try it on and walk around in it. What will my new name be? I’ve already planned to tell people that Lee is my middle name. It’s an easy sell. Lee is probably the most ubiquitous middle name in North America. “I’ve got the cash and the ID,” Hazel continues. “I’m just afraid I won’t make it to the airport.” “Why not?” “The cameras. Benjamin knows when I come and go. If I don’t return from a yoga class or the gym on time, he’ll have his men after me.” “His men?” “Security. He’s defended all sorts of criminals. He’s had death threats. Attempts on his life. These men look out for him and keep an eye on me. He says it’s for my protection.” She snorts mirthlessly. “But that’s not what it’s about.” It’s even worse than I thought. Hazel truly is a prisoner. I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know how to help her. I feel her gaze on me. “You look beautiful, by the way.” “Thanks.” I smile. “I look a bit like you.” “You do.” She touches my hair. “Maybe Karl only knows one haircut?” “I love it.” I shake my head. “And I’m flattered that there’s a resemblance.” Hazel bites her lip, her eyes still on me. I see a light in them, a spark even. “My god…,” she says softly. “You could pass for me. We’re about the same height. And size. And now we have the same hair.” “I guess,” I say warily. She reaches for my hand, grips it. “All I need is a head start, Lee. Time to get to the airport and get checked in. Even an hour. Two would be better.” “What are you suggesting?” Her words come out in a torrent. “I’ll go to the gym and you can meet me there. We can exchange clothes. Then I’ll get a cab to the airport, and after about an hour, you can drive my car back to my place.” “Are you serious?” “It’ll work, Lee. You can drive past security, no problem. And then let yourself into the house with my keys, make yourself a cup of tea or a snack. Benjamin will see you on camera and think you’re me. He’ll barely look at you, I promise. And I’ll have time to get to the airport and get on the plane and leave. And then you can go. Dump my car, get back in yours, and disappear.” Anxiety flutters in my belly. Does Hazel really expect me to let myself into her home? To risk an encounter with a violent man? To try to fool her husband and his security team? “I’ll make it worth your while,” she adds, reading my reticence. “I’ve managed to get quite a bit of money together. I’ll leave you fifty grand. And the new ID. That’s enough to start over, Lee.” I blink at her for a moment, struggling to process her proposal. An hour ago, I was in a state of relaxed bliss. Now I’m being asked to impersonate


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

worse than that, stepping out of a tree on the other side of the river, creating a horrible confusion within me as my mind tried to convince my eyes that he had come from behind the tree, but of course he had not. Shadow grabbed at my cloak and started pulling again, but I was already running, and so we ran across the mostly frozen river like a bride from a nightmare, her train supported by a servant. The ice cracked near the far bank but did not break, and Bambleby grabbed me before I fell. He tried to pull me on, but I dug in my heels and turned to watch the spectacle unfolding on the opposite shore. The white tree itself was still, dreamlike, while beneath it the roots writhed with impotent rage. The river ran too deep; they could not burrow beneath it. “I want a piece of the bark,” I said suddenly. He gave me such a look of disbelief that I pressed on, “For the paper! We need illustrations, Wendell. Exhibits. How else do you expect people to understand—” “We can go back there, and you can watch that thing crack my skull open and fill it with monstrosities,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll sit for an illustration after —what do you think?” “If I went alone, given that it paid me no mind before—” He took me by the shoulders and shook me. “What is the matter with you? You are many things, which I will be happy to enumerate later, but obtuse is not one of them.” At that, my old habit, carefully honed, reasserted itself, and I gripped the coin in my pocket. The strange desire that had filled me receded, and I knew that, of course, if I went back, the white tree would seize me, and Wendell would have to come to my aid. I withdrew my hand from my pocket. But I saw no evidence of the chill that had gripped me when my fingers brushed the leaf. Only—my third finger trembled. I put the hand away again before Bambleby noticed. “What does the king want with you?” I said, not needing an answer but merely voicing my thoughts as they thumbed through the well-worn stories. “Of course—to possess you. He has no substance left that is not tree.” “No doubt.” He was shivering so with the cold that I was a little sorry for him. “I felt him reaching for me the moment I stood above his roots. He is very ancient. His people locked him up in that tree because—well, I don’t know. He believes it horribly unjust, naturally. He has been sitting in there fantasizing about revenge and murder and all the rest of it for centuries.” I wondered that he could be so dismissive, when he was exiled royalty himself, but his lack of sympathy seemed quite genuine. “Fascinating.” I watched the roots writhe, already piecing together the entry in my encyclopaedia. Note to self: I must needs enquire after this manner of faerie gaoling; is it a


one who has had a doubt solved. He handed me the paper saying only, "It dropped from Lucy's breast when we carried her to the bath." When I had read it, I stook looking at the Professor, and after a pause asked him, "In God's name, what does it all mean? Was she, or is she, mad, or what sort of horrible danger is it?" I was so bewildered that I did not know what to say more. Van Helsing put out his hand and took the paper, saying, "Do not trouble about it now. Forget if for the present. You shall know and understand it all in good time, but it will be later. And now what is it that you came to me to say?" This brought me back to fact, and I was all myself again. "I came to speak about the certificate of death. If we do not act properly and wisely, there may be an inquest, and that paper would have to be produced. I am in hopes that we need have no inquest, for if we had it would surely kill poor Lucy, if nothing else did. I know, and you know, and the other doctor who attended her knows, that Mrs. Westenra had disease of the heart, and we can certify that she died of it. Let us fill up the certificate at once, and I shall take it myself to the registrar and go on to the undertaker." "Good, oh my friend John! Well thought of! Truly Miss Lucy, if she be sad in the foes that beset her, is at least happy in the friends thatlove her. One, two, three, all open their veins for her, besides one old man. Ah, yes, I know, friend John. I am not blind! I love you all the more for it! Now go." In the hall I met Quincey Morris, with a telegram for Arthur telling him that Mrs. Westenra was dead, that Lucy also had been ill, but was now going on better, and that Van Helsing and I were with her. I told him where I was going, and he hurried me out, but as I was going said, "When you come back, Jack, may I have two words with you all to ourselves?" I nodded in reply and went out. I found no difficulty about the registration, and arranged with the local undertaker to come up in the evening to measure for the coffin and to make arrangements. When I got back Quincey was waiting for me. I told him I would see him as soon as I knew about Lucy, and went up to her room. She was still sleeping, and the Professor seemingly had not moved from his seat at her side. From his putting his finger to his lips, I gathered that he expected her to wake before long and was afraid of fore-stalling nature. So I went down to Quincey and took him into the breakfast room, where the blinds were not drawn down, and which was a little


stood there of hard smooth stone; for the vale had been a great lake in ancient days. Then Turgon knew that he had found the place of his desire, and he resolved to build there a fair city, a memorial of Tirion upon Tna; but he returned to Nevrast, and remained there in peace, though he pondered ever in his thought how he should accomplish his design. Now after the Dagor Aglareb the unquiet that Ulmo set in his heart returned to him, and he summoned many of the hardiest and most skilled of his people, and led them secretly to the hidden vale, and there they began the building of the city that Turgon had devised; and they set a watch all about it, that none might come upon their work from without, and the power of Ulmo that ran in Sirion protected them. But Turgon dwelt still for the most part in Nevrast, until it came to pass that at last the city was full-wrought, after two and fifty years of secret toil. It is said that Turgon appointed its name to be Ondolind in the speech of the Elves of Valinor, the Rock of the Music of Water, for there were fountains upon the hill; but in the Sindarin tongue the name was changed, and it became Gondolin, the Hidden Rock. Then Turgon prepared to depart from Nevrast and leave his halls in Vinyamar beside the sea; and there Ulmo came to him once again, and spoke with him. And he said: 'Now thou shalt go at last to Gondolin, Turgon; and I will maintain my power in the Vale of Sirion, and in all the waters therein, so that none shall mark thy going, nor shall any find there the hidden entrance against thy will. Longest of all the realms of the Eldali shall Gondolin stand against Melkor. But love not too well the work of thy hands and the devices of thy heart; and remember that the true hope of the Noldor lieth in the West and cometh from the Sea.' And Ulmo warned Turgon that he also lay under the Doom of Mandos, which Ulmo had no power to remove. 'Thus it may come to pass,' he said, 'that the curse of the Noldor shall find thee too ere the end, and treason awake within thy walls. Then they shall be in peril of fire. But if this peril draweth nigh indeed, then even from Nevrast one shall come to warn thee, and from him beyond ruin and fire hope shall be born for Elves and Men. Leave therefore in this house arms and a sword, that in years to come he may find them, and thus shalt thou know him, and not be deceived.' And Ulmo declared to Turgon of what kind and stature should be the helm and mail and sword that he left behind. Then Ulmo returned to the sea, and Turgon sent forth all his people, even to a third part of the Noldor of Fingolfin's following, and a yet greater host


from the balustrade, which she’d been gripping as if it were an anchor, and moved as silently as possible across the roof deck toward the exit. She moved fast and had almost made it to the exit when she heard a distinct scuffling noise to her right. That was no pigeon. Someone was hiding behind the backboard—she’d been right. If she could make it inside the building and call for help, she might stand a chance. She was just about to grab hold of the doorknob when an arm suddenly wrapped around her neck, yanking her back from the doorway, further onto the rooftop. She clutched at the arm with both hands, trying to free her windpipe and scream, but the more she fought back, the tighter he squeezed. Together they spun around in a grisly pas de deux. Marion was trapped on the roof of Radio City with a madman. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR When Marion and Judy were in their early teens, their father brought them into the backyard on a warm spring day and insisted they learn how to fight, in case they were ever mugged. Marion rolled her eyes and Judy gave a nervous laugh, but Simon insisted. “Where I grew up, you had to know how to stand up for yourself, not just with words, but with fists, too, if it came to that.” “You’re going to teach us to be street fighters?” asked Marion. “I don’t think there’s much call for that in Bronxville.” “You’re going to be dealing with boys soon.” He looked at Marion, not Judy, as he spoke. “And boys can be stupid. You have to be able to get free if you’re ever attacked. Marion. Turn around.” She did so, and before she knew it her father was behind her, his arms wrapping around her in a bear hug. She squirmed but couldn’t get free, and burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of it. She was supposed to be getting ready for a school mixer that night, not wrestling with her dad. “Stop squirming, that’s lesson number one,” said her father. She couldn’t see his face, but she felt his breath in her hair. “Okay.” She went still. “By not squirming, you’ll catch him by surprise. That’s what he’s going to be expecting. Now, lift your right foot and jam it hard down on mine.” She strained to look back at him. “I’ll break your toe if I do that.” “Trust me, I’ll be fine.” She did as instructed, and her father moved his foot just in time. “Your attacker won’t be expecting that, and it’ll hurt like the dickens. He’ll loosen his grip even more, and the minute you feel that loosening, drop to the ground, like a sack of potatoes.” “Really?” “Yes, really. Like you’re fainting, but straight down.” She paused for a moment, and then let her knees buckle. Before she knew it, she was on the ground. “Roll! Roll away!” her father yelled. She rolled, crossing her arms over her chest. Thank goodness she was wearing her old jeans and


handsome or generic? Was he kind to help or too pushy? Was he flirting with me or being a pain? Had he already won me over, or did I still have a choice? Finally I circled back to: “Fine. Just … don’t help me.” His expression shifted to wry. “I’m getting the sense that you don’t want me to help you.” But I played it straight. “That’s correct.” Then before I could lose any more ground, I turned to the owner at the counter—still chatting away with her friend—and stage-whispered, “I’ll be back in five with my purse.” Then I zipped out the door. Case closed. * * * I WAS WAITING at the crosswalk for the light to change when I turned back to see the grocery store guy walking out with a paper bag that looked suspiciously like it might have three very cheap wine bottles and some dog tacos in it. I stared at him until he saw me. Then he gave me a big unapologetic ya got me smile. Fine. I had my answers: Yes. When he arrived next to me to wait for the same crosswalk, I kept my gaze straight ahead, but said, like we were spies or something, “Is that bag full of what I think it’s full of?” He didn’t turn my way, either. “Do you think it’s full of human kindness?” “I think it’s full of unwanted help.” He looked down to examine the inside of the bag. “Or maybe I just really, really love … six-dollar wine.” “And dog treats,” I said, glancing his way. I could see the sides of his eyes crinkle up at that. “Fine,” I said, accepting my defeat and holding out my arms for the bag. But he shook his head. “I got it.” “Are you going to be stubborn about this, too?” “I think the word you’re looking for is chivalrous.” “Is it?” I said, tilting my head. Then, as if the question had answered itself, I held my arms out for the bag again. “Why should I give this to you?” he asked. “Because you got what you wanted last time,” I said, tilting my head back toward the store, “and now it’s my turn.” He considered that. So I added, “It’s only fair.” He nodded at that, and then, like he’d been totally reasonable all along, he turned, stepped closer, and released the bag into my arms. “Thank you,” I said when I had possession. The light had turned, and the crowd around us was moving into the street. As I started to move with it, I looked down to check the bag’s contents, and I saw a bouquet of white gerbera daisies. I started to turn to him next to me, but he wasn’t there—and when I spun back, he was still at the curb looking down at his phone like maybe he’d stopped for a text. “Hey!” I called from the middle of the street. “You forgot your flowers!” But he looked up and shook his head. “Those are for you.” I


nods. “Um…sure.” He motions toward her phone, still in her hand. “Do you mind? I’ll put my number in.” She unlocks her phone before handing it to him. After a few swift moves of his thumbs, he gives it back. “That was fast.” “I sent myself a text. You’ll see it in your messages.” “Oh.” She glances at her phone before dropping it into her purse. Was that what people did these days? “Okay.” “I’m really glad we bumped into each other. Let’s talk soon.” His eyes linger on hers before he slowly moves in the opposite direction. Sloane turns for the front of the store, feeling a grin tug at the sides of her mouth. She heads toward the self-checkout and deletes the text she almost sent to Ethan before typing a new one. No prob. I’ll change the reservation to nine. Sloane checks the clock on her nightstand when she steps out of her walk-in closet. She smooths the front of her new fitted black dress as she turns in front of her full-length mirror, forcing herself not to compare her reflection to Ethan’s ex-homicide partner who transferred to another department after word got out about their one-night stand. The dress accentuates her slight curves perfectly, and she decides it was well worth the money. She needs Ethan to zip up the back, but he would be home any minute. From her Edwardian home’s second-story window, she spots headlights coming down her street. During the day, she had an unobstructed view of the Ballard Locks out her bedroom window. Now, lights twinkled from Ballard’s hillside across the waterway. Seeing the headlights pull into the driveway across the street, she steps away from the window, stifling her disappointment. Ethan’s already ten minutes late. He’s probably just stuck in traffic. If they leave in the next five minutes, they could still make it on time. After leaving the Kirkland Market, she called the waterfront restaurant and was able to change their reservation to nine. Thankfully it was a Friday, and they were open late. She tousles her short dark curls with her fingers before sitting on the end of her bed to slip into her Christian Louboutin pumps. Her phone pings on the bed beside her with another message. She sighs before lifting the phone, knowing Ethan was probably just now leaving the homicide unit. Which means they’d have to meet each other at the restaurant. And she would have to manage her zipper without him. Won’t be home til after midnight. Don’t wait up. I got a break in a case. Sorry. Maybe we can try again next weekend? Sloane tosses the phone onto the down comforter. Emotions battle inside her, anger and disappointment competing for first place. Next weekend? She’d be on nights. And no longer ovulating. Ethan knows this. Or, at least, he should. They’d already put off trying for a baby after she found out about Ethan’s affair. Now that she wants a child as much as Ethan does, he can’t even come home. She leans forward and


palm of my hand, because I’m crying. Of course I am. “Your actions . . . your actions hurt lots more people than Laurendeau. And while you didn’t think much about the article, I thought about it every day for over a decade. It had terrible consequences for something that I really, really love, and you know what? I’ve done my best to avoid thinking about it, but I don’t know if I can keep on doing that. I don’t know if I can stop being angry at you. I don’t know if I . . .” My voice breaks and my eyes flood, and I cannot bear to be here, with Jack, a second longer. “Is that what you are? Angry?” His hand cups my cheek, forcing my eyes to his blurry face. “Or are you just scared? Because you’ve been more honest with me than ever before?” “Maybe.” I pull away and see it in the twitch of his fingers that he wants to chase me, but no. No. “Maybe I’m scared. And maybe you’re a liar. Where does that leave us?” He gives me a long, undecipherable look. “I don’t know. Where?” You know where we’re going, here, he said, over and over. And I said no, and then I said yes, and it is where I want to be. But he asked me for honesty and lied in return, and he did beat everything I stand for to a pulp, and I just — I need space. I need to think. “You should leave, Jack.” He lets out a breath and moves closer. Like he wants to wrap himself around me. It’s in the way his muscles coil, that impulse to take care of me. “Elsie, come on. You’re not—” “I am.” I’m starting to sob. I want him to touch me, but I cannot stand for him to be here. “You always talk about what I want, Jack. You helped me learn how to ask for it. Well.” I force myself to look him squarely in the eye and show him that I mean what I say, even though I’m not sure I do. There’s a burning heat in my chest, scalding, painful. “Right now, I don’t want to be with you. I need you to give me some space.” I see it in his eyes, the moment he realizes that I’m telling the truth. And the second he’s gone, I feel it in my bones like nothing before. 24 ELECTROMAGNETISM J ACK CALLS ME TWO DAYS LATER DURING MY OFFICE HOURS , BUT I’m busy explaining to a UMass senior that if she truly must paste an entire paragraph from Wikipedia into her essay, she should at least take out the embedded hyperlinks. He tries again on Friday night, when I’m grading the thermo papers that came in late, and one last time on Saturday morning, while I’m in bed staring at the popcorn ceiling, thinking about him anyway. I never consider picking up. Not once. Not even when I cannot sleep. Not even after being


a kid with an imagination, and this made her remember Tristán and the times she wrapped him in old bedsheets and pretended he was a ghost rising from the grave. But Wilhelm Ewers had been neglected after his brother’s death. He’d grown up alone in a distant, large house, with no playmates to joke with him. My parents heaped praise upon my older brother and left me to spend lonely afternoons in my room, anticipating my early demise, he’d written. An angry little kid who had been informed he was special and the rest of the world was beneath him. She slid her headphones off her ears, letting them rest on the back of her neck. * * * — She picked up Tristán the following evening around seven. The palm trees lining the avenue that led them into Las Lomas were glowing bright with Christmas lights, but otherwise the festivities were subdued in this part of the city. Neatly trimmed hedges hid expensive houses, and sober driveways sneaked behind tall walls. People in Las Lomas had real gardens, with purple bougainvilleas and pale roses, unlike everyone in Montserrat’s sphere, who made do with potted plants. This area was “exclusive,” which also meant people had good security. Even if Clarimonde Bauer was still living at the address on the invitation, they could be chased away by bodyguards. They could also end up in jail, if the lady got nasty, and Montserrat did not want to have conversations with cops again. But there was nothing left to do but roll the dice. They turned left, taking a side street. It was practically impossible to see the numbers on some of these houses or the names of the streets. Nobody cared to put up the proper signage, because if you lived there, you knew where you were headed. “I think it’s that one,” Tristán said. Montserrat stopped the car and stared at the house Tristán had pointed out. A white wall surrounded it, and there was a silver metal gate. Behind it you could glimpse a house with a coarse gray exterior. Las Lomas had no single overwhelming style. The rich constructed their homes in whatever fashion they fancied, with Spanish-inspired stucco houses sitting next to Porfirian style mansions. The Brutalist also had its place, as evidenced by Bauer’s home. Montserrat rang the bell. A servant came out and peered at them through the bars of the gate. “We’re here to see Clarimonde Bauer,” she said. “Do you have an appointment?” “No. But please hand her this and tell her it’s about Wilhelm Ewers,” Montserrat said, pulling out one of the sheets of paper with Ewers’s writing. The servant did not look convinced, but he came back after a few minutes and opened the gate for them, and they walked the wide stone path leading toward the front door of the house. The inside of Clarimonde’s home was pure and simple: bright lights, polished cement floors, rough white walls. It had the feeling of a fortress, impenetrable, and the living room was all steel


you look like you’ve been run over by a truck. What happened?” “What compromised-sale situation?” Constance asked. “I’ll tell you later,” Mercy said, not looking at her, focused on getting the truth out of Louise. “Mark had a few beers for breakfast and was cutting wood,” Louise said. “I stood up on the shelves to get something down and they fell over on me. I think that’s what distracted him.” Mercy considered Louise for a long moment, then shook her head. “We’re family,” she insisted with conviction. Louise wanted to tell her, but there was family and then there was family. Pupkin, Spider, what she’d had to do to Mark—that was Joyner family business. “You’ve seen those shelves,” Louise said, feeling bad. “They’re really unstable.” “If you ever want to talk, I’m here,” Mercy said quietly, then raised her voice to a normal level. “What’re y’all doing with the house?” “We decided not to sell it right now,” Louise said at a normal volume. “It’s not going anywhere. We’ll probably try again when it comes out of probate.” “Well,” Mercy said. “That’ll make Meemaw happy, at least.” Mark didn’t come back outside and finally Louise went in and found him sitting on the couch looking at his phone, holding a beer between his thighs. “You’re not coming back out?” she asked. He shrugged. “I’m not feeling great.” She looked at him for a long time and realized there was no point in arguing. She wasn’t his mother. She went outside to tell her cousins. As they walked back to their cars she saw Constance interrogating Mercy. “What compromised-sale situation?” she demanded in what was, for Constance, a discreet whisper. It wasn’t all bad. Louise just had to make it through the week. Mark wasn’t her child, he was a grown man who was responsible for his own decisions. And every day she crossed off on the calendar was another day closer to going home. She knew this was the beginning of the end for both of them. Mark would get better or he wouldn’t. They still had some paperwork with Brody, and then would sell the house in about a year, but it wasn’t their parents’ house anymore, it was just a house, and Louise knew that after they split the money they’d call a little more than usual, then they’d call a little less, then it would be texts, then there would be longer and longer between texts, and then it would be over. She and Mark were too different. Without something holding them together—living in the same town, Mom and Dad, children the same ages— they would drift apart. She’d try to visit Charleston more often to see Aunt Honey and the cousins, and of course she’d get dinner with Mark when she came in, but something that had started with their parents’ car accident had ended with burning Pupkin, and whatever extra connection they’d had felt like a burned-out lightbulb now. It didn’t make her as sad as she expected. She was okay. Things changed. Now she just wanted


expense. A gentleman goes forth on a showery and miry day. He returns immaculate in the evening with the gloss still on his hat and his boots. He has been a fixture therefore all day. He is not a man with intimate friends. Where, then, could he have been? Is it not obvious?" "Well, it is rather obvious." "The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes. Where do you think that I have been?" "A fixture also." "On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire." "In spirit?" "Exactly. My body has remained in this armchair and has, I regret to observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and an incredible amount of tobacco. After you left I sent down to Stamford's for the Ordnance map of this portion of the moor, and my spirit has hovered over it all day. I flatter myself that I could find my way about." "A large-scale map, I presume?" "Very large." He unrolled one section and held it over his knee. "Here you have the particular district which concerns us. That is Baskerville Hall in the middle." "With a wood round it?" "Exactly. I fancy the yew alley, though not marked under that name, must stretch along this line, with the moor, as you per- ceive, upon the right of it. This small clump of buildings here is the hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend Dr. Mortimer has his headquarters. Within a radius of five miles there are, as you see, only a very few scattered dwellings. Here is Lafter Hall, which was mentioned in the narrative. There is a house indicated here which may be the residence of the naturalist -- Stapleton, if I remember right, was his name. Here are two moorland farm- houses, High Tor and Foulmire. Then fourteen miles away the great convict prison of Princetown. Between and around these scattered points extends the desolate, lifeless moor. This, then, is the stage upon which tragedy has been played, and upon which we may help to play it again." "It must be a wild place." "Yes, the setting is a worthy one. If the devil did desire to have a hand in the affairs of men --" "Then you are yourself inclining to the supernatural explanation." "The devil's agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not? There are two questions waiting for us at the outset. The one is whether any crime has been committed at all; the second is, what is the crime and how was it committed? Of course, if Dr. Mortimer's surmise should be correct, and we are dealing with forces outside the ordinary laws of Nature, there is an end of our investigation. But we are bound to exhaust all other hypotheses before falling back upon this one. I think we'll shut that window again, if you don't mind. It is a singular thing, but I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps a concentration of thought. I have not pushed it to the length of getting into a


have had its origin. It was an excursion of some miles across the moor to a place which is so dismal that it might have suggested the story. We found a short valley between rugged tors which led to an open, grassy space flecked over with the white cotton grass. In the middle of it rose two great stones, worn and sharpened at the upper end until they looked like the huge corroding fangs of some monstrous beast. In every way it corresponded with the scene of the old tragedy. Sir Henry was much interested and asked Stapleton more than once whether he did really believe in the possibility of the interference of the supernatural in the affairs of men. He spoke lightly, but it was evident that he was very much in earnest. Stapleton was guarded in his replies, but it was easy to see that he said less than he might, and that he would not express his whole opinion out of consideration for the feelings of the baronet. He told us of similar cases, where families had suffered from some evil influence, and he left us with the impression that he shared the popular view upon the matter. On our way back we stayed for lunch at Merripit House, and it was there that Sir Henry made the acquaintance of Miss Stapleton. From the first moment that he saw her he appeared to be strongly attracted by her, and I am much mistaken if the feeling was not mutual. He referred to her again and again on our walk home, and since then hardly a day has passed that we have not seen something of the brother and sister. They dine here to-night, and there is some talk of our going to them next week. One would imagine that such a match would be very welcome to Stapleton, and yet I have more than once caught a look of the strongest disapprobation in his face when Sir Henry has been paying some attention to his sister. He is much attached to her, no doubt, and would lead a lonely life without her, but it would seem the height of selfishness if he were to stand in the way of her making so brilliant a marriage. Yet I am certain that he does not wish their intimacy to ripen into love, and I have several times observed that he has taken pains to prevent them from being tete-a-tete. By the way, your instructions to me never to allow Sir Henry to go out alone will become very much more onerous if a love affair were to be added to our other difficulties. My popularity would soon suffer if I were to carry out your orders to the letter. The other day -- Thursday, to be more exact -- Dr. Mortimer lunched with us. He has been excavating a barrow at Long Down and has got a prehistoric skull which fills him with great joy. Never was there such a single-minded enthusiast as he! The Stapletons came in afterwards, and the


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

Felicity Chen.” Cheers rise again, and I peek out, trying to find Jess, River, Juno, and my family out in the dark mass of bodies. “The goal was not to pull them out of their day-to-day lives but to see who clicked, who connected… and who didn’t. Every week, you—the audience—voted on which Hero you believed was Fizzy’s soulmate. And tonight, we’ve assembled the entire cast to discuss their experiences, their hopes, and most of all, their thoughts on The True Love Experiment!” The theme song plays, there’s a vaguely cheesy light show, and they cut to the first commercial. When we return, the segment opens with a montage reel introducing each of the Heroes’ archetypes and showing them in their daily lives, on the show, and talking about meeting me. There are wolf whistles when we see a clip of Colby doing shirtless pull-ups, some laughter as Arjun gets his shoes polished by a street vendor, fangirl screams when Dax launches himself out of an airplane, and the sound pitches higher when the video transitions to a clip of Isaac walking down the hall with a piece of robotic equipment I’m sure they had him hold as a prop so he would appear very Hot Nerdy. The audience laughs as Dax exits the café after our first meeting and exhales a breathless “Holy [bleep], she’s sexy.” I clap a hand over my mouth, holding back a cackle. “Fizzy has this aura, you know?” Nick says in the video. “Confident, strong, grounded. But [long bleep], she’s hot.” More laughter, and then it doubles when Arjun says: “Yeah, I don’t think we connected.” The audience cheers when Isaac appears. “Fizzy is the kind of woman a man could wait his whole life for and never meet. You look at her and think, ‘Damn, she’s fine,’ and then you start a conversation and realize she’s got you running in circles and you didn’t even realize it.” “I knew even when we first dated that she was something special,” Evan says. “A word of advice: don’t get a Bart Simpson tattoo.” The crowd roars. The video makes me feel this tight tangle of emotions high in my throat. Why couldn’t I fall for one of them? When the footage ends, Lanelle waits for the applause to die down before she comes in for the salacious part of the show. She asks the Heroes who were eliminated early vaguely cutting questions with a smile—didn’t Tex think it was a bit sexist to ask me what my father thought of my romance career? Why did Colby think the audience voted him off? Did Arjun watch his episode, and how did he feel he came across? But then she dials up the charm with Dax and Nick, flirting shamelessly, asking them whether they’d change anything they did or said on the show, whether they think they’d do a show like this again. And then there’s a surprise announcement: both Dax and Nick will be back as the leads in the second season. “Holy shit,” I murmur to myself.


the birds and Rue’s roots. I’m wait- ing right here. Who knows where the Careers are now? Either too far to reach me or too sure this is a trick or ... is it possible? Too scared of me? They know I have the bow and arrows, of course, Cato saw me take them from Glimmer’s body, but have they put two and two together yet? Figured out I blew up the supplies and killed their fellow Career? Possibly they think Thresh did this. Wouldn’t he be more likely to revenge Rue’s death than I would? Being from the same district? Not that he ever took any interest in her. And what about Foxface? Did she hang around to watch me blow up the supplies? No. When I caught her laughing in the ashes the next morning, it was as if someone had given her a lovely surprise. 238 I doubt they think Peeta has lit this signal fire. Cato’s sure he’s as good as dead. I find myself wishing I could tell Peeta about the flowers I put on Rue. That I now understand what he was trying to say on the roof. Perhaps if he wins the Games, he’ll see me on victor’s night, when they replay the highlights of the Games on a screen over the stage where we did our in- terviews. The winner sits in a place of honor on the platform, surrounded by their support crew. But I told Rue I’d be there. For both of us. And somehow that seems even more important than the vow I gave Prim. I really think I stand a chance of doing it now. Winning. It’s not just having the arrows or outsmarting the Careers a few times, although those things help. Something happened when I was holding Rue’s hand, watching the life drain out of her. Now I am determined to revenge her, to make her loss unfor- gettable, and I can only do that by winning and thereby mak- ing myself unforgettable. I overcook the birds hoping someone will show up to shoot, but no one does. Maybe the other tributes are out there beat- ing one another senseless. Which would be fine, Ever since the bloodbath, I’ve been featured on screens most than I care. Eventually, I wrap up my food and go back to the stream to replenish my water and gather some. But the heaviness from the morning drapes back over me and even though it’s only early evening, I climb a tree and settle in for the night. My brain begins to replay the events from yesterday. I keep see- ing Rue speared, my arrow piercing the boy’s neck. I don’t know why I should even care about the boy. 239 Then I realize . . . he was my first kill. Along with other statistics they report to help people place their bets, every tribute has a list of kills. I guess technically I’d get credited for Glimmer and the girl from District 4, too, for dumping that nest on them. But


care for her any more." "Yes, you do, Tom -- you know you do." Tom tried to put his arm about her neck, but she pushed him away and turned her face to the wall, and went on crying. Tom tried again, with soothing words in his mouth, and was repulsed again. --------------------------------------------------------- -89- Then his pride was up, and he strode away and went outside. He stood about, restless and uneasy, for a while, glancing at the door, every now and then, hoping she would repent and come to find him. But she did not. Then he began to feel badly and fear that he was in the wrong. It was a hard struggle with him to make new advances, now, but he nerved himself to it and entered. She was still standing back there in the corner, sobbing, with her face to the wall. Tom's heart smote him. He went to her and stood a moment, not knowing exactly how to proceed. Then he said hesitatingly: "Becky, I -- I don't care for anybody but you." No reply -- but sobs. "Becky" -- pleadingly. "Becky, won't you say something?" More sobs. Tom got out his chiefest jewel, a brass knob from the top of an andiron, and passed it around her so that she could see it, and said: "Please, Becky, won't you take it?" She struck it to the floor. Then Tom marched out of the house and over the hills and far away, to return to school no more that day. Presently Becky began to suspect. She ran to the door; he was not in sight; she flew around to the play-yard; he was not there. Then she called: "Tom! Come back, Tom!" She listened intently, but there was no answer. She had no companions but silence and loneliness. --------------------------------------------------------- -90- So she sat down to cry again and upbraid herself; and by this time the scholars began to gather again, and she had to hide her griefs and still her broken heart and take up the cross of a long, dreary, aching afternoon, with none among the strangers about her to exchange sorrows with. --------------------------------------------------------- -91- Chapter VIII TOM dodged hither and thither through lanes until he was well out of the track of returning scholars, and then fell into a moody jog. He crossed a small "branch" two or three times, because of a prevailing juvenile superstition that to cross water baffled pursuit. Half an hour later he was disappearing behind the Douglas mansion on the summit of Cardiff Hill, and the school-house was hardly distinguishable away off in the valley behind him. He entered a dense wood, picked his pathless way to the centre of it, and sat down on a mossy spot under a spreading oak. There was not even a zephyr stirring; the dead noonday heat had even stilled the songs of the birds; nature lay in a trance that was broken by no sound but the occasional far-off hammering of a wood-pecker, and this seemed to render the pervading silence and sense


in which direction he was going. 'If there is hope,' he had written in the diary, 'it lies in the proles.' The words kept coming back to him, statement of a mystical truth and a palpable absurdity. He was somewhere in the vague, brown-coloured slums to the north and east of what had once been Saint Pancras Station. He was walking up a cobbled street of little two-storey houses with battered doorways which gave straight on the pavement and which were somehow curiously suggestive of ratholes. There were puddles of filthy water here and there among the cobbles. In and out of the dark doorways, and down narrow alley-ways that branched off on either side, people swarmed in astonishing numbers--girls in full bloom, with crudely lipsticked mouths, and youths who chased the girls, and swollen waddling women who showed you what the girls would be like in ten years' time, and old bent creatures shuffling along on splayed feet, and ragged barefooted children who played in the puddles and then scattered at angry yells from their mothers. file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (46 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt Perhaps a quarter of the windows in the street were broken and boarded up. Most of the people paid no attention to Winston; a few eyed him with a sort of guarded curiosity. Two monstrous women with brick-red forearms folded across thelr aprons were talking outside a doorway. Winston caught scraps of conversation as he approached. '"Yes," I says to 'er, "that's all very well," I says. "But if you'd of been in my place you'd of done the same as what I done. It's easy to criticize," I says, "but you ain't got the same problems as what I got."' 'Ah,' said the other, 'that's jest it. That's jest where it is.' The strident voices stopped abruptly. The women studied him in hostile silence as he went past. But it was not hostility, exactly; merely a kind of wariness, a momentary stiffening, as at the passing of some unfamiliar animal. The blue overalls of the Party could not be a common sight in a street like this. Indeed, it was unwise to be seen in such places, unless you had definite business there. The patrols might stop you if you happened to run into them. 'May I see your papers, comrade? What are you doing here? What time did you leave work? Is this your usual way home?'--and so on and so forth. Not that there was any rule against walking home by an unusual route: but it was enough to draw attention to you if the Thought Police heard about it. Suddenly the whole street was in commotion. There were yells of warning from all sides. People were shooting into the doorways like rabbits. A young woman leapt out of a doorway a little ahead of Winston, grabbed up a tiny child playing in a puddle, whipped her apron round it, and leapt back again, all in one movement. At the same instant a man in a concertina-like black suit, who had emerged from a


”I think so.” He dons his mask. “It’s only about fifteen feet here, and the flippers will make it easy to kick to the bottom. Ready to jump in?” She stares at the bright green water lapping against the boat as she scoots to the edge. “No.” She pushes herself off the side and inhales a sharp breath, despite the wet suit. “Oh, that’s cold!” Brody eases into the water beside her. “You’ll get used to it. Once the water inside your wetsuit warms from your body heat, you’ll feel fine.” She glides her legs through the water, allowing the flippers to keep her afloat. “You good?” he asks. She nods. “All right.” He points a finger toward the water. “Let’s go.” She draws a deep breath and follows him beneath the surface. She’s surprised at the visibility in the green tinted water as she dives beside Brody toward the sea floor. Velvety ribbons from bull kelp float beside them, like an underwater forest, as he takes her hand. The long strands of kelp extend all the way to the rocks at the bottom. She kicks her legs, allowing the fins to propel her toward the colorful ocean floor. White particles dance through the water, making it feel like they’re swimming through a snowstorm. It's nothing like the dull green and brown colors she expected. The sea life around them is a bright array of orange, red, pink, and purple, and seems like it should belong in the tropics. It looks just like the photograph on the wall of Brody’s Medina mansion, which she realizes wasn’t taken at a tropical reef, but here. Perhaps even in this very spot. Her lungs are already aching when they near the bottom, and Brody points to a crab moving across a rock. She motions toward the surface, and Brody nods. Together, they kick to the top. Sloane sucks in a sharp breath as her face breaks through the water. “What do you think?” Brody asks. “Do you want to go back to the boat?” Sloane shakes her head. “Let’s go again.” He grins. “Okay.” She sinks beneath the surface with her hand in Brody’s, enjoying the warmth and strength of his grip as they glide through the cold water. She kicks harder this time to reach the bottom before she feels the burning urge to breathe. She takes in the colorful sea floor as they glide slowly over purple urchins and yellow sea sponges. Ignoring the increasing ache in her lungs, she points to an orange starfish. There is something magical about being down here, so far removed from all her worries. It’s like they’re in another world, one with just the two of them. She feels something pull her backward and turns to Brody, who is focused on a jellyfish moving above them. Sloane spins to see what is tugging at her and finds a large piece of bull kelp wrapped around her leg. She flips over to reach for the kelp, but instead manages to wrap it another time around her ankle. She


it. We shan't keep the fire going. We'll be like animals. We'll never be rescued." "If you don't blow, we'll soon be animals anyway. I can't see what they're doing but I can hear." The dispersed figures had come together on the sand and were a dense black mass that revolved. They were chanting something and littluns that had had enough were staggering away, howling. Ralph raised the conch to his lips and then lowered it. "The trouble is: Are there ghosts, Piggy? Or beasts?" "Course there aren't." "Why not?" "'Cos things wouldn't make sense. Houses an' streets, an'--TV--they wouldn't work." The dancing, chanting boys had worked themselves away till their sound was nothing but a wordless rhythm. "But s'pose they don't make sense? Not here, on this island? Supposing things are watching us and waiting?" Ralph shuddered violently and moved closer to Piggy, so that they bumped frighteningly. "You stop talking like that! We got enough trouble, Ralph, an' I've had as much as I can stand. If there is ghosts--'' "I ought to give up being chief. Hear 'em." "Oh lord! Oh no!" Piggy gripped Ralph's arm. "If Jack was chief he'd have all hunting and no fire. We'd be here till we died." His voice ran up to a squeak. "Who's that sitting there?" "Me. Simon." "Fat lot of good we are," said Ralph. "Three blind mice. I'll give up." "If you give up," said Piggy, in an appalled whisper, "what 'ud happen to me?" "Nothing." "He hates me. I dunno why. If he could do what he wanted--you're all right, he respects you. Besides--you'd hit him." "You were having a nice fight with him just now." "I had the conch," said Piggy simply. "I had a right to speak." Simon stirred in the dark. "Go on being chief." "You shut up, young Simon! Why couldn't you say there wasn't a beast?" "I'm scared of him," said Piggy, "and that's why I know him. If you're scared of someone you hate him but you can't stop thinking about him. You kid yourself he's all right really, an' then when you see him again; it's like asthma an' you can't breathe. I tell you what. He hates you too, Ralph--" "Me? Why me?" "I dunno. You got him over the fire; an' you're chief an' he isn't." "But he's, he's, Jack Merridew!" "I been in bed so much I done some thinking. I know about people. I know about me. And him. He can't hurt you: but if you stand out of the way he'd hurt the next thing. And that's me." "Piggy's right, Ralph. There's you and Jack. Go on being chief." "We're all drifting and things are going rotten. At home there was always a grownup. Please, sir, please, miss; and then you got an answer. How I wish!" "I wish my auntie was here." "I wish my father. . . Oh, what's the use?" "Keep the fire going." The dance was over and the hunters were going back to the shelters. "Grownups know things," said Piggy. "They


could figure it out together.” If he really could categorize every expression my face makes, then he’d know I’m serious. Terrified of what might happen if I leave this house but serious nonetheless. I shake my head, adamant now. “I’m sorry. I think I have to do it alone.” And with trembling footsteps, I head for the door. chapter twenty-seven LOS ANGELES, CA In the backseat of an Uber, I try my best to act like I haven’t made the single stupidest decision of my life. This translates into some truly terrible small talk. “Some traffic, huh?” I ask the driver, who just rolls her eyes. I end up at the hotel the publisher originally booked for me, since they obviously weren’t planning on me shacking up with Finn. It’s in downtown LA, a gritty section of the city with none of the charm of Los Feliz. And then, because it’s my go-to coping mechanism, I call Noemie. She listens as I explain everything, recounting some of my argument with Finn almost word for word. And when I’m done, splayed on the too-firm bed with too-soft pillows, she tells me exactly what I don’t want to hear. “I hate to say it,” she starts. “But I’m kind of on Finn’s side here.” I choke out a laugh. “I’m . . . not sure how to react to that.” Her sigh crackles through the phone. “You haven’t prioritized your writing in so long. Are you sure you even want it anymore?” “Yes. Of course I do.” More than almost anything. Not even to be published, but to have the satisfaction of completing my book, typing THE END and giving my characters the resolution they deserve. Anything that happened afterward would be icing. It isn’t that I disagree with her—not necessarily. I just hoped there was an easier solution here, one that didn’t end with anyone heartbroken and my career left up to chance. I place a hand on my chest, rising and falling with the quickening of my breaths. The anxiety crawls up my throat, tightens my lungs. I don’t know how to explain that it’s possible to want something without actively trying to get it. Although maybe she understands—after all, I did it with Wyatt for so many years. Even then, I convinced myself I was happy with what we were, because anything else would have required changing the status quo. It would have meant taking a risk, that thing I’ve avoided for so, so long. “If you take this job,” Noemie continues, “then nothing changes. You know how that story goes. And you can get a little codependent on your work.” “Pot, kettle.” A sigh. “I know, I know. But if you think about it, as stressful as your jobs have been sometimes, they’ve been comfortable. It’s not one hundred percent what you want, but it’s less scary than cutting ties and trying something new.” “What if that’s it? What if—what if I’m just too fucking scared?” I say it too loudly, realizing that there are tears in my eyes. “What


the Roxy apartment burst open. Bunny appeared, followed by Dale and his friend Peter. Marion walked out of the dining area and joined them in the lounge, still trying to shake off the truncated call with her sister. “Guess who surprised us,” said Bunny. But her smile didn’t reach her eyes; something was off. “I told the boys we’d have a quick sip of Roxy liquor with them before the next show.” “Is that a good idea?” asked Marion, unsure about the idea of drinking before dancing, as well as being caught dipping into the Roxy liquor cabinet, but Bunny had already gone to the bar and was pouring the drinks. “Bunny, let’s talk, okay?” Dale said. Bunny shook her head. “There’s nothing to say.” “Sure there is.” “You promised.” “I know, but—” He took her arm and cocked his head in the direction of the door that led out to a small balcony. “Come out here, let me explain.” They withdrew and closed the balcony door behind them. Peter stood in the middle of the room, drink in hand, looking about uncomfortably. Marion hadn’t expected to see Peter again, not after that strange dinner. But here he was. She should really go and get ready for the next show, but leaving him seemed rude. He gestured to one of the couches. “I guess we’ll have to make small talk until whatever is going on is settled.” She sat, and he did as well. She placed her drink on the coffee table, and he did also. It was like they were playing a game of Simon Says. “How’s the show going?” asked Peter. “Fine, thanks.” Peter leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “Look, to be honest, when Dale said we were going to stop by Radio City, I kind of hoped I’d see you again.” She plastered a vague smile on her face and braced herself for what was coming next. He’d want to take her to dinner, just the two of them, most likely. While it was true that she and Nathaniel were going through a rough patch, she certainly wasn’t interested in going on a date with anyone else. “I wanted to apologize for the way I acted at the restaurant a few weeks ago,” said Peter finally. “For analyzing you without your consent. That was wrong of me.” She hadn’t expected an apology. Peter was looking at her strangely, and it took her a moment to figure out what was different about his gaze. Men tended to have three ways of reacting to Marion: In most cases, they stammered and made terrible jokes in an effort to impress. Others became cold and dismissive, as if they figured they could win her over by taking the opposite tack and throwing her off-balance. Finally, there was a minority of men with inflated egos who had been unexpectedly spurned at one time. They were the most dangerous to interact with, as they tended to be domineering and resentful. Peter wasn’t in the first category. He wasn’t affected by her beauty,


the rest. I don’t speak, so he does. “You’re not that same girl anymore,” he says, and I nod, thinking about the year in my twenties when I was frightfully like my mother. When I was drinking way too much to ease the pressure of getting into law school and making excuses to myself as to why the pills I was supposed to take for studying were now getting me through the entire day. The scary part was, it happened so slowly I hardly noticed it. Drinking a few nights a week as an undergrad while out with my friends turned into drinking too much every night, often alone, and hiding it from Huff. The Adderall I had gotten only for “study emergencies”—which I didn’t actually need—became a many-times-a-day thing. Huff lived that with me. He wouldn’t have let it break us. But I did. “I haven’t been that girl for a long time,” I say. “I swear, Huff, after I got clean that first time, I haven’t touched anything. I won’t. Not ever again. I hated that version of myself. I hated feeling like I was destined to repeat my mother’s mistakes.” Even as I say it, a twinge of fear pings me. But I push it away. “You are not your mother, Daph.” Huff used to remind me of that. When I went through my rough patch, I was at an age where reckless behavior was commonplace; it was easy to lie to myself about my vices. My everyone is doing it mentality pushed me over the edge. It kept me there longer than I’d like to admit. “I know I’m not my mom. But I want you to know that I’m not.” He smiles and kisses me. “I know I wasn’t there during your recovery, but Daph, I can’t tell you how much I wanted to be. I’ve kept up with you through Mom and Lanier for all this time, and I’m so proud of you. I always was.” He pauses and takes a breath, as if weighing something. “I don’t want to scare you away, but I have to say this: I have never stopped loving you for one day. Not then. Not now. I know it might be too soon to say it, but I was all in then, Daphne. I still am.” I’m smiling so big I feel like my face might break in two. “I never stopped loving you either, Huff. Not for a millisecond. But—” I bite my lip. “What about Lanier?” “She was worried about you back then,” he says. “She was worried about us being together because of your…” He trails off. “Troubles.” That was a very delicate way to put it. “But what if it wasn’t that? What if she just didn’t want us together, plain and simple? What if she still feels the same way?” “I think we just lay it out on the table. We’re grown-ups. We want to be together for real.” He raises his eyebrow. “Right?” I don’t answer. I say, “What about Henry?” Huff gasps. “You


you will dance with me." "Me!--oh! no--I would get you a better partner than myself. I am no dancer." "If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance," said he, "I shall have great pleasure, I am sure--for, though beginning to feel myself rather an old married man, and that my dancing days are over, it would give me very great pleasure at any time to stand up with an old friend like Mrs. Gilbert." "Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a young lady disengaged whom I should be very glad to see dancing--Miss Smith." "Miss Smith!--oh!--I had not observed.--You are extremely obliging-- and if I were not an old married man.--But my dancing days are over, Mrs. Weston. You will excuse me. Any thing else I should be most happy to do, at your command--but my dancing days are over." Mrs. Weston said no more; and Emma could imagine with what surprize and mortification she must be returning to her seat. This was Mr. Elton! the amiable, obliging, gentle Mr. Elton.-- She looked round for a moment; he had joined Mr. Knightley at a little distance, and was arranging himself for settled conversation, while smiles of high glee passed between him and his wife. She would not look again. Her heart was in a glow, and she feared her face might be as hot. In another moment a happier sight caught her;--Mr. Knightley leading Harriet to the set!--Never had she been more surprized, seldom more delighted, than at that instant. She was all pleasure and gratitude, both for Harriet and herself, and longed to be thanking him; and though too distant for speech, her countenance said much, as soon as she could catch his eye again. His dancing proved to be just what she had believed it, extremely good; and Harriet would have seemed almost too lucky, if it had not been for the cruel state of things before, and for the very complete enjoyment and very high sense of the distinction which her happy features announced. It was not thrown away on her, she bounded higher than ever, flew farther down the middle, and was in a continual course of smiles. Mr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking (Emma trusted) very foolish. She did not think he was quite so hardened as his wife, though growing very like her;--she spoke some of her feelings, by observing audibly to her partner, "Knightley has taken pity on poor little Miss Smith!--Very goodnatured, I declare." Supper was announced. The move began; and Miss Bates might be heard from that moment, without interruption, till her being seated at table and taking up her spoon. "Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you?--Here is your tippet. Mrs. Weston begs you to put on your tippet. She says she is afraid there will be draughts in the passage, though every thing has been done--One door nailed up--Quantities of matting--My dear Jane, indeed you must. Mr. Churchill, oh! you are too obliging! How well you put it on!--so gratified! Excellent dancing indeed!-- Yes, my dear,


back on the mattress with his hands behind his head and looked infuriatingly pleased with himself. "Ford," insisted Arthur, "I don't know if this sounds like a silly question, but what am I doing here?" "Well you know that," said Ford. "I rescued you from the Earth." "And what's happened to the Earth?" "Ah. It's been demolished." "Has it," said Arthur levelly. "Yes. It just boiled away into space." "Look," said Arthur, "I'm a bit upset about that." Ford frowned to himself and seemed to roll the thought around his mind. "Yes, I can understand that," he said at last. "Understand that!" shouted Arthur. "Understand that!" Ford sprang up. "Keep looking at the book!" he hissed urgently. "What?" "Don't Panic." "I'm not panicking!" "Yes you are." "Alright so I'm panicking, what else is there to do?" "You just come along with me and have a good time. The Galaxy's a fun place. You'll need to have this fish in your ear." "I beg your pardon?" asked Arthur, rather politely he thought. Ford was holding up a small glass jar which quite clearly had a small yellow fish wriggling around in it. Arthur blinked at him. He wished there was something simple and recognizable he could grasp hold of. He would have felt safe if alongside the Dentrassi underwear, the piles of Squornshellous mattresses and the man from Betelgeuse holding up a small yellow fish and offering to put it in his ear he had been able to see just a small packet of corn flakes. He couldn't, and he didn't feel safe. Suddenly a violent noise leapt at them from no source that he could identify. He gasped in terror at what sounded like a man trying to gargle whilst fighting off a pack of wolves. "Shush!" said Ford. "Listen, it might be important." "Im ... important?" "It's the Vogon captain making an announcement on the T'annoy." "You mean that's how the Vogons talk?" "Listen!" "But I can't speak Vogon!" "You don't need to. Just put that fish in your ear." Ford, with a lightning movement, clapped his hand to Arthur's ear, and he had the sudden sickening sensation of the fish slithering deep into his aural tract. Gasping with horror he scrabbled at his ear for a second or so, but then slowly turned goggle-eyed with wonder. He was experiencing the aural equivalent of looking at a picture of two black silhouetted faces and suddenly seeing it as a picture of a white candlestick. Or of looking at a lot of coloured dots on a piece of paper which suddenly resolve themselves into the figure six and mean that your optician is going to charge you a lot of money for a new pair of glasses. He was still listening to the howling gargles, he knew that, only now it had taken on the semblance of perfectly straightforward English. This is what he heard ... ================================================================= Chapter 6 "Howl howl gargle howl gargle howl howl howl gargle howl gargle howl howl gargle gargle howl gargle gargle gargle howl slurrp uuuurgh should


for our program. Bitch. Emmy could have at least mustered the courage to say that to my face. It’s probably ill-advised, but I write back to the program coordinator, Thanks for telling me. Do you know if Emmy has any feedback for my mentorship style, so I can take that into account in the future? What I really want to know is if Emmy’s going around bad-mouthing me. I don’t expect a response, but the reply lands in my email later that night: Emmy simply feels that you have very different perceptions of how the industry works. She also requests that you do not contact her, directly or indirectly, any further. ON FRIDAY I DRAG MYSELF OUT OF BED AND MAKE MYSELF PRESENTABLE for a videoconference with my team at Eden. I finally picked up one of Brett’s calls the night before, after Rory texted me asking if I was alive: Your agent just emailed me. He said you weren’t responding, and he was worried about you. What’s going on? Is everything okay? “Daniella wants to talk to you ASAP,” Brett told me when I called him back. He sounded tired. He didn’t even ask me if the allegations were true. “We’ve scheduled a Zoom meeting for tomorrow at two.” Brett’s on the line with me now. All the Eden people are on the same screen, sitting together around a conference table: Daniella, Jessica, and Emily, and a red-haired man I don’t recognize. No one is smiling. No one waves hello when I join the call. “Hello, June.” Daniella’s voice is cool and low, which is how I know she’s pissed. “I’m here with Jessica and Emily, and Todd Byrne from legal.” “I’m here as well,” says Brett, ineffectually. “Hi, Todd,” I say weakly. No one told me I was getting a lawyer. Todd merely nods at me. I realize then that Todd isn’t here for me, he’s here for them. “Where’s Candice?” I ask, trying to get my bearings through small talk. “Oh, Candice isn’t here anymore,” says Daniella. “She left a while ago.” “Oh.” I wait, but Daniella doesn’t elaborate. I try not to overthink it. Editorial assistants come and go all the time. They’re underpaid entry-level employees in the most expensive city in the world—ill-treated, overlooked, and overworked with minimal opportunities for advancement. It takes inhuman drive to hack it in publishing. Probably Candice just couldn’t take it. “That’s too bad.” “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” Daniella clears her throat. “June, if there’s anything we need to know, you need to tell us right now.” My nose prickles. To my horror, I realize I’m already close to tears. “I didn’t do it,” I say. “I swear to God. It’s not plagiarized, it’s all my own work, especially Mother Witch—” “Especially?” Todd cuts in. “What does that mean?” “I mean, The Last Front was inspired by conversations with Athena,” I say quickly. “But she’s dead now, obviously, and I didn’t have her to talk to while I was drafting Mother Witch, so the writing style doesn’t resemble hers


which she had so naturally started to herself. In that case, nothing could be more pitiable or more honourable than the sacrifices she had resolved on. Emma was very willing now to acquit her of having seduced Mr. Dixon's actions from his wife, or of any thing mischievous which her imagination had suggested at first. If it were love, it might be simple, single, successless love on her side alone. She might have been unconsciously sucking in the sad poison, while a sharer of his conversation with her friend; and from the best, the purest of motives, might now be denying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to divide herself effectually from him and his connexions by soon beginning her career of laborious duty. Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings, as made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury afforded no young man worthy of giving her independence; nobody that she could wish to scheme about for her. These were charming feelings--but not lasting. Before she had committed herself by any public profession of eternal friendship for Jane Fairfax, or done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and errors, than saying to Mr. Knightley, "She certainly is handsome; she is better than handsome!" Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with her grandmother and aunt, and every thing was relapsing much into its usual state. Former provocations reappeared. The aunt was as tiresome as ever; more tiresome, because anxiety for her health was now added to admiration of her powers; and they had to listen to the description of exactly how little bread and butter she ate for breakfast, and how small a slice of mutton for dinner, as well as to see exhibitions of new caps and new workbags for her mother and herself; and Jane's offences rose again. They had music; Emma was obliged to play; and the thanks and praise which necessarily followed appeared to her an affectation of candour, an air of greatness, meaning only to shew off in higher style her own very superior performance. She was, besides, which was the worst of all, so cold, so cautious! There was no getting at her real opinion. Wrapt up in a cloak of politeness, she seemed determined to hazard nothing. She was disgustingly, was suspiciously reserved. If any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved on the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing. She seemed bent on giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon's character, or her own value for his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It was all general approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or distinguished. It did her no service however. Her caution was thrown away. Emma saw its artifice, and returned to her first surmises. There probably was something more to conceal than her own preference; Mr. Dixon, perhaps, had been very near changing one friend for the other, or been fixed only to Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve


cliffs, which, bright with the verdure of palm-trees, adorn, like gems, the tremendous walls of the rocks, and which overlooked the greater part of Gascony, and part of Languedoc. Here was shade, and the fresh water of a spring, that, gliding among the turf, under the trees, thence precipitated itself from rock to rock, till its dashing murmurs were lost in the abyss, though its white foam was long seen amid the darkness of the pines below. This was a spot well suited for rest, and the travellers alighted to dine, while the mules were unharnessed to browse on the savoury herbs that enriched this summit. It was some time before St. Aubert or Emily could withdraw their attention from the surrounding objects, so as to partake of their little repast. Seated in the shade of the palms, St. Aubert pointed out to her observation the course of the rivers, the situation of great towns, and the boundaries of provinces, which science, rather than the eye, enabled him to describe. Notwithstanding this occupation, when he had talked awhile he suddenly became silent, thoughtful, and tears often swelled to his eyes, which Emily observed, and the sympathy of her own heart told her their cause. The scene before them bore some resemblance, though it was on a much grander scale, to a favourite one of the late Madame St. Aubert, within view of the fishing-house. They both observed this, and thought how delighted she would have been with the present landscape, while they knew that her eyes must never, never more open upon this world. St. Aubert remembered the last time of his visiting that spot in company with her, and also the mournfully presaging thoughts which had then arisen in his mind, and were now, even thus soon, realized! The recollections subdued him, and he abruptly rose from his seat, and walked away to where no eye could observe his grief. When he returned, his countenance had recovered its usual serenity; he took Emily's hand, pressed it affectionately, without speaking, and soon after called to the muleteer, who sat at a little distance, concerning a road among the mountains towards Rousillon. Michael said, there were several that way, but he did not know how far they extended, or even whether they were passable; and St. Aubert, who did not intend to travel after sun-set, asked what village they could reach about that time. The muleteer calculated that they could easily reach Mateau, which was in their present road; but that, if they took a road that sloped more to the south, towards Rousillon, there was a hamlet, which he thought they could gain before the evening shut in. St. Aubert, after some hesitation, determined to take the latter course, and Michael, having finished his meal, and harnessed his mules, again set forward, but soon stopped; and St. Aubert saw him doing homage to a cross, that stood on a rock impending over their way. Having concluded his devotions, he smacked his whip in the air, and, in spite of the rough road,


the blind man, Pew. “There were no This appeal seemed to produce some effect, for two of the time ago—they had the door bolted when I tried it. Scatter, fellows began to look here and there among the lumber, but lads, and find ‘em.” half-heartedly, I thought, and with half an eye to their own “Sure enough, they left their glim here,” said the fellow danger all the time, while the rest stood irresolute on the road. from the window. “You have your hands on thousands, you fools, and you “Scatter and find ‘em! Rout the house out!” reiterated hang a leg! You’d be as rich as kings if you could find it, and Pew, striking with his stick upon the road. you know it’s here, and you stand there skulking. There wasn’t Then there followed a great to-do through all our old inn, one of you dared face Bill, and I did it—a blind man! And heavy feet pounding to and fro, furniture thrown over, doors I’m to lose my chance for you! I’m to be a poor, crawling kicked in, until the very rocks re-echoed and the men came beggar, sponging for rum, when I might be rolling in a coach! out again, one after another, on the road and declared that we If you had the pluck of a weevil in a biscuit you would catch were nowhere to be found. And just the same whistle that them still.” had alarmed my mother and myself over the dead captain’s “Hang it, Pew, we’ve got the doubloons!” grumbled one. money was once more clearly audible through the night, but “They might have hid the blessed thing,” said another. this time twice repeated. I had thought it to be the blind “Take the Georges, Pew, and don’t stand here squalling.” man’s trumpet, so to speak, summoning his crew to the as- Squalling was the word for it; Pew’s anger rose so high at sault, but I now found that it was a signal from the hillside these objections till at last, his passion completely taking the Contents towards the hamlet, and from its effect upon the buccaneers, upper hand, he struck at them right and left in his blindness a signal to warn them of approaching danger. and his stick sounded heavily on more than one. Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 42 43 These, in their turn, cursed back at the blind miscreant, with a cry that rang high into the night; and the four hoofs threatened him in horrid terms, and tried in vain to catch the trampled and spurned him and passed by. He fell on his side, stick and wrest it from his grasp. then gently collapsed upon his face and moved no more. This quarrel was the saving of us, for while it was still I leaped to my feet and hailed the riders. They were pull- raging, another sound came from the top of the hill on the ing up, at any rate, horrified at the accident; and I soon saw side of the hamlet—the tramp


screen, causing it to fold back up. Once done, he moved that one too. “How far are we from Heaven?” Vic asked, looking back at Nurse Ratched. Her screen filled with another map. Multiple squares appeared, which Vic knew meant buildings. A line ran from one square—the warehouse—and turned right, then left, then right once more before it ended at another square. “Approximately a mile. The Coachman provided me the best route in order to get to Heaven and stay out of sight. If he is correct and we do not run into any issues, we should arrive in twenty-six minutes. According to the Coachman, the Authority increases their patrols after dark. While night will provide us additional cover, the risk will be greater.” “Suggestion?” Vic asked. “We move now. Heaven is located in the lower quarters of the city. Per the Coachman, the lower quarters are not as well kept as the rest of the city. We will fit in so long as we do not draw attention to ourselves.” She turned toward Rambo. “Which means that you cannot roll off if you see another vacuum.” “But—” “We will leave you behind.” “You would?” Rambo said. “Fine. I promise I won’t roll off if I see one of my relatives because you guys don’t care about my feelings.” “That is correct,” Nurse Ratched said. “Hey!” Hap stood next to Vic as he studied the map on Nurse Ratched’s screen. “S-seems easy enough.” “It does,” Nurse Ratched said. “Which is why we need to be careful. We are close to our goal. It would be a shame if we were caught now.” “We can do this,” Vic said, looking toward what he thought was the front of the warehouse, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “What are the rules?” “Stick together!” Rambo said. “Run if we have to.” “No dallying!” “No drilling, though I will amend that proclamation should the need arise.” “And a-above all else, b-be brave,” Hap said. They all turned slowly to look at him. He scowled. “What? That’s what you s-say.” “Wow,” Rambo whispered fervently. “One of us! One of us!” Hap rolled his eyes. “Shut up. I am n-not.” He turned to head toward the door, but Vic stopped him by grabbing his arm. He looked down at Vic’s hand, then up at his face, asking a question without speaking. Vic let his arm go, reaching up and pulling his hood back over his head. “One of us.” Hap looked like he was about to argue but shook his head instead. Then he adjusted Vic’s helmet until it was no longer crooked. “There are w-worse th-things I c-can be.” Vic grinned at him. It felt odd to be smiling at such a time, but he couldn’t stop it if he’d tried. And wonder of all wonders, Hap smiled back. It was small, the edges twitching, but there. “Oh boy,” Nurse Ratched said. “If I had known all it would take would be to lock the two of you in a small enclosed space, I would


be and you will go after them to destroy them in order to protect yourself and the people you love. You won't wait to argue about it. You know what they look like now and what they can do to people. You may be a bit more choosy about the jobs you take on. You may want to be certain that the target really is black, but there are plenty of really black targets around. There's still plenty for you to do. And you'll do it. And when you fall in love and have a mistress or a wife and children to look after, it will seem all the easier.' Mathis opened the door and stopped on the threshold. 'Surround yourself with human beings, my dear James. They are easier to fight for than principles.' He laughed. 'But don't let me down and become human, yourself. We would lose such a wonderful machine.' With a wave of the hand he shut the door. 'Hey,' shouted Bond. But the footsteps went quickly off down the passage. CHAPTER 21 - VESPER It was on the next day that Bond asked to see Vesper. He had not wanted to see her before. He was told that every day she came to the nursing home and asked after him. Flowers had arrived from her. Bond didn't like flowers and he told the nurse to give them to another patient. After this had happened twice, no more flowers came. Bond had not meant to offend her. He disliked having feminine things around him. Flowers seemed to ask for recognition of the person who had sent them, to be constantly transmitting a message of sympathy and affection. Bond found this irksome. He disliked being cosseted. It gave him claustrophobia. Bond was bored at the idea of having to explain some of this to Vesper. And he was embarrassed at having to ask one or two questions which mystified him, questions about Vesper's behaviour. The answers would almost certainly make her out to be a fool. Then he had his full report to M to think about. In this he didn't want to have to criticize Vesper. It might easily cost her her job. But above all, he admitted to himself, he shirked the answer to a more painful question. The doctor had talked often to Bond about his injuries. He had always told him that there would be no evil effects from the terrible battering his body had received. He had said that Bond's full health would return and that none of his powers had been taken from him. But the evidence of Bond's eyes and his nerves refused these comforting assurances. He was still painfully swollen and bruised and whenever the injections wore off he was in agony. Above all, his imagination had suffered. For an hour in that room with Le Chiffre the certainty of impotence had been beaten into him and a scar had been left on his mind that could only be healed by experience. From that day when Bond first met Vesper in


Apostolic Church almanac. On its top half, four smiling faces orbited Apostle Joseph Ayọ̀ Babalọlá’s portrait, while below them, a calendar displayed dates in January, weeks after it should have been turned to February. “You are still young enough to leave this man and marry a better one. Even if you squeeze your face as if you are squeezing an orange, Abọ́sẹ̀dé, I must still tell you the truth.” “Abọ́sẹ̀dé” again. Anger was stinging its way up her throat, sharp and acrid. She took a sip of water to push it down. Why had she hoped that apologising would stop him from undermining her marriage yet again? “Let’s say Bàbá Ẹniọlá is even as lazy as you say, can’t I make something of myself? Why must the solution to my problems be another marriage? Shouldn’t I be able to take care of my children by myself? Am I not the one who brought them into this world?” “Two people had those children. Why should you shoulder the responsibility alone when he’s alive and well? Why? When there are better men out there who can help you, Abọ́sẹ̀dé. If you don’t care about yourself, do it for your children.” “Why do you think I am here, Alàgbà? They are all I think about.” Her brother cocked his head. “I’m so sorry for shouting. I didn’t, I…I…” “It’s okay, it’s okay.” Alàgbà sighed. “You’ve been coping well with the children’s welfare?” “I came to discuss their school fees with you.” “I knew it.” “That’s not the only reason why I came here.” He rested his chin on a fist and stared at her. “It’s why I came, but it’s not why I apologised. I swear I’ve wanted to do that long before now, I just…I swear on my mother’s gravestone.” “Leave our mother’s grave out of this. Let her rest in peace, please.” “I meant…I don’t know how…” Close to tears, she stared at her clasped hands. The bitten-down fingernails and reddened nailbeds still startled her. A nail dangled off one thumb, chewed halfway through. Had she bitten that off after she got to her family compound or before? She’d developed this habit when she was still a student, always seeing the evidence after the fact but never remembering when she had raised her hands to her lips and attacked one finger after the other. A few years after she dropped out, her nails had grown out, long and sloping, more beautiful than any of the artificial ones that were becoming popular. She’d begun to coat them with polish when she got married. Reaching into a bag bulging with bottled colours and wonder became a pocket of joy and rest when the children arrived. She never let them watch; it was her time alone. Locked in the bathroom for the half hour it took to coat her nails, she did not worry about her husband’s shifting moods, or fret over Bùsọ́lá’s loose tooth or Ẹniọlá’s bruised knee. All that mattered for that quiet half hour was getting the layering right. Blue, green, gold and


his face in the juncture of her thighs like he was competing in a pie-eating contest. His groan held equal parts relief and lust. She could feel his five-o’clock shadow coarse against her softness, his breath hot. Fast. Anticipatory. “I swear, Natalie, when I’m not dreaming about your pussy, I’m daydreaming about it. I’ve gone down on you so many times, imaginary August has lock jaw. Now I finally get to see you up close. And my imagination? Apparently it sucks.” He dragged his tongue through her slit and pulled back slightly, licking his lips, shaking his head. “I haven’t been doing this pretty thing justice. That changes now.” He quickly worked the front buttons of his shirt and tossed the garment away, followed by the no-nonsense stripping of his tight, white undershirt, the rigid flex of hard-earned muscle causing her fists to yank the sheets, her high heels to dig into the mattress. “Oh,” she said, sounding dazed. “I forgot to take off my shoes—” August pushed her thighs open and dropped down onto his front, one big knee digging into the bed and pushing forward. His open mouth met her flesh and he suctioned it, the entire thing, moaning, before delving his tongue between her folds again, raking it from entrance to apex, where his lavish attention made her eyes cross. His tongue stroked her clit like it was his long-lost love. Not hurried, just thorough. So thorough. Damn. Damn. In the space of a minute, the whole situation went from cautious optimism to imminent blastoff. She was on a roller coaster, cranking vertically to the highest point of the ride. Preparing to take the plunge. Her stomach turned weightless and a ticklish throb began way down deep, back where she’d never felt it before. This wasn’t going to be like one of her self-inflicted orgasms. It was going to build and build and bury her, wasn’t it? Oh God, oh God. “August, please,” she whimpered, her fingertips flying from the comforter to his hair, wrapping around the short strands, holding him in place even though he clearly had no intention of vacating the premises. “K-keep doing that. Do it. Do it. That.” He nodded, squeezing her thigh. Why was that intimate reassurance so sexy? Right there. I can’t believe I’m this wet. And he was living for it, using her readiness to his advantage. He pumped two huge fingers inside of her while flicking his tongue against her clit. Oh. Mama. Was he serious? “Babe, please,” she panted, no idea who she was calling babe. But saying it again, anyway, in the next breath, because what else to call a man making her feel this good? Her whole body was surface-of-the-sun level hot. Knees shaking. Throat strained like she’d just left a Harry Styles concert. Had she been screaming? Was she screaming now? “Harder, babe. Please. Okay?” What was she asking for? No idea. But he gave it to her, almost completely pulling out his fingers, then thrusting them deep and holding them there while his licks turned rougher.


you, I’m feeling wild, sexy sex sex, but just for tonight because tomorrow we’re saying goodbye.” Tonight? Lovers. :) Tomorrow? FRIENDS. :( It’s so funny and honest and literally the way dirtbag men are in real life, which is as rare a thing to find in a pop song as it is when some dude is unbuckling his belt on your couch. He will have his tongue buried in your asshole up to your fucking pancreas saying, “We’re just friends, right?” He’ll be flipping you on the mattress like a pancake and pause with you in midair like, “I don’t want to be tied down in a relationship, this is just for fun, okay?” It’s infuriating in practice but hilarious in song form, a man crooning about smoking you down and loving you up in his sweetest coo and then at the end being like…tonight only, though. * * * — If I made music this is the kind of music I would make. I don’t mean jam-band-y saxophone solo music, I mean sensitive songs full of howling and begging. In my singer-songwriter phase in my teens (I’m still in that phase, quit playing), I daydreamed I was gonna get a guitar, somehow develop the patience to learn how to play it, then travel around singing my little plaintive songs in smoky coffeehouses as people sitting cross-legged on dusty fake Persian rugs wept into their cappuccinos, even though I had no idea what a cappuccino even was. I thought that I, a person who requires three different soaps in the shower and very specific bedsheets, was gonna stuff a backpack full of drugstore underwear and Salvation Army jeans into whatever kind of terrible used car I could afford and drive around the country playing open mics and sleeping, where, in a hostel? Little Miss Allergies and Bowel Disease is gonna survive on a road diet of gas station snacks and no prescriptions?! In what world?! 9. “The Space Between” most romantic lyric, to me: “Love is all we need, dear” Now, I do not believe in this; I believe we need shelter and clothing and shoes and a strong Wi-Fi hookup and an income stream and cell phones and a linen duvet cover and air-conditioning and a coffee machine we both know how to use and separate dressers and similar furniture preferences and a car with all-wheel drive and some cats and designated sides of the bed and a shared belief on how many refrigerated condiments is too many and good dish soap and decent towels and a gas grill and a tall sturdy couch and lamps and throw blankets for every season and books and subscriptions to smart magazines nobody ever reads and a snack cabinet and gel pillows and cookbooks and a drink fridge and green plants that require no care and never die and rakes and vacuum cleaners and hangers and noise-canceling headphones and a medicine cabinet and storage bins and dryer sheets and the occasional night out and charger cords and frying pans and flower vases and shoe


Finally, after what felt like hours, the ladies retreated to the drawing room and left the men to share a bit of port and talk freely, though Simon imagined the conversation would hardly change. Forester enjoyed the sound of his own voice a bit too much. As Forester lifted his glass to his mouth, Thatcher perked up as if eager to finally get a chance to make himself look good. “Calloway, m’boy, did you know—” “I nearly forgot!” Forester said loudly. “I haven’t told you about the woman I saved in Hyde Park last Thursday. You will not believe how mad the place was, and if I hadn’t been there . . .” Thatcher huffed in annoyance, but he seemed to recognize his defeat and dropped himself into a chair at the other end of the room, staring into his glass. Simon wrapped his arm around Forester’s shoulders and breathed a sigh of relief. “I owe you one,” he muttered, not loudly enough for Thatcher to hear. Forester chuckled. “It took only three words out of the man’s mouth before I pitied you for your unfortunate array of neighbors. Has he no shame?” “None. You didn’t really save someone in the park, did you?” “And risk becoming even more of a spectacle of Town? Of course not.” Simon frowned as he tried to make sense of that. “You make yourself a spectacle,” he pointed out. Forester shrugged. “I can control my own words, but there is little else I can control. I use what I have and hope it serves me well in dampening whatever else people might decide about me.” Here was some of the sincere Forester back, the part of the man Simon had first grown to love. “How long do you plan to stay, truly?” he asked quietly so as not to be overheard. “You are welcome as long as you’d like.” “I give you my thanks, old friend. Town was becoming rather suffocating, and I can’t bring myself to go back home now that my parents are both gone.” A sadness filled his expression, even though his parents had died many years ago, when he was still a schoolboy. Simon counted himself lucky. He still had his mother and sister, and now that William was nearly married . . . William. Forester would have to find out eventually, though Lucy wouldn’t like it. She had been quite adamant that no one but family know her as William’s fiancée until William woke, but Forester was like another brother to Simon. He couldn’t very well tell his friend that he had a random woman hiding upstairs like some scandalous secret. “By the way,” he said as the pair of them led the way into the drawing room a little while later, “William is engaged.” “What?” Forester’s question was loud enough that everyone looked in their direction, and Simon was tempted to smack the man. He had meant to break this news gently. “When?” Simon sighed. He and Forester took their places by the windows, letting the others return to their


bright and cloudless overhead, and the tops of Long John answered for himself. “Me, sir. These poor the trees shone rosily in the sun. But where Silver stood with lads have chosen me cap’n, after your desertion, sir”— laying his lieutenant, all was still in shadow, and they waded knee- a particular emphasis upon the word “desertion.” “We’re will- deep in a low white vapour that had crawled during the night ing to submit, if we can come to terms, and no bones about it. out of the morass. The chill and the vapour taken together All I ask is your word, Cap’n Smollett, to let me safe and sound out of this here stockade, and one minute to get out o’ Contents told a poor tale of the island. It was plainly a damp, feverish, unhealthy spot. shot before a gun is fired.” “Keep indoors, men,” said the captain. “Ten to one this is “My man,” said Captain Smollett, “I have not the slight- Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 160 161 est desire to talk to you. If you wish to talk to me, you can est style. He was tricked out in his best; an immense blue come, that’s all. If there’s any treachery, it’ll be on your side, coat, thick with brass buttons, hung as low as to his knees, and the Lord help you.” and a fine laced hat was set on the back of his head. “That’s enough, cap’n,” shouted Long John cheerily. “A “Here you are, my man,” said the captain, raising his head. word from you’s enough. I know a gentleman, and you may “You had better sit down.” lay to that.” “You ain’t a-going to let me inside, cap’n?” complained Long We could see the man who carried the flag of truce at- John. “It’s a main cold morning, to be sure, sir, to sit outside tempting to hold Silver back. Nor was that wonderful, seeing upon the sand.” how cavalier had been the captain’s answer. But Silver laughed “Why, Silver,” said the captain, “if you had pleased to be at him aloud and slapped him on the back as if the idea of an honest man, you might have been sitting in your galley. alarm had been absurd. Then he advanced to the stockade, It’s your own doing. You’re either my ship’s cook—and then threw over his crutch, got a leg up, and with great vigour and you were treated handsome—or Cap’n Silver, a common mu- skill succeeded in surmounting the fence and dropping safely tineer and pirate, and then you can go hang!” to the other side. “Well, well, cap’n,” returned the sea-cook, sitting down as I will confess that I was far too much taken up with what he was bidden on the sand, “you’ll have to give me a hand up was going on to be of the slightest use as sentry; indeed, I had again, that’s all. A sweet pretty place you have of it here. Ah, already deserted my eastern loophole and crept up behind there’s Jim! The


the dull yellow-gray of an overcooked yolk. She bought an iced coffee and Doritos, and set up about a half block away from the apartment. She wanted to see her mother, make sure she was okay. She had thought about just knocking on the door, but Mira would panic if she showed up unannounced. And how would Alex explain where she’d gotten the money to fly home? She still felt a pang when she saw her mother’s friend Andrea at the intercom. A minute later, Mira emerged in yoga pants and an oversized Tshirt emblazoned with an ornate hamsa, reusable shopping bags slung over her shoulder. They strode off together, arms and legs pumping in a power walk, and Alex followed for a while. She knew they were headed to the farmers’ market, where they’d buy bone broth or spirulina or organic alfalfa. Her mother looked happy and golden, her blond hair freshly highlighted, her soft arms tanned. She looked like a stranger. The Mira Alex knew lived in a constant state of worry for her angry, crazy daughter. This woman’s daughter went to Yale. She had a summer job. She texted photos of her roommates and new spring flowers and noodle bowls. Alex sat down on a bench at the edge of the park, and watched her mother and Andrea disappear into the white tents of the market. She felt breathless and teary and like she wanted to hit something. Mira had been a crap mother, too caught up in her own storms to be any kind of an anchor. For a while Alex had hated her, and some part of her still did. She hadn’t been born with her mother’s gift for forgiving or forgetting. She didn’t have Mira’s sunshine hair and soft blue eyes, her love for peace, her bookshelves lined with ways to be kinder, more empathetic, a gentler being in the world, a force for good. The awful truth was that if she could have stopped loving her mother, she would have. She would have let Eitan make his threats and stayed away forever. But she couldn’t shake the habit of loving Mira, and she couldn’t untangle the longing she felt for the mother she might have had from the desire to protect the one she did have. She called Eitan. He didn’t answer, but a minute later she received a text. Come after 10 tonight. I could come now. That felt safer than You said lunch, you manipulative asshole. The minutes ticked by. No answer. And there wouldn’t be one. The king did what the king liked. But if he wanted to kill her, he didn’t have a reason to wait for nightfall. That was almost reassuring. So what was this? Some kind of trap? An attempt to pump Alex for information on Len or his cousin’s death? Alex had to believe she could talk her way out of it. Eitan thought she was a junkie, a joke, and as long as he didn’t take her seriously, she was safe. Alex sat watching the market a