The jury’s definitely out, but like the rest of the team, she’s been hand-picked by Taylor. She’s dressed like Sawyer in a dark somber pantsuit. “Can you take us to the Zig Zag, please, Sawyer?” Sawyer turns to look at me, and I know he wants to say something. He’s ob- viously been given his orders. He hesitates. “The Zig Zag Café. We’ll only have one.” I give Kate a sideways glance, and she’s glaring at Sawyer. Poor man. “Yes, ma’am.” “Mr. Grey requested you go back to the apartment,” Prescott pipes up. “Mr. Grey isn’t here,” I snap. “The Zig Zag, please.” “Ma’am,” Sawyer replies with a sideways glance at Prescott, who wisely holds her tongue. Kate gapes at me as if she can’t believe her eyes and ears. I purse my lips and shrug. Okay, so I’m a little more assertive than I used to be. Kate nods as Sawyer pulls out into the early evening traffic. “You know the additional security is driving Grace and Mia crazy,” Kate says casually. I gawk at her, baffled. “You didn’t know?” She seems incredulous. “Know what?” “Security for all of the Greys has been tripled. Gazillioned, even.” “Really?” “He hasn’t told you?” I flush. “No.” Damn it, Christian! “Do you know why?” “Jack Hyde.” “What about Jack? I thought he was just after Christian.” I gasp. Jeez. Why hasn’t he told me? “Since Monday,” Kate says. Last Monday? Hmm . . . we identified Jack on Sunday. But why all the Greys? “How do you know all this?” “Elliot.” Of course. “Christian hasn’t told you any of this, has he?” I flush once more. “No.” 199/551 “Oh, Ana, how annoying.” I sigh. As ever, Kate has hit the nail squarely on the head in her usual sledge- hammer style. “Do you know why?” If Christian’s not going to tell me, then maybe Kate will. “Elliot said it’s something to do with information stored on Jack Hyde’s com- puter when he was at SIP.” Holy crap. “You’re kidding.” A surge of anger pulses through me. How does Kate know about this when I don’t? I glance up to see Sawyer eyeing me from the rearview mirror. The red light turns to green and he surges forward, focusing on the road ahead. I hold my finger up to my lips and Kate nods. I bet Sawyer knows, too, and I don’t. “How’s Elliot?” I ask to change the subject. Kate grins stupidly, telling me all I need to know. Sawyer pulls up at the end of the passageway that leads down to the Zig Zag Café, and Prescott opens my door. I scoot out and Kate slides out after me. We link arms and meander down the passage, followed by Prescott, who’s wearing a thunderous expression on her face. Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s just a drink. Sawyer drives off to park the car. “So how does Elliot know Gia?” I ask, taking a sip of my second strawberry mojito. The bar is intimate and cozy, and I don’t want to leave. Kate and


and gestures there was that tinge of resemblance to Miss Havisham which may often be noticed to have been acquired by children, from grown person with whom they have been much associated and secluded, and which, when childhood is passed, will produce a remarkable occasional likeness of expression between faces that are otherwise quite different. And yet I could not trace this to Miss Havisham. I looked again, and though she was still looking at me, the suggestion was gone. What was it? "I am serious," said Estella, not so much with a frown (for her brow was smooth) as with a darkening of her face; "if we are to be thrown much together, you had better believe it at once. No!" imperiously stopping me as I opened my lips. "I have not bestowed my tenderness anywhere. I have never had any such thing." In another moment we were in the brewery so long disused, and she pointed to the high gallery where I had seen her going out on that same first day, and told me she remembered to have been up there, and to have seen me standing scared below. As my eyes followed her white hand, again the same dim suggestion that I could not possibly grasp, crossed me. My involuntary start occasioned her to lay her hand upon my arm. Instantly the ghost passed once more, and was gone. What was it? "What is the matter?" asked Estella. "Are you scared again?" "I should be, if I believed what you said just now," I replied, to turn it off. "Then you don't? Very well. It is said, at any rate. Miss Havisham will soon be expecting you at your old post, though I think that might be laid aside now, with other old belongings. Let us make one more round of the garden, and then go in. Come! You shall not shed tears for my cruelty to-day; you shall be my Page, and give me your shoulder." Her handsome dress had trailed upon the ground. She held it in one hand now, and with the other lightly touched my shoulder as we walked. We walked round the ruined garden twice or thrice more, and it was all in bloom for me. If the green and yellow growth of weed in the chinks of the old wall had been the most precious flowers that ever blew, it could not have been more cherished in my remembrance. There was no discrepancy of years between us, to remove her far from me; we were of nearly the same age, though of course the age told for more in her case than in mine; but the air of inaccessibility which her beauty and her manner gave her, tormented me in the midst of my delight, and at the height of the assurance I felt that our patroness had chosen us for one another. Wretched boy! At last we went back into the house, and there I heard, with surprise, that my guardian had come down to see Miss Havisham on business, and


You. Lower. Now.” Christian, exuding sensuality, runs his tongue along his teeth Holy fuck . . . I writhe, pulling on the restraints. He shakes his head, slowly. “Still.” He rests his hands on my knees, holding me in place. “Come on, Ana—lower.” My hands glide over my stomach down over my belly. “Lower,” he mouths, and he is carnality personified. “Christian, please.” His hands glide down from my knees, skimming my thighs, toward my sex. “Come on, Ana. Touch yourself.” 381/551 My left hand skims over my sex, and I rub in a slow circle, my mouth an O as I pant. “Again,” he whispers. I groan louder and repeat the move and tip my head back, gasping. “Again.” I moan loudly, and Christian inhales sharply. Grabbing my hands, he bends down, running his nose then his tongue back and forth at the apex of my thighs. “Ah!” I want to touch him, but when I try to move my hands, his fingers tighten around my wrists. “I’ll restrain these, too. Keep still.” I groan. He releases me then eases his middle two fingers inside me, the heel of his hand resting against my clitoris. “I’m going to make you come quickly, Ana. Ready?” “Yes.” I pant. He starts to move his fingers, his hand, up and down, rapidly, assaulting both that sweet spot inside me and my clitoris at the same time. Ah! The feeling is in- tense—really intense. Pleasure builds and spikes throughout the lower half of my body. I want to stretch my legs, but I can’t. My hands claw at the towel beneath me. “Surrender,” Christian whispers. I explode around his fingers, crying out incoherently. He presses the heel of his hand against my clitoris as the aftershocks run through my body, prolonging the delicious agony. Vaguely, I’m aware that he’s untying my legs. “My turn,” he murmurs, and flips me over so I am face down on the sofa with my knees on the floor. He spreads my legs and slaps me hard across my behind. “Ah!” I yelp and he slams into me. “Oh, Ana,” he hisses through clenched teeth as he starts to move. His fingers grip me hard around my hips as he grinds into me over and over. And I’m build- ing again . No . . . Ah . . . “Come on, Ana!” Christian shouts, and I shatter once more, pulsing around him and crying out as I come. 382/551 “Life-affirming enough for you?” Christian kisses my hair. “Oh, yes,” I murmur, gazing up at the ceiling. I am lying on my husband, my back to his front, both of us on the floor beside the sofa. He’s still dressed. “I think we should go again. No clothes for you this time.” “Christ, Ana. Give a man a chance.” I giggle and he chuckles. “I’m glad Ray’s conscious. Seems all your appetites are back,” he says, not disguising the smile in his voice. I turn over and scowl at him. “Are you forgetting about last night and this morning?” I


without looking at him. "Safer from loving me?" Her profile did not stir, but he saw a tear overflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil. "Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!" she protested. "What others? I don't profess to be different from my kind. I'm consumed by the same wants and the same longings." She glanced at him with a kind of terror, and he saw a faint colour steal into her cheeks. "Shall I--once come to you; and then go home?" she suddenly hazarded in a low clear voice. The blood rushed to the young man's forehead. "Dearest!" he said, without moving. It seemed as if he held his heart in his hands, like a full cup that the least motion might overbrim. Then her last phrase struck his ear and his face clouded. "Go home? What do you mean by going home?" "Home to my husband." "And you expect me to say yes to that?" She raised her troubled eyes to his. "What else is there? I can't stay here and lie to the people who've been good to me." "But that's the very reason why I ask you to come away!" "And destroy their lives, when they've helped me to remake mine?" Archer sprang to his feet and stood looking down on her in inarticulate despair. It would have been easy to say: "Yes, come; come once." He knew the power she would put in his hands if she consented; there would be no difficulty then in persuading her not to go back to her husband. But something silenced the word on his lips. A sort of passionate honesty in her made it inconceivable that he should try to draw her into that familiar trap. "If I were to let her come," he said to himself, "I should have to let her go again." And that was not to be imagined. But he saw the shadow of the lashes on her wet cheek, and wavered. "After all," he began again, "we have lives of our own. . . . There's no use attempting the impossible. You're so unprejudiced about some things, so used, as you say, to looking at the Gorgon, that I don't know why you're afraid to face our case, and see it as it really is--unless you think the sacrifice is not worth making." She stood up also, her lips tightening under a rapid frown. "Call it that, then--I must go," she said, drawing her little watch from her bosom. She turned away, and he followed and caught her by the wrist. "Well, then: come to me once," he said, his head turning suddenly at the thought of losing her; and for a second or two they looked at each other almost like enemies. "When?" he insisted. "Tomorrow?" She hesitated. "The day after." "Dearest--!" he said again. She had disengaged her wrist; but for a moment they continued to hold each other's eyes, and he saw that her face, which had grown very pale,


over the side of a hamper suggests a boy still trying to earn that first-place ribbon, that trophy—still trying to impress a distant and indifferent father. Or it suggested he was a decent but not great athlete who hadn’t done his laundry. The passage was illustrated with the photo I remembered—a nine- or ten-year-old AJ with his father. Lightly curling brown hair and a tentative smile. He was a wisp next to his broad-shouldered father. He looked like a normal kid—a nice kid. But Stahl looked nice, too. If I’d seen the photo without knowing who he was, I might have said he had kind eyes. The same eyes that seemed to radiate pure evil in the photos from the trial. The answers I wanted weren’t here. There was no wicked version of the boy, no mini Psycho Stahl, to conjure from such scant details. If he was a monster like his father, the proof wasn’t in these pages. I flipped idly through the book, recognizing passages here and there. I’d read the book in a rage, searching for tiny factual details that weren’t quite right so that I could discount the rest. The parts that called my father a drunk, a man who couldn’t protect his daughter. That cast me as the helpless victim of life and circumstance and Stahl, reduced to what was done to me. As for the other “characters” Devereaux constructed … Cody’s name caught my eye. Cody Benham, the best friend of Cassidy’s brother, Oscar, is an unlikely figure to become the shining white knight of the story. Frequent run-ins made him a common subject among the local police, and Chief Miller described him as a hot temper in search of a brawl. She’d somehow neglected to mention that all of Cody’s youthful indiscretions had occurred with Oscar’s willing participation—and instigation. And that the closest Cody had come to actually getting charged was … well. It was because of me, and it had ended their friendship. An act that I hadn’t honored, in the end. Cody had tried to save me from Oscar, and I’d thrown that away, like I threw everything away. My eyes skipped over the page. Oscar Green, Cassidy’s protective older brother, is a muscular young man, with long lashes and a slow way of speaking. He oozes that kind of backwoods charm, a lumberjack with a Shakespearean vocabulary. “Oh, fuck off,” I said. I wondered if he’d gotten her into bed. Probably. He’d nail anything with a heartbeat, and as Cody had said, entirely too many women found his brand of I don’t give a fuck about anything, including you alluring. Not that I could exactly throw stones. I shut my eyes. I didn’t want to think about Oscar, but his name kept coming up. That was the way with Oscar. I tried to stay away from him and it never worked. You and me were meant to be. Memory stirred under my fingertips. The bedroom door opened. I looked up blearily as Mitch entered, carrying two glasses of bourbon. “I thought you’d


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

Harry would never quite remember how he had managed to get through his exams when he half expected Voldemort to come bursting through the door at any moment. Yet the days crept by, and there could be no doubt that Fluffy was still alive and well behind the locked door. It was sweltering hot, especially in the large classroom where they did their written papers. They had been given special, new quills for the exams, which had been bewitched with an Anti-Cheating spell. They had practical exams as well. Professor Flitwick called them one by one into his class to see if they could make a pineapple tapdance across a desk. Professor McGonagall watched them turn a mouse into a snuffbox -- points were given for how pretty the snuffbox was, but taken away if it had whiskers. Snape made them all nervous, breathing down their necks while they tried to remember how to make a Forgetfulness potion. Harry did the best he could, trying to ignore the stabbing pains in his forehead, which had been bothering him ever since his trip into the forest. Neville thought Harry had a bad case of exam nerves because Harry couldn't sleep, but the truth was that Harry kept being woken by his old nightmare, except that it was now worse than ever because there was a hooded figure dripping blood in it. Maybe it was because they hadn't seen what Harry had seen in the forest, or because they didn't have scars burning on their foreheads, but Ron and Hermione didn't seem as worried about the Stone as Harry. The idea of Voldemort certainly scared them, but he didn't keep visiting them in dreams, and they were so busy with their studying they didn't have much time to fret about what Snape or anyone else might be up to. Their very last exam was History of Magic. One hour of answering questions about batty old wizards who'd invented self-stirring cauldrons and they'd be free, free for a whole wonderful week until their exam results came out. When the ghost of Professor Binns told them to put down their quills and roll up their parchment, Harry couldn't help cheering with the rest. "That was far easier than I thought it would be," said Hermione as they joined the crowds flocking out onto the sunny grounds. "I needn't have learned about the 1637 Werewolf Code of Conduct or the uprising of Elfric the Eager." Hermione always liked to go through their exam papers afterward, but Ron said this made him feel ill, so they wandered down to the lake and flopped under a tree. The Weasley twins and Lee Jordan were tickling the tentacles of a giant squid, which was basking in the warm shallows. "No more studying," Ron sighed happily, stretching out on the grass. "You could look more cheerful, Harry, we've got a week before we find out how badly we've done, there's no need to worry yet." Harry was rubbing his forehead. "I wish I knew what this means!" he burst out angrily.


in the princess’s skin. It gave her a blueish aspect. The eyes were less striking in reality than in photographs—smaller, filmy looking. Her mouth drooped a little at the sides. She looks like her father, thought Miss de Vries, and it gave her a curious feeling in her stomach. “Ma’am.” A confident voice, right behind her. A hand on the back of her chair, jolting it. The lady-in-waiting with the orange turban smiled. “Ashley. Naughty you. Late again.” Miss de Vries turned. She’d left Lord Ashley in the garden, hoped they would have given him enough wine to distract him. This was her ascendance. She wished to enjoy it by herself, before she was pinned to his arm forever. But he didn’t seem distracted. He lowered his chin, and for an extraordinary second she thought he was going to kiss her on the head. But he was only bowing to the Princess Victoria. “Forgive me,” said Lord Ashley with a smile, and slipped into his seat. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask her permission to join, didn’t thank her for the food. He grabbed his fork as if seated at his own table. The princess retreated into her own head, eyes down. The ladies all made a graceful turn left, and commenced conversation with their neighbors. Of course they all knew each other; it was effortless for them. Miss de Vries found herself seated beside a spindly and decrepit colonel, who was fussing with his handkerchief and inspecting the forks, saying not a word. Someone had altered the table plan without seeking her authority: someone from the royal household, perhaps. Or Lord Ashley. Miss de Vries stared at the wall in enforced silence, feeling a flush rising up her neck, suddenly out of her depth. The crowd stood panting at the door to the supper room. This is my triumph, she reminded herself firmly, feeling ravenous, eating nothing. * * * Meanwhile, the Janes were consulting the instruction labels ironed into their petticoats. This was the most delicate part of the operation: sweeping the rooms in the public parts of the house. They got to work on the library, with Hephzibah’s decoy guests stationed right outside, guarding the door. Mrs. Bone’s men, still dressed in their tunics, stood on extendable ladders, handing books down the line and stacking them in towers. It was taking longer than Winnie had calculated. “Come on,” muttered Jane-one, her eyes fixed on the clock. “What time is it?” said Jane-two. “Don’t ask.” The men heard. Fear, the first true prickle of it, shimmered across the room. Someone dropped a book. Jane-one saw it happen. It simply slipped from a man’s hand, toppling into a tower of leather-bound volumes already on the floor. She knew what would follow. Her mind unspooled it, several seconds ahead. The first tower fell into the next. Dominoes. The men looked on, aghast, as the towers crumbled. Jane-one felt the tremor as hundreds upon hundreds of books hit the bare floor. It was a rumble she could feel


him on his acting.     "Do you know," said she, "that, of the three characters, I liked you in the last best? Oh, had you but lived a few years earlier, what a gallant gentleman-highwayman you would have made!"     "Is all the soot washed from my face?" he asked, turning it toward her.     "Alas, yes; the more's the pity! Nothing could be more becoming to your complexion than that ruffian's rouge."     "You would like a hero of the road then?"     "An English hero of the road would be the next best thing to an Italian bandit; and that could only be surpassed by a Levantine pirate."     "Well, whatever I am, remember you are my wife; we were married an hour since, in the presence of all these witnesses."     She giggled, and her color rose.     "Now, Dent," continued Mr. Rochester, "it is your turn." And as the other party withdrew, he and his band took the vacated seats. Miss Ingram placed herself at her leader's right hand; the other diviners filled the chairs on each side of him and her. I did not now watch the actors; I no longer waited with interest for the curtain to rise; my attention was absorbed by the spectators; my eyes, erewhile fixed on the arch, were now irresistibly attracted to the semicircle of chairs. What charade Colonel Dent and his party played, what word they chose, how they acquitted themselves, I no longer remember; but I still see the consultation which followed each scene; I see Mr. Rochester turn to Miss Ingram, and Miss Ingram to him; I see her incline her head toward him, till the jetty curls almost touch his shoulder and wave against his cheek; I hear their mutual whisperings; I recall their interchanged glances; and something even of the feeling roused by the spectacle returns in memory at this moment.     I have told you, reader, that I had learned to love Mr. Rochester; I could not unlove him now, merely because I found that he had ceased to notice me because I might pass hours in his presence and he would never once turn his eyes in my direction because I saw all his attentions appropriated by a great lady, who scorned to touch me with the hem of her robes as she passed; who, if ever her dark and imperious eye fell on me by chance, would withdraw it instantly as from an object too mean to merit observation. I could not unlove him because I felt sure he would soon marry this very lady because I read daily in her a proud security in his intentions respecting her because I witnessed hourly in him a style of courtship which, if careless, and choosing rather to be sought than to seek, was yet, in its very carelessness, captivating, and in its very pride, irresistible.


friends with Gilbert when he asked her, and vowed a little more determinedly to surpass him in the examination. She knew that all Avonlea junior was wondering which would come out first; she even knew that Jimmy Glover and Ned Wright had a bet on the question and that Josie Pye had said there was no doubt in the world that Gilbert would be first; and she felt that her humiliation would be unbearable if she failed. But she had another and nobler motive for wishing to do well. She wanted to "pass high" for the sake of Matthew and Marillaespecially Matthew. Matthew had declared to her his conviction that she "would beat the whole Island." That, Anne felt, was something it would be foolish to hope for even in the wildest dreams. But she did hope fervently that she would be among the first ten at least, so that she might see Matthew's kindly brown eyes gleam with pride in her achievement. That, she felt, would be a sweet reward indeed for all her hard work and patient grubbing among unimaginative equations and conjugations. At the end of the fortnight Anne took to "haunting" the post office also, in the distracted company of Jane, Ruby, and Josie, opening the Charlottetown dailies with shaking hands and cold, sinkaway feelings as bad as any experienced during the Entrance week. Charlie and Gilbert were not above doing this too, but Moody Spurgeon stayed resolutely away. "I haven't got the grit to go there and look at a paper in cold blood," he told Anne. "I'm just going to wait until somebody comes and tells me suddenly whether I've passed or not." When three weeks had gone by without the pass list appearing Anne began to feel that she really couldn't stand the strain much longer. Her appetite failed and her interest in Avonlea doings languished. Mrs. Lynde wanted to know what else you could expect with a Tory superintendent of education at the head of affairs, and Matthew, noting Anne's paleness and indifference and the lagging steps that bore her home from the post office every afternoon, began seriously to wonder if he hadn't better vote Grit at the next election. But one evening the news came. Anne was sitting at her open window, for the time forgetful of the woes of examinations and the cares of the world, as she drank in the beauty of the summer dusk, sweet-scented with flower breaths from the garden below and sibilant and rustling from the stir of poplars. The eastern sky above the firs was flushed faintly pink from the reflection of the west, and Anne was wondering dreamily if the spirit of color looked like that, when she saw Diana come flying down through the firs, over the log bridge, and up the slope, with a fluttering newspaper in her hand. Anne sprang to her feet, knowing at once what that paper contained. The pass list was out! Her head whirled and her heart beat until it hurt her. She could not move a step.


up," Harry muttered angrily as Snape limped away. "Wonder what's wrong with his leg?" "Dunno, but I hope it's really hurting him," said Ron bitterly. *** The Gryffindor common room was very noisy that evening. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat together next to a window. Hermione was checking Harry and Ron's Charms homework for them. She would never let them copy ("How will you learn?"), but by asking her to read it through, they got the right answers anyway. Harry felt restless. He wanted Quidditch Through the Ages back, to take his mind off his nerves about tomorrow. Why should he be afraid of Snape? Getting up, he told Ron and Hermione he was going to ask Snape if he could have it. "Better you than me," they said together, but Harry had an idea that Snape wouldn't refuse if there were other teachers listening. He made his way down to the staffroom and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again. Nothing. Perhaps Snape had left the book in there? It was worth a try. He pushed the door ajar and peered inside -- and a horrible scene met his eyes. Snape and Filch were inside, alone. Snape was holding his robes above his knees. One of his legs was bloody and mangled. Filch was handing Snape bandages. "Blasted thing!" Snape was saying. "How are you supposed to keep your eyes on all three heads at once?" Harry tried to shut the door quietly, but -- "POTTER!" Snape's face was twisted with fury as he dropped his robes quickly to hide his leg. Harry gulped. "I just wondered if I could have my book back." "GET OUT! OUT!" Harry left, before Snape could take any more points from Gryffindor. He sprinted back upstairs. "Did you get it?" Ron asked as Harry joined them. "What's the matter?" In a low whisper, Harry told them what he'd seen. "You know what this means?" he finished breathlessly. "He tried to get past that three-headed dog at Halloween! That's where he was going when we saw him -- he's after whatever it's guarding! And I'd bet my broomstick he let that troll in, to make a diversion!" Hermione's eyes were wide. "No -- he wouldn't," she said. "I know he's not very nice, but he wouldn't try and steal something Dumbledore was keeping safe." "Honestly, Hermione, you think all teachers are saints or something," snapped Ron. "I'm with Harry. I wouldn't put anything past Snape. But what's he after? What's that dog guarding?" Harry went to bed with his head buzzing with the same question. Neville was snoring loudly, but Harry couldn't sleep. He tried to empty his mind -- he needed to sleep, he had to, he had his first Quidditch match in a few hours -- but the expression on Snape's face when Harry had seen his leg wasn't easy to forget. *** The next morning dawned very bright and cold. The Great Hall was full of the delicious smell of fried sausages and the cheerful chatter of everyone looking forward to a


establishment, to endeavour to follow our distinguished townsman through the smoothly-flowing periods of his polished and highly-ornate address! Suffice it to observe, that it was a masterpiece of eloquence; and that those passages in which he more particularly traced his own successful career to its source, and warned the younger portion of his auditory from the shoals of ever incurring pecuniary liabilities which they were unable to liquidate, brought a tear into the manliest eye present. The remaining toasts were DOCTOR MELL; Mrs. MICAWBER (who gracefully bowed her acknowledgements from the side-door, where a galaxy of beauty was elevated on chairs, at once to witness and adorn the gratifying scene), Mrs. RIDGER BEGS (late Miss Micawber); Mrs. MELL; WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, JUNIOR (who convulsed the assembly by humorously remarking that he found himself unable to return thanks in a speech, but would do so, with their permission, in a song); Mrs. MICAWBER'S FAMILY (well known, it is needless to remark, in the mother-country), &c. &c. &c. At the conclusion of the proceedings the tables were cleared as if by art-magic for dancing. Among the votaries of TERPSICHORE, who disported themselves until Sol gave warning for departure, Wilkins Micawber, Esquire, Junior, and the lovely and accomplished Miss Helena, fourth daughter of Doctor Mell, were particularly remarkable.' I was looking back to the name of Doctor Mell, pleased to have discovered, in these happier circumstances, Mr. Mell, formerly poor pinched usher to my Middlesex magistrate, when Mr. Peggotty pointing to another part of the paper, my eyes rested on my own name, and I read thus: ' TO DAVID COPPERFIELD, ESQUIRE, 'THE EMINENT AUTHOR. 'My Dear Sir, 'Years have elapsed, since I had an opportunity of ocularly perusing the lineaments, now familiar to the imaginations of a considerable portion of the civilized world. 'But, my dear Sir, though estranged (by the force of circumstances over which I have had no control) from the personal society of the friend and companion of my youth, I have not been unmindful of his soaring flight. Nor have I been debarred, Though seas between us braid ha' roared, (BURNS) from participating in the intellectual feasts he has spread before us. 'I cannot, therefore, allow of the departure from this place of an individual whom we mutually respect and esteem, without, my dear Sir, taking this public opportunity of thanking you, on my own behalf, and, I may undertake to add, on that of the whole of the Inhabitants of Port Middlebay, for the gratification of which you are the ministering agent. 'Go on, my dear Sir! You are not unknown here, you are not unappreciated. Though "remote", we are neither "unfriended", "melancholy", nor (I may add) "slow". Go on, my dear Sir, in your Eagle course! The inhabitants of Port Middlebay may at least aspire to watch it, with delight, with entertainment, with instruction! 'Among the eyes elevated towards you from this portion of the globe, will ever be found, while it has light and life, 'The 'Eye 'Appertaining to 'WILKINS MICAWBER, 'Magistrate.' I found, on glancing at


pagan religious symbol." Fache nodded. "Devil worship." "No," Langdon corrected, immediately realizing his choice of vocabulary should have been clearer. Nowadays, the term pagan had become almost synonymous with devil worship-a gross misconception. The word's roots actually reached back to the Latin paganus, meaning country-dwellers. "Pagans" were literally unindoctrinated country-folk who clung to the old, rural religions of Nature worship. In fact, so strong was the Church's fear of those who lived in the rural villes that the once innocuous word for "villager"- villain-came to mean a wicked soul. "The pentacle," Langdon clarified, "is a pre-Christian symbol that relates to Nature worship. The ancients envisioned their world in two halves-masculine and feminine. Their gods and goddesses worked to keep a balance of power. Yin and yang. When male and female were balanced, there was harmony in the world. When they were unbalanced, there was chaos." Langdon motioned to Saunire's stomach. "This pentacle is representative of the female half of all things-a concept religious historians call the 'sacred feminine' or the 'divine goddess.' Saunire, of all people, would know this." "Saunire drew a goddess symbol on his stomach?" Langdon had to admit, it seemed odd. "In its most specific interpretation, the pentacle symbolizes Venus-the goddess of female sexual love and beauty." Fache eyed the naked man, and grunted. "Early religion was based on the divine order of Nature. The goddess Venus and the planet Venus were one and the same. The goddess had a place in the nighttime sky and was known by many names-Venus, the Eastern Star, Ishtar, Astarte-all of them powerful female concepts with ties to Nature and Mother Earth." Fache looked more troubled now, as if he somehow preferred the idea of devil worship. Langdon decided not to share the pentacle's most astonishing property-the graphic origin of its ties to Venus. As a young astronomy student, Langdon had been stunned to learn the planet Venus traced a perfect pentacle across the ecliptic sky every four years. 26 So astonished were the ancients to observe this phenomenon, that Venus and her pentacle became symbols of perfection, beauty, and the cyclic qualities of sexual love. As a tribute to the magic of Venus, the Greeks used her four-year cycle to organize their Olympiads. Nowadays, few people realized that the four-year schedule of modern Olympic Games still followed the cycles of Venus. Even fewer people knew that the five-pointed star had almost become the official Olympic seal but was modified at the last moment-its five points exchanged for five intersecting rings to better reflect the games' spirit of inclusion and harmony. "Mr. Langdon," Fache said abruptly. "Obviously, the pentacle must also relate to the devil. Your American horror movies make that point clearly." Langdon frowned. Thank you, Hollywood. The five-pointed star was now a virtual clich in Satanic serial killer movies, usually scrawled on the wall of some Satanist's apartment along with other alleged demonic symbology. Langdon was always frustrated when he saw the symbol in this context; the pentacle's true origins were actually quite godly. "I assure you," Langdon said, "despite what


snub the boat when it had cleared the ledge. This it did, and was flying down-stream in a current as swift as a mill-race, when Hans checked it with the rope and checked too suddenly. The boat flirted over and snubbed in to the bank bottom up, while Thornton, flung sheer out of it, was carried down-stream toward the worst part of the rapids, a stretch of wild water in which no swimmer could live. Buck had sprung in on the instant; and at the end of three hundred yards, amid a mad swirl of water, he overhauled Thornton. When he felt him grasp his tail, Buck headed for the bank, swimming with all his splendid strength. But the progress shoreward was slow; the progress down-stream amazingly rapid. From below came the fatal roaring where the wild current went wilder and was rent in shreds and spray by the rocks which thrust through like the teeth of an enormous comb. The suck of the water as it took the beginning of the last steep pitch was frightful, and Thornton knew that the shore was impossible. He scraped furiously over a rock, bruised across a second, and struck a third with crushing force. He clutched its slippery top with both hands, releasing Buck, and above the roar of the churning water shouted: "Go, Buck! Go!" Buck could not hold his own, and swept on down-stream, struggling desperately, but unable to win back. When he heard Thornton's command repeated, he partly reared out of the water, throwing his head high, as though for a last look, then turned obediently toward the bank. He swam powerfully and was dragged ashore by Pete and Hans at the very point where swimming ceased to be possible and destruction began. They knew that the time a man could cling to a slippery rock in the face of that driving current was a matter of minutes, and they ran as fast as they could up the bank to a point far above where Thornton was hanging on. They attached the line with which they had been snubbing the boat to Buck's neck and shoulders, being careful that it should neither strangle him nor impede his swimming, and launched him into the stream. He struck out boldly, but not straight enough into the stream. He discovered the mistake too late, when Thornton was abreast of him and a bare half-dozen strokes away while he was being carried helplessly past. Hans promptly snubbed with the rope, as though Buck were a boat. The rope thus tightening on him in the sweep of the current, he was jerked under the surface, and under the surface he remained till his body struck against the bank and he was hauled out. He was half drowned, and Hans and Pete threw themselves upon him, pounding the breath into him and the water out of him. He staggered to his feet and fell down. The faint sound of Thornton's voice came to them, and though they could not make out the words of it, they knew


person I thought was responsible. Since Carter isn’t related to Virginia, he’ll inherit nothing. There was no reason for Lenora to keep him and Mary from finding that out. “Miss Baker wrote to me a few weeks after the murders,” Lenora says. “She’d heard what happened and said that, under the circumstances, it would be best if she continued to raise the child as her own. I didn’t protest.” I stare at her, shocked. “But he was your nephew.” “What do you think I should have done?” “Kept him!” I cry. “Raised him. Loved him. And you damn well should have let Virginia love him.” “And what kind of life would that have been? For both Virginia and the child? She couldn’t hold him, let alone feed him. She couldn’t talk to him or play with him or do anything for him.” “You would have figured out a way.” “How?” Lenora says. “I was seventeen. I knew nothing about taking care of a baby.” “That’s still no reason to keep your sister and her child apart!” Anger churns in my chest, crashing inside me like the waves smashing against the cliff directly below us. “How could you be so cruel?” “Cruel?” Lenora says. “It’s quite the opposite, I assure you. Keeping that child away from this family was the ultimate act of kindness. Because of me and Miss Baker, that child grew up never knowing that his real mother was a murderer.” “And you’re punishing Virginia because of that fact.” “She deserves punishment! After what she did, a price needed to be paid. But I’m protecting her, too. I always have. Think about what would happen to a woman in her condition if the police learned what she’d done.” I shake my head. That’s not a good enough reason. Especially when, other than trying to hang herself, there’s nothing to suggest Virginia killed her parents. “Why are you so certain she did it? What about Ricardo Mayhew?” “What about him?” “He and Virginia were having an affair,” I say. “He was the baby’s father. And Berniece Mayhew followed him here that night.” Lenora laughs. The last reaction I’d expected. There’s nothing remotely funny about the fact that she’s blamed her sister for murders she might not have committed. Yet Lenora keeps laughing, a low chuckle that’s more disbelieving than amused. “That’s impossible,” she says. “Why?” I hear footsteps on the service stairs. A second later, Archie emerges into the kitchen. I have no idea how long he’s been there or how much he’s heard. All I know is it was long enough for him to answer my question. “Because Ricardo was with me that night.” It takes me a second to understand what he’s getting at. When I do, all I can say is, “Oh. The two of you were—” “Lovers,” Archie says, sparing me from having to say it. In the span of seconds, I think of a dozen follow-up questions. Archie doesn’t give me time to ask a single one. “I was as surprised as you are now,” he says.


No matter what Mọ́tárá said, how could she not consider the possibility that if she’d listened earlier this would not have happened? She sobbed into her sister’s shoulder until she was dizzy; then they went to lay together in their mother’s bed. Kúnlé’s mother came to visit that evening, bearing coolers of food and cartons of bottled water. There was no awkwardness in the way she hugged Wúràọlá to herself. “Don’t worry, my dear. Kúnlé told me you said you will need the week off? Understandable, very understandable. So I’ve explained everything to your head of department and you don’t need to go in until all of this is sorted out. Pẹ̀lẹ́, dear. And I brought your car, our gateman helped me to drive it here.” “Thank you ma.” Wúràọlá stepped out of the woman’s embrace and settled into a chair beside Mọ́tárá. It wasn’t her business if Kúnlé lied to his parents. Kúnlé’s mother offered repeated apologies to Yèyé and Láyí. Her husband was already speaking to everyone he knew in Abuja to make sure the Honourable would pay for what had happened. “In the meantime, you should all come stay with us. We have enough room in the house for everyone.” Yèyé shook her head. “That won’t be necessary ma, I’ve already paid for a hotel.” “But—” “My in-law, my wonderful in-law.” Yèyé smiled. “Don’t worry. It’s so thoughtful of you, but it’s not necessary.” “I’ve booked the hotel for a week,” Láyí said. “Such good people,” Yèyé said to her children after Kúnlé’s mother left. She did not seem to notice that only Láyí nodded in agreement. “We need to start packing for the hotel.” Láyí glanced at his wristwatch. “Can we try to leave within the hour?” “Which hotel?” Yèyé asked. “Were you serious just now?” “We can’t sleep here,” Láyí said. “Kílódé? Nobody can chase me from my home.” Yèyé frowned at Láyí. “The person who will chase me from this place has not been born. Even his mother has not been born yet. My husband is going to come here, and when he returns, you want him to meet an empty house?” “But everything smells like smoke,” Wúràọlá said, realizing that a brittle layer was hidden beneath all her mother’s optimism about the kidnapping. “As long as there is a roof over this house, this is where we stay. I don’t want to hear another word about sleeping elsewhere. What nonsense.” No one suggested hotels again. By Wednesday morning, Kúnlé was texting apologies to Wúràọlá from another number. She was too distracted to block him or to respond. Policemen had come to question Yèyé, Mọ́tárá and everyone in the boys’ quarters. Láyí was sitting in on the interrogation, so Wúràọlá was alone in her room when the texts began coming in, one every fifteen minutes. She did not care if he wasn’t able to eat or focus because of how sorry he was; her mind was preoccupied with her father. Were his abductors making sure he took his medication? Was he afraid? Was he getting enough


him, dragging him down into cool darkness. For a moment, the sensation of coolness and the moisture were blessed relief. Then, as his planet killed him, it occurred to Kynes that his father and all the other scientists were wrong, that the most persistent principles of the universe were accident and error. Even the hawks could appreciate these facts. =========================== Prophecy and prescience--How can they be put to the test in the face of the unanswered questions? Consider: How much is actual prediction of the "waveform" (as Muad'Dib referred to his vision-image) and how much is the prophet shaping the future to fit the prophecy? What of the harmonics inherent in the act of prophecy? Does the prophet see the future or does he see a line of weakness, a fault or cleavage that he may shatter with words or decisions as a diamond-cutter shatters his gem with a blow of a knife? -"Private Reflections on Muad'Dib" by the Princess Irulan "Get their water," the man calling out of the night had said. And Paul fought down his fear, glanced at his mother. His trained eyes saw her readiness for battle, the waiting whipsnap of her muscles. "It would be regrettable should we have to destroy you out of hand," the voice above them said. That's the one who spoke to us first, Jessica thought. There are at least two of them--one to our right and one on our left. "Cignoro hrobosa sukares hin mange la pchagavas doi me kamavas na beslas lele pal hrobas!" It was the man to their right calling out across the basin. To Paul, the words were gibberish, but out of her Bene Gesserit training, Jessica recognized the speech. It was Chakobsa, one of the ancient hunting languages, and the man above them was saying that perhaps these were the strangers they sought. In the sudden silence that followed the calling voice, the hoop-wheel face of the second moon--faintly ivory blue--rolled over the rocks across the basin, bright and peering. Scrambling sounds came from the rocks--above and to both sides . . . dark motions in the moonlight. Many figures flowed through the shadows. A whole troop! Paul thought with a sudden pang. A tall man in a mottled burnoose stepped in front of Jessica. His mouth baffle was thrown aside for clear speech, revealing a heavy beard in the sidelight of the moon, but face and eyes were hidden in the overhang of his hood. "What have we here--jinn or human?" he asked. And Jessica heard the true-banter in his voice, she allowed herself a faint hope. This was the voice of command, the voice that had first shocked them with its intrusion from the night. "Human, I warrant," the man said. Jessica sensed rather than saw the knife hidden in a fold of the man's robe. She permitted herself one bitter regret that she and Paul had no shields. "Do you also speak?" the man asked. Jessica put all the royal arrogance at her command into her manner and voice. Reply was urgent, but she


in the hospital car park. “Life doesn’t stop because you are sad.” “Thanks for the ride,” Wúràọlá said, glad she had insisted on going back to her place to spend the night. “I’ll see you tomorrow evening.” * * * The introduction ceremony had been scheduled for noon, to give family members who were coming in from other states enough time to arrive. After she’d greeted her parents at dawn, Wúràọlá returned to her room and covered her head with the duvet. She’d texted with Kúnlé until way past midnight and wanted to get more sleep before her day began. “Get up, get up.” Mọ́tárá was shaking her awake with more force than was necessary. “Why are you here?” “Yèyé asked me to be with you while you get ready for the thing.” Mọ́tárá pulled the duvet away. “Since your friends won’t be here.” Wúràọlá rolled onto her stomach. Neither Grace nor Tifẹ́ had been able to get out of their weekend calls. “Get up, the photographer and makeup artist will be here soon. Come on, Yèyé is going to blame me if you are not ready by the time the thing is supposed to start.” Wúràọlá sat up as Mọ́tárá proceeded to switch on all the lights in the room, even the two fluorescent tubes that were not in use anymore. Mọ́tárá had taken to calling both the introduction ceremony and the marriage that was to follow the thing or this nonsense thing, as though naming the ceremonies would be a capitulation. “Mọ́tárá, you should get to know Kúnlé. He’s—” “Yeah. I know, he’s a nice guy, there’s more to him than what I’ve seen. He’s sweet and loving and kind. He’s a saint except he has not been martyred. Oh yeah, I know. Kúnlé is motherfucking Father Teresa.” “Don’t swear.” “Don’t marry an asshole.” “This is just the introduction.” “Introduction, and then what?” Mọ́tárá laughed. “What follows that?” “I’m sure he’ll be like a brother to you. If you really get to know him, you’ll see—” “I already have a brother. So…I’m good.” “Has Láyí arrived?” “Yèyé spoke to him before I came here, he’s already on his way. Will you get out of bed, please?” Wúràọlá put on a customised satin robe after she showered. Intromímọ̀ was stitched across the back, Dr. Wúràọlá over the breast pocket. It was a gift from Grace and Tifẹ́. “There’s just one more thing I have to say about this nonsense thing.” “Okay.” Wúràọlá sat in front of her dressing mirror. “If you marry this guy and become Wúràọlá Coker, your initials will be W. C. Guess what you’ll be full of?” “Mọ́tárá, you’re not helping, you’re just trying to hurt me now. That’s what you want to do?” “If it’ll bring you to your senses.” “Actually, I would be Wúràọlá Elizabeth Àbẹ̀kẹ́ Coker.” Mọ́tárá refused to speak to Wúràọlá after this exchange, but did as she was told without comment, fetching: the make-up artist and the photographer from the living room, two apples and an orange from the kitchen, the day’s jewellery


not the slightest suspicion concerning the ambergris. He therefore held his peace on that head, but otherwise was quite frank and confidential with him, so that the two quickly concocted a little plan for both circumventing and satirizing the Captain, without his at all dreaming of distrusting their sincerity. According to this little plan of theirs, the Guernsey-man, under cover of an interpreter's office, was to tell the Captain what he pleased, but as coming from Stubb; and as for Stubb, he was to utter any nonsense that should come uppermost in him during the interview. By this time their destined victim appeared from his cabin. He was a small and dark, but rather delicate looking man for a sea-captain, with large whiskers and moustache, however; and wore a red cotton velvet vest with watch-seals at his side. To this gentleman, Stubb was now politely introduced by the Guernsey-man, who at once ostentatiously put on the aspect of interpreting between them. What shall I say to him first? said he. Why, said Stubb, eyeing the velvet vest and the watch and seals, you may as well begin by telling him that he looks a sort of babyish to me, though I don't pretend to be a judge. He says, Monsieur, said the Guernsey-man, in French, turning to his captain, that only yesterday his ship spoke a vessel, whose captain and chief-mate, with six sailors, had all died of a fever caught from a blasted whale they had brought alongside. Upon this the captain started, and eagerly desired to know more. What now? said the Guernsey-man to Stubb. Why, since he takes it so easy, tell him that now I have eyed him carefully, I'm quite certain that he's no more fit to command a whale-ship than a St. Jago monkey. In fact, tell him from me he's a baboon. .. <p 405 > He vows and declares, Monsieur, that the other whale, the dried one, is far more deadly than the blasted one; in fine, Monsieur, he conjures us, as we value our lives, to cut loose from these fish. Instantly the captain ran forward, and in a loud voice commanded his crew to desist from hoisting the cutting-tackles, and at once cast loose the cables and chains confining the whales to the ship. What now? said the Guernsey-man, when the captain had returned to them. Why, let me see; yes, you may as well tell him now that -- that --in fact, tell him I've diddled him, and (aside to himself) perhaps somebody else. He says, Monsieur, that he's very happy to have been of any service to us. Hearing this, the captain vowed that they were the grateful parties (meaning himself and mate) and concluded by inviting Stubb down into his cabin to drink a bottle of Bordeaux. He wants you to take a glass of wine with him, said the interpreter. Thank him heartily; but tell him it's against my principles to drink with the man I've diddled. In fact, tell him I must go. He says, Monsieur, that


love him as a brother, and his constant and deep grief fills me with sympathy and compassion. He must have been a noble creature in his better days, being even now in wreck so attractive and amiable. I said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find no friend on the wide ocean; yet I have found a man who, before his spirit had been broken by misery, I should have been happy to have possessed as the brother of my heart. I shall continue my journal concerning the stranger at intervals, should I have any fresh incidents to record. August 13th, 17- My affection for my guest increases every day. He excites at once my admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree. How can I see so noble a creature destroyed by misery without feeling the most poignant grief? He is so gentle, yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated, and when he speaks, although his words are culled with the choicest art, yet they How with rapidity and unparalleled eloquence. He is now much recovered from his illness and is continually on the deck, apparently watching for the sledge that preceded his own. Yet, although unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own misery but that he interests himself deeply in the projects of others. He has frequently conversed with me on mine, which I have communicated to him without disguise. He entered attentively into all my arguments in favour of my eventual success and into every minute detail of the measures I had taken to secure it. I was easily led by the sympathy which he evinced to use the language of my heart, to give utterance to the burning ardour of my soul and to say, with all the fervour that warmed me, how gladly I would sacrifice my fortune, my existence, my every hope, to the furtherance of my enterprise. One man's life or death were but a small price to pay for the acquirement of the knowledge which I sought, for the dominion I should acquire and transmit over the elemental foes of our race. As I spoke, a dark gloom spread over my listener's countenance. At first I perceived that he tried to suppress his emotion; he placed his hands before his eyes, and my voice quivered and failed me as I beheld tears trickle fast from between his fingers; a groan burst from his heaving breast. I paused; at length he spoke, in broken accents: "Unhappy man! Do you share my madness? Have you drunk also of the intoxicating draught? Hear me; let me reveal my tale, and you will dash the cup from your lips!" Such words, you may imagine, strongly excited my curiosity; but the paroxysm of grief that had seized the stranger overcame his weakened powers, and many hours of repose and tranquil conversation were necessary to restore his composure. Having conquered the violence of his feelings, he appeared to despise himself for being the slave of passion; and quelling the dark tyranny


I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow." Harry was strongly reminded of Dudley. "Have you got your own broom?" the boy went on. "No," said Harry. "Play Quidditch at all?" "No," Harry said again, wondering what on earth Quidditch could be. "I do -- Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?" "No," said Harry, feeling more stupid by the minute. "Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been -- imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?" "Mmm," said Harry, wishing he could say something a bit more interesting. "I say, look at that man!" said the boy suddenly, nodding toward the front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Harry and pointing at two large ice creams to show he couldn't come in. "That's Hagrid," said Harry, pleased to know something the boy didn't. "He works at Hogwarts." "Oh," said the boy, "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?" "He's the gamekeeper," said Harry. He was liking the boy less and less every second. "Yes, exactly. I heard he's a sort of savage -- lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed." "I think he's brilliant," said Harry coldly. "Do you?" said the boy, with a slight sneer. "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?" "They're dead," said Harry shortly. He didn't feel much like going into the matter with this boy. "Oh, sorry," said the other, not sounding sorry at all. "But they were our kind, weren't they?" "They were a witch and wizard, if that's what you mean." "I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What's your surname, anyway?" But before Harry could answer, Madam Malkin said, "That's you done, my dear," and Harry, not sorry for an excuse to stop talking to the boy, hopped down from the footstool. "Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," said the drawling boy. Harry was rather quiet as he ate the ice cream Hagrid had bought him (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts). "What's up?" said Hagrid. "Nothing," Harry lied. They stopped to buy parchment and quills. Harry cheered up a bit when he found a bottle of ink that changed color as you wrote. When they had left the shop, he said, "Hagrid, what's Quidditch?" "Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin' how little yeh know -- not knowin' about Quidditch!" "Don't make me feel worse," said Harry. He told Hagrid about the pate boy in


rewrites because of rehearsal for The Danny Horst Rule, and since I was already late, I thought, Why not be even later? The actual desk that Danny sat behind during News Desk was stored, without pomp, in a random hall by the elevators, and I perched on the desk to investigate. The Internet was indeed abuzz: “Fans Asking if Cryptic Post Means Annabel-Danny Split” read one headline, of which there were many variations. How much of an asshole was I for wondering first how this development would affect my sketch and second how it would affect Danny? At the rehearsal, he’d seemed normal. I was skimming an article on a particularly trashy website when Viv appeared beside me and said, “Hard at work?” Then she murmured, “I heard back from Dr. Theo.” “Good or bad?” “You tell me.” She passed me her phone, which was open to an email. As I began reading, I heard the tuning of a guitar through an amplifier in the studio. Dear Viv, This is a very kind offer! I have enjoyed TNO over the years, and I was aware that you were a cast member, although at your appointment I wanted to keep the focus on your eye :). In order for me to accept a social invitation from a patient, the patient would need to switch to a different practice (i.e., a different doctor at this clinic). Given that you are already a patient of Dr. Trumbull, a switch should not be onerous, but I want to be clear that I cannot continue to treat you medically if I attend the show. Many thanks, Theo “What’s bad about this?” I asked. “He’s being responsible.” “It’s so half-hearted. Many thanks is one degree away from Best regards.” “He’s saying he can’t fall in love with you while he’s still your doctor. Tell him you’ll go back to seeing Dr. Trumbull, and the lovefest can start.” “Excuse me, Viv,” said Trey, a production assistant in a headset. “Evelyn needs you in wardrobe for your Danny Horst Rule fitting.” Viv looked at me. “This is the one where it’s my talent and not the outfit that has to make me look cute in front of Mr. Many Thanks?” “I actually told Francesca not to give you a unibrow, so you’re welcome,” I said. “But it’s Dr. Many Thanks.” As Viv walked toward the wardrobe department, I called, “That’s a good email!” From the studio, I heard someone, probably a roadie, say, “One, two, mic check, one, two,” and it was then that I realized that the guitar tuning I’d heard before was for Noah Brewster’s song rehearsal. Thursday afternoon was the time that musical guests, who of course usually weren’t also hosts, showed up to rehearse. These casual, free quasi concerts were a huge perk of working at TNO, and the bigger the act, the more people “just happened” to be passing through the studio, including employees of other shows at the network. Several times, I’d stopped to watch a musician I was minimally familiar with and walked


Mary took the job caring for Lenora. If that’s true, then it makes sense she would want to hear Lenora’s version of things. “That’s why she bought the typewriter, isn’t it?” I say. “She wanted you to write it all down for her.” This brings another two taps from Lenora. “Did you want to?” Lenora thinks about it a moment, her face falling into that pensive expression I’ve come to know so well. When she types, her response is as rambling as I imagine her thoughts to be. Further evidence that what she’d typed with me had all been written before. The second draft, so to speak. not at first i didnt want to talk about what happened because the memories make me sad but i loved the idea of writing again so i told her yes “How long had you been working on it?” weeks Even though I’m pretty sure I already know the answer, I say, “So what you typed with me, you also typed with her?” Lenora taps twice before typing additional information. and more “How much more? About you and Ricky?” Lenora keeps typing. Ten keys she presses slowly and deliberately, making the importance of her response clear. everything “When did you finish telling her?” Lenora doesn’t need to think about it. the night she left My stomach suddenly drops. Mary knew everything about the night of the murders—including who did it, how they did it, why they did it. And the day she learned all that, she— Jumped. That’s what I should be thinking, since it’s what Detective Vick said happened. Yet it feels wrong. Like a lie. Instead, a different word ricochets through my brain. Died. That’s the brutal truth. And it can’t be a coincidence. “Did Mary ever tell you why it needed to be a secret?” Lenora types instead of taps. yes She then adds three more words to the line. she was scared I glance again to the page beside the typewriter, onto which Lenora had typed the same answer to a different question. As I do, a thought occurs to me. Something I should have considered sooner but was likely too scared myself to contemplate. But now there’s no avoiding it. “Lenora, did you really think Mary left?” I study her face—the key to all her emotions. Even the ones she’s trying to hide. This time, though, she doesn’t even attempt to disguise the way she feels. Sadness clouds her features as she taps once against the typewriter. No. “You thought she jumped?” Another single tap. One that kicks my pulse up a notch. “Do—” I swallow. My mouth, suddenly dry from fear, can barely get the word out. “Do you think what happened to Mary is because of what you told her?” Two taps from Lenora confirm my worst fear. She thinks Mary was murdered. Swirling within that dreadful realization is another, smaller thought. One brought about by another quick glimpse of the page next to the typewriter. “What did Mary do with the pages the two of you typed?” Lenora


with one of his poisons. If I were someone who partook in such things, it would make his job easier, but I’ve always had a distaste for it.” The corner of his mouth lifted, his bared teeth gleaming in the light of his torch. “And if he tries to kill me in a less subtle way, who can blame me for returning the favor?” Disquiet thrummed in her temples. “Let’s hope he behaves, then.” The look in Bastian’s eyes said part of him didn’t hope for that at all. Part of him wanted a bloodbath. Up ahead, the catacombs branched again, a T of tunnels leaving no option other than left or right. The path she’d traced in her head said to go right, but as she turned, the light of her torch flickered over something on the wall. Words. She stopped, frowned. Bastian came up beside her, the light of his torch illuminating the words further. The lettering was shaky, deep in some places and barely there in others. “Looks like gibberish,” he said. “Maybe a revenant got loquacious right before they died.” “I don’t think a revenant is going to go this deep.” It’d been half an hour at least since they’d passed remains. Lore held her torch closer to the wall. She squinted, puzzling through the inscription aloud. At least it was in Auverrani. “Divinity is never destroyed,” she murmured. “Only echoed.” “My vote is still on gibberish.” But there was a ribbon of disquiet in Bastian’s voice that said the words felt just as heavy to him as they did to her. “Revenant or not, how did someone manage to write on a stone wall?” Something pale was half hidden in the dirt. Lore nudged it with her toe—a bone, the end sharp. The surface was pockmarked and pitted, as if it’d been here a long time. “Maybe you were right about the revenant.” Bastian’s nose wrinkled. “Good for me.” He nodded down the branching tunnels. “Which way?” She jerked her head to the right and continued on, a little quicker than before. She kicked the bone into the dark. They kept up the faster pace, torches sputtering. Lore thought it’d been a little over two hours since they descended through the well—still plenty of time before sunrise, but Gabe would be worried. He’d be pacing, she was nearly sure of it. Pacing and pulling at his eye patch. “Do you think he’s all right?” It pushed past her lips without her conscious thought to voice it. “Remaut?” Beside her, Bastian stiffened, but his voice was even. “I’m sure he’s just fine. Maybe he’s taking the opportunity to get some sleep. He’s looking less than well rested these days.” “He sleeps in front of our door,” Lore said. “To guard it.” “Always one for dramatic shows of chivalry.” “Maybe you could learn something from him.” A stretch of silence. Then, “Would you like me to, Lore?” It could’ve been flirtatious, easily said in his usual flippant tone. But it wasn’t. It was earnest, and Lore didn’t answer. Her


they walked in the musty darkness. They came to the well, and Julian was pleased. "Now," he said, "whenever we come to the well we shall at least be able to find the way back to the steps, because we can follow my chalk-marks. Now the thing is- which is the way next? We'll try and find it and I'll put chalk-marks along the walls here and there- but if we go the wrong way and have to come back, we'll rub out the marks, and start again from the well another way." This was really a very good idea. They did go the wrong way, and had to come back, rubbing out Julian's marks. They reached the well, and set off in the opposite direction. And this time they did find the wooden door! There it was, stout and sturdy, its old iron nails rusty and red. The children stared at it in delight. Julian lifted his axe. Crash! He drove it into the wood and round about the keyhole. But the wood was still strong, and the axe only went in an inch or two. Julian drove it in once more. The axe hit one of the big nails and slipped a little to one side. A big splinter of wood flew out- and struck poor Dick on the cheek! He gave a yell of pain. Julian jumped in alarm, and turned to look at him. Dick's cheek was pouring with blood! "Something flew out of the door and hit me," said poor Dick. "It's a splinter, or something." "Golly!" said Julian, and he shone his torch on to Dick. "Can you bear it a moment if I pull the splinter out? It's a big one, and it's still sticking into your poor cheek." But Dick pulled it out himself. He made a face with the pain, and then turned very white. "You'd better get up into the open air for a bit," said Julian. "And we'll have to bathe your cheek and stop it bleeding somehow. Anne's got a clean hanky. We'll bathe it and dab it with that. We brought some water with us, luckily." "I'll go with Dick," said Anne. "You stay here with George. There's no need for us all to go." But Julian thought he would like to see Dick safely up into the open air first, and then he could leave him with Anne while he went back to George and went on with the smashing down of the door. He handed the axe to George. "You can do a bit of chopping while I'm gone," he said. "It will take some time to smash that big door in. You get on with it- and I'll be down in a few minutes again. We can easily find the way to the entrance because we've only got to follow my chalk-marks." "Right!" said George, and she took the axe. "Poor old Dick- you do look a sight." Leaving George behind with Tim, valiantly attacking the big door, Julian took Dick and Anne up to the


along with the whole Kim family, belonged to me. But she wasn’t listening. “You live here?” I could have lied, I guess. But maybe I was tired of lying. And it was hopeless anyway. She was here. It was what it was. “It’s temporary,” I said. And then, with her trademark decisiveness, she pulled out her wallet, scanned down her credit cards, and took one out. “Take it,” she said. “I don’t need it,” I said. “Just take it,” she insisted. “Your dad will never know.” “I’m fine,” I said. “This one gives you points,” she said, waving it at me. “So?” “So every time you use it, we’re making money.” “That is not how that works.” But she gave me a wink. “Just use it. I do all the bills, anyway. I’ll never tell.” How dare she act like I needed her? I never needed anyone. Ever. For anything. And the reason that was true? The reason I never let myself do a very simple thing like need other people that the rest of humanity got to do all the time? That reason was standing right here in a hot-pink sweater. I took hold of her shoulders and steered her toward the door. “I don’t need your help. And I don’t want you up here. And I’m changing the passcode. So go home, okay? And take your credit card with you.” She didn’t fight me. She left without protest. But it was only after I’d dead-bolted the door that I saw, on the table beside it, looking defiantly up at me … her credit card. * * * IT ONLY HIT me, really, after I’d gotten rid of her. My entire life up until now had been a before. And now I was in the after. I couldn’t see faces. Not even my own. I was face-blind. Maybe I’d stay that way, and maybe I wouldn’t. But one thing was certain. I would never be the same. It was like suddenly finding myself on an alien planet. Even in the hospital, where caretaking was literally the job of every person I interacted with, people felt strange and foreign and vaguely unsafe. Either I was thinking about all the missing faces and working to avert my eyes, or I was staring at them, still disbelieving, or I was forgetting about my brain situation—and then looking up only to be startled by yet another faceless face. To be clear, I knew intellectually that the faces were still there. If I looked carefully, I could see the individual parts. What I couldn’t do was glance at a face and know in an instant exactly who that was and remember everything I’d ever learned about that person. Or in the case of strangers: know immediately that I didn’t know. This new way of being was a conscious process of deduction. There was nothing effortless about it. Now, most of the time, rather than trying, I just let everybody be a blur. My conscious mind understood what had happened. The FFG wasn’t working. Got it. Just


The Duke noted his son's distress, said: "As always, Hawat sees the main chance. But there's much more. I see also the Combine Honnete Ober Advancer Mercantiles -- the CHOAM Company. By giving me Arrakis, His Majesty is forced to give us a CHOAM directorship . . . a subtle gain." "CHOAM controls the spice," Paul said. "And Arrakis with its spice is our avenue into CHOAM," the Duke said. "There's more to CHOAM than melange." "Did the Reverend Mother warn you?" Paul blurted. He clenched his fists, feeling his palms slippery with perspiration. The effort it had taken to ask that question. "Hawat tells me she frightened you with warnings about Arrakis," the Duke said. "Don't let a woman's fears cloud your mind. No woman wants her loved ones endangered. The hand behind those warnings was your mother's. Take this as a sign of her love for us." "Does she know about the Fremen?" "Yes, and about much more." "What?" And the Duke thought: The truth could be worse than he imagines, but even dangerous facts are valuable if you've been trained to deal with them. And there's one place where nothing has been spared for my son -- dealing with dangerous facts. This must be leavened, though; he is young. "Few products escape the CHOAM touch," the Duke said. "Logs, donkeys, horses, cows, lumber, dung, sharks, whale fur -- the most prosaic and the most exotic . . . even our poor pundi rice from Caladan. Anything the Guild will transport, the art forms of Ecaz, the machines of Richesse and Ix. But all fades before melange. A handful of spice will buy a home on Tupile. It cannot be manufactured, it must be mined on Arrakis. It is unique and it has true geriatric properties." "And now we control it?" "To a certain degree. But the important thing is to consider all the Houses that depend on CHOAM profits. And think of the enormous proportion of those profits dependent upon a single product -- the spice. Imagine what would happen if something should reduce spice production." "Whoever had stockpiled melange could make a killing," Paul said. "Others would be out in the cold." The Duke permitted himself a moment of grim satisfaction, looking at his son and thinking how penetrating, how truly educated that observation had been. He nodded. "The Harkonnens have been stockpiling for more than twenty years." "They mean spice production to fail and you to be blamed." "They wish the Atreides name to become unpopular," the Duke said. "Think of the Landsraad Houses that look to me for a certain amount of leadership -- their unofficial spokesman. Think how they'd react if I were responsible for a serious reduction in their income. After all, one's own profits come first. The Great Convention be damned! You can't let someone pauperize you!" A harsh smile twisted the Duke's mouth. "They'd look the other way no matter what was done to me." "Even if we were attacked with atomics?" "Nothing that flagrant. No open defiance of the Convention. But


Hannah Whitten - The Foxglove King-Orbit (2023).txt

the light of the slow-rising sun gleaming on her hair, the worn silk of her gown. Then she dressed in a flowing shirt and tight breeches, made her own way down the stairs. She had a meeting with Val to attend. Elle was curled up on the couch again, a ragged paperback novel in one hand and another mug of tepid tea in the other. She eyed Lore the way you might look at something unpleasant you’d tracked in from the street. “And where are you going?” “Oh, you didn’t hear? I received an invitation to the Sun Prince’s Consecration. I wasn’t going to go, but rumor has it there might be an orgy afterward, and I can’t very well turn that down.” Elle rolled her eyes so hard Lore was surprised she didn’t strain a muscle. “There is something deeply off about you.” “You have no idea.” Lore opened the door. “Bye, Elle-Flower.” “Rot in your own hell, Lore-dear.” Lore twiddled her fingers in an exaggerated wave as the door closed. Part of her would miss Elle when the spying gig was up, when Val had a different running outfit she wanted watched instead of Gilbert’s. But not as much as she’d miss Michal. She couldn’t miss either of them for long. People came and went; her only constants were her mothers—Val and Mari—and the streets of Dellaire she could never leave. That, and the memories of a childhood she was always, always trying to forget. With one last glance at the row house, Lore started down the street. CHAPTER TWO Those born to darkness will carry it in their nature; they will carry sin in their very selves, body and mind and soul. —The Book of Mortal Law, Tract 7 Dellaire was easy to navigate. Lore had heard tales of other cities—chaotic and winding, byways butting into themselves—and the concept seemed entirely foreign to her after half a lifetime spent in Dellaire’s well-organized roads. The Four Wards at ordinal directions, the western two coming up against the sea while the eastern led to Auverraine’s rolling farmland. The Church in the city’s center, built in a circle, guarding the Citadel within. But if Dellaire was a grid, the catacombs beneath were a tangled web. Weak sun radiated over the back of Lore’s neck as she stood at the entrance to a dilapidated building a few blocks from Michal’s row house. It had the look of a construction that had been many things in its time, so many that they’d all canceled one another out, so now it was nearly featureless. A slight wind off the sea rippled the torn cloth hanging in the windows. Lore cursed softly. Being this close to the catacombs always made her twitchy. They were empty. She could sense it, even now, standing yards away from their entrance. There was no one in the tunnels, at least not for a couple of miles. Still, her skin prickled. This was the skill that made her invaluable. The one she’d shocked Mari with on that day ten years ago,


like an electric shock. She WOULD NOT fail before Gilbert Blythe-he should never be able to laugh at her, never, never! Her fright and nervousness vanished; and she began her recitation, her clear, sweet voice reaching to the farthest corner of the room without a tremor or a break. Self-possession was fully restored to her, and in the reaction from that horrible moment of powerlessness she recited as she had never done before. When she finished there were bursts of honest applause. Anne, stepping back to her seat, blushing with shyness and delight, found her hand vigorously clasped and shaken by the stout lady in pink silk. "My dear, you did splendidly," she puffed. "I've been crying like a baby, actually I have. There, they're encoring youthey're bound to have you back!" "Oh, I can't go," said Anne confusedly. "But yet-I must, or Matthew will be disappointed. He said they would encore me." "Then don't disappoint Matthew," said the pink lady, laughing. Smiling, blushing, limpid eyed, Anne tripped back and gave a quaint, funny little selection that captivated her audience still further. The rest of the evening was quite a little triumph for her. When the concert was over, the stout, pink lady-who was the wife of an American millionaire-took her under her wing, and introduced her to everybody; and everybody was very nice to her. The professional elocutionist, Mrs. Evans, came and chatted with her, telling her that she had a charming voice and "interpreted" her selections beautifully. Even the white-lace girl paid her a languid little compliment. They had supper in the big, beautifully decorated dining room; Diana and Jane were invited to partake of this, also, since they had come with Anne, but Billy was nowhere to be found, having decamped in mortal fear of some such invitation. He was in waiting for them, with the team, however, when it was all over, and the three girls came merrily out into the calm, white moonshine radiance. Anne breathed deeply, and looked into the clear sky beyond the dark boughs of the firs. Oh, it was good to be out again in the purity and silence of the night! How great and still and wonderful everything was, with the murmur of the sea sounding through it and the darkling cliffs beyond like grim giants guarding enchanted coasts. "Hasn't it been a perfectly splendid time?" sighed Jane, as they drove away. "I just wish I was a rich American and could spend my summer at a hotel and wear jewels and low-necked dresses and have ice cream and chicken salad every blessed day. I'm sure it would be ever so much more fun than teaching school. Anne, your recitation was simply great, although I thought at first you were never going to begin. I think it was better than Mrs. Evans's." "Oh, no, don't say things like that, Jane," said Anne quickly, "because it sounds silly. It couldn't be better than Mrs. Evans's, you know, for she is a professional, and I'm only a schoolgirl, with a little knack of reciting.


children’s book. A Place Called Lost. I knew there was a strange kind of magic in these walls. Maybe not the kind you’d find in travelling shows or under the big top, but something far subtler than that. I began to switch off the lights, lingering over the task. I had an undefinable sense that something, or someone, was close. Someone I knew. Someone I loved. But I couldn’t trust it. Wouldn’t. Even when I heard the knock on the glass door, I didn’t turn to look. Couldn’t face the disappointment of being wrong. I placed my hands on the desk and let my weight lean against it, squeezing my eyes shut. My heart was disobeying my mind and without consciously making the decision, I turned around. He was there. Josef. The snow falling gently on his head and shoulders. A sigh of relief escaped my lips and I could have sworn the books on the shelves sighed too. The bookshop had let him in when I had first escaped St Agnes’s and needed him the most. Now he had returned, everything felt hopeful again. He stepped closer to the window and I followed. We were separated only by the thinnest pane of glass. My eyes searched his eyes, his lips, his entire frame. Was he real? ‘Are you going to let me in?’ he asked, a lopsided smile on his face. ‘It’s a little cold.’ I burst out laughing and it sounded like silver bells to my ears, bells that hadn’t rung for years. I opened the door and we both stood at the threshold, the stained glass overhead blooming with flowers. ‘Are you back for good?’ ‘My father passed away in the autumn.’ I placed my hand over my heart. ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘I can repair some of the old music boxes that were in the attic. Anything that is broken—’ ‘You’ve already repaired what was broken in this place,’ I said, rushing into his arms. ‘So many nights I have dreamed of you and this place,’ he said, holding me tightly, as though nothing would tear us apart again. ‘This bookshop is rooted in my heart,’ I said. ‘I have to find a way to keep it alive. For my daughter.’ He pulled back and searched my face for answers. ‘She’s alive. My baby is alive.’ He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. The joy in his eyes was enough. ‘Please, come inside,’ I said, finally. All he carried was a large canvas duffle bag with a book poking out of the pocket at the front. Red leather, gilt-edged pages. It was so familiar to me, but so utterly incongruous that I hardly dared to hope. ‘For you,’ he said, following my eyeline and handed it to me. ‘I found it in an old bookshop in Austria.’ I took the time-worn book into my hands and felt the magic of childhood rushing back to greet me. I searched for the inscription and gasped when I saw it. Alfred Carlisle. My real father. ‘How did you—?’ ‘Mein


this. Time to end it now! She pushed a button on her watch, which connected her directly to 9-1-1. Too late! He leaped, the rosary over her head, encircling her throat. She kicked upward. This was not happening! She felt the strand tightening and his weight against her body as his muscles flexed, drawing the beads—so sharp—into her flesh. No. No. No! Struggling, she flailed, reached behind to the makeup counter, her fingers knocking over tubes of lipstick and bottles of nail polish to the floor. Desperately she tried to breathe, to suck in any air as he pressed forward, determinedly walking her backward. She was light-headed, her lungs on fire. The noose tightened. Why? Why was he hurting her? Blackness converged as she reached the alcove, the curtain parting, her buttocks pushed hard against the edge of the counter. Makeup jars clattered, rolling, falling to the floor, crashing, powder exploding, the room swirling. Fight! You have to fight! Her lungs felt as if they would burst. The overhead light, dimmed, came into view, then seemed to swim away. She scraped at her neck with her hands, tried to curl her fingers around the chain cutting off her air, but she couldn’t pull on the chain cutting into her throat. He’s going to kill you. You have to fight, Helene, you have to get away! She scrabbled and kicked, but her movements were sluggish and he was so strong . . . so damned strong. And agile. He squeezed tighter. Help me. Please . . . someone . . . help . . . His face was near hers as he bent her over the makeup counter, her spine curved back impossibly. The world swam behind her eyes. Her hands fell to her sides, limp on the counter. She saw her own reflection in his sunglasses. The tip of one finger touched the edge of a bit of rough metal, long and sharp. Her damned nail file. Gathering all her strength, she forced her fingers around the file, and as his breath was hot against her face, she swung her arm upward and struck, jabbing the file deep into the flesh of his shoulder. She heard him yowl in agony, felt a jerk on the chain at her neck. And just after that nano second of satisfaction in wounding him, the world went black and the pain was gone. CHAPTER 9 Bentz stared at the two cards lying on his dining room table. Each was in a plastic ziplock bag, a black rose inked onto thick white paper. He’d read the inside messages, each a veiled threat wrapped in some Bible verse. Each received by his daughter. His insides turned to jelly. “One came in the mail?” he said, clarifying what his daughter was saying as he pointed to the first missive she’d received. “And the other one was in your dresser drawer? He’d been in your house and left it there, in your bureau?” Jesus Christ. The nutcase had been in her house! He tried like hell to quell his rising


ritual. But Liv’s hand shook, and I took it from her. I’ll do it. I’d cut too deep, the knife skating up the side of my wrist with startling speed. It was just supposed to be a few drops. Liv had screamed. I’d started panicking. Cass, though, stayed calm. She wrapped her jacket around it tight and we ran to my house, where we could be sure no one would be paying attention. Cass cleaned it with hydrogen peroxide, then sewed it up with a needle and fishing line while I bit down on a dishrag. Liv hovered on the other side of the room, hands pressed over her ears, trying not to retch. She hated blood. Cass bandaged it up, and I’d hidden it under my sleeve while it healed. At first Cass had said she and Liv would do their cuts later, but eventually she declared that my sacrifice was enough to complete the ritual. Part of me had wondered, later, if that was where things had gone wrong. We owed the Goddesses our blood, and if we didn’t give it willingly, they would claim it. But there had been no Goddesses. No Persephone. Only a girl, long lost. I shut the computer and its image of Jessi Walker. I jolted out of my chair. My fingers skimmed over my skin, bumping over scar tissue, a half-conscious inventory of old wounds. I combed my hand through my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, and there was relief in the pain. It was simple. Stimulus and response, a clarity of causation that was better than the mire of my mind. I gulped down a breath. This was the point at which I should call someone, but I had no one to call. My therapist, I supposed, but I hadn’t talked to her since Stahl died, and the idea of explaining everything made me feel ill. I wanted Liv. I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes. I couldn’t breathe. I dropped my hands and strode to the door, my thoughts half-formed and wild. I walked the few steps to room 4 and knocked before I could think better of it. Ethan answered the door, looking concerned. “Naomi. Are you okay? What’s up?” He’d lost the cozy sweater he usually wore and was down to an undershirt and jeans. The sweater had hidden a surprisingly muscular build and a tattoo on his left shoulder—a solid black ring about four inches across. He rubbed a thumb across it absently as he spoke. “Can I come in?” I asked. He glanced behind him. “Uh. Sure,” he said. He opened the door farther and stepped backward, letting me enter without putting my back to him. I shut the door behind me and stood there, fingers resting against the cold door. His dirty clothes were heaped in an open suitcase at the end of the bed. Recording equipment was stored more neatly by the desk, and his laptop was open, with sound-editing software up and running. I wondered if he was editing my “interview.”


check on the Symbios. Both Reggie and Sadon were injured.” Symbio-Poths were bio-robotic facsimiles of various Earth lifeforms. Produced by Empress Shawlee’s incredible creative people—like an onboard modern-day Disney Imagineering team—they had originally created an entire group of townspeople on USS Hamilton, so real, so lifelike, it was virtually impossible to distinguish them from actual human beings. I momentarily flashed back to Lori and Carl Quintos, my Symbio parents within the mock town of Clairmont. Typically situated on a ship’s upper R&R decks, over the years, that same creativity had evolved into recreational games such as Convoke Wyvern and Caveman Glory games and the subsequent creation of immense dragons, prehistoric dinosaurs, even tiny flying fairies. Needless to say, the crew, hell, I myself, had gotten more than a little attached to these seemingly all-too-real creatures. But just as I had put Sonya in harm’s way, I’d been forced to utilize many of the Symbio-Poths for the defense of one ship or another. Just one more thing to weigh heavy on my shoulders. Hardy said, “Ensign Plorinne’s on top of all that. No worries in that regard.” She raised her head. “Where is Plorinne? He hasn’t come to see me.” I wasn’t thrilled with the budding relationship between the Pleidian Weonan twenty-something ensign and my niece. But the two did seem to care for one another. Who was I to stand in the way of young love, if that was what this was? Hell, my own love life was nonexistent. I said, “Visitors aren’t allowed back here, Sonya.” “You’re here … And so is Hardy.” “Yeah, well, I’m the captain.” Hardy said, “Nurses did put up a good effort trying to keep me out. But I’m a thousand-pound ChronoBot.” The door suddenly slid open. Doc Viv stood on the threshold. “What’s going on here?” Hardy said, “Captain said it was all right for me to visit.” I ignored the robot, “I was concerned … Heard Sonya was out of surgery.” Looking exasperated, Viv held up a palm, displaying her Jadoo ring. “That’s what these are for, right? You could have called.” As she moved farther into the compartment, Sonya’s holographic health avatar popped into view above her bed. Viv leaned forward, her legs making contact with my own. “Want me to move?” “Uh … No, that’s okay.” She proceeded to review various meta-tag-like readouts, most of which were stemming from Sonya’s surgery site. Just then, oblivious to Viv, with wings fluttering, a tiny Symbio-Poth jetted into the small compartment. Sonya, Hardy, and I all took notice of it—the fairy now circling high above Doc’s head. I glanced over to Hardy. This was a complicated situation. I knew this particular fairy was named Tina, a Symbio-Poth that had been one of a number of fairies on board Adams. Truth was, I couldn’t keep them all straight. They were small, but each looked distinctively different. Hardy had had a budding relationship with the Symbio fairy called Iris. They had been inseparable. In fact, she had taken up residence in his front pocket, back when Hardy


made!" They performed a scampering dance in their excitement. Near them on the floor lay several rather ugly men who had been hit about the head with some heavy design awards. Half a mile away, four figures pounded up a corridor looking for a way out. They emerged into a wide open-plan computer bay. They glanced about wildly. "Which way do you reckon Zaphod?" said Ford. "At a wild guess, I'd say down here," said Zaphod, running off down to the right between a computer bank and the wall. As the others started after him he was brought up short by a Kill-O-Zap energy bolt that cracked through the air inches in front of him and fried a small section of adjacent wall. A voice on a loud hailer said, "OK Beeblebrox, hold it right there. We've got you covered." "Cops!" hissed Zaphod, and span around in a crouch. "You want to try a guess at all, Ford?" "OK, this way," said Ford, and the four of them ran down a gangway between two computer banks. At the end of the gangway appeared a heavily armoured and space- suited figure waving a vicious Kill-O-Zap gun. "We don't want to shoot you, Beeblebrox!" shouted the figure. "Suits me fine!" shouted Zaphod back and dived down a wide gap between two data process units. The others swerved in behind him. "There are two of them," said Trillian. "We're cornered." They squeezed themselves down in an angle between a large computer data bank and the wall. They held their breath and waited. Suddenly the air exploded with energy bolts as both the cops opened fire on them simultaneously. "Hey, they're shooting at us," said Arthur, crouching in a tight ball, "I thought they said they didn't want to do that." "Yeah, I thought they said that," agreed Ford. Zaphod stuck a head up for a dangerous moment. "Hey," he said, "I thought you said you didn't want to shoot us!" and ducked again. They waited. After a moment a voice replied, "It isn't easy being a cop!" "What did he say?" whispered Ford in astonishment. "He said it isn't easy being a cop." "Well surely that's his problem isn't it?" "I'd have thought so." Ford shouted out, "Hey listen! I think we've got enough problems on our own having you shooting at us, so if you could avoid laying your problems on us as well, I think we'd all find it easier to cope!" Another pause, and then the loud hailer again. "Now see here, guy," said the voice on the loud hailer, "you're not dealing with any dumb two-bit trigger-pumping morons with low hairlines, little piggy eyes and no conversation, we're a couple of intelligent caring guys that you'd probably quite like if you met us socially! I don't go around gratuitously shooting people and then bragging about it afterwards in seedy space-rangers bars, like some cops I could mention! I go around shooting people gratuitously and then I agonize about it afterwards for hours to my girlfriend!" "And I write novels!" chimed in


and he would spend much of his time in the west, and there ascended often the ancient tower of King Minastir upon the hill of Oromet nigh to Andni, whence he gazed westward in yearning, hoping to see, maybe, some sail upon the sea. But no ship came ever again from the West to Nmenor, and Avalln was veiled in cloud. Now Gimilkhd died two years before his two hundredth year (which was accounted an early death for one of Elros' line even in its waning), but this brought no peace to the King. For Pharazn son of Gimilkhd had become a man yet more restless and eager for wealth and power than his father. He had fared often abroad, as a leader in the wars that the Nmenreans made then in the coastlands of Middle-earth, seeking to extend their dominion over Men; and thus he had won great renown as a captain both by land and by sea. Therefore when he came back to Nmenor, hearing of his father's death, the hearts of the people were turned to him; for he brought with him great wealth, and was for the time free in his giving. And it came to pass that Tar-Palantir grew weary of grief and died. He had no son, but a daughter only, whom he named Mriel in the Elven-tongue; and to her now by right and the laws of the Nmenreans came the sceptre. But Pharazn took her to wife against her will, doing evil in this and evil also in that the laws of Nmenor did not permit the marriage, even in the royal house, of those more nearly akin than cousins in the second degree. And when they were wedded, he seized the sceptre into his own hand, taking the title of Ar-Pharazn (Tar-Calion in the Elven-tongue); and the name of his queen he changed to Ar-Zimraphel. The mightiest and proudest was Ar-Pharazn the Golden of all those that had wielded the Sceptre of the Sea-Kings since the foundation of Nmenor; and three and twenty Kings and Queens had ruled the Nmenreans before, and slept now in their deep tombs under the mount of Meneltarma, lying upon beds of gold. And sitting upon his carven throne in the city of Armenelos in the glory of his power, he brooded darkly, thinking of war. For he had learned in Middle-earth of the strength of the realm of Sauron, and of his hatred of Westernesse. And now there came to him the masters of ships and captains returning out of the East, and they reported that Sauron was putting forth his might, since Ar-Pharazn had gone back from Middle-earth, and he was pressing down upon the cities by the coasts; and he had taken now the title of King of Men, and declared his purpose to drive the Nmenreans into the sea, and destroy even Nmenor, if that might be. Great was the anger of Ar-Pharazn at these tidings, and as he pondered long in secret, his heart was filled with the desire of power unbounded and


in so remote a country as this, where you can neither hear nor see any thing, and can in short be scarcely conscious of life.' 'I live for my family and myself,' said St. Aubert; 'I am now contented to know only happiness;--formerly I knew life.' 'I mean to expend thirty or forty thousand livres on improvements,' said M. Quesnel, without seeming to notice the words of St. Aubert; 'for I design, next summer, to bring here my friends, the Duke de Durefort and the Marquis Ramont, to pass a month or two with me.' To St. Aubert's enquiry, as to these intended improvements, he replied, that he should take down the whole east wing of the chateau, and raise upon the site a set of stables. 'Then I shall build,' said he, 'a SALLE A MANGER, a SALON, a SALLE AU COMMUNE, and a number of rooms for servants; for at present there is not accommodation for a third part of my own people.' 'It accommodated our father's household,' said St. Aubert, grieved that the old mansion was to be thus improved, 'and that was not a small one.' 'Our notions are somewhat enlarged since those days,' said M. Quesnel;--'what was then thought a decent style of living would not now be endured.' Even the calm St. Aubert blushed at these words, but his anger soon yielded to contempt. 'The ground about the chateau is encumbered with trees; I mean to cut some of them down.' 'Cut down the trees too!' said St. Aubert. 'Certainly. Why should I not? they interrupt my prospects. There is a chesnut which spreads its branches before the whole south side of the chateau, and which is so ancient that they tell me the hollow of its trunk will hold a dozen men. Your enthusiasm will scarcely contend that there can be either use, or beauty, in such a sapless old tree as this.' 'Good God!' exclaimed St. Aubert, 'you surely will not destroy that noble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the glory of the estate! It was in its maturity when the present mansion was built. How often, in my youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and sat embowered amidst a world of leaves, while the heavy shower has pattered above, and not a rain drop reached me! How often I have sat with a book in my hand, sometimes reading, and sometimes looking out between the branches upon the wide landscape, and the setting sun, till twilight came, and brought the birds home to their little nests among the leaves! How often--but pardon me,' added St. Aubert, recollecting that he was speaking to a man who could neither comprehend, nor allow his feelings, 'I am talking of times and feelings as old-fashioned as the taste that would spare that venerable tree.' 'It will certainly come down,' said M. Quesnel; 'I believe I shall plant some Lombardy poplars among the clumps of chesnut, that I shall leave of the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and tells me how much