locks or weapons alerts.” “Bosun Polk,” I said. “Sensor readings?” “Adams’ sensors are still not where they need to be … I’m not getting much of anything off that vessel. My initial assessment, she’s far higher tech than we are. I’ll continue scanning.” Reaching the captain’s mount, I looked to Hardy, whose own internal sensors were as sensitive as any US Space-Navy vessel, if not more so. “You picking up anything?” The ChronoBot remained quiet for several beats before answering. “Lifeforms, perhaps two hundred. Oh, and one more thing …” We all waited. “Skip the dramatics, Hardy, spit it out,” I said. “I believe they’re human.” “Mr. Chen, open a channel … Let’s see if our human friends will accept our hail.” “Aye, sir,” Chen said. “Mr. Grimes, be prepared to get us out of here fast.” “Helm is ready, sir.” Chen said, “Our hail was accepted, Captain.” I nodded. “Let’s see who we’re talking to. On display.” The halo display flickered while an abundance of static made it impossible to see who or what was on the other end of the communication. I looked to Chen. “I’m working on it, sir …” The halo display suddenly went crystal clear and there stood, in 3D splendor, a human military officer. Of average height, he looked to be in his mid-forties, had dark hair with graying at the temples, a five o’clock shadow, and a weary expression. He raised his chin as if assessing me—then he offered up a measured smile. He said, “You’re from Earth.” “As are you,” I said. “I am Captain Galvin Quintos of USS Adams.” “And I am Captain Church.” He made a casual sweep with one hand. “This is the Portent.” “Please excuse my abruptness, but what are you doing here?” “I imagine the same thing you are—attempting to return to our own universe,” he said. “How long have you been—” “Marooned here? Quite a while. I suggest we meet in person, Captain. We, my science personnel and others, all being a hell of a lot smarter than I am, have made some progress …” He stopped talking, narrowed his eyes. “Um, excuse me, but is that … a ChronoBot there on your bridge, Captain Quintos?” “It is. He is. But he’s not your typical three-hundred-year-old killer robot.” Church continued to stare; he didn’t look convinced. Hardy chose that moment to activate his face display—typically blacked-out glass—going with a creepy-looking circus clown and a way-too-enthusiastic smile. Akari, who only now took notice of Hardy, stifled a laugh. She looked to Captain Church. “Hardy has a unique sense of humor.” “A ChronoBot with a sense of humor. I’m not so sure that’s any more comforting,” Church said. I shrugged. “Long ago I gave up making excuses for our idiot robot. Tell me, Captain, your ship, Portent, is that an EUNF vessel? Perhaps US Space-Navy—” “If we could meet, Captain, get our scientists together, perhaps we can find a way out of here. The locals, as you’ve discovered, are not keen on our presence. It’s just a matter of time


need of a little helping hand, and gosh I’m so darn clumsy I could die. Careful not to lay it on thick, but thick enough. Liz Felton is all kinds of good people so she helps me inside. She’s what they call petite, which isn’t fair because petite sounds like fancy and schmancy and she’s all business, and working muscle under that coat. She’s a trainer at the gym halfway down the boulevard: cycle cardio and something else. Good work, plenty of shifts when you want them and time off when you don’t. Perfect for a cop’s wife. Turns out my name is Dave. I’m from Neuberlin. Yeah, it’s our first child, just moved in upstairs, and oh dang once again! It seems like my wife’s taken the baby out and I don’t have a key, so of course a good woman like Liz is going to ask me in for tea. It’s just neighbourly. The Felton home is proud but not fancy. I’m pretty sure one of the chairs is handmade out of an old door. There are pictures of the Feltons with other cop couples, hanging out in their backyards. Cop life is complicated. Three quarters of the problems they get asked to solve they can’t, and shouldn’t have to, and don’t know how. The rest are just fucking terrifying. That makes them hang together, and that causes trouble because they can’t belong to one another more than they belong to ordinary people—but they inevitably do. Add in all the ordinary human vices and cops can be a mile away and to the side of the population they’re supposed to protect. Bad things will happen. I work near cops, around cops, between cops, but I’m not one of them and that makes a difference. The difference is much easier to deal with when you don’t get to know them personally. I put my bag down on the counter and sit while she boils water and we chat. I make sure to make no sense, and go on and on about my little girl, nine weeks. I even have pictures. Liz Felton is glad to talk because her husband’s running late. She doesn’t have kids yet. They’re waiting for him to make Sergeant. Yeah, she worries when he’s late, but he’s a smart guy and he knows he has responsibilities. He’ll come home. I make like I’m embarrassed: I don’t want to take up your time, you’re so kind, I should go and see if she’s back yet, but could I just use your bathroom, and of course I could. So I get into the private space and look around. Detective Nat Felton—Liz calls him Nathaniel every single time—likes a wet shave, a spearmint toothpaste and dark-coloured towels, and when I get out of the bathroom and I’m thinking I might just have a quick look along the hall, his wife is holding a gun on me, dead steady and not amused at all. “Don’t feel bad,” she says, “you did it really well.” She waggles the gun and I sit


We can’t forget that.” “Those VHS tapes were in the floorboards for what, twenty years?” Priscilla Mancio said, “I just don’t understand how the girlfriend went along with it. She’s as bad as him, if you ask me.” “The thing about Hollywood,” Mr. Levin said, “is they’ll cover up anything in the name of money. Well, Bodie, you would know. Have you been following the case?” I didn’t manage an answer. The basketball fans were getting loud; and here came someone with, improbably, a tray of pudding shots, and we needed to help clear the counter. The second woman turned out not to be a faculty spouse but an art history teacher. On impulse, I asked, “Did you see that thing about Jerome Wager?” She said, “Who?” “The guy who did the Obama mural in West Hollywood, the one—” “Oh!” she said. “Yeah! I love him. Wait, what’s the thing?” “Nothing.” Utter relief. There was Twitter, and then there was the real world. Mr. Levin said, “Who made the pimiento cheese dip? This is delicious.” I agreed. I needed to step away from it so I wouldn’t eat more. The television crowd erupted in shouts. Some game-winning shot they were now going to replay over and over. Dana Ramos asked who was watching my kids while I was away. Priscilla kept infiltrating whatever conversation I was part of, and eventually she cornered me by the sink. She put her hand on my shoulder and said, “I have to ask you something.” I wished I had her bulldog to talk to again. She said, “Did you come back here just for this?” “For this party?” “For the—your student’s thing, the Thalia Keith thing.” I went hot and then cold and then hot. This was exactly what I’d been afraid of all along. “God, no. I came because I was asked. The students picked their own ideas.” She said, “I’ve stayed close with the Keiths.” She told me some rambling story about the Keiths’ “winter place” in Florida, something about baking cranberry bread with Caroline Keith. “Anyway,” she said, “they would be devastated”—she paused and, in a moment of literal condescension, stooped to level her eyes with mine—“I mean devastated, if there were more bullshit about this case.” I tried to laugh lightly. “Britt’s podcast is just for class. We’re not exactly looking at national distribution.” Fran shot me a look from across the kitchen, and I attempted to signal with my eyebrows that yes, I needed rescuing. “But you have a voice,” Priscilla said. “You have a big audience. I hope you own that and enjoy your fame. But, Bodie, you have to think. You have to consider who could be hurt.” “I don’t see how this could hurt anyone,” I said. Although, yes, victims’ families generally did not appreciate someone poking at an already closed case. I got that. Fran was trying to make her way to me, but she’d gotten stuck behind someone dealing with a slow cooker full of meatballs. “I got the sense, when she interviewed me, that Britt


different creature. My low tap at the door was answered by Mr. Peggotty. He was not so much surprised to see me as I had expected. I remarked this in Peggotty, too, when she came down; and I have seen it since; and I think, in the expectation of that dread surprise, all other changes and surprises dwindle into nothing. I shook hands with Mr. Peggotty, and passed into the kitchen, while he softly closed the door. Little Emily was sitting by the fire, with her hands before her face. Ham was standing near her. We spoke in whispers; listening, between whiles, for any sound in the room above. I had not thought of it on the occasion of my last visit, but how strange it was to me, now, to miss Mr. Barkis out of the kitchen! 'This is very kind of you, Mas'r Davy,' said Mr. Peggotty. 'It's oncommon kind,' said Ham. 'Em'ly, my dear,' cried Mr. Peggotty. 'See here! Here's Mas'r Davy come! What, cheer up, pretty! Not a wured to Mas'r Davy?' There was a trembling upon her, that I can see now. The coldness of her hand when I touched it, I can feel yet. Its only sign of animation was to shrink from mine; and then she glided from the chair, and creeping to the other side of her uncle, bowed herself, silently and trembling still, upon his breast. 'It's such a loving art,' said Mr. Peggotty, smoothing her rich hair with his great hard hand, 'that it can't abear the sorrer of this. It's nat'ral in young folk, Mas'r Davy, when they're new to these here trials, and timid, like my little bird, - it's nat'ral.' She clung the closer to him, but neither lifted up her face, nor spoke a word. 'It's getting late, my dear,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'and here's Ham come fur to take you home. Theer! Go along with t'other loving art! What' Em'ly? Eh, my pretty?' The sound of her voice had not reached me, but he bent his head as if he listened to her, and then said: 'Let you stay with your uncle? Why, you doen't mean to ask me that! Stay with your uncle, Moppet? When your husband that'll be so soon, is here fur to take you home? Now a person wouldn't think it, fur to see this little thing alongside a rough-weather chap like me,' said Mr. Peggotty, looking round at both of us, with infinite pride; 'but the sea ain't more salt in it than she has fondness in her for her uncle - a foolish little Em'ly!' 'Em'ly's in the right in that, Mas'r Davy!' said Ham. 'Lookee here! As Em'ly wishes of it, and as she's hurried and frightened, like, besides, I'll leave her till morning. Let me stay too!' 'No, no,' said Mr. Peggotty. 'You doen't ought - a married man like you - or what's as good - to take and hull away a day's work. And you doen't ought to watch and work both. That won't do. You go


hand. "Would you mind, miss, if I used the freedom--" "To kiss me? No!" I took the good creature in my arms and, after we had embraced like sisters, felt still more fortified and indignant. This, at all events, was for the time: a time so full that, as I recall the way it went, it reminds me of all the art I now need to make it a little distinct. What I look back at with amazement is the situation I accepted. I had undertaken, with my companion, to see it out, and I was under a charm, apparently, that could smooth away the extent and the far and difficult connections of such an effort. I was lifted aloft on a great wave of infatuation and pity. I found it simple, in my ignorance, my confusion, and perhaps my conceit, to assume that I could deal with a boy whose education for the world was all on the point of beginning. I am unable even to remember at this day what proposal I framed for the end of his holidays and the resumption of his studies. Lessons with me, indeed, that charming summer, we all had a theory that he was to have; but I now feel that, for weeks, the lessons must have been rather my own. I learned something-- at first, certainly--that had not been one of the teachings of my small, smothered life; learned to be amused, and even amusing, and not to think for the morrow. It was the first time, in a manner, that I had known space and air and freedom, all the music of summer and all the mystery of nature. And then there was consideration--and consideration was sweet. Oh, it was a trap--not designed, but deep--to my imagination, to my delicacy, perhaps to my vanity; to whatever, in me, was most excitable. The best way to picture it all is to say that I was off my guard. They gave me so little trouble-- they were of a gentleness so extraordinary. I used to speculate-- but even this with a dim disconnectedness--as to how the rough future (for all futures are rough!) would handle them and might bruise them. They had the bloom of health and happiness; and yet, as if I had been in charge of a pair of little grandees, of princes of the blood, for whom everything, to be right, would have to be enclosed and protected, the only form that, in my fancy, the afteryears could take for them was that of a romantic, a really royal extension of the garden and the park. It may be, of course, above all, that what suddenly broke into this gives the previous time a charm of stillness-- that hush in which something gathers or crouches. The change was actually like the spring of a beast. In the first weeks the days were long; they often, at their finest, gave me what I used to call my own hour, the hour when, for my pupils, teatime and bedtime having come and gone,


descend by. The door was opened almost good evening to you, friend Jim. What good wind brings at once by the maid. you here?” “Is Dr. Livesey in?” I asked. The supervisor stood up straight and stiff and told his No, she said, he had come home in the afternoon but had story like a lesson; and you should have seen how the two gone up to the hall to dine and pass the evening with the gentlemen leaned forward and looked at each other, and for- squire. got to smoke in their surprise and interest. When they heard “So there we go, boys,” said Mr. Dance. how my mother went back to the inn, Dr. Livesey fairly slapped his thigh, and the squire cried “Bravo!” and broke his long Contents This time, as the distance was short, I did not mount, but ran with Dogger’s stirrup-leather to the lodge gates and up pipe against the grate. Long before it was done, Mr. Trelawney the long, leafless, moonlit avenue to where the white line of (that, you will remember, was the squire’s name) had got up Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 48 49 from his seat and was striding about the room, and the doc- missed. tor, as if to hear the better, had taken off his powdered wig “And now, squire,” said the doctor. and sat there looking very strange indeed with his own close- “And now, Livesey,” said the squire in the same breath. cropped black poll. “One at a time, one at a time,” laughed Dr. Livesey. “You At last Mr. Dance finished the story. have heard of this Flint, I suppose?” “Mr. Dance,” said the squire, “you are a very noble fellow. “Heard of him!” cried the squire. “Heard of him, you say! And as for riding down that black, atrocious miscreant, I re- He was the bloodthirstiest buccaneer that sailed. Blackbeard gard it as an act of virtue, sir, like stamping on a cockroach. was a child to Flint. The Spaniards were so prodigiously This lad Hawkins is a trump, I perceive. Hawkins, will you afraid of him that, I tell you, sir, I was sometimes proud he ring that bell? Mr. Dance must have some ale.” was an Englishman. I’ve seen his top-sails with these eyes, off “And so, Jim,” said the doctor, “you have the thing that Trinidad, and the cowardly son of a rum-puncheon that I they were after, have you?” sailed with put back—put back, sir, into Port of Spain.” “Here it is, sir,” said I, and gave him the oilskin packet. “Well, I’ve heard of him myself, in England,” said the The doctor looked it all over, as if his fingers were itching doctor. “But the point is, had he money?” to open it; but instead of doing that, he put it quietly in the “Money!” cried the squire. “Have you heard the story? pocket of his coat. What were these villains after but money? What do they “Squire,” said he, “when Dance has had his ale he must, of care for


Jim tried it again, and then another time, and it acted just the same. Jim got down on his knees, and put his ear against it and listened. But it warn't no use; he said it wouldn't talk. He said sometimes it wouldn't talk without money. I told him I had an old slick counterfeit quarter that warn't no good because the brass showed through the silver a little, and it wouldn't pass nohow, even if the brass didn't show, because it was so slick it felt greasy, and so that would tell on it every time. (I reckoned I wouldn't say nothing about the dollar I got from the judge.) I said it was pretty bad money, but maybe the hair-ball would take it, because maybe it wouldn't know the difference. Jim smelt it and bit it and rubbed it, and said he would manage so the hair-ball would think it was good. He said he would split open a raw Irish potato and stick the quarter in between and keep it there all night, and next morning you couldn't see no brass, and it wouldn't feel greasy no more, and so anybody in town would take it in a minute, let alone a hair-ball. Well, I knowed a potato would do that before, but I had forgot it. Jim put the quarter under the hair-ball, and got down and listened again. This time he said the hair- ball was all right. He said it would tell my whole fortune if I wanted it to. I says, go on. So the hair- ball talked to Jim, and Jim told it to me. He says: "Yo' ole father doan' know yit what he's a-gwyne to do. Sometimes he spec he'll go 'way, en den agin he spec he'll stay. De bes' way is to res' easy en let de ole man take his own way. Dey's two angels hoverin' roun' 'bout him. One uv 'em is white en shiny, en t'other one is black. De white one gits him to go right a little while, den de black one sail in en bust it all up. A body can't tell yit which one gwyne to fetch him at de las'. But you is all right. You gwyne to have considable trouble in yo' life, en con- sidable joy. Sometimes you gwyne to git hurt, en sometimes you gwyne to git sick; but every time you's gwyne to git well agin. Dey's two gals flyin' 'bout you in yo' life. One uv 'em's light en t'other one is dark. One is rich en t'other is po'. You's gwyne to marry de po' one fust en de rich one by en by. You wants to keep 'way fum de water as much as you kin, en don't run no resk, 'kase it's down in de bills dat you's gwyne to git hung." When I lit my candle and went up to my room that night there sat pap -- his own self! CHAPTER V. I HAD shut the door to. Then I turned around.


found again, by a chance more strange than even Mithrandir had foreseen; and it was hidden from Curunr and from Sauron. For it had been taken from Anduin long ere they sought for it, being found by one of the small fisher-folk that dwelt by the River, ere the Kings failed in Condor; and by its finder it was brought beyond search into dark hiding under the roots of the mountains. There it dwelt, until even in the year of the assault upon Dol Guldur it was found again, by a wayfarer, fleeing into the depths of the earth from the pursuit of the Orcs, and passed into a far distant country, even to the land of the Periannath, the Little People, the Halflings, who dwelt in the west of Eriador. And ere that day they had been held of small account by Elves and by Men, and neither Sauron nor any of the Wise save Mithrandir had in all their counsels given thought to them. Now by fortune and his vigilance Mithrandir first learned of the Ring, ere Sauron had news of it; yet he was dismayed and in doubt. For too great was the evil power of this thing for any of the Wise to wield, unless like Curunr he wished himself to become a tyrant and a dark lord in his turn; but neither could it be concealed from Sauron for ever, nor could it be unmade by the craft of the Elves. Therefore with the help of the Dnedain of the North Mithrandir set a watch upon the land of the Periannath and bided his time. But Sauron had many ears, and soon he heard rumour of the One Ring, which above all things he desired, and he sent forth the Nazgl to take it. Then war was kindled, and in battle with Sauron the Third Age ended even as it had begun. But those who saw the things that were done in that time, deeds of valour and wonder, have elsewhere told the tale of the War of the Ring, and how it ended both in victory unlocked for and in sorrow long foreseen. Here let it be said that in those days the Heir of Isildur arose in the North, and he took the shards of the sword of Elendil, and in Imladris they were reforged; and he went then to war, a great captain of Men. He was Aragorn son of Arathorn, the nine and thirtieth heir in the right line from Isildur, and yet more like to Elendil than any before him. Battle there was in Rohan, and Curunr the traitor was thrown down and Isengard broken; and before the City of Gondor a great field was fought, and the Lord of Morgul, Captain of Sauron, there passed into darkness; and the Heir of Isildur led the host of the West to the Black Gates of Mordor. In that last battle were Mithrandir, and the sons of Elrond, and the King of Rohan, and lords of Gondor, and the Heir of Isildur with the


gun. The weapon that had killed Liv. “Where?” I managed. “In the pond, like we expected. Just took us a while to sift through all the junk in there,” he said. “Look, I know Bishop has been hassling you. You know how it is, new to town, gotta prove herself. Jim’s told her to simmer down, though, now that we’ve got the weapon.” “Was it Marcus Barnes’s gun?” I asked. “Sure was.” “And you’re sure that … You’re sure that’s the gun that killed her.” I swallowed hard. “Well, we don’t have the bullet, so we can’t match the ballistics. But there’s no other reason for that gun to be in that pond, is there?” He cleared his throat. “I imagine it’s a relief for everyone, to have things wrapped up.” “You’re putting it down as a suicide, then.” “Seems pretty clear, doesn’t it?” I hadn’t thought Liv had killed herself—but I’d been wrong about everything so far. Maybe I was wrong about this, too. My fingertips found the spiderweb cracks in Persephone’s skull, tightening in toward a center where one fragment had long since fallen away, leaving a ragged black gap. No. Liv wouldn’t have shot herself, and she hadn’t been suicidal. She’d been disappointed, but she wouldn’t have given up that easily. Not when she had something that she cared so much about and was so close to seeing through. Not when she’d promised me. Dougherty was talking about Bishop again. About how she wouldn’t have any choice now but to admit it was suicide and move on. His voice dipped in and out. “So I don’t think she’ll be bothering you again,” he said. “And if she does, you let me know and I’ll talk to Mayor Green about it. Make sure she understands.” “Thank you,” I bit out, because it was what he wanted to hear. Bishop saw it. She knew Liv hadn’t hurt herself, but would that matter? If Mayor Green told her to drop it, she’d be risking her job to do anything else. “It’s no problem, hon,” Dougherty said. “Hey, you made my career. I kind of owe you, I figure.” “Made your career,” I repeated dully. The words didn’t make sense. And then they snapped into focus. “You mean because you were the one who got Stahl.” He made a demurring sound. “I wouldn’t say I got him, just put the pieces together. My brother-in-law knew a guy working on the case, and he told me all about the guy they were looking at. I’d been carrying his photo around just in case I spotted him. Figured it was only a matter of time before he came hunting around here. As soon as those girls told me what had happened, it clicked.” Silence stretched. I heard him shift, chair creaking, like he was expecting me to chime in with a bit of praise and was slowly realizing it wouldn’t come. He had no idea what he’d done. The error he’d set in motion. And now he was doing it all over again. He’d known


out until both “teams” have an even number. Another reason I know this is not a real game: Sabrina clearly does not give one single shit about winning, and she is always hypercompetitive. “Hold on a sec.” Cleo ducks down the row of fridges and returns with three large coconut waters. She drops two into our cart and pushes the other at me. “You’re green.” Sabrina examines me. “More like chartreuse.” A flash of memory: Parth shoving green drinks with paper umbrellas into our sweaty hands as we danced around the patio. I wince. “Don’t say that word.” Sabrina cackles. “What about puce?” “Puce is more like a dark red,” Cleo puts in helpfully. “Like if one were to puke up red wine?” Sabrina asks. I grab a loose Maine blueberry and throw it at her. At the front of the store, someone is whooping. “We Are the Champions” starts to play over phone speakers. “Wow,” Sabrina says, tossing a couple of blueberries into her mouth. “They win again. Who would’ve thought?” “How is Kimmy even alive,” I ask, “let alone whooping and cheering?” “I don’t know, dude. She’s superhuman,” Cleo says. “Plus, she woke me up to tell me about the body shots, and I took the opportunity to pour three gallons of water into her mouth.” Her brow arches. “Kind of surprised Wyn didn’t think to do that for you. He was totally sober when I went to bed.” I busy myself with another package of blueberries. “Aha!” I spin back. “See that? Mold.” “Every rose has its thorn,” Sabrina says, angling our cart back toward the front of the shop. “Just like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song.” Another flash of memory: me, kneeling on the ground, atop the comforter Wyn’s dragged to the floor. Arms up, baby, he says gently. He peels the ruined white T-shirt over my head, runs a cool washcloth over my collarbones, collecting what’s left of my mess. I can barely keep my eyes open. Did you get me the shirt about the rodeos? The I’ve been to so many fucking rodeos shirt? I got it, he says. Arms back up. I must not lift them high enough, because his rough palms catch the undersides of my biceps and ease them over my head. Then the butter-soft fabric is being tugged down around me, pooling against the tops of my thighs. I love this shirt, I grumble. I know, he says, sliding my hair out from under the collar. That’s why I brought it. Now go to sleep. “Har?” Cleo jolts me out of the memory. “You actually are puce now.” “That word.” I press my hand over my mouth and bolt for the bathroom. • • • THE INSTANT I step under the jangling bells and into Murder, She Read, I feel five hundred thousand times better. Which is to say, I still feel like utter shit, but shit ensconced in books and sun-warmed windows. Shit with sugary iced latte flowing through its veins. I’ve never finished a chapter on one of


“Nah, we’re too young for that,” he said. “Right now, we’re just having fun.” chapter eight PORTLAND, OR The Nocturnals changed my life. You changed my life. I’ve seen the whole show nine times, and I have all the original DVDs. And I actually majored in biology because of you.” The girl’s shirt says I’d Much Rather Be Unusual, which, from what I can understand, became something of a catchphrase for the show. Hux said it for the first time in season one, and then later repeated it to Meg when she insisted he find someone else so he could have a chance at a normal relationship. Finn smiles, swooping his signature over the photo while a staff member collects the girl’s $125. “I’m honored,” he says earnestly. “Thank you so much. Do you have a favorite season?” “Three, definitely,” she says. “When you and Meg were trapped in that snowstorm, and she had to protect you from that rival wolf pack . . . I rewatch that scene at least once a month.” “That might have been the coldest I’ve been in my entire life.” He passes back the autograph, then gets up for the photo. “One hundred percent worth it, though.” “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she says, squealing as he poses next to her in front of the Rose City Comic Con backdrop. I’m sitting behind Finn’s table, notebook perched in my lap. Everything I’ve written so far is woefully banal. Loves talking to fans. Smiles at everyone. Liked filming season 3. Someone’s going to show up to take away my journalism degree any moment. Finn’s level of fame clearly isn’t the getting-constantly-recognized-on-the-street kind—that didn’t happen to us in Seattle. I was surprised he chose somewhere so public for dinner last night, but aside from the girls who stopped by our table, no one seemed to bat an eye at him. And yet here, he’s a god. The costumes, the shirts with quotes from the show and his ship name, the fans who burst into tears or suddenly turn shy upon meeting him—I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m still a little starstruck by the whole thing, and I have to wonder if that’ll ever wear off. How long it took Finn to get used to it, or if it’s always seemed normal to him. To my complete shock, he hasn’t fired me yet. But there’s something off about him today, or as off as I can tell from having known the guy for a week. Last night’s conversation kept me awake, along with the too-loud humming of the HVAC in my room. At first, I was worried about feeling lonely in the hotel by myself, but my anxiety hasn’t left much room for anything else. How was your first day?! Noemie texted, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her it might be my last day, too. Nothing from Wyatt, as committed as he is to our friendship. An email from my agent, a couple messages from my parents. Is Finn just as nice as he


march was but a leisurely search for food. Cabbage palm and gray plum, pisang and scitamine they found in abundance, with wild pineapple, and occasionally small mammals, birds, eggs, reptiles, and insects. The nuts they cracked between their powerful jaws, or, if too hard, broke by pounding between stones. Once old Sabor, crossing their path, sent them scurrying to the safety of the higher branches, for if she respected their number and their sharp fangs, they on their part held her cruel and mighty ferocity in equal esteem. Upon a low-hanging branch sat Tarzan directly above the majestic, supple body as it forged silently through the thick jungle. He hurled a pineapple at the ancient enemy of his people. The great beast stopped and, turning, eyed the taunting figure above her. With an angry lash of her tail she bared her yellow fangs, curling her great lips in a hideous snarl that wrinkled her bristling snout in serried ridges and closed her wicked eyes to two narrow slits of rage and hatred. With back-laid ears she looked straight into the eyes of Tarzan of the Apes and sounded her fierce, shrill challenge. And from the safety of his overhanging limb the ape-child sent back the fearsome answer of his kind. For a moment the two eyed each other in silence, and then the great cat turned into the jungle, which swallowed her as the ocean engulfs a tossed pebble. But into the mind of Tarzan a great plan sprang. He had killed the fierce Tublat, so was he not therefore a mighty fighter? Now would he track down the crafty Sabor and slay her likewise. He would be a mighty hunter, also. At the bottom of his little English heart beat the great desire to cover his nakedness with CLOTHES for he had learned from his picture books that all MEN were so covered, while MONKEYS and APES and every other living thing went naked. CLOTHES therefore, must be truly a badge of greatness; the insignia of the superiority of MAN over all other animals, for surely there could be no other reason for wearing the hideous things. Many moons ago, when he had been much smaller, he had desired the skin of Sabor, the lioness, or Numa, the lion, or Sheeta, the leopard to cover his hairless body that he might no longer resemble hideous Histah, the snake; but now he was proud of his sleek skin for it betokened his descent from a mighty race, and the conflicting desires to go naked in prideful proof of his ancestry, or to conform to the customs of his own kind and wear hideous and uncomfortable apparel found first one and then the other in the ascendency. Chapter 8 43 As the tribe continued their slow way through the forest after the passing of Sabor, Tarzan's head was filled with his great scheme for slaying his enemy, and for many days thereafter he thought of little else. On this day, however, he presently had other and more immediate interests to attract his attention.


in the darkness. Okonkwo cleared his throat, and brought out his snuff-bottle from the goatskin bag by his side. The priestess' voice was already growing faint in the distance. Ekwefi hurried to the main footpath and turned left in the direction of the voice. Her eyes were useless to her in the darkness. But she picked her way easily on the sandy footpath hedged on either side by branches and damp leaves. She began to run, holding her breasts with her hands to stop them flapping noisily against her body. She hit her left foot against an outcropped root, and terror seized her. It was an ill omen. She ran faster. But Chielo's voice was still a long way away. Had she been running too? How could she go so fast with Ezinma on her back? Although the night was cool, Ekwefi was beginning to feel hot from her running. She continually ran into the luxuriant weeds and creepers that walled in the path. Once she tripped up and fell. Only then did she realise, with a start, that Chielo had stopped her chanting. Her heart beat violently and she stood still. Then Chielo's renewed outburst came from only a few paces ahead. But Ekwefi could not see her. She shut her eyes for a while and opened them again in an effort to see. But it was useless. She could not see beyond her nose. There were no stars in the sky because there was a rain-cloud. Fireflies went about with their tiny green lamps, which only made the darkness more profound. Between Chielo's outbursts the night was alive with the shrill tremor of forest insects woven into the darkness. "Agbala do-o-o-o!... Agbala ekeneo-o-o-o!..." Ekwefi trudged behind, neither getting too near nor keeping too far back. She thought they must be going towards the sacred cave. Now that she walked slowly she had time to think. What would she do when they got to the cave? She would not dare to enter. She would wait at the mouth, all alone in that fearful place. She thought of all the terrors of the night. She remembered that night, long ago, when she had seen Ogbu-agali-odu, one of those evil essences loosed upon the world by the potent "medicines" which the tribe had made in the distant past against its enemies but had now forgotten how to control. Ekwefi had been returning from the stream with her mother on a dark night like this when they saw its glow as it flew in their direction. They had thrown down their waterpots and lain by the roadside expecting the sinister light to descend on them and kill them. That was the only time Ekwefi ever saw Ogbu-agali-odu. But although it had happened so long ago, her blood still ran cold whenever she remembered that night. The priestess' voice came at longer intervals now, but its vigour was undiminished. The air was cool and damp with dew. Ezinma sneezed. Ekwefi muttered, "Life to you." At the same time the priestess also said, "Life to you,


Gracious and loving forebear, send me a sign. Teach me how to atone for my sin, for my unwillingness to give. Saint over us all, in your virtue, heed my prayer. Grant me your forgiveness. Lend me your candle in the dark. Make me your instrument, your servant, your vessel. Send me word from Halgalant. There was no answer. The woman from her dreams – her messenger – had gone silent. She was abandoned after all. **** On the eleventh day, Lord Robart summoned her. Before she left her bedchamber, Glorian looked once more in the mirror. She tucked a stray hair behind her ear and tried to harden her drawn face into a mask, like the one her mother had always worn. A future queen must know how she appears to others. She could not bring a sword to a council meeting. Instead, she had asked for a leather jack, which called armour to mind, to be fastened over her pleated gown. Tonight, she would be every inch a queen and warrior, the heir and weave of Queen Sabran and King Bardholt. Candles glowed in gold holders, and the shutters were closed against the wind. When she entered, the councillors rose. ‘Lady Glorian,’ Lord Robart said. ‘Good evening.’ Her heart clenched at the sight of him. He had told her she must not wear mourning dress until her parents’ death was known – yet there he stood, in a surcoat of fine grey wool over a lighter tunic, a dark mantle across his shoulders. Even his belt and fastenings were silver, washed of colour. The others wore the same. ‘You are in grey, Lord Robart,’ Glorian said, stunned. ‘As you see, Your Highness.’ He paused. ‘You didn’t receive my message?’ ‘Is that not evident?’ Mortification stung her into the tart reply. Lord Robart inclined his head. ‘My sincere apologies. I prayed last night and felt we should begin mourning today. I will reprimand the messenger.’ She had to regain her composure. Expressionless, she sat, and so did they. Her gown was a rich, deep blue. Not bright, but among her grey councillors, she must look insolent. There was no firewood in the hearth. The only warmth and light came from the candles. ‘I hope you will forgive the cold,’ Lord Robart said. ‘I like to keep my mind sharp as I work.’ ‘It is of no consequence to me, Lord Robart.’ ‘Good. I have called you here to inform you that tomorrow, at noontide, the presumed deaths by drowning of Queen Sabran of Inys and King Bardholt of Hróth will be declared across Virtudom. Your own ascension to the throne will, of course, be proclaimed at the same time. In this way, the Queen’s Peace should hold.’ ‘Have you searched the sea?’ Glorian asked Lady Gladwin. ‘Yes, Highness. I even sent divers to look for the wrecks, but little could be found.’ ‘Do we know what caused the fires?’ ‘I have made enquiries with the Steward of Mentendon. So far, there is no evidence that the wedding fleet came under attack.


suffer some- thin’ awful befo’ he goes.” “Doctor, Ah loves him fit tuh kill. Tell me anything tuh do and Ah’ll do it.” “’Bout de only thing you can do, Janie, is to put him in the County Hospital where they can tie him down and look after him.” “But he don’t like no hospital at all. He’d think Ah wuz tired uh doin’ fuh ’im, when God knows Ah ain’t. Ah can’t stand de idea us tyin’ Tea Cake lak he wuz uh mad dawg.” “It almost amounts to dat, Janie. He’s got almost no chance to pull through and he’s liable to bite somebody else, specially you, and then you’ll be in the same fix he’s in. It’s mighty bad.” “Can’t nothin’ be done fuh his case, doctah? Us got plenty money in de bank in Orlandah, doctah. See can’t yuh do somethin’ special tuh save him. Anything it cost, doctah, Ah don’t keer, but please, doctah.” “Do what I can. Ah’ll phone into Palm Beach right away for the serum which he should have had three weeks ago. I’ll do all I can to save him, Janie. But it looks too late. People in his condition can’t swallow water, you know, and in other ways it’s terrible.” Janie fooled around outside awhile to try and think it wasn’t so. If she didn’t see the sickness in his face she could imagine it wasn’t really happening. Well, she thought, that big old dawg with the hatred in his eyes had killed her after all. She wished she had slipped off that cow-tail and drowned Their Eyes Were Watching God 209 then and there and been done. But to kill her through Tea Cake was too much to bear. Tea Cake, the son of Evening Sun, had to die for loving her. She looked hard at the sky for a long time. Somewhere up there beyond blue ether’s bosom sat He. Was He noticing what was going on around here? He must be because He knew everything. Did He mean to do this thing to Tea Cake and her? It wasn’t anything she could fight. She could only ache and wait. Maybe it was some big tease and when He saw it had gone far enough He’d give her a sign. She looked hard for something up there to move for a sign. A star in the daytime, maybe, or the sun to shout, or even a mutter of thunder. Her arms went up in a desperate supplication for a minute. It wasn’t exactly pleading, it was asking questions. The sky stayed hard looking and quiet so she went inside the house. God would do less than He had in His heart. Tea Cake was lying with his eyes closed and Janie hoped he was asleep. He wasn’t. A great fear had took hold of him. What was this thing that set his brains afire and grabbed at his throat with iron fingers? Where did it come from and why did it hang around him? He hoped it would stop before


to become a magician. ‘A magician?’ I echoed in disbelief. As if to prove his point, he reached behind my ear and found a small glass ball. I reached out to take it from his palm, yet somehow it had disappeared into thin air. ‘How did you do that?’ I said, smiling brightly. ‘Ah, now that would be telling.’ If only I could have made my feelings disappear so easily. On the days he came, everything was brighter, sunnier, happier. But when he left to return to his family, I felt wretched. ‘Mon Opale,’ Armand whispered, nuzzling into my neck. I let him put his arms around me, chasing the loneliness away. I hadn’t intended to come back to his rooms, but I suppose from the minute we set eyes on each other in Yorkshire, it was inevitable. Yet I couldn’t help thinking that I held no place in his heart above any of the other women he bedded. Well, I wasn’t going to let him think that I cared for him either. That way, I wouldn’t get hurt. The reasoning of an idiot; but love, as they say, is blind. ‘I must go,’ I said eventually, kissing him lightly on his cheek. ‘Mais non, reste.’ ‘I cannot. My boat leaves this evening and I have some business to attend to before then.’ ‘Business?’ He propped himself up on his elbow and watched me dress. God, he was gorgeous! An Adonis. I had to turn my back on him while buttoning up my blouse. ‘A book.’ ‘Of course it’s a book. Tell me.’ I turned to look at him. Yes, he was beautiful and yes, he was a valuable connection in the book dealing world. He had also helped me to escape Paris. Yet, as I had realised in Sotheby’s, he was cut from the same cloth as Rosenbach. Ruthless, single-minded and greedy. When it came to books, perhaps I was too, because in that moment I realised that while there may be honour amongst thieves, the same could not be said for book dealers. ‘Perhaps I can stay a little longer,’ I said, kneeling on the bed beside him and letting him unbutton my blouse again. Loneliness is not a discerning bedfellow. In fact, the more inappropriate the company, the more it suited my fatalistic outlook when it came to love. Something told me I would never find it, so why bother saving myself for it? I didn’t have much time. My ears echoed with the sound of my heels rushing along the pavement, as I scanned the numbers on the door. My search had led me to Soho and a small warren of alleyways tucked behind Regent Street. I stayed true to my word and told Armand nothing of my detective work regarding Emily Brontë’s second novel. I made a decision that morning that I would stand by for the rest of my life: the work would always come first. However, I did ask him to suggest a dealer who might be familiar with bookshops that were no longer trading.


her perfectly, folded up in the corner of her couch, wrapping her long black hair around her finger. “Did you hear?” “About Stahl? Yeah. I heard.” “I can’t believe he’s dead.” She sounded far away. “I know. Liv, hang on.” Mitch was standing too casually halfway across the room. I held up a Just one minute finger and slipped back through the hall into the bedroom, shutting the door behind me. “Are you okay?” I asked quietly when the door was shut. If I was a mess, I couldn’t imagine how Liv was holding up. “Have you talked to Cassidy?” “A little. She texted. I haven’t … I wanted to talk to you first,” Liv said carefully. “About Stahl?” I asked. “No. Not exactly.” She took a steadying breath. “I did something.” “Liv, you’re kind of freaking me out,” I told her. “What do you mean, you did something? What did you do?” Her words sank through me, sharp and unforgiving. “I found Persephone.” I hadn’t opened the box in years. Through several moves, assorted boyfriends and girlfriends, and three therapists, the box had remained in the back of one closet and then another, collecting stains and dents. The corner of the lid had split, and my fingers came away dusty when I opened it. Most of the box was taken up with the quilt that the school had delivered to me in the hospital—a square of fabric from each of my fellow students and teachers, signed with get-well wishes. It smelled faintly of disinfectant, and there was a blood splotch dried to dull brown at one edge. I am sorry you got murdered, Kayla Wilkerson had written. Almost was added in with a little caret. There were cards, too. Some from the same classmates, some from locals, most from total strangers. They’d filled many more boxes than this, but after years of guiltily hanging on to all of them, I’d grabbed a fistful to keep and shoved the rest into trash bags, holding my breath the whole time. Below the cards was the binder. I paged through, not really reading any of the articles. I knew them all by heart. There were photos, too, of me in the hospital and after. Some were snapshots, others professional, and in none of them did I recognize myself, even knowing it was me. Toward the back was a photo of the three of us. It must have been on one of the days of the trial, given the somber way the other two were dressed: Cassidy in her polished Mary Janes and Liv in a dress with a lace collar—the same one she wore to church. I was wearing a faded Bugs Bunny T-shirt and jeans with holes in the knees. That meant that it was early on. Not long after, someone had pulled my dad aside and told him some of the money that had been flowing in—donations, money from the few interviews I did and the many my dad did—better go to getting me decent clothes. Cassidy’s dad, Big Jim, was the


Lethe can afford to keep either of you. The decision is made. Do you understand?” There was an edge to his voice now, his red-tape, follow-the-rules calm fraying against his anger. Alex met his gaze. “Yes, sir. I understand.” “I don’t deserve your contempt, Alex. I offered to help you, and you looked me in the eye and lied to me.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “You didn’t offer to help me until you knew I had something you wanted. You were using me and I was happy to whore for you for the right price, so let’s not pretend there was something noble in that transaction.” Anselm’s lip curled. “You don’t belong here. You never have. Crass. Uncouth. Uneducated. You are a blight on Lethe.” “She fought for him,” Dawes rasped. “Excuse me?” Dawes wiped her sleeve across her runny nose. Her shoulders were still slumped, but her tears were gone. Her eyes were clear. “When you and the board wanted to pretend Darlington couldn’t be saved, we found a way. Alex fought for him, we fought for him, when no one else would.” “You put this organization and the lives of everyone on this campus at risk. You tampered with forces far beyond your understanding or control. Do not think to paint yourselves the heroes when you broke every rule intended to protect—” Dawes gave a long sniffle. “Your rules are shit. Let’s go, Alex.” Alex thought of the Hutch in all of its shabby glory, the old window seat, the painted scenes of shepherds and fox hunts on the walls. She thought of Il Bastone, its warm lamplight, the front parlor where she’d whiled away the summer, snoozing on the couch, reading paperbacks, feeling safe and easy for the first time in her life. She saluted Anselm with both middle fingers, and followed Dawes out of Eden. 29 When Alex woke the next morning, her body ached and she couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering, despite the covers piled on top of her. Her defiance and anger were gone, drained away by nightmares of Darlington crushed beneath Black Elm, Hellie fading before her eyes, Babbit Rabbit’s bloodied little body. After Anselm had banished them, Alex had invited Dawes to stay with her and Mercy at the dorm. It was closer to the Hutch than her apartment. But Dawes had wanted to be alone. “I just need some time to myself. I—” Her voice broke. Alex had hesitated, then said, “Someone needs to go to Black Elm.” “The cameras are all clear,” said Dawes. “But I’ll check in on him tomorrow.” Whatever I am will be unleashed upon the world. Alex had seen the circle of protection flicker herself. “You shouldn’t go alone.” “I’ll ask Turner.” Alex knew she should volunteer, but she wasn’t sure she could face Darlington—in any form. Did he know how close they’d come? He’d been there. He’d saved her yet again, and sacrificed his chance at freedom. She wasn’t ready to look him in the eye. “You went to see him,” said Dawes. “The night


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years." "I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors." She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?" "It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?" "A what?" "A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of." "No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone -- " "My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense -- for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name." "I know you haven't," said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know -- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of." "You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have." "Only because you're too -- well -- noble to use them." "It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs." Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?" It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer. "What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are -- are -- that they're -- dead." Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped. "Lily and James...I can't believe it...I didn't want to believe it...Oh, Albus..." Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know...I know..." he said


her mouth, and her eyes seemed to be trying to remember something, and then they remembered and her tongue moved again: " 'Play the man, Master Ridley; we shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.' " "Enough of that!" said Beatty. "Where are they?" He slapped her face with amazing objectivity and repeated the question. The old woman's eyes came to a focus upon Beatty. "You know where they are or you wouldn't be here," she said. Stoneman held out the telephone alarm card with the complaint signed in telephone duplicate on the back "Have reason to suspect attic; 11 No. Elm, City. --- E. B." "That would be Mrs. Blake, my neighbour;" said the woman, reading the initials. "All right, men, let's get 'em!" Next thing they were up in musty blackness, swinging silver hatchets at doors that were, after all, unlocked, tumbling through like boys all rollick and shout. "Hey! " A fountain of books sprang down upon Montag as he climbed shuddering up the sheer stair-well. How inconvenient! Always before it had been like snuffing a candle. The police went first and adhesive-taped the victim's mouth and bandaged him off into their glittering beetle cars, so when you arrived you found an empty house. You weren't hurting anyone, you were hurting only things! And since things really couldn't be hurt, since things felt nothing, and things don't scream or whimper, as this woman might begin to scream and cry out, there was nothing to tease your conscience later. You were simply cleaning up. Janitorial work, essentially. Everything to its proper place. Quick with the kerosene! Who's got a match! But now, tonight, someone had slipped. This woman was spoiling the ritual. The men were making too much noise, laughing, joking to cover her terrible accusing silence below. She made the empty rooms roar with accusation and shake down a fine dust of guilt that was sucked in their nostrils as they plunged about. It was neither cricket nor correct. Montag felt an immense irritation. She shouldn't be here, on top of everything! Books bombarded his shoulders, his arms, his upturned face A book alighted, almost obediently, like a white pigeon, in his hands, wings fluttering. In the dim, wavering light, a page hung.open and it was like a snowy feather, the words delicately painted thereon. In all the rush and fervour, Montag had only an instant to read a line, but it blazed in his mind for the next minute as if stamped there with fiery steel. "Time has fallen asleep in the afternoon sunshine." He dropped the book. Immediately, another fell into his arms. "Montag, up here! " Montag's hand closed like a mouth, crushed the book with wild devotion, with an insanity of mindlessness to his chest. The men above were hurling shovelfuls of magazines into the dusty air. They fell like slaughtered birds and the woman stood below, like a small girl, among the bodies. Montag had done nothing. His hand had done


To get out of the house. She would have except she didn’t want to fall into the trap of running back to “Daddy” every time her life turned upside down. She was a grown woman. A pregnant grown woman, she reminded herself. She snapped off the lights in the office and walked downstairs to the bedroom. Pausing at the door, she felt another cold gust of loneliness and disbelief rush through her as she stared in the semidarkness to the bed, mussed as she hadn’t bothered making it, the duvet half sliding to the floor. Oh. God. She braced herself against the door frame, then refusing to break down again, stiffened her spine and walked into the room. Jay was gone. She had to face it. Get on with her life. She snapped on a bedside lamp and set her jaw against a fresh spate of tears. “No more,” she said aloud, even though her voice trembled. Reluctantly she opened his closet and stared at the neat row of sports coats and shirts hanging just as he’d left them, the jeans folded on the top shelf, his shoes placed tidily beneath his dress shirts. Her own closet was a mess in comparison. Dresses and blouses hung haphazardly, hats and purses strung out over the shelves, her shoes and boots lying wherever she happened to kick them off. She slipped one of Jay’s shirts from its hanger, a light blue chambray he’d worn just two days before he died, and held the soft fabric to her face, lost for a second in the smell of him, his aftershave still clinging to the collar. “Come on, Kris, pull yourself together.” His voice was so clear, so close, she half expected to feel his fingers on her shoulder, the warmth of his breath against her nape. Instead she felt nothing. She stepped out of her own sweater and donned his shirt, rolling up the sleeves, returning to the living room to watch TV. Her thoughts strayed, as they always did these days, and by eleven she couldn’t stand staring listlessly at the boob tube a second longer. She slid out of her jeans, but still wearing Jay’s shirt, she tumbled onto the bed where she tried to read a book. No reason to turn out the light because she was convinced that tonight was no different than all the other nights since Jay’s death, that sleep was unlikely to come and even when it finally did, it would be riddled with horrific nightmares of that bloody and harrowing night. But the book couldn’t hold her attention, her eyelids heavy. No surprise there. She hadn’t slept in what seemed like forever. She tossed the novel aside and, convinced she would never drift off, that she was destined to be forever sleep deprived, she turned out the light to stare at the ceiling. But when the quiet of the night surrounded her, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Creaaak! The floorboards were groaning against someone’s weight. “Jay?” Kristi mumbled into the pillow as she opened a


his eyes wide. Louise told him everything. When she finished, Mark’s eyes were red. He swiped the heel of his hand across both cheeks. “Can I get y’all anything else?” the waitress asked, stopping by their table. “Just the check,” Louise said. “I didn’t even remember you had Pupkin back then,” Mark said after the waitress left. “I forgot you carried him around everywhere with you. And he talked to you?” “All the time,” Louise said. “Inside my head. And he bit me, and pinched me, and hurt me if I didn’t do what he said.” “That’s why he hated you so much,” Mark said. “You buried him. You left him all alone. And he hated me because he was jealous. It’s like the baby of the family when the new baby is born, they think they’re going to get replaced. Jesus Christ, Louise, we never talked to each other so we always thought it was just our own dirty little secrets, but this is the story of our whole family.” “Kind of,” Louise said. “Kind of?” Mark exclaimed. “What do you think happened to Mom and Dad? Haven’t you wondered about that night? Pupkin was jealous I was going to replace him so he tried to drown me. He got angry at you for burying him and carried a grudge until he had a chance to get you alone. So how do you think he felt when Dad broke his ankle and Mom turned into Dad’s fulltime nurse?” The waitress appeared next to their table with the bill in one hand, waiting for a good moment to set it down. “What do you mean?” Louise asked. “For their entire marriage, Dad took care of Mom and Mom took care of her puppets,” Mark said. “All of a sudden everything’s turned upside down and Mom’s taking care of Dad and ignoring Pupkin. What if Pupkin got jealous of Dad the way he got jealous of me?” It fit so neatly Louise could only say, “Oh.” “What if that ‘attack’ wasn’t a fit?” Mark said. “What if Pupkin attacked Dad the way he attacked you, and Mom finally realized things had gone too far? Maybe that’s why she took Dad to the hospital in the middle of the night? And Mom’s so racked with guilt that she’s not paying attention and drives right through the light and here we are, with both of them dead and it’s all because of Pupkin.” Louise thought about the hammer on the living room floor. The chip missing from the coffee table. The cane lying in front of the TV. “Pupkin came first,” Mark said. “Pupkin was here before all of us. Pupkin goes all the way back to when Mom was a kid. To Pupkin, the only person who matters is Mom. I mean, why do you think they boarded up the attic? It’s not squirrels up there.” Louise couldn’t stand the waitress hovering over them for another second, so she looked up and asked, “Can we help you?” “I just wanted to let you know,”


rail guns came alive. “It’s not going to be enough, Captain,” Bosun Polk said. I watched as the incoming Liquilid missiles evaded our rail spikes, having lost only three thus far to the barrage of weapons fire. “We’re firing everything we’ve got, rail guns, what Phazon Pulsar cannons are still active …” Akari said, frustrated. FIRST WAVE …. TEN SMART MISSILES CONTACT IN ONE MINUTE “Turn the EMP guns on them,” I said. Both Akari and Polk looked back at me, brows raised. I shrugged. “What do we have to lose? Do it. Kick them up to full power.” The overheads dimmed; even the blaring, constant sound of the klaxon seemed to falter. As if being repetitively kicked in the ass, Adams shook with each discharge of EMPs. FIRST WAVE … TEN SMART MISSILES … DESTROYED SECOND WAVE, TWELVE SMART MISSILES INBOUND … CONTACT IN TWO MINUTES “We lost all of our EMP cannons with that last salvo,” Akari said. Polk pointed to the halo display. “Both Wrath and Portent are engaging thrusters … moving out from behind us.” Both warships engaged their own EMP cannons, obliterating the second wave of Liquilid smart missiles. In unison, the bridge crew cheered. Chen raised a hand, getting my attention. “Captain Loggins has a special message just for you, sir.” Before I could answer, Adams’ shields were literally sizzling with multiple incoming EMP blasts. When it finally stopped, much of the bridge was in the dark. Darkened control boards attempted to reboot to life. Chen said, “Captain Loggins says, ‘What’s good for the goose…’” “Well, I hope he’s satisfied,” Akari said, “Those frigates are still out there, and I’m betting they have a few more smart missiles to throw our way.” I nodded. “Yeah, but I’ll take the win, even if it is short-lived.” Bosun Polk stood and walked toward the halo display. She was chewing at her inside lip, the gears spinning in her head. “Captain?” “Bosun?” “These Liquilids are advanced. Maybe they have more advanced tech than we do … but their lack of protection against electromagnetic pulses is … well, it’s shocking, to be honest.” “Probably haven’t had to deal with it in the past. EUNF Space-Navy ship ordinances are protected … but I’m sure there are technologies, even simplistic ones, we’re just as unprepared for.” She looked back to the display, to the enemy frigates. Frigates that, for some reason, were holding back. Were, most definitely, not attacking us. “What are they waiting for? I mean, all our shields are down for the most part. We’re stuck here like flies on flypaper. We’re about as vulnerable as they could ask for.” Akari said, “They’re turning around.” Now I too stood. “Chase them. Maybe we can’t jump, but we can still move. Chen, contact Captain Loggins and Church … Have them put pedal to the metal and ready their EMP cannons.” The ensuing battle lasted two hours and fifteen minutes. Without shields, all three of our ships took damage. That is until Wrath and Portent came within range of the enemy frigates.


he looks as if a little good Berkshire beef would do him no harm." The station-master had not finished his speech before we were all hastening in the direction of the fire. The road topped a low hill, and there was a great widespread whitewashed building in front of us, spouting fire at every chink and window, while in the garden in front three fire-engines were vainly striving to keep the flames under. "That's it!" cried Hatherley, in intense excitement. "There is the gravel-drive, and there are the rose-bushes where I lay. That second window is the one that I jumped from." "Well, at least," said Holmes, "you have had your revenge upon them. There can be no question that it was your oil-lamp which, when it was crushed in the press, set fire to the wooden walls, though no doubt they were too excited in the chase after you to observe it at the time. Now keep your eyes open in this crowd for your friends of last night, though I very much fear that they are a good hundred miles off by now." And Holmes's fears came to be realized, for from that day to this no word has ever been heard either of the beautiful woman, the sinister German, or the morose Englishman. Early that morning a peasant had met a cart containing several people and some very bulky boxes driving rapidly in the direction of Reading, but there all traces of the fugitives disappeared, and even Holmes's ingenuity failed ever to discover the least clew as to their whereabouts. The firemen had been much perturbed at the strange arrangements which they had found within, and still more so by discovering a newly severed human thumb upon a window-sill of the second floor. About sunset, however, their efforts were at last successful, and they subdued the flames, but not before the roof had fallen in, and the whole place been reduced to such absolute ruin that, save some twisted cylinders and iron piping, not a trace remained of the machinery which had cost our unfortunate acquaintance so dearly. Large masses of nickel and of tin were discovered stored in an out-house, but no coins were to be found, which may have explained the presence of those bulky boxes which have been already referred to. How our hydraulic engineer had been conveyed from the garden to the spot where he recovered his senses might have remained forever a mystery were it not for the soft mould, which told us a very plain tale. He had evidently been carried down by two persons, one of whom had remarkably small feet and the other unusually large ones. On the whole, it was most probable that the silent Englishman, being less bold or less murderous than his companion, had assisted the woman to bear the unconscious man out of the way of danger. "Well," said our engineer ruefully as we took our seats to return once more to London, "it has been a pretty business for me! I have lost my thumb and


way?" asked Holmes. "It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had many disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that there should be a marriage between us. James and I have always loved each other as brother and sister; but of course he is young and has seen very little of life yet, and--and--well, he naturally did not wish to do anything like that yet. So there were quarrels, and this, I am sure, was one of them." "And your father?" asked Holmes. "Was he in favor of such a union?" "No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in favor of it." A quick blush passed over her fresh young face as Holmes shot one of his keen, questioning glances at her. "Thank you for this information," said he. "May I see your father if I call to-morrow?" "I am afraid the doctor won't allow it." "The doctor?" "Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong for years back, but this has broken him down completely. He has taken to his bed, and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck and that his nervous system is shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive who had known dad in the old days in Victoria." "Ha! In Victoria! That is important." "Yes, at the mines." "Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner made his money." "Yes, certainly." "Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to me." "You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow. No doubt you will go to the prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell him that I know him to be innocent." "I will, Miss Turner." "I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so if I leave him. Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking." She hurried from the room as impulsively as she had entered, and we heard the wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street. "I am ashamed of you, Holmes," said Lestrade with dignity after a few minutes' silence. "Why should you raise up hopes which you are bound to disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I call it cruel." "I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy," said Holmes. "Have you an order to see him in prison?" "Yes, but only for you and me." "Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have still time to take a train to Hereford and see him to-night?" "Ample." "Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very slow, but I shall only be away a couple of hours." I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through the streets of the little town, finally returning to the hotel, where I lay upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a yellow-backed novel. The puny plot of the story was


there was something about him that made me think . . .” He let his voice fade off for a minute. “It was all odd. He called, asking about a cabin, which isn’t weird, of course, said he’d heard that I had one from a friend of a friend, though he never gave any names. Again, that’s not out of the ordinary. But it felt fishy to me. I’ve got a pretty good inner bullshit detector and this guy—he set off all kinds of alarms. I figured he was hiding something, but hey—not my business. “Anyway, I don’t advertise on the Internet or anything high-tech, try to keep my business on the down low, if you know what I mean. Local stores and shops know about me and I even put up some flyers with my phone number across the bottom, where you tear it off and give me a call. But he didn’t do that either. “Came in on foot. No damned vehicle. Now that’s unusual.” CU stared out the back door to the swamp, recalling. “He said he caught a ride with a buddy and that’s still fine, but the buddy didn’t stick around, didn’t show his face, so I’m a little suspicious. Then he asks about a cabin and he was real clear that it had to be remote, maybe only got to by boat, and I do have one but it’s rented. Yearly tenant. Pays on time. I’m not kicking him out, if you know what I mean.” Scratching his beard, CU said, “So I showed him what was available—got cabins all along this bayou, y’know, but he wasn’t interested. They were all too near civilization.” He pulled on his lower lip. “Some of these places are a quarter mile in, no one around, if you know what I mean, but he seemed to think they were too accessible, and he said he needed a place where he could be completely alone, a place to meditate, just him and God.” “Is that why you thought he was a priest?” “Hell, no. You don’t have to be part of the clergy to want to communicate with the big guy upstairs. Uh-uh.” “So why?” “Like I say, it was his mannerisms. The way he talked to me, kind of like he was my mentor. Like some kind of role model—trying to be friendly, but a little standoffish, if you know what I mean.” Bentz shook his head. “I don’t.” “It was as if he wanted me to think that he was on the up-and-up, even spiritual, but it seemed off to me.” “I don’t get why that would make you think he was a priest.” “Oh, no, no. That’s just it, I think he wasn’t a man of the cloth at all, not a priest, not a pastor, not a damned rabbi.” “So?” “I think he wanted me to think he was, and then I caught him sketching the sign of the cross.” CU motioned the cross over his own ample chest. “But it was real obvious, y’know, didn’t look


return to my book."     So I snuffed the candle and resumed the perusal of Marmion. He soon stirred; my eye was instantly drawn to his movements; he only took out a morocco pocket-book, thence produced a letter, which he read in silence, folded it, put it back, relapsed into meditation. It was vain to try to read with such an inscrutable fixture before me: nor could I, in my impatience, consent to be dumb; he might rebuff me if he liked, but talk I would.     "Have you heard from Diana and Mary lately?"     "Not since the letter I showed you a week ago."     "There has not been any change made about your own arrangements? You will not be summoned to leave England sooner than you expected?"     "I fear not, indeed; such chance is too good to befall me." Baffled so far, I changed my ground I bethought myself to talk about the school and my scholars.     "Mary Garrett's mother is better, and Mary came back to the school this morning, and I shall have four new girls next week from the Foundry Close they would have come to-day but for the snow,"     "Indeed!"     "Mr. Oliver pays for two."     "Does he?"     "He means to give the whole school a treat at Christmas."     "I know."     "Was it your suggestion?"     "No."     "Whose, then?"     "His daughter's, think."     "It is like her: she is so good-natured."     "Yes."     Again came the blank of a pause. The clock struck eight stokes. It aroused him; he uncrossed his legs, sat erect, turned to me.     "Leave your book a moment, and come a little nearer the fire," he said.     Wondering, and of my wonder finding no end, I complied.     "Half an hour ago," he pursued, "I spoke of my impatience to hear the sequel of a tale; on reflection, I find the matter will be better managed by my assuming the narrator's part, and converting you into a listener. Before commencing, it is but fair to warn you that the story will sound somewhat hackneyed in vour ears; but stale details often regain a degree of freshness when they pass through new lips. For tie rest, whether trite or novel, it is short.     "Twenty years ago a poor curate never mind his name at this moment fell in love with a rich man's daughter; she fell in love with him, and married him, against the advice of all her friends, who consequently disowned her immediately after the wedding. Before two years passed the rash pair were both dead, and laid quietly side by


fire on your waist, and then you will know." Akueke moved to the other end of the hut and began to remove the waist-beads. It had to be done slowly and carefully, taking each string separately, else it would break and the thousand tiny rings would have to be strung together again. She rubbed each string downwards with her palms until it passed the buttocks and slipped down to the floor around her feet. The men in the obi had already begun to drink the palm-wine which Akueke's suitor had brought. It was a very good wine and powerful, for in spite of the palm fruit hung across the mouth of the pot to restrain the lively liquor, white foam rose and spilled over. "That wine is the work of a good tapper," said Okonkwo. The young suitor, whose name was Ibe, smiled broadly and said to his father: "Do you hear that?" He then said to the others: "He will never admit that I am a good tapper." "He tapped three of my best palm trees to death," said his father, Ukegbu. "That was about five years ago," said Ibe, who had begun to pour out the wine, "before I learned how to tap." He filled the first horn and gave to his father. Then he poured out for the others. Okonkwo brought out his big horn from the goatskin bag, blew into it to remove any dust that might be there, and gave it to Ibe to fill. As the men drank, they talked about everything except the thing for which they had gathered. It was only after the pot had been emptied that the suitor's father cleared his voice and announced the object of their visit. Obierika then presented to him a small bundle of short broomsticks. Ukegbu counted them. "They are thirty?" he asked. Obierika nodded in agreement. "We are at last getting somewhere," Ukegbu said, and then turning to his brother and his son he said: "Let us go out and whisper together." The three rose and went outside. When they returned Ukegbu handed the bundle of sticks back to Obierika. He counted them,- instead of thirty there were now only fifteen. He passed them over to his eldest brother, Machi, who also counted them and said: "We had not thought to go below thirty. But as the dog said, 'If I fall down for you and you fall down for me, it is play'. Marriage should be a play and not a fight so we are falling down again." He then added ten sticks to the fifteen and gave the bundle to Ukegbu. In this way Akuke's bride-price was finally settled at twenty bags of cowries. It was already dusk when the two parties came to this agreement. "Go and tell Akueke's mother that we have finished," Obierika said to his son, Maduka. Almost immediately the women came in with a big bowl of foo-foo. Obierika's second wife followed with a pot of soup, and Maduka brought in a pot of palm-wine. As the men ate


After dinner, St. Aubert stole from the room to view once more the old chesnut which Quesnel talked of cutting down. As he stood under its shade, and looked up among its branches, still luxuriant, and saw here and there the blue sky trembling between them; the pursuits and events of his early days crowded fast to his mind, with the figures and characters of friends--long since gone from the earth; and he now felt himself to be almost an insulated being, with nobody but his Emily for his heart to turn to. He stood lost amid the scenes of years which fancy called up, till the succession closed with the picture of his dying wife, and he started away, to forget it, if possible, at the social board. St. Aubert ordered his carriage at an early hour, and Emily observed, that he was more than usually silent and dejected on the way home; but she considered this to be the effect of his visit to a place which spoke so eloquently of former times, nor suspected that he had a cause of grief which he concealed from her. On entering the chateau she felt more depressed than ever, for she more than ever missed the presence of that dear parent, who, whenever she had been from home, used to welcome her return with smiles and fondness; now, all was silent and forsaken. But what reason and effort may fail to do, time effects. Week after week passed away, and each, as it passed, stole something from the harshness of her affliction, till it was mellowed to that tenderness which the feeling heart cherishes as sacred. St. Aubert, on the contrary, visibly declined in health; though Emily, who had been so constantly with him, was almost the last person who observed it. His constitution had never recovered from the late attack of the fever, and the succeeding shock it received from Madame St. Aubert's death had produced its present infirmity. His physician now ordered him to travel; for it was perceptible that sorrow had seized upon his nerves, weakened as they had been by the preceding illness; and variety of scene, it was probable, would, by amusing his mind, restore them to their proper tone. For some days Emily was occupied in preparations to attend him; and he, by endeavours to diminish his expences at home during the journey--a purpose which determined him at length to dismiss his domestics. Emily seldom opposed her father's wishes by questions or remonstrances, or she would now have asked why he did not take a servant, and have represented that his infirm health made one almost necessary. But when, on the eve of their departure, she found that he had dismissed Jacques, Francis, and Mary, and detained only Theresa the old housekeeper, she was extremely surprised, and ventured to ask his reason for having done so. 'To save expences, my dear,' he replied--'we are going on an expensive excursion.' The physician had prescribed the air of Languedoc and Provence; and St. Aubert determined, therefore, to travel


chemical weapons to kill civilians. Police revealed that the Sydney-based plotters were in touch with operatives in Syria. Our enemies were on the move, and we had to take decisive action to protect Americans. With the GASP announcement out of the way, I felt like it was almost time to depart the administration. I told Anabel the job might kill me. After nearly six months of late nights and full-workday weekends, I was more exhausted than I’d ever been. The only way I could sleep was with a glass of whiskey (or two) before bed, and I was immediately saddled with an unshakable anxiety every morning when I woke up. What would each day bring? I had push-alerts on my phone for all of the president’s tweets. At any moment the posts could throw the day into turmoil, let alone the threats we read about in our daily intelligence briefings. John Kelly seemed to have adapted to managing Trump while also managing DHS. As long as I could find a suitable replacement, I decided I’d leave in the fall. Yes, it would be an early departure, but this place wasn’t for me. “This administration is a fucking nightmare,” then deputy chief of staff Chad Wolf lamented late one evening. Neither of us had taken a proper day off since we started. In normal times, Chad appeared more like a TV actor than a DHS bureaucrat—high-and-tight haircut, five-o’clock shadow, and designer clothes. But we spent far more time in the office than at home, and it was starting to show. He looked gaunt. At the end of July, Secretary Kelly told everyone to take a week off. I gladly complied, flying to a friend’s wedding in Texas. That’s where I got the phone call that changed everything. I was standing in my swimsuit at a water park outside of San Antonio embracing the warm sunlight when Kirstjen rang. She said Kelly had just gotten off the phone with the president. Once again, Trump had appealed to him to come run the White House as chief of staff, an offer the secretary had rebuffed twice already. The secretary had decided to fly back early from the West Coast, where he’d been spending time with his family. In the past, Kelly had told me there was “zero chance” he’d take the White House job. But, given how unstable the White House had become, Kelly wasn’t dismissing the possibility this time. I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. For thirty minutes, our core front-office team was on a conference call to talk about it. Kelly tried to calm everyone down. He hadn’t committed to the job, was fifty-fifty about the idea, and had convinced the president to discuss it first, man to man, in the coming days. Kelly would see if Trump was willing to do what was needed to restore order in the White House. I couldn’t imagine Trump showing the discipline a four-star general would demand. Then the president tweeted while we were on the call. We paused to read


he included cases from the Yang family.) Grandmother explained it this way: “Writing a book of this sort is a well-known shortcut to being named a ming yi—a famous doctor. The arrogance of it!” Seeing my hesitancy, Meiling sighs. “Don’t forget, it’s thanks to Doctor Wong that you and I see more of each other when I accompany him to your home.” That’s true. As the official doctor for the Yang family, he comes to the Garden of Fragrant Delights each month to offer his services first to the men and boys. Then he visits the inner chambers to check on the women, including me. Meiling and I don’t get to spend much time together during these sessions, but we’re able to look into each other’s eyes while she relays Doctor Wong’s inquiries to me and my answers to him. “I’m grateful for anything that allows us to be together, however fleeting,” I say. But my words of conciliation are not enough for Meiling. “I don’t understand why you don’t have more respect for Doctor Wong. He and I have been in difficult situations, and they don’t always end with a good result, but I don’t know another doctor in the city who is as good at telling a husband that his wife has left this world. And did you see? He even included me in some of the cases he wrote about in his book. By name!” I feel like she’s run through the inside of my body with a rasp. Doctor Wong wouldn’t have to tell a husband that his wife had died if he did a better job. More troubling, is Meiling becoming a person desiring the same kind of fame Doctor Wong is seeking? I decide to change the subject to a topic that concerns us both. “Sometimes a husband and wife need help with bedroom affairs.” But I’m too clumsy, too abrupt. Meiling shakes her shoulders, as if brushing off cherry blossom petals falling in spring. After a moment, she says, “Kailoo and I enjoy bedroom affairs. That’s not our problem. I sip this, he sips that, but we can’t make one baby.” I reach across the table to take her hand. “I wonder if I could help.” She stares at me, her expression impenetrable. “What are you thinking?” I ask. “Why won’t you let me doctor you? Is it that I’m a woman? That I’m still too young?” She swats away those ideas, but in that gesture—knowing her so well—I understand that she’s keeping something from me. “Is Doctor Wong giving you formulas to take?” I ask. “Yes.” I’m hurt straight through to my marrow. Trying to cover my feelings, I ask, “What has he prescribed?” Meiling waves a hand. “I don’t want to worry you with that.” Then, “Truly, I don’t need assistance, but I know a woman who does.” “I only treat people in my family—” “Other women need help too.” “I would have to ask Maoren’s permission to visit another elite household, but he’s in Nanjing,” I say. “The person I’m thinking of


in the fridge. So I wore one of the three cheap cocktail dresses Cece and I had gone halfsies on, watched a winged eyeliner tutorial, and in the cab ride to the suburbs, got myself carsick editing a fellowship application due the following day. Austin had gelled-back hair and answered the phone with “Talk to me.” Not a bad client as much as an absentee one. “Arm candy” seemed to be code for pretty wallpaper, which meant that my job was to sit at our table, smile widely when he introduced me as Lizzie, and wonder why the fancy asparagus crepes were decorated with strawberries. There was lots of downtime, which I used to do some grading, phone hidden under the expensive linen tablecloth. At the end of the night he gave me a ride. We chatted about the hows and whys of golf till we got downtown, at which point he offered me seventy bucks to have sex with him. I said no. To be fair, he started lower. And to be fairer, I had to say no several times (peppered with a few yeses when questions veered to “Are you serious?” and “Are you saying people pay you to just look hot next to them?” and “Are you really going to act like a bitch?”). I wasn’t too scared, because we were on a non-deserted sidewalk. I turned on my heels and ignored him as he yelled, “You’re not even that hot! Your tits are tiny and your makeup is shit!” The following day I told Francesca, who made a gagging noise on the phone, asked the million-dollar question (“God, Elsie. Why are men?”), and blocked him from the client database. For the following fake dates, I made an effort to do better makeup and use push-up bras. As a people pleaser and a graduate student, I was primed to take all sorts of constructive criticism to heart. And that was the end of it. Or just an intermission? Because when Austin looks at me and snorts and says, “No, she’s not,” the temperature around me drops. I look into Austin’s resentful eyes, and my nerves screech. My brain ices over and then shatters into a million tiny razor-sharp fragments that crash noisily into my skull. I know that I am fucked. Well and truly fucked. Monica gasps. “For God’s sake, Voight’s about to spill his wineglass on my Fendi chair.” She scurries away, and I cannot breathe. “What are you doing here?” Austin takes a step closer, and the smell hits: he’s been drinking. I’m going to puke in the cow skull. “Hi, Austin. How are you?” I sound solid, I think. Self-assured, but he ignores me. “Honestly, it’s a good move. You kind of sucked as a hooker.” My shoulder blades make sudden contact with something hard and warm. I must have physically recoiled. And pushed back into— Jack is behind me. Witnessing all of this. Cross-referencing notes about how terrible I am with Austin. Shit. Shit—“What did you just say?” he asks. “You ever hire her?” He


in the dread of being supplanted, found how inexpressibly important it had been.--Long, very long, she felt she had been first; for, having no female connexions of his own, there had been only Isabella whose claims could be compared with hers, and she had always known exactly how far he loved and esteemed Isabella. She had herself been first with him for many years past. She had not deserved it; she had often been negligent or perverse, slighting his advice, or even wilfully opposing him, insensible of half his merits, and quarrelling with him because he would not acknowledge her false and insolent estimate of her own--but still, from family attachment and habit, and thorough excellence of mind, he had loved her, and watched over her from a girl, with an endeavour to improve her, and an anxiety for her doing right, which no other creature had at all shared. In spite of all her faults, she knew she was dear to him; might she not say, very dear?-- When the suggestions of hope, however, which must follow here, presented themselves, she could not presume to indulge them. Harriet Smith might think herself not unworthy of being peculiarly, exclusively, passionately loved by Mr. Knightley. She could not. She could not flatter herself with any idea of blindness in his attachment to her. She had received a very recent proof of its impartiality.-- How shocked had he been by her behaviour to Miss Bates! How directly, how strongly had he expressed himself to her on the subject!--Not too strongly for the offence--but far, far too strongly to issue from any feeling softer than upright justice and clear-sighted goodwill.-- She had no hope, nothing to deserve the name of hope, that he could have that sort of affection for herself which was now in question; but there was a hope (at times a slight one, at times much stronger,) that Harriet might have deceived herself, and be overrating his regard for her.--Wish it she must, for his sake--be the consequence nothing to herself, but his remaining single all his life. Could she be secure of that, indeed, of his never marrying at all, she believed she should be perfectly satisfied.--Let him but continue the same Mr. Knightley to her and her father, the same Mr. Knightley to all the world; let Donwell and Hartfield lose none of their precious intercourse of friendship and confidence, and her peace would be fully secured.--Marriage, in fact, would not do for her. It would be incompatible with what she owed to her father, and with what she felt for him. Nothing should separate her from her father. She would not marry, even if she were asked by Mr. Knightley. It must be her ardent wish that Harriet might be disappointed; and she hoped, that when able to see them together again, she might at least be able to ascertain what the chances for it were.--She should see them henceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedly as she had hitherto misunderstood even those she was watching, she did not


as Terkoz pushed her roughly aside to meet Tarzan's charge, and she saw the great proportions of the ape and the mighty muscles and the fierce fangs, her heart quailed. How could any vanquish such a mighty antagonist? Like two charging bulls they came together, and like two wolves sought each other's throat. Against the long canines of the ape was pitted the thin blade of the man's knife. Jane--her lithe, young form flattened against the trunk of a great tree, her hands tight pressed against her rising and falling bosom, and her eyes wide with mingled horror, fascination, fear, and admiration--watched the primordial ape battle with the primeval man for possession of a woman--for her. As the great muscles of the man's back and shoulders knotted beneath the tension of his efforts, and the huge biceps and forearm held at bay those mighty tusks, the veil of centuries of civilization and culture was swept from the blurred vision of the Baltimore girl. When the long knife drank deep a dozen times of Terkoz' heart's blood, and the great carcass rolled lifeless upon the ground, it was a primeval woman who sprang forward with outstretched arms toward the primeval man who had fought for her and won her. And Tarzan? He did what no red-blooded man needs lessons in doing. He took his woman in his arms and smothered her Chapter 19 105 upturned, panting lips with kisses. For a moment Jane lay there with half-closed eyes. For a moment--the first in her young life--she knew the meaning of love. But as suddenly as the veil had been withdrawn it dropped again, and an outraged conscience suffused her face with its scarlet mantle, and a mortified woman thrust Tarzan of the Apes from her and buried her face in her hands. Tarzan had been surprised when he had found the girl he had learned to love after a vague and abstract manner a willing prisoner in his arms. Now he was surprised that she repulsed him. He came close to her once more and took hold of her arm. She turned upon him like a tigress, striking his great breast with her tiny hands. Tarzan could not understand it. A moment ago and it had been his intention to hasten Jane back to her people, but that little moment was lost now in the dim and distant past of things which were but can never be again, and with it the good intentions had gone to join the impossible. Since then Tarzan of the Apes had felt a warm, lithe form close pressed to his. Hot, sweet breath against his cheek and mouth had fanned a new flame to life within his breast, and perfect lips had clung to his in burning kisses that had seared a deep brand into his soul--a brand which marked a new Tarzan. Again he laid his hand upon her arm. Again she repulsed him. And then Tarzan of the Apes did just what his first ancestor would have done. He took his woman in his arms


fine crooked-legged terrier-whelp from the kennel, and put- ting it into her hand bade her whist, for he meant nought. Pausing in her lamentations, she surveyed him a glance of awe and horror, then burst forth anew. I could scarcely refrain from smiling at this antipathy to the poor fellow, who was a well-made, athletic youth, good-looking in features, and stout and healthy, but attired in garments befitting his daily occupations of working on the farm and lounging among the moors after rabbits and game. Still, I thought I could detect in his physiognomy a mind owning better qualities than his father ever possessed--good things lost amid a wil- derness of weeds, to be sure, whose rankness far over- topped their neglected growth; yet, notwithstanding, evidence of a wealthy soil, that might yield luxuriant crops under other and favourable circumstances. Mr. Heathcliff, I believe, had not treated him physically ill ---thanks to his fearless nature, which offered no temp- tation to that course of oppression. He had none of the timid susceptibility that would have given zest to ill- treatment, in Heathcliff's judgment. He appeared to have bent his malevolence on making him a brute. He was never taught to read or write, never rebuked for any bad habit which did not annoy his keeper, never led a single step towards virtue or guarded by a single precept against vice. And from what I heard, Joseph contributed much to his deterioration by a narrow- minded partiality which prompted him to flatter and pet him, as a boy, because he was the head of the old family. And as he had been in the habit of accusing Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff, when children, of putting the master past his patience, and compelling him to seek solace in drink by what he termed their "offalld ways," so at present he laid the whole burden of Hareton's faults on the shoulders of the usurper of his property. If the lad swore, he wouldn't correct him, nor however culpably he behaved. It gave Joseph satis- faction, apparently, to watch him go the worst lengths. He allowed that the lad was ruined, that his soul was abandoned to perdition; but then he reflected that Heathcliff must answer for it. Hareton's blood would be required at his hands; and there lay immense con- solation in that thought. Joseph had instilled into him a pride of name and of his lineage. He would, had he dared, have fostered hate between him and the present owner of the Heights; but his dread of that owner amounted to superstition, and he confined his feelings regarding him to muttered innuendoes and private com- minations. I don't pretend to be intimately acquainted with the mode of living customary in those days at Wuthering Heights. I only speak from hearsay, for I saw little. The villagers affirmed Mr. Heathcliff was near, and a cruel hard landlord to his tenants; but the house inside had regained its ancient aspect of comfort under female management, and the scenes of riot com- mon in Hindley's time were