you two grew apart . . .” “Wyn and I didn’t grow apart.” I can’t get it out any louder than a whisper. “I pushed him away the same way I did to the rest of you. And it was always about me, not you or anyone else.” “But it’s not just you, Harriet,” Sabrina says. Cleo touches her hand. “Things have been . . . complicated for me, Sabrina. That’s all.” “You know,” Sabrina says, watching a butterfly pirouette past, “I was really, really happy when I was a kid. My parents were happy. And then they weren’t. And when they separated and moved on . . . it took a while, but they both found happiness again. Or, you know, their semi-twisted versions of that. “With new partners and new kids. Everyone got this fresh start. But I wasn’t a part of either one. I was part of their relationship. And once that was over, I bounced back and forth like—like a memento or something. The only thing that ever felt permanent to me, like it belonged to me, was this place.” Her voice pitches higher. “Until I met you two.” She’s always been so tough, and it breaks something in me to hear the vulnerability in her voice. “I met you,” she says, “and I finally belonged somewhere again.” “I felt that way too, Sab.” I scoot closer. “Me too,” Cleo says. “High school was hell for me. I mean, I chose Mattingly because I didn’t know anyone going there, and the best social situation I could dream up for myself was total anonymity. Those first few weeks of hanging out were, like, this weird out-of-body experience. I’d never had friends like that, the kind you do everything with and talk to about everything. Honestly, I kept waiting for you both to find new people and move on. “And then one day—it was right before fall break, and we were hugging goodbye, and I realized I’d stopped waiting. Without even realizing it. I knew you were my for-lifes then. That’s what my parents call each other. Because no matter what, they’re always going to be family. And that’s you both. The relationship can change shape a thousand times, but you’re always going to be in my life. Or at least, that’s what I want.” “Same,” I say. “No matter what happens with Wyn, I’m always going to belong with you. I’m not going anywhere. I love you, Sabrina, and I’m so sorry I made you feel like you were just a part of my relationship with Wyn. You’re a part of me. You’re so deep in my heart that I couldn’t get you out if I tried, and I don’t want to. I know how lucky I am to have you. To have people who love me enough to hold on even when I’m scared to let them close.” Cleo and Sabrina each grab one of my hands, their fingers lacing into mine. “God, I’ve been crying a lot this week,” Sabrina manages tearily. “Me too,” I say. “The


the Hutch, welcoming the cool dark of the back stairs, that sweet autumn smell of clove and currants. The rooms were spotless but lonely, the battered plaid couches and scenes of shepherds tending their flocks trapped in gloom. She didn’t like spending real time at the Hutch. She didn’t want to be reminded of the lost days when she’d hidden in these secret rooms, wounded and hopeless. Pathetic. She wasn’t going to let that happen to her this year. She was going to find a way to keep control. She snatched up the backpack she’d loaded with supplies earlier— graveyard dirt, bone dust chalk, and something labeled a Phantom Loop, a kind of fancy lacrosse stick she’d pilfered from the Lethe armory. For once, she’d done the homework. Alex loved the Book and Snake tomb because it was across from Grove Street Cemetery and that meant she wouldn’t have to see many Grays, particularly at night. Sometimes they were drawn there by funerals if the deceased had been especially loved or loathed, and Alex had once been treated to the grim sight of a Gray trying to lick the cheek of a weeping woman. But at night the cemetery was nothing but cold stone and decay—the last place Grays wanted to be when there was a campus right next door, full of students flirting and sweating, drinking too much beer or too much coffee, alive with nerves and ego. The tomb itself looked like something between a Greek temple and an oversized mausoleum—no windows or doors, all white marble fronted by towering columns. “It’s meant to look like the Erechtheion,” Darlington had told her. “At the Acropolis. Or some people say the Temple of Nike.” “So which is it?” Alex had asked. She’d felt like she was in moderately safe territory. She remembered learning about the Acropolis and the Agora and how much she’d loved the stories of the Greek gods. “Neither. It was built as a necromanteion, a house to welcome and commune with the dead.” And Alex had laughed because by then she knew how much Grays hated any reminder of death. “So they built a big mausoleum? They should have built a casino and put a sign out front that said Ladies drink free.” “Crude, Stern. But you’re not wrong.” That had been almost a year ago exactly. Tonight she was alone. Alex climbed the steps and knocked on the big bronze doors. This was the second ritual she’d observed this semester. The first—a rite of renewal at Manuscript —had been easy enough. The new delegation had stripped down to nothing and rolled a grizzled news anchor into a ditch lined with rosemary and hot coals. He’d emerged two hours later looking red-faced, sweaty, and about ten years younger. The door swung open on a girl in a black robe, her face covered by a sheer veil embroidered with black snakes. She pulled it up over her head. “Virgil?” Alex nodded. The societies never asked about Darlington anymore. To the new delegates, she was Virgil, an expert, an authority.


with words: “Bulk of treasure here.” ever after.” Over on the back the same hand had written this further “Trelawney,” said the doctor, “I’ll go with you; and I’ll go information: bail for it, so will Jim, and be a credit to the undertaking. Tall tree, Spy-glass shoulder, bearing a point to There’s only one man I’m afraid of.” the N. of N.N.E. “And who’s that?” cried the squire. “Name the dog, sir!” Skeleton Island E.S.E. and by E. “You,” replied the doctor; “for you cannot hold your tongue. Ten feet. We are not the only men who know of this paper. These The bar silver is in the north cache; you can find fellows who attacked the inn tonight— bold, desperate blades, it by the trend of the east hummock, ten fathoms for sure—and the rest who stayed aboard that lugger, and Contents south of the black crag with the face on it. more, I dare say, not far off, are, one and all, through thick The arms are easy found, in the sand-hill, N. and thin, bound that they’ll get that money. We must none Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 54 55 of us go alone till we get to sea. Jim and I shall stick together in the meanwhile; you’ll take Joyce and Hunter when you ride to Bristol, and from first to last, not one of us must breathe a word of what we’ve found.” “Livesey,” returned the squire, “you are always in the right of it. I’ll be as silent as the grave.” Part 2. The Sea-cook Chapter 7. I Go to Bristol. IT was longer than the squire imagined ere we were ready for the sea, and none of our first plans—not even Dr. Livesey’s, of keeping me beside him—could be carried out as we in- tended. The doctor had to go to London for a physician to take charge of his practice; the squire was hard at work at Bristol; and I lived on at the hall under the charge of old Redruth, the gamekeeper, almost a prisoner, but full of sea- dreams and the most charming anticipations of strange is- lands and adventures. I brooded by the hour together over the map, all the details of which I well remembered. Sitting Contents by the fire in the housekeeper’s room, I approached that is- land in my fancy from every possible direction; I explored every acre of its surface; I climbed a thousand times to that Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 56 57 tall hill they call the Spy-glass, and from the top enjoyed the pretty rum go if squire ain’t to talk for Dr. Livesey, I should most wonderful and changing prospects. Sometimes the isle think.” was thick with savages, with whom we fought, sometimes full At that I gave up all attempts at commentary and read of dangerous animals that hunted us, but in all my fancies straight on: nothing occurred to me so strange and tragic as our actual Blandly himself found the HISPANIOLA, and by the adventures. most admirable management got


head back to Washington. Midair, we got a hint of what might go down. The attorney general’s team informed us that Jeff Sessions would no longer be joining us at our final destination in Australia. He was clearly worried he might be fired, imminently. We had suspected it might happen. The president had already asked John Kelly multiple times if he’d go run DOJ. If I’m being honest, I have to say I wanted Sessions to get sacked. I assumed Republicans would panic if the president fired the attorney general for not bending to his will. They might try harder to contain him after that. A military aide interrupted to ask for the go, no-go decision. Hurricane Lane had been downgraded to a tropical storm off the coast of Hawaii. We were well on our way over the Pacific and could take a gamble that the storm would pass in time for us to land safely. Or we could turn around. I had no interest in going back to Washington. “Let’s proceed,” I told him. Then we got darker news. A press staffer came to the front of the cabin to tell us that U.S. senator John McCain had passed away, losing his long fight with brain cancer. The war veteran’s death wasn’t unexpected, but the news hit everyone hard, especially me. McCain was one of the first elected leaders I met as a young page on Capitol Hill, and he was one of the last I still respected. The Arizona senator was a fearless voice within the Republican Party, willing to defy the MAGA wing. As we got closer to Hawaii, I told Kirstjen and Chad I wanted to take a nap, lowering my baseball cap over my face. In truth, I needed a moment. I felt very alone. I didn’t get time to dwell on the feeling, because as it turned out, staying the course was a mistake. CG-1 hit serious turbulence. The updated forecast showed we wouldn’t dodge the downgraded hurricane. We were flying right into it. * * * One phone wasn’t enough to rouse me. But two of my devices rang in alternating fashion, performing slow pirouettes on the nightstand. I squinted at the glowing screens. I was exhausted. After a very rough landing in Hawaii (the storm rattled the private jet like a cranky toddler with a toy), the tropical storm had grounded us for several days. Some of the volcano victims we met became flood victims, too. We shuttled between moldy and partly submerged hotels, unable to sleep. When it was safe to proceed, we took another long flight and finally made it to Australia for the Five Eyes meeting. At our hotel on the country’s Gold Coast, I thought I’d finally have a chance to rest. Then buzzing woke me up. Both of my phones were ringing. The phone number caught my eye: (202) 456-1414. The White House switchboard. I answered. Trump’s deputy chief of staff, Zach Fuentes, wasted no time in telling me POTUS was pissed off. “Did you all lower the flags?”


thought was considered left wing, irrational thought was left brain, and anything evil, sinister. The days of the goddess were over. The pendulum had swung. Mother Earth had become a man's world, and the gods of destruction and war were taking their toll. The male ego had spent two millennia running unchecked by its female counterpart. The Priory of Sion believed that it was this obliteration of the sacred feminine in modern life that had caused what the Hopi Native Americans called koyanisquatsi-"life out of balance"-an unstable situation marked by testosterone-fueled wars, a plethora of misogynistic societies, and a growing disrespect for Mother Earth. "Robert!" Sophie said, her whisper yanking him back. "Someone's coming!" He heard the approaching footsteps out in the hallway. "Over here!" Sophie extinguished the black light and seemed to evaporate before Langdon's eyes. For an instant he felt totally blind. Over where! As his vision cleared he saw Sophie's silhouette racing toward the center of the room and ducking out of sight behind the octagonal viewing bench. He was about to dash after her when a booming voice stopped him cold. "Arrtez!" a man commanded from the doorway. The Louvre security agent advanced through the entrance to the Salle des Etats, his pistol outstretched, taking deadly aim at Langdon's chest. Langdon felt his arms raise instinctively for the ceiling. "Couchez-vous!" the guard commanded. "Lie down!" Langdon was face first on the floor in a matter of seconds. The guard hurried over and kicked his legs apart, spreading Langdon out. "Mauvaise ide, Monsieur Langdon," he said, pressing the gun hard into Langdon's back. "Mauvaise ide." Face down on the parquet floor with his arms and legs spread wide, Langdon found little humor in the irony of his position. The Vitruvian Man, he thought. Face down. 86 CHAPTER 29 Inside Saint-Sulpice, Silas carried the heavy iron votive candle holder from the altar back toward the obelisk. The shaft would do nicely as a battering ram. Eyeing the gray marble panel that covered the apparent hollow in the floor, he realized he could not possibly shatter the covering without making considerable noise. Iron on marble. It would echo off the vaulted ceilings. Would the nun hear him? She should be asleep by now. Even so, it was a chance Silas preferred not to take. Looking around for a cloth to wrap around the tip of the iron pole, he saw nothing except the altar's linen mantle, which he refused to defile. My cloak, he thought. Knowing he was alone in the great church, Silas untied his cloak and slipped it off his body. As he removed it, he felt a sting as the wool fibers stuck to the fresh wounds on his back. Naked now, except for his loin swaddle, Silas wrapped his cloak over the end of the iron rod. Then, aiming at the center of the floor tile, he drove the tip into it. A muffled thud. The stone did not break. He drove the pole into it again. Again a dull thud, but this time accompanied by a


little fun. Thank you, by the way, for playing with me. I enjoy the taste of your strength, even the nervous anxiety of your Tristán, although it doesn’t taste the same as you. Too…scrawny,” he declared. “Did you enjoy your first murder, by the way?” “I didn’t murder anyone.” “You did. I wouldn’t have managed on my own. Feel it, there?” he asked, casually brushing a hand across her shoulder and sliding a finger onto the hollow of her throat. “That’s death.” She thought she could feel it, for one second, as the tip of his finger pressed against her skin. A sharp pull, the source of the dizziness that had made her almost trip at the building’s entrance and then the warm wave upon her fingers when the blood splashed against the bowl. In his letter Ewers had said he’d felt power in the wake of his father’s death; his magic had come into full bloom after that. Were Tristán and Montserrat stronger now? She’d felt faint in the car. Almost drunk. Drunk on Alma’s death, perhaps. “Montserrat, let’s talk about us. I am willing to alleviate your financial woes and provide you with the other trinkets you desire, including Tristán. The love of your life, am I correct?” “I can get a raise and go on dates on my own, asshole,” she said, unable to maintain a composed tone against the mockery of his voice. His amused laughter reverberated around them. “You’re trying to use anger as your shield. If you won’t be afraid, then you’ll be furious and insolent. It’s a cheap trick.” “It’s from your book,” she replied. “I know. That is why I’m partial to it.” There was glee in his eyes, smugness. You know me, you saw me, the eyes said. “Let’s try another route. How about power, Montserrat? The power you’ve craved since you were a little girl, when they mocked you and shoved you and called you dirty names. The power you lack when those men sneer at you and ignore your contributions, your brilliance. The power to make the whole world see you.” “You’re talking about what you want, not me,” she said, although her mind immediately jumped back to the old taunts, the nicknames she knew well. Peg-leg, where’s your pirate ship? the kids at school had asked, and her cheeks burned with mortification at this memory. He noticed the blush, seemed amused. “I think we’re very much alike. You’d like to know all the secrets that hide between the pages of musty books, all the ways spells can be woven with runes, and the meaning of words you’ve never heard before. You want to know, you’ve always wanted to. I’ve seen into your heart as you’ve slept and discerned your dreams.” She wondered if he could spy into people’s minds while they slept, or if his knowledge was gained from lurking in shadows and hearing her speak to Tristán. He wasn’t wrong, though, and if she denied it, he’d discern the lie. “You’re not to be trusted,” she told him instead.


amusement. In the car, I fire up the e-mail on my BlackBerry. From: Anastasia Grey Subject: Thank You Date: August 17, 2011 16:55 To: Christian Grey For not being too grouchy. 69/551 Your loving wife xxx From: Christian Grey Subject: Trying to Stay Calm Date: August 17, 2011 16:59 To: Anastasia Grey You’re welcome. Come back in one piece. This is not a request. x Christian Grey CEO & Overprotective Husband, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. His response makes me smile. My control freak. Why did I want to come shopping? I hate shopping. But deep down I know why, and I walk determinedly past Chanel, Gucci, Dior, and the other designer boutiques and eventually find the antidote to what ails me in a small, overstocked, touristy store. It’s a little silver ankle bracelet with small hearts and little bells. It tinkles sweetly and it costs five euros. As soon as I’ve bought it, I put it on. This is me—this is what I like. Immediately I feel more comfortable. I don’t want to lose touch with the girl who likes this, ever. Deep down I know that I’m not only overwhelmed by Christian himself but also by his wealth. Will I ever get used to it? Taylor and Gaston follow me dutifully through the late afternoon crowds, and I soon forget they are there. I want to buy something for Christian, something to take his mind off what’s happening in Seattle. But what do I buy for the man who has everything? I pause in a small modern square surrounded by stores and gaze at each one in turn. When I spy an electronics store, our visit to the gallery earlier 70/551 today and our visit to the Louvre come back to me. We were looking at the Venus de Milo at the time . . . Christian’s words echo in my head, “We can all appreciate the female form. We love to look whether in marble or oils or satin or film.” It gives me an idea, a daring idea. I just need help choosing the right one, and there’s only one person who can help me. I wrestle my BlackBerry out of my purse and call José. “Who . . . ?” he mumbles sleepily. “José, it’s Ana.” “Ana, hi! Where are you? You okay?” He sounds more alert now, concerned. “I’m in Cannes in the South of France, and I’m fine.” “South of France, huh? You in some fancy hotel?” “Um . . . no. We’re staying on a boat.” “A boat?” “A big boat.” I clarify, sighing. “I see.” His tone chills . . . Shit, I should not have called him. I don’t need this right now. “José, I need your advice.” “My advice?” He sounds stunned. “Sure,” he says, and this time he’s much more friendly. I tell him my plan. Two hours later, Taylor helps me out of the motor launch onto the steps up to the deck. Gaston is helping the deckhand with the Jet Ski. Christian is nowhere to be seen, and I


I grow at a reasonable pace,' said the Dormouse: `not in that ridiculous fashion.' And he got up very sulkily and crossed over to the other side of the court. All this time the Queen had never left off staring at the Hatter, and, just as the Dormouse crossed the court, she said to one of the officers of the court, `Bring me the list of the singers in the last concert!' on which the wretched Hatter trembled so, that he shook both his shoes off. `Give your evidence,' the King repeated angrily, `or I'll have you executed, whether you're nervous or not.' `I'm a poor man, your Majesty,' the Hatter began, in a trembling voice, `--and I hadn't begun my tea--not above a week or so--and what with the bread-and-butter getting so thin--and the twinkling of the tea--' `The twinkling of the what?' said the King. `It began with the tea,' the Hatter replied. `Of course twinkling begins with a T!' said the King sharply. `Do you take me for a dunce? Go on!' `I'm a poor man,' the Hatter went on, `and most things twinkled after that--only the March Hare said--' `I didn't!' the March Hare interrupted in a great hurry. `You did!' said the Hatter. `I deny it!' said the March Hare. `He denies it,' said the King: `leave out that part.' `Well, at any rate, the Dormouse said--' the Hatter went on, looking anxiously round to see if he would deny it too: but the Dormouse denied nothing, being fast asleep. `After that,' continued the Hatter, `I cut some more bread- and-butter--' `But what did the Dormouse say?' one of the jury asked. `That I can't remember,' said the Hatter. `You MUST remember,' remarked the King, `or I'll have you executed.' The miserable Hatter dropped his teacup and bread-and-butter, and went down on one knee. `I'm a poor man, your Majesty,' he began. `You're a very poor speaker,' said the King. Here one of the guinea-pigs cheered, and was immediately suppressed by the officers of the court. (As that is rather a hard word, I will just explain to you how it was done. They had a large canvas bag, which tied up at the mouth with strings: into this they slipped the guinea-pig, head first, and then sat upon it.) `I'm glad I've seen that done,' thought Alice. `I've so often read in the newspapers, at the end of trials, "There was some attempts at applause, which was immediately suppressed by the officers of the court," and I never understood what it meant till now.' `If that's all you know about it, you may stand down,' continued the King. `I can't go no lower,' said the Hatter: `I'm on the floor, as it is.' `Then you may SIT down,' the King replied. Here the other guinea-pig cheered, and was suppressed. `Come, that finished the guinea-pigs!' thought Alice. `Now we shall get on better.' `I'd rather finish my tea,' said the Hatter, with an anxious look at the Queen, who was reading the list of singers. `You may


a time of daffodils and swallows, sunshine and long afternoons. She’d take the train to Middleton Ferris next week and meet the gang for lunch. They’d laugh and remember the best old times. It was just what she needed. Florence washed her hands, shrugged a light jacket over her floral dress and called out a cheery goodbye. Odile rushed over, pressing a brown paper bag into her hand. Her cheeks puffed out in a smile. ‘This is for you to take home, Florence – just some burgers, some bread, a bit of ginger cake for your dad.’ ‘Thanks, Odile.’ Florence was tempted to hug her but Odile was gone; she hugged you when she wanted. Florence hugged the bag of food instead. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ ‘Bright and early,’ Odile called back, then the door chimed behind her and Florence was on her way home. Odile was kind; she’d given the food because her mother had left seven years ago and she felt sorry for Dangerous Dave, working all day in the garage, and Florence, tired from being on her feet all day. Odile would always say, ‘What did your father eat for his dinner last night?’ and ‘How are you both managing nowadays?’ Florence knew what she really meant was, ‘How are you both doing, now you’ve been abandoned by your-mother-the-hussy who left you for the man who came round to fix the boiler?’ Florence hadn’t heard from her mother for well over a year when she’d had a birthday card, a cheque for Christmas – no one gave cheques any more. The letter had come from Northampton, so that’s presumably where her mother was now. Florence was too thoughtful to ask her father about it; he rarely mentioned her, keeping a jolly smile on his face, so Florence knew his heart was broken. But that wasn’t what was troubling her right now. As she went home past the primary school, past the Co-op, she glanced towards the playing fields where some kids were kicking a ball; someone was walking a dog. She increased her pace: it was past five and the wind was chilly. There was a rumbling engine behind her and Florence looked to see if she knew the driver. It was Bobby Ledbury, the farmer’s grandson, on his motorbike, and she waved a hand, but he didn’t wave back. Perhaps he hadn’t seen her. As she walked through the estate of 1960s houses, Florence considered her plans for the evening ahead: she could wander down to the rec in case there was anyone there she recognised. Her best friend from up the road, Malia Johnson, was home from Warwick uni. Florence was desperate to see her, to explain what was troubling her – a problem shared was a problem halved. Malia would hug her and understand. But Malia’s brother would be home and Florence wasn’t sure she wanted to see Adam Johnson. But she needed to talk to someone, and urgently. There was Natalie Ledbury from up at the farm, Bobby’s sister. Florence could give her a ring,


author knows how scary it is to send their baby WIP into someone else’s hands, but Destiny, Janae, and Abby—you guys made it so much less terrifying. I can’t believe you didn’t block my number the seventieth time I asked if you were still reading. Hannah Sawyerr, our sprints and Facetimes and overlapping deadlines have meant the world to me, and I’m so blessed to have you and your endless cheer in my life. Olesya Lyuzna, my first critique partner and co-podcaster, one of these days we’ll meet and the world will never be the same. Jess Parra, one of the funniest and most fiercely supportive women I know—thank you for always telling it to me straight and being the coolest honorary aunt on the planet. Carolina Flórez-Cerchiaro, Brittney Arena, Ream Shukairy, and Maeeda Khan, I’m so grateful for your enthusiasm and kindness. My family probably skipped directly to this section as soon as they opened the book (as if I would ever forget you). Mama, you’ve been telling people I was a writer since I was in the third grade, and I’m sorry I spent years begging you to stop. Baba, who always listens and always knew I’d get here. I’m so grateful you ignored my whining and made sure I learned Arabic and fell in love with Egypt. To Yusuf, for having endless ideas for promoting the book, despite your general disinterest in fiction. Hend, who started reading my half-formed stories when she was ten and never stopped asking for more. And Hanan, who didn’t originally read much but happily read this book three times—I adore you and your willingness to let me talk your ear off about my ideas. To every reader and bookseller who picked up this book, ordered it to their library, added it to their TBR—your kind words and support have been an unending source of joy for me throughout this journey. I’m forever thankful to you for taking a chance on a debut author. Finally, to my elementary school librarian, even though you may never see this. You saw me reading alone every day at recess and took me under your wing. You let me check out five books at a time instead of the school-sanctioned two, and you asked about every single one I read. You put a chair just for me behind the counter, so I could scan books with you if the world became too overwhelming. Because of you, the library was more than just a place to read—it was my haven. I will never be able to thank you enough for reminding me the real world can sometimes be as magical as fictional ones. Discover Your Next Great Read Get sneak peeks, book recommendations, and news about your favorite authors. Tap here to learn more. extras meet the author Sara Hashem SARA HASHEM is an American Egyptian writer from Southern California, where she spent many sunny days holed up indoors with a book. Sara’s love for fantasy and magical realms emerged during the two years her family lived in Egypt. When


in the next ten minutes. Rest in peace to his headboard. In a few long strides, he was around the front bumper, diving into the driver’s side and reversing through the maze of emergency vehicles. “Oh, you are going to get it, Natalie queen princess Cates.” She slid gracefully across the front row of his truck, pressing her mouth to his shoulder. Kissing, licking . . . and biting down in way that sent his balls up into his throat. “Fuck.” “Yes, please.” She gripped his cock through the wet material of his sweatpants and in one big, shuddering breath, he fogged up every single window of the truck. “And I don’t need you to take it easy on me. Our make-up sex was interrupted this morning. Maybe it should be a little . . .” “Rough.” He fumbled for the defroster with a growl. “You have no idea how bad you’re making it hurt, princess.” That magic hand of hers started to stroke him up and down. “Pull over and show me.” “Natalie,” he groaned, trying to blink away the tiny dots of light spinning in front of his eyes. “I think you might be short-circuiting my brain.” “I’m sorry,” she said, not looking the least bit contrite. Jesus, what was coming next? When she stripped the soaked nightshirt over her head, he had his answer. In a mere scrap of panties, she resumed jacking him off, but this time her hand had entered the end zone. It was inside his sweatpants doing the Lord’s work, playing with his balls and tugging on his cock gently, with a grip that increased in pressure, then got rough. “Son of a bitch,” he hissed through his teeth, forcing himself to breathe and focus on the road. If he crashed his truck with Natalie in the passenger seat, he’d probably die from the horror alone. “I can’t pull over into the woods, Natalie. I’m not risking you getting struck by lightning or . . . God, another flooded road—” “I’m safe as long as you’re with me.” Now she was stroking his ego, too? He was man enough to know when he’d lost a battle. “You’re damn right you are, princess.” Her hand was going for broke now. Was someone singing opera in the rear cab of his truck or was that all in his head? “Taking a quick break from our argument to let you know this is the best hand job I’ve ever had in my life. And about ninety-nine percent of those were performed by me, an expert on my own dick. You’re absolutely nailing it.” Those lips curved into a smile against his jaw, her low-pitched hum coursing through him. “You know what would feel even better . . .” “Your pussy? Yeah, it’s pretty much the only thing I’m capable of thinking about.” “Pull over,” she cajoled, cupping and massaging his balls. August gritted his teeth and searched for a break in the trees. There was one around here somewhere. He’d used it to make a K-turn a hundred


Race Play. It’s not a racism thing just a preference thing Maddie Is typing … Ezra Hello? ___ Darren Fun fact about me is I never dated a Black woman before but I always wanted to try it. See more of whats out there * * * I don’t fall asleep until three. I spent the first few hours of the morning talking to Alex. Even Jo went to bed before I did. Alex lives in Putney, prefers green tea to coffee, and has a rescue Labrador called Rufus. I was the last to message, and he hasn’t sent a reply yet. Maybe because it’s a weekday and regular people are on their way to work? I remember why I’m not on my way to work. I get out of bed and the house is empty. I decide I’m going to try to look at my emails today. I wrap a cardigan around me and sit out in the garden with a tall glass of water. There’s almost two hundred emails in my work inbox, which is less than I expected considering a good portion of them will be threads and emails I didn’t need to be cc’d into in the first place. I imagine Penny told relevant parties not to bother me. I skip through all the condolence emails, opening but not really reading them. There’s one I spend twenty minutes drafting a reply for but, in the end, choose to delete it. Then I see the repetition of the words “Love Stories.” Love Stories? What’s that? Via a thread of emails, I discover they’ve followed up with Afra Yazden-Blake and signed her on, with Kris acting as head editor. I’m not usually cc’d into Creative emails, but I think Penny’s been adding me in when the rest forget to. I go through them all and gather that Afra’s book will be called Love Stories from the Middle East and when published it will be a three-to-four-hundred page book on food, drink, and desserts from the Middle East. A synopsis has even been drafted: When Afra came to London from Iran twelve years ago, alone and severely homesick, she began to cook and bake food from her mother’s sparse notes as a way of expressing what she could not yet vocalize. She started meeting men and women via social media and various community organizations before holding, what she called, “home parties” in her studio flat. Her dinners started off with just three people bimonthly; each guest would bring a dish from their home to share and they would sit, eat, drink, and reminisce. Soon, friends invited friends and the number of dishes arriving through her studio’s doors grew until her dining table was full and people were sitting on the floor, the kitchen counter, and beside the sink. Afra looked forward to these dinners because her evenings would smell like home and of cities she hadn’t seen. The “home parties” were disorganized but she loved this chaotic expression of love and friendship. Eventually she began storing her recipes and collecting guest


say,' replied the little man, shaking his head, and looking amazingly sly. 'Have you got anything in my line to-night?' 'Nothing to-night,' said the Jew, turning away. 'Are you going up to the Cripples, Fagin?' cried the little man, calling after him. 'Stop! I don't mind if I have a drop there with you!' But as the Jew, looking back, waved his hand to intimate that he preferred being alone; and, moreover, as the little man could not very easily disengage himself from the chair; the sign of the Cripples was, for a time, bereft of the advantage of Mr. Lively's presence. By the time he had got upon his legs, the Jew had disappeared; so Mr. Lively, after ineffectually standing on tiptoe, in the hope of catching sight of him, again forced himself into the little chair, and, exchanging a shake of the head with a lady in the opposite shop, in which doubt and mistrust were plainly mingled, resumed his pipe with a grave demeanour. The Three Cripples, or rather the Cripples; which was the sign by which the establishment was familiarly known to its patrons: was the public-house in which Mr. Sikes and his dog have already figured. Merely making a sign to a man at the bar, Fagin walked straight upstairs, and opening the door of a room, and softly insinuating himself into the chamber, looked anxiously about: shading his eyes with his hand, as if in search of some particular person. The room was illuminated by two gas-lights; the glare of which was prevented by the barred shutters, and closely-drawn curtains of faded red, from being visible outside. The ceiling was blackened, to prevent its colour from being injured by the flaring of the lamps; and the place was so full of dense tobacco smoke, that at first it was scarcely possible to discern anything more. By degrees, however, as some of it cleared away through the open door, an assemblage of heads, as confused as the noises that greeted the ear, might be made out; and as the eye grew more accustomed to the scene, the spectator gradually became aware of the presence of a numerous company, male and female, crowded round a long table: at the upper end of which, sat a chairman with a hammer of office in his hand; while a professional gentleman with a bluish nose, and his face tied up for the benefit of a toothache, presided at a jingling piano in a remote corner. As Fagin stepped softly in, the professional gentleman, running over the keys by way of prelude, occasioned a general cry of order for a song; which having subsided, a young lady proceeded to entertain the company with a ballad in four verses, between each of which the accompanyist played the melody all through, as loud as he could. When this was over, the chairman gave a sentiment, after which, the professional gentleman on the chairman's right and left volunteered a duet, and sang it, with great applause. It was curious to observe some faces which stood


seam of flesh open again. A casual knock on the door brought me whirling around. It was a solid five seconds before I processed what I was supposed to do and went to answer it. I opened the door to discover Ethan Schreiber in a cozy brown sweater, a white paper bag flecked with grease in one hand and a cardboard tray with two foam cups in the other. I stared, unable to interpret the scene or comprehend how he had transformed from a voice in my ear talking about Deedee Kent to the man standing in front of me. He held out the bag. “You strike me as someone who needs to be reminded to eat,” he said. The scent of diner burger and French fries oozed from the bag. My stomach growled. “You brought me a burger,” I said blankly. “And a milkshake,” he confirmed. He smiled—the kind of close-lipped smile you gave an animal you were hoping wouldn’t maul you. “Thanks,” I said, and stuck out a hand. He pulled the bag back out of reach. “It comes with company.” I folded my arms, irritated. Irritated was better than panicked. I held on to it. “That’s blackmail.” “I think it’s closer to bribery,” he replied. “No interview, promise.” “What, you just want to spend time with me?” It was supposed to sound biting. It came out pitiable. “I want to make sure you’re all right,” he said. He had a face made for sincerity. He was like a puppy pawing at your arm to comfort you, with those big brown eyes. “But if you really don’t want company, I’ll leave this with you and go.” My gut tightened. I didn’t want Ethan Schreiber here. I wanted to be alone even less. This is how I ended up with guys like Mitch, I thought. Even the terrible ones were better company than my own mind. I sighed, dropping my hand from the door and turning away. It took him a few seconds to catch on and follow me inside. He set the food out on the tiny table in the corner. I really was starving. I unwrapped the grease bomb of a burger and wolfed it down. Ethan approached his more strategically, watching me with something between horror and admiration. I sucked a stray glob of ketchup from my thumb and moved on to the fries at a more sedate pace. “How are you holding up?” he asked. “I hate that question slightly less than I hate being asked if I’m okay,” I told him. “You don’t like answering questions at all, do you?” He quirked an eyebrow at me. “That’s another question,” I pointed out. I took the lid off the milkshake so I could attack it with a spoon. “I surrender,” he said. He threw up his hands. “I’m sorry I barged in here.” “No, it’s fine,” I said quickly. Alone, my thoughts had scrabbled through my skull like panicked rats. With him here, they’d settled to faint, anxious scurrying. “I’m not … good at being alone,” I


pulled up. "His having been here and the time they were with him?" "The time they were with him, and his name, his presence, his history, in any way." "Oh, the little lady doesn't remember. She never heard or knew." "The circumstances of his death?" I thought with some intensity. "Perhaps not. But Miles would remember--Miles would know." "Ah, don't try him!" broke from Mrs. Grose. I returned her the look she had given me. "Don't be afraid." I continued to think. "It IS rather odd." "That he has never spoken of him?" "Never by the least allusion. And you tell me they were `great friends'?" "Oh, it wasn't HIM!" Mrs. Grose with emphasis declared. "It was Quint's own fancy. To play with him, I mean-- to spoil him." She paused a moment; then she added: "Quint was much too free." This gave me, straight from my vision of his face--SUCH a face!-- a sudden sickness of disgust. "Too free with MY boy?" "Too free with everyone!" I forbore, for the moment, to analyze this description further than by the reflection that a part of it applied to several of the members of the household, of the half-dozen maids and men who were still of our small colony. But there was everything, for our apprehension, in the lucky fact that no discomfortable legend, no perturbation of scullions, had ever, within anyone's memory attached to the kind old place. It had neither bad name nor ill fame, and Mrs. Grose, most apparently, only desired to cling to me and to quake in silence. I even put her, the very last thing of all, to the test. It was when, at midnight, she had her hand on the schoolroom door to take leave. "I have it from you then--for it's of great importance--that he was definitely and admittedly bad?" "Oh, not admittedly. _I_ knew it--but the master didn't." "And you never told him?" "Well, he didn't like tale-bearing--he hated complaints. He was terribly short with anything of that kind, and if people were all right to HIM--" "He wouldn't be bothered with more?" This squared well enough with my impressions of him: he was not a trouble-loving gentleman, nor so very particular perhaps about some of the company HE kept. All the same, I pressed my interlocutress. "I promise you _I_ would have told!" She felt my discrimination. "I daresay I was wrong. But, really, I was afraid." "Afraid of what?" "Of things that man could do. Quint was so clever--he was so deep." I took this in still more than, probably, I showed. "You weren't afraid of anything else? Not of his effect--?" "His effect?" she repeated with a face of anguish and waiting while I faltered. "On innocent little precious lives. They were in your charge." "No, they were not in mine!" she roundly and distressfully returned. "The master believed in him and placed him here because he was supposed not to be well and the country air so good for him. So he had everything to say. Yes"--she let me have


love her. Before I go to bed, I text again, reiterating that the next time she is even slightly alert, we’d appreciate it so much if someone would hold the phone up so we can send our love. When my phone rings on Monday, I still hope to hear a voice telling me that my mother is awake and able to listen. Instead, I hear the words “Your mom is gone.” “No,” I say. “It was peaceful,” my aunt says. “It was time, honey. The cancer was everywhere. It was time for her suffering to end.” I want to ask her to tell me more, but what is there to say now? I want to offer some kind of help, but what can I possibly do? I apologize, although I don’t know why—maybe because I am crying, heaving too hard to speak—and ask if I can call her later. She says I can call whenever I want. My entire family is home, because my entire family is always home now. My husband hears me and comes running, my daughters know what has happened before we tell them. For the rest of the day and most of the night, I cannot stop crying. I cry while I eat or drink. I cry in the shower, and when I lie down to try to sleep. Even when I am worn out, too hoarse for my sobs to make much of a sound, the tears keep coming, silently drifting down my cheeks. All I can think about is how, at the end, I wasn’t with her. She was the kind of mother who deserved to have her child there when she died. Knowing that I had her steadfast support, that she loved and believed in me no matter what, made me so much braver than I would have been otherwise. It made risks feel smaller; it made it possible for me to trust myself a little more. Like any mother and child, we’d had our conflicts, our weaknesses, our outright failures, but there had never been a serious or lasting rift between us. Her faith in me was a safety net I couldn’t see until it was gone. I don’t know what I’m going to do without her. Without both of them. I never deserved them, I think. They were wrong to love me. But every time I try to hate myself, tell myself that I am a worthless daughter, I swear I can hear her voice in my head. It feels new. Don’t say that, she says. Don’t even think it. * * * We’re nearly two months into the pandemic, but the funeral home representative tells me they’ve never set up a live stream for a funeral and aren’t sure whether they can. We’re looking into it. My mother’s priest has privacy concerns about filming the service, and adds that it was already very difficult to choose who among my mother’s many church friends could attend. Only twenty-five people may be present. An additional person filming, he points out, “will take a place


railing. She feels another rush of nervous excitement. It’s different from the bouts of adrenaline she sometimes feels working in the ER, when she has complete control. He flashes her a playful smile and takes her hand, reminding her of the quiet, shy guy he was in college. He’s nervous, she thinks. At least, he wants her to think he is. A guy like Brody Carr must be used to women swooning over him. Comparing this moment to her first date with Ethan, she’s struck by a bolt of sadness. The connection she shared with him was something that money couldn’t buy. She had been immediately drawn to Ethan’s humor, his drive, his empathy. To who he was. It never mattered what he had. Where did we go so wrong? They move past a blown-up underwater photograph on the wall. She slows to admire the bright red and yellow anemones and starfish, her mind whirling with thoughts of her husband. While she can appreciate being in a mansion, it’s too bad money didn’t equate to love. “I took that,” Brody says. “Freediving.” “You freedive?” She didn’t know much about the sport aside from reading a news article a few years back about a freediver who died in a competition. He nods. “When I can.” Sloane looks back at the bright sea life in the photograph, which had to have been taken on some tropical reef. “That’s amazing.” They move side-by-side toward the rear of the house. She eyes a white grand piano. “You play?” “I do. Sometimes, classical. But mostly Radiohead.” She grins. “You’re full of surprises, Brody Carr.” She stops when they reach an open-plan living room with a vaulted ceiling, seeing a framed photograph above the streaked-marble fireplace across the room. A diver in a hooded wetsuit swims parallel to a vertical rope beneath dark turquoise water. A smaller cable affixes the diver’s ankle to the rope. The diver’s pointed toes and arms at their side display a strong athleticism, and there is a strange tranquility to the photo. Above the photo, a gold medal hangs from a blue ribbon. She turns to Brody. “You dove competitively?” He shrugs. “A little. I enrolled in a freediving school in Florida after I dropped out of UW. I knew after taking those first few premed courses that college, and especially medical school, wasn’t for me. I wanted to create something that would have an impact on the quality of people’s lives. Freediving gave me a whole new perspective. On life. On everything.” She remembers him being such a loner in college. He always struck her as being awkward and timid. She can’t imagine that guy enrolling in a freediving school. “You’re not whom I expected you to be.” He lets out a short laugh as they cross the space, which is open to the outside, where flames flicker in an outdoor fireplace beneath a large covered patio. Beyond it, lights illuminate a swimming pool, and Seattle’s city lights shine from the other side of the lake. “Most people aren’t.” He lets go


the trees, and, sure enough, there was Tom Sawyer waiting for me. CHAPTER II. WE went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees back towards the end of the widow's garden, stooping down so as the branches wouldn't scrape our heads. When we was passing by the kitchen I fell over a root and made a noise. We scrouched down and laid still. Miss Watson's big nigger, named Jim, was setting in the kitchen door; we could see him pretty clear, because there was a light behind him. He got up and stretched his neck out about a minute, listening. Then he says: "Who dah?" He listened some more; then he come tiptoeing down and stood right between us; we could a touched him, nearly. Well, likely it was minutes and minutes that there warn't a sound, and we all there so close together. There was a place on my ankle that got to itching, but I dasn't scratch it; and then my ear begun to itch; and next my back, right between my shoul- ders. Seemed like I'd die if I couldn't scratch. Well, I've noticed that thing plenty times since. If you are with the quality, or at a funeral, or trying to go to sleep when you ain't sleepy -- if you are anywheres where it won't do for you to scratch, why you will itch all over in upwards of a thousand places. Pretty soon Jim says: "Say, who is you? Whar is you? Dog my cats ef I didn' hear sumf'n. Well, I know what I's gwyne to do: I's gwyne to set down here and listen tell I hears it agin." So he set down on the ground betwixt me and Tom. He leaned his back up against a tree, and stretched his legs out till one of them most touched one of mine. My nose begun to itch. It itched till the tears come into my eyes. But I dasn't scratch. Then it begun to itch on the inside. Next I got to itching under- neath. I didn't know how I was going to set still. This miserableness went on as much as six or seven minutes; but it seemed a sight longer than that. I was itching in eleven different places now. I reckoned I couldn't stand it more'n a minute longer, but I set my teeth hard and got ready to try. Just then Jim begun to breathe heavy; next he begun to snore -- and then I was pretty soon comfortable again. Tom he made a sign to me -- kind of a little noise with his mouth -- and we went creeping away on our hands and knees. When we was ten foot off Tom whispered to me, and wanted to tie Jim to the tree for fun. But I said no; he might wake and make a dis- turbance, and then they'd find out I warn't in. Then Tom said he hadn't got candles enough, and he would slip in the kitchen and get some more. I didn't want him


be. Not when you and I have an understanding.” Was he absolutely mad? As he pressed her up against the wall, Lucy bit back tears. He was mad, and Rebecca had been right to be wary of the man. But what was she to do? She could scream for help, but she feared what he would do to her then. His grip was already tight enough on her wrist that she would likely bruise. “I saw you, you know,” he said. He spoke so calmly, as if he had no idea how frightened she was. “In the dress shop. I almost didn’t recognize you because you looked so . . . happy, even with those tears of yours. I’ve never seen you that way.” Then his eyes dropped to her arm he held between them. He released her slowly, taking a step back. “Forgive me, Miss Hayes. I merely . . . Do you have any idea what this nonsense will do to you?” Lucy had no idea how to react to the sudden shift in the man, and she stood frozen, staring at him, because it was like he was another person. He sounded like he actually cared about what happened to her. He took a careful breath. “I can’t imagine how you convinced the man to go along with this, but . . . with you and I having a previous understanding, when the truth gets out about the engagement you have concocted with Calloway, and you know it will, you will be ruined. Did you not stop to think about that?” Lucy had hardly thought about anything else, but she couldn’t tell him that he was the reason she had carried on the ruse this long. “We have no understanding, Mr. Granger.” He scoffed. “Of course we do. Half of London knows about it.” What on earth had he been telling people? “What are you going to do?” she asked, her voice shaking. He frowned. “What am I going to do? Miss Hayes, I have never been shy about my intentions. The question is what are you going to do?” Then he leaned forward and kissed her. Lucy had never been kissed. She had never really thought about being kissed. The life of a governess didn’t exactly lead to dreams of romance, and she liked to think she was a practical sort. But she hadn’t expected to feel so . . . unmoved. Servants at the Granger house had sometimes talked about being kissed when she was around, though they had never included her in their conversations. But the girls had spoken of fire and stars and being warm all over. Mr. Granger’s kiss felt . . . wet. And it was over before she could push him away, leaving her stunned and frozen in place. “I will give you three days to see to your affairs with that family,” he said, running a hand through his hair as if the kiss had entirely unraveled him. “Make your peace with them and end your engagement before I am forced


assumed they were. Who’s prejudiced now, huh, Ora?” “She had to be. She held the thread in her hand—I saw it with my own eyes.” “What if I told you that the police have found the women’s names and are refusing to release them to the press?” “There are hundreds of other-born in Alante; we’ll find her tomorrow when the registry opens.” “Good luck with that,” Xenophon said in singsong; Io had to physically keep her fingers from balling up. “The day after the chernobog-born’s death, all other-born records were pulled from the public registry. Coincidence?” “But that’s illegal.” At the end of the month-long Kinship Treaty negotiations sixty years ago, the other-born delegation, led by the Agora of the horae-born, had conceded to a compromise: they would receive citizenship rights in all city-nations in exchange for several precautions, such as lower wages, special restrictions to rent and own property, as well as their private information made public. Their names, affiliations, and powers would be listed in public records for everyone to see. People had a right to protect themselves, authorities said. Bullshit, Thais always argued. It’s us that have had to protect ourselves from them. But other-born were tired of being emigrants, seeking shelter from city to city, and so they accepted. “No shit, detective,” said Xenophon. “But as of a week ago, Alante is the first city under the Kinship Treaty that made other-born records private. Guess who confiscated them.” Io waited, eyes hard, jaw set. This had a bad smell all about it. “Come on, Ora, don’t ruin it,” Xenophon whined. “Guess.” She truly hated the boy. And he was a boy, large as a boar, but more juvenile than a toddler. She would not indulge a child— “The Initiative,” Edei said, straightening from the dresser he had been going through. “Ding, ding, ding.” Xenophon mimicked ringing an invisible bell. “Edei Rhuna, is it? Witnesses say you were here yesterday. Got any comments for me?” Edei ignored him, speaking to Io instead. “The Commissioner, Luc Saint-Yves. You’ve heard of his Initiative?” Sure she had. Everyone in Alante had heard of the golden boy’s brilliant idea. Barely thirty-five and yet he had been appointed Police Commissioner and swept the city off their feet, both the distrustful middle class and the snobbish elite of the Hill. This year, he was vying for City Mayor, the elections to be held in a few days. He was ahead in the polls mainly due to his Initiative for the New Order. In many ways, it was unoriginal: a task force that would capture and indict the city’s most notorious other-born criminals. But the Initiative aimed to recruit solely other-born, when no other-born had ever been hired in the police force before. An impossible idea, yet Saint-Yves had proved determined, charming, and a little bit cocky, claiming he already had several “noble” other-born in his employ, led by none other than his moira-born girlfriend. “Why would the Commissioner pull all other-born records?” Io asked. The question was addressed to Edei, but it was Xenophon who


new rope, but when, finally, it was done he went forth purposely to hunt, and lie in wait among the dense foliage of a great branch right above the well-beaten trail that led to water. Several small animals passed unharmed beneath him. He did not want such insignificant game. It would take a strong animal to test the efficacy of his new scheme. At last came she whom Tarzan sought, with lithe sinews rolling beneath shimmering hide; fat and glossy came Sabor, the lioness. Her great padded feet fell soft and noiseless on the narrow trail. Her head was high in ever alert attention; her long tail moved slowly in sinuous and graceful undulations. Nearer and nearer she came to where Tarzan of the Apes crouched upon his limb, the coils of his long rope poised ready in his hand. Like a thing of bronze, motionless as death, sat Tarzan. Sabor passed beneath. One stride beyond she took--a second, a third, and then the silent coil shot out above her. For an instant the spreading noose hung above her head like a great snake, and then, as she looked upward to detect the origin of the swishing sound of the rope, it settled about her neck. With a quick jerk Tarzan snapped the noose tight about the glossy throat, and then he dropped the rope and clung to his support with both hands. Sabor was trapped. With a bound the startled beast turned into the jungle, but Tarzan was not to lose another rope through the same cause as the first. He had learned from experience. The lioness had taken but half her second bound when she felt the rope tighten about her neck; her body turned completely over in the air and she fell with a heavy crash upon her back. Tarzan had fastened the end of the rope securely to the trunk of the great tree on which he sat. Thus far his plan had worked to perfection, but when he grasped the rope, bracing himself behind a crotch of two mighty branches, he found that dragging the mighty, struggling, clawing, biting, screaming mass of iron-muscled fury up to the tree and hanging her was a very different proposition. The weight of old Sabor was immense, and when she braced her huge paws nothing less than Tantor, the elephant, himself, could have budged her. The lioness was now back in the path where she could see the author of the indignity which had been placed upon her. Screaming with rage she suddenly charged, leaping high into the air toward Tarzan, but when her huge body struck the limb on which Tarzan had been, Tarzan was no longer there. Instead he perched lightly upon a smaller branch twenty feet above the raging captive. For a moment Sabor hung half across the branch, while Tarzan mocked, and hurled twigs and branches at her unprotected face. Chapter 9 45 Presently the beast dropped to the earth again and Tarzan came quickly to seize the rope, but Sabor had now found that it was


has one employee and one shareholder, who is also the director.” “Which is?” But I already know. Alastair Rodney Tebbit. Which means that Roddy was paying himself to work at the university. I go down to the city recorder’s office because they are short-handed and they do not appreciate voices on the phone giving them work. I take my badge, a chocolate collection and a gift box of scented hand cream. All three of those together buy me seven hours of passion with several hundred thousand filing boxes and all the dust in the northern hemisphere. By the time midnight comes around I look like I’m attending a Halloween party as lint, but an hour later I know why Bill Styles got shut down by the board. They let a ghost into their school. Roddy Tebbit has filed taxes every year while he’s been here in the city, but did not file in Burfleet, where Bill Styles’s paperwork says he was before he came here. I call Ostby back and he confirms. In fact Roddy Tebbit did not file anywhere. Nor did he attend Burfleet, or hold a position at Burfleet. Or any college or high school whose records are readily available. In fact there is no evidence of his being born at all. “Well, shit,” I say, and Maryam the recorder’s clerk says: “Honey, it’s like listening at keyholes. You come down here, you’re never gonna find out anything good.” * * * — I call Musgrave. “Fuck time you think this is, Sounder?” “Sorry.” “No, you’re not.” “There’s no such person as Roddy Tebbit.” “Pretty sure he’s in a drawer in my office.” “When you get in there, run a full genetic sequence, please, and find out what his real name is.” “You rang me in the middle of the night to tell me what to do in the morning?” “Nope.” “…Jesus fuck, Sounder, you want me to do it now?” “Sorry.” “You’re not even a cop.” “Sorry.” “No, you’re not.” “No, I’m not.” “It’s a fake name?” “It’s a fake everything.” “And you want to know now?” I don’t say anything. “I’m getting dressed,” Musgrave says. “But when you die, I hope they let me cut you open.” * * * — I’m tired, the way you can only be tired if you have a hole in you that should not be there, and when the car pulls up and a voice says “at your disposal, Mr. Sounder,” I get in without really thinking about it. Then a man gets in next to me and I feel something hard and metallic dig in under my ribs, the muzzle finding an easy resting place right against the bone. The car pulls out into traffic and onto the expressway. “Ow,” I say, because the front sight is poking my putty lattice. It hurts, but it’s also amazing because it’s scratching the itch. It doesn’t count as scratching if someone puts a gun in your stomach. My torso twists before I can stop it, pressing back and forth against the barrel. “Aaaaahhhhhh


she’d offered herself as a friend, a fiancée, a coworker, a sister, and a daughter, and at some point her presence—and even love—was rejected. She was rejected. Fired, dumped, asked to go home. Still, she didn’t even like this man. So why was her heart beating at the pace of a hummingbird’s wings at the thought of him saying no? Why did she care so much? Don’t do it. Not worth the sting. Natalie started to back up into the shadows to wait out August’s departure, but in the wake of Teri driving away, he rounded the back bumper of his truck and spied her, doing a double take. “Natalie?” He paused mid-stride, frowning. “What are you doing lurking over there in the dark?” He snapped his fingers. “Let me guess. Sucking the souls from children caught outdoors after eight P.M.?” “That’s right. I wait until they’ve been stuffed full of chicken fingers and ice cream all day. That’s when I strike.” She shrugged. “But you have the IQ of a child, so I guess you’ll do.” “You sucked the soul out of me months ago, princess.” “You must have retained some of it if you made a point to give Teri your wine supply on the way out of town.” He reared back a little at the rare—and accidental—compliment. “I mean . . . a broken clock is correct twice a day, right?” He was still giving her that narrow-eyed look. Nerves jumped in her belly. Turn around and go. She sauntered forward instead and watched his chest muscles tighten, his spine straighten. Did he do that every time she approached? Why was she only recognizing it now? That proof of his awareness pushed Natalie over the border into bad-idea town. Because at least she wasn’t an afterthought to him. Even if he couldn’t stand her, at least her presence had an effect on him. “So I was thinking . . .” “You wish you’d kissed me in the bathroom earlier.” “I’d sooner kiss an active lawnmower.” She realized her hands were gesticulating wildly and folded them at her waist. “Actually, I was thinking you could use my help.” He snorted. Leaned back against the truck and crossed his thick arms. “What now?” Natalie kept her features serene, even as the harbinger of rejection hung over her head like a freshly sharpened machete. “You mentioned the bank refusing you a small business loan. For Zelnick Cellar. But if, um . . .” All at once, the ludicrous nature of her idea registered, but she’d said too much to stop now. “If I was an official employee. And attached to . . . you . . . in some way, well, you would almost be guaranteed an approval. As you’ve pointed out on numerous occasions, my last name does carry a lot of weight in this industry.” For several moments, he stared at her in silence. “I’m waiting for the punch line.” “There is no punch line, you baboon. I’m suggesting . . .” She felt like she’d swallowed a fistful of


to wit- ness much, but the few who saw her leave bore plenty wit- ness. They had to give it to her, she sho looked good, but she had no business to do it. It was hard to love a woman that always made you feel so wishful. The train beat on itself and danced on the shiny steel rails mile after mile. Every now and then the engineer would play on his whistle for the people in the towns he passed by. And the train shuffled on to Jacksonville, and to a whole lot of things she wanted to see and to know. And there was Tea Cake in the big old station in a new 138 Zora Neale Hurston blue suit and straw hat, hauling her off to a preacher’s house first thing. Then right on to the room he had been sleeping in for two weeks all by himself waiting for her to come. And such another hugging and kissing and carrying on you never saw. It made her so glad she was scared of herself. They stayed at home and rested that night, but the next night they went to a show and after that they rode around on the trol- ley cars and sort of looked things over for themselves. Tea Cake was spending and doing out of his own pocket, so Janie never told him about the two hundred dollars she had pinned inside her shirt next to her skin. Pheoby had insisted that she bring it along and keep it secret just to be on the safe side. She had ten dollars over her fare in her pocket book. Let Tea Cake think that was all she had. Things might not turn out like she thought. Every minute since she had stepped off the train she had been laughing at Pheoby’s advice. She meant to tell Tea Cake the joke some time when she was sure she wouldn’t hurt his feelings. So it came around that she had been married a week and sent Pheoby a card with a picture on it. That morning Tea Cake got up earlier than Janie did. She felt sleepy and told him to go get some fish to fry for break- fast. By the time he had gone and come back she would have finished her nap out. He told her he would and she turned over and went back to sleep. She woke up and Tea Cake still wasn’t there and the clock said it was getting late, so she got up and washed her face and hands. Perhaps he was down in the kitchen fixing around to let her sleep. Janie went down and the landlady made her drink some coffee with her because Their Eyes Were Watching God 139 she said her husband was dead and it was bad to be having your morning coffee by yourself. “Yo’ husband gone tuh work dis mornin’, Mis’ Woods? Ah seen him go out uh good while uh go. Me and you kin be comp’ny for one ’nother, can’t


in the hands of one who could manipulate it, but yet it was several minutes ere he could bring himself to touch it. Instead, he walked back and forth along the floor before it, turning his head so that never once did his eyes leave the object of his desire. Using his long arms as a man uses crutches, and rolling his huge carcass from side to side with each stride, the great king ape paced to and fro, uttering deep growls, occasionally punctuated with the ear-piercing scream, than which there is no more terrifying noise in all the jungle. Presently he halted before the rifle. Slowly he raised a huge hand until it almost touched the shining barrel, only to withdraw it once more and continue his hurried pacing. It was as though the great brute by this show of fearlessness, and through the medium of his wild voice, was endeavoring to bolster up his courage to the point which would permit him to take the rifle in his hand. Again he stopped, and this time succeeded in forcing his reluctant hand to the cold steel, only to snatch it away almost immediately and resume his restless beat. Time after time this strange ceremony was repeated, but on each occasion with increased confidence, until, finally, the rifle was torn from its hook and lay in the grasp of the great brute. Finding that it harmed him not, Kerchak began to examine it closely. He felt of it from end to end, peered down the black depths of the muzzle, fingered the sights, the breech, the stock, and finally the trigger. Chapter 4 26 During all these operations the apes who had entered sat huddled near the door watching their chief, while those outside strained and crowded to catch a glimpse of what transpired within. Suddenly Kerchak's finger closed upon the trigger. There was a deafening roar in the little room and the apes at and beyond the door fell over one another in their wild anxiety to escape. Kerchak was equally frightened, so frightened, in fact, that he quite forgot to throw aside the author of that fearful noise, but bolted for the door with it tightly clutched in one hand. As he passed through the opening, the front sight of the rifle caught upon the edge of the inswung door with sufficient force to close it tightly after the fleeing ape. When Kerchak came to a halt a short distance from the cabin and discovered that he still held the rifle, he dropped it as he might have dropped a red hot iron, nor did he again attempt to recover it--the noise was too much for his brute nerves; but he was now quite convinced that the terrible stick was quite harmless by itself if left alone. It was an hour before the apes could again bring themselves to approach the cabin to continue their investigations, and when they finally did so, they found to their chagrin that the door was closed and so securely fastened that they could not


down to the Southampton highroad, which curves past about a hundred yards from the front door. This ground in front belongs to the house, but the woods all round are part of Lord Southerton's preserves. A clump of copper beeches immediately in front of the hall door has given its name to the place. "I was driven over by my employer, who was as amiable as ever, and was introduced by him that evening to his wife and the child. There was no truth, Mr. Holmes, in the conjecture which seemed to us to be probable in your rooms at Baker Street. Mrs. Rucastle is not mad. I found her to be a silent, pale-faced woman, much younger than her husband, not more than thirty, I should think, while he can hardly be less than forty-five. From their conversation I have gathered that they have been married about seven years, that he was a widower, and that his only child by the first wife was the daughter who has gone to Philadelphia. Mr. Rucastle told me in private that the reason why she had left them was that she had an unreasoning aversion to her stepmother. As the daughter could not have been less than twenty, I can quite imagine that her position must have been uncomfortable with her father's young wife. "Mrs. Rucastle seemed to me to be colorless in mind as well as in feature. She impressed me neither favorably nor the reverse. She was a nonentity. It was easy to see that she was passionately devoted both to her husband and to her little son. Her light gray eyes wandered continually from one to the other, noting every little want and forestalling it if possible. He was kind to her also in his bluff, boisterous fashion, and on the whole they seemed to be a happy couple. And yet she had some secret sorrow, this woman. She would often be lost in deep thought, with the saddest look upon her face. More than once I have surprised her in tears. I have thought sometimes that it was the disposition of her child which weighed upon her mind, for I have never met so utterly spoiled and so ill-natured a little creature. He is small for his age, with a head which is quite disproportionately large. His whole life appears to be spent in an alternation between savage fits of passion and gloomy intervals of sulking. Giving pain to any creature weaker than himself seems to be his one idea of amusement, and he shows quite remarkable talent in planning the capture of mice, little birds, and insects. But I would rather not talk about the creature, Mr. Holmes, and, indeed, he has little to do with my story." "I am glad of all details," remarked my friend, "whether they seem to you to be relevant or not." "I shall try not to miss anything of importance. The one unpleasant thing about the house, which struck me at once, was the appearance and conduct of the servants. There are only


I know how manipulative Jesse was. I fell for him, too.” “We were both weak then.” “And neither of us knew what he was capable of,” I add. “I knew he was shady, but when I heard those audio recordings… and what he planned to do to you…” “So, you turned them over to the police?” “I dropped the thumb drive off on my way to the airport.” I offer her a small smile. “Thanks for the plane ticket. And the passport and the money.” “It was the least I could do. After… everything.” “Yeah.” “It was real to me,” Hazel says, swiveling toward me. “Our friendship. When we talked, I was honest with you. I know what I did was unforgivable, but our relationship meant a lot to me.” My throat tightens. I swallow some beer, try to wash the emotion away. “I’m glad that you’ve built a new life,” she says. “The Nest is fantastic. I… I’d love to eat here sometime.” When I don’t respond, Hazel shifts awkwardly. “Maybe one day…” Slowly, reluctantly, she gets to her knees, begins to stand. “It’s a great place but it’s a lot,” I say, halting her movements. “I need some help, actually.” “Yeah?” She sinks back into the sand. “How’s your Spanish?” “I’m on level eight of Duolingo.” I chuckle, but she continues. “I’m smart, Kelly. I learn fast and I work hard. And I can bake!” “It’s too hot to bake,” I say with a genuine laugh. “But there’s plenty to do.” “I’m in. Let me help you. Put me to work.” I look at her, at the brightness in her eyes, the lightness of her being. Hazel is a different person now. She is Nora Harmsworth. Strong. Independent. Happy… I still don’t know if I can trust her, but I am willing to try. We get to our feet and walk back toward my restaurant. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS First, I want to thank you, the reader. The Drowning Woman is my twelfth published novel, and it is such a privilege to be able to bring my words to an audience. I am forever grateful to all the librarians, bloggers, Bookstagrammers, BookTokers, and bookstore employees who help bring books and readers together. To my editor, Karen Kosztolnyik. What a pleasure to work with you again! Thank you for your calm wisdom and insight. I am so glad you connected with this story. Thank you to Rachael Kelly for being so supportive, organized, and responsive. Thank you to Sara Wood for this gorgeous cover design. Thanks to my production editor, Carolyn Kurek; my publicists, Staci Burt and Alli Rosenthal; and marketer, Theresa DeLucci. My gratitude to the entire team at Grand Central/Hachette in New York and to Donna Nopper and everyone at Hachette Canada. To my agent, Joe Veltre. Thank you for standing by me while I meandered off into screenwriting, quit writing to open an ice cream shop, and switched genres several times (sometimes successfully, sometimes not). You have been such a wise and steady support through all the ups and downs (and


on the other. Even Mrs. King and William had never attempted to cross that divide. Although when she asked him, he agreed to keep the door to the men’s quarters unlocked. “But why?” he’d asked, deeply puzzled. “What on earth do you need?” She ignored that. Troubles had a way of multiplying when other people became involved. But of course she did involve him; she did get him in trouble. Someone was sitting on a chair near William’s door, kicking his heels. A little rodent-faced boy, keeping an eye out for intruders. Mrs. King knew the rules. She knew there was a risk that she’d be caught, and she went up there anyway. It was her warning shot, a signal to anybody that might need to hear it. “Whatchoo doing up here, Mrs. King?” the boy had asked. “Visiting a fancy man?” She had been acutely conscious of her body, its stillness. Her blood, mixed by her mother and her father. The danger within her, the currents she’d inherited from both. She had stared the boy down, stared him right down to his bones, but he didn’t run away. Of course he ratted on her, went squealing to Mr. Shepherd. Mrs. King didn’t complete her search of the men’s quarters, and she didn’t sleep that night. She felt invisible cracks running through the house, felt the walls riven from top to toe, blood pounding in her chest. Cheated, she thought. I’ve been cheated out of my rights. She was the rightful inheritress. She always had been. And yet she’d been put in a frilly cap and a starched collar, trained to answer bells and take orders. To sit, stay, be silent. And she had allowed it. She had permitted it to be done. It made her as angry with herself as with the world. The following morning she faced Mr. Shepherd. Being dismissed didn’t frighten her. She was ready for it. Her plans required her to be outside the house, at liberty to circle it, correct it, tilt it, push it all the way over. Besides, she recognized her dismissal for what it was: a shot being fired right back at her. A message from Madam: Get out. It pleased her. It gave her exactly what she needed. Permission to do her worst. 31 Now “You know he’d been married before,” said Mrs. King. Miss de Vries said nothing. She sipped her champagne. “I suppose he had the same set of choices as all the other men who take secret wives.” Mrs. King counted on her fingers. “Come clean. Start running. Or say nothing. He picked the last option, didn’t he? Even Lockwood didn’t know.” She smiled, a pitying glance. “Men like him, they so nearly get away with things. But then they let the cat out of the bag. It’s as if they want to be caught. As if they can’t help themselves.” Miss de Vries raised her chin to the ceiling. She pressed her lips together. “And he unburdened himself, didn’t he?” continued Mrs. King. “On his nearest and dearest,


his wicked face. Any instant he might dash out the light and vanish in the darkness. I sprang forward therefore, and Sir Henry did the same. At the same moment the convict screamed out a curse at us and hurled a rock which splintered up against the boulder which had sheltered us. I caught one glimpse of his short, squat, strongly built figure as he sprang to his feet and turned to run. At the same moment by a lucky chance the moon broke through the clouds. We rushed over the brow of the hill, and there was our man running with great speed down the other side, springing over the stones in his way with the activity of a mountain goat. A lucky long shot of my revolver might have crippled him, but I had brought it only to defend myself if attacked and not to shoot an unarmed man who was running away. We were both swift runners and in fairly good training, but we soon found that we had no chance of overtaking him. We saw him for a long time in the moonlight until he was only a small speck moving swiftly among the boulders upon the side of a distant hill. We ran and ran until we were completely blown, but the space between us grew ever wider. Finally we stopped and sat panting on two rocks, while we watched him disappearing in the distance. And it was at this moment that there occurred a most strange and unexpected thing. We had risen from our rocks and were turning to go home, having abandoned the hopeless chase. The moon was low upon the right, and the jagged pinnacle of a granite tor stood up against the lower curve of its silver disc. There, outlined as black as an ebony statue on that shining background, I saw the figure of a man upon the tor. Do not think that it was a delusion, Holmes. I assure you that I have never in my life seen anything more clearly. As far as I could judge, the figure was that of a tall, thin man. He stood with his legs a little separated, his arms folded, his head bowed, as if he were brooding over that enormous wilderness of peat and granite which lay before him. He might have been the very spirit of that terrible place. It was not the convict. This man was far from the place where the latter had disappeared. Besides, he was a much taller man. With a cry of surprise I pointed him out to the baronet, but in the instant during which I had turned to grasp his arm the man was gone. There was the sharp pinnacle of granite still cutting the lower edge of the moon, but its peak bore no trace of that silent and motionless figure. I wished to go in that direction and to search the tor, but it was some distance away. The baronet's nerves were still quivering from that cry, which recalled the dark story of


however; I avoided sobbing. The thought of Mrs. O'Gall and Bitternutt Lodge struck cold to my heart; and colder the thought of all the brine and foam, destined, as it seemed, to rush between me and the master at whose side I now walked! and coldest the remembrance of the wider ocean wealth, caste, custom, intervened between me and what I naturally and inevitably loved.     "It is a long way," I again said.     "It is, to be sure; and when you get to Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland, I shall never see you again, Jane; that's morally certain. I never go over to Ireland, not having myself much of a fancy for the country. We have been good friends, Jane, have we not?"     "Yes, sir."     "And when friends are on the eve of separation, they like to spend the little time that remains to them close to each other. Come we'll talk over the voyage and the parting quietly, half an hour or so, while the stars enter into their shining life up in heaven yonder. Here is the chestnut-tree; here is the bench at its old roots. Come, we will sit there in peace to-night, though we should never more be destined to sit there together." He seated me and himself.     "It is a long way to Ireland, Janet, and I am sorry to send my little friend on such weary travels; but if I can't do better, how is it to be helped? Are you anything akin to me, do you think, Jane?"     I could risk no sort of answer by this time; my heart was full.     "Because," he said, "I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you especially when you are near me, as now; it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land, come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapped; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you you'd forget me."     "That Inever should, sir; you know " impossible to proceed.     "Jane, do you hear that nightingale singing in the wood? Listen!"     In listening, I sobbed convulsively; for I could repress what I endured no longer; I was obliged to yield, and I was shaken from head to foot with acute distress. When I did speak, it was only to express an impetuous wish that I had never been born, or never come to Thornfield.     "Because you are sorry to leave it?" The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief and love within me, was claiming mastery, and struggling for full sway, and asserting a right


Thresh letting me go, letting me run because of Rue, who died with that spear in her stomach. . .. “You all right?” asks Peeta. 303 I give a noncommittal shrug and cup my elbows in my hands, hugging them close to my body. I have to bury the real pain because who’s going to bet on a tribute who keeps snive- ling over the deaths of her opponents. Rue was one thing. We were allies. She was so young. But no one will understand my sorrow at Thresh’s murder. The word pulls me up short. Mur- der! Thankfully, I didn’t say it aloud. That’s not going to win me any points in the arena. What I do say is, “It’s just . . . if we didn’t win . . . I wanted Thresh to. Because he let me go. And because of Rue.” “Yeah, I know,” says Peeta. “But this means we’re one step closer to District Twelve.” He nudges a plate of foot into my hands. “Eat. It’s still warm.” I take a bite of the stew to show I don’t really care, but it’s like glue in my mouth and takes a lot of effort to swallow. “It also means Cato will be back hunting us.” “And he’s got supplies again,” says Peeta. “He’ll be wounded, I bet,” I say. “What makes you say that?” Peeta asks. “Because Thresh would have never gone down without a fight. He’s so strong, I mean, he was. And they were in his ter- ritory,” I say. “Good,” says Peeta. “The more wounded Cato is the better. I wonder how Foxface is making out.” “Oh, she’s fine,” I say peevishly. I’m still angry she thought of hiding in the Cornucopia and I didn’t. “Probably be easier to catch Cato than her.” 304 “Maybe they’ll catch each other and we can just go home,” says Peeta. “But we better be extra careful about the watches. I dozed off a few times.” “Me, too,” I admit. “But not tonight.” We finish our food in silence and then Peeta offers to take the first watch. I burrow down in the sleeping bag next to him, pulling my hood up over my face to hide it from the cameras. I just need a few moments of privacy where I can let any emo- tion cross my face without being seen. Under the hood, I si- lently say good-bye to Thresh and thank him for my life. I promise to remember him and, if I can, do something to help his family and Rue’s, if I win. Then I escape into sleep, com- forted by a full belly and the steady warmth of Peeta beside me. When Peeta wakes me later, the first thing I register is the smell of goat cheese. He’s holding out half a roll spread with the creamy white stuff and topped with apple slices. “Don’t be mad,” he says. “I had to eat again. Here’s your half.” “Oh, good,” I say, immediately taking a huge bite. The strong fatty cheese tastes just


HER about it.' `She's in prison,' the Queen said to the executioner: `fetch her here.' And the executioner went off like an arrow. The Cat's head began fading away the moment he was gone, and, by the time he had come back with the Dutchess, it had entirely disappeared; so the King and the executioner ran wildly up and down looking for it, while the rest of the party went back to the game. CHAPTER IX The Mock Turtle's Story `You can't think how glad I am to see you again, you dear old thing!' said the Duchess, as she tucked her arm affectionately into Alice's, and they walked off together. Alice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper, and thought to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so savage when they met in the kitchen. `When I'M a Duchess,' she said to herself, (not in a very hopeful tone though), `I won't have any pepper in my kitchen AT ALL. Soup does very well without--Maybe it's always pepper that makes people hot-tempered,' she went on, very much pleased at having found out a new kind of rule, `and vinegar that makes them sour--and camomile that makes them bitter--and--and barley-sugar and such things that make children sweet-tempered. I only wish people knew that: then they wouldn't be so stingy about it, you know--' She had quite forgotten the Duchess by this time, and was a little startled when she heard her voice close to her ear. `You're thinking about something, my dear, and that makes you forget to talk. I can't tell you just now what the moral of that is, but I shall remember it in a bit.' `Perhaps it hasn't one,' Alice ventured to remark. `Tut, tut, child!' said the Duchess. `Everything's got a moral, if only you can find it.' And she squeezed herself up closer to Alice's side as she spoke. Alice did not much like keeping so close to her: first, because the Duchess was VERY ugly; and secondly, because she was exactly the right height to rest her chin upon Alice's shoulder, and it was an uncomfortably sharp chin. However, she did not like to be rude, so she bore it as well as she could. `The game's going on rather better now,' she said, by way of keeping up the conversation a little. `'Tis so,' said the Duchess: `and the moral of that is--"Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love, that makes the world go round!"' `Somebody said,' Alice whispered, `that it's done by everybody minding their own business!' `Ah, well! It means much the same thing,' said the Duchess, digging her sharp little chin into Alice's shoulder as she added, `and the moral of THAT is--"Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves."' `How fond she is of finding morals in things!' Alice thought to herself. `I dare say you're wondering why I don't put my arm round your waist,' the Duchess said after a pause: `the reason is, that I'm


and yell at me for stealing her apron? “You don’t mean the one who . . .” “Died. Well, of course. He only ever had the one.” She scoffs. “It’s not as if Caroline was eager to take over. Heartbreaking, watching those two boys grow up so close. Same house, same family. One with a mother, the other without.” “Oh.” I shouldn’t ask any of the questions buzzing in my head. Millicent is clearly under the impression that Jack and I are something we’re not, or she wouldn’t disclose this. But . . . “How old was Jack?” “When Grethe died?” Grethe. “About one. My son remarried just a few months later. They had Greg soon after. You see, for the first few years, it was me who insisted that we tell Jack nothing about Grethe. I thought he could have a normal life, believing that Caroline was his mother and he had lost nothing. But Caroline was never fond of him, and . . . well, it was her right to refuse. I shouldn’t have interfered. Because I made it worse: a few years later he got into some trouble like children often do, and Caroline screamed at him, ‘Don’t call me Mom—I’m not your mother.’ It was a moment of weakness. And Caroline did feel guilty afterwards. But by then, Jack knew.” She sighs. “Hard to explain to a nine-year-old that everything he believes is a lie. That he shouldn’t call Mom the woman his brother calls Mom.” Millicent massages her temple. “Jack seemed to take it in stride. Except that he stopped calling his father Dad, too. I became Millicent. And ever since, he’s been very distrustful of lies. Very preoccupied with . . . boundaries. More than is healthy, I believe.” She busies herself stacking mugs on top of the empty cookie plate. For the first time since I met her, she looks her age. Frail, old, tired. Her mouth is downturned, bracketed by deep lines. “And yet Jack and Greg grew up thick as thieves, despite all that. The one saving grace.” I remember Jack taking care of Greg after the dentist, and my heart squeezes. I try to picture them as kids, picture Jack being anything but his tall, assured, authoritative self, and fail miserably. “Are you sure she . . . Grethe.” I want to ask if Turner was her last name. The reason Jack’s a Smith but not really a Smith. “Are you sure she was a theorist?” Physics runs in Jack’s family, when the only thing that runs in mine is eczema. “Why do you ask?” “Just . . . Jack doesn’t seem to like theorists very much.” Millicent gives me a look. “He likes you, doesn’t he?” She speaks like I’m the least sharp cookie in the jar, and I flush. “But he once wrote an article that—” “Oh, that.” She chuckles, like it’s a fond family memory. First day of kindergarten, meeting Goofy at Disneyland, and that time her grandson sent an entire field of study into a tailspin. “That had


own, that his thoughts were of his own design. His people had managed things to make him believe that it was so. He cocked his head at her. “Of course you understand that you must submit to me, if we press ahead?” he said. “You must obey me, in everything.” If she had been a superstitious person, she might have crossed her fingers behind her back. “Naturally,” she said. “My vows will make sufficient provision for that.” He chuckled, the tension leaving his face. Changeable, she noted. Inclined to take things as a conquest. Not a bad temperament, perhaps. “Then come,” he said, “and dance. My people will settle the smaller details.” He was only fractionally taller than she was. At that height she could look directly at his forehead, pierce his skull, read his mind. Victory surged within her. “Your Honor, thank you,” she said, inclining her head toward the judge. “My dears,” he said, in raptures, stretching his hands out to them. “My deepest congratulations.” * * * Hephzibah had been in the Boiserie this entire time, gathering herself. Mr. Shepherd hadn’t understood her when she’d told him her name. It meant nothing to him. And in any case her mouth had become so dry, so sticky, that she’d garbled the words. I’m foaming at the lips, she thought. They’ll have to cut out my tongue. But the urchin, who had likely never been to a theater in his life, who would likely never earn enough to even contemplate purchasing a ticket, had gaped up at her. “What did choo say?” he’d asked. She’d gazed down at him, vision blurring. He had dark, hungry-looking eyes. She had seen boys like him causing trouble outside the Paragon, scrabbling and kicking one another in the dust. You could always count on one to pick up a playbill with mocking laughter, strutting about in imitation of the powdered, laced-up lady in the illustration. She pressed a shaking finger to his lips. She could feel things slipping out of her control. “This lady,” Mr. Shepherd had said before he departed, “is clearly not at all well. Someone fetch the physician.” “No,” she said, trying to make her voice steady. She did feel pain, seeing him. But it wasn’t like pulling a tooth, after all. It was like an open wound, fresh and bitter. “Leave me be.” He did leave. He retreated, distracted, rubbing his swollen-looking lip, and left her in the Boiserie. “You’d best sit down,” the boy muttered. “My lady.” “What do you want?” she said, scrunching his sleeve in her fist. “To keep your mouth shut?” He hesitated. “Too slow,” she said. “Say one word and I’ll have you strung up on a lamppost.” His eyes went black. Hephzibah exhaled, looked out of the window. Not long now, she thought. It was nearly done, nearly finished. She’d nearly made it. Best to stay here, she decided, where she couldn’t set off any further suspicions. Her actresses would manage without her for now. You’re just having a little rest, she told herself, trying


way is he peculiar?"     "I don't know it is not easy to describe nothing striking, but you feel it when he speaks to you; you cannot be always sure whether he is in jest or earnest, whether he is pleased or the contrary; you don't thoroughly understand him, in short at least, I don't; but it is of no consequence, he is a very good master."     This was all the account I got from Mrs. Fairfax of her employer and mine. There are people who seem to have no notion of sketching a character, or observing and de-scribing salient points, either in persons or things; the good lady evidently belonged to this class; my queries puzzled, but did not draw her out. Mr. Rochester was Mr. Rochester in her eyes; a gentleman, a landed proprietor nothing more; she inquired and searched no further, and evidently wondered at my wish to gain a more definite notion of his identity.     When we left the dining-room she proposed to show me over the rest of the house; and I followed her upstairs and down-stairs, admiring as I went; for all was well arranged and handsome. The large front chambers I thought especially grand; and some of the third story rooms, though dark and low, were interesting from their air of antiquity. The furniture once appropriated to the lower apartments had from time to time been removed here, as the fashions changed; and the imperfect light entering by their narrow casements showed bedsteads of a hundred years old; chests in oak or walnut, looking, with their strange carvings of palm branches and cherubs' heads, like types of the Hebrew ark; rows of venerable chairs, high-backed and narrow; stools still more antiquated, on whose cushioned tops were yet apparent traces of half-effaced embroideries, wrought by fingers that for two generations had been coffin-dust. All these relics gave to the third story of Thornfield Hall the aspect of a home of the past a shrine of memory. I liked the hush, the gloom, the quaintness of these retreats in the day; but I by no means coveted a night's repose on one of those wide and heavy beds: shut in, some of them, with doors of oak; shaded, others, with wrought old English hangings crusted with thick work, portraying effigies of strange flowers, and stranger birds, and strangest human beings all which would have looked strange, indeed, by the pallid gleam of moonlight.     "Do the servants sleep in these rooms?" I asked.     "No; they occupy a range of smaller apartments to the back; no one ever sleeps here: one would almost say that, if there were a ghost at Thornfield Hall, this would be its haunt."     "So I think: you have no ghost, then?"     "None that I ever heard of," returned Mrs. Fairfax, smiling.     "Nor any traditions of one? no legends or ghost stories?"


hard for them if they don't," said Grand Maester Pycelle. "By the love you bear them, you must urge them to walk the path of wisdom." "Your lady mother will no doubt fear for you dreadfully," the queen said. "You must tell her that you are well and in our care, that we are treating you gently and seeing to your every want. Bid them to come to King's Landing and pledge their fealty to Joffrey when he takes his throne. If they do that . . . why, then we shall know that there is no taint in your blood, and when you come into the flower of your womanhood, you shall wed the king in the Great Sept of Baelor, before the eyes of gods and men." . . . wed the king . . . The words made her breath come faster, yet still Sansa hesitated. "Perhaps . . . if I might see my father, talk to him about . . ." "Treason?" Lord Varys hinted. "You disappoint me, Sansa," the queen said, with eyes gone hard as stones. "We've told you of your father's crimes. If you are truly as loyal as you say, why should you want to see him?" "I . . . I only meant Sansa felt her eyes grow wet. "He's not . . . please, he hasn't been . . . hurt, or . . . or . . . ,:Lord Eddard has not been harmed," the queen said. But . . . what's to become of him?" "That is a matter for the king to decide," Grand Maester Pycelle announced ponderously. The king! Sansa blinked back her tears. Joffrey was the king now, she thought. Her gallant prince would never hurt her father, no matter what he might have done. If she went to him and pleaded for mercy, she was certain he'd listen. He had to listen, he loved her, even the queen said so. Joff would need to punish Father, the lords would expect it, but perhaps he could send him back to Winterfell, or exile him to one of the Free Cities across the narrow sea. It would only have to be for a few years. By then she and Joffrey would be married. Once she was queen, she could persuade Joff to bring Father back and grant him a pardon. A GAME OF THRONES 485 Only ... if Mother or Robb did anything treasonous, called the banners or refused to swear fealty or anything, it would all go wrong. Her Joffrey was good and kind, she knew it in her heart, but a king had to be stern with rebels. She had to make them understand, she had to! "I'll . I'll write the letters," Sansa told them. With a smile as warm as the sunrise, Cersei Lannister leaned close and kissed her gently on the cheek. "I knew you would. Joffrey will be so proud when I tell him what courage and good sense you've shown here today." In the end, she wrote four letters. To