but she glanced at me now with so much annoyance upon her face that I could not help suspecting that she had lost a handsome commission through my refusal. "'Do you desire your name to be kept upon the books?' she asked. "'If you please, Miss Stoper.' "'Well, really, it seems rather useless, since you refuse the most excellent offers in this fashion,' said she sharply. 'You can hardly expect us to exert ourselves to find another such opening for you. Good-day to you, Miss Hunter.' She struck a gong upon the table, and I was shown out by the page. "Well, Mr. Holmes, when I got back to my lodgings and found little enough in the cupboard, and two or three bills upon the table. I began to ask myself whether I had not done a very foolish thing. After all, if these people had strange fads and expected obedience on the most extraordinary matters, they were at least ready to pay for their eccentricity. Very few governesses in England are getting 100 pounds a year. Besides, what use was my hair to me? Many people are improved by wearing it short and perhaps I should be among the number. Next day I was inclined to think that I had made a mistake, and by the day after I was sure of it. I had almost overcome my pride so far as to go back to the agency and inquire whether the place was still open when I received this letter from the gentleman himself. I have it here and I will read it to you: "'The Copper Beeches, near Winchester. "'DEAR MISS HUNTER:--"Miss Stoper has very kindly given me your address, and I write from here to ask you whether you have reconsidered your decision. My wife is very anxious that you should come, for she has been much attracted by my description of you. We are willing to give 30 pounds a quarter, or 120 pounds a year, so as to recompense you for any little inconvenience which our fads may cause you. They are not very exacting, after all. My wife is fond of a particular shade of electric blue and would like you to wear such a dress indoors in the morning. You need not, however, go to the expense of purchasing one, as we have one belonging to my dear daughter Alice (now in Philadelphia), which would, I should think, fit you very well. Then, as to sitting here or there,or amusing yourself in any manner indicated, that need cause you no inconvenience. As regards your hair, it is no doubt a pity, especially as I could not help remarking its beauty during our short interview, but I am afraid that I must remain firm upon this point, and I only hope that the increased salary may recompense you for the loss. Your duties, as far as the child is concerned, are very light. Now do try to come, and I shall meet you with the dog-cart at Winchester. Let me know your train. "Yours faithfully,


to where Jim was, on his hands and knees, and play something on him. I waited, and it seemed a good while, everything was so still and lonesome. As soon as Tom was back we cut along the path, around the garden fence, and by and by fetched up on the steep top of the hill the other side of the house. Tom said he slipped Jim's hat off of his head and hung it on a limb right over him, and Jim stirred a little, but he didn't wake. Afterwards Jim said the witches be- witched him and put him in a trance, and rode him all over the State, and then set him under the trees again, and hung his hat on a limb to show who done it. And next time Jim told it he said they rode him down to New Orleans; and, after that, every time he told it he spread it more and more, till by and by he said they rode him all over the world, and tired him most to death, and his back was all over saddle-boils. Jim was monstrous proud about it, and he got so he wouldn't hardly notice the other niggers. Niggers would come miles to hear Jim tell about it, and he was more looked up to than any nigger in that country. Strange niggers would stand with their mouths open and look him all over, same as if he was a wonder. Niggers is always talking about witches in the dark by the kitchen fire; but whenever one was talking and letting on to know all about such things, Jim would happen in and say, "Hm! What you know 'bout witches?" and that nigger was corked up and had to take a back seat. Jim always kept that five-center piece round his neck with a string, and said it was a charm the devil give to him with his own hands, and told him he could cure anybody with it and fetch witches whenever he wanted to just by saying some- thing to it; but he never told what it was he said to it. Niggers would come from all around there and give Jim anything they had, just for a sight of that five- center piece; but they wouldn't touch it, because the devil had had his hands on it. Jim was most ruined for a servant, because he got stuck up on account of having seen the devil and been rode by witches. Well, when Tom and me got to the edge of the hill- top we looked away down into the village and could see three or four lights twinkling, where there was sick folks, maybe; and the stars over us was sparkling ever so fine; and down by the village was the river, a whole mile broad, and awful still and grand. We went down the hill and found Jo Harper and Ben Rogers, and two or three more of the boys, hid in the old tanyard. So we unhitched a skiff and pulled


not let you go by yourself. You will most likely die without me. If that happened, I would not be there to tell you ‘I told you so.’ I want to have that experience.” “I’m going too,” Rambo said. “I can help. I can do so many things like clean. And vacuum. And … okay. That’s mostly it, but that’s still a lot.” Vic could not speak past the lump in his throat. “Hap,” Rambo whispered. “It’s your turn to say that you will go too because you like us and we’re your best friends.” Hap ignored him. “Victor.” He felt hot and cold at the same time and didn’t know why. “Yeah?” Hap frowned, looking him up and down. “H-how are you like th-this?” Vic blinked. “Like what?” Hap said, “Calm.” Vic was at a loss for words. Hap looked away again. “I w-want to understand you.” “Why?” His shoulders stiffened. “Gio asked me to protect you. I promised him. I need to know you so I know how to do that.” “I knew you liked us!” Rambo exclaimed. “I was talking to V-victor,” Hap said. “I will protect him. Where he goes, I go. If that means we go to the city, then we g-go to the city. We will find the Blue Fairy. If they won’t help us, I will make them.” Vic was moving before he realized it, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around Hap’s neck, hugging him tightly, nose against his throat. Hap had a few inches on him, and his soft skin belied the hard metal and wood underneath. They stood chest to chest, and Vic could feel his heart thump, thump, thumping against the twisting of gears in Hap’s own heart. Hap did not hug him back. His arms hung at his sides. He said, “What are you d-doing?” “Hugging,” Rambo said. “He’s hugging you. It’s how you show that you’re thankful and happy and best friends.” “That makes n-no sense,” Hap said. “Why not j-just say it instead?” “Because it’s wonderful,” Rambo said, spinning in circles. “Vic’s hugs are the best hugs.” “Oh,” Hap said. “That … still does not m-make sense.” Vic was about to let go. He was about to step back and pretend this moment never happened. He felt shame bubbling in his throat. But before he could, Hap raised his arms and hugged Vic back. Rambo gasped. “He’s doing it. Nurse Ratched, look! Oh my god, they’re hugging.” “I see that,” Nurse Ratched said as horns flourished from her speakers. “Hap, pat his back. That is how you show your appreciation for the hug.” Hap did just that. Except he did it too hard and too fast, causing Vic to vibrate, nose knocking against Hap’s neck. “Softer,” Nurse Ratched said. “Slower. You don’t want to hurt him.” Hap slowed until his touch was almost delicate. “Is that b-better?” “Yes. Victor is happy. His oxytocin levels are rising, but they have yet to reach the level of arousal, so do not worry about him trying to insert himself inside of


to cut him off, just let him keep babbling while his cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink. It’s the first real acknowledgment of our agreement all day, and it’s almost a relief that he’s the first to bring it up. “I think I’m still deciding what I want.” He chews slowly. Thoughtfully. “Are you thinking of backing out?” he asks. “Because it’s okay if you are. It’s absolutely okay.” “No. Are you?” His gaze drops to my mouth. “Not one bit.” When heat floods my cheeks, I’m not certain if it’s the lack of AC or something else entirely. It occurs to me that we still barely know each other—and that I’m getting paid to know him, and not the other way around. I take a bite of salad, the cool vinegar doing little to combat my rising body temperature. “Maybe it would be less weird if we talked about the logistics first?” “Nothing sexier than logistics.” When I lift my eyebrows at him, he backtracks, motioning with his fork. “Sorry. Please continue.” “No one can find out,” I say as he nods vigorously. If we’re really going to do this, I need to make sure we both know what to expect. And that means establishing all of this up front. “The book has to come first, of course. And I’m sure we’ll be done before then, but when the trip is over, we are, too. We go our separate ways and never tell anyone.” I swirl my fork through the extra peanut sauce. “Protection is nonnegotiable. And consent, obviously.” “No arguments from me there.” “If one of us ever wants to call the whole thing off, for any reason, they can,” I continue. “And it’s not going to happen every night. In fact, it’s probably better if it doesn’t, since the book needs to be our top priority. If one of us doesn’t want to, that’s it—they don’t have to defend it or make excuses.” “Frankly, I’m not sure I could, uh, perform every single night,” he says. “So that’s a relief.” Then he adds: “We should be able to feel like we can say something. If one of us is ever uncomfortable.” “A safe word?” I ask, and he nods. Glances down at his plate. “How about ‘tempeh’?” I crack a smile. “Sure. Tempeh it is. And we should sleep in our own rooms. Just to keep it from becoming . . . complicated.” I’m not sure it’s the right word until it leaves my mouth. If I really am a Relationship Girl, having sex and waking up with someone I’m not in a relationship with is probably the kind of thing that would confuse my heart, make me get overly attached. So I’ll simply prevent that from happening. Finn looks pensive, as though he hadn’t considered this. “Okay,” he says. “Makes sense.” I stare down at my hands, picking at my nail polish, the burnt orange hanging on by a few stubborn flecks. It’s just casual sex. People do this all time. I’ve done this, with this exact


idea how badly I want to come upstairs with you. Honestly, everyone in the lobby is about to see a grown man cry. My dick might just hop right off my body, assume a human form, and punch me in the face. But, uh . . .” He blew out a long breath. “I saw you in that bar tonight and you looked like you were in the right place, all classy and confident and polished. You knocked that motherfucker’s socks off. This is where you want to belong, if nothing else. I should have listened to you in the beginning. Maybe, uh . . . maybe I’m not the best thing for you. Natalie . . .” He leaned down, kissed her mouth gently, remaining there and breathing hard for a moment. Then, swallowing audibly, he took a step back, misery written on every one of his features. “I have to protect myself from getting in any deeper here, because you’re going to leave, maybe you should leave. And every time we’re together, you and me being apart seems more and more unthinkable.” Being apart? He assumed her decision had been made to leave Napa. Permanently. On the plane ride here, that was where her compass had been pointing. New York. For good. Now she wasn’t so sure. How could she remove herself from this man’s life when he’d walked in tonight and stitched her back together just by existing? She was deeply in love with August Cates and somewhere along the way, that started meaning more to her than a comeback. A lot more. Her indecision was causing him to suffer, so she needed to make a choice. Now. Tonight. And when she looked up at this man, there really was no decision to make at all, was there? Chapter Twenty-Five So this is love. A painful motherfucker. That old saying, If you love somebody, let them go, actually had real-life applications and it was galling and horrible, to say the least. But Jesus, what he’d said was the truth. She fit into that bar full of millionaires tonight like sugar in coffee. A much-needed dose of sweet among the bitterness. Gorgeous and ready to take on the world—it was right there on her face. He’d felt like a jackass walking in there, stuffed into his suit. Palms sweating. The truth of why he’d come wouldn’t stay out of his mouth. Hell, telling Natalie how he felt about her was becoming this thing he needed to do to breathe. But taking her to bed knowing she would come back to this city one day soon and stay? Might as well perform open heart surgery on him without the painkillers. Those fancy hotel elevators would take them upstairs. To a room with a really nice bed and, yeah, that business formal dress she was wearing would come off so easily. Just slide right down to the floor. He’d get on his knees and eat her out until her head spun. She wouldn’t be nearly as polished when he finished with her.


watched as she moved among the survivors, asking questions of each of them. With some of the refugees she spent no more than a few seconds, with others she spoke for many minutes, before arriving at Yotam. He was so close to delirium at this point that he had no idea whether he could articulate any kind of meaningful reply. Sitting beside him, she offered a sip of warm cauliflower soup from a Thermos, the most delicious liquid he’d ever tasted. She spoke to him in English, occasionally addressing a question in Mandarin to her interpreter, asking him to tell the story of his life. Yotam had been so relieved to talk, to do anything to take his mind off the world around him, he’d babbled about his childhood, his military service, his love story with Eitan, the most intimate details spewed up in an unbroken monologue. Song didn’t say a word until the very end when she thanked him and moved onto the next refugee, giving him no indication of her purpose or whether what he’d said was of any interest. One week later she had returned to him with a proposition. Once winter was over, she would be transferring to McMurdo Station, explaining that she was a geneticist and it had already been decided that genetic adaptation was the only chance humankind had of surviving the cold. Despite the apparent anarchy, there was a plan. The newly created governing alliance of nations had been pondering the future, believing the only way to stave off extinction was to behave in ways that had once been considered morally and ethically unacceptable. ‘I need a team of assistants. People devoted to my work. You will do exactly as I say without question or dissent. You will work harder than any person has ever worked before. We’ll do things that no person has ever done before. What do you say?’ Yotam had said yes. MCMURDO CITY HISTORIC OLD TOWN THE CANTEEN NEXT DAY ENTERING THE CANTEEN FOR BREAKFAST, Yotam had no intention of leaving Copper tied up outside, figuring people wouldn’t mind the company of a handsome husky while they ate. As it happens, compared to the metropolises of old, New York, Berlin, Delhi, Tokyo, very few citizens of McMurdo City became sick with minor illnesses in part due to the monastically healthy diet but also because the levels of viruses and bacteria were dramatically lower on this freezing continent. All upper respiratory tract diseases died out within four weeks of arriving and with no new arrivals from the warm world, there were no new pathogens and no new pandemics. Today breakfast was synthetic protein porridge cultivated in the food labs, topped with grated tussock-root and fortified with ground-up vitamin pills, the supply of which was set to run out in a matter of months. Each bowl was accompanied by mugs of warm seal milk turned vivid green with powdered algae. Since the kitchen team had become concerned about his weight, it was agreed that he was too thin for life in Antarctica, Yotam


sometimes difficult to obtain in that portion of our colonial possessions where it will be our lot to combat with the teeming soil.' 'Arrange it in any way you please, sir,' said my aunt. 'Madam,' he replied, 'Mrs. Micawber and myself are deeply sensible of the very considerate kindness of our friends and patrons. What I wish is, to be perfectly business-like, and perfectly punctual. Turning over, as we are about to turn over, an entirely new leaf; and falling back, as we are now in the act of falling back, for a Spring of no common magnitude; it is important to my sense of self-respect, besides being an example to my son, that these arrangements should be concluded as between man and man.' I don't know that Mr. Micawber attached any meaning to this last phrase; I don't know that anybody ever does, or did; but he appeared to relish it uncommonly, and repeated, with an impressive cough, 'as between man and man'. 'I propose,' said Mr. Micawber, 'Bills - a convenience to the mercantile world, for which, I believe, we are originally indebted to the Jews, who appear to me to have had a devilish deal too much to do with them ever since - because they are negotiable. But if a Bond, or any other description of security, would be preferred, I should be happy to execute any such instrument. As between man and man.' MY aunt observed, that in a case where both parties were willing to agree to anything, she took it for granted there would be no difficulty in settling this point. Mr. Micawber was of her opinion. 'In reference to our domestic preparations, madam,' said Mr. Micawber, with some pride, 'for meeting the destiny to which we are now understood to be self-devoted, I beg to report them. My eldest daughter attends at five every morning in a neighbouring establishment, to acquire the process - if process it may be called - of milking cows. My younger children are instructed to observe, as closely as circumstances will permit, the habits of the pigs and poultry maintained in the poorer parts of this city: a pursuit from which they have, on two occasions, been brought home, within an inch of being run over. I have myself directed some attention, during the past week, to the art of baking; and my son Wilkins has issued forth with a walking-stick and driven cattle, when permitted, by the rugged hirelings who had them in charge, to render any voluntary service in that direction - which I regret to say, for the credit of our nature, was not often; he being generally warned, with imprecations, to desist.' 'All very right indeed,' said my aunt, encouragingly. 'Mrs. Micawber has been busy, too, I have no doubt.' 'My dear madam,' returned Mrs. Micawber, with her business-like air. 'I am free to confess that I have not been actively engaged in pursuits immediately connected with cultivation or with stock, though well aware that both will claim my attention on a foreign shore. Such


we didn't find the cheque. If we had, you would now be comfortably in bed, perhaps with the beautiful Miss Lynd, instead of this.' He lashed upwards. Through the red mist of pain, Bond thought of Vesper. He could imagine how she was being used by the two gunmen. They would be making the most of her before she was sent for by Le Chiffre. He thought of the fat wet lips of the Corsican and the slow cruelty of the thin man. Poor wretch to have been dragged into this. Poor little beast. Le Chiffre was talking again. 'Torture is a terrible thing,' he was saying as he puffed at a fresh cigarette, 'but it is a simple matter for the torturer, particularly when the patient,' he smiled at the word, 'is a man. You see, my dear Bond, with a man it is quite unnecessary to indulge in refinements. With this simple instrument, or with almost any other object, one can cause a man as much pain as is possible or necessary. Do not believe what you read in novels or books about the war. There is nothing worse. It is not only the immediate agony, but also the thought that your manhood is being gradually destroyed and that at the end, if you will not yield, you will no longer be a man. 'That, my dear Bond, is a sad and terrible thought - a long chain of agony for the body and also for the mind, and then the final screaming moment when you will beg me to kill you. All that is inevitable unless you tell me where you hid the money.' He poured some more coffee into the glass and drank it down leaving brown corners to his mouth. Bond's lips were writhing. He was trying to say something. At last he got the word out in a harsh croak: 'Drink,' he said and his tongue came out and swilled across his dry lips. 'Of course, my dear boy, how thoughtless of me.' Le Chiffre poured some coffee into the other glass. There was a ring of sweat drops on the floor round Bond's chair. 'We must certainly keep your tongue lubricated.' He laid the handle of the carpet-beater down on the floor between his thick legs and rose from his chair. He went behind Bond and taking a handful of his soaking hair in one hand, he wrenched Bond's head sharply back. He poured the coffee down Bond's throat in small mouthfuls so that he would not choke. Then he released his head so that it fell forward again on his chest. He went back to his chair and picked up the carpet-beater. Bond raised his head and spoke thickly. 'Money no good to you.' His voice was a laborious croak. 'Police trace it to you.' Exhausted by the effort, his head sank forward again. He was a little, but only a little, exaggerating the extent of his physical collapse. Anything to gain time and anything to defer the next searing pain. 'Ah, my dear


how much longer I could stay in the Custom-House, and yet go forth a man. To confess the truth, it was my greatest apprehension--as it would never be a measure of policy to turn out so quiet an individual as myself; and it being hardly in the nature of a public officer to resign--it was my chief trouble, therefore, that I was likely to grow grey and decrepit in the Surveyorship, and become much such another animal as the old Inspector. Might it not, in the tedious lapse of official life that lay before me, finally be with me as it was with this venerable friend--to make the dinner-hour the nucleus of the day, and to spend the rest of it, as an old dog spends it, asleep in the sunshine or in the shade? A dreary look-forward, this, for a man who felt it to be the best definition of happiness to live throughout the whole range of his faculties and sensibilities But, all this while, I was giving myself very unnecessary alarm. Providence had meditated better things for me than I could possibly imagine for myself. Thesaurus accrued: (adj) increased. impertinence, neglect, blasphemy, connecting. attributes: (n) nature, property. impudence, disdain, insolence; (n, v) moil: (n, v) labor, grind, work; (v) fag, constancy: (n) allegiance, devotion, insult, slight; (v) disesteem. drudge, labour, churn, travail, dig, resolution, fidelity, loyalty, ANTONYMS: (n, v) respect; (n) boil; (n) sweat. steadfastness, faithfulness, admiration, regard, value, reverence, prying: (adj) inquisitive, meddlesome, steadiness, firmness, perseverance, politeness, civility, approval, nosy, inquiring, nosey, intrusive, unchangeableness. ANTONYMS: (n) decency, seriousness. busy, snoopy; (n) nosiness, curiosity; inconstancy, inconsistency, ejectment: (n) eviction, ouster, (adj, n) meddling. ANTONYMS: (adj) changefulness, instability, disloyalty, expulsion, ejection, conclusive apathetic; (n) apathy. unfaithfulness, unreliability, evidence, action of ejectment, writ of self-reliance: (n) confidence, dishonesty. ejectment. assurance, independence, manhood, disrespect: (n) contempt, cheek, involving: (prep) linking, between, enterprise. Nathaniel Hawthorne 39 A %remarkable event of the third year of my Surveyorship--to adopt the tone of "P. P. "--was the election of General Taylor to the Presidency. It is essential, in order to a complete estimate of the advantages of official life, to view the incumbent at the in-coming of a hostile administration. His position is then one of the most singularly irksome, and, in every contingency, disagreeable, that a wretched mortal can possibly occupy; with seldom an alternative of good on either hand, although what presents itself to him as the worst event may very probably be the best. But it is a strange experience, to a man of pride and sensibility, to know that his interests are within the control of individuals who neither love nor understand him, and by whom, since one or the other must needs happen, he would rather be injured than obliged. Strange, too, for one who has kept his calmness throughout the contest, to observe the bloodthirstiness that is developed in the hour of triumph, and to be conscious that he is himself among its objects! There are few uglier traits of human nature than this tendency--which I now witnessed in men


frowned. “That’s Minos Petropoulos.” The wraiths’ second victim, a dioscuri-born. “Have you tracked them?” Bianca asked. “Yes, boss,” Minos spat, unthreatened by the blood dripping from Bianca’s iron bar. “A new battle has broken out at the school. Did you get the chernobog-born?” Bianca’s hand fluttered in Fyodorov’s direction. “Is Jarl in place?” First Fyodorov, then Minos, now Jarl Magnussen. Minos nodded. “He’s got the Mayor under his thrall. He made him issue an inter-district curfew a few minutes ago.” That explained the frequency of the warning bells. Slowly, Io was getting a grasp of Bianca’s plan: Minos was needed to track the rogue gang’s pathway. Konstantin Fyodorov, an unregistered chernobog-born, was likely needed to keep the rogue gang trapped at the spot where Bianca intended to make her last stand. Jarl, a grace-born, had enchanted the Mayor to keep people safe in their homes today. It was a clever plan, which Io had expected from the future mob queen, but also surprisingly protective of the innocent of the Silts. “Minos, Fyodorov, Jarl,” Edei said. “Three out of four victims, here in the Silts, twelve years ago, on the last day of the Moonset Riots.” Io felt her mind spinning faster and faster. “And we know Horatio was involved in the Riots, even if just tangentially, hired by the Nine to kill the wraiths when some of them were just children. They are all involved.” Bianca Rossi and her accomplices were at the epicenter, the fabricators of this end to the great carnage. But who was the bloodthirsty rogue gang they were banding up against? In all the recollections of the Riots that Io had heard, even in the history books, the rogue gang was a mystery, faceless and nameless. Roosters’ Silence had the district in a choke hold; none of the thirty or so people here, none of the other gangs, had ever spoken of the rogue gang’s identity. Even now, twelve years later, their names remained a secret. Io could feel it in her veins: the knot of all the clues she had gathered was unspooling. She would finally know the beginning of the tale. The mob climbed a flood-escape ladder to the roofs of Chamomile Avenue, heading toward the school. In front of her, Edei was silent, lips pursed, face ashen. Thunder rumbled in quick succession, and the sky seemed to crack open like an egg, rain pouring in thick droplets. In seconds, Io’s hair was drenched, her spectacles a kaleidoscope of drops, the railing slippery beneath her fingers. They walked for a long time, passing through the various neighborhoods of the Silts. People would appear on flood-escape ladders or wait on bridges to join Bianca, knuckles and iron bars held tightly in their fists. But when they were almost at the school, Io noticed a change. The rain was coming down red as blood. Scarlet was slathered on her, her jacket, her cheeks, her fingers. “What is this?” she whispered, opening her palm to cup the red rain. Edei’s fingers reached back for her, pressing against her stomach.


class="s1">Sandringham was balmy, but the dining room was subtropical. Pa and I

would always wait for Granny to look away, then one of us would jump up,

sprint to a window, crack it an inch. Ah, blessed cool air. But the corgis

always betrayed us. The cool air would make them whimper, and Granny

would say: Js there a draft? And then a footman would promptly shut the

window. (That loud thump, unavoidable because the windows were so old,

always felt like the door of a jail cell being slammed.) But now, every time I

was about to make any kind of public appearance, no matter the venue, it

felt like the Sandringham dining room. During one speech I became so

overheated that I felt sure everyone was noticing and discussing it. During

one drinks reception I searched frantically for anyone else who might be

experiencing the same heatstroke. I needed some assurance that it wasn’t

just me.

But it was.

As is so often true of fear, mine metastasized. Soon it wasn’t merely

public appearances, but all public venues. All crowds. I came to fear simply

being around other human beings.

240

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

More than anything else I feared cameras. I’d never liked cameras, of

course, but now I couldn’t abide them. The telltale click of a shutter opening

and closing...it could knock me sideways for a whole day.

I had no choice: I began staying home. Day after day, night after night, I

sat around eating takeaway, watching 24. Or Friends. I think I might’ve

watched every episode of Friends in 2013.

I decided I was a Chandler.

My actual friends would comment in passing that I didn’t seem myself.

As if I had flu. Sometimes I’d think, Maybe I’m not myself. Maybe that’s

what’s going on here. Maybe this is some kind of metamorphosis. A new

self is emerging, and I’m just going to have to be this new person, this

frightened person, for the rest of my days.

Or maybe this had always been me, and it was only now becoming

evident?


a glass door. “I gave you instructions, Cal. You need to understand that. I wasn’t asking a favour. I was telling you what you need to do.” “I don’t work for you, Stefan.” “Of course, you do. Everyone does. Let me remind you who you’re talking to.” The laugh again, long and loud and so close, and I realise he knows what it does, how much it hurts. He leans down into my face, and the waves hit me one by one. He carries on, battering me backwards with just the sound of his contempt until I fall onto the carpet and he stands over me and roars. “I am STEFAN TONFAMECASCA!” If the laughter was bad the shouting is like a kind of death. My ribs flex and my heart skips a beat on each word. The world goes silent, and red: blood vessels breaking in my eyes. I see him watching, face peering into mine as the world falls in around me from the edges, and I go away. * * * — The world comes back slow. I can smell perfume: jasmine mixed with something sporty. Someone’s looking in my eye with a torch. I say: “What?” I hear noise and it hurts, like when you’re a kid and you get an earache. I turn my head and there’s that bubbling sound, and more pain. Low-grade damage, from excessive volume. I say: “Shit.” Speaking hurts too. In fact everything hurts, but nothing hurts the bad way, when you know you’re broken. It just hurts like it fucking hurts. The person with the torch speaks again. They tell me to stay still. They have kind hands. I let them do kind things for a while. “Athena?” “Don’t try to talk, Cal.” Not Athena. A man’s voice, kinda ticked off. “Is she here?” “Cal, it’s Marcus. From St. Helen’s.” Marcus the nurse. “Am I in hospital?” “No, you’re in your apartment. You’re also an idiot. What did I say about washing the lattice?” “Am I going to have a sphincter mark?” “You’ll be lucky if we don’t have to start over, the state of you. Stay still.” I stay still. Marcus works on the putty lattice. I don’t even have enough energy to sass him. Damn it. “Hold this.” I reach out. “Not you, Cal.” “Got it.” A woman’s voice. “Sporty jasmine,” I say. “Is he delirious?” Marcus laughs. “No, honey, that’s you he’s talking about. Keep your eyes closed, Cal, I’m using the curer.” A flash of white purple, long and hot. Bullet hole itches again, feverish, then a hiss as Marcus sprays something topical over the top. “Don’t inhale that or you won’t be able to smell anything for hours. Just let it clear away for a second.” I hold my breath. It’s hard. “And you’re done. You want to open your eyes now, Mr. Detective?” I open my eyes. Marcus looks tired and grouchy, which I figure is where he lives. There’s an open medical bag resting on my night stand and I’m lying looking up at my


a hinged flap over it. He lifted it, properly positioned the jack cable plug into it, and pressed. He felt it lock into place. “That should do it … Please, please … hold your applause. It was nothing.” Quintos said, “Max, flip the aux power switch. Let’s see if this worked.” Hardy felt the cable come alive with thousands of volts of electricity. Within reach, also covered by a metal flap, was the ship’s starboard flight bay manual access panel. He waited for a prompt to appear. “It’s going to take a few minutes before the ship’s root access protocols are initialized,” Sonya said. The prompt displayed. Hardy entered a fifteen-digit access code, one that worked for all US Space-Navy vessels. “What’s going on, Hardy? Over,” came the captain’s less-than-patient-sounding voice. “The bay doors should have opened,” Hardy said. “Shoulds are shit at this point. Get those doors open.” As if on cue, a near-blinding vertical swath of light, contrasting with the blackness of deep space, emanated from Hardy’s left. The bay doors were indeed opening. Chapter 11 Lost Tombstone Star System Genoma, Stratham Hold Captain Gail Pristy An hour after her shower was rudely interrupted, Captain Pristy had quansported off USS Hercules. Stephan Derrota, Dr. Patty Kline, Superintendent LaSalle, and Petty Officer Second-Class Aubrey Laramie had already amassed within Stratham Hold’s control center. All wore black combat fatigues, body armor, and their tagger sidearms. Pristy gave them a quick overview of the situation, ending with, “Dr. Kline, stay here. If there are wounded, we’ll need you ready. LaSalle, you hang with Corporal Bower The rest, come with me.” Dr. Kline handed a medic’s pack to Aubrey, who slung it over one shoulder, then the time travelers quickly headed below. They’d taken the rickety lift deep down into the rocky, cavernous base there—where the ringularity portal awaited. Derrota had brought along his own field kit, just in case it was needed. Resnick hadn’t said any of these things would be necessary, but Pristy wasn’t about to put her people in jeopardy; trust of the enigmatic general only went so far. She wondered, upon their arrival below, if he’d be annoyed. He always seemed to be annoyed. Pristy would be more sympathetic if the man hadn’t interrupted her shower just an hour earlier—and simply to let her know she needed to assemble her team. Not that I would have minded something more … under different circumstances. The thought colored her cheeks. Sure, Resnick was good looking in a rustic kind of way, well-built, and add to the fact it had been far too long since she’d … She mentally chastised herself. He’s an arrogant asshat. What are you thinking? “Pondering something special, Captain?” Aubrey asked, derailing her train of thought. The young woman looked at her with a bemused expression. “Or maybe someone?” “You enjoy being a petty officer?” Pristy asked. She heard Aubrey gulp before she replied, “Yes, Captain.” “Then shut up before I bust you down to deckhand.” The others, wiser than Aubrey, didn’t say anything, but kept glancing at their


to judge, he sensed a slight subsidence in their speed and some while later became aware that they were gradually gliding to a gentle halt. He opened his eyes again. They were still in the silver tunnel, threading and weaving their way through what appeared to be a crisscross warren of converging tunnels. When they finally stopped it was in a small chamber of curved steel. Several tunnels also had their terminus here, and at the farther end of the chamber Arthur could see a large circle of dim irritating light. It was irritating because it played tricks with the eyes, it was impossible to focus on it properly or tell how near or far it was. Arthur guessed (quite wrongly) that it might be ultra violet. Slartibartfast turned and regarded Arthur with his solemn old eyes. "Earthman," he said, "we are now deep in the heart of Magrathea." "How did you know I was an Earthman?" demanded Arthur. "These things will become clear to you," said the old man gently, "at least," he added with slight doubt in his voice, "clearer than they are at the moment." He continued: "I should warn you that the chamber we are about to pass into does not literally exist within our planet. It is a little too ... large. We are about to pass through a gateway into a vast tract of hyperspace. It may disturb you." Arthur made nervous noises. Slartibartfast touched a button and added, not entirely reassuringly. "It scares the willies out of me. Hold tight." The car shot forward straight into the circle of light, and suddenly Arthur had a fairly clear idea of what infinity looked like. It wasn't infinity in fact. Infinity itself looks flat and uninteresting. Looking up into the night sky is looking into infinity - distance is incomprehensible and therefore meaningless. The chamber into which the aircar emerged was anything but infinite, it was just very very big, so that it gave the impression of infinity far better than infinity itself. Arthur's senses bobbed and span, as, travelling at the immense speed he knew the aircar attained, they climbed slowly through the open air leaving the gateway through which they had passed an invisible pinprick in the shimmering wall behind them. The wall. The wall defied the imagination - seduced it and defeated it. The wall was so paralysingly vast and sheer that its top, bottom and sides passed away beyond the reach of sight. The mere shock of vertigo could kill a man. The wall appeared perfectly flat. It would take the finest laser measuring equipment to detect that as it climbed, apparently to infinity, as it dropped dizzily away, as it planed out to either side, it also curved. It met itself again thirteen light seconds away. In other words the wall formed the inside of a hollow sphere, a sphere over three million miles across and flooded with unimaginable light. "Welcome," said Slartibartfast as the tiny speck that was the aircar, travelling now at three times the speed of sound, crept imperceptibly


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

their eccentricities at one time. Their fits relieved each other like guards. When Nippers’ was on, Turkey’s was off; and vice versa. This was a good natural arrangement under the circumstances. Ginger Nut, the third on my list, was a lad some twelve years old. His father was a carman, ambitious of seeing his son on the bench instead of a cart, before he died. So he sent him to my office as student at law, errand boy, and cleaner and sweeper, at the rate of one dollar a week. He had a little desk to himself, but he did not use it much. Upon inspection, the drawer exhibited a great array of the shells of various sorts of nuts. Indeed, to this quick-witted youth the whole noble science of the law was contained in a nut-shell. Not the least among the employments of Ginger Nut, as well as one which he discharged with the most alacrity, was his duty as cake and apple purveyor for Turkey and Nippers. Copying law papers being proverbially dry, husky sort of business, my two scriveners were fain to moisten their mouths very often with Spitzenbergs to be had at the numerous stalls nigh the Custom House and Post Office. Also, they sent Ginger Nut very frequently for that peculiar cake—small, flat, round, and very spicy—after which he had been named by them. Of a cold morning when business was but dull, Turkey would gobble up scores of these cakes, as if they were mere wafers—indeed they sell them at the rate of six or eight for a penny—the scrape of his pen blending with the crunching of the crisp particles in his mouth. Of all the fiery afternoon blunders and flurried rashnesses of Turkey, was his once moistening a ginger-cake between his lips, and clapping it on to a mortgage for a seal. I came within an ace of dismissing him then. But he mollified me by making an oriental bow, and saying—”With submission, sir, it was generous of me to find you in stationery on my own account.” Now my original business—that of a conveyancer and title hunter, and drawer-up of recondite documents of all sorts—was considerably increased by receiving the master’s office. There was now great work for scriveners. Not only must I push the clerks already with me, but I must have additional help. In answer to my advertisement, a motionless young man one morning, stood upon my office threshold, the door being open, for it was summer. I can see that figure now—pallidly neat, pitiably respectable, incurably forlorn! It was Bartleby. After a few words touching his qualifications, I engaged him, glad to have among my corps of copyists a man of so singularly sedate an aspect, which I thought might operate beneficially upon the flighty temper of Turkey, and the fiery one of Nippers. I should have stated before that ground glass folding-doors divided my premises into two parts, one of which was occupied by my scriveners, the other by myself. According to my humor I threw open these doors,


many years the management of all the Pemberley estates; and whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to him; and on George Wickham, who was his god-son, his kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and afterwards at Cambridge; -- most important assistance, as his own father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a gentleman's education. My father was not only fond of this young man's society, whose manners were always engaging; he had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be his profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities -- the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have. Here again I shall give you pain -- to what degree you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it to me to promote his advancement in the best manner that his profession might allow, and, if he took orders, desired that a valuable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these events Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment by which he could not be benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished than believed him to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town, I believe, he chiefly lived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all restraint, his


there was a boy on top of her. He was beautiful, an angel with golden curls and the loveliest face she’d ever seen. He was weeping, trembling. They looked like lovers. He had his hands in Alex’s hair, as if he meant to kiss her. And there was something in Pam’s hands too, warm and softly furred and squirming, a living thing. She could feel its heartbeat against her palms. No. It was just a piece of sculpture, cold and lifeless, the bust of Hiram Bingham III. They kept it on a cane stand by the front door. She couldn’t remember picking it up, but she knew what she was supposed to do with it. Hit him. But she couldn’t. She could call the police. She could run away. But the stone was too heavy in her hands. She didn’t know how to hurt someone, even someone awful like Blake Keely, even after he’d hurt her. Blake had shoved his way into the house and let her lie bleeding on the floor. He’d hurt the dean. He was going to kill Alex. Hit him. She was a little girl on the playground, too tall, heavy-breasted, built all wrong. Her clothes didn’t fit. She got tangled in her own feet. She was huddled at the bus stop trying not to react as boys from the high school drove by shouting Show us your tits. She was choosing the back row of every classroom, hunched up in the corner. Afraid. Afraid. She’d spent her whole life afraid. I can’t. She wasn’t made like Alex or Darlington. She was a scholar. She was a rabbit, timid and defenseless, no claws or teeth. Her only choice was to run. But where would she run with Darlington gone, the dean, Alex? Who would she be if she did nothing? She was standing over them, looking down on the boy and Alex. She saw them from a great height, and she was the angel now, maybe a harpy, descending with sword in hand. She raised the bust and brought it down on the beautiful boy’s head. His skull gave way, the sound wet and soft, as if he’d been made of papier-mâché. She hadn’t meant to hit him so hard. Or had she? Little bunny, what did you do? She watched as he slumped to the side. Her own legs gave way and now she wept. She couldn’t help it. She wasn’t sure if she was crying for Blake or Darlington or Alex or herself. She bent and vomited. Why wouldn’t the room stop moving? Pam lifted her head, felt cool air on her cheeks, salt spray. The floor tilted back and forth, a ship adrift on the waves. She clung to the ropes. “Try to keep up, Tripp.” The storm shouldn’t have been a big deal. They’d checked the weather. They always did. Temperature. Pressure. Predicted wind speed. But every time he was out on the boat, Tripp felt a twitching sense of panic. He was okay when it was just him and his dad or his


Because of some weird political intrigue—it was unfair of me. Despicable. And I don’t believe it. And I just—it was awful of me to—” “Elsie.” His tone is even and deep. “Hey. It’s okay. You already apologized.” He doesn’t get it. “I know, but of all the things that happened today, it seems like the shittiest. And I cannot control any of this—not my career tanking, not whether I’m going to have health insurance or make rent—but I . . . I can control the way I react. So I’m sorry I said it. About George. And about you. And . . . people do it to me all the time. In the last year of my Ph.D., I got this stupid award. When I walked into the student lounge the following day, other students were saying that it was only because I was a woman, and . . . I felt like total shit, and I really didn’t think they were right, but for a second I wasn’t sure, for a second they made me doubt myself, and I just—I don’t want to be like them. I—” “Hey.” Jack shifts and then does something I don’t fully understand. He — Oh. Somehow, he pulls me up. And somehow, I’m on the couch. Lying on the couch. Next to him. My head nestles under his chin, his arms surround mine, our thighs tangle together. I open my mouth to say something like What the hell? or Oh my God or ?!??, but nothing comes out. Instead, I burrow deeper. “Assholes,” he says. I’m still asleep. This is a dream. A nightmare. A blend. “Who?” “The people who didn’t like you winning the Forbes award.” How does he know that’s the award I was talking about? “You should report them.” “For what?” I ask against his throat. He’s warm and smells nice. Like sleep. Like clean. Like he could easily change my sink, save kittens stuck in a tree, extinguish a fire. “For being dicks?” “Yes. Though HR would call it sexual discrimination and building a hostile work environment.” “It’s not that simple,” I mumble. “It should be.” His chin brushes my hair every time he speaks, and I remember trying to mention what happened to Dr. L. The way he commiserated with me but also said that it would be better if I just forgot it happened and focused my energies on physics. “What would you do if your students said something like that?” “I’d make sure they can never have a career in physics.” The words vibrate from his skin through mine, and I know he means it. I don’t have a single doubt. And that’s how I start crying again, like a stupid Versailles fountain, and how his hold on me tightens, legs twisting further with mine. His fingers twine in the hair at my nape and press me deeper into him, shielding me from the cold and everything that’s bad. “I just . . .” I sniffle. “I really wanted a chance to finish my molecular theory of two-dimensional


his son exclaimed. "Oh, perfectly. But I should like you, please, to go up without me." Dallas paused before him, visibly bewildered. "But, I say, Dad: do you mean you won't come up at all?" "I don't know," said Archer slowly. "If you don't she won't understand." "Go, my boy; perhaps I shall follow you." Dallas gave him a long look through the twilight. "But what on earth shall I say?" "My dear fellow, don't you always know what to say?" his father rejoined with a smile. "Very well. I shall say you're old-fashioned, and prefer walking up the five flights because you don't like lifts." His father smiled again. "Say I'm old-fashioned: that's enough." Dallas looked at him again, and then, with an incredulous gesture, passed out of sight under the vaulted doorway. Archer sat down on the bench and continued to gaze at the awninged balcony. He calculated the time it would take his son to be carried up in the lift to the fifth floor, to ring the bell, and be admitted to the hall, and then ushered into the drawing-room. He pictured Dallas entering that room with his quick assured step and his delightful smile, and wondered if the people were right who said that his boy "took after him." Then he tried to see the persons already in the room--for probably at that sociable hour there would be more than one--and among them a dark lady, pale and dark, who would look up quickly, half rise, and hold out a long thin hand with three rings on it. . . . He thought she would be sitting in a sofa-corner near the fire, with azaleas banked behind her on a table. "It's more real to me here than if I went up," he suddenly heard himself say; and the fear lest that last shadow of reality should lose its edge kept him rooted to his seat as the minutes succeeded each other. He sat for a long time on the bench in the thickening dusk, his eyes never turning from the balcony. At length a light shone through the windows, and a moment later a man-servant came out on the balcony, drew up the awnings, and closed the shutters. At that, as if it had been the signal he waited for, Newland Archer got up slowly and walked back alone to his hotel. A Note on the Text The Age of Innocence first appeared in four large installments in The Pictorial Review, from July to October 1920. It was published that same year in book form by D. Appleton and Company in New York and in London. Wharton made extensive stylistic, punctuation, and spelling changes and revisions between the serial and book publication, and more than thirty subsequent changes were made after the second impression of the book edition had been run off. This authoritative text is reprinted from the Library of America edition of Novels by Edith Wharton, and is based on the sixth impression of the first edition, which incorporates the last set of extensive


I’m barely getting any oxygen. “Grocery Gladiators?” Kimmy squeals right as Cleo says hopefully, “Murder, She Read?” “Yes and yes,” Sabrina says, confirming we will be doing two of our usual —and most diametrically opposite—Maine activities: a trip to the local bookstore (Cleo’s and my favorite) and a very ridiculous way of grocery shopping, which has been Parth and Kimmy’s great passion ever since they teamed up three years ago and started a “winning streak,” insomuch as one can “win” at grocery shopping. Wyn and I used to debate whether Sabrina concocted the game of Grocery Gladiators because she got tired of how long our trips to the market were. There’s a heavenly bakery in one corner, and a whole local snacks section, and between the six of us, it’s like shopping with very bougie, somewhat drunk toddlers, one person wandering off every time the rest of us are ready to go. “But tonight I figured we’d swim, do our usual cookout and all that,” Sabrina says. “I just want to bask in the togetherness.” “To togetherness,” Parth cries, initiating the fifth toast of the day. As soon as Wyn removes his arm from around my shoulders, I scooch my chair sideways under the pretense of grabbing the open prosecco to refill my glass. “To Grocery Gladiators,” Kimmy joins in. To drinking your body weight in wine and hoping you wake up and realize this was all a dream, I think. Across the table, Cleo’s looking at me thoughtfully, a little divot between her delicate brows. I force a smile and lift my flute in her direction. “To that one guy at Murder, She Read who still gives us the student discount.” Cleo’s mouth quirks faintly, like she’s not fully convinced by my display, but she clinks her glass—water; Cleo gave up alcohol years ago because it irritated her stomach—to mine anyway. “May we always be so lucky, and so youthful.” “Shoot, bottle’s empty,” Sabrina says from the end of the table. I lurch to my feet before Wyn can volunteer. He starts to rise anyway, and I shove him back down in his chair. “You stay here and relax, honey,” I say, acidly sweet. “I’ll get the wine.” “Thanks, Har,” Sab calls as I beeline for the back doors. “Door should be open!” Another facet of Mr. Armas’s upgrade to the cottage: he had the old stone cellar converted to a top-of-the-line vault for his immense and immensely expensive wine collection. It’s password protected and everything, though Sabrina always leaves it open so any of us can run down and grab something. Too quickly I find a bottle whose label matches the one on the table. I’m guessing that means it’s not a thousand-dollar prosecco, but with Sabrina, you never know. She might’ve pulled out all the stops for us, regardless of whether our unrefined palates are able to appreciate said pulled stops. It makes my heart twinge, thinking of this perfect final week she’s planned for us and my utter inability to enjoy it. One day. Let them have one


her. I do that, too, thought Miss de Vries. The orchestra fell quiet, the crowd drew back, and there was a burst of riotous applause. The band began playing the national anthem, half a measure too fast, and the princess looked around, temporarily nonplussed. She caught Miss de Vries’s eye. “I congratulate you on your engagement,” she said, over the music. “Thank you, ma’am,” she muttered, bowing her head. The anthem died just as it was getting into full swing, and the princess’s people began shoving the onlookers, beating a path to the door. The princess herself glanced over Miss de Vries’s shoulder. Lord Ashley was fighting his own way down the stairs behind them, hat skewed, plumes bobbing. “You would be better off alone,” the princess said. Her accent was tucked into the recesses of her throat, and she spoke without emotion—as if she didn’t care how her words would be received. It was a breathtakingly offensive thing to say. It silenced Miss de Vries altogether. “Ma’am,” said the viscountess, turban swaying, “this way...” The princess moved on, offering no thanks, no farewell. Evidently, her mind had turned to bed, and the groaning, dusty, glorious heights of Buckingham Palace. There was a flash of diamonds, a firework pop in the garden, a collective flurry of bows and curtseys as the royal presence left Park Lane. Through the crush, Miss de Vries saw the big motor car roll away from the curb. A roar went up in the front hall, men and women peeling off their gloves, letting out enormous sighs of relief, shouting for more champagne. The band began hammering the drums. There was a bang as a flashbulb went out in one of the electroliers, and people screamed in delight. Miss de Vries felt her neighbors crushing her, touching her, all over her. She didn’t budge. Lord Ashley bounded up the front steps, saying in a careless voice to Miss de Vries, “Christ, what a drag that must have been for ma’am. At least you had me here. She wouldn’t have said a word otherwise.” The world grew dark. Miss de Vries could feel her father’s eyes on her back, his portrait looming over her at its usual furious angle. In that moment she loathed Lord Ashley. She urged herself not to let the feeling take root. Anything less than joy would count as failure. There was a gleam of pink satin, a scent of almonds and rose water. Lady Montagu was hurrying past. “Terrible headache, must dash, forgive, forgive... Splendid evening, goodnight to you all!” Miss de Vries felt a hand on her elbow. Lockwood, bruised and angry eyed. “Thank his lordship for the dance,” he said. “It will be expected.” Lord Ashley was throwing back his head and bellowing with laughter, rubbing his thighs, making an obscene joke. She didn’t wish to thank him. He should have been thanking her, for saving him. “No,” she replied. Ashley was taking her triumph, polluting it, making it his own. “I’m going to bed.” Lockwood’s eyes narrowed. “There are still a


us. But there were some too who came because they had friends in our town, and others who could think of nowhere else open to escape. And so they fled into Umuofia with a woeful story." He drank his palm-wine, and Okonkwo filled his horn again. He continued: "During the last planting season a white man had appeared in their clan." "An albino," suggested Okonkwo. "He was not an albino. He was quite different." He sipped his wine. "And he was riding an iron horse. The first people who saw him ran away, but he stood beckoning to them. In the end the fearless ones went near and even touched him. The elders consulted their Oracle and it told them that the strange man would break their clan and spread destruction among them." Obierika again drank a little of his wine. "And so they killed the white man and tied his iron horse to their sacred tree because it looked as if it would run away to call the man's friends. I forgot to tell you another thing which the Oracle said. It said that other white men were on their way. They were locusts, it said, and that first man was their harbinger sent to explore the terrain. And so they killed him." "What did the white man say before they killed him?" asked Uchendu. "He said nothing," answered one of Obierika's companions. "He said something, only they did not understand him," said Obierika. "He seemed to speak through his nose." "One of the men told me," said Obierika's other companion, "that he repeated over and over again a word that resembled Mbaino. Perhaps he had been going to Mbaino and had lost his way." "Anyway," resumed Obierika, "they killed him and tied up his iron horse. This was before the planting season began. For a long time nothing happened. The rains had come and yams had been sown. The iron horse was still tied to the sacred silk-cotton tree. And then one morning three white men led by a band of ordinary men like us came to the clan. They saw the iron horse and went away again. Most of the men and women of Abame had gone to their farms. Only a few of them saw these white men and their followers. For many market weeks nothing else happened. They have a big market in Abame on every other Afo day and, as you know, the whole clan gathers there. That was the day it happened. The three white men and a very large number of other men surrounded the market. They must have used a powerful medicine to make themselves invisible until the market was full. And they began to shoot. Everybody was killed, except the old and the sick who were at home and a handful of men and women whose chi were wide awake and brought them out of that market." He paused. "Their clan is now completely empty. Even the sacred fish in their mysterious lake have fled and the lake has turned the colour


killed his own wife. He puts his hands on his hips. “Kind of makes you think, doesn’t it?” Sloane steps toward him without a word. She stops a few feet away, keeping the gun tucked behind her back. “Well?” Brody’s eyes narrow into slits. If he’s aware of the water running upstairs, he doesn’t show it. “I’ve already made up my mind. I’m going to tell them how I know you drowned her. Because it almost happened to me. How you snuck into my car, broke into our garage, attacked me, and told me about the oxycodone. How you planned to use it against me if I came forward.” His nose curls into a snarl. “Oh, no you’re not. Did you tell Ethan how you wanted him dead? How you were the one to bring it up after screwing me in the bathtub?” Sloane doesn’t respond. Instead, she slowly moves her finger off the gun barrel and onto the trigger. Brody steps toward her. “And how you adamantly refused to give Narcan?” She ignores the tension that builds between her shoulders. “That’s right. My private investigator talked to one of the first responders.” He smiles. “You shouted at the nurse not to give it.” His smile fades. “What’s that noise?” He points at the ceiling. He gapes at her as the water upstairs turns off. His eyes double in size. “Is Ethan home?” Sloane swings her arm forward and aims the stolen pistol at Brody’s chest. He throws his palms in the air. “Whoa! Sloane, calm down!” “Trust me, I’m calm.” Brody’s eyes dart toward the ceiling. “Ethan!” Sloane fires a round into the fireplace. The glass shatters as her ears ring from the blast. Brody lunges for the gun. “Ethan!” she screeches. She lets the gun fall to the floor as Ethan’s bare footsteps pound down the upstairs hallway. Brody jumps for the gun. He comes up looking terrified and angry all at once. He aims the pistol at her. “Stay. Back.” Sloane steps toward him, seeing her husband fly down the stairs, dripping wet, clutching a towel around his waist, his gun drawn with the other. “Be careful, Ethan! He has a gun!” Brody looks back at Sloane, his brows knit together in horrified confusion. “What are you—” “He tried to kill me!” Brody’s terror-filled pupils lock with Sloane’s before his eyes dart toward Ethan, who stands huffing at the foot of the stairs. “Drop the weapon!” Ethan yells. “Now! Drop the gun!” Brody swings the weapon at Ethan. “She’s the one—” Sloane screams over Brody’s voice. A blast fills the room. Brody’s head recoils from the impact of the bullet to his forehead. Sloane brings her hands to her face as she watches him recoil and collapse to the floor. Ethan rushes over, and Sloane pulls the weapon out of Brody’s limp hand seconds before Ethan can. She looks away before she steps over Brody. His eyes seem fixed on hers as the life drains from them. Sloane turns to Ethan beside her and allows him to take the


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

his legs are. I seed through the tear of his glove. You'd have expected a sort of pinky to show, wouldn't you? Well--there wasn't none. Just blackness. I tell you, he's as black as my hat." "My sakes!" said Henfrey. "It's a rummy case altogether. Why, his nose is as pink as paint!" "That's true," said Fearenside. "I knows that. And I tell 'ee what I'm thinking. That marn's a piebald, Teddy. Black here and white there--in patches. And he's ashamed of it. He's a kind of half-breed, and the colour's come off patchy instead of mixing. I've heard of such things before. And it's the common way with horses, as anyone can see." Chapter 4 Mr. Cuss Interviews the Stranger I have told the circumstances of the stranger's arrival in Iping with a certain fulness of detail, in order that the curious impression he created may be understood by the reader. But excepting two odd incidents, the circumstances of his stay until the extraordinary day of the Club Festival may be passed over very cursorily. There were a number of skirmishes with Mrs. Hall on matters of domestic discipline, but in every case until late in April, when the first signs of penury began, he over-rode her by the easy expedient of an extra payment. Hall did not like him, and whenever he dared he talked of the advisability of getting rid of him; but he showed his dislike chiefly by concealing it ostentatiously, and avoiding his visitor as much as possible. "Wait till the summer," said Mrs. Hall, sagely, "when the artisks are beginning to come. Then we'll see. He may be a bit overbearing, but bills settled punctual is bills settled punctual, whatever you like to say." The stranger did not go to church, and indeed made no difference between Sunday and the irreligious days, even in costume. He worked, as Mrs. Hall thought, very fitfully. Some days he would come down early and be continuously busy. On others he would rise late, pace his room, fretting audibly for hours together, smoke, sleep in the armchair by the fire. Communication with the world beyond the village he had none. His temper continued very uncertain; for the most part his manner was that of a man suffering under almost unendurable provocation, and once or twice things were snapped, torn, crushed, or broken in spasmodic gusts of violence. He seemed under a chronic irritation of the greatest intensity. His habit of talking to himself in a low voice grew steadily upon him, but though Mrs. Hall listened conscientiously she could make neither head nor tail of what she heard. He rarely went abroad by daylight, but at twilight he would go out muffled up enormously, whether the weather were cold or not, and he chose the loneliest paths and those most overshadowed by trees and banks. His goggling spectacles and ghastly bandaged face under the penthouse of his hat, came with a disagreeable suddenness out of the darkness upon one or two home-going labourers; and Teddy Henfrey, tumbling out of the


must say. To take First Class License in one year and win the Avery scholarship-well, well, Mrs. Lynde says pride goes before a fall and she doesn't believe in the higher education of women at all; she says it unfits them for woman's true sphere. I don't believe a word of it. speaking of Rachel reminds me-did you hear anything about the Abbey Bank lately, Anne?" "I heard it was shaky," answered Anne. "Why?" "That is what Rachel said. She was up here one day last week and said there was some talk about it. Matthew felt real worried. All we have saved is in that bank-every penny. I wanted Matthew to put it in the Savings Bank in the first place, but old Mr. Abbey was a great friend of father's and he'd always banked with him. Matthew said any bank with him at the head of it was good enough for anybody." "I think he has only been its nominal head for many years," said Anne. "He is a very old man; his nephews are really at the head of the institution." "Well, when Rachel told us that, I wanted Matthew to draw our money right out and he said he'd think of it. But Mr. Russell told him yesterday that the bank was all right." Anne had her good day in the companionship of the outdoor world. She never forgot that day; it was so bright and golden and fair, so free from shadow and so lavish of blossom. Anne spent some of its rich hours in the orchard; she went to the Dryad's Bubble and Willowmere and Violet Vale; she called at the manse and had a satisfying talk with Mrs. Allan; and finally in the evening she went with Matthew for the cows, through Lovers' Lane to the back pasture. The woods were all gloried through with sunset and the warm splendor of it streamed down through the hill gaps in the west. Matthew walked slowly with bent head; Anne, tall and erect, suited her springing step to his. "You've been working too hard today, Matthew," she said reproachfully. "Why won't you take things easier?" "Well now, I can't seem to," said Matthew, as he opened the yard gate to let the cows through. "It's only that I'm getting old, Anne, and keep forgetting it. Well, well, I've always worked pretty hard and I'd rather drop in harness." "If I had been the boy you sent for," said Anne wistfully, "I'd be able to help you so much now and spare you in a hundred ways. I could find it in my heart to wish I had been, just for that." "Well now, I'd rather have you than a dozen boys, Anne," said Matthew patting her hand. "Just mind you thatrather than a dozen boys. Well now, I guess it wasn't a boy that took the Avery scholarship, was it? It was a girl-my girl-my girl that I'm proud of." He smiled his shy smile at her as he went into the yard. Anne took the memory


with food, water, and beds is too much for you?” Sefa yelled. I sat on Sefa’s new bed, watching with a peculiar mixture of curiosity and regret. If Niyar and Palia hadn’t killed Emre, I imagined watching my parents argue might have provoked a similar feeling. “He thinks we’re linked to her magic. He can use us against her!” Marek raked through his hair. “We can’t stay here!” “How would trying to escape help?” Sefa pounded the dust off the quilt at the foot of the bed. She aggressively folded it into a rectangle. “He would be committed to finding us, and we would be granted far less leeway than we have now!” Marek covered his face, sliding down the door. Sefa watched him mutinously for a long moment. I tried to make myself smaller, less like a voyeur spying on their private moments. With a drawn sigh, Sefa left the quilt and knelt by Marek, gently prying his wrists apart. “It’s just until after the trials. What’s one more adventure?” I felt compelled to speak. “He wouldn’t harm you as punishment for my disobedience.” At Marek’s fiery glare, I added, “Not out of compassion. Logically, hurting you two would ruin my goodwill and keep me from training efficiently. It might even motivate us to flee together. I am not denying that inflicting pain is another tool at his disposal. Just not one he’ll turn to with other available options. But if you run, if you tell anyone about the tunnels… once the Commander reaches a decision, he cannot be dissuaded.” “You mean he’ll kill us.” Sefa giggled, snuffing the sound in her elbow. “What danger is there in a brute?” Sefa said, echoing the answer I gave her the night I killed the soldier. “I kept wondering what you could have possibly meant. You meant this, didn’t you? The Nizahl Heir is polite, brilliant, handsome. He is the opposite of a brute, and a thousand times more dangerous for it, because you cannot know from which direction he will strike.” “You find that funny?” Marek peered at Sefa with concern. He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. Sefa toppled from her crouch, joining Marek against the door. She dropped her head on his shoulder. “No.” We sat there until Sefa’s eyelids drooped and light snores vibrated in her chest. Marek’s lips tightened. “He knows who we are.” I smiled wanly. “Caleb is a nice name.” Marek’s flinch nearly knocked Sefa awake. His expression shuttered, and a faraway sorrow lined his features. “It was.” His gaze hardened and snapped to mine. “We won’t enter Nizahl. If you don’t find a way to persuade him to release us before the third trial, we will take our chances in the woods.” “Understood.” “So. You’re a Jasadi.” His discomfort was evident. Too many tales existed about Jasadis, expertly planted by Nizahl over the years to destroy any lingering sympathy for the scorched kingdom. Most people remembered Jasad before the siege, had traded outside the fortress and sent invitations to their waleemas. But


smallest. On Grand Cayman is a bank. In the bank is an account held in the name of Only Truth, Inc. In Idaho lies a hundred-acre ranch of grassy fields and forests that is owned by Only Truth, Inc. It isn’t a working ranch, at least not in the traditional sense. On the ranch is a modest but beautifully finished house in the Craftsman style. Residing in the house are Peter and Susan Pevensie, husband and wife, who are financially independent and who say they retired early to write novels. Their only child, Edward, is homeschooled, and they have a dog named Lucy. More than two years have passed since any of them has mistakenly spoken the names Michael or Nina or John even in the privacy of their home. Also on the property is a stable for eight horses, though only three are currently in residence: Bree, Hwin, and Puzzle—one mare and two stallions. The family rides together, canoes together, skis together, attends church together, and participates in the life of the small town of Baskin Springs to such an extent that none of the locals ever thinks of them as in any way mysterious. As peaceful and idyllic as life can be in rural Idaho, this is the worst of times and the best of times in the wider world, an age of great turmoil, though the changes underway are mostly nonviolent. Someone whom the media calls “Superhacker” controls the internet and maintains access to all data in every computer, cell phone, device, and system that’s internet dependent. Telecom, banking, and social media entities; the power grid; private enterprises; all government bureaus and agencies: He enjoys unrestricted access to pretty much everything. Worldwide. Superhacker isn’t really anything as ordinary as a hacker, but something stranger and more powerful for which no one has yet come up with a better name. Many billions of dollars and countless man-hours have been spent trying to locate Superhacker or wrest control from him or her, all to no avail. In some ineffable way, this villain has reconfigured the internet so that those who thrive on anonymity and illegal enterprise can opt out only at the unbearable cost of collapsing their company or agency and being denied all forms of electronic communication ever after. Much has been said and written about the totalitarian threat posed by Superhacker, but it has not materialized. The first change imposed by this individual was to make it impossible to be anonymous in social media or elsewhere. In one day, every concocted handle was translated into the user’s real name; now every attempt to go online incognito fails. The abrupt collapse of the ability to deceive and harass by such means has been a societal shockwave. But fascism grows in the dark, not in the light, and so it doesn’t grow. Just a week later, everyone with an email account—everyone—received in his or her mailbox reams of incontrovertible evidence of the massive corruption of fifteen members of Congress, paired with the emails and recorded phone conversations of justice department officials


strangely indistinct, however, and less like articulate words than an unshaped sound, such as would be the utterance of feeling and sympathy, rather than of the intellect. So vague was it, that its impression or echo in Phoebe's mind was that of unreality. She concluded that she must have mistaken some other sound for that of the human voice; or else that it was altogether in her fancy. She set the lighted lamp in the passage, and again entered the parlor. Hepzibah's form, though its sable outline mingled with the dusk, was now less imperfectly visible. In the remoter parts of the room, however, its walls being so ill adapted to reflect light, there was nearly the same obscurity as before. "Cousin," said Phoebe, "did you speak to me just now?" "No, child!" replied Hepzibah. Fewer words than before, but with the same mysterious music in them! Mellow, melancholy, yet not mournful, the tone seemed to gush up out of the deep well of Hepzibah's heart, all steeped in its profoundest emotion. There was a tremor in it, too, that --as all strong feeling is electric--partly communicated itself to Phoebe. The girl sat silently for a moment. But soon, her senses being very acute, she became conscious of an irregular respiration in an obscure corner of the room. Her physical organization, moreover, being at once delicate and healthy, gave her a perception, operating with almost the effect of a spiritual medium, that somebody was near at hand. "My dear cousin," asked she, overcoming an indefinable reluctance, "is there not some one in the room with us?" "Phoebe, my dear little girl," said Hepzibah, after a moment's pause,"you were up betimes, and have been busy all day. Pray go to bed; for I am sure you must need rest. I will sit in the parlor awhile, and collect my thoughts. It has been my custom for more years, child, than you have lived!" While thus dismissing her, the maiden lady stept forward, kissed Phoebe, and pressed her to her heart, which beat against the girl's bosom with a strong, high, and tumultuous swell. How came there to be so much love in this desolate old heart, that it could afford to well over thus abundantly? "Goodnight, cousin," said Phoebe, strangely affected by Hepzibah's manner. "If you begin to love me, I am glad!" She retired to her chamber, but did not soon fall asleep, nor then very profoundly. At some uncertain period in the depths of night, and, as it were, through the thin veil of a dream, she was conscious of a footstep mounting the stairs heavily, but not with force and decision. The voice of Hepzibah, with a hush through it, was going up along with the footsteps; and, again, responsive to her cousin's voice, Phoebe heard that strange, vague murmur, which might be likened to an indistinct shadow of human utterance. VII The Guest WHEN Phoebe awoke,--which she did with the early twittering of the conjugal couple of robins in the pear-tree,--she heard movements below stairs, and, hastening down, found


was a murmur of surprise and disagreement. "Let us give them a portion of the Evil Forest. They boast about victory over death. Let us give them a real battlefield in which to show their victory." They laughed and agreed, and sent for the missionaries, whom they had asked to leave them for a while so that they might "whisper together." They offered them as much of the Evil Forest as they cared to take. And to their greatest amazement the missionaries thanked them and burst into song. "They do not understand," said some of the elders. "But they will understand when they go to their plot of land tomorrow morning." And they dispersed. The next morning the crazy men actually began to clear a part of the forest and to build their house. The inhabitants of Mbanta expected them all to be dead within four days. The first day passed and the second and third and fourth, and none of them died. Everyone was puzzled. And then it became known that the white man's fetish had unbelievable power. It was said that he wore glasses on his eyes so that he could see and talk to evil spirits. Not long after, he won his first three converts. Although Nwoye had been attracted to the new faith from the very first day, he kept it secret. He dared not go too near the missionaries for fear of his father. But whenever they came to preach in the open marketplace or the village play ground, Nwoye was there. And he was already beginning to know some of the simple stories they told. "We have now built a church," said Mr. Kiaga, the interpreter, who was now in charge of the infant congregation. The white man had gone back to Umuofia, where he built his headquarters and from where he paid regular visits to Mr. Kiaga's congregation at Mbanta. "We have now built a church," said Mr. Kiaga, "and we want you all to come in every seventh day to worship the true God." On the following Sunday, Nwoye passed and repassed the little red-earth and thatch building without summoning enough courage to enter. He heard the voice of singing and although it came from a handful of men it was loud and confident. Their church stood on a circular clearing that looked like the open mouth of the Evil Forest. Was it waiting to snap its teeth together? After passing and re-passing by the church, Nwoye returned home. It was well known among the people of Mbanta that their gods and ancestors were sometimes long-suffering and would deliberately allow a man to go on defying them. But even in such cases they set their limit at seven market weeks or twenty-eight days. Beyond that limit no man was suffered to go. And so excitement mounted in the village as the seventh week approached since the impudent missionaries built their church in the Evil Forest. The villagers were so certain about the doom that awaited these men that one or two converts thought it


to sit with Glorian. ‘The sun has risen.’ Her voice was bereft of hope. ‘The wyverns can see the moor clearly now. I don’t think it will be long before our soldiers are dead.’ ‘Even with the ones who came from Paupers’ Henge?’ ‘It’s not enough, Glorian. They’re so tired.’ Tears streaked her cheeks. ‘I feel just as I did when you fell off your horse. You’re in danger again, and I can’t save you. I can’t save Sabran.’ ‘It’s my fault. I should not have insisted on coming here.’ ‘You did it for Inys.’ Adela brought fresh candles. Glorian slipped into a weary doze, Sabran gathered to her heart. She skimmed a strange and terrible dream, a sandpiper wetting her wings on the sea. She flew over a burning isle, and a need pounded her chest, hers and not hers: save her, save her. When she woke, she knew where she would go. Sabran grizzled at her breast. Glorian held her close, breathed in her sweet milky smell. ‘You and I have something to do,’ Glorian told her. Then she looked at Florell. ‘Ready a horse.’ ‘A horse.’ Florell shook her head. ‘Glorian, you just gave birth – what do you mean?’ ‘I am Queen of Inys,’ Glorian reminded her, ‘and I no longer require a regent. With my Saint-given authority, I charge you to bring me a horse, and a cloak.’ ‘Queen Glorian.’ Bourn looked speechless, but managed to say, ‘Your child needs her mother.’ ‘Fear not.’ Her legs trembled, but she stood. ‘Sabran is coming with me.’ **** Cenning Moor glistened as the sunrise touched it. Wulf fought on, Thrit at his side, over bodies and lost weapons. Deep in the night, an army in the hundreds had arrived from Paupers’ Henge. That had strengthened them, for a time, but most had come on foot from their shelter, leaving them exhausted before they had even joined the fray. Hours later, there was no sign of a reprieve. Thrice the wyverns’ forces had breached Hollow Crag. Thrice they had been forced out. When the new fighters arrived, the Duke of Courage had led a foray from inside, scything down beasts and driving them back to the drystack wall that crossed the eastern stretch of the moor. The Duchess of Temperance had come next, with Lord Edrick at her side, and then Sir Bramel and the Royal Guard. All that had been when they had darkness to obscure their movements. Now the sun was laying their position bare. Wulf had stopped trying to keep count of the creatures. Each time he thought their ranks had thinned, they thickened anew. The wyverns must be calling them from all over the queendom. Each time they soared overhead, they somehow found more ground to burn. He tried to surrender to the flow of the fight, using skills he had learned in both Hróth and Lasia. The Kumengan spear was the perfect weapon for fighting the creatures – its long reach kept him out of theirs, and its head could pierce the weak points in


had yet observed, with this difference, that beauty, every now and then, softened the landscape into smiles. Little woody recesses appeared among the mountains, covered with bright verdure and flowers; or a pastoral valley opened its grassy bosom in the shade of the cliffs, with flocks and herds loitering along the banks of a rivulet, that refreshed it with perpetual green. St. Aubert could not repent the having taken this fatiguing road, though he was this day, also, frequently obliged to alight, to walk along the rugged precipice, and to climb the steep and flinty mountain. The wonderful sublimity and variety of the prospects repaid him for all this, and the enthusiasm, with which they were viewed by his young companions, heightened his own, and awakened a remembrance of all the delightful emotions of his early days, when the sublime charms of nature were first unveiled to him. He found great pleasure in conversing with Valancourt, and in listening to his ingenuous remarks. The fire and simplicity of his manners seemed to render him a characteristic figure in the scenes around them; and St. Aubert discovered in his sentiments the justness and the dignity of an elevated mind, unbiassed by intercourse with the world. He perceived, that his opinions were formed, rather than imbibed; were more the result of thought, than of learning. Of the world he seemed to know nothing; for he believed well of all mankind, and this opinion gave him the reflected image of his own heart. St. Aubert, as he sometimes lingered to examine the wild plants in his path, often looked forward with pleasure to Emily and Valancourt, as they strolled on together; he, with a countenance of animated delight, pointing to her attention some grand feature of the scene; and she, listening and observing with a look of tender seriousness, that spoke the elevation of her mind. They appeared like two lovers who had never strayed beyond these their native mountains; whose situation had secluded them from the frivolities of common life, whose ideas were simple and grand, like the landscapes among which they moved, and who knew no other happiness, than in the union of pure and affectionate hearts. St. Aubert smiled, and sighed at the romantic picture of felicity his fancy drew; and sighed again to think, that nature and simplicity were so little known to the world, as that their pleasures were thought romantic. 'The world,' said he, pursuing this train of thought, 'ridicules a passion which it seldom feels; its scenes, and its interests, distract the mind, deprave the taste, corrupt the heart, and love cannot exist in a heart that has lost the meek dignity of innocence. Virtue and taste are nearly the same, for virtue is little more than active taste, and the most delicate affections of each combine in real love. How then are we to look for love in great cities, where selfishness, dissipation, and insincerity supply the place of tenderness, simplicity and truth?' It was near noon, when the travellers, having arrived at a piece of steep


Or have Yolanda drive you there.” Tristán’s lips were pressed tight together, and he was staring at her. But she wasn’t going to let him have the car. She’d wanted a car the Saint drove on the TV when they were kids, a Volvo P1800. Since she couldn’t get one, she’d settled on a Volkswagen that ran like a dream. It was white, immaculate, and kept safe and sound in a reliable garage spot she rented a block from her home. It was not the car of a TV hero, but it was her precious four wheels, and she didn’t need Tristán stinking it up with his cigarettes, imported or not. The waitress came by and told them she could move them to the smoking section. Montserrat took her cup of coffee, and he grabbed his soft drink. When they sat down again Tristán again toyed with his box of cigarettes. Montserrat extended a hand and placed it over his. “I’d like it if you stopped smoking.” “I’ve told you, it keeps me thin.” “If not for your health, think about your teeth.” “That’s why I have veneers.” “Tristán.” “We switched sections so I could smoke.” “We switched because you’re a stubborn fucker,” she said, almost hissing at him. “Mmm,” he replied as he lit his cigarette and took a drag. “Yolanda and I broke up, so she’s not driving me anywhere.” This startled her. Usually, Tristán called Montserrat at the end of his relationships. He used her as a confessional booth. “What? When?” “Two weeks ago.” “You didn’t say anything over the phone.” “I was trying to figure out if I could patch it over. I mean, seriously patch it over, not just flowers and a box of chocolates. Therapy, maybe. Couples counseling.” “That’s a bit—” “Mature of me?” he asked. “Unusual,” Montserrat said. “I thought you two were going to work on that movie.” “We’re not on speaking terms. It’s impossible to get funding, anyway. You have to beg for grants and kneel in front of Conaculta,” he said. “What did you do?” “Why do you always assume I did something?” “You didn’t cheat on her, did you? She was nice.” “You didn’t even like Yolanda,” he muttered, irritated. “Well, she was nice for you,” Montserrat said. “She was a bit of a snob, but you enjoy that.” “Are you still seeing that vet with the bad hair?” Tristán asked. He sounded a little spiteful, but she didn’t take the bait. “That was a year and a half ago. And ‘seeing’ is a big word. If you go out with someone twice you are not seeing them,” she said calmly. “Anyway, we’re talking about you and Yolanda, not me.” “I didn’t cheat on her,” Tristán said, tapping his cigarette against the small, amber-colored ashtray. “If you must know, she wanted to get married and have a baby.” “Kiss of death, that,” Montserrat muttered. “Maybe I should get serious about someone, do the whole wedding and baby thing.” “Do you want to have a baby?” “No! But I would like to


thought I was going to sit in the nurse’s office all day,” Ella said. “It was only an hour,” Maud said. “It turned out okay, didn’t it?” Going back down the hall, she was annoyed with Peter, with both of them, really, for acting as if she’d done something wrong by being caught up in her work, as Peter always was. She measured out a capful of cold medicine and brought Ella a glass of orange juice. When Ella’s fever rose again, she took her to the doctor’s office for a strep test. The test positive, she ran to the pharmacy for antibiotics after dropping Louise at soccer practice. Standing in line for the bottle of pink medicine, she thought about Juana Briones losing three of her children in the same month, one after the other, from illnesses that Ella and Louise were vaccinated against. She let her ruminations about open marriage go. Gratitude, she thought, handing over the prescription slip, as if the word itself were a dose of medicine. Ella stayed in bed during dinner. Two bites into her meat loaf, Louise asked if she could play sick with her sister, so the two of them cuddled up to watch a movie on Maud’s laptop. Tie still on, flipped over his shoulder, Peter barely spoke as they ate, though he kept clinking his fork on the plate. “What?” Maud said as they cleared the table. “What what?” “Why are you mad?” “You know that I have a standing meeting on Wednesdays.” “Yes, I know. And I have a standing job. For my benefactor.” “You said you’d be done by noon.” “It took longer.” Why hadn’t she said that she’d stayed an extra hour eating lunch with Alice? Then again, why did she have to account for her time? Peter was scrubbing his plate as if trying to remove a layer of porcelain. “You know Ella’s not out of the woods,” he said. “She has strep. Strep has nothing to do with the other issue. What are you talking about?” “I’m not talking about anything,” he said. “Good night.” She was too disconcerted to work, so she went to bed with a novel and turned off her light when she heard Peter coming down the hall from his study. Eyes closed, she listened to him brush his teeth in the bathroom. She thought about Alice’s house and library, those bastions of light made out of dim, discarded buildings. Her cloud of a cover on the bed. Her ceramic mugs. Her diet, determined by her own desires and principles. Her lover and her other lovers. Alice didn’t have to compromise with anyone. When you married, you did nothing but compromise. And you lost your ability to make a home exactly as you wanted, down to the last detail. And then she was back at Montgomery Place: cracking open the windows to let in the spring air, making a bouquet for the coffee table, changing into a dress before going outside to meet Gabriel. _____ Several weeks passed. She mixed mushroom compost and


before. At last Emma attacked her on another ground. "Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr. Elton's marrying, Harriet, is the strongest reproach you can make me. You could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into. It was all my doing, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure you.--Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you-- and it will be a painful reflection to me for ever. Do not imagine me in danger of forgetting it." Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager exclamation. Emma continued, "I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think less, talk less of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own sake rather, I would wish it to be done, for the sake of what is more important than my comfort, a habit of self-command in you, a consideration of what is your duty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the suspicions of others, to save your health and credit, and restore your tranquillity. These are the motives which I have been pressing on you. They are very important--and sorry I am that you cannot feel them sufficiently to act upon them. My being saved from pain is a very secondary consideration. I want you to save yourself from greater pain. Perhaps I may sometimes have felt that Harriet would not forget what was due--or rather what would be kind by me." This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest. The idea of wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really loved extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the violence of grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt to what was right and support her in it very tolerably. "You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life-- Want gratitude to you!--Nobody is equal to you!--I care for nobody as I do for you!--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!" Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and manner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so well, nor valued her affection so highly before. "There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart," said she afterwards to herself. "There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and tenderness of heart, with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all the clearness of head in the world, for attraction, I am sure it will. It is tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so generally beloved--which gives Isabella all her popularity.-- I have it not--but I know how to prize and respect it.--Harriet is my superior in all the charm and all the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet!--I would not change you for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging female breathing. Oh! the coldness of a Jane Fairfax!--Harriet is worth a hundred such--And for a wife-- a sensible man's wife--it is invaluable. I mention no names; but happy the


for a private view at some picture gallery. He took Hayward, and, on looking at the catalogue, saw that Lawson had a picture in it. "I suppose he sent the card," said Philip. "Let's go and find him, he's sure to be in front of his picture." This, a profile of Ruth Chalice, was tucked away in a corner, and Lawson was not far from it. He looked a little lost, in his large soft hat and loose, pale clothes, amongst the fashionable throng that had gathered for the private view. He greeted Philip with enthusiasm, and with his usual volubility told him that he had come to live in London, Ruth Chalice was a hussy, he had taken a studio, Paris was played out, he had a commission for a portrait, and they'd better dine together and have a good old talk. Philip reminded him of his acquaintance with Hayward, and was entertained to see that Lawson was slightly awed by Hayward's elegant clothes and grand manner. They sat upon him better than they had done in the shabby little studio which Lawson and Philip had shared. At dinner Lawson went on with his news. Flanagan had gone back to America. Clutton had disappeared. He had come to the conclusion that a man had no chance of doing anything so long as he was in contact with art and artists: the only thing was to get right away. To make the step easier he had quarrelled with all his friends in Paris. He developed a talent for telling them home truths, which made them bear with fortitude his declaration that he had done with that city and was settling in Gerona, a little town in the north of Spain which had attracted him when he saw it from the train on his way to Barcelona. He was living there now alone. "I wonder if he'll ever do any good," said Philip. He was interested in the human side of that struggle to express something which was so obscure in the man's mind that he was become morbid and querulous. Philip felt vaguely that he was himself in the same case, but with him it was the conduct of his life as a whole that perplexed him. That was his means of self-expression, and what he must do with it was not clear. But he had no time to continue with this train of thought, for Lawson poured out a frank recital of his affair with Ruth Chalice. She had left him for a young student who had just come from England, and was behaving in a scandalous fashion. Lawson really thought someone ought to step in and save the young man. She would ruin him. Philip gathered that Lawson's chief grievance was that the rupture had come in the middle of a portrait he was painting. "Women have no real feeling for art," he said. "They only pretend they have." But he finished philosophically enough: "However, I got four portraits out of her, and I'm not sure if the last I