guilty. William Dane probably fixed it so Silas would draw the damning piece of paper. Silas feels sure he'll be cleared, although he's already disturbed by William's treachery. Then comes the shocking decision--the lots show that Silas is guilty. What could he have done to prove his innocence? What would you have done in his place? He is asked to leave the sect, to return the money, and to confess his guilt. He protests, explaining that William had the knife. But in the heat of emotion, he speaks against God, causing the brethren to side with William. Silas leaves with his faith in God as shattered as his faith in his fellow man. Silas' reaction is extreme, for his world has been turned upside down. He seems helpless and passive. He doesn't try to regain Sarah's confidence, he doesn't question the church's decision--he just buries himself in his familiar, repetitive work. As you might expect, Sarah soon marries William Dane. Silas leaves town so quietly that the brethren don't know about it until he's gone. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 2 Imagine setting foot on another planet, with a moonlit rocky landscape and a green sky. Imagine trying to talk to the natives--purple blobs of flesh that emit high-pitched whines. You might feel the way Silas Marner does when he arrives in Raveloe. Its landscape is unfamiliar--woods instead of rolling hills--and its people are slow-moving and prosperous, totally unlike the urban artisans he's lived among. Eliot stresses that this shock would have fallen especially hard on a simple mind like Silas'. His thoughts fly back longingly to Lantern-Yard, picturing the chapel and hearing the familiar service again. Though he has broken with its doctrines, he's still tied in his heart to the physical place, from years of association. This is natural, Eliot tells you--and she compares him to a child, responding instinctively to a parent's sheltering care. Already Eliot is foreshadowing the attachment to Eppie which will be his salvation. Eliot looks back in time, comparing Silas' faith to some ancient religion, ruled by local gods who co-existed easily with their neighbors' gods. In Eliot's own time, people debated endlessly over which religious group truly represented the universal God. Eliot, however, thought there should be room on Earth for many different religions. NOTE: LIGHT/DARK IMAGERY At the end of this second paragraph, light stands for knowledge and darkness stands for uncertainty. Right now Silas is frightened by life's mysteries--"the blackness of night." This image recurs at the end of the next paragraph, too, in his "dark" future. Yet in the paragraph after that, when he receives his first gold coins, their "brightness" seems simply to mean they're desirable. Eliot the psychologist reveals how young Silas Marner turns into that bent old man you saw earlier. First, he takes refuge in his work. Eliot compares him to a lower life form, a spider (insect imagery), especially apt because like a spider Silas weaves a web. Eliot says it's normal for any person to bury himself in work when life isn't going well. If you've


campus. I always imagined that was to protect Robbie. Or maybe Robbie asked him to.” Mike pointed at me. “That’s exactly it,” he said. “Scalzitti wanted to destroy the film. I was there in Lambeth and they had this blowup. Serenho was like, They’re gonna say Thalia was with us, and we’ll all get blamed. If we get the pictures developed they’ll see she wasn’t there. Scalzitti was still chickenshit so I literally walked him over to the darkroom to see that little—what was that guy’s name? Ritter? Otherwise I think he would’ve dumped the film in the creek.” I said, “There were the timestamps and everything. That was a lifesaver for Robbie.” “For all of us, probably.” “Right. Because no one who was there could’ve done it. Which—that wouldn’t have been obvious for a few days, right? It took a while for them to get the cause of death, and the time of death. You figure, at first it might’ve looked bad. These are the kids who were out drinking, and they were sneaking around campus, so who knows what else they did.” Mike looked confused, thick brows coming together. “I guess the point was she wasn’t with us.” “But it’s funny,” I said, “that Robbie took that risk.” “He knew he had nothing to hide. That makes it easier.” “I know from Sakina that you guys got to the mattresses in clusters,” I lied. “I mean, that only makes sense. You were probably slower than everyone else with your leg. But when they ask about it, you just—you simplify it, right? If you all walked there together, it gets the gist across better.” “Wait, is that what she said on the stand?” “I doubt it. I mean, if anything, they’re interested in when people left.” “Right.” He relaxed back in his chair. “I don’t know. In the days afterward, we kept checking with each other, making sure we had our story straight. Not like we were making it up, but just things like whose idea was it, how long were we there. Honestly, we decided together to say it was only drinking and cigarettes. There was definitely some pot, but that wasn’t in the photos, so why bring it up?” “Right,” I said. “Why would pot be relevant?” But he didn’t seem to catch my sarcasm. I refilled his glass, even though it wasn’t empty. I topped mine off just a millimeter. I’d barely drunk any. As I leaned back on the pillows, I stretched my arms overhead, a move I’d learned men took as egregious flirting even though I never meant it that way; I just had tight shoulders. But I lingered with my arms up, stretching to the right and the left. In the aftermath of my latest Yahav relapse, I’d had the unflattering realization that I had never once, in my life, gone after a man who was fully available. In my early twenties, I honed my skills on married men, men whose rejections and eventual departures it would be impossible to take personally. Even Jerome wasn’t


with a lifelong craving for junk food. She ordered the sliders and a Coke for the caffeine. “I wish I could eat like you,” Anselm said, patting what looked like a flat stomach. “Youth is wasted on the young. If I’d known what middle age would look like, I would have spent more time eating fried chicken and less time at the gym.” “You’re middle-aged?” “Well, I will be … What?” Alex realized she was staring. “Sorry, you just seem different, more relaxed.” “Is that surprising? Believe it or not, I don’t relish chastising undergraduates.” “Dawes is a Ph.D. candidate.” He cast her a glance. “I think you know what I mean.” Now that the new Praetor had been appointed, Anselm seemed like a different person, unburdened by the worries and obligations of Lethe. “I’m surprised you’re back in Connecticut,” she said. “I thought I’d have to come to New York.” “I’m usually in Connecticut once or twice a month for meetings. It’s why the board asked me to step in and oversee things at Lethe. And given what happened to Dean Beekman, I thought it couldn’t hurt to check in. He was a legend. I think everyone who knew him is pretty shaken.” “Did you know him?” He cocked his head to one side. “Is this why you wanted to have lunch? Does Centurion have you checking alibis?” “No,” Alex said, which was true. And there was no reason for her to suspect Anselm had anything to do with Marjorie Stephen or Dean Beekman. “I’m sorry. After everything that happened last year.” She shrugged. “Old habits.” “I get it. The people who were supposed to protect you didn’t really do the job, did they?” And they never had. But Alex didn’t want to think too much on that, not at this table with this stranger on a sunny afternoon. “I guess not.” “Lethe asks a lot of us, doesn’t it?” Alex nodded. She felt nervous and her palms were damp. Between her miserable nightmares, she’d lain awake last night, trying to think of the best approach for this. But Anselm had offered her an opening so she was going to take it. “It does,” she said. “You’ve seen my file.” “And now you’re rolling in clover.” “Something like that.” “Tell me about California.” “It’s like this, but the water is warmer and the people are better-looking.” Anselm laughed and Alex felt herself unwind a little. She’d been prepared for Anselm in authority mode, but this guy wasn’t all bad. He’d clearly had a couple of glasses of wine with lunch and he was enjoying being out of the office. She could work with this. “Who were you meeting?” she asked. “A few friends working out of Stamford. You know where the old AIG offices are?” “Not really.” “You’re not missing much. Anyway, they’re kind of black sheep in our business, but I like underdogs and they needed some advice.” “Hide the outcasts,” she murmured. Anselm laughed again. “That’s a pull.” So Anselm knew the Isaiah quote. But if he was somehow


are those who have no choice, because either they’re job slaves who have to work when it’s wet or they’re under some woman’s thumb, running errands that she won’t do unless the sun is shining and birds are singing, or they’re mental cases who sooner or later are going to drown like turkeys do, just standing in the rain with their mouths open. To Aleem’s way of thinking, when shit is falling out of the sky, the only right places to be are a pool hall, a backroom poker game, a casino with cocktail waitresses who have cleavage worth looking at when the cards aren’t, or in bed with a couple of fresh ladies. Bad things happen to people in bad weather. They slip and fall and end up in a wheelchair, or they take a hit of lightning, or they catch pneumonia and spend weeks coughing up blood or whatever people do when they have pneumonia, because Mother Nature is a mean bitch. Yet here he is out in the storm, slogging through mud, his shoes already ruined, everything he’s wearing destined for a dumpster. And why? Because fourteen years ago, Nina Dozier wanted him so bad that she tricked him into doing her until she could have his baby, and now she wants the boy for her own, as if she made the kid herself, just carved him out of wood and brought him to life like Pinocchio. Aleem is soaked, cold, miserable. He is so pissed at Nina that he’s lost all interest in doing her with Kuba; he just wants to kill her hard but slow, if they can get her someplace dry. He is so angry that he can’t imagine any development that would crank up his rage even further—which is when he and Kuba become human jukeboxes. His iPhone is safe and dry in a zippered inside pocket of his jacket when music explodes from it at a far greater volume than he has ever before heard the device produce. He is so startled that he stumbles and slips and nearly falls in the mud, and Kuba cries out as if a cold and ghostly hand has grabbed his scrotum. The music is so loud that the phone is vibrating in Aleem’s pocket and quickly growing warm. They’re stalking Nina, listening for any sound of her and the boy that might carry through the whistling wind and drumming rain, while she’s for sure listening for any sound they make, and if this is happening to him and Kuba, it’s probably also happening to their six homeys. He’s now furious, the way he gets when only blood will calm him, not just because some trickster techie is screwing with them, but because the music is, of all things, “Macarena,” by Los Del Río, freakin’ dance music, maybe the longest-running song ever on the charts, nothing hard and street about it, six steps down from the Bee Gees. It’s not bad enough that the music is announcing their position, but it’s also embarrassing. Aleem zippers open his jacket


it be that she did not care! She began to comprehend, also, that she was entirely contented sitting here by the side of this smiling giant eating delicious fruit in a sylvan paradise far within the remote depths of an African jungle--that she was contented and very happy. She could not understand it. Her reason told her that she should be torn by wild anxieties, weighted by dread fears, cast down by gloomy forebodings; but instead, her heart was singing and she was smiling into the answering face of the man beside her. When they had finished their breakfast Tarzan went to her bower and recovered his knife. The girl had entirely forgotten it. She realized that it was because she had forgotten the fear that prompted her to accept it. Motioning her to follow, Tarzan walked toward the trees at the edge of the arena, and taking her in one strong arm swung to the branches above. The girl knew that he was taking her back to her people, and she could not understand the sudden feeling of loneliness and sorrow which crept over her. For hours they swung slowly along. Tarzan of the Apes did not hurry. He tried to draw out the sweet pleasure of that journey with those dear arms about his neck as long as possible, and so he went far south of the direct route to the beach. Several times they halted for brief rests, which Tarzan did not need, and at noon they stopped for an hour at a little brook, where they quenched their thirst, and ate. So it was nearly sunset when they came to the clearing, and Tarzan, dropping to the ground beside a great tree, parted the tall jungle grass and pointed out the little cabin to her. She took him by the hand to lead him to it, that she might tell her father that this man had saved her from death and worse than death, that he had watched over her as carefully as a mother might have done. But again the timidity of the wild thing in the face of human habitation swept over Tarzan of the Apes. He drew back, shaking his head. The girl came close to him, looking up with pleading eyes. Somehow she could not bear the thought of his going back into the terrible jungle alone. Still he shook his head, and finally he drew her to him very gently and stooped to kiss her, but first he looked into her eyes and waited to learn if she were pleased, or if she would repulse him. Just an instant the girl hesitated, and then she realized the truth, and throwing her arms about his neck she drew his face to hers and kissed him--unashamed. Chapter 20 115 "I love you--I love you," she murmured. From far in the distance came the faint sound of many guns. Tarzan and Jane raised their heads. From the cabin came Mr. Philander and Esmeralda. From where Tarzan and the girl stood they could not see the two


table. "Let us go down to the theatre. When you see Sibyl you will have a new ideal of life. She will represent something to you that you have never known." "I have known everything," said Lord Henry, with a sad look in his eyes, "but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid that there is no such thing, for me at any rate. Still, your wonderful girl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more real than life. Let us go. Dorian, you will come with me.--I am so sorry, Basil, but there is only room for two in the brougham. You must follow us in a hansom." They got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing. Hallward was silent and preoccupied. There was a gloom over him. He could not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better than many other things that might have happened. After a few moments, they all passed down-stairs. He drove off by himself, as had been arranged, and watched the flashing lights of the little brougham in front of him. A strange sense of loss came over him. [36] He felt that Dorian Gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the past. His eyes darkened, and the crowded flaring streets became blurred to him. When the cab drew up at the doors of the theatre, it seemed to him that he had grown years older. CHAPTER V [...36] For some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat Jew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with an oily, tremulous smile. He escorted them to their box with a sort of pompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands, and talking at the top of his voice. Dorian Gray loathed him more than ever. He felt as if he had come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban. Lord Henry, upon the other hand, rather liked him. At least he declared he did, and insisted on shaking him by the hand, and assured him that he was proud to meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over Shakespeare. Hallward amused himself with watching the faces in the pit. The heat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlight flamed like a monstrous dahlia with petals of fire. The youths in the gallery had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them over the side. They talked to each other across the theatre, and shared their oranges with the tawdry painted girls who sat by them. Some women were laughing in the pit; their voices were horribly shrill and discordant. The sound of the popping of corks came from the bar. "What a place to find one's divinity in!" said Lord Henry. "Yes!" answered Dorian Gray. "It was here I found her, and she is divine beyond all living things. When she acts you will forget everything. These


son who seemed around twenty or so. “Ah ain’t seen yo’ others.” “Ah reckon you ain’t ’cause dey all passed on befo’ dis one wuz born. We ain’t had no luck atall wid our chillun. We lucky to raise him. He’s de last stroke of exhausted nature.” He gave his powerless laugh again and Tea Cake and the boy joined in with him. Then Tea Cake walked on off and went home to Janie. “Her husband can’t do nothin’ wid dat butt-headed woman. All you can do is treat her cold whenever she come round here.” Janie tried that, but short of telling Mrs. Turner bluntly, there was nothing she could do to discourage her completely. She felt honored by Janie’s acquaintance and she quickly for- gave and forgot snubs in order to keep it. Anyone who looked more white folkish than herself was better than she was in her criteria, therefore it was right that they should be cruel to her 170 Zora Neale Hurston at times, just as she was cruel to those more negroid than her- self in direct ratio to their negroness. Like the pecking-order in a chicken yard. Insensate cruelty to those you can whip, and groveling submission to those you can’t. Once having set up her idols and built altars to them it was inevitable that she would worship there. It was inevitable that she should accept any inconsistency and cruelty from her deity as all good wor- shippers do from theirs. All gods who receive homage are cruel. All gods dispense suffering without reason. Otherwise they would not be worshipped. Through indiscriminate suf- fering men know fear and fear is the most divine emotion. It is the stones for altars and the beginning of wisdom. Half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers. Real gods require blood. Mrs. Turner, like all other believers had built an altar to the unattainable—Caucasian characteristics for all. Her god would smite her, would hurl her from pinnacles and lose her in deserts, but she would not forsake his altars. Behind her crude words was a belief that somehow she and others through worship could attain her paradise—a heaven of straighthaired, thin-lipped, high-nose boned white seraphs. The physical impossibilities in no way injured faith. That was the mystery and mysteries are the chores of gods. Beyond her faith was a fanaticism to defend the altars of her god. It was distressing to emerge from her inner temple and find these black desecrators howling with laughter before the door. Oh, for an army, terrible with banners and swords! So she didn’t cling to Janie Woods the woman. She paid homage to Janie’s Caucasian characteristics as such. And when she was with Janie she had a feeling of transmutation, Their Eyes Were Watching God 171 as if she herself had become whiter and with straighter hair and she hated Tea Cake first for his defilement of divinity and next for his telling mockery of her. If she only knew some- thing she could do about it! But she didn’t. Once she was


Terkoz to be his wife; but Tarzan of the Apes took her away from Terkoz and killed him before he could harm her. None in all the jungle may face Tarzan of the Apes in battle, and live. I am Tarzan of the Apes--mighty fighter. D'Arnot wrote: I am glad she is safe. It pains me to write, I will rest a while. And then Tarzan: Yes, rest. When you are well I shall take you back to your people. For many days D'Arnot lay upon his bed of soft ferns. The second day a fever had come and D'Arnot thought that it meant infection and he knew that he would die. An idea came to him. He wondered why he had not thought of it before. He called Tarzan and indicated by signs that he would write, and when Tarzan had fetched the bark and Chapter 23 129 pencil, D'Arnot wrote: Can you go to my people and lead them here? I will write a message that you may take to them, and they will follow you. Tarzan shook his head and taking the bark, wrote: I had thought of that--the first day; but I dared not. The great apes come often to this spot, and if they found you here, wounded and alone, they would kill you. D'Arnot turned on his side and closed his eyes. He did not wish to die; but he felt that he was going, for the fever was mounting higher and higher. That night he lost consciousness. For three days he was in delirium, and Tarzan sat beside him and bathed his head and hands and washed his wounds. On the fourth day the fever broke as suddenly as it had come, but it left D'Arnot a shadow of his former self, and very weak. Tarzan had to lift him that he might drink from the gourd. The fever had not been the result of infection, as D'Arnot had thought, but one of those that commonly attack whites in the jungles of Africa, and either kill or leave them as suddenly as D'Arnot's had left him. Two days later, D'Arnot was tottering about the amphitheater, Tarzan's strong arm about him to keep him from falling. They sat beneath the shade of a great tree, and Tarzan found some smooth bark that they might converse. D'Arnot wrote the first message: What can I do to repay you for all that you have done for me? And Tarzan, in reply: Teach me to speak the language of men. And so D'Arnot commenced at once, pointing out familiar objects and repeating their names in French, for he thought that it would be easier to teach this man his own language, since he understood it himself best of all. It meant nothing to Tarzan, of course, for he could not tell one language from another, so when he pointed to the word man which he had printed upon a piece of bark he learned from D'Arnot that it was pronounced HOMME, and in the same way he was taught


with the stakes in the absence of a main character. The last forty pages read more like a history paper than a gripping wartime narrative. They feel out of place, like a senior term paper attached haphazardly to the end. Athena did always have such a didactic streak. Daniella wants me to cut it altogether. Let’s end the novel with A Geng on the boat heading home, she suggests. It’s a strong final image, and it carries the momentum of the previous burial scene. The rest can go in an afterword, perhaps, or a personal essay we can put out in an outlet closer to publication. Or perhaps as additional material in the paperback, for book clubs? I think that’s brilliant. I make the cut. And then, just to add some flair, I include a short epilogue after the A Geng scene consisting of one line from a letter one of the laborers later wrote Kaiser Wilhelm II in 1918 pleading for world peace: I am convinced that it is the will of Heaven that all mankind should live as one family. This is brilliant, Daniella writes in response to my turnaround. You are so wonderfully easy to work with. Most authors are pickier about killing their darlings. This makes me beam. I want my editor to like me. I want her to think I’m easy to work with, that I’m not a stubborn diva, that I’m capable of making any changes she asks for. It’ll make her more likely to sign me on for future projects. It’s not all about pandering to authority. I do think we’ve made the book better, more accessible, more streamlined. The original draft made you feel dumb, alienated at times, and frustrated with the self-righteousness of it all. It stank of all the most annoying things about Athena. The new version is a universally relatable story, a story that anyone can see themselves in. The whole process takes three editorial rounds over four months. By the end, I’ve become so familiar with the project that I can’t tell where Athena ends and I begin, or which words belong to whom. I’ve done the research. I’ve read a dozen books now on Asian racial politics and the history of Chinese labor at the front. I’ve lingered over every word, every sentence, and every paragraph so many times that I nearly know them by heart—hell, I’ve probably been over this novel more times than Athena herself. What this whole experience teaches me is that I can write. Some of Daniella’s favorite passages are the ones original to me. There’s one part, for instance, where a poor French family wrongly accuses a group of Chinese laborers of stealing a hundred francs from their house. The laborers, determined to make a good impression of their race and nation, collect two hundred francs among them and gift it to the family even though it’s clear they are innocent. Athena’s draft only made a brief mention of the wrongful accusation, but my version turns it into a heartwarming illustration of Chinese virtue


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23.

| ess ME, MARKO HAD A SWEET TOOTH. Like me, he particularly loved

puddings. (He always called them “puds.”’) So I got the idea of spiking

his pudding with Tabasco sauce.

At first he’d howl. But then he’d realize it was a trick, and laugh. Oh,

how he’d laugh! Then he’d realize it was me. And laugh louder!

I couldn’t wait.

The next night, as everyone tucked into their dinner, I tiptoed out of the

meal tent. I went down the footpath, fifty meters, into the kitchen tent, and

poured a whole teacup of Tabasco into Marko’s bowl of pudding. (It was

bread and butter, Mummy’s favorite.) The kitchen crew saw me, but I put a

finger to my lips. They chuckled.

Scurrying back into the meal tent, I gave Tiggy a wink. I’d already taken

her into my confidence and she thought the whole caper brilliant. I don’t

remember if I told Willy what I was up to. Probably not. I knew he wouldn’t

have approved.

I squirmed, counting the minutes until dessert was served, fighting back

giggles.

Suddenly someone cried out: Whoa!

Someone else cried: What the—!

In unison we all turned. Just outside the open tent was a tawny tail

swishing through the air.

Leopard!

Everyone froze. Except me. I took a step towards it.

Marko gripped my shoulder.

The leopard walked away, like a prima ballerina, across the footpath

where I’d just been.

I turned back in time to see the adults all look at one another, mouths

open. Holy fuck. Then their eyes turned towards me. Holy fuuuuck.

They were all thinking the same thing, picturing the same banner headline

back home.

Prince Harry Mauled by Leopard.

The world would reel. Heads would roll.

I wasn’t thinking about any of that. I was thinking about Mummy. That

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the tension in me pops like a cork. My smile is slow but this time I’m satisfied because she’s talking to me. Actually talking, like we know each other again. I didn’t realize how badly I wanted that until it happened. We walk down the path side by side. “You know,” I say casually, “I have a theory that everyone needs therapy. Like going to the dentist.” “Yeah? Tell that to the NHS.” She snorts. My parents paid for my therapist Dr. Okoro privately because, between Dad’s job and Mum’s dental practice, we’re not exactly struggling. I scratch the back of my head. Celine’s grin is razor sharp. “Nothing to say, rich boy?” “I could say that we’re not rich,” I mutter, “but I’m sure you’d have a field day with that.” She laughs. My heart thuds. “Thanks, by the way,” she murmurs after a moment. “For. You know. Saying that. In there.” I have been on such a roller coaster since I left the Beech Hut, I’d almost forgotten Max Donovan even existed. Now it comes thundering back, and I wince. “Does he talk to you like that all the time?” “Why?” she asks. “What are you going to do, fight him?” Would it be bad to say yes? I think it would be bad. Violence is not the answer. Although, history suggests it is occasionally the answer— She laughs. “What is going on with your face right now? I’m joking.” I roll my eyes. “You’re the bane of my existence. Did you know that?” She grins. “I hoped.” I really can’t stand this girl. I wonder how long I get to walk with her. “And no, Max doesn’t always talk to me like that. He’s usually less brazen. It’s more of a he-whispers-snide-comments-which-I-pretend-not-to-hear vibe,” she says. I stare at her. “You mean he’s been bothering you this whole—” “I don’t care.” She meets my eyes. “I don’t care at all. Trust me, okay?” And by the way my anger slowly dissipates, I think maybe I…do? A second passes. “Fine,” I say. “Okay. Fine.” “Good.” I study the path beneath our feet. “Where are we going, by the way?” “Me and Minnie are meeting Sonam for frappes.” If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she’s nervous as she asks, “Do you want to come?” Yes, I really really really really do. But…“I have History next lesson, and I haven’t done the reading.” I could read at Starbucks, except no I couldn’t, not if Celine is gonna be there. Saying things. With her mouth. She dropped History in year ten. Then again, maybe I could teach her— “Walk me to the gate, then?” she suggests. I know I say yes too quickly, but I can’t make myself regret it. As we wander down, she says, “I have a theory about you, Brad Graeme.” A theory. She has a theory about me. I am so fucking in. Wait. What? I clear my throat and ask, “Yeah?” She hesitates, then says, “That you’re exactly who you claim to be.” “And who’s that?” We


west—it’s absolutely scorching in here. I don’t know how you can stand it...” Her voice had no effect on him at all. * * * Lord Ashley sat with his back to the window. A boy, really, thought Miss de Vries, the longer she looked at him. Ugly or handsome, she couldn’t decide. He had a mean face, and his hair ended in a curl that seemed to be slicked to his forehead. He stretched his legs out wide, heels scudding the carpet. Mr. Lockwood managed the conversation, and Miss de Vries had to give him credit: he knew what he was doing. The topics seemed disconnected. Lord Ashley’s stables, his judgment of the railways, the expense of motoring, the vulgarity of Americans. But Lockwood knitted them together neatly, making an occasional jotting in his notebook, smiling throughout. “I agree,” said Miss de Vries at intervals. They’d agreed she would say nothing more. Modesty, moral rectitude, dignity—she radiated these virtues, unrelentingly, unendingly, maintaining perfect posture. “But you can’t care for town in the summer,” Lord Ashley said to Lockwood, but his eyes were on Miss de Vries. “You can’t possibly intend to keep this house.” There was a silence, a stretched-out moment. That was an opening gambit. Miss de Vries put down her cup. “I...” “And you know we don’t like the look of the books. You’re vastly overextended. Has your man told you my view?” Miss de Vries saw Mr. Lockwood’s face go taut. It was the impertinence of it. That the house of de Vries was considered so vulgar, so lowborn, that it was perfectly reasonable to debase it. That you might eschew good manners, cross your legs and slurp your tea, and simply haggle without any hint of compunction. “I don’t have a head for business,” said Miss de Vries, making her voice gentle, “but I know my father left his estate in perfect order.” A little white lie, an entirely fair one. Lockwood said quickly, “We have a most extremely rigorous handle on the household’s affairs.” Lord Ashley shook his head. “But you’re still in gold! You should get out of that, for a start. And the loans are a joke. They should be axed at once.” Miss de Vries sipped her tea. “By the way,” added Lord Ashley—and something twisted in his tone. “What’s all this talk about your old man’s funny business?” Mr. Lockwood went still. “Talk?” said Miss de Vries. She studied her fingers. Mr. Lockwood cleared his throat. “People say all sorts of things.” Lord Ashley was watching her. It was the first time he’d looked straight in her direction. “I’m not necessarily objecting,” he said with a testy laugh. Miss de Vries pushed back her chair. In this house there were all sorts of boxes. Drawers and vessels and canisters and cases beyond counting. They contained all manner of things. Some were left unlocked. Some were soldered with lead, encased in marble, locked up behind bars, buried in the ground. What Lord Ashley was discussing belonged to the category of untouchable, unknowable things.


there is a clearing and what looks like some kind of wooden platform illuminated by a large torch. “Somebody is out here,” I whisper against Bezi’s ear. Keeping close to the ground, I inch forward, crawling on my stomach across the dirt and dead leaves. After a few minutes, I have a clear view of the opening among the trees. It’s a large open airspace. A wooden platform in the shape of a crescent stands beneath a massive oak tree. It reminds me of an outdoor amphitheater. Opposite the stagelike platform are three tiers of wooden risers—seating for at least a hundred people. I press myself flat against the ground as Bezi crawls up beside me. “What is this place?” I ask. Bezi shrugs and sinks lower in the brush. We watch in complete silence for several long minutes. There is no movement, no sound, and after a while, I slowly stand up. “What are you doing?” Bezi whisper-yells. “Get down!” I’m only thinking about how much time we’ve already wasted by hiding in the bushes. Porter and Paige can’t wait around for us to work up the courage to find them. “Come on.” The flashlight stays off as I lead Bezi out of the brush and into the open space ahead. The path leads us right into it. The blazing torch casts a hazy orange glow all around. I scan the area again, listening. There’s no one here, but somebody had to have been, and recently. The torch snaps and crackles as the fire consumes the end of it. “Charity,” Bezi says, her voice nothing more than a whisper. “We shouldn’t be here. This is all wrong.” I climb onto the crescent-shaped platform and walk from one side to the other. The trunk of the giant oak that stands directly behind it is carved—a pattern of overlapping triangular eaves. The torchlight illuminates only the very bottom part of the tree, so I switch on my flashlight and swing the light up where a pair of shining black eyes stares back at me. I stumble back and Bezi gasps. The tree trunk has been carved into the likeness of a giant owl. It looms over us. Set in its eye sockets are polished black stones, and the firelight reflected in them gives them a lifelike appearance. Part of me wonders if it’s alive, if this is the figure Ms. Keane spoke of. I picture it opening its pointed beak, grasping me in its taloned claws. A shudder runs through my body, and as I step back to take in the entirety of the massive carving, my foot nearly slips out from under me. I steady myself and point my flashlight at the wooden planks beneath my sneakers. “It’s wet,” I say. “This whole area right here.” I crouch down and touch the damp planks, a watery substance coating my fingers, and as I examine it in the light, I’m almost 100 percent sure it’s blood that somebody has tried to clean up by flooding the area with water. “Look,” Bezi says. She’s


a confidante? A partner? Someone who would expose him so unthinkingly, right in the middle of Wholeness? I raised my gaze to find Emily looking from me to Orson, obviously confused. “I’m sorry. I just mean, like, with my ex-husband, there were a lot of leaps of faith. Leaps of faith I really shouldn’t have taken for him. But I believe in taking leaps of faith for you. I understand your vision.” “Ez, will you excuse us?” I nodded and waded away from them, toward an explosion of hydrangea bushes. I could still hear them talking, and I didn’t want to be out of earshot, so I dipped behind one of the bushes, crouching muddy in the mulch. “What’s your problem?” I heard Orson say. “You have to embarrass me in front of Ez?” “Embarrass you?” Emily’s voice was a hiss. “Embarrass you in front of him? What does it matter?” “It matters. It’s principles. He and I worked very, very hard to make the new Bliss-Mini a reality.” “I thought Dexter did that.” “Ez and I hired Dexter to do that. And for you to just, like, imply that it’s fake? It’s outrageous.” “It is, though! You basically said it!” “I never said that.” Orson’s voice was frigid, controlled. “I said it was in development. I said we needed more time.” “The model’s on the market, though. What more time can you take?” “How many times have I Synthesized you?” he asked. “How many times have I tried to get you to see that this is about making peace with the bad and ushering in the good?” “Honestly, when you talk like this? It makes no sense. You’re not really saying anything. You’re just spouting corporate nonsense.” I could hear the agitated squish of their feet in the mud. “It basically sounds like you don’t trust me,” she said. “It sounds like you trust him more than me.” “And what if I do?” My heart almost beat out of my chest. “I’m your literal girlfriend.” “And he’s my best friend. And business partner. I’ve known him longer.” “You sleep with me. You’ve told me all your secrets.” He sighed noisily. “What do you want me to say? This is just how things are.” “Fuck you,” she said, and then there was an Orson-sized thud, a shallow splash. “Fuck you, Orson!” I watched as Emily ran past me crying and then craned my neck to see Orson sitting on the ground, covered in mud, looking both perplexed and furious. I watched him stand and run after her, calling her name in the tone an adult would use to appease an unruly child. I leaned against the side of the farmhouse, laughing and crying until the undersides of flowers and the tangle of branches were a chaotic blur. So I was sitting in a suit in the mud after giving an acid-washed speech to a bunch of unclean weirdos. So Emily and Orson were sleeping together. What did it matter? Orson trusted me the most. TEN EMILY CAME TO OUR NEW YORK office


didn’t have much time and our task was daunting. Admissions files were categorised by date, but then some records were filed under the resident doctor’s name and others still were filed under the patient’s name. It was basically a mess. We agreed to begin at opposite ends of the room. I was searching the dates – mid-1920s onwards – and Martha was searching for Carlisle. We hardly spoke, apart from the occasional ‘I still can’t believe you did that’ coming from me. I was pleasantly surprised by how much she wanted to help me. Or perhaps that was conceited. If what she said turned out to be the case and she had found herself in possession of Opaline’s book, then it made sense that she had her own connection to this intriguing woman. After all, as I’d told her on the bus, you didn’t need a qualification on paper to make a big discovery. Knowing my luck, she’d probably find the manuscript before me. The thought hit me like a sucker punch. I looked across at her and watched as her fingertips picked their way through the hanging manila files. Had I been played all along? Was she using me? ‘Henry. What are you doing?’ ‘What?’ ‘We don’t have much time,’ she said. ‘Right. Yes. Sorry.’ I pulled open another drawer and flicked through the files. They were all too recent. We were about to meet at the middle filing cabinet when I heard footsteps coming quickly down the hall. ‘Shit!’ ‘Stall her,’ Martha said. I didn’t think, I simply did what she said and met the woman just outside the doorway. ‘I’ve been on to the department, and they’ve never heard of a Dr Field. In fact, they said there was no spot-check arranged. So now, would you care to tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?’ ‘I would like to tell you, Mrs Hughes. But if I did, I’d have to kill you.’ ‘Excuse me?’ Jesus, what was I saying? ‘Candid camera,’ Martha smiled, coming out of the room. ‘See, I have a camera in my bag,’ she explained, pointing to what looked like a badge on her rucksack. ‘I don’t—’ ‘Oh, you’ve been such a good sport, hasn’t she, Henry?’ ‘Yes, yes, absolutely,’ I said. ‘Thanks for taking part.’ ‘Oh, I—’ ‘Someone will be in touch shortly. Of course we’ll need your consent before we can use the footage on our show, but there’s a two hundred euro fee so just have a think about it, okay?’ Martha took my arm and we half-ran down the stairs. We kept running until we reached the bus stop and I had to bend down with my hands on my knees for a good ten minutes, trying to get my breath back. She was still laughing when I looked up. ‘You should be on stage. Honestly, how do you improvise like that?’ ‘I don’t know, maybe Madame Bowden’s rubbing off on me.’ The bus pulled in and we got back into the very same seats that we’d had on


I regretted the job not being finished.

Most of all, I regretted that it was time to leave.

58.

233

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

STUFFED MY BERGEN FULL of dusty clothes, plus two souvenirs: a rug bought

I in a bazaar, a 30-mm shell casing from the Apache.

The first week of 2013.

Before I could get onto the plane with my fellow soldiers I went into a

tent and sat in the one empty chair.

The obligatory exit interview.

The chosen reporter asked what I’d done in Afghanistan.

I told him.

He asked if I’d fired on the enemy.

What? Yes.

His head went back. Surprised.

What did he think we were doing over here? Selling magazine

subscriptions?

He asked if I’d killed anyone.

Yes...

Again, surprised.

I tried to explain: /t’s a war, mate, you know?

The conversation came around to the press. I told the reporter that I

thought the British press was crap, particularly with regard to my brother

and sister-in-law, who’d just announced that they were pregnant, and were

subsequently being besieged.

They deserve to have their baby in peace, | said.

I admitted that my father had begged me to stop thinking about the press,

to not read the papers. I admitted that I felt guilty every time I did, because

it made me complicit. Everyone’ guilty for buying the newspapers. But

hopefully no one actually believes what's in them.

But of course they did. People did believe, and that was the whole

problem. Britons, among the most literate people on the planet, were also

the most credulous. Even if they didn’t believe every word, there was

always that residue of wonder. Hmm, where there’ smoke there must be

fire...Even if a falsehood was disproved, debunked beyond


clear, but Battersea Park is full of people listening to music, having picnics, walking their dogs, and we pass food stalls and outdoor bars, keeping to the river and boathouses until we can’t any longer and there’s only road left. At the start, I’m not very steady and have to concentrate on not riding into people and on maneuvering tight spaces and sudden turns and downward slopes, but there’s something freeing about the required concentration followed by the lack of it on smooth surfaces and straight paths. When we decide to turn back after an hour, Nia points to a local shop. “Should we get ice cream?” “But we have some at home.” She laughs. “Okay, Mum.” * * * We ride home; she’s sunburnt and I feel sticky. She cuts us slices of watermelon and we eat them over the sink. I’m exhausted after; my muscles ache and I can’t help but lean forward when I walk, as if fighting gravity. At dinner I look for whatever’s already cooked: macaroni and cheese and a piece of chicken, followed by ice cream. We sit and resume The Cabin Plan. My bones feel heavy when I drag them to the shower and when I’m out, my room is really warm. I remember my panic attack. Google: Symptoms of a panic attack The Medical Community CindyKO: Hi guys. So a couple of hours ago, out of nowhere, I just fell down. I didn’t faint but I couldn’t breathe and I was sweating buckets and my chest hurt a lot. It was over in a couple of minutes and it hasn’t happened again, but since then I’ve been feeling really tired. Has this happened to anyone? Is it serious or no big deal? Jonah91: The same thing happened to me and after a good night’s sleep I was fine. It’s probably something you ate. Drink some water and take some paracetamol and go to bed. You’ll be fine in the morning! Genevieve Mac: I also once displayed similar symptoms, 24 hours later I was in A&E and the doctor tells me I almost died. * * * So, “roll the dice” is what I’m reading. Before I get into bed, I kneel by my bedside and close my eyes. “Dear God,” I say. “Please don’t let me die. I don’t think my mother could handle it. Please remember all the times I went to church even when I didn’t want to go. Amen.” Chapter Twenty-three Jo and Cam are back. I need to apologize for what I said to Jo, and the words have to actually leave my mouth this time. Yet a part of me hoped they would return and Jo would act as if nothing happened, but when I hear the door open, I already know it’s too much to ask. I take a deep breath. The sooner you do it, the sooner it’s over. I walk into the kitchen, and they stop talking. A lot has happened to me since they left, but all that’s changed for them is the tan of


type proliferated in the Ministries: little dumpy men, growing stout very early in life, with short legs, swift scuttling movements, and fat inscrutable faces with very small eyes. It was the type that seemed to flourish best under the dominion of the Party. The announcement from the Ministry of Plenty ended on another trumpet call and gave way to tinny music. Parsons, stirred to vague enthusiasm by the bombardment of figures, took his pipe out of his mouth. 'The Ministry of Plenty's certainly done a good job this year,' he said with a knowing shake of his head. 'By the way, Smith old boy, I suppose you haven't got any razor blades you can let me have?' 'Not one,' said Winston. 'I've been using the same blade for six weeks myself.' 'Ah, well--just thought I'd ask you, old boy.' 'Sorry,' said Winston. The quacking voice from the next table, temporarily silenced during the Ministry's announcement, had started up again, as loud as ever. For some reason Winston suddenly found himself thinking of Mrs Parsons, with her wispy hair and the dust in the creases of her face. Within two years those children would be denouncing her to the Thought Police. Mrs Parsons would be vaporized. Syme would be vaporized. Winston would be vaporized. O'Brien would be vaporized. Parsons, on the other hand, would never be vaporized. The eyeless creature with the quacking voice would never be vaporized. The little beetle-like men who scuttle so nimbly through the labyrinthine corridors of Ministries they, too, would never be vaporized. And the girl with dark hair, the girl from the Fiction Department--she would never be vaporized either. It seemed to him that he knew instinctively who would survive and who would perish: though just what it was that made for survival, it was not easy to say. At this moment he was dragged out of his reverie with a violent jerk. The girl at the next table had turned partly round and was looking at him. It was the girl with dark hair. She was looking at him in a sidelong way, but with curious intensity. The instant she caught his eye she looked away file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (35 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt again. The sweat started out on Winston's backbone. A horrible pang of terror went through him. It was gone almost at once, but it left a sort of nagging uneasiness behind. Why was she watching him? Why did she keep following him about? Unfortunately he could not remember whether she had already been at the table when he arrived, or had come there afterwards. But yesterday, at any rate, during the Two Minutes Hate, she had sat immediately behind him when there was no apparent need to do so. Quite likely her real object had been to listen to him and make sure whether he was shouting loudly enough. His earlier thought returned to him: probably she was not actually a member of the Thought Police, but then it was precisely the amateur spy who was the greatest danger of all. He


What a smile! I remember it now, and I know that it was the effluence of fine intellect, of true courage; it lit up her marked lineaments, her thin face, her sunken gray eye, like a reflection from the aspect of an angel. Yet at that moment Helen Burns wore on her arm "the untidy badge;" scarcely an hour ago I had heard her condemned by Miss Scatcherd to a dinner of bread and water on the morrow because she had blotted an exercise in copying it out. Such is the imperfect nature of man! such spots are there on the disc of the clearest planet; and eyes like Miss Scatcherd's can only see those minute defects, and are blind to the full brightness of the orb.       |Go to Contents |               Chapter VIII     ERE the half hour ended, five o'clock struck; school was dismissed, and all were gone into the refectory to tea. I now ventured to descend; it was deep dusk; I retired into a corner and sat down on the floor. The spell by which I had been so far supported began to dissolve; reaction took place, and soon, so overwhelming was the grief that seized me, I sank prostrate with my face to the ground. Now I wept. Helen Burns was not here; nothing sustained me; left to myself I abandoned myself, and my tears watered the boards. I had meant to be so good, and to do so much at Lowood; to make so many friends, to earn respect, and win affection. Already I had made visible progress; that very morning I had reached the head of my class; Miss Miller had praised me warmly; Miss Temple had smiled approbation; she had promised to teach me drawing, and to let me learn French, if I continued to make similar improvement two months longer; and then I was well received by my fellow pupils; treated as an equal by those of my own age, and not molested by any; now, here I lay again crushed and trodden on; and could I ever rise more?     "Never," I thought; and ardently I wished to die. While sobbing out this wish in broken accents, some one approached; I started up again Helen Burns was near me; the fading fires just showed her coming up the long, vacant room; she brought my coffee and bread.     "Come, eat something," she said; but I put both away from me, feeling as if a drop or a crumb would have choked me in my present condition. Helen regarded me probably with surprise; I could not now abate my agitation, though I tried hard; I continued to weep aloud. She sat down on the ground near me, embraced her knees with her arms, and rested her head upon them; in that attitude she remained silent as an Indian. I was the first who spoke: "Helen,


summoned her knights and retainers to hear his confession, as he had hoped. He saw Ser Brynden Tully's craggy face and Lord Nestor Royce's bluff one. Beside Nestor stood a younger man with fierce black side-whiskers who could only be his heir, Ser Albar. Most of the principal houses of the Vale were represented. Tyrion noted Ser Lyn Corbray, slender as a sword, Lord Hunter with his gouty legs, the widowed Lady Waynwood surrounded by her sons. Others sported sigils he did not know; broken lance, green viper, burning tower, winged chalice. Among the lords of the Vale were several of his companions from the high road; Ser Rodrik Cassel, pale from half-healed wounds, stood with Ser Willis Wode beside him. Marillion the singer had found a new woodharp. Tyrion smiled; whatever happened here tonight, he did not wish it to happen in secret, and there was no one like a singer for spreading a story near and far. In the rear of the hall, Bronn lounged beneath a pillar. The freerider's black eyes were fixed on Tyrion, and his hand lay lightly on the pommel of his sword. Tyrion gave him a long look, wondering . . . Catelyn Stark spoke first. "You wish to confess your crimes, we are told." "I do, my lady," Tyrion answered. Lysa Arryn smiled at her sister. "The sky cells always break them. The gods can see them there, and there is no darkness to hide in." "He does not look broken to me," Lady Catelyn said. Lady Lysa paid her no mind. "Say what you will," she commanded Tyrion. And now to roll the dice, he thought with another quick glance back at Bronn. "Where to begin? I am a vile little man, I confess it. My crimes and sins are beyond counting, my lords and ladies. I have lain with whores, not once but hundreds of times. I have wished my own lord father dead, and my sister, our gracious queen, as well." Behind him, someone chuckled. "I have not always treated my servants with kindness. I have gambled. I have even cheated, I blush to admit. I have said many cruel and malicious things about the noble lords and ladies of the court." That drew outright laughter. "Once I-" "Silence!" Lysa Arryn's pale round face had turned a burning pink. "What do you imagine you are doing, dwarf?" Tyrion cocked his head to one side. "Why, confessing my crimes, my lady-" A GAME OF THRONES 369 Catelyn Stark took a step forward. "You are accused of sending a hired knife to slay my son Bran in his bed, and of conspiring to murder Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King." Tyrion gave a helpless shrug. "Those crimes I cannot confess, I fear. I know nothing of any murders." Lady Lysa rose from her weirwood throne. "I will not be made mock of. You have had your little jape, Imp. I trust you enjoyed it. Ser Vardis, take him back to the dungeon . . . but this time find him a


here, you’re never gonna find out anything good.” * * * — I call Musgrave. “Fuck time you think this is, Sounder?” “Sorry.” “No, you’re not.” “There’s no such person as Roddy Tebbit.” “Pretty sure he’s in a drawer in my office.” “When you get in there, run a full genetic sequence, please, and find out what his real name is.” “You rang me in the middle of the night to tell me what to do in the morning?” “Nope.” “…Jesus fuck, Sounder, you want me to do it now?” “Sorry.” “You’re not even a cop.” “Sorry.” “No, you’re not.” “No, I’m not.” “It’s a fake name?” “It’s a fake everything.” “And you want to know now?” I don’t say anything. “I’m getting dressed,” Musgrave says. “But when you die, I hope they let me cut you open.” * * * — I’m tired, the way you can only be tired if you have a hole in you that should not be there, and when the car pulls up and a voice says “at your disposal, Mr. Sounder,” I get in without really thinking about it. Then a man gets in next to me and I feel something hard and metallic dig in under my ribs, the muzzle finding an easy resting place right against the bone. The car pulls out into traffic and onto the expressway. “Ow,” I say, because the front sight is poking my putty lattice. It hurts, but it’s also amazing because it’s scratching the itch. It doesn’t count as scratching if someone puts a gun in your stomach. My torso twists before I can stop it, pressing back and forth against the barrel. “Aaaaahhhhhh thank you, that’s good.” “What the fuck is wrong with you?” the gunman says. “Are you some kind of idiot?” “Fuck you, too, buddy. You kidnap a guy, you can put the fuck up with his kinks. Otherwise go kidnap someone else and see what that gets you.” Mr. Zoegar twists briefly around in the driver’s seat. “Mr. Sounder, what are you doing?” I tell him about the putty and the itching. “There is an etiquette in this situation, Mr. Sounder. The gun is not a scratching post.” “I hear you, I really do. But did they ever use this stuff on you?” “Do you know in the first four years that it existed the makers did not trouble themselves to make any variations in colour? They just assumed everybody would be happy with the one for white people.” “So that’s a yes?” “Once. In Monrovia.” “And?” “After a week I all but ripped it out. Do not do that, by the way. It is satisfying but exquisitely painful.” “Maybe if you guys are going to torture me you could start with that? I swear to Christ I’ll tell you everything you want to know from sheer gratitude.” Zoegar sighs. “We are not going to torture you, Mr. Sounder. This is not at all that kind of meeting.” “You know, most people just phone me.” Zoegar’s face flickers. “Mr. Sounder, it is extremely


Lovebirch. Know the kind that is. Had it? Yes. He opened it. Thought so. A woman's voice behind the dingy curtain. Listen: the man. No: she wouldn't like that much. Got her it once. He read the other title: SWEETS OF SIN. More in her line. Let us see. He read where his finger opened. --ALL THE DOLLARBILLS HER HUSBAND GAVE HER WERE SPENT IN THE STORES ON WONDROUS GOWNS AND COSTLIEST FRILLIES. FOR HIM! FOR RAOUL! Yes. This. Here. Try. --HER MOUTH GLUED ON HIS IN A LUSCIOUS VOLUPTUOUS KISS WHILE HIS HANDS FELT FOR THE OPULENT CURVES INSIDE HER DESHABILLE. Yes. Take this. The end. --YOU ARE LATE, HE SPOKE HOARSELY, EYING HER WITH A SUSPICIOUS GLARE. THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN THREW OFF HER SABLETRIMMED WRAP, DISPLAYING HER QUEENLY SHOULDERS AND HEAVING EMBONPOINT. AN IMPERCEPTIBLE SMILE PLAYED ROUND HER PERFECT LIPS AS SHE TURNED TO HIM CALMLY. Mr Bloom read again: THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. Warmth showered gently over him, cowing his flesh. Flesh yielded amply amid rumpled clothes: whites of eyes swooning up. His nostrils arched themselves for prey. Melting breast ointments (FOR HIM! FOR RAOUL!). Armpits' oniony sweat. Fishgluey slime (HER HEAVING EMBONPOINT!). Feel! Press! Crushed! Sulphur dung of lions! Young! Young! An elderly female, no more young, left the building of the courts of chancery, king's bench, exchequer and common pleas, having heard in the lord chancellor's court the case in lunacy of Potterton, in the admiralty division the summons, exparte motion, of the owners of the Lady Cairns versus the owners of the barque Mona, in the court of appeal reservation of judgment in the case of Harvey versus the Ocean Accident and Guarantee Corporation. Phlegmy coughs shook the air of the bookshop, bulging out the dingy curtains. The shopman's uncombed grey head came out and his unshaven reddened face, coughing. He raked his throat rudely, puked phlegm on the floor. He put his boot on what he had spat, wiping his sole along it, and bent, showing a rawskinned crown, scantily haired. Mr Bloom beheld it. Mastering his troubled breath, he said: --I'll take this one. The shopman lifted eyes bleared with old rheum. --SWEETS OF SIN, he said, tapping on it. That's a good one. * * * * * The lacquey by the door of Dillon's auctionrooms shook his handbell twice again and viewed himself in the chalked mirror of the cabinet. Dilly Dedalus, loitering by the curbstone, heard the beats of the bell, the cries of the auctioneer within. Four and nine. Those lovely curtains. Five shillings. Cosy curtains. Selling new at two guineas. Any advance on five shillings? Going for five shillings. The lacquey lifted his handbell and shook it: --Barang! Bang of the lastlap bell spurred the halfmile wheelmen to their sprint. J. A. Jackson, W. E. Wylie, A. Munro and H. T. Gahan, their stretched necks wagging, negotiated the curve by the College library. Mr Dedalus, tugging a long moustache, came round from Williams's row. He halted near his daughter. --It's time for you, she said. --Stand up straight for the


Stay. Cool.

Our next flight, he pulled the same stunt. But this time he didn’t recover

the aircraft. As we went spinning and pirouetting towards Earth he said: /ts

time.

For what?

For YOU to...DO IT.

He looked at the controls. I grabbed them, stuck the boot in, regained the

aircraft in what felt like the nick of time.

I looked at Booley, waited for congratulations.

Nothing. Barely any reaction at all.

Over time Booley would do this again and again, cut the power, put us

into freefall. As the creaking metal and roaring white noise of the stilled

engine became deafening he’d turn calmly to his left: /t’s time.

Time?

You have control.

I have control.

After I restored the power, after we returned to base safely, there was

never any fanfare. Not even much chatter. No medals in Booley’s cockpit

for simply doing your job.

175

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

At last, one clear morning, after a routine handful of circuits over the

airfield, we landed softly and Booley jumped out as if the Firefly were on

fire.

What's the matter?

Its time, Lieutenant Wales.

Time?

For you to solo.

Oh. OK.

Up I went. (After first making sure my parachute was strapped on.) I did

one or two circuits round the airfield, talking to myself all the while: Full

power. Keep the wheel on the white line. Pull up...slowly! Dip the nose.

Dont stall! Turn in the climb. Level off: OK, now you’re downwind. Radio

the tower. Check your ground markers.

Pre-landing checks.

Reduce power!

Start to descend in the turn.

There you go, steady now.

Roll out there,


so?" "I have great hopes of what Mrs. Laura Lyons may do for us when the position of affairs is made clear to her. And I have my own plan as well. Sufficient for to-morrow is the evil thereof; but I hope before the day is past to have the upper hand at last." I could draw nothing further from him, and he walked, lost in thought, as far as the Baskerville gates. "Are you coming up?" "Yes; I see no reason for further concealment. But one last word, Watson. Say nothing of the hound to Sir Henry. Let him think that Selden's death was as Stapleton would have us be- lieve. He will have a better nerve for the ordeal which he will have to undergo to-morrow, when he is engaged, if I remember your report aright, to dine with these people." "And so am I." "Then you must excuse yourself and he must go alone. That will be easily arranged. And now, if we are too late for dinner, I think that we are both ready for our suppers." Sir Henry was more pleased than surprised to see Sherlock Holmes, for he had for some days been expecting that recent events would bring him down from London. He did raise his eyebrows, however, when he found that my friend had neither any luggage nor any explanations for its absence. Between us we soon supplied his wants, and then over a belated supper we explained to the baronet as much of our experience as it seemed desirable that he should know. But first I had the unpleasant duty of breaking the news to Barrymore and his wife. To him it may have been an unmitigated relief, but she wept bitterly in her apron. To all the world he was the man of violence, half animal and half demon; but to her he always remained the little wilful boy of her own girlhood, the child who had clung to her hand. Evil indeed is the man who has not one woman to mourn him. "I've been moping in the house all day since Watson went off in the morning," said the baronet. "I guess I should have some credit, for I have kept my promise. If I hadn't sworn not to go about alone I might have had a more lively evening, for I had a message from Stapleton asking me over there." "I have no doubt that you would have had a more lively evening," said Holmes drily. "By the way, I don't suppose you appreciate that we have been mourning over you as having broken your neck?" Sir Henry opened his eyes. "How was that?" "This poor wretch was dressed in your clothes. I fear your servant who gave them to him may get into trouble with the police." "That is unlikely. There was no mark on any of them, as far as I know." "That's lucky for him -- in fact, it's lucky for all of you, since you are all on the wrong side of the law in


the Washington Square Park bongo demographic and they’re so young that Nick is torn between feeling jaded and optimistic. There’s also a woman with a stroller and two kids. The one in the stroller is still a baby and the older one is maybe four, with pigtails and scuffed saddle shoes and an expression of pure belligerence. He nudges Lilian and they head in that direction. When they get closer, he sees that the woman is younger than Nick by several years, but with purple smudges under her eyes that suggest that the baby who’s currently fast asleep in the stroller might be nocturnal. He gets her name—Christina Mendoza—and asks her why she doesn’t have a sign. “We came to feed the ducks,” Mrs. Mendoza says, all indignance and a Brooklyn accent even thicker than his own. “How am I supposed to know there’s all this malarkey going on? And if a bomb were to go off in five minutes, I’d still rather feed the goddamn ducks first.” Nick wants to know where this woman thinks she’s going to find ducks anywhere in Lower Manhattan but decides this might be of secondary importance. “The purpose of the drill,” he says, gritting his teeth at repeating the government line, but spurred on by some instinct that he needs to keep her talking, keep her mad, “is to foster a sense of readiness among the citizens—” “Readiness for what?” she asks, shaking her head as if in pity at Nick’s idiocy. “I hug my kids every night. I kiss their dad before he leaves for work in the morning. I’d say I’m about as ready for nuclear war as the next person. And I’m just too tired to get back on the subway, so if they want to arrest me, they can try.” Nick writes all that down and they get a couple pictures of her and the kids, then move on to the people who actually intended to be at the protest. They get a couple good quotes about how the only way to survive a nuclear war is by not having one in the first place, and then the sirens sound. Lilian gets a picture of cops arresting a bunch of sweet Catholic grandmas. They don’t arrest the mother, probably at a loss for what to do with the kids, instead escorting them all into City Hall, two cops awkwardly hauling the stroller up the stairs. As they walk back to the Chronicle building, through streets emptier and quieter than they are even in the middle of the night, it’s the mother’s words that repeat in Nick’s mind. She hadn’t said anything especially new, but the way she said it still hits him like a punch in the gut. Maybe she can’t do anything about the disaster that other people want to bring about, but she can hug her kids, she can kiss her husband, she can live her life. No, it’s more than that—she was willing to get arrested just to make a point. It worms its way into Nick’s mind


snow owl is perched on top of it. The room is ringed by built-in shelves, and they are all filled with moldering books. I run my hand along the spines and read some of the titles aloud. “Geological History of Upstate New York. Myths and Legends.” I glance at Bezi, who is standing in front of a large, framed photo hung on the wall. “Who the hell was living out here?” “The Owl Society,” Bezi says. “Who?” Her gaze doesn’t move from the photo, and I join her in front of it. Bezi runs her fingers across a dusty silver plaque set into the bottom of the framed photograph. “It says The Owl Society, 1840.” The black-and-white photo shows a bunch of men standing on a large platform. As I lean in and shine my flashlight on the picture, I realize that it’s set in the same location we’d just come from—the outdoor amphitheater in the grove. The photo is blurry, darker around the edges and lighter at the center. The men stand in three rows, but the faces of the ones in the back are unrecognizable. The owl carved into the oak looms over them, and a bright spot on the edge of the frame matches up to where the burning torch had been positioned. “This has to be what Ms. Keane was talking about,” I say. “She kept saying them. It’s gotta be this Owl Society, right?” Bezi nods as she circles the room. “It’s a secret society?” “Looks like it. But what are—were they doing?” It occurs to me in that moment that maybe this so-called Owl Society isn’t some relic of the long-forgotten past. Somebody hurt Tasha, and Porter and Paige are missing. On the wall next to the large photograph, there are smaller portraits in heavy brass and silver frames. Individuals in the same seated pose, all of them wearing black cloaks. The photos go from black-and-white to sepia to full color. Each portrait adorned with a small plaque. Henry Woodsworth Hayward Grand Owl, 1856 Johnathan Laurens Montevallo Grand Owl, 1867 Lawrence Ulrich Davis Grand Owl, 1872 More portraits ring the room, each of them featuring a man in the same pose, the same steely look in his eyes. “What’s a Grand Owl?” Bezi asks. “I don’t like the way that sounds at all.” I’m not sure, but it looks like each of the men was a leader of this Owl Society at some point. The newest portrait is dated 1973. “I wonder what happened after 1973,” Bezi says. “They just disappeared?” I think about Tasha and about what Ms. Keane said. Is it possible they’re still here? I suddenly feel the urge to bolt from the lodge and run as fast as I can back to the camp. I take Bezi’s hands and prepare to do just that when something stops me. A sound. I hold my breath and angle my head toward the hall. “Do you hear that?” Bezi stares at me wide-eyed, listening. A muffled shriek sounds from somewhere nearby. I glance toward the


young children had opened the gate of the cow-shed." Early in the afternoon the first two pots of palm-wine arrived from Obierika's in-laws. They were duly presented to the women, who drank a cup or two each, to help them in their cooking. Some of it also went to the bride and her attendant maidens, who were putting the last delicate touches of razor to her coiffure and cam wood on her smooth skin. When the heat of the sun began to soften, Obierika's son, Maduka, took a long broom and swept the ground in front of his father's obi. And as if they had been waiting for that, Obierika's relatives and friends began to arrive, every man with his goatskin bag hung on one shoulder and a rolled goatskin mat under his arm. Some of them were accompanied by their sons bearing carved wooden stools. Okonkwo was one of them. They sat in a half-circle and began to talk of many things. It would not be long before the suitors came. Okonkwo brought out his snuff-bottle and offered it to Ogbuefi Ezenwa, who sat next to him. Ezenwa took it, tapped it on his kneecap, rubbed his left palm on his body to dry it before tipping a little snuff into it. His actions were deliberate, and he spoke as he performed them: "I hope our in-laws will bring many pots of wine. Although they come from a village that is known for being closefisted, they ought to know that Akueke is the bride for a king." "They dare not bring fewer than thirty pots," said Okonkwo. "I shall tell them my mind if they do." At that moment Obierika's son, Maduka, led out the giant goat from the inner compound, for his father's relatives to see. They all admired it and said that that was the way things should be done. The goat was then led back to the inner compound. Very soon after, the in-laws began to arrive. Young men and boys in single file, each carrying a pot of wine, came first. Obierika's relatives counted the pots as they came. Twenty, twenty-five. There was a long break, and the hosts looked at each other as if to say, "I told you." Then more pots came. Thirty, thirty-five, forty, forty-five. The hosts nodded in approval and seemed to say, "Now they are behaving like men." Altogether there were fifty pots of wine. After the pot-bearers came Ibe, the suitor, and the elders of his family. They sat in a half-moon, thus completing a circle with their hosts. The pots of wine stood in their midst. Then the bride, her mother and half a dozen other women and girls emerged from the inner compound, and went round the circle shaking hands with all. The bride's mother led the way, followed by the bride and the other women. The married women wore their best cloths and the girls wore red and black waist-beads and anklets of brass. When the women retired, Obierika presented kola nuts to his in-laws. His eldest brother


writing, should understand it. Anne stood there the rest of the afternoon with that legend above her. She did not cry or hang her head. Anger was still too hot in her heart for that and it sustained her amid all her agony of humiliation. With resentful eyes and passion-red cheeks she confronted alike Diana's sympathetic gaze and Charlie Sloane's indignant nods and Josie Pye's malicious smiles. As for Gilbert Blythe, she would not even look at him. She would NEVER look at him again! She would never speak to him!! When school was dismissed Anne marched out with her red head held high. Gilbert Blythe tried to intercept her at the porch door. "I'm awfully sorry I made fun of your hair, Anne," he whispered contritely. "Honest I am. Don't be mad for keeps, now" Anne swept by disdainfully, without look or sign of hearing. "Oh how could you, Anne?" breathed Diana as they went down the road half reproachfully, half admiringly. Diana felt that SHE could never have resisted Gilbert's plea. "I shall never forgive Gilbert Blythe," said Anne firmly. "And Mr. Phillips spelled my name without an e, too. The iron has entered into my soul, Diana." Diana hadn't the least idea what Anne meant but she understood it was something terrible. "You mustn't mind Gilbert making fun of your hair," she said soothingly. "Why, he makes fun of all the girls. He laughs at mine because it's so black. He's called me a crow a dozen times; and I never heard him apologize for anything before, either." "There's a great deal of difference between being called a crow and being called carrots," said Anne with dignity. "Gilbert Blythe has hurt my feelings EXCRUCIATINGLY, Diana." It is possible the matter might have blown over without more excruciation if nothing else had happened. But when things begin to happen they are apt to keep on. Avonlea scholars often spent noon hour picking gum in Mr. Bell's spruce grove over the hill and across his big pasture field. From there they could keep an eye on Eben Wright's house, where the master boarded. When they saw Mr. Phillips emerging therefrom they ran for the schoolhouse; but the distance being about three times longer than Mr. Wright's lane they were very apt to arrive there, breathless and gasping, some three minutes too late. On the following day Mr. Phillips was seized with one of his spasmodic fits of reform and announced before going home to dinner, that he should expect to find all the scholars in their seats when he returned. Anyone who came in late would be punished. All the boys and some of the girls went to Mr. Bell's spruce grove as usual, fully intending to stay only long enough to "pick a chew." But spruce groves are seductive and yellow nuts of gum beguiling; they picked and loitered and strayed; and as usual the first thing that recalled them to a sense of the flight of time was Jimmy Glover shouting from the top of a patriarchal old spruce


back from a foe he had started on the way to Death. He had lessoned from Spitz, and from the chief fighting dogs of the police and mail, and knew there was no middle course. He must master or be mastered; while to show mercy was a weakness. Mercy did not exist in the primordial life. It was misunderstood for fear, and such misunderstandings made for death. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, was the law; and this mandate, down out of the depths of Time, he obeyed. He was older than the days he had seen and the breaths he had drawn. He linked the past with the present, and the eternity behind him throbbed through him in a mighty rhythm to which he swayed as the tides and seasons swayed. He sat by John Thornton's fire, a broad-breasted dog, white-fanged and long-furred; but behind him were the shades of all manner of dogs, half-wolves and wild wolves, urgent and prompting, tasting the savor of the meat he ate, thirsting for the water he drank, scenting the wind with him, listening with him and telling him the sounds made by the wild life in the forest, dictating his moods, directing his actions, lying down to sleep with him when he lay down, and dreaming with him and beyond him and becoming themselves the stuff of his dreams. So peremptorily did these shades beckon him, that each day mankind and the claims of mankind slipped farther from him. Deep in the forest a call was sounding, and as often as he heard this call, mysteriously thrilling and luring, he felt compelled to turn his back upon the fire and the beaten earth around it, and to plunge into the forest, and on and on, he knew not where or why; nor did he wonder where or why, the call sounding imperiously, deep in the forest. But as often as he gained the soft unbroken earth and the green shade, the love for John Thornton drew him back to the fire again. Thornton alone held him. The rest of mankind was as nothing. Chance travellers might praise or pet him; but he was cold under it all, and from a too demonstrative man he would get up and walk away. When Thornton's partners, Hans and Pete, arrived on the long-expected raft, Buck refused to notice them till he learned they were close to Thornton; after that he tolerated them in a passive sort of way, accepting favors from them as though he favored them by accepting. They were of the same large type as Thornton, living close to the earth, thinking simply and seeing clearly; and ere they swung the raft into the big eddy by the saw- mill at Dawson, they understood Buck and his ways, and did not insist upon an intimacy such as obtained with Skeet and Nig. For Thornton, however, his love seemed to grow and grow. He, alone among men, could put a pack upon Buck's back in the summer travelling. Nothing was too great for


the last few days. I understand that Christian is scared about the baby, but I don’t understand the depth of his fear. I resolve to talk to him some more about this. See if I can put his mind at ease. What puzzles me is that he hasn’t lacked for positive role models as parents. Both Grace and Carrick are exemplary parents, or so they seem. Maybe it was the Bitch Troll’s interference that damaged him so badly. I’d like to think so. But in truth I think it goes back to his birth mom, though I’m sure Mrs. Robinson didn’t help. I halt my thoughts as I nearly recall a whispered 461/551 conversation. Damn! It hovers on the edge of my memory from when I was un- conscious. Christian talking with Grace. It melts away into the shadows of my mind. Oh, it’s so frustrating. I wonder if Christian will ever volunteer the reason he went to see her or if I’ll have to push him. I’m about to ask when there’s a knock on the door. Detective Clark makes an apologetic entry into the room. He’s right to be apologetic—my heart sinks when I see him. “Mr. Grey, Mrs. Grey. Am I interrupting?” “Yes,” snaps Christian. Clark ignores him. “Glad to see you’re awake, Mrs. Grey. I need to ask you a few questions about Thursday afternoon. Just routine. Is now a convenient time?” “Sure,” I mumble, but I do not want to relive Thursday’s events. “My wife should be resting.” Christian bristles. “I’ll be brief, Mr. Grey. And it means I’ll be out of your hair sooner rather than later.” Christian stands and offers Clark his chair, then sits down beside me on the bed, takes my hand, and squeezes it reassuringly. Half an hour later, Clark is done. I’ve learned nothing new, but I have recounted the events of Thursday to him in a halting, quiet voice, watching Christian go pale and grimace at some parts. “I wish you’d aimed higher,” Christian mutters. “Might have done womankind a service if Mrs. Grey had.” Clark agrees. What? “Thank you, Mrs. Grey. That’s all for now.” “You won’t let him out again, will you?” “I don’t think he’ll make bail this time, ma’am.” “Do we know who posted his bail?” Christian asks. “No sir. It was confidential.” Christian frowns, but I think he has his suspicions. Clark rises to leave just as Dr. Singh and two interns enter the room. 462/551 After a thorough examination, Dr. Singh declares me fit to go home. Christian sags with relief. “Mrs. Grey, you’ll have to watch for worsening headaches and blurry vision. If that occurs you must return to the hospital immediately.” I nod, trying to contain my delight at going home. As Dr. Singh leaves, Christian asks her for a quick word in the corridor. He keeps the door ajar as he asks her a question. She smiles. “Yes, Mr. Grey, that’s fine.” He grins and returns to the room a happier man. “What was all that about?” “Sex,” he says, flashing


tall man with graying hair, oval glasses, and a dark suit. I’ve never seen him before in my life. He offers his condolences and takes a seat on the sofa opposite where Mum sits. James is sat at the dining table. I’ve chosen to remain by the door. “I didn’t even know Dad had a lawyer or had written a will.” “You didn’t?” Mr. Ackah says. “No, I … I don’t think he has anything.” “He invested some money a decade ago, and it’s been growing in interest since.” Mum sits up straighter. “You’ll be splitting that with us,” James says quickly. “Will I? Maddie will get a little bit, of course—she has spent a lot of money on this family, but I’ll need the rest. I need financial help in Ghana,” she says. “It’s not free to live and work there and you are both financially secure enough.” James’s jaw locks. “What?” she says, looking at us in turn. “It is only money; you both should not be so attached to this Earth’s material things. Matthew six, verse nineteen.” Un-fucking-believable. Mum turns back to Mr. Ackah. “So, how much is there?” He looks at me. “Can I confirm your name is Madeleine Wright and you are the daughter of George Wright?” My tongue feels dry. “Yes, I am.” “Did you bring some form of identification?” I give him my passport. “Good, good.” “What’s going on with the money then?” Mum asks. Mr. Ackah looks at her over the top of his oval glasses. “He’s left it all to Madeleine. Fifty thousand pounds.” The room begins to spin and both Mum and James look at me. “What?” Mum says. “All of it?” “Yes, all of it,” he answers. “Now, Madeleine, due to the amount, you need not pay inheritance tax. If you need further help regarding what you’d like to do next, you can contact me at any time. Your father was very fond of you. I’m sorry that he is no longer with us, but I hope you know that he wanted you to be well taken care of.” I pull my jumper away from my neck. “But I don’t understand,” I tell him. “Isn’t the money for everyone?” “Your father was adamant it was left solely in your name,” he says. “I chose not to ask any questions, and I suspect you all know why he might have done this better than I do. He was well enough, according to his doctor, a Doctor…” He checks a piece of paper. “Emmanuel Appong, who declared him of sound body and mind when he drafted this will. I believe it had been a year after his diagnosis when he signed it and his condition was still stable.” Mr. Ackah removes his glasses. “Madeleine, you can of course do as you please, but this money is now yours. Your father didn’t have anything else.” I stand there silent but hear James say, “What’s wrong, Mum?” I turn and notice she looks blindsided by the news. James, however, is smiling, resting his hand on


has certainly won a loyal champion, Miss Porter," said Captain Dufranne, laughing. "I am sure that there be none of us here but would willingly face death a hundred times in its most terrifying forms to deserve the tributes of one even half so loyal--or so beautiful." "You would not wonder that I defend him," said the girl, "could you have seen him as I saw him, battling in my behalf with that huge hairy brute. "Could you have seen him charge the monster as a bull might charge a grizzly--absolutely without sign of fear or hesitation--you would have believed him more than human. "Could you have seen those mighty muscles knotting under the brown skin--could you have seen them force back those awful fangs--you too would have thought him invincible. "And could you have seen the chivalrous treatment which he accorded a strange girl of a strange race, you would feel the same absolute confidence in him that I feel." "You have won your suit, my fair pleader," cried the captain. "This court finds the defendant not guilty, and the cruiser shall wait a few days longer that he may have an opportunity to come and thank the divine Portia." "For the Lord's sake honey," cried Esmeralda. "You all don't mean to tell ME that you're going to stay right here in this here land of carnivable animals when you all got the opportunity to escapade on that boat? Don't you tell me THAT, honey." "Why, Esmeralda! You should be ashamed of yourself," cried Jane. "Is this any way to show your gratitude to the man who saved your life twice?" "Well, Miss Jane, that's all jest as you say; but that there forest man never did save us to stay here. He done save us so we all could get AWAY from here. I expect he be mighty peevish when he find we ain't got no more sense than to stay right here after he done give us the chance to get away. "I hoped I'd never have to sleep in this here geological garden another night and listen to all them lonesome noises that come out of that jumble after dark." "I don't blame you a bit, Esmeralda," said Clayton, "and you certainly did hit it off right when you called them `lonesome' noises. I never have been able to find the right word for them but that's it, don't you know, Chapter 24 135 lonesome noises." "You and Esmeralda had better go and live on the cruiser," said Jane, in fine scorn. "What would you think if you HAD to live all of your life in that jungle as our forest man has done?" "I'm afraid I'd be a blooming bounder as a wild man," laughed Clayton, ruefully. "Those noises at night make the hair on my head bristle. I suppose that I should be ashamed to admit it, but it's the truth." "I don't know about that," said Lieutenant Charpentier. "I never thought much about fear and that sort of thing--never tried to determine whether I was


back to Persephone. I slipped the earring box into my pocket before I left. Liv’s missing,” I said when Cass opened the door. She was wearing a cream silk shell and black slacks, her makeup subdued but precise, and at my greeting she raised her perfectly penciled eyebrows. “Missing? We saw her yesterday.” “And now she’s gone. She left the house before dawn and she’s not answering her phone.” “That’s not exactly unusual for Liv,” Cass pointed out. “Come inside, will you? I’ve been at the lodge since the crack of dawn and I haven’t even gotten any coffee yet.” I followed her in. She paced into the kitchen, where she’d been in the middle of making herself a latte. She poured the steamed milk into the mug, her back to me, as she spoke. “Liv hares off sometimes. Especially when things get intense.” “This is different,” I said. “Why?” she asked. She turned, propping her hip against the counter. She blew gently on her coffee and watched me over the rim of the mug. “What makes it different?” “She left me this message.” I held out my phone and played the message for her on speaker. “She said she lied. Not us. Just her,” I said when it was done. “What could that mean?” Cass asked. “Did she lie to us yesterday?” The promise was a private thing. Cass had always been the together one. We were her beloved disasters, but there were things she didn’t understand. “We have this thing,” I explained reluctantly. “I tell her that I’ll be here tomorrow, and she says she will, too. When we’re having a hard time. It’s a promise. To at least make it one more day.” “I didn’t know that.” Cass set the mug down carefully, adjusting it by the handle so it sat just so. Her voice was brittle, almost wounded. I wished I knew how to explain that it wasn’t a secret we kept from her—not really. It was only that Cass was someone who needed to fix things—and sometimes Liv and I, we just needed to be broken together. “We’ve got to find her, Cass. We have to go out there. To the Grotto,” I said. She flinched. “Why? You don’t think Liv went back, do you? You don’t think—she wouldn’t have done something to herself there?” Her voice was frayed at the edges. “She had a bunch of photos of the woods. Like landmarks, so she could find her way. I think she’s been out there more than once,” I said. “Have you been back?” “I tried once,” Cassidy said cautiously. “After Amanda was born. I guess—I don’t know. I wanted to tell her about it, for some reason.” “You wanted to tell Amanda?” I asked, confused. Cass flushed. “I wanted to tell Persephone about Amanda,” she corrected. “I don’t know why, I just did. But I couldn’t find it. Her. Everything looked different.” “Then we don’t even know if she’s still there,” I said. “Of course she’s still there. Where the fuck else would she be?” Cassidy


vessel, but when Clayton had nearly decided to ask the captain to put them aboard her, the obvious ridiculousness of such a request became suddenly apparent. What reason could he give the officer commanding her majesty's ship for desiring to go back in the direction from which he had just come! What if he told them that two insubordinate seamen had been roughly handled by their officers? They would but laugh in their sleeves and attribute his reason for wishing to leave the ship to but one thing--cowardice. John Clayton, Lord Greystoke, did not ask to be transferred to the British man-of-war. Late in the afternoon he saw her upper works fade below the far horizon, but not before he learned that which confirmed his greatest fears, and caused him to curse the false pride which had restrained him from seeking safety for his Chapter 1 10 young wife a few short hours before, when safety was within reach--a safety which was now gone forever. It was mid-afternoon that brought the little old sailor, who had been felled by the captain a few days before, to where Clayton and his wife stood by the ship's side watching the ever diminishing outlines of the great battleship. The old fellow was polishing brasses, and as he came edging along until close to Clayton he said, in an undertone: "'Ell's to pay, sir, on this 'ere craft, an' mark my word for it, sir. 'Ell's to pay." "What do you mean, my good fellow?" asked Clayton. "Wy, hasn't ye seen wats goin' on? Hasn't ye 'eard that devil's spawn of a capting an' is mates knockin' the bloomin' lights outen 'arf the crew? "Two busted 'eads yeste'day, an' three to-day. Black Michael's as good as new agin an' 'e's not the bully to stand fer it, not 'e; an' mark my word for it, sir." "You mean, my man, that the crew contemplates mutiny?" asked Clayton. "Mutiny!" exclaimed the old fellow. "Mutiny! They means murder, sir, an' mark my word for it, sir." "When?" "Hit's comin', sir; hit's comin' but I'm not a-sayin' wen, an' I've said too damned much now, but ye was a good sort t'other day an' I thought it no more'n right to warn ye. But keep a still tongue in yer 'ead an' when ye 'ear shootin' git below an' stay there. "That's all, only keep a still tongue in yer 'ead, or they'll put a pill between yer ribs, an' mark my word for it, sir," and the old fellow went on with his polishing, which carried him away from where the Claytons were standing. "Deuced cheerful outlook, Alice," said Clayton. "You should warn the captain at once, John. Possibly the trouble may yet be averted," she said. "I suppose I should, but yet from purely selfish motives I am almost prompted to `keep a still tongue in my 'ead.' Whatever they do now they will spare us in recognition of my stand for this fellow Black Michael, but should they find that I had betrayed them there would


was this guest apartment at the back of Jacoby. That was a good one if you had the key. But in spring they’d put up people interviewing for jobs, so that was out.” I said, “I remember certain couples had spots that were, like, theirs. You’d never go to the Quincy balcony at night, because Sakina and Marco would be there.” “Man! I forgot that. It was so territorial. Can’t you imagine a David Attenborough narration? The adolescents have staked out their breeding grounds.” I laughed. “Totally. Angie Parker and that short guy, Steve whatever, they were always up in the English hallway.” “Dorian,” he said, “when he dated Beth, they’d get a full-on hotel room in town. The rumor was she made him, she wouldn’t sleep with him on campus.” “That tracks.” I laughed, this time not genuinely. Good God, I didn’t blame her, given what his friends had all seen. I said, “Where was—Robbie and Thalia had a place, right?” He blanched, actually blanched, to the point where I couldn’t just play it cool; I had to say, “Why, what?” I hoped he was drunk enough. I knew what I wanted him to say, and he just needed to be drunk enough to say it. He wasn’t. I could see his wheels turning, but he said nothing. So I said, “Oh God, was it—was she waiting for him that night, you think? In the shed? I bet she was there looking for him, when someone—oh, shit.” Mike didn’t deny it, so I pressed on. “That makes sense, then, why you’d need to back up his alibi. Even before we knew it happened in there—it was so close to the pool. God, can you imagine? If the police had tried to put him right there by the pool?” He said, quietly—as if lowering his voice would keep this just between us—“This is why he’s always felt responsible. They got their signals crossed, somehow. He thought she was meeting him at the mattresses, and she thought he was meeting her at the shed.” “So you all knew she was at the shed. I’m not—don’t get me wrong, I’m not accusing anyone of anything, but that’s got to be heavy, that you all didn’t mention the shed to the police.” “We didn’t know it happened there.” “Sure, no, of course. But if the police had looked there, if they’d found the blood, it might have changed things.” He shook his head. “Right, it might have changed things just by putting a different innocent person in prison. I’m not saying I value Robbie’s freedom over Omar’s, but there’s no telling what else they would’ve gotten wrong.” There were several things I wanted to scream at him. One was the fact that he clearly had put Robbie ahead of Omar. Another was that he didn’t even seem concerned about justice for Thalia, about the fact that maybe she wasn’t resting in peace, and maybe the person who did this had gone on to hurt more people. Instead of screaming, I tucked a bolster pillow between


Their pepperoni is otherworldly—you want some? Just don’t tell my Jewish parents.” “Oh—I’m a vegetarian,” he says, not sounding at all offended. He chews, then cuts off another small triangle, popping it neatly into his mouth. “About eighteen years. And Jewish, too, actually.” I stare at him for a couple moments, because what are the odds that I’d meet a Jewish stranger in this way? “No shit. I think the only thing I’ve done for eighteen years is manage to function with a consistently medium level of anxiety,” I say. “What made you decide to become a vegetarian?” “Is it cliché to say that I love animals?” Drew asks. I get a flash of him holding a lamb, a piglet, a baby goat. “If not: that, and I was traumatized by The Jungle in high school. Couldn’t look at a hamburger the same way after that.” “If you have time, you should try Pear Bistro. It’s this vegan restaurant downtown that’s always packed. Expensive, but amazing food.” “One sec, I’m going to write that down.” He pulls out his phone, types it in, and slides it back into his pocket. Takes a sip of soda. “So you talk to strangers at bars, listen to Prince, and mysteriously came into possession of a self-help book written by an influencer. What else should I know about you?” “I highly doubt she wrote it.” I might say it a bit too quickly, so I tear off a piece of crust, dipping it into the sauce on the pizza, trying to act nonchalant. “I always assume anyone remotely famous has, you know, a ghostwriter or something. But in terms of fun facts . . .” I give him my most serious look and prepare my sole fun fact, the one I’ve spent much of my life saving for games of two truths and a lie, only to be sorely disappointed by how few opportunities there are for it outside of corporate America. “I’m only seven years old.” He just stares at me, a furrow appearing between his brows. “I . . . don’t have a witty response to that. Only concern and confusion.” “I was born on a leap day,” I say. “I’m thirty-one, but technically, I’ve only celebrated seven February twenty-ninths. I get another one next year, which is always exciting. And I’m a Pisces, so I love drama.” “I’ve never met a . . . leaper? Leapster? Do you have a name for yourselves?” “Actually, yes. Leaper and leapster both work, but I’ve always preferred leapling.” I aim my pizza crust at him. “Your turn. Fun fact me, please.” “Hmmm. I don’t know if I can beat yours, but I do have an encyclopedic knowledge of Lord of the Rings. And not just the books or the movies—like, I actually studied the Elvish languages as a kid,” he says. “As you can imagine, this made me very popular at parties.” “It should have! Say something in Elvish?” His mouth quirks upward. “You have no idea how many times I lay awake at night, hoping