had stopped and the sun rose every morning with dazzling beauty. And it was not too hot either, because the cold and dry harmattan wind was blowing down from the north. Some years the harmattan was very severe and a dense haze hung on the atmosphere. Old men and children would then sit round log fires, warming their bodies. Unoka loved it all, and he loved the first kites that returned with the dry season, and the children who sang songs of welcome to them. He would remember his own childhood, how he had often wandered around looking for a kite sailing leisurely against the blue sky. As soon as he found one he would sing with his whole being, welcoming it back from its long, long journey, and asking it if it had brought home any lengths of cloth. That was years ago, when he was young. Unoka, the grown-up, was a failure. He was poor and his wife and children had barely enough to eat. People laughed at him because he was a loafer, and they swore never to lend him any more money because he never paid back. But Unoka was such a man that he always succeeded in borrowing more, and piling up his debts. One day a neighbour called Okoye came in to see him. He was reclining on a mud bed in his hut playing on the flute. He immediately rose and shook hands with Okoye, who then unrolled the goatskin which he carried under his arm, and sat down. Unoka went into an inner room and soon returned with a small wooden disc containing a kola nut, some alligator pepper and a lump of white chalk. "I have kola," he announced when he sat down, and passed the disc over to his guest. "Thank you. He who brings kola brings life. But I think you ought to break it," replied Okoye, passing back the disc. "No, it is for you, I think," and they argued like this for a few moments before Unoka accepted the honour of breaking the kola. Okoye, meanwhile, took the lump of chalk, drew some lines on the floor, and then painted his big toe. As he broke the kola, Unoka prayed to their ancestors for life and health, and for protection against their enemies. When they had eaten they talked about many things: about the heavy rains which were drowning the yams, about the next ancestral feast and about the impending war with the village of Mbaino. Unoka was never happy when it came to wars. He was in fact a coward and could not bear the sight of blood. And so he changed the subject and talked about music, and his face beamed. He could hear in his mind's ear the blood-stirring and intricate rhythms of the ekwe and the udu and the ogene, and he could hear his own flute weaving in and out of them, decorating them with a colourful and plaintive tune. The total effect was gay and brisk, but if one picked out the flute


slightly on the steering wheel, but other than that, you’d never know what was to come. After I’d moved back home, Simon didn’t go out much, as there was nowhere to go and every one of his friends dropped him once the news of his role in the bombing case came to light. There were no criminal charges, thank goodness, but he became a social pariah. For a man who lived on laughter and camaraderie, known for his enthusiastic handshakes when he bumped into a casual acquaintance, a man who remembered everyone’s wives’ and kids’ names, the toll was steep. He withdrew into himself, literally: his hands turned into fists, his shoulders caved in toward his chest, his head tilted forward. Then there were the constant falls, because he refused to use a cane or a walker. Eventually, he was too weak to stand and, although he railed against the idea, finally settled into a wheelchair. All of this took time, of course. That’s the nature of the disease. A slow erosion of independence and freedom of movement. While he wasted away, I found steady work as a choreographer, which helped pay for aides to stay and care for him. One thing I wasn’t going to do was let him get in the way of my career. The show about the early days of Russell’s dance troupe—called Rise of the Rockettes—was a big hit, and I found myself working for other directors, eventually dropping the assistant before choreographer, and getting nominated for my first Tony in 1959. I lost to Bob Fosse but then went on to win three after that. While I officially retired from choreographing five years ago, at the age of fifty, I’m still involved in various projects that bring me into the city and feed my need for movement and grace. Simon passed away after a series of strokes in the late sixties. At that point, I could have moved into the city, but it had changed, and not for the better. New York was more dangerous; there was litter on the streets and graffiti in the subways. By comparison, Bronxville was a paradise, and it remained my home base, even as I worked and traveled the world. With this new book out about the hunt for the Big Apple Bomber, my phone rings with requests for interviews constantly. Everyone had forgotten the terror that one man brought to the city over the course of sixteen years. It had receded into the city’s collective memory, and if you mentioned the name “George Martinek,” you’d get a blank look. I’d allowed the author to interview me for the book, knowing that it was up to me to provide nuance to my father’s decisions as well as the police’s ineptitude. Once it was published, I found it to be quite well-written, to my surprise. The author included, in the end, an update on the various characters in the story. Martinek was eventually sent to a psychiatric hospital for the “isolation of the dangerous and vicious” and is a model patient


ultimate goal is equality. True social change, starting with the incorporation of other-born in law enforcement. We seek to establish a new, inclusive Order, yes, but it wouldn’t be like the Order of the Furies. The fury-born were supposed to hold impartial trials of the other-born they arrested, but I’m told that, more and more before their end, their trials ended overwhelmingly in incarceration, despite evidence favoring the defense.” Io had heard those rumors, too, but they were all vague on the details. The death of the fury-born was so sudden and so tragic that no one wanted to taint their memory with the ugly bits. Perhaps, however, this was an opportunity to fish for a little information, before Thais got here and Io found an excuse to whisk her away. “If it’s true that the Agora is backing you,” she said, watching closely for his reaction, “then more other-born might be willing to join.” Saint-Yves leisurely picked an apple slice to chew on, as if he expected the world to hold its breath for him. “The Agora is keen to see our dream succeed, yes,” he said, a cryptic answer if Io ever heard one. “Are you talking about business again, baby?” Thais scolded, appearing with an ornamented silver tray carrying neat squares of revani, topped with ice cream. Oh, thank the gods. Thais was here, and Io could now get moving. “Just getting to know your sister, love,” he answered. Io tried to catch her sister’s eye, but Thais got busy with the revani, serving each plate laboriously. Hanne mentioned something about their engagement taking Alante by storm, dozens of articles, journalists calling for an interview. Grinning ear to ear, Thais carried the discussion to their wedding, planned for early fall in Nanzy. Io stared at the revani on her little crystal dish, ice cream melting around its sides, and slowly worked her left hand under the table. She kept her eyes on her dish; when she pulled up the Quilt, no one noticed the flash of silver in her eyes. Thread after thread she scanned, finding at last the one she sought. With a quick flick of her fingers, she yanked the thread leading to Thais. Three short tugs, two long. The Ora sisters’ call to arms. Across the table, Thais paused with her spoon in her mouth, eyes glazed with a silver glow as she studied the Quilt around Io. Using nothing but her gaze, Io gestured at Aris Lefteriou and then at the exit. Such was the language of sisters: a whole conversation carried in looks. But instead of finding an excuse to talk alone, which was Io’s intended plan, Thais set her spoon down and faced the phobos-born. She spoke over the others like they were butter and she a heated knife— “Why is my sister terrified of you, Aris?” The table stilled, and Io’s muscles tensed for flight. Thais Ora was more to the point than a sharpshooter. It was an admirable quality, one that Io lacked herself, but it made for uneasy conversations. Io


speaking in their adieux as "we", and yet sundered like the poles. Perhaps something unusually stiff and embarrassed in their attitude, some awkwardness in acting up to their profession of unity, different from the natural shyness of young couples, may have been apparent, for when they were gone Mrs Crick said to her husband---- "How onnatural the brightness of her eyes did seem, and how they stood like waxen images and talked as if they were in a dream! Didn't it strike 'ee that 'twas so? Tess had always sommat strange in her, and she's not now quite like the proud young bride of a well-be-doing man." They re-entered the vehicle, and were driven along the roads towards Weatherbury and Stagfoot Lane, till they reached the Lane inn, where Clare dismissed the fly and man. They rested here a while, and entering the Vale were next driven onward towards her home by a stranger who did not know their relations. At a midway point, when Nuttlebury had been passed, and where there were cross-roads, Clare stopped the conveyance and said to Tess that if she meant to return to her mother's house it was here that he would leave her. As they could not talk with freedom in the driver's presence he asked her to accompany him for a few steps on foot along one of the branch roads; she assented, and directing the man to wait a few minutes they strolled away. "Now, let us understand each other," he said gently. "There is no anger between us, though there is that which I cannot endure at present. I will try to bring myself to endure it. I will let you know where I go to as soon as I know myself. And if I can bring myself to bear it--if it is desirable, possible--I will come to you. But until I come to you it will be better that you should not try to come to me." The severity of the decree seemed deadly to Tess; she saw his view of her clearly enough; he could regard her in no other light than that of one who had practised gross deceit upon him. Yet could a woman who had done even what she had done deserve all this? But she could contest the point with him no further. She simply repeated after him his own words. "Until you come to me I must not try to come to you?" "Just so." "May I write to you?" "O yes--if you are ill, or want anything at all. I hope that will not be the case; so that it may happen that I write first to you." "I agree to the conditions, Angel; because you know best what my punishment ought to be; only--only--don't make it more than I can bear!" That was all she said on the matter. If Tess had been artful, had she made a scene, fainted, wept hysterically, in that lonely lane, notwithstanding the fury of fastidiousness with which he was possessed, he would probably not have withstood her.


aware of the fearful secret hidden within the house, it would have affected him with a singular shape and modification of horror, to see the current of human life making this small eddy hereabouts, --whirling sticks, straws and all such trifles, round and round, right over the black depth where a dead corpse lay unseen! The butcher was so much in earnest with his sweetbread of lamb, or whatever the dainty might be, that he tried every accessible door of the Seven Gables, and at length came round again to the shop, where he ordinarily found admittance. "It's a nice article, and I know the old lady would jump at it," said he to himself. "She can't be gone away! In fifteen years that I have driven my cart through Pyncheon Street, I've never known her to be away from home; though often enough, to be sure, a man might knock all day without bringing her to the door. But that was when she'd only herself to provide for" Peeping through the same crevice of the curtain where, only a little while before, the urchin of elephantine appetite had peeped, the butcher beheld the inner door, not closed, as the child had seen it, but ajar, and almost wide open. However it might have happened, it was the fact. Through the passage-way there was a dark vista into the lighter but still obscure interior of the parlor. It appeared to the butcher that he could pretty clearly discern what seemed to be the stalwart legs, clad in black pantaloons, of a man sitting in a large oaken chair, the back of which concealed all the remainder of his figure. This contemptuous tranquillity on the part of an occupant of the house, in response to the butcher's indefatigable efforts to attract notice, so piqued the man of flesh that he determined to withdraw. "So," thought he, "there sits Old Maid Pyncheon's bloody brother, while I've been giving myself all this trouble! Why, if a hog hadn't more manners, I'd stick him! I call it demeaning a man's business to trade with such people; and from this time forth, if they want a sausage or an ounce of liver, they shall run after the cart for it!" He tossed the titbit angrily into his cart, and drove off in a pet. Not a great while afterwards there was a sound of music turning the corner and approaching down the street, with several intervals of silence, and then a renewed and nearer outbreak of brisk melody. A mob of children was seen moving onward, or stopping, in unison with the sound, which appeared to proceed from the centre of the throng; so that they were loosely bound together by slender strains of harmony, and drawn along captive; with ever and anon an accession of some little fellow in an apron and straw-hat, capering forth from door or gateway. Arriving under the shadow of the Pyncheon Elm, it proved to be the Italian boy, who, with his monkey and show of puppets, had once before played


teeth before breakfast. I don’t understand why. 187/551 “You should ask Taylor to teach you how to shoot,” I say as we travel down in the elevator. Christian gazes down at me, amused. “Should I now?” he says dryly. “Yes.” “Anastasia, I despise guns. My mom has patched up too many victims of gun crime, and my dad is vehemently antigun. I grew up with their ethos. I support at least two gun control initiatives here in Washington.” “Oh. Does Taylor carry a gun?” Christian’s mouth thins. “Sometimes.” “You don’t approve?” I ask, as Christian ushers me out of the elevator on the ground floor. “No,” he says, tight-lipped. “Let’s just say that Taylor and I hold very differ- ent views with regard to gun control.” I’m with Taylor on this. Christian holds the foyer door open for me and I head out to the car. He has not let me drive alone to SIP since he found out that Charlie Tango was sabot- aged. Sawyer smiles pleasantly, holding the door open for me as Christian and I climb into the car. “Please.” I reach across and grasp Christian’s hand. “Please what?” “Learn how to shoot.” He rolls his eyes at me. “No. End of discussion, Anastasia.” And I am a child again to be scolded. I open my mouth to say something cut- ting, but decide I don’t want to start my workday in a bad mood. I fold my arms instead and glimpse Taylor regarding me in the rearview mirror. He looks away, concentrating on the road in front, but shakes his head a little, in obvious frustration. Hmm . . . Christian drives him crazy, too, sometimes. The thought makes me smile, and my mood is saved. “Where is Leila?” I ask as Christian gazes out of his window. “I told you. She’s in Connecticut with her folks.” He glances at me. “Did you check? After all, she does have long hair. It could have been her driving the Dodge.” “Yes, I checked. She’s enrolled in an art school in Hamden. She started this week.” 188/551 “You’ve spoken to her?” I whisper, all the blood draining from my face. Christian whips his head around at the tone of my voice. “No. Flynn has.” He searches my face for a clue to my thoughts. “I see,” I murmur, relieved. “What?” “Nothing.” Christian sighs. “Ana. What is it?” I shrug, not wanting to admit to my irrational jealousy. Christian continues, “I’m keeping tabs on her, checking that she stays on her side of the continent. She’s better, Ana. Flynn has referred her to a shrink in New Haven, and all the reports are very positive. She’s always been interested in art, so . . .” He stops, his face still searching mine. And in that moment I suspect that he is paying for her art classes. Do I want to know? Should I ask him? I mean it’s not as if he can’t afford it, but why does he feel the obligation? I sigh. Christian’s baggage hardly compares to Bradley Kent


She doesn’t want to rock the boat.” I couldn’t control the noise I made, an outraged puff of air. “Christ,” I said. “This is not about anyone’s discomfort. If Omar—” “No, I know.” “It’s funny,” I said, “because Fran is the person who taught me how to rock boats.” “Well. But this is her home. You get that.” And yes, although I fundamentally disagreed, I did understand that her instinct was to protect Granby, in the reflexive way a drone will protect a beehive. I couldn’t imagine having that level of attachment to a place. By the time we met, I was someone without a home; Fran was someone who would never leave hers. While other freshmen were still figuring out where various classrooms were, Fran was showing me the storage closet off the wrestling room where they kept the extra Frisbees. She was showing me where they kept the liquor for reunions, although we never dared. She showed me the three small gravestones in the woods—farmers who’d died two hundred years back. To know those secret places was to know the school, to take ownership. There were plenty more of them, places you could go to be alone, or alone with one other person. There were the theater spaces, the ones that were mine by senior year: the lighting booth, the gel room, the prop storage, the catwalk. I never invited friends; I’d have been no fun, yelling every time someone set a soda can down. There was the darkroom, so thoroughly Geoff’s that it became mine and Fran’s and Carlotta’s by default. There was the athletic shed, but I rarely went there—I couldn’t get over my mouse issue. There was a nonfunctional fireplace in Jacoby Hall with an upright piano in front of it, and a few couples were in the habit of claiming the space, pulling the piano tight against the opening, making out in there. There were the woods (the mattresses, yes, but a dozen other meeting spots: notable stumps, part of what used to be a brick wall), although so much of the school year was dark and cold, the ground either unforgivingly hard or boot-suckingly soft and wet. There were the places accessible by contraband keys, for the brave. A classroom belonging to a teacher who lived off campus was often a safe bet—but then, this was how Jorge Cardenas and Laren Willebrand got caught by Ms. Arena junior year, mostly clothed but still humiliated. There were ways to get around curfews and door alarms and on-duty teachers. Fran was in a strange category as, technically, a day student—but unlike the twenty or so students who commuted, she was not exiled from campus after the start of evening study hall. Mr. Peloni once caught her crossing the quad at ten p.m. on a school night and tried to make a deal of it, but Fran successfully argued that other day students were not confined to home once they left campus. What if she needed to walk the dog? What if her family grilled on their patio?


know anything. There was nothing to know. Nothing that could be proved. The trees opened up at the edge of the pond. Frogs creaked and croaked in the water, and insects danced along the surface. The scene had a bedraggled kind of charm to it, but the magic of that summer was long gone. “Is it at all possible that you were mistaken?” Ethan asked, his voice keeping me brutishly anchored in the present. I wished he would leave—and I was glad he didn’t. Time here was slippery. I didn’t want to be alone with the past. “Can you see any possibility that the man who attacked you wasn’t Stahl, but someone else?” “Will you just let it go? I’m not going to play along with your pet theory,” I said. “Naomi.” He grabbed my arm. I snarled, wrenching away from him, and turned with my fingers tightening into fists. But he wasn’t looking at me. His gaze shot past me. I started to turn. He reached for me again, as if to stop me, but he couldn’t. Nothing could stop this, the moment when endless possibility collapsed into the cruel certainty of fact. It was her hand I saw first, fingers bent. And then the oil slick of her hair seeping out across the surface of the water, obscuring all but a fractured sliver of her cheek. Then the dark blotch of her torso, loose shirt billowing around her, obscuring the shape of her until my mind refused to see that it was a person at all, was more than this collection of fragments. Shape and shadow jumbled on the surface of the water into something that couldn’t be Olivia. My mind rejected it, but my body knew. I was in motion before my tattered thoughts could stitch themselves together. Ethan’s hand scraped against my arm once more, but I plunged past. I ran straight into the water, thrashing my way through to her. I clawed my way past cattails, feet sinking into silty mud. Hold on, hold on, I thought, logic left behind me on the shore. She couldn’t be alive and it didn’t matter because I had to get to her. I was eleven years old and she was in the water and I couldn’t find her, the silt too thick, my hands groping at nothing, nothing, nothing. And then she was in my arms, and I was dragging her up. And she had coughed and sputtered and fought me, and breathed, and lived. She had lived, and she would live now, if I could only get to her. Her face was swollen and gray when I turned her over. “It’s okay,” I murmured inanely. I pulled her against me. Her eyes were shut, her mouth slack. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” I bent over her, my breath knotted in my throat. You promised, I shouted, but the words lodged in silence. I’m here. You said you would be, too. “Naomi. There’s nothing you can do. You shouldn’t touch the body,” Ethan said. He stood in the water beside me,


peek through the crusts of snow, Vic went to a room on the Terrible Dogfish. He kept the lights off as he pulled the sheet covering Hap, tugging it down to his chest. It was the first thing he’d fixed, knowing it was easier than a heart. The skin that had torn when Hap’s heart exploded had been too shredded to repair, the panel covering his power cavity broken. He’d replaced them with wood, knowing Hap would like it when he awoke. If he awoke. He climbed onto the table next to Hap, curling against him, making himself as small as he could. Hap was cold, skin like ice, but Vic didn’t mind. He pulled the sheet back over them and lay his head on Hap’s shoulder. “I walked through the woods today,” he whispered. “And I turned to point out a bird in the trees, but you weren’t there.” Hap didn’t reply. Vic stayed there until morning when the winter sun began rising as it always did. The snows were mostly gone when he finished the first heart. Born of desperation and rage, it was harsher than the previous heart, the lines sharper, more angled, the base a pointed tip capable of slicing skin. But that made sense: its creator was not the same as he’d been before. He was angrier. Sadder. Braver. Five gears: two bigger, three smaller. One for Dad. One for Vic. And Nurse Ratched and Rambo and Hap. And at its center, a tiny wooden hatch that opened to reveal a smooth white strip that waited for a drop of life. He did not tell the others right away, wanting to be sure before he let himself hope. As Vic returned from the forest on a cool spring afternoon two days after he finished the heart, he came across a sight he’d never seen before. A tree—an old, tall oak—stood in the woods, limbs shaggy with burgeoning leaves. But it was the moving colorful trunk that caught Vic’s gaze. It took him a moment to realize it wasn’t the trunk that was moving, but the dozens of butterflies upon it. Monarchs, gold and orange and black, their wings shivering. He showed them the heart. Nurse Ratched said, “I knew you could do it.” “Will it make them like they used to be?” Rambo asked. “I don’t know,” Vic said. “And we will not know unless we try,” Nurse Ratched said. They told Dad what Victor had made. When Vic showed the heart to him, he took it in his hands, turning it over. “You did this?” “Yes,” Vic said, feeling like a child again, hoping for his father’s approval. “It’s wonderful,” Dad said. “Who is it for?” “You.” He came willingly, hand clutching Victor’s as he sat in a chair in one of the many rooms in the Terrible Dogfish. Nurse Ratched helped him lift his shirt up and over his head, and when asked, he tapped his breastbone, opening the compartment in his chest, revealing his power source: a circular battery lined with blinking lights. “Will


to see your folks without dressing up more the dand than that?" "But I am going to work!" said Tess. "Well, yes," said Mrs Durbeyfield; and in a private tone, "at first there mid be a little pretence o't.... But I think it will be wiser of 'ee to put your best side outward," she added. "Very well; I suppose you know best," replied Tess with calm abandonment. And to please her parent the girl put herself quite in Joan's hands, saying serenely--"Do what you like with me, mother." Mrs Durbeyfield was only too delighted at this tractability. First she fetched a great basin, and washed Tess's hair with such thoroughness that when dried and brushed it looked twice as much as at other times. She tied it with a broader pink ribbon than usual. Then she put upon her the white frock that Tess had worn at the club-walking, the airy fulness of which, supplementing her enlarged COIFFURE, imparted to her developing figure an amplitude which belied her age, and might cause her to be estimated as a woman when she was not much more than a child. "I declare there's a hole in my stocking-heel!" said Tess. "Never mind holes in your stockings--they don't speak! When I was a maid, so long as I had a pretty bonnet the devil might ha' found me in heels." Her mother's pride in the girl's appearance led her to step back, like a painter from his easel, and survey her work as a whole. "You must zee yourself!" she cried. "It is much better than you was t'other day." As the looking-glass was only large enough to reflect a very small portion of Tess's person at one time, Mrs Durbeyfield hung a black cloak outside the casement, and so made a large reflector of the panes, as it is the wont of bedecking cottagers to do. After this she went downstairs to her husband, who was sitting in the lower room. "I'll tell 'ee what 'tis, Durbeyfield," said she exultingly; "he'll never have the heart not to love her. But whatever you do, don't zay too much to Tess of his fancy for her, and this chance she has got. She is such an odd maid that it mid zet her against him, or against going there, even now. If all goes well, I shall certainly be for making some return to pa'son at Stagfoot Lane for telling us--dear, good man!" However, as the moment for the girl's setting out drew nigh, when the first excitement of the dressing had passed off, a slight misgiving found place in Joan Durbeyfield's mind. It prompted the matron to say that she would walk a little way--as far as to the point where the acclivity from the valley began its first steep ascent to the outer world. At the top Tess was going to be met with the spring-cart sent by the Stoke-d'Urbervilles, and her box had already been wheeled ahead towards this summit by a lad with trucks, to be in readiness. Seeing their mother


to stand more days in a windowless space,” she says to them in her melodious voice. Then she gestures to Yifeng and me. “And I don’t think they’ll be able to either. Please let us remain outside, where it will be more comfortable.” The bodyguards deny her request, insisting that they need to protect us. “Even if a farmer or another boatman glimpses us,” she replies, “in a moment we will have sailed past.” “We don’t want to get in trouble,” one of the bodyguards says. “Prefect Tan—” “Need never know,” she finishes. “We can keep this a secret between us.” After a bit more back-and-forth, she settles an arrangement by placing coins in their hands. Poppy and I exchange glances. We aren’t supposed to like the concubine, but in this moment we’re both grateful to her. As one guard takes a position at the front of the sampan and the other stands at the rear with the boatman, Miss Zhao herds Yifeng, Poppy, and me to seats under a canopy. The boatman pushes us away from the dock. Now I can see everything. The buildings, the people, the activities on the shore all help to distract me from my nausea. After an hour or so, the boatman steers us onto the Wusong River, which is far smaller than the Huangpu. We’re still going against the current, but the shift in direction also means a shift in the wind. It comes from behind us now, and we glide over the smoother waters. The boatman maneuvers the oar rhythmically as we pass li upon li of rice paddies. No walls hide the view or limit the sky. When Yifeng needs to relieve himself, Miss Zhao holds on to him so he can do his business right into the swirling waters. “Time to eat,” the boatman announces as the sun peeks through the clouds. He ties the sampan to a tree growing on the bank. He gives Miss Zhao a basket filled with rice balls stuffed with peanuts, which she hands out to each of us. After lunch, when the boatman takes Yifeng ashore to run off some energy, Miss Zhao says, “You’ve now gone many days without studying. I wanted you to have time to let your feelings settle.” My breath catches. I don’t want to talk about my grief with her. “And, of course, there was the horror of the ocean voyage…” She shakes her head as if to push the memory of it from her mind. “But now it’s time to begin again, don’t you think?” “Respectful Lady was my teacher.” Miss Zhao looks at me with such sympathy that I have to fight back tears. “She was a wonderful teacher to you and Yifeng. Could there be a better way to honor her than to continue what she started?” The rice balls feel like rocks in my stomach. I swallow hard. “Maybe you think because I’m a concubine that all I know is how to be beautiful for your father and provide him with amusements,” she goes on, “but he


She had known she would falter when she smelled the inside of the house again. Wax on wood. Vinegar on glass. Those scents lingered over something vast and rotten underneath. In you go, she told herself, and brought her warriors into the house with her. * * * The bell board was painted a dark shade of forest green, surmounted with gleaming brass bells, gilded labels naming the rooms: Mr. de Vries’s Study. Mr. de Vries’s Bathroom. The Boiserie. The Dining Room. The Oval Drawing Room. The Ballroom. One of the bells set up a furious ringing. “Alice?” a voice called. “Madam’s ready for you.” Alice shot another glance at the bell board. She could see the brass shimmering, the clapper still vibrating. Miss de Vries’s Dressing Room. “Coming,” Alice said, smoothing her apron. * * * Miss de Vries met Mr. Lockwood in Papa’s bathroom. She expected results, and she intended to get them. She had already emerged from the water, wrapped herself up, was entirely decent. But her skin was still damp and flushed, and his eyebrows went up when he saw her. “In here, Miss de Vries?” he said. “Really?” The walls were the darkest oak, rubbed to an impossible shine, inlaid with a hundred mirrors and grotesque wood carvings. He eyed them now, wrinkling his nose at the nudes, the ivory statues, the phallic water jugs. She pulled her shawl over her shoulders. “I wanted to speak in private. Have you finished the negotiations?” He sighed. “Lady Ashley’s people are reviewing the finer points of the jointure.” “They were doing that three days ago.” “And they may well be doing it three days hence, Miss de Vries. Or longer.” Miss de Vries emptied the water jug, watching the water explode against the sides of the sink. “I want this business concluded tonight.” Lockwood set his mouth in a grim line. “So do we all. But these matters take time.” Miss de Vries turned, faced him straight on. “I need surety, Mr. Lockwood,” she said. “I need to make progress. I can’t wait forever.” “You can wait three days.” “Perhaps I can, but I won’t. Give them till midnight, or I’m closing the negotiations.” Lockwood closed his eyes. “You don’t mean that.” She smiled. “No, I don’t mean that. But you’ll tell them I do.” She adjusted her mantle. “I shall need a sweetener if I’m to turn the screws.” “No sweeteners. You’ve made far too many concessions already.” He tilted his head. “To Lady Ashley, perhaps. But you’re seeking a different quarry. Lord Ashley has his own particular weak spots.” Miss de Vries rubbed her fist against the mirrored glass, clearing the steam, examining herself. “Then press them. Press any one you like.” “It’s not so much about pressing.” Lockwood’s voice was soft. “It’s more about...presenting.” Lockwood smiled, eyes dead and unreadable. She felt a tingle in her skin. “You mean a gift.” “Yes.” It had been coming for days. She’d felt Ashley hovering around it when he came for tea, and Lockwood had picked it up at


and her pretty manners oftener into the nursery Mary might have learned some pretty ways too. It is very sad, now the poor beautiful thing is gone, to remember that many people never even knew that she had a child at all." "I believe she scarcely ever looked at her," sighed Mrs. Crawford. "When her Ayah was dead there was no one to give a thought to the little thing. Think of the servants running away and leaving her all alone in that deserted bungalow. Colonel McGrew said he nearly jumped out of his skin when he opened the door and found her standing by herself in the middle of the room." Mary made the long voyage to England under the care of an officer's wife, who was taking her children to leave them in a boarding-school. She was very much absorbed in her own little boy and girl, and was rather glad to hand the child over to the woman Mr. Archibald Craven sent to meet her, in London. The woman was his housekeeper at Misselthwaite Manor, and her name was Mrs. Medlock. She was a stout woman, with very red cheeks and sharp black eyes. She wore a very purple dress, a black silk mantle with jet fringe on it and a black bonnet with purple velvet flowers which stuck up and trembled when she moved her head. Mary did not like her at all, but as she very seldom liked people there was nothing remarkable in that; besides which it was very evident Mrs. Medlock did not think much of her. "My word! she's a plain little piece of goods!" she said. "And we'd heard that her mother was a beauty. She hasn't handed much of it down, has she, ma'am?" "Perhaps she will improve as she grows older," the officer's wife said good-naturedly. "If she were not so sallow and had a nicer expression, her features are rather good. Children alter so much." "She'll have to alter a good deal," answered Mrs. Medlock. "And, there's nothing likely to improve children at Misselthwaite--if you ask me!" They thought Mary was not listening because she was standing a little apart from them at the window of the private hotel they had gone to. She was watching the passing buses and cabs and people, but she heard quite well and was made very curious about her uncle and the place he lived in. What sort of a place was it, and what would he be like? What was a hunchback? She had never seen one. Perhaps there were none in India. Since she had been living in other people's houses and had had no Ayah, she had begun to feel lonely and to think queer thoughts which were new to her. She had begun to wonder why she had never seemed to belong to anyone even when her father and mother had been alive. Other children seemed to belong to their fathers and mothers, but she had never seemed to really be anyone's little girl. She had had servants, and food


if she. Dribbling a quiet message from his bladder came to go to do not to do there to do. A man and ready he drained his glass to the lees and walked, to men too they gave themselves, manly conscious, lay with men lovers, a youth enjoyed her, to the yard. When the sound of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne said from his book: --What is this he is? Isn't he in the insurance line? --He's out of that long ago, Nosey Flynn said. He does canvassing for the FREEMAN. --I know him well to see, Davy Byrne said. Is he in trouble? --Trouble? Nosey Flynn said. Not that I heard of. Why? --I noticed he was in mourning. --Was he? Nosey Flynn said. So he was, faith. I asked him how was all at home. You're right, by God. So he was. --I never broach the subject, Davy Byrne said humanely, if I see a gentleman is in trouble that way. It only brings it up fresh in their minds. --It's not the wife anyhow, Nosey Flynn said. I met him the day before yesterday and he coming out of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's wife has in Henry street with a jar of cream in his hand taking it home to his better half. She's well nourished, I tell you. Plovers on toast. --And is he doing for the FREEMAN? Davy Byrne said. Nosey Flynn pursed his lips. ---He doesn't buy cream on the ads he picks up. You can make bacon of that. --How so? Davy Byrne asked, coming from his book. Nosey Flynn made swift passes in the air with juggling fingers. He winked. --He's in the craft, he said. ---Do you tell me so? Davy Byrne said. --Very much so, Nosey Flynn said. Ancient free and accepted order. He's an excellent brother. Light, life and love, by God. They give him a leg up. I was told that by a--well, I won't say who. --Is that a fact? --O, it's a fine order, Nosey Flynn said. They stick to you when you're down. I know a fellow was trying to get into it. But they're as close as damn it. By God they did right to keep the women out of it. Davy Byrne smiledyawnednodded all in one: --Iiiiiichaaaaaaach! --There was one woman, Nosey Flynn said, hid herself in a clock to find out what they do be doing. But be damned but they smelt her out and swore her in on the spot a master mason. That was one of the saint Legers of Doneraile. Davy Byrne, sated after his yawn, said with tearwashed eyes: --And is that a fact? Decent quiet man he is. I often saw him in here and I never once saw him--you know, over the line. --God Almighty couldn't make him drunk, Nosey Flynn said firmly. Slips off when the fun gets too hot. Didn't you see him look at his watch? Ah, you weren't there. If you ask him to have a drink first thing he


done a great amount of walking with it." "Perfectly sound!" said Holmes. "And then again, there is the 'friends of the C.C.H.' I should guess that to be the Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose members he has possibly given some surgical assistance, and which has made him a small presentation in return." "Really, Watson, you excel yourself," said Holmes, pushing back his chair and lighting a cigarette. "I am bound to say that in all the accounts which you have been so good as to give of my own small achievements you have habitually underrated your own abilities. It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it. I confess, my dear fellow, that I am very much in your debt." He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words gave me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his indifference to my admiration and to the attempts which I had made to give publicity to his methods. I was proud, too, to think that I had so far mastered his system as to apply it in a way which earned his approval. He now took the stick from my hands and examined it for a few minutes with his naked eyes. Then with an expression of interest he laid down his cigarette, and carrying the cane to the window, he looked over it again with a convex lens. "Interesting, though elementary," said he as he returned to his favourite corner of the settee. "There are certainly one or two indications upon the stick. It gives us the basis for several deductions." "Has anything escaped me?" I asked with some self- importance. "I trust that there is nothing of consequence which I have overlooked?" "I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were erroneous. When I said that you stimulated me I meant, to be frank, that in noting your fallacies I was occasionally guided towards the truth. Not that you are entirely wrong in this in- stance. The man is certainly a country practitioner. And he walks a good deal." "Then I was right." "To that extent." "But that was all." "No, no, my dear Watson, not all -- by no means all. I would suggest, for example, that a presentation to a doctor is more likely to come from a hospital than from a hunt, and that when the initials 'C.C.' are placed before that hospital the words 'Charing Cross' very naturally suggest themselves." "You may be right." "The probability lies in that direction. And if we take this as a working hypothesis we have a fresh basis from which to start our construction of this unknown visitor." "Well, then, supposing that 'C.C.H.' does stand for 'Charing Cross Hospital,' what further inferences may we draw?" "Do none suggest themselves? You know my methods. Apply them!" "I can only think of the obvious conclusion that the man has practised in town


lady and fair man. Letter. Cat furry black ball. Torn strip of envelope. LOVE'S OLD SWEET SONG COMES LO-OVE'S OLD ... --It's a kind of a tour, don't you see, Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. SWEEEET SONG. There's a committee formed. Part shares and part profits. M'Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble. --O, well, he said. That's good news. He moved to go. --Well, glad to see you looking fit, he said. Meet you knocking around. --Yes, Mr Bloom said. --Tell you what, M'Coy said. You might put down my name at the funeral, will you? I'd like to go but I mightn't be able, you see. There's a drowning case at Sandycove may turn up and then the coroner and myself would have to go down if the body is found. You just shove in my name if I'm not there, will you? --I'll do that, Mr Bloom said, moving to get off. That'll be all right. --Right, M'Coy said brightly. Thanks, old man. I'd go if I possibly could. Well, tolloll. Just C. P. M'Coy will do. --That will be done, Mr Bloom answered firmly. Didn't catch me napping that wheeze. The quick touch. Soft mark. I'd like my job. Valise I have a particular fancy for. Leather. Capped corners, rivetted edges, double action lever lock. Bob Cowley lent him his for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard tidings of it from that good day to this. Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled. My missus has just got an. Reedy freckled soprano. Cheeseparing nose. Nice enough in its way: for a little ballad. No guts in it. You and me, don't you know: in the same boat. Softsoaping. Give you the needle that would. Can't he hear the difference? Think he's that way inclined a bit. Against my grain somehow. Thought that Belfast would fetch him. I hope that smallpox up there doesn't get worse. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again. Your wife and my wife. Wonder is he pimping after me? Mr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyes wandering over the multicoloured hoardings. Cantrell and Cochrane's Ginger Ale (Aromatic). Clery's Summer Sale. No, he's going on straight. Hello. LEAH tonight. Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Like to see her again in that. HAMLET she played last night. Male impersonator. Perhaps he was a woman. Why Ophelia committed suicide. Poor papa! How he used to talk of Kate Bateman in that. Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the afternoon to get in. Year before I was born that was: sixtyfive. And Ristori in Vienna. What is this the right name is? By Mosenthal it is. Rachel, is it? No. The scene he was always talking about where the old blind Abraham recognises the voice and puts his fingers on his face. Nathan's voice! His son's voice! I hear the voice of Nathan who left his father to die of grief and misery in my arms, who left the house of his father and left the God of his father. Every word is so deep,


also, was a human creature, in pain and perhaps with a broken bone. Already he had instinctively file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (58 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt started forward to help her. In the moment when he had seen her fall on the bandaged arm, it had been as though he felt the pain in his own body. 'You're hurt?' he said. 'It's nothing. My arm. It'll be all right in a second.' She spoke as though her heart were fluttering. She had certainly turned very pale. 'You haven't broken anything?' 'No, I'm all right. It hurt for a moment, that's all.' She held out her free hand to him, and he helped her up. She had regained some of her colour, and appeared very much better. 'It's nothing,' she repeated shortly. 'I only gave my wrist a bit of a bang. Thanks, comrade!' And with that she walked on in the direction in which she had been going, as briskly as though it had really been nothing. The whole incident could not have taken as much as half a minute. Not to let one's feelings appear in one's face was a habit that had acquired the status of an instinct, and in any case they had been standing straight in front of a telescreen when the thing happened. Nevertheless it had been very difficult not to betray a momentary surprise, for in the two or three seconds while he was helping her up the girl had slipped something into his hand. There was no question that she had done it intentionally. It was something small and flat. As he passed through the lavatory door he transferred it to his pocket and felt it with the tips of his fingers. It was a scrap of paper folded into a square. While he stood at the urinal he managed, with a little more fingering, to get it unfolded. Obviously there must be a message of some kind written on it. For a moment he was tempted to take it into one of the water-closets and read it at once. But that would be shocking folly, as he well knew. There was no place where you could be more certain that the telescreens were watched continuously. He went back to his cubicle, sat down, threw the fragment of paper casually among the other papers on the desk, put on his spectacles and hitched the speakwrite towards him. 'Five minutes,' he told himself, 'five minutes at the very least!' His heart bumped in his breast with frightening loudness. Fortunately the piece of work he was engaged on was mere routine, the rectification of a long list of figures, not needing close attention. Whatever was written on the paper, it must have some kind of political meaning. So far as he could see there were two possibilities. One, much the more likely, was that the girl was an agent of the Thought Police, just as he had feared. He did not know why the Thought Police should choose to deliver their messages in such a fashion, but perhaps


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

them. “Snake oil,” he said. I nodded, relieved that he agreed with my assumption. The smell of them unlit made my stomach turn over; the fumes they would release whilst burning didn’t bear imagining. He suggested that I set the candles in the window nevertheless, to keep us in Aud’s good graces. The beeswax, though, struck me as a handy precaution, given the auditory nature of the Hidden Ones’ enchantment. “Will you come with me to interview Auður’s family?” I said. “No,” he said. “I will offer myself up to Aud today, I think.” I looked at him askance. Aud was organizing a snow-plowing, a scene in which I could not visualize Bambleby. He frowned at me over his breakfast. “What? How hard can it be?” I didn’t bother to reply that I doubted it would be very hard, but still more than his soft hands would care for. Indeed, when I next saw him, he was standing in a small knot with Krystjan, Aud, and several other village dignitaries, drinking mulled wine and having a natter while they kept an eye on Finn and the other youth engaged in the grunt work of clearing the road and landings. My visit to Auður’s family was informative but not particularly helpful. That is, her parents, Ketil and Hild—both hardy and kind-faced in equal measure, with that greyish touch of sadness—answered my every question, but it was a story with only a beginning and an end. When had their daughter been taken by the Hidden Ones? Two days after Christmas, while fetching mushrooms. How long had she been away? For as long as the moon rose above the mountains at night, which is to say, a little over one week. Where had she been recovered? A hunter found her wandering the mountainside, her basket full of a queer sort of mushroom that melted against his palm. Through it all, the girl sat in her chair by the fire, empty-faced. Her gaze drifted around the room, occasionally settling on me; I could not help shivering during these moments, for it was like looking through the windows of an abandoned house. I asked questions regarding her condition, of course. In addition to being incapable of speech, she is unable to attend to her own well-being. If ordered to stick her hand into the fire, she would do so; in fact, her left palm bears a scar from the time her mother ordered her to fetch a skillet, forgetting it was still hot from the stove. The only thing she does of her own initiative is wander outside during the longest nights, striding across the snowbound fields without even donning her cloak. She is now tied to her bed every night from the first snowfall to the thaw. Ketil and Hild were even more interested in asking questions than I, though I could give them little comfort. Not only was I unaware of a remedy that might treat their daughter, I knew of no analogues of her affliction. Beautiful Lilja arrived in the afternoon to chop our


Clark turns his steely blue glare on Christian. “I need to hear this from Mrs. Grey, sir,” he says with quiet restraint. I squeeze Christian’s leg once more, silently imploring him to keep his cool. “You don’t have to listen to this shit, Ana.” 387/551 “I think I should let Detective Clark know what happened.” Christian gazes at me impassively for a beat then waves his hand in a gesture of resignation. “What Hyde says is simply not true.” My voice sounds calm, although I feel anything but. I’m bewildered by these accusations and nervous that Christian might explode. What’s Jack’s game? “Mr. Hyde accosted me in the office kitchen one evening. He told me that it was thanks to him that I had been hired and that he expected sexual favors in return. He tried to blackmail me, using e-mails that I’d sent to Christian, who wasn’t my husband then. I didn’t know Hyde had been monitoring my e-mails. He’s delusional—he even accused me of being a spy sent by Christian, presumably to help him take over the company. He didn’t know that Christian had already bought SIP.” I shake my head as I recall my distressing, tense encounter with Hyde. “In the end, I-I took him down.” Clark’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “Took him down?” “My father is ex-army. Hyde . . . um, touched me, and I know how to defend myself.” Christian glances at me with a brief look of pride. “I see.” Clark leans back on the sofa, sighing heavily. “Have you spoken to any of Hyde’s former PAs?” Christian asks almost genially. “Yes, we have. But the truth is we can’t get any of his assistants to talk to us. They all say he was an exemplary boss, even though none of them lasted more than three months.” “We’ve had that problem, too,” Christian murmurs. Oh? I gape at Christian as does Detective Clark. “My security chief. He’s interviewed Hyde’s past five PAs.” “And why’s that?” Christian gives him a steely glare. “Because my wife worked for him, and I run security checks on anyone my wife works with.” Detective Clark flushes. I shrug apologetically at him with a welcome-to-my- world smile. “I see,” Clark murmurs. “I think there’s more to this than meets the eye, Mr. Grey. We are conducting a more thorough search of his apartment tomorrow, so 388/551 maybe something will present itself then. Though by all accounts he hasn’t lived there for some time.” “You’ve searched already?” “Yes. We’re doing it again. A fingertip search this time.” “You’ve still not charged him with the attempted murder of Ros Bailey and myself?” Christian says softly. What? “We’re hoping to find more evidence in regard to the sabotage of your air- craft, Mr. Grey. We need more than a partial print, and while he’s in custody, we can build a case.” “Is this all you came down here for?” Clark bristles. “Yes, Mr. Grey, it is, unless you’ve had any further thoughts about the note?” Note? What note? “No. I told you. It means


wooded: (adj) arboreous, sylvan, sorrowful, rueful, penitential; (n) subterranean, covert, extraneous, woody, timbered, densely forested, flagellant, religionist. ANTONYMS: foreign, alien, subsequent, privy, leafy. 176 The Scarlet Letter before, to visit the Apostle Eliot, among his Indian converts. He would probably return by a certain hour in the afternoon of the morrow. Betimes, therefore, the next day, Hester took little Pearl--who was necessarily the companion of all her mother's expeditions, however inconvenient her presence--and set forth.% The road, after the two wayfarers had crossed from the Peninsula to the mainland, was no other than a foot-path. It straggled onward into the mystery of the primeval forest. This hemmed it in so narrowly, and stood so black and dense on either side, and disclosed such imperfect glimpses of the sky above, that, to Hester's mind, it imaged not amiss the moral wilderness in which she had so long been wandering. The day was chill and sombre. Overhead was a gray expanse of cloud, slightly stirred, however, by a breeze; so that a gleam of flickering sunshine might now and then be seen at its solitary play along the path. This flitting cheerfulness was always at the further extremity of some long vista through the forest. The sportive sunlight--feebly sportive, at best, in the predominant pensiveness of the day and scene--withdrew itself as they came nigh, and left the spots where it had danced the drearier, because they had hoped to find them bright. "Mother," said little Pearl, "the sunshine does not love you. It runs away and hides itself, because it is afraid of something on your bosom. Now, see! There it is, playing a good way off. Stand you here, and let me run and catch it. I am but a child. It will not flee from me--for I wear nothing on my bosom yet!" "Nor ever will, my child, I hope," said Hester. "And why not, mother?" asked Pearl, stopping short, just at the beginning of her race. "Will not it come of its own accord when I am a woman grown?" "Run away, child," answered her mother, "and catch the sunshine. It will soon be gone " Pearl set forth at a great pace, and as Hester smiled to perceive, did actually catch the sunshine, and stood laughing in the midst of it, all brightened by its splendour, and scintillating with the vivacity excited by rapid motion. The light Thesaurus flickering: (adj) sparkling, aflicker, solar day, day. concentration. desultory, capricious, glistening, onward: (adv) ahead, forwards, before, primeval: (adj) primitive, ancient, shimmering, glittering; (n) twinkling, forth, onwards, along, in advance, primordial, aboriginal, primal, flicker, fluttering; (adv) flickeringly. frontward, forrader; (adv, prep) on; original, primary, first, primaeval, inconvenient: (adj) inopportune, (adj) progressive. ANTONYM: (adv) prehistoric, antediluvian. awkward, disadvantageous, backward. ANTONYMS: (adj) modern, bothersome, improper, unfavorable, pensiveness: (n) melancholy, contemporary, factual. troublesome, hard, inapt, untoward, meditativeness, brooding, scintillating: (adj) sparkling, bright, unfortunate. ANTONYMS: (adj) abstraction, thoughtfulness, bubbling, effervescent, fulgid, convenient, suitable, opportune, wistfulness, reflection, glinting, glistering, glittery, timely, advantageous. absentmindedness, gloom, scintillant, aglitter, brilliant. morrow: (n) morning, future, mean incubation, reverie. ANTONYM: (n) ANTONYM:


candidly interpreted, it must be evident that Judge Pyncheon could not have come unfairly to his end. This mode of death had been an idiosyncrasy with his family, for generations past; not often occurring, indeed, but, when it does occur, usually attacking individuals about the Judge's time of life, and generally in the tension of some mental crisis, or, perhaps, in an access of wrath. Old Maule's prophecy was probably founded on a knowledge of this physical predisposition in the Pyncheon race. Now, there is a minute and almost exact similarity in the appearances connected with the death that occurred yesterday and those recorded of the death of Clifford's uncle thirty years ago. It is true, there was a certain arrangement of circumstances, unnecessary to be recounted, which made it possible nay, as men look at these things, probable, or even certain--that old Jaffrey Pyncheon came to a violent death, and by Clifford's hands." "Whence came those circumstances?" exclaimed Phoebe. "He being innocent, as we know him to be!" "They were arranged," said Holgrave,--"at least such has long been my conviction,--they were arranged after the uncle's death, and before it was made public, by the man who sits in yonder parlor. His own death, so like that former one, yet attended by none of those suspicious circumstances, seems the stroke of God upon him, at once a punishment for his wickedness, and making plain the innocence of Clifford, But this flight,--it distorts everything! He may be in concealment, near at hand. Could we but bring him back before the discovery of the Judge's death, the evil might be rectified," "We must not hide this thing a moment longer!" said Phoebe. "It is dreadful to keep it so closely in our hearts. Clifford is innocent. God will make it manifest! Let us throw open the doors, and call all the neighborhood to see the truth!" "You are right, Phoebe," rejoined Holgrave. "Doubtless you are right." Yet the artist did not feel the horror, which was proper to Phoebe's sweet and order-loving character, at thus finding herself at issue with society, and brought in contact with an event that transcended ordinary rules. Neither was he in haste, like her, to betake himself within the precincts of common life. On the contrary, he gathered a wild enjoyment,--as it were, a flower of strange beauty, growing in a desolate spot, and blossoming in the wind, --such a flower of momentary happiness he gathered from his present position. It separated Phoebe and himself from the world, and bound them to each other, by their exclusive knowledge of Judge Pyncheon's mysterious death, and the counsel which they were forced to hold respecting it. The secret, so long as it should continue such, kept them within the circle of a spell, a solitude in the midst of men, a remoteness as entire as that of an island in mid-ocean; once divulged, the ocean would flow betwixt them, standing on its widely sundered shores. Meanwhile, all the circumstances of their situation seemed to draw them together; they were like two


he ever got into the same room as her attacker. By the time they arrived in midtown, her head was aching from having to calm him down. She asked him to wait outside in the car when they got to Radio City, imagining him scowling at Russell the whole time if she brought him inside. Russell leaped up from his desk when she walked into his office. “My darling. I heard what happened. Are you all right? I called your house yesterday, but they said you were asleep.” He put his hands on her shoulders, holding her at arm’s length and studying her closely. “I wanted to talk to you in person. First of all, I’m fine. But I can’t be a Rockette anymore.” She blinked hard, trying not to cry. “It’s too dangerous, for me and for the other girls if I’m around. I’m so sorry.” “You take all the time you need, hopefully they’ll find this madman soon.” “No, I’m leaving for good.” Her voice cracked, as if her own body were trying to stop her from throwing away the one thing that had given her the most joy in her life so far. “I haven’t been dancing well, we both know that. I’m pulling everyone down with me.” His brows furrowed. “You have a unique style, there’s no question about that. But you’ve been under terrible stress. Why don’t you take some time off and think about things? No one is pushing you out the door, I want to make that clear.” But Marion knew the truth from having overheard his earlier conversation with Emily, comparing her to Vera-Ellen. She didn’t blame him for speaking honestly about her own limitations as a Rockette—he was like a favorite uncle and could do no harm—but she understood deep down that she didn’t belong. “No. You should find someone else to replace me.” She hugged him hard, knowing she only had a few seconds before she broke down in tears. “I’ll come by later to pick up my things.” “There’s no rush, no rush at all.” Marion whispered a thank-you and ran out of the building. She was a failure. While it would be easy to tell anyone who asked that she’d pulled out of the Rockettes of her own volition, she knew she didn’t really belong with the troupe. She didn’t belong anywhere. Nathaniel apologized as soon as she got back into the car. “I’m sorry if I got out of control, Marion.” He placed a hand on her cheek. “You and I are making a fresh start, okay?” A fresh start. She could sure use one. He eased the car into gear for the few short blocks to the Rehearsal Club. “I’ve been thinking about the proposal, and I really want it to be special. How about on Christmas Eve we take a carriage ride in Central Park?” Marion winced. She didn’t want to think that far ahead just yet. Nathaniel kept on. “Once we’re married, your father said that we can move into the house. And here’s a thought:


the other letters had fingerprints,” said Peter. “Maybe he’s getting lazy.” “Do you mind if we wait?” asked Marion. Since it was her week off from Radio City, she didn’t have to worry about the time. “Whatever suits you.” After he left, Marion turned to Peter. “I know he’s a jerk, but maybe you could ease up a bit.” “Ease up? The sheer stupidity of this investigation is maddening.” “But if you push too hard he’ll exclude us entirely. He’s already resentful of all the tips your profile is bringing in.” “Somers seems to have a good head on his shoulders, but this Ogden is a pill. The tips are a gold mine. Why Ogden’s wasting time scouring Westchester is beyond me.” “I couldn’t agree more. But we need him to keep us in the loop with what’s going on with the case, so for now, try not to sock him in the nose.” “Was it that obvious?” Marion couldn’t help but laugh. “Somewhat.” Eventually, Ogden returned, a triumphant smile on his face. “We got him!” he said with a shout from the far side of the room. Everyone stopped what they were doing. “This letter came today. It bears the prints of the Big Apple Bomber.” He seemed to have forgotten that Marion and Peter were even there. “We’re looking for a Vincent Hardenby, of Mount Kisco, New York. He’s a former Met Power worker with a record—used to steal from jobsites, apparently.” As he began shouting orders, the other detectives and policemen rose from their desks, ready for action. Marion and Peter remained where they were. “It’s not him,” said Peter, to no one in particular. “Maybe it is.” Marion wanted it to be. She desperately wanted this to end. For her father’s sake, for the sake of the city. “If I’m right, what do you think the real bomber will do when they announce they’ve made an arrest?” “Set off another bomb, to prove them wrong,” said Marion glumly. “They’re desperate to catch him. Desperation makes people do stupid things. I shouldn’t have brought the letter in.” “You had no choice. We’ll just have to wait until they figure it out themselves.” Peter surveyed the empty room. “Say, I’m starving. Do you want to get something to eat?” Marion had no plans, and the day stretched ahead. Any diversion from the fact that the police were out hunting the wrong guy while the actual bomber continued on his merry way was welcome. “Sure thing.” “There’s not much around here, in terms of restaurants,” said Peter. “It’s all Irish pubs for cops. But I live close by and can make us lunch there, if that’s not too forward.” The Rockettes were regularly sent invitations for private dinners, usually by older men looking for something else on the side, and while some of them accepted—that was how Bunny had met Dale—most of them knew better. Of course, Peter was as far from Dale as could be, and Marion trusted him enough to know this wasn’t a trick or a ruse. She


to the windows and pound the clay into a ball. Then I plop it onto the wheel and flatten it with the heels of my hands. The moment I slip my fingers into the water to start coning the clay up, calm floods me. My thoughts fritter away. I press the foot pedal, maneuvering the lump of muck upward as it centers on the spinning wheel. I lose myself in the rhythm of it. Coning it up. Coning down. I won’t have time to glaze it before I leave Knott’s Harbor, won’t have room to take it home in my luggage once it’s fired. I don’t think about any of that. Throwing makes my mind feel like the sea on a clear day, all my thoughts pleasantly diffused beneath light, rolling along over the back of an ever- moving swell. My meditation app often tells me to picture my thoughts and feelings as clouds, myself as the mountain they’re drifting past. At the wheel, I never have to try. I become a body, a sequence of organs and veins and muscles working in concert. I ease off the pedal, opening the clay. My elbows lock against my sides, thumbs dipping into the center, and as the clay whips past, a mouth widens within it. My thumbs curve under, thinning the walls beneath the lip. The earthy smell is everywhere. Sweat pricks the nape of my neck. I’m dimly aware of an ache in my upper spine, but it’s only an observation, a fact requiring no action. There is no need to fix it, to change it. Just another cloud drifting past. The loose shape of a bowl appears within my hands. I take the yellow sponge from the table, pressing it lightly against the bottom of the bowl, smoothing the rings. Sweat beads on my forehead now. The ache in my spine snakes through my shoulders. I take hold of the bowl’s thick lip and draw it upward, stretching the clay, coaxing it higher. When it’s risen as high as it safely can, I bring my hands back to the base, funneling them, collaring the piece upward. This is my favorite part: when I’ve worked the clay into a stable cylinder, when the slightest touch can shift and shape it. I love the way that everything can so easily fall apart, and the ecstasy of finding a groove in which I know it won’t, without understanding the physics, the why. The clay becomes an extension of me, like it and I are working together. It reminds me of something Hank told me a long time ago, about growing up on a ranch, training new horses. He’d been good at it, apparently, and attributed that to his patience. He could wait out any bad mood. The anger of an animal didn’t make him angry. It helps you understand them better, he told me. You don’t want that anger becoming fear. You want it turning into trust. And while there were a lot of things he’d hated about working at a ranch, he’d loved


it harder to see,” I say with a shrug. “These aren’t for sun, they’re for darkness,” exclaims Rue. “Sometimes, when we harvest through the night, they’ll pass out a few pairs to those of us highest in the trees. Where the torchlight doesn’t reach. One time, this boy Martin, he tried to keep his pair. Hid it in his pants. They killed him on the spot.” “They killed a boy for taking these?” I say. “Yes, and everyone knew he was no danger. Martin wasn’t right in the head. I mean, he still acted like a three-year-old. He just wanted the glasses to play with,” says Rue. Hearing this makes me feel like District 12 is some sort of safe haven. Of course, people keel over from starvation all the time, but I can’t imagine the Peacekeepers murdering a sim- pleminded child. There’s a little girl, one of Greasy Sae’s grandkids, who wanders around the Hob. She’s not quite right, but she’s treated as a sort of pet. People toss her scraps and things. 203 “So what do these do?” I ask Rue, taking the glasses. “They let you see in complete darkness,” says Rue. “Try them tonight when the sun goes down.” I give Rue some matches and she makes sure I have plenty of leaves in case my stings flare up again. We extinguish our fire and head upstream until it’s almost nightfall. “Where do you sleep?” I ask her. “In the trees?” She nods. “In just your jacket?” Rue holds up her extra pair of socks. “I have these for my hands.” I think of how cold the nights have been. “You can share my sleeping bag if you want. We’ll both easily fit.” Her face lights up. I can tell this is more than she dared hope for. We pick a fork high in a tree and settle in for the night just as the anthem begins to play. There were no deaths today. “Rue, I only woke up today. How many nights did I miss?” The anthem should block out our words, but still I whisper. I even take the precaution of covering my lips with my hand. I don’t want the audience to know what I’m planning to tell her about Peeta. Taking a cue from me, she does the same. “Two,” she says. “The girls from Districts One and Four are dead. There’s ten of us left.” “Something strange happened. At least, I think it did. It might have been the tracker jacker venom making me imagine things,” I say. “You know the boy from my district? Peeta? I think he saved my life. But he was with the Careers.” “He’s not with them now,” she says. “I’ve spied on their base camp by the lake. They made it back before they col- 204 lapsed from the stingers. But he’s not there. Maybe he did save you and had to run.” I don’t answer. If, in fact, Peeta did save me, I’m in his debt again. And this can’t be paid back. “If he did,


ran up stairs, got into my walking-clothes, as I call them, and came down just as you departed. Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and started for the Temple to see my husband. We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by so formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace. I love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to possess; and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Very truly yours, IRENE NORTON, nee ADLER. "What a woman--oh, what a woman!" cried the King of Bohemia, when we had all three read this epistle. "Did I not tell you how quick and resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?" "From what I have seen of the lady she seems indeed to be on a very different level to your Majesty," said Holmes coldly. "I am sorry that I have not been able to bring your Majesty's business to a more successful conclusion." "On the contrary, my dear sir," cried the King; "nothing could be more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire." "I am glad to hear your Majesty say so." "I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can reward you. This ring--" He slipped an emerald snake ring from his finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand. "Your Majesty has something which I should value even more highly," said Holmes. "You have but to name it." "This photograph!" The King stared at him in amazement. "Irene's photograph!" he cried. "Certainly, if you wish it." "I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the matter. I have the honor to wish you a very good-morning." He bowed, and, turning away without observing the hand which the King had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers. And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honorable title of the woman. ADVENTURE II. THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE


him at the unpruned garden, the tumble-down house, and the oak- grove under which the dusk was gathering. It had seemed so exactly the place in which he ought to have found Madame Olenska; and she was far away, and even the pink sunshade was not hers . . . He frowned and hesitated. "You don't know, I suppose-- I shall be in Boston tomorrow. If I could manage to see her--" He felt that Miss Blenker was losing interest in him, though her smile persisted. "Oh, of course; how lovely of you! She's staying at the Parker House; it must be horrible there in this weather." After that Archer was but intermittently aware of the remarks they exchanged. He could only remember stoutly resisting her entreaty that he should await the returning family and have high tea with them before he drove home. At length, with his hostess still at his side, he passed out of range of the wooden Cupid, unfastened his horses and drove off. At the turn of the lane he saw Miss Blenker standing at the gate and waving the pink parasol. XXIII. The next morning, when Archer got out of the Fall River train, he emerged upon a steaming midsummer Boston. The streets near the station were full of the smell of beer and coffee and decaying fruit and a shirt- sleeved populace moved through them with the intimate abandon of boarders going down the passage to the bathroom. Archer found a cab and drove to the Somerset Club for breakfast. Even the fashionable quarters had the air of untidy domesticity to which no excess of heat ever degrades the European cities. Care-takers in calico lounged on the door-steps of the wealthy, and the Common looked like a pleasure-ground on the morrow of a Masonic picnic. If Archer had tried to imagine Ellen Olenska in improbable scenes he could not have called up any into which it was more difficult to fit her than this heat-prostrated and deserted Boston. He breakfasted with appetite and method, beginning with a slice of melon, and studying a morning paper while he waited for his toast and scrambled eggs. A new sense of energy and activity had possessed him ever since he had announced to May the night before that he had business in Boston, and should take the Fall River boat that night and go on to New York the following evening. It had always been understood that he would return to town early in the week, and when he got back from his expedition to Portsmouth a letter from the office, which fate had conspicuously placed on a corner of the hall table, sufficed to justify his sudden change of plan. He was even ashamed of the ease with which the whole thing had been done: it reminded him, for an uncomfortable moment, of Lawrence Lefferts's masterly contrivances for securing his freedom. But this did not long trouble him, for he was not in an analytic mood. After breakfast he smoked a cigarette and glanced over the Commercial


Anne. She solemnly clipped one of Diana's curls. "Fare thee well, my beloved friend. Henceforth we must be as strangers though living side by side. But my heart will ever be faithful to thee." Anne stood and watched Diana out of sight, mournfully waving her hand to the latter whenever she turned to look back. Then she returned to the house, not a little consoled for the time being by this romantic parting. "It is all over," she informed Marilla. "I shall never have another friend. I'm really worse off than ever before, for I haven't Katie Maurice and Violetta now. And even if I had it wouldn't be the same. Somehow, little dream girls are not satisfying after a real friend. Diana and I had such an affecting farewell down by the spring. It will be sacred in my memory forever. I used the most pathetic language I could think of and said `thou' and `thee.' `Thou' and `thee' seem so much more romantic than `you.' Diana gave me a lock of her hair and I'm going to sew it up in a little bag and wear it around my neck all my life. Please see that it is buried with me, for I don't believe I'll live very long. Perhaps when she sees me lying cold and dead before her Mrs. Barry may feel remorse for what she has done and will let Diana come to my funeral." "I don't think there is much fear of your dying of grief as long as you can talk, Anne," said Marilla unsympathetically. The following Monday Anne surprised Marilla by coming down from her room with her basket of books on her arm and hip lips primmed up into a line of determination. "I'm going back to school," she announced. "That is all there is left in life for me, now that my friend has been ruthlessly torn from me. In school I can look at her and muse over days departed." "You'd better muse over your lessons and sums," said Marilla, concealing her delight at this development of the situation. "If you're going back to school I hope we'll hear no more of breaking slates over people's heads and such carryings on. Behave yourself and do just what your teacher tells you." "I'll try to be a model pupil," agreed Anne dolefully. "There won't be much fun in it, I expect. Mr. Phillips said Minnie Andrews was a model pupil and there isn't a spark of imagination or life in her. She is just dull and poky and never seems to have a good time. But I feel so depressed that perhaps it will come easy to me now. I'm going round by the road. I couldn't bear to go by the Birch Path all alone. I should weep bitter tears if I did." Anne was welcomed back to school with open arms. Her imagination had been sorely missed in games, her voice in the singing and her dramatic ability in the perusal aloud of books at dinner hour. Ruby Gillis smuggled


night brings all my suspicions to a head. And yet it may seem a small matter in itself. You are aware that I am not a very sound sleeper, and since I have been on guard in this house my slumbers have been lighter than ever. Last night, about two in the morning, I was aroused by a stealthy step passing my room. I rose, opened my door, and peeped out. A long black shadow was trailing down the corridor. It was thrown by a man who walked softly down the passage with a candle held in his hand. He was in shirt and trousers, with no covering to his feet. I could merely see the outline, but his height told me that it was Barrymore. He walked very slowly and circumspectly, and there was something indescribably guilty and furtive in his whole appearance. I have told you that the corridor is broken by the balcony which runs round the hall, but that it is resumed upon the farther side. I waited until he had passed out of sight and then I followed him. When I came round the balcony he had reached the end of the farther corridor, and I could see from the glimmer of light through an open door that he had entered one of the rooms. Now, all these rooms are unfurnished and unoccupied so that his expedition became more mysterious than ever. The light shone steadily as if he were standing motionless. I crept down the passage as noiselessly as I could and peeped round the corner of the door. Barrymore was crouching at the window with the candle held against the glass. His profile was half turned towards me, and his face seemed to be rigid with expectation as he stared out into the blackness of the moor. For some minutes he stood watching intently. Then he gave a deep groan and with an impatient gesture he put out the light. Instantly I made my way back to my room, and very shortly came the stealthy steps passing once more upon their return journey. Long afterwards when I had fallen into a light sleep I heard a key turn somewhere in a lock, but I could not tell whence the sound came. What it all means I cannot guess, but there is some secret business going on in this house of gloom which sooner or later we shall get to the bottom of. I do not trouble you with my theories, for you asked me to furnish you only with facts. I have had a long talk with Sir Henry this morning, and we have made a plan of campaign founded upon my observations of last night. I will not speak about it just now, but it should make my next report interesting reading. Chapter 9 Second Report of Dr. Watson THE LIGHT UPON THE MOOR Baskerville Hall, Oct. 15th. MY DEAR HOLMES: If I was compelled to leave you without much news during the early days of my mission you must acknowledge that I am


halo, no wedding announcement for you and a former student. I searched for your name plus Thalia’s, but the only results were the Camelot video and a few archived Sentinels. I tried googling your wife and got nothing—maybe she had a different last name?—so I looked for your kids. From the few times I babysat Natalie and Phillip, I remembered the dark hair and rosy cheeks they’d gotten from you, the electric blue eyes like their mother’s. (We didn’t particularly know your wife, except from afar, wrangling the kids into dining hall booster seats. She was young and pretty—enough so that I imagine Thalia was jealous.) I was fairly confident the Natalie Bloch I found on Facebook, a striking, dark-haired woman in Boston, was your daughter. I felt predatory going through Natalie’s profile. She looked athletic in a bathing suit, in love with the guy next to her. I clicked out and rescued myself by texting Carlotta: I am in Granby Fucking New Hampshire! She’d known about my trip, had made me and Fran promise to send a selfie. Carlotta, who lived in Philly now, had married the sweetest man you could imagine—the head sommelier for a restaurant group—and they had three perfect children, the youngest a boy with Down’s whom I loved overwhelmingly. I’d been back in close touch with Carlotta since the advent of social media. My generation only missed each other’s twenties. I wrote: Remember how we always said Denny Bloch was involved with students? Do you think that was true? She responded a moment later: Haha, we thought so, but probably not? I mean, we thought lots of stuff. For some reason, this stung. I didn’t want it to be true, but her answer felt dismissive. I wrote: You don’t think he and Thalia had a thing? She sent a shrug emoji. Well, okay then. I had a flash of Carlotta eating with me and Fran every meal sophomore year, but then suddenly that February eating with no one but Sakina John, or, later, sitting for a week with a bunch of girls from the spring hiking trip, her colossal laugh reaching us across the dining hall. Then she’d be back like nothing happened, flirting with Geoff and coming to my room for Cosmo sex quizzes. Then she’d do it again. She didn’t mean to hurt us; she was just a flake. I tried the video one more time and, to my surprise, it had gathered all its strength, was ready to roll. Jasmine said, “I was twenty-one, and Jerome Wager walked into the gallery and before his meeting with my boss he wanted a glass of water.” She explained that she’d felt herself to be a child, she was a child, she was naïve, so young. And Jerome, aged thirty-six, had been a full-fledged adult. Having married Jerome when he was thirty-nine, I can attest that he was still in most ways a child, as he continues to be. At thirty-nine, the only dinner he could make was eggplant parmesan. He would ruin suede sneakers in the


steal, to forge, to murder, to encourage drug-taking and prostitution, to disseminate venereal diseases, to throw vitriol in a child's face. O'Brien made a small impatient gesture, as though to say that the demonstration was hardly worth making. Then he turned a switch and the voices stopped. 'Get up from that bed,' he said. The bonds had loosened themselves. Winston lowered himself to the floor and stood up unsteadily. 'You are the last man,' said O'Brien. 'You are the guardian of the human spirit. You shall see yourself as you are. Take off your clothes.' Winston undid the bit of string that held his overalls together. The zip fastener had long since been wrenched out of them. He could not remember whether at any time since his arrest he had taken off all his clothes at one time. Beneath the overalls his body was looped with filthy yellowish rags, just recognizable as the remnants of underclothes. As he slid them to the ground he saw that there was a three-sided mirror at the far end of the room. He approached it, then stopped short. An involuntary cry had broken out of him. 'Go on,' said O'Brien. 'Stand between the wings of the mirror. You shall see the side view as well.' He had stopped because he was frightened. A bowed, grey-coloured, skeleton-like thing was coming towards him. Its actual appearance was frightening, and not merely the fact that he knew it to be himself. He moved closer to the glass. The creature's face seemed to be protruded, because of its bent carriage. A forlorn, jailbird's face with a nobby file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (148 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:52 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt forehead running back into a bald scalp, a crooked nose, and battered-looking cheekbones above which his eyes were fierce and watchful. The cheeks were seamed, the mouth had a drawn-in look. Certainly it was his own face, but it seemed to him that it had changed more than he had changed inside. The emotions it registered would be different from the ones he felt. He had gone partially bald. For the first moment he had thought that he had gone grey as well, but it was only the scalp that was grey. Except for his hands and a circle of his face, his body was grey all over with ancient, ingrained dirt. Here and there under the dirt there were the red scars of wounds, and near the ankle the varicose ulcer was an inflamed mass with flakes of skin peeling off it. But the truly frightening thing was the emaciation of his body. The barrel of the ribs was as narrow as that of a skeleton: the legs had shrunk so that the knees were thicker than the thighs. He saw now what O'Brien had meant about seeing the side view. The curvature of the spine was astonishing. The thin shoulders were hunched forward so as to make a cavity of the chest, the scraggy neck seemed to be bending double under the weight of the skull. At a guess he would have said


missed them in his letter of wishes.” He held her gaze. “His will doesn’t mention you at all.” “You don’t think my testimony matters?” “No, I do not. Nor would a court of law.” “Well, we’re not in court, Mr. Lockwood. We needn’t pick and choose what we call admissible.” “Indeed not. Though, if we were, you’d need a witness. Have you one of those? Was someone with you during this scintillating conversation?” Mrs. King felt a prickle of annoyance. “No,” she said flatly, revealing no emotion. Mr. Lockwood closed his eyes again, just for a moment. “Well,” he said, in a weary voice, “then really we’ve nothing further to discuss.” Mrs. King touched the affidavit with her fingernail. “I’m perfectly happy to put my name to something, Mr. Lockwood. It’s just the tone of this paper I can’t abide. All this talk of slander, of libel, of scandal. Not my cup of tea at all. Let’s work up something more straightforward, and I’ll sign it in a heartbeat.” The air shifted. He smelled danger. “Oh?” “Write me a few lines now, if you like,” said Mrs. King. “Something like, ‘I am not the bastard child of Wilhelm de Vries. I never thought I was. I never heard the same.’” She saw a muscle leaping at the corner of his mouth. “Shall I fetch a pen and ink?” she said, pleasant. “I’m not sure,” he said, “that I trust you, Mrs. King.” “Heavens, I’m as honest as the day. You needn’t worry about that. And while we’re talking about truth telling, I had one little, tiny question. It’s somewhat related.” She took care with the next words. This was the heart of the matter. “Do you have my father’s marriage certificate?” Lockwood’s back stiffened. She saw his brow crease. Confusion. “Mr. Lockwood?” Silence. She’d got him off-balance. “Do you, or don’t you?” she said. “You ought to have all the family papers.” Lockwood took a small breath. Then he said, “What do you mean?” “Dear me. I suppose I shall have to go back to the register office again.” “Whatever do you want to do that for?” Mrs. King had two choices. She could rile him for the fun of it, but that could lead to unpredictable outcomes. She could play for time, but that would test her own patience, too. She decided to rile him. “That’s a conversation I’d rather have with Miss de Vries.” “Why?” His eyes were glued to hers. “It’s a personal matter.” He leaned back in his chair, weighing that. There was something coarse in Mr. Lockwood, underneath his gloss and gleam. You could tell by looking at his hands. Calloused, with blackened nails. “I’d advise you to talk to me,” he said. Mrs. King smiled. “No.” Then Mr. Lockwood got up. “Tell me at once,” he said, voice low. There was a tiny bit of spittle at the edge of his mouth. It glistened. “Be calm, Lockwood,” she said. He stepped closer. “Mind your manners. I’ll ask you again.” He licked his lips, a quick, reptilian


words on my skin along with the others and instantly feel better. No one knew about it, not even Shane. It was a small act of defiance. Something just for me. I’d managed to hide this strange story from the world, but the further along it went, the more I needed to know what it meant and where it was coming from. Knowing I’d struggle to get back to sleep, I tiptoed upstairs to see what kind of mess the women had left. I didn’t want Madame Bowden giving me an earful in the morning and figured I might as well clear up while I was awake. I stepped into the dining room and flicked on the light. I couldn’t believe it – the room was in perfect order and not a thing out of place. I quickly reassessed my earlier opinion of Madame Bowden’s friends and conceded that anyone who clears up their own mess can’t be all bad. I didn’t even hear them leave. A quick trip to the kitchen confirmed that they had even washed and dried all of their plates and glasses; there wasn’t even a spoon left to be cleaned. Like nothing had happened at all. Chapter Twelve HENRY I did consider ringing the doorbell, but where was the fun in that? I hunkered down and knocked on the basement window of number 12 Ha'penny Lane. I’d spent the past few days searching through online archives and old newspapers for Opaline Carlisle, but with no success. I needed a break and that’s the excuse I was telling myself when my feet brought me back to her door. Or rather her window. After a few minutes, the blind flew up and I came face to face with a very angry and tired-looking Martha. ‘What the hell?’ she croaked, once she’d got the window open. ‘Bit early?’ ‘It’s seven in the morning, so yes, I’d say you’re a bit early.’ ‘Oh. Apologies. I just wondered if you might join me for a little excursion.’ ‘Now?’ What had seemed like a good idea last night when I couldn’t sleep had now lost its lustre. I hardly knew this girl and here I was, banging on her window. ‘Um, well, whenever you’re free really.’ She looked down at her clothes and did that thing again where she seemed to be calculating an impossible equation very quickly in her mind. ‘I’ll have to get Madame Bowden’s breakfast and do some cleaning, but I could be free by eleven?’ ‘Perfect!’ I shouted a little too enthusiastically. I’d forgotten how nerve-wracking it could be, asking someone if they wanted to hang out with you. As youngsters, we do it all the time, making new friends. But when you get older, it feels as though there is so much more on the line – the rejection is so much harder to take. ‘I’ll text you the deets.’ I had never spoken the word ‘deets’ aloud in my life and wasn’t quite sure I had carried it off. ‘You don’t have my number.’ ‘Yes, that was


houses, until at last he asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for Alice. "His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I was known to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that his lad should step into the whole property. But there I was firm. I would not have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that I had any dislike to the lad, but his blood was in him, and that was enough. I stood firm. McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do his worst. We were to meet at the pool midway between our houses to talk it over. "When we went down there I found him talking with his son, so smoked a cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone. But as I listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in me seemed to come uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my daughter with as little regard for what she might think as if she were a slut from off the streets. It drove me mad to think that I and all that I held most dear should be in the power of such a man as this. Could I not snap the bond? I was already a dying and a desperate man. Though clear of mind and fairly strong of limb, I knew that my own fate was sealed. But my memory and my girl! Both could be saved if I could but silence that foul tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply as I have sinned, I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that my girl should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was more than I could suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction than if he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought back his son; but I had gained the cover of the wood, though I was forced to go back to fetch the cloak which I had dropped in my flight. That is the true story, gentlemen, of all that occurred." "Well, it is not for me to judge you," said Holmes as the old man signed the statement which had been drawn out. "I pray that we may never be exposed to such a temptation." "I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?" "In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the Assizes. I will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is condemned I shall be forced to use it. If not, it shall never be seen by mortal eye; and your secret, whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe with us." "Farewell, then," said the old man solemnly. "Your own deathbeds, when they come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace which you have


The book is about cooking. I go and stand behind the bar and imagine I’m making a drink. I pour water into water in the cocktail shaker, then pour it out into a glass. I drink the water and it tastes artificial. I carry the glass into the bedroom. This is the room where Maurice wanted to bring Elaine, so this room matters. He would have had it ready, always, just in case. He always believed she was just waiting for the moment. I have to be careful thinking of him in the past tense. The bed is large and solid. The label on the mattress says the springs are alternating titanium alloy and carbon fibre. I’m not sure if that means you can hide behind it if someone shoots at you, or just that Titans can screw on it as vigorously as they want without breaking it. Maybe both. There’s a single upturned water glass on one side of the bed. The other side has a glass too, waiting. I open the closet and there are a few clothes in Elaine’s sizes next to his suits. For a moment I wonder whether they were sleeping together after all, but the tags are still on. These aren’t her clothes, they’re offerings laid out for her, in this secret and unwanted temple. I walk across the hall: guest room. I don’t know what I expect to find. Did Maurice take lovers, from time to time? Did he feel the need either for sex or just contact? Did they look like Elaine, or as little like her as possible. No answers here. If he did, he purged the apartment of them after they left. I sit down at the terminal in his office and open it up. There are no passwords: the door only opens to Maurice or Stefan, or now, to me, because Stefan says so. I open his bank accounts and look through. There’s the payment to Denton that Orhan told me about, clear as day. I look for Mullen, and there’s nothing there. I open up the correspondence file, and do the same, searching for Mullen’s name. There’s nothing there, but I wouldn’t expect anything. That’s a hit. You pay for that a little more discreetly. I search for my own name and find Maurice’s broadly expressed opinion to Elaine, to Denton, to Athena. I already knew he didn’t like me. I find his arguments with Athena about the Tonfamecasca company, the way she’s doing his job. They are polite, but she let him know she was in charge. I search for Susan Green, Roddy Tebbit, Peter Antonin, for Lillian. If Maurice had anything about any of them, he didn’t have it here. Maybe he kept all that in his head. I search for Elaine, and find her everywhere. Drafts of letters, notes, lists of gifts. I wonder if he killed Roddy to impress her. But it doesn’t really make sense. * * * — Say you’re Maurice Tonfamecasca and you just found out that Peter Antonin is teaching at the