Helen smiling at her; the dance is her sister’s favorite moment. The drums start beating and the girls begin. Bare feet thud on the sand, pulsing through the sunlit air, and the dancers’ hair moves, like tongues of flame. Clytemnestra dances with her eyes closed, her strong legs following the rhythm. Helen’s movements mirror her sister’s but are more composed and graceful, as if she were afraid of losing herself. Her feet light and precise, her arms like wings, she looks ready to take flight and soar high, away from the others’ eyes. But she can’t rise, so she keeps dancing, relentless. Clytemnestra dances for herself; Helen dances for others. * * * The water of the bath is cold and pleasant on the skin. Only Helen, Clytemnestra, and the Spartiates are allowed to share the small room in one corner of the courtyard. Most of the other athletes, commoners and girls who can’t claim to be native Spartans, are washing away the sweat in the river. Clytemnestra rests her head against the stony wall, watching Helen as she rises out of the pool, golden hair plastered to her shoulders. At sixteen, their bodies are changing, their faces growing leaner, firmer. It scares Clytemnestra to witness it, though she doesn’t speak of it. It reminds her that at their age, their mother had already married their father and left her homeland. Leda had come to Sparta from Aetolia, the arid land of mountains in the north of Greece famous for its wild beasts, nature gods, and spirits. Like every Aetolian princess before her, Leda was a huntress, skilled with the ax and bow, and she worshipped the mountain goddess Rhea. King Tyndareus loved her for her fierceness and married her, even though the Greeks called the tribes of Aetolia “primitive” and spread rumors that they ate raw meat, like animals. When Leda, a strong woman with raven hair and olive skin, gave birth to Helen—a light-skinned girl with hair the color of honey—everyone in Sparta believed that Zeus was Leda’s lover. The god was famously fond of beautiful young women and enjoyed taking different shapes to ravish them. He had been a bull to abduct the Phoenician princess Europa, a shower of golden rain to touch the lovely Danaë, a dark cloud to seduce the priestess Io. So he did with Leda. Disguising himself as a swan, he found her sitting alone on the bank of the Eurotas, her hair black and shiny as a raven’s feathers, her eyes lost and sad. He flew into her arms, and when she caressed his wings, he raped her. Rumors indulge in details, so the Spartans talked of how Leda fought as he seized her, his beak wounding her, his wings keeping her still. Others spoke differently: the union was so pleasurable, they said, that she was left flushed and breathless. “Of course, she must have liked it,” Clytemnestra heard a boy say in the gymnasium once. “The queen is different . . . Her people are more barbaric.” Clytemnestra hit his face with a


unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.'' ``I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,'' replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise and emotion, ``that you have ever been informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner was so little to be trusted.'' ``You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again, in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering them.'' ``If you _will_ thank me,'' he replied, ``let it be for yourself alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your _family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of _you_.'' Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause, her companion added, ``You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. _My_ affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.'' Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The happiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him; but, though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of feelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his affection every moment more valuable. They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding to the efforts of his aunt, who _did_ call on him in her return through London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on every expression of the latter which, in her ladyship's apprehension, peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance; in


even the part where he'd set Ghost at Rast's throat. Maester Aemon listened silently, blind eyes fixed on the fire, but Chett's face darkened with each word. "Without us to keep him safe, Sam will have no chance," Jon finished. "He's hopeless with a sword. My sister Arya could tear him apart, and she's not yet ten. If Ser Alliser makes him fight, it's only a matter of time before he's hurt or killed." Chett could stand no more. "I've seen this fat boy in the common hall," he said. "He is a pig, and a hopeless craven as well, if what you say is true." "Maybe it is so," Maester Aemon said. "Tell me, Chett, what would you have us do with such a boy?" "Leave him where he is," Chett said. "The Wall is no place for the weak. Let him train until he is ready, no matter how many years that takes. Ser Alliser shall make a man of him or kill him, as the gods will." "That's stupid, " Jon said. He took a deep breath to gather his thoughts. "I remember once I asked Maester Luwin why he wore a chain around his throat." Maester Aemon touched his own collar lightly, his bony, wrinkled finger stroking the heavy metal links. "Go on." "He told me that a maester's collar is made of chain to remind him that he is sworn to serve," Jon said, remembering. "I asked why each link was a different metal. A silver chain would look much finer with his grey robes, I said. Maester Luwin laughed. A maester forges his chain with study, he told me. The different metals are each a different kind of learning, gold for the study of money and accounts, silver for healing, iron for warcraft. And he said there were other meanings as well. The collar is supposed to remind a maester of the realm he serves, isn't that so? Lords are gold and knights steel, but two links can't make a chain. You also need silver and iron and lead, tin and copper and bronze and all the rest, and those are farmers and smiths and merchants and the like. A chain needs all sorts of metals, and a land needs all sorts of people." Maester Aemon smiled. "And so?" "The Night's Watch needs all sorts too. Why else have rangers and stewards and builders? Lord Randyll couldn't make Sam a warrior, A GAME OF THRONES 397 and Ser Alliser won't either. You can't hammer tin into iron, no matter how hard you beat it, but that doesn't mean tin is useless. Why shouldn't Sam be a steward?" Chett gave an angry scowl. "I'm a steward. You think it's easy work, fit for cowards? The order of stewards keeps the Watch alive. We hunt and farm, tend the horses, milk the cows, gather firewood, cook the meals. Who do you think makes your clothing? Who brings up supplies from the south? The stewards." Maester Aemon was gentler. "Is your friend a hunter?" "He hates hunting," Jon had


enough till I gave her 2 damn fine cracks across the ear for herself take that now for answering me like that and that for your impudence she had me that exasperated of course contradicting I was badtempered too because how was it there was a weed in the tea or I didnt sleep the night before cheese I ate was it and I told her over and over again not to leave knives crossed like that because she has nobody to command her as she said herself well if he doesnt correct her faith I will that was the last time she turned on the teartap I was just like that myself they darent order me about the place its his fault of course having the two of us slaving here instead of getting in a woman long ago am I ever going to have a proper servant again of course then shed see him coming Id have to let her know or shed revenge it arent they a nuisance that old Mrs Fleming you have to be walking round after her putting the things into her hands sneezing and farting into the pots well of course shes old she cant help it a good job I found that rotten old smelly dishcloth that got lost behind the dresser I knew there was something and opened the area window to let out the smell bringing in his friends to entertain them like the night he walked home with a dog if you please that might have been mad especially Simon Dedalus son his father such a criticiser with his glasses up with his tall hat on him at the cricket match and a great big hole in his sock one thing laughing at the other and his son that got all those prizes for whatever he won them in the intermediate imagine climbing over the railings if anybody saw him that knew us I wonder he didnt tear a big hole in his grand funeral trousers as if the one nature gave wasnt enough for anybody hawking him down into the dirty old kitchen now is he right in his head I ask pity it wasnt washing day my old pair of drawers might have been hanging up too on the line on exhibition for all hed ever care with the ironmould mark the stupid old bundle burned on them he might think was something else and she never even rendered down the fat I told her and now shes going such as she was on account of her paralysed husband getting worse theres always something wrong with them disease or they have to go under an operation or if its not that its drink and he beats her Ill have to hunt around again for someone every day I get up theres some new thing on sweet God sweet God well when Im stretched out dead in my grave I suppose Ill have some peace I want to get up a minute if Im let wait O Jesus wait yes


his sketch (four days, and also a lifetime, before), it was both excessive and extraordinarily gracious. But when I pulled the note from the clear plastic fork in the bouquet’s center and unfolded it, it read: Sally, please forgive me. xoxo Annabel Sunday, 1:51 a.m. That week’s official after-party, before the after-after party or any parties after that, was at a huge fancy old-school French restaurant. It featured a slightly trendy bar on the lower level—not a bar that a twenty-three-year-old who lived in Bushwick would consider trendy, but one that, say, a thirty-six-year-old who lived on the Upper West Side might. Every official after-party was a weird blend of quasi-mandatory work event, necessary emotional release, celebrity scene, and 1:30 a.m. dinner. Almost immediately after arriving, Henrietta, Lisa, and I went through the buffet—Henrietta had once told me this was the one meal of the week when she ate in a completely unrestrained way—then we sat in a big round booth already occupied by Viv; Dr. Theo; Bailey; Bailey’s partner, Sterling; Oliver; Oliver’s manager, whose name I didn’t know; Oliver’s ex-girlfriend Bettina; and Oliver’s cousin, whose name I also didn’t know. Even as the cast members and I debriefed about the show—who’d messed up their lines, who’d broken character, which sketches had been received more or less enthusiastically than we’d expected—I wondered what Dr. Theo made of being at this place, at this hour, surrounded by people a minimum of a decade and a half younger than he was. In person, he was as handsome as the online photo I’d seen or maybe more so: medium height, slim, with closely cut salt-and-pepper hair and warm brown eyes. He seemed simultaneously calm and hard to read. Viv was on his left, and I was on his right, and as the debriefing continued, I said, “I hope the inside baseball isn’t boring you to death.” “Not at all,” he said. “It’s fun to see behind the curtain.” “You’re an ophthalmologist, right?” I said. “I am.” “What’s that like?” He laughed. “It’s good.” I laughed, too. “I guess you already know this, but people’s eyes are important to them.” “I do know that,” he said. “And it’s true.” “Although I always forget to do that thing where you’re supposed to look twenty feet away from your computer screen for twenty seconds every twenty minutes. Are you from New York?” He shook his head. “I’ve lived here since right after med school, but I grew up in St. Louis.” “Wait, really? I’m from Kansas City.” We turned to look at each other—we both were holding forks over our plates—and he said, “Well, hey.” “Do you get back home much? I just go a couple times a year.” “I go for the holidays. My parents and sisters are still there, and my nieces and nephews. As a matter of fact, my oldest niece is now at NYU, but the rest of my family is there.” “Viv went to NYU,” I said. “As you probably know.” From Dr. Theo’s other side, Viv said, “Viv went where?” “Viv went


take a test, too. Because they don’t work for sure till two weeks in.” I was really pleased with myself, let me tell you, that I had this to display. If Thalia had seen Brian Wynn, his scrawny legs, his peach fuzz mustache, she never would have taken worldly advice from me. But all she saw was the purple X. “Nice,” she said. “Who’s the guy?” “A total loser.” I loved how it sounded more like dismissive exaggeration than the truth. “Anyway,” she said, “I’m never sleeping with Robbie Fucking Serenho again, so it’s beside the point.” But by Tuesday afternoon, they were entwined on the bench outside Mr. Dar’s classroom, Robbie sucking on her neck. 35 Dane Rubra lived in Milwaukee, but had traveled to Granby five times—first on his own dime, then thanks to crowdfunding from his tens of thousands of YouTube subscribers. In one video, he’s out back of the gym by the pool’s emergency exit, talking about the faint smears of blood found on the doorframe and on the wall just outside. Those smears were terribly popular on Reddit. “Maybe it’s from Security holding the door open for the paramedics and the stretcher,” he says, “and maybe not. The State Police come in later and find this stuff, but you know where they don’t find any blood is in Omar Evans’s office. They luminoled that whole place, and nothing. Which is why they come up with this story about some imaginary poster on his wall that apparently absorbed all the blood. Well, listen: The only way that works is if he hit her head once, just once, and there was very little blood. Because he does that a second time? There’s blood everywhere. They need to believe Omar killed Thalia inside the building, so they need to believe the blood outside the building is unimportant.” We’d all known about the luminol, because it was a whole production. It doesn’t work like on TV, where CSI teams squirt the stuff as casually as Windex. It has to be mixed with hydrogen peroxide and sodium hydroxide, which means protective gear, fumigation. It requires the complete absence of light, too; they taped over all the gym’s and pool’s high windows with black garbage bags. They set up cameras on tripods. We’d previously been allowed back in the building, if not the pool—but then for a few days it was off-limits again. Fran, who’d left her best fleece in a gym locker, was livid. According to Dateline, all they found around the pool was a confusing mess. Luminol gives a bright, flashing reaction to bleach—different from its dim, glowing reaction to the iron in blood—and areas of the pool deck had recently been bleached. Or was that just chlorine from the pool? I never fully understood. There was evidence of blood, too, on the cement, but whether it came before or after the bleach, whether it came from moving Thalia’s body, was unclear. It wasn’t long, though, before the police were out of the building. Spring sports needed to start up, the


do. We’re on a flat, open stretch of ground. A plain of hard- packed dirt. Behind the tributes across from me, I can see nothing, indicating either a steep downward slope or even cliff. To my right lies a lake. To my left and back, spars piney woods. This is where Haymitch would want me to go. Imme- diately. 147 I hear his instructions in my head. “Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water.” But it’s tempting, so tempting, when I see the bounty wait- ing there before me. And I know that if I don’t get it, someone else will. That the Career Tributes who survive the bloodbath will divide up most of these life-sustaining spoils. Something catches my eye. There, resting on a mound of blanket rolls, is a silver sheath of arrows and a bow, already strung, just waiting to be engaged. That’s mine, I think. It’s meant for me. I’m fast. I can sprint faster than any of the girls in our school although a couple can beat me in distance races. But this forty-yard length, this is what I am built for. I know I can get it, I know I can reach it first, but then the question is how quickly can I get out of there? By the time I’ve scrambled up the packs and grabbed the weapons, others will have reached the horn, and one or two I might be able to pick off, but say there’s a dozen, at that close range, they could take me down with the spears and the clubs. Or their own powerful fists. Still, I won’t be the only target. I’m betting many of the oth- er tributes would pass up a smaller girl, even one who scored an eleven in training, to take out their more fierce adversaries. Haymitch has never seen me run. Maybe if he had he’d tell me to go for it. Get the weapon. Since that’s the very weapon that might be my salvation. And I only see one bow in that whole pile. I know the minute must be almost up and will have to decide what my strategy will be and I find myself position- ing my feet to run, not away into the stir rounding forests but 148 toward the pile, toward the bow. When suddenly I notice Pee- ta, he’s about five tributes to my right, quite a fair distance, still I can tell he’s looking at me and I think he might be shak- ing his head. But the sun’s in my eyes, and while I’m puzzling over it the gong rings out. And I’ve missed it! I’ve missed my chance! Because those extra couple of seconds I’ve lost by not being ready are enough to change my mind about going in. My feet shuffle for a moment, confused at the direction my brain wants to take and then I lunge forward, scoop up the sheet of plastic and a loaf of bread. The


with people, although sometimes she feared she’d end up with a vitamin deficiency from spending all daylight hours inside, and she’d start talking back to the characters on screen, like an editor she knew did. Montserrat wondered if she shouldn’t poke her head around the set of Enigma. Cornelia could introduce her to her contacts, or there might even be an opening with Cornelia’s TV show. She hated the idea of a desk job, but maybe there was freelancing she could do on the side to augment her paycheck. Research. Administrative work. Something other than audio editing, because audio was uncertain: canceled gigs, clients changing their minds, or the composer scoring a film being late, which meant hurry, hurry, hurry. No one cared about the audio, anyway. People noticed only when you fucked it up, not when you got it right. It was a thankless job that had her sometimes catching three hours of sleep on one of the couches around Antares so she could keep working through the night. Montserrat made it into the restaurant on time and took a booth, ordered a coffee and a slice of pie. Tristán arrived twenty-five minutes later. His coat was a lush plum color with big buttons and a wide belt. His hair looked a little ruffled, and he was wearing his sunglasses, which he took off with practiced theatrical panache as he sat down at the table. “Well! They were out of Benson and Hedges at my usual newspaper stand, so I had to walk around.” “I thought you were a snob who only bought imported cigarettes.” “I’m trying to save money this month. Dunhills are out of the question for a few weeks,” he said, taking out his lighter and a cigarette. “You’ve been waiting long?” “Yes,” she said. “You shouldn’t smoke.” “Keeps me thin, and I have to have at least one vice.” “Maybe, but we’re sitting in the non-smoking section,” she said, pointing to the sign behind him. Tristán looked around and sighed. “Now why’d you seat us here?” “Because it’s full in the smoking area and they said there’s no way we’re getting in there.” “Maybe I can ask for us to be moved,” he said and raised his hand, trying to attract the attention of a waitress. “Please don’t,” she said, poking at the slice of pie she had almost finished eating. She’d assumed he’d be late and had been wise enough to order quickly. “Miss?” he said. A waitress turned around. He threw her his careless, sixty-watt smile that was all teeth. The smile had a success rate of 70 percent. The waitress approached him, notepad in hand. “Are you ready to order?” “I’d like a Diet Coke. Could you move us to the smoking section?” “It’s full.” “If there was a table that opened up, could we move there? What’s your name? Mari. That’s nice. Mari, would you be able to keep an eye out for a table for us?” he asked. “As a special favor for me, please.” He spoke with that deep, velvet-smooth voice


it is different with psychologist/psychiatrist where it might be unethical. Then: Is this for a sketch or real life? Real life, I typed back. Can my friend ask the dr out? From Henrietta, to both Viv and me, there was a photo of a bag of coffee-flavored potato chips, along with a text: Did we know these exist? When I reached the seventeenth floor of 66, Henrietta and Viv were sitting on the couch of my office, and Danny was at his desk. Viv tilted the potato chip bag in my direction, and I took one, which looked like a regular potato chip topped with a dusting of cinnamon. I bit off a tiny amount as Danny said, “It’s not the worst thing ever.” I swallowed. “Or is it?” Danny reached out and took a few more, stuffed them in his mouth, and said while chewing, “They’re wrong but weirdly compelling.” Henrietta said, “Like Log Cabin Republicans.” “Or that monkey in Japan who was caught trying to fuck a deer,” Viv added. As we all walked down the hall to the conference room, I said to Viv, “My college roommate said Dr. Eyeballs isn’t supposed to ask you out, but I asked if you can ask him. I’m waiting to hear.” Viv grimaced. “Yeah, I don’t really do that.” “What’s it like to be so beautiful you never have to make the first move?” She laughed. “Advantageous yet burdensome. Also, in my case, complicated by America’s ongoing misogynoir.” The conference room was full as we entered, with most seats taken around the pushed-together tables in the center, as well as around the perimeter of the room. There were even more staff members at read-throughs than at pitch meetings, including from hair and makeup, wardrobe, set design, and the music department. Spread over the tables were scripts of the sketches and, because we’d be there for three hours, bottled waters and scattered platters of sandwiches, salad, cut-up fruit, chips (presumably not coffee-flavored), and cookies. Whether you considered this meal breakfast, lunch, or dinner depended on how late you’d been up the night before. Danny, Viv, and Henrietta all took seats at the table that had been saved for them. I took a second-perimeter seat, my back to the windows that overlooked muffled honking traffic and muffled frolicking tourists seventeen stories below. Noah Brewster was in the middle of the tables’ south side, to the left of Nigel, who always narrated the stage directions in all the sketches. The worse the sketch was being received, the faster he read. It happened that I was about twenty feet from Noah but directly in front of him, and when we made eye contact, he smiled and I felt a wild surge inside me, though I wasn’t sure if it was panic, excitement, or something else. He was painfully handsome, yes, but I had already known that. I reflexively looked away, as if we were strangers who’d accidentally locked eyes on the subway. Then I realized that looking away had been rude and odd, because we weren’t


in the wrong, or at least unexpected, order. Shouldn’t he have been home with me before now? But unlike his home, mine was so far away, and so hard to get back to, even when I wanted to go. My parents were waiting for us on the other side of the security doors. “You made it!” Mom said, as she always did when I landed. She meant you made it through your flights, and also you made it through however long it’s been since your last visit. She looked much the same as she had the last time I’d seen her, though her hair, once copper-red, now reddish-brown, was growing out from the pixie cut she’d had at my wedding. It was my father that I surveyed with an anxiety I tried not to let on. His dark hair had gone gray years ago, like that of all the men in his family, and his blue eyes were alight with happiness as my parents tackled us with hugs, but did he look more careworn than he had the last time we’d seen him? Before this trip, Mom told me that he’d been experiencing some health problems, “complications” from his diabetes—I thought she had mentioned his thyroid, too—but at first glance he seemed all right, steady on his feet as we moved toward the airport’s only baggage carousel. Anyone looking at our group might have assumed that Dan was my parents’ child. Not that he looked much like either of them with his mother’s thick dark hair and easy grin, though at a hair under six feet, he was exactly my dad’s height—it was just that I looked nothing like any of them. I made my habitual survey of the room as we waited for our suitcases. As I’d expected, I was the only Asian in sight. * * * “The Jesuit missionaries didn’t only see themselves as bringing the Catholic faith to Indigenous people, but ‘civilizing’ them. What does that really mean, to ‘civilize’ someone?” our professor asked, looking around the seminar table. After a pause, I said, “To make them more like you.” I was the only freshman in a roomful of upperclassmen, and still found the rapid-fire discussion somewhat intimidating; my papers were well written, the professor had told me, but I should learn to speak up more often in class. Now he nodded at me, and I thought I read a trace of approval in the half smile accompanying his “yes.” In another class, the professor asked each of us to share where we were from. When I told her, assuming that the history of my home state would be largely irrelevant to our discussion of Jim Crow laws, she exclaimed, “Oregon! Speaking of racism,” and launched into a mini-lecture on the state’s founding as a racist white utopia. “Haven’t you ever wondered why Oregon is so white?” she asked. I had not. I loved history, even before I decided to major in it; I’d paid attention during social studies lessons and school field trips, and watched history documentaries


him: all the justice within me ached for the proof that it could ever have flowered into an act. He had never, at any rate, been such a little gentleman as when, after our early dinner on this dreadful day, he came round to me and asked if I shouldn't like him, for half an hour, to play to me. David playing to Saul could never have shown a finer sense of the occasion. It was literally a charming exhibition of tact, of magnanimity, and quite tantamount to his saying outright: "The true knights we love to read about never push an advantage too far. I know what you mean now: you mean that--to be let alone yourself and not followed up--you'll cease to worry and spy upon me, won't keep me so close to you, will let me go and come. Well, I `come,' you see--but I don't go! There'll be plenty of time for that. I do really delight in your society, and I only want to show you that I contended for a principle." It may be imagined whether I resisted this appeal or failed to accompany him again, hand in hand, to the schoolroom. He sat down at the old piano and played as he had never played; and if there are those who think he had better have been kicking a football I can only say that I wholly agree with them. For at the end of a time that under his influence I had quite ceased to measure, I started up with a strange sense of having literally slept at my post. It was after luncheon, and by the schoolroom fire, and yet I hadn't really, in the least, slept: I had only done something much worse-- I had forgotten. Where, all this time, was Flora? When I put the question to Miles, he played on a minute before answering and then could only say: "Why, my dear, how do _I_ know?"--breaking moreover into a happy laugh which, immediately after, as if it were a vocal accompaniment, he prolonged into incoherent, extravagant song. I went straight to my room, but his sister was not there; then, before going downstairs, I looked into several others. As she was nowhere about she would surely be with Mrs. Grose, whom, in the comfort of that theory, I accordingly proceeded in quest of. I found her where I had found her the evening before, but she met my quick challenge with blank, scared ignorance. She had only supposed that, after the repast, I had carried off both the children; as to which she was quite in her right, for it was the very first time I had allowed the little girl out of my sight without some special provision. Of course now indeed she might be with the maids, so that the immediate thing was to look for her without an air of alarm. This we promptly arranged between us; but when, ten minutes later and in pursuance of our arrangement, we met in the hall, it was only to


evil of the innocent.' 'I expect you're right,' she said nervously. 'Anyway, we're nearly there.' She relapsed into silence and gazed out of the window. Bond could still feel her tenseness. He smiled to himself at what he took to be simply a hangover from their recent adventures. But he decided to humour her and when they came to a small lane leading towards the sea and slowed to turn down it, he told the driver to stop directly they were off the main road. Hidden by the tall hedge, they watched together through the rear window. Through the quiet hum of summer noises they could hear the car approaching. Vesper dug her fingers into his arm. The pace of the car did not alter as it approached their hiding-place and they had only a brief glimpse of a man's profile as a black saloon tore by. It was true that he seemed to glance quickly towards them, but above them in the hedge there was a gaily painted sign pointing down the lane and announcing 'L'Auberge du Fruit Dfendu, crustaces, fritures'. It was obvious to Bond that it was this that had caught the driver's eye. As the rattle of the car's exhaust diminished down the road, Vesper sank back into her corner. Her face was pale. 'He looked at us,' she said, 'I told you so. I knew we were being followed. Now they know where we are.' Bond could not contain his impatience. 'Bunkum,' he said. 'He was looking at that sign.' He pointed it out to Vesper. She looked slightly relieved. 'Do you really think so?' she asked. 'Yes. I see. Of course, you must be right. Come on. I'm sorry to be so stupid. I don't know what came over me.' She leant forward and talked to the driver through the partition, and the car moved on. She sank back and turned a bright face towards Bond. The colour had almost come back to her cheeks. 'I really am sorry. It's just that . . . it's that I can't believe everything's over and there's no one to be frightened of any more.' She pressed his hand. 'You must think me very stupid.' 'Of course not,' said Bond. 'But really nobody could be interested in us now. Forget it all. The whole job's finished, wiped up. This is our holiday and there's not a cloud in the sky. Is there?' he persisted. 'No, of course not.' She shook herself slightly. 'I'm mad. Now we'll be there in a second. I do hope you're going to like it.' They both leant forward. Animation was back in her face and the incident left only the smallest question-mark hanging in the air. Even that faded as they came through the dunes and saw the sea and the modest little inn amongst the pines. 'It's not very grand, I'm afraid,' said Vesper. 'But it's very clean and the food's wonderful.' She looked at him anxiously. She need not have worried. Bond loved the place at first sight - the terrace leading


Steve Mixon wanted some chewing tobacco and Janie cut it wrong. She hated that tobacco knife anyway. It worked very stiff. She fumbled with the thing and cut way away from the mark. Mixon didn’t mind. He held it up for a joke to tease Janie a little. “Looka heah, Brother Mayor, whut yo’ wife done took and done.” It was cut comical, so everybody laughed at it. “Uh woman and uh knife—no kind of uh knife, don’t b’long tuhgether.” There was some more good-natured laughter at the expense of women. Jody didn’t laugh. He hurried across from the post office side and took the plug of tobacco away from Mixon and cut it again. Cut it exactly on the mark and glared at Janie. “I god amighty! A woman stay round uh store till she get Their Eyes Were Watching God 93 old as Methusalem and still can’t cut a little thing like a plug of tobacco! Don’t stand dere rollin’ yo’ pop eyes at me wid yo’ rump hangin’ nearly to yo’ knees!” A big laugh started off in the store but people got to thinking and stopped. It was funny if you looked at it right quick, but it got pitiful if you thought about it awhile. It was like somebody snatched off part of a woman’s clothes while she wasn’t looking and the streets were crowded. Then too, Janie took the middle of the floor to talk right into Jody’s face, and that was something that hadn’t been done before. “Stop mixin’ up mah doings wid mah looks, Jody. When you git through tellin’ me how tuh cut uh plug uh tobacco, then you kin tell me whether mah behind is on straight or not.” “Wha—whut’s dat you say, Janie? You must be out yo’ head.” “Naw, Ah ain’t outa mah head neither.” “You must be. Talkin’ any such language as dat.” “You de one started talkin’ under people’s clothes. Not me.” “Whut’s de matter wid you, nohow? You ain’t no young girl to be gettin’ all insulted ’bout yo’ looks. You ain’t no young courtin’ gal. You’se uh ole woman, nearly forty.” “Yeah, Ah’m nearly forty and you’se already fifty. How come you can’t talk about dat sometimes instead of always pointin’ at me?” “’Tain’t no use in gettin’ all mad, Janie, ’cause Ah men- tion you ain’t no young gal no mo’. Nobody in heah ain’t lookin’ for no wife outa yuh. Old as you is.” 94 Zora Neale Hurston “Naw, Ah ain’t no young gal no mo’ but den Ah ain’t no old woman neither. Ah reckon Ah looks mah age too. But Ah’m uh woman every inch of me, and Ah know it. Dat’s uh whole lot more’n you kin say. You big-bellies round here and put out a lot of brag, but ’tain’t nothin’ to it but yo’ big voice. Humph! Talkin’ ’bout me lookin’ old! When you pull down yo’ britches, you look lak de change uh life.” “Great God from Zion!” Sam Watson gasped. “Y’all really playin’ de dozens tuhnight.” “Wha—whut’s


He glances over at the bed before he settles for standing, crossing one leg over the other. “You did great today. By the way.” I exaggerate a groan. “Mood killer. If there was a mood left after talking about my parents.” “I’m serious! It’s not easy to get up there and do that, especially if you haven’t been prepped. And League Loup-Garou—that was a secret French werewolf-hunting agency from season three— that’s a hard word.” “I have a feeling hard-core Nocturnals fans might feel differently, but thank you.” I clear my throat, toying with a button on my cardigan. “So. Tonight’s lesson.” “Ah yes. I see you called this one”—he pulls up his phone—“ ‘Intermediate Foreplay: Turn a Touch into a Tingle.’ ” “I was trying to be creative.” His eyes crinkle at the corners as he grins. “I’m just proud to be in the intermediate class.” I smirk at him as I move over to the bed. “Only because you’re sleeping with the teacher.” He sits down next to me, triangling an ankle on his knee. Then he laces his fingers together, the perfect image of an adult man waiting for sexual enlightenment. If he’s nervous, he’s great at hiding it. The next time I enter into an educational sex pact, I’m not doing it with an actor. Or at least, a much less talented actor. Because that’s one thing I’ve learned, watching The Nocturnals and Lucky Us and even his Hallmark Christmas movie. Finnegan Walsh is a good actor. It’s the way he’s aware of his scene partners, his body language attuned to everyone in the room. The subtleties of his expression, how he’s able to convey joy or sadness or fear in a single tilt of his head or curve of his brows. And his eyes, those lovely hazel eyes the show hid behind glasses, always soft and sweet and inquisitive. I can see it now, how so many viewers fell for Hux. “Before we go any further,” I say. “I think we should talk about the clitoris.” Finn blushes. “Yeah, uh . . . that seems to be something of a problem area for me.” “You’re not alone.” I keep my tone light, wanting him to feel like this is a safe space to talk. To ask questions. Because it’s kind of thrilling, getting to explain this to him, especially because of the way he listens. In any other circumstance, I’d be stumbling over my words, but something about his presence makes this feel much more comfortable than it has any right to be. I take my laptop from my bag, where I already have a few diagrams waiting. In my spare time, I’ve been doing some of my own research—mostly refreshers, with some new information here and there. “The visible part of the clitoris is at the top of the vulva, right where the inner labia meet. There’s a fold of skin that protects it, called the clitoral hood, which retracts to expose more of it when someone is aroused. But most of the clitoris is actually


probably ride them blindfolded and be perfectly safe.” Pressing a hand to her forehead, Lucy groaned. “You’re laying it on a bit thick,” she said, though she was grateful for the positivity. All she could think about was Simon being thrown from his horse after a clap of thunder and lying in a ditch somewhere, injured and frozen. “Oh, Nick, you should have seen his face when I told him. He was so hurt.” “He was confused.” “He hates me, just as I thought he would.” Nick huffed out a sigh, almost angry as he commanded her attention with a tug on her hands. “Lucy Hayes, you are impossible to hate.” He turned to the other side of the room, where Lady Calloway and Olivia had taken up sewing to pass the time; William had gone to bed an hour ago, too exhausted to continue the vigil with his family. “Lady C., I could use your assistance.” Lady Calloway offered a smile, though she was clearly just as worried about Simon as Lucy, because she couldn’t hold the gesture for long. “I understand why you did what you did,” she told Lucy. Lucy had explained everything to her and Olivia a few hours before, with the help of Nick. Now all of them knew about Mr. Granger, except for the threats he had made to the family. She’d still kept that part to herself, hoping she could find a way to make things right without adding more to their burdens. “Simon will come around,” Lady Calloway said. “I know he will.” “If he’s alive,” Lucy muttered under her breath. The storm had been raging for several hours now, and there had been no sign of Simon or his horse. If something happened to him, she would never forgive herself. “We’ll give him another half hour,” Nick said, though he seemed reluctant to give in to Lucy’s nerves. “If he isn’t back by then, I’ll—” “Simon!” Lucy was out the door before Nick could finish speaking, and she nearly tripped on her own dress as she darted down the corridor and outside. The rain still came down in buckets, but she hardly cared, running with all speed to the stables, where she’d seen a horse and rider appear. She stepped into the stables at the same time Simon told the stablemaster to take good care of his horse, and she could barely breathe as she stood there, waiting. When he finally did turn, he froze, his eyes locked on hers beneath waterlogged hair that dripped into his face. Everything about him was soaked, and though he breathed heavily, he didn’t shiver or give any indication that he was particularly cold. Lucy hoped that meant he would not meet the same fate his brother had only days before; she wasn’t sure she would survive waiting by his bedside for him to wake. “Where have you been?” she asked when he still didn’t move. He swallowed but said nothing. “I was worried about you,” she told him, though she wanted to tell him far more


like a telescope.' And so it was indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her face brightened up at the thought that she was now the right size for going though the little door into that lovely garden. First, however, she waited for a few minutes to see if she was going to shrink any further: she felt a little nervous about this; `for it might end, you know,' said Alice to herself, `in my going out altogether, like a candle. I wonder what I should be like then?' And she tried to fancy what the flame of a candle is like after the candle is blown out, for she could not remember ever having seen such a thing. After a while, finding that nothing more happened, she decided on going into the garden at once; but, alas for poor Alice! when she got to the door, she found he had forgotten the little golden key, and when she went back to the table for it, she found she could not possibly reach it: she could see it quite plainly through the glass, and she tried her best to climb up one of the legs of the table, but it was too slippery; and when she had tired herself out with trying, the poor little thing sat down and cried. `Come, there's no use in crying like that!' said Alice to herself, rather sharply; `I advise you to leave off this minute!' She generally gave herself very good advice, (though she very seldom followed it), and sometimes she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears into her eyes; and once she remembered trying to box her own ears for having cheated herself in a game of croquet she was playing against herself, for this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people. `But it's no use now,' thought poor Alice, `to pretend to be two people! Why, there's hardly enough of me left to make ONE respectable person!' Soon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the table: she opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on which the words `EAT ME' were beautifully marked in currants. `Well, I'll eat it,' said Alice, `and if it makes me grow larger, I can reach the key; and if it makes me grow smaller, I can creep under the door; so either way I'll get into the garden, and I don't care which happens!' She ate a little bit, and said anxiously to herself, `Which way? Which way?', holding her hand on the top of her head to feel which way it was growing, and she was quite surprised to find that she remained the same size: to be sure, this generally happens when one eats cake, but Alice had got so much into the way of expecting nothing but out-of-the-way things to happen, that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go on in the common way. So she set to work, and very soon finished off


covered her horror with an effusive smile. ‘Jensen, I still haven’t introduced you, I’m so sorry – well, I was busy with the food and… everyone, this is Jensen Callahan, from Greenwich Village… New York.’ Time held still for a moment while everyone took a breath, then the gushing began. ‘I’ve been to New York…’ ‘We saw Hamilton on Broadway – we loved it, didn’t we, dear?’ ‘Oh, the breakfasts, those bagels, to die for…’ ‘Times Square is simply stunning…’ Francine’s smile broadened as she offered more vegetables. ‘Jensen is a theatre director.’ Jensen shrugged as if it was nothing. ‘I’ve just finished a six-month run of Miller’s Death of a Salesman.’ ‘One of my favourite playwrights,’ Minnie said mischievously. ‘But I love all of them.’ Jensen beamed. The politics lecturer asked, ‘What are you doing here in Oxford, Jensen?’ ‘I’m working at the Playhouse, as a co-director, an advisor really. They are doing a production of Julius Caesar.’ ‘Shakespeare?’ The author shook his head. ‘Hardly an American play…’ ‘An American interpretation, all about the politics, with Caesar in a red baseball cap.’ Jensen was delighted. ‘I met Melvyn at the theatre – he was doing an article on the show, and he invited me to dinner, and here I am.’ He leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs, then he grinned in Minnie’s direction. ‘I have to say, I love everything about Oxford, the beautiful buildings, the culture, the friendly people.’ He met Minnie’s eyes. ‘I do hope you’ll all come and see the play. It opens next week.’ The other guests were suddenly full of enthusiasm. ‘Oh, we’d be delighted.’ ‘How wonderful.’ ‘We’ll be there, won’t we, darling?’ Francine let out a sigh of relief. ‘Well, that’s all good. Now, how about I get us all some pudding? So, there’s a choice: Eton Mess – or pecan pie with ice cream?’ The guests’ voices chorused in unison, ‘Oh, the pecan pie.’ Jensen said, ‘I’ll have Eton Mess.’ ‘So will I,’ Minnie grinned, her expression already complicit. Then Jensen Callahan caught her eye and he winked. Minnie was sure of it. She raised an eyebrow provocatively and winked back. 11 On Saturday morning, Josie and Lin sat on the bench near the weeping willow tree opposite St Peter and St Paul’s church. From this position, they could see the banks of the Cherwell beyond swathes of nodding daffodils. The river shone glass smooth, reflecting the light that dappled the water. The Toomeys’ red and black barge was in its usual place by the riverbank. There was no sign of the occupants, but the strong smell of cooking bacon and sausages wafted on the air: Fergal was below deck, making his famous Joe Grey stew. Josie was thoughtful: she’d just visited Harry’s grave, holding a conversation with him in her head, before meeting Lin. In her mind, she was still with Harry, crouched on the grass next to the raised earth he lay beneath, a bunch of flowers in her hand. Lin hadn’t stopped talking. Josie was trying to listen; she


that she had died thinking the Brooks family was a happy one. Although it would have been nice to be able to share the pain of Lucille’s rejection with her sister. Before she’d come to rehearsal, Marion had called the house and burst into tears the minute Mrs. Hornsby picked up. “Is it true?” she’d asked. Mrs. Hornsby had patiently waited until Marion was able to repeat what her father had told her. Marion had prayed he had been lying as a way to break Lucille’s hold on her. But Mrs. Hornsby didn’t deny it. “She loved you both,” she said right off. “After Judy was born, your mother did some local community theater—she tried to keep her hand in acting—but once you came along, your father insisted she give it all up. He’s a fine man, Mr. Brooks, but he has certain way of looking at the world. It comes from his upbringing, where women remained in the home their entire lives.” Marion understood that. The streets her father grew up on were dangerous; women didn’t dare venture out alone after dark. It was a different era. “What happened? Why did she leave when she did?” “When your mother came to me, she was at her wit’s end. As far as I remember, she’d been asked to take the leading role in a play. Your father wouldn’t have it, but she was determined to go anyway. She asked if I’d step up and be ready to take care of you both while she was in Boston. It was temporary, as far as I understood it.” Temporary. Was that true, or had Lucille said that as a way of making a quick escape? They’d never know. Mrs. Hornsby continued. “Your father told everyone that Lucille was visiting a sick friend and insisted I do the same. Then one morning we heard the awful news. A terrible tragedy, and a terrible loss. Your mother was a beauty, inside and out.” “But it was temporary, her moving away?” “I can’t say for certain what was in her heart. But that’s what she told me.” Mrs. Hornsby sighed into the phone. “I’m sorry for withholding this from you, but I didn’t think it was my story to tell.” “I appreciate it, Mrs. Hornsby. That and everything else you’ve done for us over the years. You’re like a mother to me, I hope you know that.” There were tears in Marion’s eyes when she hung up. In the rehearsal hall, she joined Bunny where she was stretching on the floor, one leg out to the side. When they first moved in together, Bunny had told her about growing up in the Midwest, where her father was a car salesman and her mother a painter. “Bunny, what was it like to have an artist mother when you were growing up?” Marion folded over her legs until she felt the familiar resistance in her hamstrings. “Annoying. I’d come home from school and she’d be locked in her studio, painting away. Or I’d bring friends over and she’d eventually


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 own flesh and blood, his own kith and kin. On you and me.” She’d looked forward to this moment, regardless of the risk. It would have been more prudent to keep her counsel, stay out of sight. But the urge to face Miss de Vries, bring everything out in the open, was too great. Besides, she had one fear, one deep concern. Had Mr. de Vries told his other daughter of the letter? Had she found it? If Miss de Vries had destroyed it, then Mrs. King needed to know. Mrs. King wished Miss de Vries would show something in her face, her eyes. But Miss de Vries didn’t. Her voice was entirely controlled. “I’m famished. Let’s eat.” She moved faster this time, champagne sloshing in her glass, and she tucked her hand into the crook


Kyle stands as still as a statue, gripping his knife. “What—what do we do?” he stammers. I move to the window and peer out at the parking lot. Bezi’s car is sitting in the cone of light emanating from the floodlight. It’s too low to the ground, and I realize it’s because the tires have been cut. I can hardly think straight. A wave of panic rushes over me, and I sit on the stool behind the counter. I’m trying to survive. That’s all I want—to get out of this place alive. I stare at Bezi and then Kyle, both of whom are silent and clearly scared to death. I am too. I shift my gaze to the office counter and see the game book sitting open, the names of the guests and staff penciled in. I’ve been playing the part of a girl who escapes a serial killer every night for months. It’s not a game this time. The consequences are real, but we still have to play. “I’m the final girl,” I say. “It’s literally my job to survive the night. We don’t have any good choices here.” I grab the game book and look at the roster, trying to think of a way to make any of this work in my favor. “It’s just the three of us here for right now. Javier and Tasha aren’t going to leave us here alone. I’m sure that as soon as they can, they’ll get somebody else up here to help us.” “What about the pickup truck?” Kyle asks. “We don’t have the keys,” I say. “Mr. Lamont has them, and even if he didn’t, the tires are probably cut.” “Why would you say that?” Bezi asks, her eyes wide. “Your tires are cut,” I say. A dreadful silence settles over us. “We have to dig in and wait for help,” I say. “Keep trying the cell phones. We’ll get a spotty signal at some point, and we can use it to call Mr. Lamont, but until then, we have to play the game. We get our stuff together, we use the tunnels, we stay hidden. We survive the night. It’s the only way we get out of here alive.” Kyle shakes his head. “I can’t believe this is happening.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “They’re not the only people who can put on masks and scare people.” We make our way back to the Western Lodge and bar the doors, cut out the main lights, and take stock of what we have to defend ourselves. It’s not much, but it’s all we have to work with—an assortment of dull kitchen knives, table legs, a half-empty can of bear spray, and the headsets we use to communicate during the game. We plug in our cell phones, and I help Bezi get her headset on. “Just leave the channel open—that way you won’t have to toggle it on and off,” I say. “One of us should get to the control center and see if the cameras are still working. The lock


paunched her, lugging out the hot bags of colored guts, pushing them into a pile on the rock while the others watched him. He talked as he worked. "We'll take the meat along the beach. I'll go back to the platform and invite them to a feast. That should give us time." Roger spoke. "Chief--" "Uh--?" "How can we make a fire?" Jack squatted back and frowned at the pig. "We'll raid them and take fire. There must be four of you; Henry and you, Robert and Maurice. We'll put on paint and sneak up; Roger can snatch a branch while I say what I want. The rest of you can get this back to where we were. We'll build the fire there. And after that--" He paused and stood up, looking at the shadows under the trees. His voice was lower when he spoke again. "But we'll leave part of the kill for . . ." He knelt down again and was busy with his knife. The boys crowded round him. He spoke over his shoulder to Roger. "Sharpen a stick at both ends." Presently he stood up, holding the dripping sow's head in his hands. "Where's that stick?" "Here." "Ram one end in the earth. Oh--it's rock. Jam it in that crack. There." Jack held up the head and jammed the soft throat down on the pointed end of the stick which pierced through into the mouth. He stood back and the head hung there, a little blood dribbling down the stick. Instinctively the boys drew back too; and the forest was very still. They listened, and the loudest noise was the buzzing of flies over the spilled guts. Jack spoke in a whisper. "Pick up the pig." Maurice and Robert skewered the carcass, lifted the dead weight, and stood ready. In the silence, and standing over the dry blood, they looked suddenly furtive. Jack spoke loudly. "This head is for the beast. It's a gift." The silence accepted the gift and awed them. The head remained there, dim-eyed, grinning faintly, blood blackening between the teeth. All at once they were running away, as fast as they could, through the forest toward the open beach. Simon stayed where he was, a small brown image, concealed by the leaves. Even if he shut his eyes the sow's head still remained like an after-image. The half-shut eyes were dim with the infinite cynicism of adult life. They assured Simon that everything was a bad business. "I know that." Simon discovered that he had spoken aloud. He opened his eyes quickly and there was the head grinning amusedly in the strange daylight, ignoring the flies, the spilled guts, even ignoring the indignity of being spiked on a stick. He looked away, licking his dry lips. A gift for the beast. Might not the beast come for it? The head, he thought, appeared to agree with him. Run away, said the head silently, go back to the others. It was a joke really--why should you bother? You were just wrong, that's all. A little


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

that she meant what she said: she doesn’t want any of these other men. By now I know her smiles, and she gives them ones that are bright and sincere but ultimately platonic. I know her laughs and those, too, are genuine, but the Heroes don’t get the one that comes from the depths of her, the round, joyful belly laugh of Fizzy being absolutely lost in the moment. I know her touch, too—fuck, do I know her touch—and while she gives them friendly affection, never is there heat in her fingertips or her gaze. There is nothing overtly sexual about any of it. We need to edit this reel together, but shit, all I can see is her falling for me. Her eyes flicker to the cameras constantly—looking for my reaction, anticipating some quiet inside joke, or seemingly of their own volition as if when her mind wanders, it wanders to me. But that’s only what I want to see. I can’t help with this. I’m not objective anymore. Pulling my headphones off, I toss them down to the mixing board just as Rory steps in. “All good here?” I scrub my hands over my face and then nod. “I’ve lost all fucking objectivity. We’ve edited the Arjun, Jude, Tex, Colby, and Dax segments for the retrospective. Those are fine. But I’m stalling out on Nick, Isaac, and Evan. Honestly, Ror, I’m having a hard time imagining how we pull this off at the end. Fizzy is great, but am I insane? There’s no actual love story here.” Rory stares down at me for a long beat. “You’re not seeing it?” “No.” She looks past me to the frozen image of Isaac laughing on-screen. “Don’t worry, bro, it’s all there.” “I just don’t want to arse it right at the end.” She laughs. “There is no fucking way.” “I’m glad you’re so confident.” “I think right now you’re just too close to it.” Well, Rory, no shit. forty-six FIZZY Tuesday afternoon, the bell chimes over the door at Twiggs, and everything about it—the force of the chime, the footsteps that follow, the jostling of keys latched to a purse—is so familiar that I know without even looking up who it is. “Fizzy?” Jess asks. I don’t blame her for the bright surprise in her voice; I’m surprised, too. I type the end of the sentence and then look up at her, reaching for my latte. “Hello, bestie.” “Hi. What am I seeing? A laptop? Notebooks with frantic scribbling?” Her eyebrows inch up. “Are you… writing?” “I had an idea this morning.” In fact, I woke up with a scorching sex scene in my head and thought… maybe I’d try to write it down. If I’m being honest, it’s a filthy fantasy about Connor’s mouth, but the inspiration hit me the way it used to, in this sort of fevered excitement, and I didn’t want to let the moment pass me by. I packed up my laptop, came here, and of course what was clear and perfect in my head on the


to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen." "How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--`Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one." "What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance." "`Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, `Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what." "I remember once calling you `George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again." "And cannot you call me `George' now?" "Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but `Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse." Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.-- Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.-- Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay


"Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He is an odd old gentleman, but that pleased him. He knew my father years ago, and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children by sending them a few trifles in honor of the day. I could not refuse, and so you have a little feast at night to make up for the bread-and-milk breakfast." "That boy; put it into his head, I know he did! He's a capital fellow, and I wish we could get acquainted. He looks as if he'd like to know us but he's bashful, and Meg is so prim she won't let me speak to him when we pass," said Jo, as the plates went round, and the ice began to melt out of sight, with ohs and ahs of satisfaction. "You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don't you?" asked one of the girls. "My mother knows old Mr. Laurence, but says he's very proud and doesn't like to mix with his neighbors. He keeps his grandson shut up, when he isn't riding or walking with his tutor, and makes him study very hard. We invited him to our party, but he didn't come. Mother says he's very nice, though he never speaks to us girls." "Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the fence, and were getting on capitally, all about cricket, and so on, when he saw Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know him some day, for he needs fun, I'm sure he does," said Jo decidedly. "I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman, so I've no objection to your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes. He brought the flowers himself, and I should have asked him in, if I had been sure what was going on upstairs. He looked so wistful as he went away, hearing the frolic and evidently having none of his own." "It's a mercy you didn't , Mother!" laughed Jo, looking at her boots. "But we'll have another play sometime that he can see. Perhaps he'll help act. Wouldn't that be jolly?" "I never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!" And Meg examined her flowers with great interest. "They are lovely. But Beth's roses are sweeter to me," said Mrs. March, smelling the half-dead posy in her belt. Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, "I wish I could send my bunch to Father. I'm afraid he isn't having such a merry Christmas as we are." -------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Chapter" I.3 The Laurence Boy "Jo! Jo! Where are you?" cried Meg at the foot of the garret stairs. "Here!" answered a husky voice from above, and, running up, Meg found her sister eating apples and crying over the HEIR OF REDCLYFFE, wrapped up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window. This was Jo's favorite


problem. Now here he was, fixing the temperamental piece of garbage for the eight hundredth time. Giving winemaking another pointless try. Maybe this time his Cabernet would actually kill somebody. August took a few steps toward the worktable that ran along the right side of the barn and plucked up his water bottle, draining most of the contents in one gulp and dumping the remnants over the top of his head. Sighing, he leaned back against the table and scanned the barn, his gaze lingering on the row of oak barrels that contained fermenting grapes and their juice, which, in theory, should age into wine. Truth be told, he’d been a little anxious about leaving those barrels in his rearview. He’d grown their contents from the soil, picked the grapes with his bare hands, and if he could just find the right manipulation of yeast, something would click. Right? August snorted, remembering how many people he’d watched spit his wine up like babies after a full bottle of formula. He’d had such high hopes the first time he walked in. The place would be packed full of people drinking wine with his best friend’s name on the label. Somewhere, somehow, Sam would see that and do that clap and laugh combination that August could hear in his sleep. Although his attempts to sleep had been interrupted by someone else entirely last night. Natalie. Memories of them sharing that Lovers’ Nest on the wine train. Vivid memories that were making his cock a very unhappy camper. God, her ass fit so perfectly into his lap. August’s head fell back on a groan. Why couldn’t he just beat off and get it over with? He wanted to. Badly. The mouth of hell opening up in his front yard normally wouldn’t even stop him from stroking one out, if necessary—and Christ, it was necessary now. Weirdly, his upstairs brain seemed intent on bombarding him with nonsexy thoughts, though, interrupting the whole self-hand-job process in its infancy. Mainly, he didn’t like the memory of Natalie deflating at her mother’s criticism. He’d definitely enjoyed the way she’d curled into him for comfort—couldn’t help it—but he didn’t like the cause. Not one bit. Natalie being sad made his dick soft before he could get a good rhythm going. What the fuck. When the source of his discomfort appeared in the doorway of the barn holding a notebook, looking like a young professional on her way into the board room, August could only stare. Was she still upset about last night or feeling better? Because his dick had no idea how to act. He got his answer when she wrinkled her nose. “God, I can smell you from here.” Definitely feeling better. With a humorless laugh, he swiped up the wrench from the ground. “This is what manual labor looks like, Natalie. Have you ever seen it in real life or just in movies?” Her withering sigh filled the barn. “I grew up on a winery, moron. I know what manual labor looks like.” “Nope. You know what it


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

you utter madwoman.” But he allowed me to shove him inside, leaving behind him a trail of blood like tiny red footprints. To my horror, the pot of snow I had set over the fire had unbalanced itself during the melting, falling onto its side and extinguishing all but a few embers. Shadow, having been roused from his nap by the fireside, sat sneezing in the smoke. When we peeled away Bambleby’s cloak, we found that the iron of the axe had bit deep, down to the bone. A scrap of flesh hung loose like a ghastly piece of cloth. As there was no water to wash the wound, I settled for a temporary dressing using scraps of my scarf. By the time I finished, Bambleby’s arm was blood-soaked, and his face was white. “Just stay there,” I said. “Oh, must I? Let’s head up to the fells again.” “Quiet.” I was a storm of anxiety—the missing students, the rapidly cooling cottage, the water pot, the blood everywhere. It took me twice as long as it normally did to light the fire again, and I was forced to use the last of our logs. Then there was the business of heating more snow in the pot, which I was now in terror of overturning. I was equally concerned by the dearth of quips from Wendell’s direction. I went to examine the wound again and was alarmed to find a puddle of blood on the floor. “Why are you still bleeding?” I demanded, absurdly offended. He let out a breath of laughter. He was resting his head upon his uninjured arm. “Em. You nearly severed my hand.” I shook him. “Tell me what to do!” “I have no idea.” His voice was faint. “I have never been injured before. I don’t much care for it.” I let out a string of curses. My mind ran through everything I knew about the Irish Folk, flipping through stories like the pages of a book. There was the tale of a faerie lord injured in battle who had been tended by a mortal girl, after which he turned her hair to gold and she lived as a queen, buying herself a new house with every new inch of hair she grew. Another story of a faerie maiden turned into a tree which a woodcutter half cut down, only to realize his mistake when the tree began to sob. There were plenty of stories of Folk nursed back to health by mortals, but none ever explained how; they were told because people loved hearing that the Folk ever needed mortal aid and about the lavish rewards they granted after. “I need stitches, I think,” he said. “Can you do it yourself?” “No.” He sounded so certain that I did not think to question him. I tightened the scarf and helped him to his bed, then I ran. I went first to Krystjan’s door, but no one answered my frantic banging, and I was left to assume they were off in some fold hunting their errant sheep. I


The glass breaks with a satisfying crack. Surrounded by the mess, I stop, suddenly sheepish. The cameras… Who is watching me now? Where does the footage go? I must look wild, feral, unhinged. Or perhaps I seem like a spoiled princess having a tantrum. Neither is a good image for me. I get the broom and sweep up shards. Tidy the magazines. I am picking up the wedding photo when my phone rings again. It’s the Arbutus Care Home. I am breathless as I answer it. “Is this Hazel Laval?” “It is.” “This is Greta Williams.” Her tone is somber. “From your mother’s care facility.” My heart twists with panic. “Is my mom okay?” “I’m so sorry to tell you this…” Her words are tremulous. “Your mother has gone missing.” “Missing? What do you mean missing?” The tiny woman inhales. “It seems she wandered away from the facility.” “How could that happen?” I cry. “The place is supposed to be secure!” “We’re flummoxed,” Greta says, and I hear the tears in her voice. “We take great pains to ensure our patients are safe and protected. I… I honestly don’t know how she could have disappeared.” But I do. Benjamin is behind this. His people have taken my mother. To hurt me. Or to warn me. But surely he wouldn’t harm her. He is shallow, cruel, a heartless narcissist, but only a true psychopath would injure an innocent old lady. Greta continues. “We have a nurse and two security personnel combing the area. The police have been called. We’ll be speaking with them soon.” “I’m coming down there.” The uptight cop outside will have to make an exception for a missing mother. “There’s no need,” Greta says, and I can tell she’s nervous, afraid I will be angry and combative. That I will kick up a fuss at them for losing my mom. But I can’t blame Greta or the staff of the Arbutus Care Home. Because my husband is behind this. “Sometimes dementia patients will return to their old homes,” Greta says. “Can you give us her last address? Or a place she lived when she was particularly happy?” “Sure.” I rattle off the address of our cramped apartment from memory. Was my mom happy there, despite the financial strain? My childhood home, a small bungalow in Ballard, was full of arguments and tension. But there must have been good times, too. I give Greta that address as well. “We’ll find her, Hazel,” she says. “I promise we will.” But it’s a promise she can’t keep. Because my mother is not lost. Someone from Benjamin’s network of shady contacts has her. I hang up the phone and let the tears of fear, rage, and frustration come. Rachelle Graham had tried to assure me that I was safe, that Benjamin couldn’t hurt me anymore. But she has grossly underestimated him. 57 WHEN MY PHONE RINGS A couple of hours later, I snatch it up hopefully. I want it to be Greta Williams with good news about my mom. But the name on the


had with my uncle previous to his departure renders some explanation necessary before we meet. Explanation! You may possibly say, What can Elizabeth have to explain? If you really say this, my questions are answered and all my doubts satisfied. But you are distant from me, and it is possible that you may dread and yet be pleased with this explanation; and in a probability of this being the case, I dare not any longer postpone writing what, during your absence, I have often wished to express to you but have never had the courage to begin. You well know, Victor, that our union had been the favourite plan of your parents ever since our infancy. We were told this when young, and taught to look forward to it as an event that would certainly take place. We were affectionate playfellows during childhood, and, I believe, dear and valued friends to one another as we grew older. But as brother and sister often entertain a lively affection towards each other without desiring a more intimate union, may not such also be our case? Tell me, dearest Victor. Answer me, I conjure you by our mutual happiness, with simple truth--Do you not love another? You have travelled; you have spent several years of your life at Ingolstadt; and I confess to you, my friend, that when I saw you last autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude from the society of every creature, I could not help supposing that you might regret our connection and believe yourself bound in honour to fulfil the wishes of your parents, although they opposed themselves to your inclinations. But this is false reasoning. I confess to you, my friend, that I love you and that in my airy dreams of futurity you have been my constant friend and companion. But it is your happiness I desire as well as my own when I declare to you that our marriage would render me eternally miserable unless it were the dictate of your own free choice. Even now I weep to think that, borne down as you are by the cruellest misfortunes, you may stifle, by the word "honour," all hope of that love and happiness which would alone restore you to yourself. I, who have so disinterested an affection for you, may increase your miseries tenfold by being an obstacle to your wishes. Ah! Victor, be assured that your cousin and playmate has too sincere a love for you not to be made miserable by this supposition. Be happy, my friend; and if you obey me in this one request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth will have the power to interrupt my tranquillity. Do not let this letter disturb you; do not answer tomorrow, or the next day, or even until you come, if it will give you pain. My uncle will send me news of your health, and if I see but one smile on your lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other exertion of mine, I shall need no other happiness. Elizabeth Lavenza


inwardly cursed herself for coming up with this plan. There must have been a dozen different ways to go about it that were less embarrassing than this. When she came out, robe fastened tight around her waist, they asked, “How is it?” “Fine,” she lied. It was the softest thing her skin had ever touched. The carpet was so thick her toes got lost in it, and the bed, when she lay on it, was a small piece of heaven. She could see why people got addicted; this was a place where sleeping became a pleasure, not a necessity. The Morpheus leaned over her, massaging her temples. “Any particular requests?” Dear gods, that felt amazing. A blurred answer came out of her lips. “A love story, an adventure, a dazzling success?” they prodded. Her eyes drooped, lulled by the smooth circular movement of their fingers. “You choose,” she whispered again. “A love story, then,” the oneiroi-born said and then— Clang! Io’s eyes snapped open. Above her stood not the Morpheus, but Rosa, hands on her hips, lips twisted into a smirk. The poor Morpheus was facedown on the carpet, already snoring softly under Rosa’s powers. Her friend said, “Am I interrupting, Io dear?” “No.” Io bolted upright. “You got comfortable, I see,” said Rosa, motioning to her nightgown. “Meanwhile, I was scaling walls and climbing balconies with that guy, who has the conversation skills of a stone wall.” From the balcony door, Edei gave a wave, head turned away. He was purposefully not looking at her, his cheeks a deep shade of red. Io glanced down at herself—her robe had slid open, revealing the tiny nightgown in all its glory. She was making him . . . blush? The thought was thrilling, but she tied the robe nonetheless and slipped on her cargo pants for good measure. Rosa was studying the Morpheus at her feet. “Their name is Marino,” she said, toying with the unconscious oneiroi-born’s arm. “I went out with them a couple of times. Terrific kisser. Should go easy on the perfume, though.” “Did everything go as planned?” Io asked. “Yes, boss,” said Edei. He was already on the balcony, and soon Io and Rosa joined him, climbing over the rail and jumping the short distance to the balcony on the left. Both rooms faced the back of the building, where the only attention they could draw was that of rats. When Io had told Edei of her plans—employing Rosa’s help to jump into Bianca’s dreams—he hadn’t even blinked. Instead, he had told her exactly which dream palace Bianca preferred, which room and which oneiroi-born, and how best to sneak into Mister Hypnos. Bianca used the oneiroi-born to sleep every night, even sending for their tonics when she was with Ava, which explained why her lips were tinted blue on every occasion Io had seen her in the early morning. Wind lashing at her naked feet, Io climbed over into room eight. It was nearly identical to hers, except for the wheeled-in tray of wine and fruit. Bianca was sprawled


book to-night, to wile the time away, and the same things came into the print.' 'Imagination,' said the gentleman, soothing her. 'No imagination,' replied the girl in a hoarse voice. 'I'll swear I saw "coffin" written in every page of the book in large black letters,--aye, and they carried one close to me, in the streets to-night.' 'There is nothing unusual in that,' said the gentleman. 'They have passed me often.' 'REAL ONES,' rejoined the girl. 'This was not.' There was something so uncommon in her manner, that the flesh of the concealed listener crept as he heard the girl utter these words, and the blood chilled within him. He had never experienced a greater relief than in hearing the sweet voice of the young lady as she begged her to be calm, and not allow herself to become the prey of such fearful fancies. 'Speak to her kindly,' said the young lady to her companion. 'Poor creature! She seems to need it.' 'Your haughty religious people would have held their heads up to see me as I am to-night, and preached of flames and vengeance,' cried the girl. 'Oh, dear lady, why ar'n't those who claim to be God's own folks as gentle and as kind to us poor wretches as you, who, having youth, and beauty, and all that they have lost, might be a little proud instead of so much humbler?' 'Ah!' said the gentleman. 'A Turk turns his face, after washing it well, to the East, when he says his prayers; these good people, after giving their faces such a rub against the World as to take the smiles off, turn with no less regularity, to the darkest side of Heaven. Between the Mussulman and the Pharisee, commend me to the first!' These words appeared to be addressed to the young lady, and were perhaps uttered with the view of afffording Nancy time to recover herself. The gentleman, shortly afterwards, addressed himself to her. 'You were not here last Sunday night,' he said. 'I couldn't come,' replied Nancy; 'I was kept by force.' 'By whom?' 'Him that I told the young lady of before.' 'You were not suspected of holding any communication with anybody on the subject which has brought us here to-night, I hope?' asked the old gentleman. 'No,' replied the girl, shaking her head. 'It's not very easy for me to leave him unless he knows why; I couldn't give him a drink of laudanum before I came away.' 'Did he awake before you returned?' inquired the gentleman. 'No; and neither he nor any of them suspect me.' 'Good,' said the gentleman. 'Now listen to me.' 'I am ready,' replied the girl, as he paused for a moment. 'This young lady,' the gentleman began, 'has communicated to me, and to some other friends who can be safely trusted, what you told her nearly a fortnight since. I confess to you that I had doubts, at first, whether you were to be implicitly relied upon, but now I firmly believe you are.' 'I am,' said the girl


commonplace in his earlier and middle life. Hepzibah had a regard for him, because his name was ancient in the town and had formerly been respectable. It was a still better reason for awarding him a species of familiar reverence that Uncle Venner was himself the most ancient existence, whether of man or thing, in Pyncheon Street, except the House of the Seven Gables, and perhaps the elm that overshadowed it. This patriarch now presented himself before Hepzibah, clad in an old blue coat, which had a fashionable air, and must have accrued to him from the cast-off wardrobe of some dashing clerk. As for his trousers, they were of tow-cloth, very short in the legs, and bagging down strangely in the rear, but yet having a suitableness to his figure which his other garment entirely lacked. His hat had relation to no other part of his dress, and but very little to the head that wore it. Thus Uncle Venner was a miscellaneous old gentleman, partly himself, but, in good measure, somebody else; patched together, too, of different epochs; an epitome of times and fashions. "So, you have really begun trade," said he,--" really begun trade! Well, I'm glad to see it. Young people should never live idle in the world, nor old ones neither, unless when the rheumatize gets hold of them. It has given me warning already; and in two or three years longer, I shall think of putting aside business and retiring to my farm. That's yonder,--the great brick house, you know,--the workhouse, most folks call it; but I mean to do my work first, and go there to be idle and enjoy myself. And I'm glad to see you beginning to do your work, Miss Hepzibah!" "Thank you, Uncle Venner" said Hepzibah, smiling; for she always felt kindly towards the simple and talkative old man. Had he been an old woman, she might probably have repelled the freedom, which she now took in good part. "It is time for me to begin work, indeed! Or, to speak the truth, I have just begun when I ought to be giving it up." "Oh, never say that, Miss Hepzibah!" answered the old man. "You are a young woman yet. Why, I hardly thought myself younger than I am now, it seems so little while ago since I used to see you playing about the door of the old house, quite a small child! Oftener, though, you used to be sitting at the threshold, and looking gravely into the street; for you had always a grave kind of way with you,--a grown-up air, when you were only the height of my knee. It seems as if I saw you now; and your grandfather with his red cloak, and his white wig, and his cocked hat, and his cane, coming out of the house, and stepping so grandly up the street! Those old gentlemen that grew up before the Revolution used to put on grand airs. In my young days, the great man of the town was commonly called King; and


in it was covered with dust and mould, and dropping to pieces. The most prominent object was a long table with a tablecloth spread on it, as if a feast had been in preparation when the house and the clocks all stopped together. An epergne or centrepiece of some kind was in the middle of this cloth; it was so heavily overhung with cobwebs that its form was quite undistinguishable; and, as I looked along the yellow expanse out of which I remember its seeming to grow, like a black fungus, I saw speckled-legged spiders with blotchy bodies running home to it, and running out from it, as if some circumstances of the greatest public importance had just transpired in the spider community. I heard the mice too, rattling behind the panels, as if the same occurrence were important to their interests. But, the blackbeetles took no notice of the agitation, and groped about the hearth in a ponderous elderly way, as if they were short-sighted and hard of hearing, and not on terms with one another. These crawling things had fascinated my attention and I was watching them from a distance, when Miss Havisham laid a hand upon my shoulder. In her other hand she had a crutch-headed stick on which she leaned, and she looked like the Witch of the place. "This," said she, pointing to the long table with her stick, "is where I will be laid when I am dead. They shall come and look at me here." With some vague misgiving that she might get upon the table then and there and die at once, the complete realization of the ghastly waxwork at the Fair, I shrank under her touch. "What do you think that is?" she asked me, again pointing with her stick; "that, where those cobwebs are?" "I can't guess what it is, ma'am." "It's a great cake. A bride-cake. Mine!" She looked all round the room in a glaring manner, and then said, leaning on me while her hand twitched my shoulder, "Come, come, come! Walk me, walk me!" I made out from this, that the work I had to do, was to walk Miss Havisham round and round the room. Accordingly, I started at once, and she leaned upon my shoulder, and we went away at a pace that might have been an imitation (founded on my first impulse under that roof) of Mr. Pumblechook's chaise-cart. She was not physically strong, and after a little time said, "Slower!" Still, we went at an impatient fitful speed, and as we went, she twitched the hand upon my shoulder, and worked her mouth, and led me to believe that we were going fast because her thoughts went fast. After a while she said, "Call Estella!" so I went out on the landing and roared that name as I had done on the previous occasion. When her light appeared, I returned to Miss Havisham, and we started away again round and round the room. If only Estella had come to be a spectator of our proceedings,


her in her Navigator, but I called an Uber instead. No way was I accepting help from her. Or letting her see my apartment, either. Though “apartment” was too generous a term. More of an “efficiency.” Or more accurately, a “shack”—built as the caretaker’s quarters in the 1910s when the building was constructed as a warehouse. Sue’s dad, Mr. Kim, had renovated the building, turning it into hipster industrial condos. But the rooftop shack was last on his list—and in his words, was still “not fit for human habitation.” Sue had talked him into leasing it to me as a studio space—promising him I’d use it “almost like a storage room.” That was before I left my ex, Ezra—after he fully forgot my birthday, and, while I was getting stood up in the restaurant, I wound up reading a clickbait article on my phone about narcissists … realizing in a sudden flourish that I was dating one. Two long years of clues I ignored, then one very enlightening article—and then suddenly I was done. Leaving was just a relief. Finding a place to live on the income from my Etsy shop was going to be a challenge at best, and I’d drained almost all the cash I got from selling my car—a radical choice in Houston, which is not exactly a walking city. My hovel was fine for now. For $475 a month, I didn’t need a showplace. But my living situation now was more like “a little princess banished to the servants’ quarters” scenario than a “living the high life in a luxury penthouse” one. I had promised Mr. Kim I wasn’t actually living there, and he was compassionately turning a blind eye. Which is to say, one person’s “not fit for human habitation” is another person’s perfectly acceptable hovel. The light alone was incredible. Not to mention the views of downtown. And the bayou. Sue thought my moving into my studio was a genius gaming-the-system move. Not a normal living situation, but cooler. She’d been pushing for a shack-warming party from the start. But as much as I wanted to embrace the spin that I was too fantastic to live like normal people, the truth was that I was just too broke. Back home after that night in the hospital, nothing about my shack, or my life, or myself had ever felt less fantastic. It’s a disorienting thing to know there’s something wrong with you. It made everything about my life seem different. Worse. False. Like I’d been misunderstanding everything all along. * * * I HAD SOME portraits queued up to finish—a little girl with her cocker spaniel, a young man’s graduation photo, a sweet grandmother in an eightieth birthday party hat—and I couldn’t bill for them until I shipped them. They were a hundred bucks a pop, so that’s what I should have been doing all day after I got back from the hospital: covering this month’s rent. But, instead, I found myself googling cavernomas. Lots of grainy gray brain-scan images, lots of illustrations of people holding their


fill her sinuses until her lungs felt tight, then she released it all at once. “Mom and Dad are dead, Mark,” she said. “Mom was sad all her life because her parents hated her after Uncle Freddie died. Dad’s parents hated him for marrying Mom. You and I don’t talk because we’re not the same kind of people. There are no dark secrets, no big conspiracies, no haunted house. No one tried to kill you—” there’s no puppet buried in the backyard “—you’re just sad and you don’t want to face the fact that they’re gone and you never got a chance to resolve your issues with them.” “I’m the one with unresolved issues?” Mark asked. “Emotions happen and you lock yourself in your room. You cling to Dad because Dad doesn’t do emotions. You moved as far away from home as you can go and still be in America, you don’t talk to me, you skip family events. You don’t come for Christmas—” “I stopped coming because you got drunk and made us go to P. F. Chang’s after Mom had been cooking all day and ordered the entire menu and passed out at the table!” “No one ever says no to you, Louise, because we’re all scared you’re going to lose your temper,” Mark said. “Everyone’s desperate for your approval. Mom is. Dad is. I’ve been waiting since I was fourteen for you to apologize for trying to kill me as a kid. This entire family gaslighted me for years because they didn’t want to upset you, and you still treat us like we’re not good enough for you. I’m surprised you even came home for Mom and Dad’s funeral. That’s why I made the arrangements. I didn’t think you’d bother to show.” In the silence, Mark pushed his chair back. It hit the wall behind him and he heaved himself up from the table. “I’ve got to piss,” he said and stormed out of the room. She heard the bathroom fan go on. She felt too aware of Pupkin’s grave in their backyard. She hadn’t thought about it for years but she remembered now. She saw herself digging it, she saw herself stuffing Pupkin’s screaming body into it, she felt the scratch marks on her hands, she felt the bite mark on the tip of her finger. “Louise!” Mark shouted from the bathroom. He sounded scared. The kind of scared that launched her out of her seat and down the hall. Mark stood in the doorway to the bathroom, staring down at the tiles. Louise squeezed around him and her skin contracted tight around her bones. The Mark and Louise dolls stood like stiff corpses on the other side of the toilet, staring at them in the door. On the wall between them, written shakily in red lipstick: MARK KOM HOM Louise saw red lipstick smeared on the Louise doll’s hands, the open tube of lipstick smashed on the floor, the tattered end of the toilet paper roll dancing back and forth in the air conditioning, the glittering dead


Emily. She wore a beige bodysuit that perfectly described the curve of her hips and her tapered thighs, over which she’d zipped a black fleece hoodie. Her hair was in a tight ponytail high at the back of her head and her feet were lost in a pair of chunky fur-lined boots. She’d dyed her hair red, and it looked incredible with her skin. “Ez!” she said, and rushed to hug me. “How was the trip up?” “Fine,” I said. “This is Brianna.” “I’m a hugger,” Emily said, and before Brianna could say anything in response, she’d wrapped her in her arms. “Why don’t you spend some time with us?” Orson said. “You two can grab some blankets and share your wisdom.” “I don’t know if I have wisdom—” Brianna began. “We have to go inside and send some emails,” I said. “I have something I need to work on.” It was true: I’d been struck with an idea in the moment, looking at the eager-faced celebrities cocooned in their alpaca. I walked past Orson and his coterie, my face flushed, Brianna trailing me like an obedient dog. I’d designed the inside of the farmhouse to have a massive multipurpose living room which segued into a kitchen and a dining room that annexed a foyer into which descended a quasi-ballroom staircase. We climbed this staircase up to a hallway lined with rooms that had been turned into offices. I ushered Brianna into the nearest one. “Pretty impressive,” she mustered. “Down there.” “Yeah,” I said, pretending to be preoccupied. “We need to do a little work quickly.” This seemed to deflate her, but she did her best to conceal it, pulling her laptop out of her satchel and sitting down at the desk. I leaned against the wall, my hands behind my back. “I want you to find, like, some organization for delinquent youth.” Brianna nodded, opening her laptop. “I want you to write to them and say you’re Orson Ortman’s executive assistant and offer them a free tour of the Farm.” I spun my hand next to my head, trying to encourage my own thought. “Make it, like, a contest. Say we can pay for one of them to come here if they write a good essay about something—we’ll give them a prompt. It’ll be for the parents. Like, ‘How Could Your Child Benefit from Synthesis?’ Or ‘Tell Your Child’s Life Story.’ They can stay at the Farm for a night and receive Synthesis from Orson Ortman.” “Will they, um, know about Synthesis?” “Probably not. Describe it as a bold new treatment for behavioral issues. Talk about the Bliss-Mini. People know about the Bliss-Mini, but it’s too expensive for most of them right now. Talk about how, like, the treatment at the Farm is one thousand times more effective than the Bliss-Mini, and we’re offering it for free.” “Right.” She was typing quickly. “Got it.” “Send that out and then come downstairs.” I left her typing in the office and found Orson and the celebrities in the dining room, being served dinner