterest foes. For the Orcs had life and multiplied after the manner of the Children of Ilvatar; and naught that had life of its own, nor the semblance of life, could ever Melkor make since his rebellion in the Ainulindal before the Beginning: so say the wise. And deep in their dark hearts the Orcs loathed the Master whom they served in fear, the maker only of their misery. This it may be was the vilest deed of Melkor, and the most hateful to Ilvatar. Orom tarried a while among the Quendi, and then swiftly he rode back over land and sea to Valinor and brought the tidings to Valmar; and he spoke of the shadows that troubled Cuivinen. Then the Valar rejoiced, and yet they were in doubt amid their joy; and they debated long what counsel it were best to take for the guarding of the Quendi from the shadow of Melkor. But Orom returned at once to Middle-earth and abode with the Elves. Manw sat long in thought upon Taniquetil, and he sought the counsel of Ilvatar. And coming then down to Valmar he summoned the Valar to the Ring of Doom, and thither came even Ulmo from the Outer Sea. Then Manw said to the Valar: 'This is the counsel of Ilvatar in my heart: that we should take up again the mastery of Arda, at whatsoever cost, and deliver the Quendi from the shadow of Melkor.' Then Tulkas was glad; but Aul was grieved, foreboding the hurts of the world that must come of that strife. But the Valar made ready and came forth from Aman in strength of war, resolving to assault the fortresses of Melkor and make an end. Never did Melkor forget that this war was made for the sake of the Elves, and that they were the cause of his downfall. Yet they had no part in those deeds, and they know little of the riding of the might of the West against the North in the beginning of their days. Melkor met the onset of the Valar in the North-west of Middle-earth, and all that region was much broken. But the first victory of the hosts of the West was swift, and the servants of Melkor fled before them to Utumno. Then the Valar passed over Middle-earth, and they set a guard over Cuivinen; and thereafter the Quendi knew nothing of the great Battle of the Powers, save that the Earth shook and groaned beneath them, and the waters were moved, and in the north there were lights as of mighty fires. Long and


I check my phone’s weather app. “It’ll be sunny and hot tomorrow. We could sail then?” “Just because the house is selling,” Cleo says, “doesn’t mean this has to be the last time the six of us come here.” I try to smile encouragingly at Sabrina, but guilt spirals through me. I want so badly for this week to be perfect, to be good enough to compensate for the fact that it will be the last. Not just in this house but as a sixsome. Truce or not, I can’t be Wyn Connor’s friend. Sabrina’s gone quiet and sullen, and I know she’s already thinking about next week too. I clear my throat. “I have an idea.” “Matching tattoos,” Parth says. “So close,” I say. “It’s this thing I used to do as a kid because I hated my birthday.” Sabrina, a woman deeply devoted to the concept of a birthday month, audibly gasps. “It was hard to manage my expectations,” I explain. “And it seemed like something always went wrong.” A pipe burst and my parents had to put repairs on a credit card. Or Eloise was failing a class and needed a tutor. Or Dad’s second job called him in for a shift the night we were supposed to go out. No matter how much I told myself I didn’t need any big celebration, I always felt disappointed when things fell through, and then guilty because I knew how hard my parents were working to keep things going. “A couple days before I turned ten, I had this idea,” I say. “If I chose one thing I really wanted—and knew I could actually get—on my birthday, then no matter what else happened or didn’t, it’d be a good day. So I told my parents I wanted this Oreo cheesecake, and they got it for me, and my birthday was great.” This earns me crickets from the audience. “That,” Sabrina says, “is so incredibly sad.” “It’s nice!” I say. “It’s practical. I had a great birthday.” “Honey, it’s tragic,” Sabrina says, right as Parth says, “I’m emotionally scarred.” “I think you’re missing the point here,” I say. Sabrina sets her mug down. “Is the point that all parents invariably fuck up their children for life, and there’s no avoiding it, so we should really stop procreating rather than continuing to make one another miserable?” Cleo rolls her eyes. “Neither the point nor accurate.” “We can’t control how every little thing goes this week,” I say. “But it’s been amazing, and it’s going to keep being amazing. So maybe if each of us can choose one thing—one thing we must do or have or see or eat this week —then no matter what else, we’ll have that. The one thing that we really needed out of this week. And the week will be a success.” There’s a beat of silence as everyone considers. “It’s a good idea,” Wyn says. Across the table, his eyes meet mine. His overgrown hair is damp from the rain, tucked behind his ears. So many of his


about to fall victim to something poisonous. Just run-of-the-mill human kindness. When Joe finally came out, he saw me at the end of the hall and made his way in my direction. “What were you doing in there all that time?” I demanded. “She wasn’t feeling well, so I looked after her a little bit.” “She was feeling fine,” I said. “She was faking.” Joe nodded. “Probably, yeah. But I did get the feeling like she just needed somebody.” “Well, she can’t have you,” I said. Joe tilted his head. “She can’t?” “Trust me on this,” I said. “That girl is bad news.” “Did you wait here, dripping wet, in the hallway to tell me that?” Joe asked. “I waited here in the hallway,” I answered, glad to have a legitimate no, “because the lock to this door is broken. Again.” Joe frowned, and then he took it all in—me shivering, Peanut shivering, the door handle with its new shoe-dents. “Oh god, you’re freezing,” he said then, reaching out to touch my cheek. “You’re just now noticing that? My teeth have been chattering this whole time.” “Did you call Mr. Kim?” “Three messages. And three texts.” “Okay then,” Joe said, crooking his arm around my shoulders and steering me toward his door. “Come on.” * * * JOE’S APARTMENT WAS big. And penthouse-fancy. And top of the line: Viking range. Glass fridge. It made my hovel look even more hovelly. But also? The place was totally empty. By empty, I mean there was no furniture. At all. Except for a couple of barstools at the island and a mattress on the floor in the master bedroom … nothing. I saw it when Joe steered me into the master bathroom so I could take a hot shower. “What about Peanut?” I asked. Joe handed me a towel. “I’ll get him with the blow-dryer.” “Be careful,” I said. “He doesn’t like men.” “He likes me,” Joe said. “You don’t have a sofa, but you have a blow-dryer?” I said. That floppy hair of Joe’s definitely couldn’t require much maintenance. But Joe was already gone. While I showered—and can I just say that his shower was far, far superior to mine, so I stayed in way too long—Joe accomplished many things. He left a T-shirt, some heather-gray sweatpants, a big plaid bathrobe, and some oversize socks that fit like Christmas stockings folded by the door for me. He blow-dried Peanut, as promised, and then talked him into eating a few pieces of cold rotisserie chicken. He left a note on the rooftop door for Mr. Kim to call me or come by Joe’s place with any info on the lock. And he ordered takeout from an Italian place nearby that I just happened to love. Pretty impressive, all in all. When I emerged at last all layered up with my hair wrapped in a fluffy white towel, I was feeling a lot better. The food had already arrived, and he was unpacking the bag at the island in his empty kitchen. “Thank you for your


must have been disorderly," said Atticus. "What did it consist of?" "Got in a fight with another man, he tried to cut me." "Did he succeed?" "Yes suh, a little, not enough to hurt. You see, I-" Tom moved his left shoulder. "Yes," said Atticus. "You were both convicted?" "Yes suh, I had to serve 'cause I couldn't pay the fine. Other fellow paid his'n." Dill leaned across me and asked Jem what Atticus was doing. Jem said Atticus was showing the jury that Tom had nothing to hide. "Were you acquainted with Mayella Violet Ewell?" asked Atticus. "Yes suh, I had to pass her place goin' to and from the field every day." "Whose field?" "I picks for Mr. Link Deas." "Were you picking cotton in November?" "No suh, I works in his yard fall an' wintertime. I works pretty steady for him all year round, he's got a lot of pecan trees'n things." "You say you had to pass the Ewell place to get to and from work. Is there any other way to go?" "No suh, none's I know of." "Tom, did she ever speak to you?" "Why, yes suh, I'd tip m'hat when I'd go by, and one day she asked me to come inside the fence and bust up a chiffarobe for her." "When did she ask you to chop up the- the chiffarobe?" "Mr. Finch, it was way last spring. I remember it because it was choppin' time and I had my hoe with me. I said I didn't have nothin' but this hoe, but she said she had a hatchet. She give me the hatchet and I broke up the chiffarobe. She said, 'I reckon I'll hafta give you a nickel, won't I?' an' I said, 'No ma'am, there ain't no charge.' Then I went home. Mr. Finch, that was way last spring, way over a year ago." "Did you ever go on the place again?" "Yes suh." "When?" "Well, I went lots of times." Judge Taylor instinctively reached for his gavel, but let his hand fall. The murmur below us died without his help. "Under what circumstances?" "Please, suh?" "Why did you go inside the fence lots of times?" Tom Robinson's forehead relaxed. "She'd call me in, suh. Seemed like every time I passed by yonder she'd have some little somethin' for me to do- choppin' kindlin', totin' water for her. She watered them red flowers every day-" "Were you paid for your services?" "No suh, not after she offered me a nickel the first time. I was glad to do it, Mr. Ewell didn't seem to help her none, and neither did the chillun, and I knowed she didn't have no nickels to spare." "Where were the other children?" "They was always around, all over the place. They'd watch me work, some of 'em, some of 'em'd set in the window." "Would Miss Mayella talk to you?" "Yes sir, she talked to me." As Tom Robinson gave his testimony, it came to me that Mayella Ewell must have been the loneliest person in


something that will hurt. Candice is hardly some hulking, six-foot predator. She’s so tiny. Asian women are all so tiny. I sometimes looked at Athena and imagined someone easily scooping her up by the waist. She, and Candice, are like little porcelain dolls—how hard could they be to break? Candice shrieks as I crash into her. We land on the ground, limbs tangled. Something crunches—the cameras, I hope. “Get off of me!” She flings a fist at my face. But she’s punching from below; she’s got no momentum, and she’s not that strong to begin with. Her knuckles barely tap my chin. Still, she’s stronger than I imagined. I can’t keep her pinned down—she keeps thrashing beneath me, cursing and screaming, jabbing her palms and elbows at every part of me she can reach. I remember I’ve brought a Swiss Army knife and pepper spray, but there’s no time to unzip my belt; it’s all I can do to fend off her blows. It crosses my mind that we’re too close to the steps. We could both tumble, or she could kick me down, or I could— Fuck, no, what am I thinking? There are already people out there who think I murdered Athena. If the police found me at the base of the steps, standing over Candice’s shattered body—how would I explain that? A small voice whispers: Easily, that’s how. We were jogging. We’re both dressed for it; how hard would that be to believe? The steps were icy, it was raining, and Candice wasn’t watching her step. I’d definitely have time to stash the cameras before the EMTs got here. I could dump the whole backpack in the Potomac—or, no, that leaves too much to chance; it’s better that I hide it near Georgetown and retrieve it later. If Candice can’t talk, who’s going to suspect me? It’s fucked up, yes. But I could survive a murder investigation. I can’t survive what Candice will do to me if she walks out of here alive. Candice’s thrashes are getting weaker. She’s tiring out. I am, too, but I’m bigger, heavier; all I have to do is exhaust her. I pin her wrists to the ground, drive my knees against her chest. I don’t want to kill her. If I can just keep her still, if I can get the backpack off, then search her for any hidden recording devices—that’d be ideal; that way we can both walk out in one piece. But if not, if things come down to it— Candice shrieks and spits at my face. “Get off !” I don’t budge. “Just give it,” I pant. “Give it, and I’ll—” “You fucking bitch!” She bites my wrist. Pain shoots up my arm. I jerk back, shocked. She’s drawn blood—Jesus fucking Christ, it’s all over her teeth, all over my arm. Candice thrashes once more. My knees slip off her chest. She breaks loose, coils up, and kicks out at my stomach. Her foot lands with such force—so much more force than I thought possible from that tiny body. It


bitterness, and the memories of pleasure their pain. It was the creation of such worlds as these that seemed to Dorian Gray to be the true object, or among the true objects, of life; and in his search for sensations that would be at once new and delightful, and possess that element of strangeness that is so essential to romance, he would often adopt certain modes of thought that he knew to be really alien to his nature, abandon himself to their subtle influences, and then, having, as it were, caught their color and satisfied his intellectual curiosity, leave them with that curious indifference that is not incompatible with a real ardor of temperament, and that indeed, according to certain modern psychologists, is often a condition of it. It was rumored of him once that he was about to join the Roman Catholic communion; and certainly the Roman ritual had always a great attraction for him. The daily sacrifice, more awful really than all the sacrifices of the antique world, stirred him as much by its superb rejection of the evidence of the senses as by the primitive simplicity of its elements and the eternal pathos of the human tragedy that it sought to symbolize. He loved to kneel down on the cold marble pavement, and with the priest, in his stiff flowered cope, slowly and with white hands moving aside the veil of the tabernacle, and raising aloft the jewelled lantern-shaped monstrance with that pallid wafer that at times, one would fain think, is indeed the "panis caelestis," the bread of angels, or, robed in the garments of the Passion of Christ, breaking the Host into the chalice, and smiting his breast for his sins. The fuming censers, that the grave boys, in their lace and scarlet, tossed into the air like great gilt flowers, had their subtle fascination for him. As he passed out, he used to look with wonder at the black confessionals, and long to sit in the dim shadow of one of them and listen to men and women whispering through the tarnished grating the true story of their lives. But he never fell into the error of arresting his intellectual development by any formal acceptance of creed or system, or of mistaking, for a house in which to live, an inn that is but suitable for the sojourn of a night, or for a few hours of a night in which there are no stars and the moon is in travail. Mysticism, with its marvellous power of making common things strange to us, and the subtle antinomianism that always seems to accompany it, moved him for a season; and for a [69] season he inclined to the materialistic doctrines of the Darwinismus movement in Germany, and found a curious pleasure in tracing the thoughts and passions of men to some pearly cell in the brain, or some white nerve in the body, delighting in the conception of the absolute dependence of the spirit on certain physical conditions, morbid or healthy, normal or diseased. Yet, as has


them without my permission. I was better at hiding my diary, but my mother always found it eventually. No matter how many hours my parents might have spent wondering and watching me write, I’m willing to bet they didn’t give much thought to the notion that I might one day publish a memoir. I never quoted Czesław Miłosz to them—When a writer is born into a family, the family is finished—though I was tempted to do so, once or twice, as a joke. Of course, I wasn’t born into our family at all—a fact that always mattered more to me than it did to them. They saw my adoption as God’s handiwork, and therefore above questioning. This was a perspective I understood, but eventually could no longer share. As I grew older, I came to see my adoption as the way I joined my family; the most obvious explanation, if not the only one, for our many differences; the source of questions I would need a lifetime to understand. When the simple story I’d always known was no longer enough for me, when I began to reconsider what I’d been told about my origins and search for a far more complicated, long-buried truth, my parents did their best to listen and to support me. And yet for all the conversations we had about what was lost and gained through adoption—for all my certainty that it was never a single event in my past, but an ongoing, living story to be continually reckoned with—I had not considered how my experiences as an adoptee would tint the edges of my grief when I began to lose them. * * * On the one hand, writing is in my genes: my birth father is also a writer, and our family has nearly always had at least one writer or scholar in each generation, even at times when sending any children to school was a hardship. But sometimes I wonder if I would have become a writer were I not an adoptee. All my life, or at least as long as I have been able to speak for myself, I have had to decide whether and how to meet people’s questions about my family; I have been a teacher and a translator and a storyteller, even when I might not have wished to be. I think, too, that being adopted is partly what made me search for new words to express who I was, to make sense of what I saw, to build new worlds to escape to. When I began writing All You Can Ever Know, I told my parents about my plans. They were happy for me, if also a bit surprised. “You’re not famous,” my mother said. “Do you think anyone is going to read it?” I asked if she minded the idea of my writing the story of my adoption, and she told me she didn’t, though she added, half-joking, that I should “only say nice things” about our family. It’s daunting work, turning the people you love into characters in a


followed closely after her, and as he reconnoitered from the shadows of the doorway he saw that all the women of the village were hastening to and from the various huts with pots and kettles. These they were filling with water and placing over a number of fires near the stake where the dying victim now hung, an inert and bloody mass of suffering. Choosing a moment when none seemed near, Tarzan hastened to his bundle of arrows beneath the great tree at the end of the village street. As on the former occasion he overthrew the cauldron before leaping, sinuous and catlike, into the lower branches of the forest giant. Silently he climbed to a great height until he found a point where he could look through a leafy opening upon the scene beneath him. The women were now preparing the prisoner for their cooking pots, while the men stood about resting after the fatigue of their mad revel. Comparative quiet reigned in the village. Tarzan raised aloft the thing he had pilfered from the hut, and, with aim made true by years of fruit and coconut throwing, launched it toward the group of savages. Squarely among them it fell, striking one of the warriors full upon the head and felling him to the ground. Then it rolled among the women and stopped beside the half-butchered thing they were preparing to feast Chapter 11 upon. All gazed in consternation at it for an instant, and then, with one accord, broke and ran for their huts. It was a grinning human skull which looked up at them from the ground. The dropping of the thing out of the open sky was a miracle well aimed to work upon their superstitious fears. Thus Tarzan of the Apes left them filled with terror at this new manifestation of the presence of some unseen and unearthly evil power which lurked in the forest about their village. Later, when they discovered the overturned cauldron, and that once more their arrows had been pilfered, it commenced to dawn upon them that they had offended some great god by placing their village in this part of the jungle without propitiating him. From then on an offering of food was daily placed below the great tree from whence the arrows had disappeared in an effort to conciliate the mighty one. But the seed of fear was deep sown, and had he but known it, Tarzan of the Apes had laid the foundation for much future misery for himself and his tribe. That night he slept in the forest not far from the village, and early the next morning set out slowly on his homeward march, hunting as he traveled. Only a few berries and an occasional grub worm rewarded his search, and he was half famished when, looking up from a log he had been rooting beneath, he saw Sabor, the lioness, standing in the center of the trail not twenty paces from him. The great yellow eyes were fixed upon him with a wicked and baleful gleam, and


the one where the therapist spent years grooming her. It was the one where the senator, then a promising teenager, shoved his dick in the girl’s face. She was also a promising teenager. It was the one where the billionaire pushed the woman into the phone booth, but no one believed her. The one where the high school senior was acquitted of rape because the sophomore girl had shaved her pubic region, which somehow equaled consent. Oliver asked if I was hungry, and I shrugged. It was the one where the woman who stabbed her rapist with scissors was the one who ended up in jail. It was the one where the star had a secret button to lock the doors. Oliver called Foxie’s and ordered us a white pizza with sage, and a mushroom and onion pizza, and extra packets of red pepper flakes. I decided I was allowed to eat one slice of each. It was the one where the harasser ended up on the Supreme Court. It was the one where the rapist ended up on the Supreme Court. It was the one where the woman, shaking, testified all day on live TV and nothing happened. Anderson had moved on to other topics, but Oliver asked if I minded his switching over to MSNBC. I didn’t. I said, “I can’t believe there’s finally cable on campus. We used to get three channels.” Just to watch Beverly Hills, 90210, we had to have Dani Michalek’s mom tape it every Wednesday in Darien and mail it to us on VHS. The story was on MSNBC, too. The one where the judge said the swimmer was so promising. The one where the rapist reminded the judge of himself as a young rapist. It was the one where her body was never found. It was the one where her body was found in the snow. It was the one where he left her body for dead under the tarp. It was the one where she walked around in her skin and her bones for the rest of her life but her body was never recovered. You know the one. The pizza was at the door. Oliver found us plates. He said, “So who’s watching your kids while you’re here?” 12 I took forever to fall asleep, and then woke too early, stewing over whether you’d in fact been a “creeper.” The idea bothered me, and I needed to weigh it—a strange marble I found I was holding in my hand. There were kids who thought you were cute, or at least you were the answer if they had to confess a teacher they crushed on. The girls loved that your cheeks blotched red when you got up at colloquium to make announcements, and some boys did, too, I’m sure. Red cheeks and dark hair are a compelling combination. And you certainly had your cult, the kids who wouldn’t only stop by your classroom but would sign up to carol with you on the town green or to watch the screwball comedies you screened.


mean another trade with the baker, perhaps for two or three squirrels. As for the pudding, I can’t even guess what’s in it. Days of hunting and gathering for this one meal and even then it would be a poor substitution for the Capitol version. What must it be like, I wonder, to live in a world where food appears at the press of a button? How would I spend the hours I now commit to combing the woods for sustenance if it were so easy to come by? What do they do all day, these people in the Capitol, besides decorating their bodies and waiting around for a new shipment of tributes to roll in and die for their entertainment? I look up and find Cinna’s eyes trained on mine. “How des- picable we must seem to you,” he says. Has he seen this in my face or somehow read my thoughts? He’s right, though. The whole rotten lot of them is despicable. 65 “No matter,” says Cinna. “So, Katniss, about your costume for the opening ceremonies. My partner, Portia, is the stylist for your fellow tribute, Peeta. And our current thought is to dress you in complementary costumes,” says Cinna. “As you know, it’s customary to reflect the flavor of the district.” For the opening ceremonies, you’re supposed to wear something that suggests your district’s principal industry. Dis- trict 11, agriculture. District 4, fishing. District 3, factories. This means that coming from District 12, Peeta and I will be in some kind of coal miner’s getup. Since the baggy miner’s jumpsuits are not particularly becoming, our tributes usually end up in skimpy outfits and hats with headlamps. One year, our tributes were stark naked and covered in black powder to represent coal dust. It’s always dreadful and does nothing to win favor with the crowd. I prepare myself for the worst. “So, I’ll be in a coal miner outfit?” I ask, hoping it won’t be indecent. “Not exactly. You see, Portia and I think that coal miner thing’s very overdone. No one will remember you in that. And we both see it as our job to make the District Twelve tributes unforgettable,” says Cinna. I’ll be naked for sure, I think. “So rather than focus on the coal mining itself, we’re going to focus on the coal,” says Cinna. Naked and covered in black dust, I think. “And what do we do with coal? We burn it,” says Cinna. “You’re not afraid of fire, are you, Katniss?” He sees my ex- pression and grins. 66 A few hours later, I am dressed in what will either be the most sensational or the deadliest costume in the opening ce- remonies. I’m in a simple black unitard that covers me from ankle to neck. Shiny leather boots lace up to my knees. But it’s the fluttering cape made of streams of orange, yellow, and red and the matching headpiece that define this costume. Cinna plans to light them on fire just before our chariot rolls into the streets. “It’s not real flame,


storage and cloisters, topped with battlements prepared for the possibility of siege. A white marble statue rose from a tangle of pink roses beside the path. The Bleeding God, again, wearing a crown like sun rays—a holdover from when the pantheon had been whole and He’d been merely the god of light, life, and the day, instead of everything. Plinths circled the statue, now empty, but Lore counted five. One for each elemental god of the former pantheon, dying one by one, Their bodies found in strange places all over the world. And one beside Apollius, slightly taller than the others, for Nyxara. Anton and Malcolm walked before her, Gabriel behind, though none of them necessarily seemed to be on guard. It wasn’t like she’d run, and there was nowhere to go but back inside the Church, anyway. “Keep your head down if you see anyone.” Gabriel’s voice came low enough to tickle her shoulder blades. “Unless you want to be the subject of rumors for years to come. New faces in the court are rare.” Lore kept her voice low, too. “Maybe they’ll come up with something interesting.” “More interesting than the truth?” “Fair.” She glanced over her shoulder. “If your boss wants me to befriend the Sun Prince, though, I think rumors are probably inevitable.” Gabriel didn’t respond, but his eye narrowed. Trees were planted throughout the garden with just enough randomness to seem unplanned, and thickly flowering arbors covered the benches beneath them almost entirely from view. Movement under one of the arbors caught her eye. Lore squinted between a froth of yellow roses, curiosity immediately overriding Gabriel’s directions. A dark-haired man had his head bent low, whispering to a lady whose back was turned. Lore could make out little of his face through the flowers, but what she could see was almost ridiculously handsome—strong jaw, sunbronzed white skin, dark eyes. The lady she could see even less of, only enough to surmise that her hair was light brown and her clothes were elegant. The man seemed to be trying to talk her out of them, if the insolent hand on her thigh and the brush of his lips against her shoulder were any indication. As if he could feel her watching, the man raised his eyes, staring at Lore through the lattice of roses. His lips continued their gentle path along his companion’s shoulder blade as, slowly and deliberately, he winked. Lore whipped her head around to face the front. The guards asked no questions as the Presque Mort approached the entrance to the Citadel proper, great double doors inlaid with large golden hearts like the one Anton wore as a pendant. The guards inclined their heads to Anton as the doors opened, sun reflecting off the tiny garnets in the wood, nearly the same color as their coats. Up until now, Lore had kept her nerves well in hand. Necessity made her shrewd, and she needed to keep her head. But as the Citadel doors closed behind her, Lore’s heart leapt in the direction of her throat,


goodbye,” he says. The best I can do in that moment is “I couldn’t.” His brows pinch. The moment holds. “Is that all?” I ask. “What?” “Did you drive all the way here to say goodbye?” I say. He scratches the back of his head, glances sidelong toward the thicket of trees at the edge of the lot, then back to me. The corners of his mouth twist, and my heart mimics the motion, wringing every last bit of love into my veins. “Why aren’t you on the plane?” he says. “It’s going in the wrong direction.” His brow tenses on a slight shake of his head. “You said I need to figure out what I want,” I say. “That I can’t keep doing what other people think is right for me.” “I meant it.” His voice rattles. “Does that include you?” I ask. “What do you mean?” he says. “I mean . . .” I move close enough to breathe him in, my shoulders melting with relief at his nearness. “Do you get to tell me what will or won’t make me happy?” His brow furrows. “I wasn’t trying to do that.” “You were,” I say. “And I get why. I could come out to Montana, and maybe someday I realize I want to—I don’t know—get into clowning or something.” One side of his mouth quirks. “Clowning?” “Or marine biology,” I say. “I have to leave to study whales, or octopi.” “Closer,” he allows. “And everything could implode again,” I say. “Worse than last time. So badly we couldn’t find our way back to each other.” His chin dips once, his voice abrading. “It could.” “You’re right that I don’t know what I want to do next,” I admit. “I’m going to have to find some other job that I hate a little less and chip away at my loans while I figure it out. But I know what I don’t want. “I don’t want to be tired all the time. I don’t want to be on opposite schedules from everyone I love, or on call during dates. I don’t want to be on my feet for eight hours at a time and have my knuckles bleed in the winter from overwashing my hands. I don’t want to feel like I don’t have time or energy to try anything new because everything I have is getting poured into a job I don’t even like. I don’t want to live my life like it’s a triathlon and all that matters is getting to some imaginary ribbon. I want my life to be like— like making pottery. I want to enjoy it while it’s happening, not just for where it might get me eventually. “And I don’t want to be across the country from you. Or your family. I don’t want to miss a single holiday with them. I don’t want to go to sleep without being able to put my feet on your calves to warm them up, and I don’t want to say goodbye to your rodeo shirt, and I don’t


him in fingers of spray. Wave after wave, Ralph followed the rise and fall until something of the remoteness of the sea numbed his brain. Then gradually the almost infinite size of this water forced itself on his attention. This was the divider, the barrier. On the other side of the island, swathed at midday with mirage, defended by the shield of the quiet lagoon, one might dream of rescue; but here, faced by the brute obtuseness of the ocean, the miles of division, one was clamped down, one was helpless, one was condemned, one was-- Simon was speaking almost in his ear. Ralph found that he had rock painfully gripped in both hands, found his body arched, the muscles of his neck stiff, his mouth strained open. "You'll get back to where you came from." Simon nodded as he spoke. He was kneeling on one knee, looking down from a higher rock which he held with both hands; his other leg stretched down to Ralph's level. Ralph was puzzled and searched Simon's face for a clue. "It's so big, I mean--" Simon nodded. "All the same. You'll get back all right. I think so, anyway." Some of the strain had gone from Ralph's body. He glanced at the sea and then smiled bitterly at Simon. "Got a ship in your pocket?" Simon grinned and shook his head. "How do you know, then?" When Simon was still silent Ralph said curtly, "You're batty." Simon shook his head violently till the coarse black hair flew backwards and forwards across his face. "No, I'm not. I just _think you'll get back all right._" For a moment nothing more was said. And then they suddenly smiled at each other. Roger called from the coverts. "Come and see!" The ground was turned over near the pig-run and there were droppings that steamed. Jack bent down to them as though he loved them. "Ralph--we need meat even if we are hunting the other thing." "If you mean going the right way, we'll hunt." They set off again, the hunters bunched a little by fear of the mentioned beast, while Jack quested ahead. They went more slowly than Ralph had bargained for; yet in a way he was glad to loiter, cradling his spear. Jack came up against some emergency of his craft and soon the procession stopped. Ralph leaned against a tree and at once the daydreams came swarming up. Jack was in charge of the hunt and there would be time to get to the mountain-- Once, following his father from Chatham to Devonport, they had lived in a cottage on the edge of the moors. In the succession of houses that Ralph had known, this one stood out with particular clarity because after that house he had been sent away to school. Mummy had still been with them and Daddy had come home every day. Wild ponies came to the stone wall at the bottom of the garden, and it had snowed. Just behind the cottage there was a sort of shed and you could


him like a lost dog, but he isn’t complaining. He sort of does need looking after, at least if he wants to keep up the facade of being a functioning member of society. Nick seems to have accepted that Andy’s a mess and not inquired too closely into it. (Emily had done the same, but Andy refuses to think about that right now.) He’s never been. . . . competent, he supposes. There’s scatterbrained and then there’s whatever Andy is. He wouldn’t have gotten through school without classmates reminding him about assignments, janitors returning lost notebooks, and a fair amount of money to smooth the way. The fact that his father thinks he’s going to run the Chronicle as soon as next year is, frankly, insane. “Did you manage to eat anything at lunch?” Nick asks. Andy tries to remember. There had been a piece of bread, he thinks, and maybe some butter, but after that he was distracted by his world crumbling around him and all that. “That’s a no,” Nick says. “I’ll have something sent up.” “You sure you don’t want to tuck me into bed?” Andy grumbles. Nick mutters something unintelligible before stomping off in the direction of the elevator. A few minutes later a copyboy arrives with a cup of coffee and one of those black-and-white cookies from the deli downstairs, which is fine, but then he sticks around, lurking between the office door and the elevator bank, trying to look inconspicuous and failing by a mile. “Seriously?” Andy asks when he’s half done with the cookie. “Did Nick tell you to babysit me?” “No,” says the copyboy. Walter, Andy thinks. “Mr. Russo said I had to stick around until you finished the cookie.” Andy sighs, shoves the rest of the cookie into his mouth, and shoos the kid away. He’s fine. Or, he will be. Weddings get called off all the time, don’t they? But whenever people talk about it, they speak about embarrassment or inconvenience or even scandal, but all Andy feels is . . . heartbreak, he supposes, with a side order of loneliness. He loved Emily. He still loves her, although knowing she doesn’t love him back anymore makes him feel awkward and conspicuous about it, like he’s clinging to some embarrassingly passé fashion and hasn’t noticed everybody else moving on. Abruptly, he realizes that even though he isn’t thinking in terms of inconvenience or scandal, his father will. He gets to his feet, downs the rest of his coffee, tosses the paper cup in the garbage, and hits the elevator call button. “Mr. Fleming is on a call,” his father’s secretary says when Andy approaches the publisher’s office. “Could you tell him it’s urgent?” His father has to find out from Andy before he finds out from anyone else. The secretary’s left eyebrow doesn’t quite rise—she’s paid too well for that—but it flickers. “Of course, Mr. Fleming.” She repeats Andy’s message into the telephone and then gestures him into his father’s office. “What’s the matter?” his father asks before the door is even


to mount a broom in the last high wind, and make direct for Calais. The fly-drivers, among whom I inquired next, were equally jocose and equally disrespectful; and the shopkeepers, not liking my appearance, generally replied, without hearing what I had to say, that they had got nothing for me. I felt more miserable and destitute than I had done at any period of my running away. My money was all gone, I had nothing left to dispose of; I was hungry, thirsty, and worn out; and seemed as distant from my end as if I had remained in London. The morning had worn away in these inquiries, and I was sitting on the step of an empty shop at a street corner, near the market-place, deliberating upon wandering towards those other places which had been mentioned, when a fly-driver, coming by with his carriage, dropped a horsecloth. Something good-natured in the man's face, as I handed it up, encouraged me to ask him if he could tell me where Miss Trotwood lived; though I had asked the question so often, that it almost died upon my lips. 'Trotwood,' said he. 'Let me see. I know the name, too. Old lady?' 'Yes,' I said, 'rather.' 'Pretty stiff in the back?' said he, making himself upright. 'Yes,' I said. 'I should think it very likely.' 'Carries a bag?' said he - 'bag with a good deal of room in it - is gruffish, and comes down upon you, sharp?' My heart sank within me as I acknowledged the undoubted accuracy of this description. 'Why then, I tell you what,' said he. 'If you go up there,' pointing with his whip towards the heights, 'and keep right on till you come to some houses facing the sea, I think you'll hear of her. My opinion is she won't stand anything, so here's a penny for you.' I accepted the gift thankfully, and bought a loaf with it. Dispatching this refreshment by the way, I went in the direction my friend had indicated, and walked on a good distance without coming to the houses he had mentioned. At length I saw some before me; and approaching them, went into a little shop (it was what we used to call a general shop, at home), and inquired if they could have the goodness to tell me where Miss Trotwood lived. I addressed myself to a man behind the counter, who was weighing some rice for a young woman; but the latter, taking the inquiry to herself, turned round quickly. 'My mistress?' she said. 'What do you want with her, boy?' 'I want,' I replied, 'to speak to her, if you please.' 'To beg of her, you mean,' retorted the damsel. 'No,' I said, 'indeed.' But suddenly remembering that in truth I came for no other purpose, I held my peace in confusion, and felt my face burn. MY aunt's handmaid, as I supposed she was from what she had said, put her rice in a little basket and walked out of the shop; telling me that


holidays at the vicarage. He received an answer from Mrs. Foster, saying that Mr. Carey was not well enough to write himself, but wished to see his nephew and would be glad if he came down. She met Philip at the door, and when she shook hands with him, said: "You'll find him changed since you was here last, sir; but you'll pretend you don't notice anything, won't you, sir? He's that nervous about himself." Philip nodded, and she led him into the dining-room. "Here's Mr. Philip, sir." The Vicar of Blackstable was a dying man. There was no mistaking that when you looked at the Hollow cheeks and the shrunken body. He sat huddled in the arm-chair, with his head strangely thrown back, and a shawl over his shoulders. He could not walk now without the help of sticks, and his hands trembled so that he could only feed himself with difficulty. "He can't last long now," thought Philip, as he looked at him. "How d'you think I'm looking?" asked the Vicar. "D'you think I've changed since you were here last?" "I think you look stronger than you did last summer." "It was the heat. That always upsets me." Mr. Carey's history of the last few months consisted in the number of weeks he had spent in his bed-room and the number of weeks he had spent downstairs. He had a hand-bell by his side and while he talked he rang it for Mrs. Foster, who sat in the next room ready to attend to his wants, to ask on what day of the month he had first left his room. "On the seventh of November, sir." Mr. Carey looked at Philip to see how he took the information. "But I eat well still, don't I, Mrs. Foster?" "Yes, sir, you've got a wonderful appetite." "I don't seem to put on flesh though." Nothing interested him now but his health. He was set upon one thing indomitably and that was living, just living, notwithstanding the monotony of his life and the constant pain which allowed him to sleep only when he was under the influence of morphia. "It's terrible, the amount of money I have to spend on doctor's bills." He tinkled his bell again. "Mrs. Foster, show Master Philip the chemist's bill." Patiently she took it off the chimney-piece and handed it to Philip. "That's only one month. I was wondering if as you're doctoring yourself you couldn't get me the drugs cheaper. I thought of getting them down from the stores, but then there's the postage." Though apparently taking so little interest in him that he did not trouble to inquire what Phil was doing, he seemed glad to have him there. He asked how long he could stay, and when Philip told him He must leave on Tuesday morning, expressed a wish that the visit might have been longer. He told him minutely all his symptoms and repeated what the doctor had said of him. He broke off to ring his bell, and when Mrs. Foster came in,


accounts that they should not. As the chances of life have brought us together again, and may bring us together on other occasions, I would say, let us meet here as distant acquaintances. Family circumstances are a sufficient reason for our only meeting on that footing, and it is quite unnecessary that either of us should make the other the subject of remark. Do you approve of this?' 'Miss Murdstone,' I returned, 'I think you and Mr. Murdstone used me very cruelly, and treated my mother with great unkindness. I shall always think so, as long as I live. But I quite agree in what you propose.' Miss Murdstone shut her eyes again, and bent her head. Then, just touching the back of my hand with the tips of her cold, stiff fingers, she walked away, arranging the little fetters on her wrists and round her neck; which seemed to be the same set, in exactly the same state, as when I had seen her last. These reminded me, in reference to Miss Murdstone's nature, of the fetters over a jail door; suggesting on the outside, to all beholders, what was to be expected within. All I know of the rest of the evening is, that I heard the empress of my heart sing enchanted ballads in the French language, generally to the effect that, whatever was the matter, we ought always to dance, Ta ra la, Ta ra la! accompanying herself on a glorified instrument, resembling a guitar. That I was lost in blissful delirium. That I refused refreshment. That my soul recoiled from punch particularly. That when Miss Murdstone took her into custody and led her away, she smiled and gave me her delicious hand. That I caught a view of myself in a mirror, looking perfectly imbecile and idiotic. That I retired to bed in a most maudlin state of mind, and got up in a crisis of feeble infatuation. It was a fine morning, and early, and I thought I would go and take a stroll down one of those wire-arched walks, and indulge my passion by dwelling on her image. On my way through the hall, I encountered her little dog, who was called Jip - short for Gipsy. I approached him tenderly, for I loved even him; but he showed his whole set of teeth, got under a chair expressly to snarl, and wouldn't hear of the least familiarity. The garden was cool and solitary. I walked about, wondering what my feelings of happiness would be, if I could ever become engaged to this dear wonder. As to marriage, and fortune, and all that, I believe I was almost as innocently undesigning then, as when I loved little Em'ly. To be allowed to call her 'Dora', to write to her, to dote upon and worship her, to have reason to think that when she was with other people she was yet mindful of me, seemed to me the summit of human ambition - I am sure it was the summit of mine. There is no doubt


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

things that had just happened. The two men stood on the landing, Kemp speaking swiftly, the grotesque swathings of Griffin still on his arm. But presently Adye began to grasp something of the situation. "He's mad," said Kemp; "inhuman. He is pure selfishness. He thinks of nothing but his own advantage, his own safety. I have listened to such a story this morning of brutal self-seeking! He has wounded men. He will kill them unless we can prevent him. He will create a panic. Nothing can stop him. He is going out now--furious!" "He must be caught," said Adye. "That is certain." "But how?" cried Kemp, and suddenly became full of ideas. "You must begin at once. You must set every available man to work. You must prevent his leaving this district. Once he gets away he may go through the countryside as he wills, killing and maiming. He dreams of a reign of terror! A reign of terror, I tell you. You must set a watch on trains and roads and shipping. The garrison must help. You must wire for help. The only thing that may keep him here is the thought of recovering some books of notes he counts of value. I will tell you of that! There is a man in your police station--Marvel." "I know," said Adye, "I know. Those books--yes." "And you must prevent him from eating or sleeping; day and night the country must be astir for him. Food must be locked up and secured, all food, so that he will have to break his way to it. The houses everywhere must be barred against him. Heaven send us cold nights and rain! The whole countryside must begin hunting and keep hunting. I tell you, Adye, he is a danger, a disaster; unless he is pinned and secured, it is frightful to think of the things that may happen." "What else can we do?" said Adye. "I must go down at once and begin organising. But why not come? Yes--you come too! Come, and we must hold a sort of council of war,--get Hopps to help--and the railway managers. By jove! it's urgent. Come along--tell me as we go. What else is there we can do? Put that stuff down." In another moment Adye was leading the way downstairs. They found the front door open and the policemen standing outside staring at empty air. "He's got away, sir," said one. "We must go to the central station at once," said Adye. "One of you go on down and get a cab to come up and meet us--quickly. And now, Kemp, what else?" "Dogs," said Kemp. "Get dogs. They don't see him, but they wind him. Get dogs." "Good," said Adye. "It's not generally known, but the prison officials over at Halstead know a man with bloodhounds. Dogs. What else?" "Bear in mind," said Kemp, "his food shows. After eating, his food shows until it is assimilated. So that he has to hide after eating. You must keep on beating--every thicket, every quiet corner. And put all


I notice subtle dark shadows under his eyes and I wonder if he’d rather be home with a glass of wine and an early night, but he’s chosen to see me instead. “Oh. Ha. No, I was just looking at the reviews for the film.” “And?” “They’re good!” “Flustered, much?” He pinches my thigh. “You were expecting me, right? And not some other guy you’re seeing.” “Am I? No, I’m not expecting anyone else!” He kisses me. “Glad to hear it,” then briefly rests his chin on my shoulder. “You smell good.” “Oh, well, I showered today, so you’re welcome.” You could call me a little skittish for almost getting caught, but Ben laughs. “Classy,” he says. “I do appreciate a showered woman. Food should be here soon.” He’s whispering even though the lights haven’t fully dimmed, others are still filtering in and those already seated are having audible conversations. The woman behind me asks her friend if polygamy is the one to do with sex or maths because “Darren keeps bringing it up,” and when I reach forward for my blanket, the lady seated in front of me is on her phone typing “LOOOL” with a straight face whilst maintaining a conversation about scrimping on toilet paper with her date/housemate. Apparently, “It’s just not on, Connor. Two-ply is the minimum. I’ll not tell you again.” “You’ve ordered?” I ask. “Pretty much everything on the menu,” Ben replies. “My way of apologizing for leaving you on your own for so long.” He pulls me closer until I’m under his arm, then rests his head back. “Things at work are manic?” I ask quietly in case he’d rather silence. “As always,” he says. “But lately, I don’t know what’s going on. It’s always ‘one more email’ before it’s two hours later.” He kisses the top of my head. “It won’t happen again.” “I don’t mind.” A man arrives with our food and places it all on our table: mini burgers, nachos, and popcorn. Even penny candies in striped paper bags that remind me of nicking singular sweets from the canisters in Woolworths and then believing my sticky fingers were the reason they went out of business. (They really shouldn’t have made them so easy to steal; if they were relying on the ethical morality of teenagers, they could only expect to be sorely disappointed.) He next arrives with two glasses of champagne. Ben squeezes my arm and says, “Help yourself,” just as the film title screens. The World War I film is one I picked: during Operation Alberich, two young soldiers have to cross enemy lines in order to deliver a message to the British on the other side and failure to do so will mean the innumerable loss of British lives. I was hooked as soon as I saw the trailer. “It’s starting,” two-ply-or-nothing says. “We’ll talk about this later.” * * * Halfway through the film, I sneak a glance at Ben, and he’s completely absorbed. I notice how long his eyelashes are and how defined his jaw is. He is


pick up food from a dark and foreboding alley if it means I don’t have to cook for children whose constant disapproval causes me physical pain. I’d rather listen to you calling me the c-word than hear one of them say “Can I be excused?” in an annoyed tone while pushing away from the elaborate meal I slaved over to go eat stale Fritos and drink room-temperature Arizonas in front of the Nintendo in their bedroom. We don’t have a single Thai restaurant in this town but there are seventeen different styles of pizza, so I make my lady choose between thin-crust Chicago pub cut or a slightly thicker thin-crust Detroit style. She chooses the latter, so I pull up the Buddy’s menu online and order us two separate personals because I don’t like beets and kumquats and shit all on my pizza. Saturday, February 12 Tomorrow is my birthday, so to celebrate I spend the entire morning in bed with a blanket over my face and a fan blowing directly on me, then I get up and decide that to celebrate for real, I would like to spend forty-five-ish minutes driving to Grand Rapids to get a gyro from this good-ass Bosnian restaurant there called Bosna Express. I don’t know what the hell they do to make the food so good but GODDAMN. I like to order an O.G., which is gyro meat and tomatoes and onions stuffed into lepinja bread and a side of special fries, which are seasoned and served with tons of chopped herbs and fresh garlic on top. I’m never trying to eat forty-five-minute-old fries, so my lady and I split the order in the car in the parking lot, wolfing them down like animals as people walk by watching us in horror, then kill the sandwiches while they’re still hot. I also get a salad for dinner later because, surprisingly, lettuce with a bunch of shit on it is the only thing that will still be good after touring southwest Michigan in the back seat of my car. I wake up screaming at 3:00 a.m. with a charley horse from hell in my left calf, and I roll out of bed and hobble gingerly to the kitchen to get a glass of water. A long time ago my friend Melissa told me about this stuff called DripDrop that you can get at Walgreens that turns a regular glass of water into nutrient-rich, less-gross Gatorade. You just pour this little flavored powder (I’m partial to mango) into your water, stir it up, then drink it without gagging because it doesn’t taste like salted asshole like every other sports drink. I had to fly to New York a few months ago, and since I only feel comfortable traveling when I am dehydrated and starving, I brought a bunch of DripDrops in my carry-on to make my mini plane waters more hydrating. The box says it has three times the electrolytes and half the sugar of regular drinks, which legally makes it health food. I perform some chemistry—stir the


know why,” Peeta says. I give my head a slight, painful shake. “Haymitch said you would take a lot of convinc- ing.” “Haymitch?” I ask. “What’s he got to do with it?” “Nothing,” Peeta says. “So, Cato and Thresh, huh? I guess it’s too much to hope that they’ll simultaneously destroy each other?” But the thought only upsets me. “I think we would like Thresh. I think he’d be our friend back in District Twelve,” I say. “Then let’s hope Cato kills him, so we don’t have to,” says Peeta grimly. I don’t want Cato to kill Thresh at all. I don’t want anyone else to die. But this is absolutely not the kind of thing that vic- tors go around saying in the arena. Despite my best efforts, I can feel tears starting to pool in my eyes. Peeta looks at me in concern. “What is it? Are you in a lot of pain?” I give him another answer, because it is equally true but can be taken as a brief moment of weakness instead of a ter- 289 minal one. “I want to go home, Peeta,” I say plaintively, like a small child. “You will. I promise,” he says, and bends over to give me a kiss. “I want to go home now,” I say. “Tell you what. You go back to sleep and dream of home. And you’ll be there for real before you know it,” lie says. “Okay?” “Okay,” I whisper. “Wake me if you need me to keep watch.” “I’m good and rested, thanks to you and Haymitch. Besides, who knows how long this will last?” he says. What does he mean? The storm? The brief respite ii brings us? The Games themselves? I don’t know, but I’m ion sad and tired to ask. It’s evening when Peeta wakes me again. The rain has turned to a downpour, sending streams of water through our ceiling where earlier there had been only drips. Peeta has placed the broth pot under the worst one and repositioned the plastic to deflect most of it from me. I feel a bit better, able to sit up without getting too dizzy, and I’m absolutely famished. So is Peeta. It’s clear he’s been waiting for me to wake up to eat and is eager to get started. There’s not much left. Two pieces of groosling, a small mishmash of roots, and a handful of dried fruit. “Should we try and ration it?” Peeta asks. “No, let’s just finish it. The groosling’s getting old anyway, and the last thing we need is to get sick off spoilt food,” I say, dividing the food into two equal piles. We try and eat slowly, 290 but we’re both so hungry were done in a couple of minutes. My stomach is in no way satisfied. “Tomorrow’s a hunting day,” I say. “I won’t be much help with that,” Peeta says. “I’ve never hunted before.” “I’ll kill and you cook,” I say. “And you can always gather.” “I wish there was some sort of bread bush out there,”


’Cause I’ll love you until then and feed you pureed prunes, but it would be a shame to start living together at eighty-nine and die of a heart attack the first time we have sex.” “That is the most disgusting declaration I’ve ever heard,” she said flatly, and then she couldn’t help it, she laughed. Tristán laughed, too, and now he felt stupid, but he supposed that was fine. It was okay to be stupid when it came to Montserrat. “It is, isn’t it?” he said. They hugged. She clung tightly to him, tighter than she’d ever held him. His arms wrapped around her, chasing shadows away. “What do you want me to say? I recite dialogue, I can’t write it,” he whispered, his voice soft against her ear. “You’re a silly tomato,” she blurted, not even knowing what she said. She was forgetting the meaning of words and how to speak them. “A silly tomato!” She could feel his smile, but her face was buried against his chest, and he was running a hand through her hair. She couldn’t bear to look at him. “You can’t drive my car, I won’t let you. I won’t do your laundry, I won’t sew your buttons, and if you don’t pick up after yourself, I’ll toss you out,” she said, whip-quick. “I’ll cook. Believe me, we’ll live longer,” he said, his fingers sliding down her cheek, tipping up her chin. “You’re an asshole,” she said. “You going to kiss me or what?” he asked, voice husky, and was rewarded with the tremor of her lashes. “At least I’m not the only nervous one,” he said, savoring the startled look on her face as she stared up at him. She wanted to punch him. “You probably kiss like in the movies and I’ll die of embarrassment.” “Well, fuck me, I kiss well, yes. That’s a plus. Now who’s the silly tomato?” he asked, stepping back and arching an eyebrow at her. “Wanna make out in your car tonight?” She did punch him on the arm then, not hard, but to make sure he didn’t get too cocky. Across the avenue, a vendor of tamales was pushing a cart, his strident whistle calling forth customers. A boy carrying a big boom box was walking on the other side of the street, spewing loud notes through the night air. “Don’t Fear the Reaper,” or at least a cover of it, was playing on the radio. “Come on, dinner is on me,” Tristán said, pointing at the vendor and slipping his hand in his jacket, looking for his wallet. This was life, they figured. Not a fabulous medley of spells, hexes, and intoxicating power, but the simple, ordinary assembly of sights and sounds that were nevertheless a wonder, for they were viewing and listening to them together. She laced her hand with his and they crossed the street in a hurry, laughing and telling the man to wait one second for them. Author’s Note In 2010 I published a story called “Flash Frame” in a very small press


telling my dad exactly where I am will prevent that how?” He sounds ticked off, but his eyes are suspiciously shiny. Andy has the sense that one wrong word will send him either into tears or back out onto the street. Andy has no answer for Sal, though. All he knows is that under no circumstances should any cop enter this apartment. The sheets alone would get them arrested. Andy’s things are scattered all over Nick’s bedroom. Jesus. Okay. He has to think. “We’re going to go next door and say hi to my girlfriend and then all three of us are going out to get pizza.” He figures Linda ought to at least get a slice or two out of this. “Why don’t you wash your face and take a couple of aspirin while I see if she’s home.” He knocks on Linda’s door, sending up a silent prayer to any nearby deities that she’s home. She answers the door in her usual state: hair piled on top of her head, overalls paint-spattered. “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he gushes. “Which is great because you’re my girlfriend now.” “Oh boy. This’ll be good.” Inside, he explains. “But what I need now,” he concludes, “is for you to have Sal over for ten minutes while I clear Nick’s apartment of, uh, incriminating evidence.” Linda blinks, apparently unfazed. “Send him over.” Sal grudgingly goes to Linda’s for a tour of her studio and Andy tidies up the apartment as he’s never tidied anything in his life. He changes the sheets. He stuffs his razor, toothbrush, and most of his clothes into a suitcase and crams it under Nick’s bed. He makes up the bed in the spare room and only then does he realize what he should have noticed from the start. That room at the end of the hall has to be the entire reason Nick chose this apartment instead of a more affordable one-bedroom, or an even more practical room in a boardinghouse. He hadn’t meant to use it as a study or whatever it is people do with spare rooms. When Andy moved in, it was already made up as a guest room, its little bed with its cheerful yellow sheets unslept in, its closet empty, the bookcase bare except for a collection of comic books. The room has always been meant for Sal. Of course. Of course Nick keeps a bed for the nephew who’s being raised by a man Nick doesn’t trust. He’s kept the room ready and waiting in case his nephew needs a refuge. It’s just like Nick, and it’s equally like Nick never to mention this to Andy. God forbid he mention his family, not that Andy can blame him, because he can hardly think about Nick’s brother without wanting to kick the wall. But the fact that there’s a room for Sal means that there can’t be room for Andy. Sal will be Nick’s priority, and rightly so. Andy needs to leave. He doesn’t know what this means, other than that this isn’t


the basement and ground- floor. Then he continued to pace the dining-room until the morning's paper came. That had much to say and little to tell, beyond the confirmation of the evening before and a very baldly written account of another remarkable tale from Port Burdock. This gave Kemp the essence of the happenings at the Jolly Cricketers, and the name of Marvel. "He has made me keep with him twenty-four hours," Marvel testified. Certain minor facts were added to the Iping story, notably the cutting of the village telegraph-wire. But there was nothing to throw light on the connection between the Invisible Man and the Tramp; for Mr. Marvel had supplied no information about the three books, or the money with which he was lined. The incredulous tone had vanished and a shoal of reporters and inquirers were already at work elaborating the matter. Kemp read every scrap of the report and sent his housemaid out to get every one of the morning papers she could. These also he devoured. "He is invisible!" he said. "And it reads like rage growing to mania! The things he may do! The things he may do! And he's upstairs free as the air. What on earth ought I to do? "For instance, would it be a breach of faith if--? No." He went to a little untidy desk in the corner, and began a note. He tore this up half written, and wrote another. He read it over and considered it. Then he took an envelope and addressed it to "Colonel Adye, Port Burdock." The Invisible Man awoke even as Kemp was doing this. He awoke in an evil temper, and Kemp, alert for every sound, heard his pattering feet rush suddenly across the bedroom overhead. Then a chair was flung over and the wash-hand stand tumbler smashed. Kemp hurried upstairs and rapped eagerly. Chapter 19 Certain First Principles "What's the matter?" asked Kemp, when the Invisible Man admitted him. "Nothing," was the answer. "But, confound it! The smash?" "Fit of temper," said the Invisible Man. "Forgot this arm; and it's sore." "You're rather liable to that sort of thing." "I am." Kemp walked across the room and picked up the fragments of broken glass. "All the facts are out about you," said Kemp, standing up with the glass in his hand; "all that happened in Iping, and down the hill. The world has become aware of its invisible citizen. But no one knows you are here." The Invisible Man swore. "The secret's out. I gather it was a secret. I don't know what your plans are, but of course I'm anxious to help you." The Invisible Man sat down on the bed. "There's breakfast upstairs," said Kemp, speaking as easily as possible, and he was delighted to find his strange guest rose willingly. Kemp led the way up the narrow staircase to the belvedere. "Before we can do anything else," said Kemp, "I must understand a little more about this invisibility of yours." He had sat down, after one nervous glance out of


is, not something from the Chersenesos military chic which was popular last year. Just a black T-shirt and a green jacket, and a pair of trousers with those giant pockets. Military pattern boots, too, but those are a little less spartan. There’s a flash of red at the ankle and I can see padding. 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


then it was the open car and Mildred driving a hundred miles an hour across town, he shouting at her and she shouting back and both trying to hear what was said, but hearing only the scream of the car. "At least keep it down to the minimum !" he yelled: "What?" she cried. "Keep it down to fifty-five, the minimum! " he shouted. "The what?" she shrieked. "Speed!" he shouted. And she pushed it up to one hundred and five miles an hour and tore the breath from his mouth. When they stepped out of the car, she had the Seashells stuffed in her ears. Silence. Onlv the wind blowing softlv. "Mildred." He stirred in bed. He reached over and pulled one of the tiny musical insects out of her ear. "Mildred. Mildred?" "Yes." Her voice was faint. He felt he was one of the creatures electronically inserted between the slots of the phono-colour walls, speaking, but the speech not piercing the crystal barrier. He could only pantomime, hoping she would turn his way and see him. They could not touch through the glass. "Mildred, do you know that girl I was telling you about?" "What girl?" She was almost asleep. "The girl next door." "What girl next door?" "You know, the high-school girl. Clarisse, her name is." "Oh, yes," said his wife. "I haven't seen her for a few days-four days to be exact. Have you seen her?" "No." "I've meant to talk to you about her. Strange." "Oh, I know the one you mean." "I thought you would." "Her," said Mildred in the dark room. "What about her?" asked Montag. "I meant to tell you. Forgot. Forgot." "Tell me now. What is it?" "I think she's gone." "Gone?" "Whole family moved out somewhere. But she's gone for good. I think she's dead." "We couldn't be talking about the same girl." "No. The same girl. McClellan. McClellan, Run over by a car. Four days ago. I'm not sure. But I think she's dead. The family moved out anyway. I don't know. But I think she's dead." "You're not sure of it! " "No, not sure. Pretty sure." "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" "Forgot." "Four days ago!" "I forgot all about it." "Four days ago," he said, quietly, lying there. They lay there in the dark room not moving, either of them. "Good night," she said. He heard a faint rustle. Her hands moved. The electric thimble moved like a praying mantis on the pillow, touched by her hand. Now it was in her ear again, humming. He listened and his wife was singing under her breath. Outside the house, a shadow moved, an autumn wind rose up and faded away But there was something else in the silence that he heard. It was like a breath exhaled upon the window. It was like a faint drift of greenish luminescent smoke, the motion of a single huge October leaf blowing across the lawn and away. The Hound, he thought. It's out there tonight. It's out there now. If I opened


of Chelsea’s resuscitation, so she might not have noticed her husband’s behavior as well as someone who was able to more objectively observe. Were you?” “No. I was on break when Chelsea Carr was brought in. She was supposed to be my patient, but Sloane took over for me. I feel bad now since—” “Wait. What do you mean Sloane took over for you?” She sits up straight. “Why are you asking?” “I’m just covering my bases. Standard procedure. I don’t know how everything works in the ER.” “Okay. Well, I’m pregnant and wasn’t feeling very good.” “Oh, congratulations. Sloane didn’t tell me that.” Evelyn gives him a slight nod. “Thank you. That’s why Sloane let me go on break even though she was supposed to go first, since her shift started before mine. Anyway, she seemed shaken by Chelsea’s death afterward—some patients hit you harder than others.” She stops to take a sip of coffee. “I’m sure she’s talked to you about it, already. It can be hard having a young, healthy woman brought in like that and not being able to save her. I feel bad, since I should’ve been the one leading the code.” Ethan works to keep his expression neutral. Was Sloane shaken because she realized her lover had killed his wife? Or because she helped him? “Shaken? How?” Evelyn brings her latte to her lips again but pauses before taking a drink. She narrows her eyes. “In the normal way a doctor is shaken when you can’t save a young, healthy patient. Do you really think you’re in a spot to be asking these questions of your wife? Treating her like a suspect?” “No, that’s not—” She stands from her seat. “I could trust Sloane with my life—anyone could. You, on the other hand? I wouldn’t turn my back on for a second.” She shoves her chair toward the table with a screech. She lifts her cup in the air before she turns. “Thanks for the coffee.” “Asshole.” Ethan hears her mutter under her breath as she walks away. Ethan considers what she said as Evelyn moves past the window outside in the direction of the hospital. Sloane took over for me. He pulls his phone from his pocket and sees he has a new text from Sloane, sent a half hour ago. Speak of the devil. He stands after reading her text, remembering his mother is in town. He pushes in his chair and heads for the door. Chapter 41 “I know it’s not my place, but is everything okay between you and Ethan?” A live jazz band plays in the corner of the busy Italian restaurant where Sloane sits across the table from Ethan’s mother. She takes a drink from her second glass of Cabernet before answering. Reservations at the restaurant along Post Alley at Pike Place Market were hard to come by, having to be made at least several days in advance, especially for a Friday night. But Kay managed to get them a window table at the second-story restaurant. The Ferris wheel glows


said to herself. Imagine her surprise, when the White Rabbit read out, at the top of his shrill little voice, the name `Alice!' CHAPTER XII Alice's Evidence `Here!' cried Alice, quite forgetting in the flurry of the moment how large she had grown in the last few minutes, and she jumped up in such a hurry that she tipped over the jury-box with the edge of her skirt, upsetting all the jurymen on to the heads of the crowd below, and there they lay sprawling about, reminding her very much of a globe of goldfish she had accidentally upset the week before. `Oh, I BEG your pardon!' she exclaimed in a tone of great dismay, and began picking them up again as quickly as she could, for the accident of the goldfish kept running in her head, and she had a vague sort of idea that they must be collected at once and put back into the jury-box, or they would die. `The trial cannot proceed,' said the King in a very grave voice, `until all the jurymen are back in their proper places-- ALL,' he repeated with great emphasis, looking hard at Alice as he said do. Alice looked at the jury-box, and saw that, in her haste, she had put the Lizard in head downwards, and the poor little thing was waving its tail about in a melancholy way, being quite unable to move. She soon got it out again, and put it right; `not that it signifies much,' she said to herself; `I should think it would be QUITE as much use in the trial one way up as the other.' As soon as the jury had a little recovered from the shock of being upset, and their slates and pencils had been found and handed back to them, they set to work very diligently to write out a history of the accident, all except the Lizard, who seemed too much overcome to do anything but sit with its mouth open, gazing up into the roof of the court. `What do you know about this business?' the King said to Alice. `Nothing,' said Alice. `Nothing WHATEVER?' persisted the King. `Nothing whatever,' said Alice. `That's very important,' the King said, turning to the jury. They were just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit interrupted: `UNimportant, your Majesty means, of course,' he said in a very respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him as he spoke. `UNimportant, of course, I meant,' the King hastily said, and went on to himself in an undertone, `important--unimportant-- unimportant--important--' as if he were trying which word sounded best. Some of the jury wrote it down `important,' and some `unimportant.' Alice could see this, as she was near enough to look over their slates; `but it doesn't matter a bit,' she thought to herself. At this moment the King, who had been for some time busily writing in his note-book, cackled out `Silence!' and read out from his book, `Rule Forty-two. ALL PERSONS MORE THAN A MILE HIGH