the sea; by its quick, fanning motion, temporarily taking the breath out of the bodies of the oarsmen. Next instant, the luckless mate, so full of furious life, was smitten bodily into the air, and making a long arc in his descent, fell into the sea at the distance of about fifty yards. Not a chip of the boat was harmed, nor a hair of any oarsman's head; but the mate for ever sank. It is well to parenthesize here, that of the fatal accidents in the Sperm-Whale Fishery, this kind is perhaps almost as frequent as any. Sometimes, nothing is injured but the man who is thus annihilated; oftener the boat's bow is knocked off, or the thigh-board, in which the headsman stands, is torn from its place and accompanies the body. But strangest of all is the circumstance, that in more instances than one, when the body has been recovered, not a single mark of violence is discernible; the man being stark dead. The whole calamity, with the falling form of Macey, was plainly descried from the ship. Raising a piercing shriek -- The vial! the vial! Gabriel called off the terror-stricken crew from the further hunting of the whale. This terrible event clothed the archangel with added influence; because his credulous disciples believed that he had specifically fore-announced it, instead of only making a general prophecy, which any one might have done, and so have chanced to hit one of many marks in the wide margin allowed. He became a nameless terror to the ship. Mayhew having concluded his narration, Ahab put such questions to him, that the stranger captain could not forbear inquiring whether he intended to hunt the White Whale, if opportunity should offer. To which Ahab answered -- Aye. Straightway, then, Gabriel once more started to his feet, glaring .. <p 316 > upon the old man, and vehemently exclaimed, with downward pointed finger -- Think, think of the blasphemer --dead, and down there! --beware of the blasphemer's end! Ahab stolidly turned aside; then said to Mayhew, Captain, I have just bethought me of my letter-bag; there is a letter for one of thy officers, if I mistake not. Starbuck, look over the bag. Every whale-ship takes out a goodly number of letters for various ships, whose delivery to the persons to whom they may be addressed, depends upon the mere chance of encountering them in the four oceans. Thus, most letters never reach their mark; and many are only received after attaining an age of two or three years or more. Soon Starbuck returned with a letter in his hand. It was sorely tumbled, damp, and covered with a dull, spotted, green mould, in consequence of being kept in a dark locker of the cabin. Of such a letter, Death himself might well have been the post-boy. Can'st not read it? cried ahab. give it me, man. aye, aye it's but a dim scrawl; --what's this? As he was studying it out, Starbuck took a long cutting-spade pole, and with his knife slightly split the


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

read on the situation.” He winces and I try to soften it. “If it makes you feel better, I’m in the same boat. He’s got me doing a dating show.” “At least those are successful. Who even watches extreme sports challenges?” “Literally everyone, Trent.” This poor, bookish wanker. “I’m going to be on the road for six weeks,” he complains. “Six weeks on a bus with sweaty, testosterone-fueled weekend warriors who want to kill each other, and then I have to come back and edit the footage to make it look like a good time.” “Sorry, mate.” I gently slap his shoulder. I do get his angst. These shows certainly get attention, but I don’t know if it’s the kind of attention we’re prepared to take on. If my dating show sucks, I’m fucked. And if it doesn’t suck, I’m not sure how smoothly I can pivot back to the kind of programming I care about. I guess there’s some consolation that I’m not the only person stuck bottom feeding. “I’m sure it will be fine. One thing at a time, eh? Right now I’ve got to find someone”—I hold up air quotes—“ ‘female shaped and willing’ and just get through this.” six FIZZY There’s always a risk of misinterpreting something when hearing the tail end of a conversation, but in this case, there’s no room for a mistake. … find someone female shaped and willing, and just get through this. I’d returned for a parking validation, but I immediately forget again as three simultaneous explosions take place inside my skull. The first is over the wording, which is so terrible that Hot Brit immediately stops being a hero in any form and is now only a villain over whom I must triumph. The second realization is that he’s going to make this show no matter what I do. He will use River’s app to spread this garbage, and he will happily paint the central woman as desperate to find her soulmate like she isn’t completely fine all on her own, because reality television executives have not updated their view of women in forty years. The third explosion is the most powerful. For as much as I now dislike this man, I cannot ignore that he’s offered to hand me the mic. How many times have I idly wondered why, if men want to know what women want, they don’t just—oh, I don’t know—ask women directly? Hot Brit has given me the chance to ensure this show isn’t a disaster for every woman who hits Play on episode one. I can choose the vocabulary and the format and the discussion around what it means to date and fall in love. I walk right up to the producer’s door, push it the rest of the way open, and witness his expression morph from irritation to horror as he registers that I’ve just heard him. “How badly do you want me for this?” I ask bluntly. He swallows, glancing to the other man in the room, who seems to want to be absorbed into


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

a whispered conversation. Gabe slumped a few feet away from her and Bastian, facing the fight, but with his one blue eye scanning back and forth through his mask. The boxer with the bruised lip feinted to the side. The blond one stumbled, a punch overthrown. “There,” Bastian said. He didn’t point, but angled his chin toward the shadows on the far edge of the ring, a place between streetlights where the dark was deepest. Three figures huddled, angled away from the match. The one whose face Lore could see looked like he was listening intently to whatever was being said. The figure speaking had their back turned. Bastian and Gabe exchanged a look. Gabe nodded, then started moving toward the group, pushing through the crowd like a shark through a school of fish. “Come on.” Bastian took Lore’s arm and tugged her after him. “I don’t think our pet monk will need any backup, but we should stick close, just in case.” A roar went up from the ring. When Lore looked back, the blond boxer was on the ground. The group in the shadows broke apart before Gabe could reach them, the figure who’d been speaking fading into the crowd without Lore getting a good look at them. Gabe approached one of the men who’d been listening, struck up a casual conversation. Bastian and Lore stopped a few feet away; from what she could hear, it sounded like Gabe was talking about sailing weather. “Bleeding God,” she muttered, and Bastian snorted. A few more inane words about northwesterly winds, and Gabe nodded in the direction of the now-disappeared speaker. “You all wouldn’t know about any job opportunities opening up around here, would you? I’m looking to make some extra coin.” A pause. “Something that could be done in one night would be ideal.” “Laying it on a bit thick,” Bastian whispered. Lore dug her elbow into his ribs. The man Gabe spoke to—very small and slight, if it weren’t for the thick stubble on his jaw, Lore would think his voice still hadn’t cracked—glanced at his companion, then rubbed at his neck. A constellation of bruises bloomed there, deep purple and new. “I might,” he said slowly. “But the details aren’t mine to share.” Gabe’s jaw tightened, and the slight man stepped back, eyes widening in brief alarm. Lore didn’t blame him. Gabe didn’t look like the kind of person you’d want to anger. “How could one find someone willing to impart details?” Gabe asked. The man’s companion—larger than he, but still young looking—let out a harsh laugh. “Lose,” he said, cutting a hand toward the ring. Lore looked back. The blond fighter was up again, but blood trickled steadily from a cut across her forehead, dripping into her eyes. “Lose?” Gabe’s confusion drew his brows together, wrinkled the black domino mask. “Lose a fight,” the slight man mumbled, rubbing at his fresh bruises again. “They only approach people who lose a fight.” “Why?” “Gods damn me if I know,” he replied snappishly. “I guess because you have to buy


from Queen Glorian, then?’ ‘Yes, a few days ago. She asked me to thank you,’ Einlek said. ‘For the gift of your loyalty.’ Wulf stood very still, realisation unfurling its feathers. ‘She plans to be crowned soon, now the heathen Eller is gone.’ Einlek smiled coldly into his goblet. ‘My cousin is a Hraustr. If that Yscali greybeard thinks he’s going to gain any power over her, he will taste both our blades.’ ‘Aye, sire.’ Wulf cleared his throat. ‘When should I set out?’ ‘Dawn will do. I want those fighters back as soon as possible. The whaler struck a lucky blow today, but if there had been more than one wyvern, we may not have saved Eldyng. Our foe was also not as large as Fýredel, or its heinous siblings.’ ‘Siblings?’ Einlek drank from his cup of mead. ‘Heryon Vattenvarg wrote to me,’ he said. ‘There are at least two other great wyrms – one like ironstone, one grey. The Southerners call the former Dedalugun; the other, the Ments call Orsul. There is also at least one that crosses between the North and the East, which we Hróthi have named – Valeysa. I suspect they fly here as we speak.’ His knuckles blanched. ‘Meet me in the stables. For now, Wulf, drink your fill, and laugh. This day will be a song.’ Wulf nodded. As he turned away, he concealed a smile. He had never expected to be a father, least of all to a daughter he could never claim, but the thought still made him warm. Glorian must be relieved, but nervous. The thought made his smile fade. Happy though he was that none of it had been in vain, he already feared for her, being with child in a time like this. When the healers arrived, the drunk housecarls bedded down for the night, weary to the bone. An unconscious woman was borne in, her insides peeping out of her belly. One man had an unhinged jaw, and another had been so deeply clawed that he screamed as the healer dabbed honey on the ruin of his skin. Thella coughed into a rag. Thrit was in the corner with one arm under his head, clean bandages around his middle, two fingers splinted. ‘How’s your shoulder?’ Wulf asked, sitting beside him. ‘Fine.’ Thrit was looking past the ceiling. ‘Calling this a war is like a lamb calling the shambles its battlefield. It’s dead before it even smells the blood. Queen Glorian is right – we should be finding places to hide.’ ‘You know that’s not the Hróthi way.’ ‘If this goes on, there won’t be a Hróthi way.’ Wulf agreed, but in silence. He could no more convince Einlek to hide than he could tuck the midnight sun beneath the sea. They slept under the sky. Wulf woke to almost the same light, finding Thrit still asleep. The cocks never crowed in the summer, but he had trained his body to know when it was morning. Outside, the welkin was a queer yellow, the sun washed pale. In the silence,


thoughtless across the watercourse. but that I slacked my pace and went a trifle warily. It would This brought me near to where I had encountered Ben have been a poor end of my adventures to get shot down by Gunn, the maroon; and I walked more circumspectly, keep- my own party in mistake. ing an eye on every side. The dusk had come nigh hand The moon was climbing higher and higher, its light began completely, and as I opened out the cleft between the two to fall here and there in masses through the more open dis- peaks, I became aware of a wavering glow against the sky, tricts of the wood, and right in front of me a glow of a differ- Contents where, as I judged, the man of the island was cooking his ent colour appeared among the trees. It was red and hot, and supper before a roaring fire. And yet I wondered, in my heart, now and again it was a little darkened—as it were, the embers Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 224 225 of a bonfire smouldering. In the meantime, there was no doubt of one thing; they For the life of me I could not think what it might be. kept an infamous bad watch. If it had been Silver and his At last I came right down upon the borders of the clear- lads that were now creeping in on them, not a soul would ing. The western end was already steeped in moon- shine; have seen daybreak. That was what it was, thought I, to have the rest, and the block house itself, still lay in a black shadow the captain wounded; and again I blamed myself sharply for chequered with long silvery streaks of light. On the other leaving them in that danger with so few to mount guard. side of the house an immense fire had burned itself into clear By this time I had got to the door and stood up. All was embers and shed a steady, red reverberation, contrasted strongly dark within, so that I could distinguish nothing by the eye. with the mellow paleness of the moon. There was not a soul As for sounds, there was the steady drone of the snorers and a stirring nor a sound beside the noises of the breeze. small occasional noise, a flickering or pecking that I could in I stopped, with much wonder in my heart, and perhaps a no way account for. little terror also. It had not been our way to build great fires; With my arms before me I walked steadily in. I should we were, indeed, by the captain’s orders, somewhat niggardly lie down in my own place (I thought with a silent chuckle) of firewood, and I began to fear that something had gone and enjoy their faces when they found me in the morning. wrong while I was absent. My foot struck something yielding—it was a sleeper’s leg; I stole round by the eastern end, keeping close in shadow, and he


Seeing Dumai, she stared at her damp furs and dishevelled hair, the bruising on her face. ‘Suzu,’ Dumai said, just as stunned. ‘Princess Dumai,’ came a familiar voice, before her sister could utter a word. ‘Can it be you?’ Dumai stiffened. She had failed to notice him beside the throne, a shadow by her sister. ‘It is. And you, Nikeya,’ the River Lord said, his face a picture of relief. ‘I never thought to see you again.’ He wore a small crown of seashells. ‘Thank the great Kwiriki.’ ‘We are both very well, Father.’ Nikeya came to stand beside Dumai, sliding on her court self like a sleeve. ‘But this is a disturbing sight indeed. Where is Emperor Jorodu?’ The question covered the hall, silencing every whisper. ‘Tragedy has struck our court. A band of murderous provincials infiltrated the palace,’ the River Lord said, his voice breaking the utter quiet. ‘They were demanding retribution for an outbreak of sickness on the coast – a sickness that turns the hands red and boils the blood. They believe it arrived with a Lacustrine ship, which brought a crossbow for you, Princess Dumai.’ ‘Consort Jekhen offered it to me in exchange for my assistance,’ Dumai said. ‘To help us fight the wyrms.’ ‘Unfortunately, provincials are of a crude and rustic mindset, thinking of little beyond their fields. They saw an arrival from the mainland and blamed it for their suffering. It was dismantled in a riot, and the Lacustrine soldiers who brought it were killed.’ ‘What?’ Dumai whispered. Out of sight, Nikeya gripped her wrist, hard enough to hurt. ‘By the time the guards cut them down, the intruders had breached the Inner Palace, infecting His Majesty. He fought very hard . . . but he was the Son of the Rainbow,’ the River Lord said heavily. ‘His body could not withstand such pain, such fever.’ Dumai looked between the River Lord and her sister, her stomach warning her of a trap. ‘I’m sure this must be a great shock, Princess,’ the River Lord sighed. ‘I offer my sincere condolences.’ ‘What was done with his body?’ ‘We had no choice but to burn it,’ said one of his many cousins. ‘We do not yet know how this sickness spreads. It was all we could do.’ No Seiikinese ruler had ever been burned. He should have been laid in a river barge, on a bed of pearls, sung to the sea without end. ‘Since you could not be found anywhere, we feared you had been captured and killed,’ the River Lord said, wringing his hands in a show of distress. ‘The Council of State made the difficult choice to enthrone your sister – the heir apparent – as Empress Suzumai.’ He could make anything sound reasonable, even usurpation. The gift of his silver tongue. ‘I am a dragonrider – a woman, firstborn,’ Dumai managed to say. Nikeya tightened her grip. ‘Suzumai is a child of nine.’ ‘Your father was the same age, and he was a splendid ruler, as were many children of the rainbow before


on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself `Then I'll go round and get in at the window.' `THAT you won't' thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--`Pat! Pat! Where are you?' And then a voice she had never heard before, `Sure then I'm here! Digging for apples, yer honour!' `Digging for apples, indeed!' said the Rabbit angrily. `Here! Come and help me out of THIS!' (Sounds of more broken glass.) `Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?' `Sure, it's an arm, yer honour!' (He pronounced it `arrum.') `An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it fills the whole window!' `Sure, it does, yer honour: but it's an arm for all that.' `Well, it's got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!' There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers now and then; such as, `Sure, I don't like it, yer honour, at all, at all!' `Do as I tell you, you coward!' and at last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were TWO little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass. `What a number of cucumber-frames there must be!' thought Alice. `I wonder what they'll do next! As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they COULD! I'm sure I don't want to stay in here any longer!' She waited for some time without hearing anything more: at last came a rumbling of little cartwheels, and the sound of a good many voice all talking together: she made out the words: `Where's the other ladder?--Why, I hadn't to bring but one; Bill's got the other--Bill! fetch it here, lad!--Here, put 'em up at this corner--No, tie 'em together first--they don't reach half high enough yet--Oh! they'll do well enough; don't be particular- -Here, Bill! catch hold of this rope--Will the roof bear?--Mind that loose slate--Oh, it's coming down! Heads below!' (a loud crash)--`Now, who did that?--It was Bill, I fancy--Who's to go down the chimney?--Nay, I shan't! YOU do it!--That I won't, then!--Bill's to go down--Here, Bill! the master says you're to go down the chimney!' `Oh!


to Spiritum.” His gesturing hand went to Bastian. “We needed the two of you to be close together, so your powers would sharpen each other. The Law of Opposites in action.” “I don’t have any fucking Spiritum,” Bastian hissed. “None of us do; it’s a fairy tale.” “Apollius gives the gift to his chosen,” Anton said softly. “And that’s you, Bastian.” His fingers rose, touched the scarred side of his face. There were scars on his hand, too, Lore noticed. They looked new, still red and angry. “I was told so by the god himself,” Anton continued. “Told that you were the Arceneaux to whom he’d bestow his power. Told that Gabriel Remaut and a child from the catacombs must stay close by you after your Consecration, and that it would pave the way for Apollius’s return.” “What?” Gabe’s voice, thin and quiet. His blue eye was wide, his mouth opening, then closing again. “This has all been in motion for years,” Anton murmured. “Echoing through time. Apollius reaching down to commune with us. An Arceneaux prince, a child of treason, and the child of a Night Sister, born able to channel Mortem.” He spread his hands, smiled gently with the side of his mouth that could do such a thing. “The clearest anyone has ever heard His voice since Gerard Arceneaux himself.” Shock made Gabe’s face taut and pale. He shook his head, slightly, like he could make Anton’s words connect in a different way, one that made sense. Of course the thing he latched onto was her. This proof that she was something unholy. “The daughter of a Night Sister…” Gabe turned to Lore, shock transmuting to horror. “What is he talking about?” She didn’t know what to say. All the reasons she hadn’t told him came into sharp focus: the sickened expression, the way he took a short, instinctual step back from her, though they were yards apart already. Anton had just said they’d all been used this entire time, made to play out a vision he hadn’t shared with them wholly. But the part that hit Gabe hardest was Lore the Night Sister, Lore holding death in her hands since birth. Bastian noticed. His eyes narrowed, a cruel curve bending his mouth. “See why she didn’t tell you, Remaut?” Gabe swallowed. “You told Bastian?” She still couldn’t make herself speak. The Sun Prince did it for her. “Yes,” he said, leaning back in his chair, its legs creaking and his chains clanging. “She told Bastian.” Malcolm, Bellegarde, and Anton said nothing, letting the silence drop around them like a shroud around a body. Anton’s expression was blank. He’d just dealt a blow to Gabe, and he didn’t give a single shit. He’d just completely torn apart everything they thought they knew about each other, about themselves, and not one emotion crossed his face. Visions and prophecies and coups and wars, but all of those things paled for Lore in the face of the death they’d wrought. The justice she’d apparently never been working toward, that she hadn’t known


spend all her time in their living room when she came over, as though she was still the little girl who followed her mother to Mothers’ Union meetings when Professor Cordelia Coker hosted them. Whenever the older woman ran into her in their compound, she often gave Wúràọlá a tight-lipped smile that made her wonder if the animal sounds Kúnlé made when he came had somehow carried over the stretch of interlocking tiles between the boys’ quarters and the duplex where his parents lived. It was just easier to spend less time there when his parents were home. She got out of the car and went towards the buka. Outside, men and women pounded yam in wide mortars, the noise muffled, then sharp as pestles hit the white mound before punching through to the mortar’s bottom. Po-ki-po. Kúnlé was already inside the buka. She sat next to him on a bench and reached for the drink he had ordered. He laughed. “You’re so stubborn.” “You’re the one who hasn’t apologised for shouting, but I’m stubborn?” She took a long drag of his stout. He put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her close. “Aren’t your parents attending that funeral in the cathedral?” Wúràọlá asked. Kúnlé glanced at his watch. “Yeah, they should leave in about an hour. We could take the food home if you want to say hello to them.” “Keep making jokes and I’ll go spend the day being the girlfriend of their dreams, let’s see where that leaves you.” “I’ve missed you,” he said into her hair. The waitress came then, and they ordered the same thing they always ate here. Pounded yam with ẹ̀fọ́ rírò. Goat meat for her, bush meat for him. * * * Before that morning, they had not seen each other for two, no, three weeks, and God, she had missed this. Him curving his body around hers after they made love, his breath fanning her temple, the weight of that arm he always flung across her stomach, the comforting heat of his body. Pleasure was the easy part for her. It could be known and understood. Rise euphoric on the wings of adrenaline and dopamine. And now oxytocin for the descent. Love, well, that was too nebulous. As unstable and unknowable to her as Kúnlé’s shifting moods. He’d asked her about the phone calls again after they finished eating and lapsed into silence all the way back to his place. But then he was reaching for her breasts right after they got in, and he clung to her now as though all was forgotten if not forgiven. When he began to snore through his mouth, she extricated herself from his grip and went to take a shower. He did not have any lotion, just a large jar of Vaseline that would probably last him another year. She made do with her hand cream and pulled on one of his shirts before going into the living room. She lay on the sofa, hoping the shower would induce sleep. The sofa was something Kúnlé’s


It’s all about equality between the sexes.” “Then why aren’t tampons free yet?” Cam turns to me. “No, wait for him to ask you.” Chapter Eleven I was offered the job at OTP the next day, and started the following Monday. My first few days are nothing but admin. Now I know why they needed someone so soon. My predecessor left months ago and the work’s been piling up since. Meetings need organizing rather than the grab-and-go system they’ve been temporarily operating under. Minutes need taking, Penny’s emails need sorting, titles set up, and royalties need inputting (if you thought you could escape maths by pursuing a career in books, think a-fucking-gain). I did wonder when I’d be able to attend meetings, discuss submissions, and work on photographic interiors, but I can’t expect too much so soon. Maybe it’s something I’ve got to earn. I’m only Penny’s PA, but my line manager and mentor is Kristina Dorval (shoulder-length hair, flipped at the ends nineties style, reminiscent of Avi; midthirties with dark green eyes). It’s her food and drinks list I’m assisting on and her method of mentoring is very admin-focused, but I like her. She insists I call her Kris and our first catch-up lasted much longer than the allotted thirty minutes because it doesn’t take much for her to turn away from her computer and talk to me about life. She has a partner called Bruce and a cat called Alfred. No children, and I get the impression that it’s a choice. She attends salsa classes every Thursday evening and goes to the theater at least twice a month. She loves to eat but hates to cook. “On Thursdays we have Creative,” Kris says, “and you’ll need to prioritize that in Penny’s diary because that’s where we discuss submissions we want to share with the wider team and our upcoming titles.” “Do I go to that?” I ask hopefully. “No, that’s just for assistant and commissioning editors,” she says, “but every Tuesday, the entire department meets for NFPM—Nonfiction Publishing Meeting—where we discuss proposals/new projects, perspective authors and illustrators/photographers, our back and front list, the like. You’ll take the minutes.” A catch-up with Penny follows straight after. I was naive enough to assume the PA aspect of this job would be minimal, given that at the theater it was a full-time job in and of itself, and it paid me a grand more than this one. “I need to add three new meetings to my calendar this week,” Penny says. “One with Thom, Gabby, and Sabrina and then a follow-up meeting later on in the week—though not Friday afternoon—with just Thom and Gabby, and then I need a separate meeting with Marie, Levi, and Chrissy from the US office—watch out for the time difference.” Penny doesn’t pause for breath or look up from her computer screen as I scrawl notes at her office table. “The follow-up meeting can be half an hour, but the other two are a full hour. If no conference rooms are available, we can have the UK meetings


horses, and loaded mules, winding down the steeps of an opposite mountain, appearing and disappearing at intervals among the woods, so that its numbers could not be judged of. Something bright, like arms, glanced in the setting ray, and the military dress was distinguishable upon the men who were in the van, and on others scattered among the troop that followed. As these wound into the vale, the rear of the party emerged from the woods, and exhibited a band of soldiers. St. Aubert's apprehensions now subsided; he had no doubt that the train before him consisted of smugglers, who, in conveying prohibited goods over the Pyrenees, had been encountered, and conquered by a party of troops. The travellers had lingered so long among the sublimer scenes of these mountains, that they found themselves entirely mistaken in their calculation that they could reach Montigny at sun-set; but, as they wound along the valley, the saw, on a rude Alpine bridge, that united two lofty crags of the glen, a group of mountaineer-children, amusing themselves with dropping pebbles into a torrent below, and watching the stones plunge into the water, that threw up its white spray high in the air as it received them, and returned a sullen sound, which the echoes of the mountains prolonged. Under the bridge was seen a perspective of the valley, with its cataract descending among the rocks, and a cottage on a cliff, overshadowed with pines. It appeared, that they could not be far from some small town. St. Aubert bade the muleteer stop, and then called to the children to enquire if he was near Montigny; but the distance, and the roaring of the waters, would not suffer his voice to be heard; and the crags, adjoining the bridge, were of such tremendous height and steepness, that to have climbed either would have been scarcely practicable to a person unacquainted with the ascent. St. Aubert, therefore, did not waste more moments in delay. They continued to travel long after twilight had obscured the road, which was so broken, that, now thinking it safer to walk than to ride, they all alighted. The moon was rising, but her light was yet too feeble to assist them. While they stepped carefully on, they heard the vesper-bell of a convent. The twilight would not permit them to distinguish anything like a building, but the sounds seemed to come from some woods, that overhung an acclivity to the right. Valancourt proposed to go in search of this convent. 'If they will not accommodate us with a night's lodging,' said he, 'they may certainly inform us how far we are from Montigny, and direct us towards it.' He was bounding forward, without waiting St. Aubert's reply, when the latter stopped him. 'I am very weary,' said St. Aubert, 'and wish for nothing so much as for immediate rest. We will all go to the convent; your good looks would defeat our purpose; but when they see mine and Emily's exhausted countenances, they will scarcely deny us repose.' As he said this,


of options deals go nowhere. All that an option means is that the production company has exclusive rights to package the story into something a studio might want to buy. The vast majority of projects linger in development hell, and very few ever get green-lit by studio executives. I learn this over the next few hours as I scour the internet for articles about this process, catching myself up on industry terminology and trying to gauge how excited I should be. I’m probably not getting my Warner Bros. film. I probably won’t be a millionaire. The hype could still help me, though—I could still make some tens of thousands of dollars from Greenhouse’s option offer. I could sell a few thousand more copies based on the publicity from that deal alone. And there’s always that elusive, tempting “maybe.” Maybe this will get picked up by Netflix, or HBO or Hulu. Maybe the film will be a massive hit, and they’ll do another print run of my book with the movie poster on the cover, and I’ll get to attend the premiere in a dress tailor-made for me, arm in arm with the handsome Asian actor they cast to play A Geng. Elle Fanning will star as Annie Waters, and we’ll take a cute selfie together at the premiere like the one Athena once took with Anne Hathaway. Why not dream big? I’ve found, as I keep hitting my publishing goalposts, that my ambitions get larger and larger. I got my embarrassingly large advance. I got my bestseller status, my major magazine profiles, my prizes and honors. Now, with the sickly sweet taste of the Miss Saigon lingering on my tongue, all that feels paltry in comparison to what true literary stardom looks like. I want what Stephen King has, what Neil Gaiman has. Why not a movie deal? Why not Hollywood stardom? Why not a multimedia empire? Why not the world? Eleven THE ATTACKS START ON TWITTER. The first tweet comes from an account named @Athena LiusGhost, created earlier this week; no profile picture, no words in the bio: Juniper Song, aka June Hayward, did not write The Last Front. I did. She stole my book, stole my voice, and stole my words. #SaveAthena. Then, dated a few hours later, several sickening follow-ups in the thread. June Hayward befriended me a few years ago to get closer to my process and my work. She came over often to my apartment, and I would catch her rooting through my notebooks when she thought I wasn’t looking. The proof is in black and white. Read my previous novels. Compare them to the prose in The Last Front. Read June’s debut novel, and ask yourself: is The Last Front a novel a white woman could have written? For let’s be clear: Juniper Song Hayward is a white woman. She’s using the pen name Juniper Song to pretend to be Chinese American. She’s taken new author photos to look more tan and ethnic, but she’s as white as they come. June Hayward, you are a thief


simply dissolved. Something hard and brutal entered his face. “Mrs. King,” he said, taking in her gloves, her tunic. His lip curled. Perhaps he remembered her choosing the name. She’d done it on his instructions. “Good heavens.” She didn’t move. He glanced up the stairs, judging the crush. Down here the noise was growing into a roar, hundreds of people staggering through the porch and entering the front hall. She knew what he was thinking: what can people see, what can people hear, what reason will they construct for this discussion, when will the risks show themselves? She rattled through a similar list herself, every moment. He smiled, eyes running over her mask. “Miss de Vries mentioned to me that you had made an unwelcome visit. She charged me to keep an eye out for you. I must confess I thought she was overreacting.” “Foolish of you,” said Mrs. King. “For here I am. You’ve caught me.” She was Jonah inside the whale. She was stepping right into the heart of the matter. He snapped his fingers, and two younger men hurried over. They were dressed as dominoes. Clerks, she guessed, his own little entourage. Evidently, Lockwood liked having his own people in the house, too. “Accompany us to the library,” he said to them. “And guard the door.” They gawked at Mrs. King. Then they saw Mr. Lockwood’s hand touch her elbow, and they squared up. “I think we should have a private discussion,” Lockwood said. “I agree,” she replied, lifting her mask. “May I?” he said. He offered his arm. He wasn’t her equal—he would never countenance that notion—but he could pretend to be civil. “No,” she said, and they walked upstairs, men at her back—trapped, as intended. 27 Three hours to go The ball had begun. But the lady of the house was still below stairs, just where they wanted her. Mrs. Bone was being held in the butler’s pantry, and the chauffeur barred the door. Mrs. King had been very clear about this. Let them interrogate you as long as they want. We need them down in the servants’ hall, so the men can pack up the old nurseries. Mrs. Bone pictured rocking horses creaking as they were lifted onto runners, gigantic dolls blinking as they were turned upside down. The nursery was a forlorn sort of place, preserved in aspic: too big, too bleached. The wallpaper was metal colored, a bleak and relentless pattern. The whole place had given Mrs. Bone the shivers. She was glad it was being packed away. “Alice, tell Mr. Shepherd what you told me,” Miss de Vries said, her face glinting in the lamplight. Alice kept things brief. “I saw her,” she said, pointing at Mrs. Bone, “selling silver spoons to a man in the street. She had them hidden in her apron.” So far so good. Mrs. Bone tutted loudly. “I was cleaning them.” “No, she was not,” said Alice. Mrs. Bone shook her fist, per her stage directions. “Rot!” “Madam, I had no idea,” began Mr. Shepherd. “That’s what’s troubling


I approach, the second woman says, “It is I, Miss Chen.” I’m startled by how much weight she’s lost since I last saw her. It’s as if her body has been transported back in time to when she first attracted Master Yang’s eye, which only emphasizes the few beans that dot her face. Miss Chen places her hands on the mounds nestled against her. “My son, Manzi, and his first sister.” It’s been years since the boy left the inner chambers and I’ve seen him up close, yet I’m struck by how little he looks like his father or his half brother. His cheeks are angular, while their faces are as exquisitely round as the full moon. Even under the coverlet, I can see the broadness in Manzi’s shoulders, while my father-in-law and husband both have the carriage and build of men whose work is more of the mind than of the body. Miss Chen clears her throat to get my attention. She tips her head in the direction of the other woman. “Snowpink and her son.” So my husband now has two sons. I can’t help but wonder which one is the older and what fights over the order of succession lie ahead of us. I dismiss this from my mind, for it can’t matter right now. “My daughter? Have you seen her?” Miss Chen reaches over the child on her left to touch the next mound. “Ailan is here with me.” I step around and over more of the sick until I reach Miss Chen’s side and the mound she’s pointed out. Two eyes peer up at me. “Mama…” I drop to my knees, lift strands of hair from Ailan’s face with a fingertip, and tuck them behind her ear. The beans on her face are too many to count. Later I’ll examine her body, but for now, I say, “Don’t be afraid. I am here, and I will take care of you.” The smallest of smiles lifts the corners of Ailan’s lips, while voices plead from every direction in response to my words. * * * Snowpink’s son—only ten days old—returns to nothingness on my first night in the Hermitage. My husband’s concubine dies three days later. During that same period, four children, whose mothers didn’t invite the smallpox-planting master to do variolation or for whom the process didn’t give them enough protection, lapse into delirium and drift away in the night. One is a girl; three are boys. Of the boys, two had already left their mothers’ sides in the inner chambers and were studying with tutors in the family school. I learn from Miss Chen of others who died before I came home, including her two youngest daughters, one of whom was seven and the other who had recently turned four and was getting ready to have her feet bound. Her second daughter has yet to be touched by the disease. Miss Chen keeps her body as still as a statue and her voice even when she tells me all this. “There will be time to mourn


all you hear echoing from an adjacent room every single time anyone does anything is *dun DUN dun!* [the serious news intro theme] “Breaking news at the top of this hour [in an animated yet sober newscaster voice]. Good evening, America, I’m Brick Shetland, reporting live from the newsroom…” By March, cable news was breathlessly reporting that people in Europe and Asia were coughing to death from some new easily transmissible virus unlike any the world had ever seen and that airports were shutting down, but then with the exact same urgency an anchor would be reading a rundown of the then president’s angry tweets, and no one I knew really understood the magnitude of the crisis that was about to be upon us because none of my friends are epidemiologists and we all have access to the same CNN. In Chicago, I would go to work at a studio in Edgewater in the morning then return to my temporary home overlooking the screeching L and cheerfully lit Merchandise Mart at night, and I did all that again and again and again and again, and then suddenly the headlines screamed. WASH YOUR HANDS ORDER DELIVERY FOR EVERY MEAL BUT OPEN THE DOOR FOR THE DELIVERY PERSON AT YOUR OWN PERIL SPRAY YOUR MAIL WITH LYSOL, BLEACH YOUR GROCERIES CANCEL ALL YOUR RESTAURANT RESERVATIONS IF YOU SO MUCH AS LOOK AT AN UBER YOU WILL DIE WASH YOUR HANDS ORDER EVERYTHING YOU POSSIBLY CAN ONLINE AND BURN YOUR PARCELS UNDER THE SUN BEFORE THEY CROSS YOUR THRESHOLD IF YOU ARE NOT AT HOME, GO TO YOUR HOME AND DON’T LEAVE, UNLESS YOU NEED TO GO TO WORK AND—FINE, OKAY, SWING BY THAT BIRTHDAY PARTY IF IT LOOKS FUN GOOD LUCK FINDING SANITIZER! GLARE AT ANYONE WHO SO MUCH AS CLEARS THEIR THROAT IN YOUR GENERAL VICINITY STOCKPILE TOILET PAPER FOR NO DISCERNIBLE REASON PEOPLE ARE DYING AND WE’RE GONNA LET THEM SHOULD YOU BE WORRIED THAT YOUR CAT HAS COVID???????? PURCHASE THE DIGITAL VERSION OF CONTAGION ON AN IMPULSE AND TRY NOT TO SCREAM TO DEATH IMAGINING THAT AS OUR COLLECTIVE FUTURE MAYBE IT’S FINE FOR YOU TO GO TO THAT OUT-OF-TOWN WEDDING? WASH YOUR HANDS * * * — But no one really knew anything. At least not definitively, from what I could tell through my passive consumption of broadcast news. Everyone in the writers’ room kept going to work because our employer, Showtime, was expecting a season of television from us in exchange for all the Thai food and LaCroix they’d paid for, and also because the papers were casually like “Maybe Steam Clean the Shit You Bought at Walgreens When You Get It Home, If You Feel Like It” and not “WARNING WARNING DO NOT BREATHE COMMUNAL AIR.” Remember how reporters-cum–preschool teachers taught us to sing the words to “Happy Birthday” while washing our hands as we coughed into our friends’ mouths??? Nobody knew shit! When we switched to working remotely (OH GOD, the early days of Zoom!!!!!!), I figured it was pretty serious, this Corona-whateveryoucallit. At the same time,


with portentousness. So rarely is it beheld, that though one and all of them declare it to be the largest animated thing in the ocean, yet very few of them have any but .. <p 277 > the most vague ideas concerning its true nature and form; notwithstanding, they believe it to furnish to the sperm whale his only food. For though other species of whales find their food above water, and may be seen by man in the act of feeding, the spermaceti whale obtains his whole food in unknown zones below the surface; and only by inference is it that any one can tell of what, precisely, that food consists. At times, when closely pursued, he will disgorge what are supposed to be the detached arms of the squid; some of them thus exhibited exceeding twenty and thirty feet in length. They fancy that the monster to which these arms belonged ordinarily clings by them to the bed of the ocean; and that the sperm whale, unlike other species, is supplied with teeth in order to attack and tear it. There seems some ground to imagine that the great Kraken of Bishop Pontoppodan may ultimately resolve itself into Squid. The manner in which the Bishop describes it, as alternately rising and sinking, with some other particulars he narrates, in all this the two correspond. But much abatement is necessary with respect to the incredible bulk he assigns it. By some naturalists who have vaguely heard rumors of the mysterious creature, here spoken of, it is included among the class of cuttle-fish, to which, indeed, in certain external respects it would seem to belong, but only as the Anak of the tribe. .. <p 277 > .. < chapter lx 26 THE LINE > With reference to the whaling scene shortly to be described, as well as for the better understanding of all similar scenes elsewhere presented, I have here to speak of the magical, sometimes horrible whale-line. The line originally used in the fishery was of the best hemp, slightly vapored with tar, not impregnated with it, as in the .. <p 278 > case of ordinary ropes; for while tar, as ordinarily used, makes the hemp more pliable to the rope-maker, and also renders the rope itself more convenient to the sailor for common ship use; yet, not only would the ordinary quantity too much stiffen the whale-line for the close coiling to which it must be subjected; but as most seamen are beginning to learn, tar in general by no means adds to the rope's durability or strength, however much it may give it compactness and gloss. Of late years the Manilla rope has in the American fishery almost entirely superseded hemp as a material for whale-lines; for, though not so durable as hemp, it is stronger, and far more soft and elastic; and I will add (since there is an aesthetics in all things), is much more handsome and becoming to the boat, than hemp. Hemp is a dusky, dark fellow, a sort of Indian; but Manilla


eyes and cheekbones. The priestess also comes, her pale, chill hands touching Clytemnestra’s belly. “The gods watch us all,” she says, her voice screeching like a seagull’s cry. “They bless those who are loyal and punish those who aren’t.” She doesn’t say whether Clytemnestra will be blessed or punished, but Clytemnestra doesn’t care. The child she is carrying will be heir to the throne of Maeonia, and there is nothing the priestess can do about it. So she lets her speak her dark words until it is time for her to go back to her temple. * * * “Are you scared of leaving?” Helen asks. They are standing together in front of the tub, staring at the water as it sparkles under the torches. The light of the sunset pours in from the small window, illuminating their skin with pink and orange. From up there, Sparta looks nothing more than a group of small villages, scattered across the Eurotas, like a herd of brown goats. Tantalus has often told Clytemnestra that the valley makes a poor show compared to his own homeland. Yet she will miss the view of the mountains, their peaks wrapped in white clouds. “You will soon leave as well,” Clytemnestra says, removing her tunic and stepping into the tub. Warm water laps at her skin. Helen starts washing her, the soap perfumed and oily on her fingers. “Why do women always have to leave?” she asks. She still thinks Clytemnestra has the answer to her every question, as she did when they were children. Why do women always have to leave? Clytemnestra repeats the words in her head until they lose meaning. She doesn’t know the answer. She knows only that leaving doesn’t feel like punishment to her but rather a blessing. Life at this moment is like being at sea, open waters all around her and no coastline in sight, the world brimming with possibilities. Helen keeps silent for a while. There is a strange light in her eyes as she gazes at her sister’s body. They have seen each other naked a thousand times, but now it is different. Arms, legs, hips, neck, everything that Helen is touching has been touched by Tantalus, and they can’t ignore it. His mark is deep inside her, not visible yet, but it is there, and soon Clytemnestra’s body will transform because of it—it will become ripe, swollen. Helen’s eyes are shiny with wonder, though there is also anxiety in the way she clings to Clytemnestra’s shoulders as she scrubs them, an eagerness she puts into wringing out her sister’s hair. Clytemnestra lets her be, listening to the sound of dripping water. She understands her sister’s pain. Helen will be forced to sit and witness her biggest fear: Clytemnestra’s body slowly becoming different from hers, until there are no similarities to hold on to. When the water has cooled, Helen stands and takes a step back from the tub. Her eyes are shining, eager for her sister’s attention. “Mother told me that two brothers will soon be here,” she


`I am older than you, and must know better'; and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, `Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! I'LL soon make you dry enough!' They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon. `Ahem!' said the Mouse with an important air, `are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! "William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--"' `Ugh!' said the Lory, with a shiver. `I beg your pardon!' said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: `Did you speak?' `Not I!' said the Lory hastily. `I thought you did,' said the Mouse. `--I proceed. "Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--"' `Found WHAT?' said the Duck. `Found IT,' the Mouse replied rather crossly: `of course you know what "it" means.' `I know what "it" means well enough, when I find a thing,' said the Duck: `it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?' The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, `"--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--" How are you getting on now, my dear?' it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. `As wet as ever,' said Alice in a melancholy tone: `it doesn't seem to dry me at all.' `In that case,' said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, `I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--' `Speak English!' said the Eaglet. `I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!' And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. `What I was going to say,' said the Dodo in an offended tone, `was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race.' `What IS a Caucus-race?' said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that SOMEBODY ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. `Why,' said the Dodo, `the best way to explain it is to do it.' (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter


smiled. "Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man's nature." The girl had been so young Ned had not dared to ask her age. No doubt she'd been a virgin; the better brothels could always find a virgin, if the purse was fat enough. She had light red hair and a powdering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and when she slipped free a breast to give her nipple to the babe, he saw that her bosom was freckled as well. "I named her Barra," she said as the child nursed. "She looks so like him, does she not, milord? She has his nose, and his hair . . ." "She does." Eddard Stark had touched the baby's fine, dark hair. It A GAME OF THRONES 335 flowed through his fingers like black silk. Robert's firstborn had had the same fine hair, he seemed to recall. "Tell him that when you see him, milord, as it ... as it please you. Tell him how beautiful she is." "I will," Ned had promised her. That was his curse. Robert would swear undying love and forget them before evenfall, but Ned Stark kept his vows. He thought of the promises he'd made Lyanna as she lay dying, and the price he'd paid to keep them. "And tell him I've not been with no one else. I swear it, milord, by the old gods and new. Chataya said I could have half a year, for the baby, and for hoping he'd come back. So you'll tell him I'm waiting, won't you? I don't want no jewels or nothing, just him. He was always good to me, truly." Good to you, Ned thought hollowly. "I will tell him, child, and I promise you, Barra shall not go wanting." She had smiled then, a smile so tremulous and sweet that it cut the heart out of him. Riding through the rainy night, Ned saw Jon Snow's face in front of him, so like a younger version of his own. If the gods frowned so on bastards, he thought dully, why did they fill men with such lusts? "Lord Baelish, what do you know of Robert's bastards?" "Well, he has more than you, for a start." "How many?" Littlefinger shrugged. Rivulets of moisture twisted down the back of his cloak. "Does it matter? If you bed enough women, some will give you presents, and His Grace has never been shy on that count. I know he's acknowledged that boy at Storm's End, the one he fathered the night Lord Stannis wed. He could hardly do otherwise. The mother was a Florent, niece to the Lady Selyse, one of her bedmaids. Renly says that Robert carried the girl upstairs during the feast, and broke in the wedding bed while Stannis and his bride were still dancing. Lord Stannis seemed to think that was a blot on the honor of his wife's House, so when the boy was born, he shipped him off to Renly." He gave Ned a sideways glance. "I've also heard whispers


word but judge allowing?? It was everything I’d once feared—looking like a desperate interloper—but now I cared far less about that than about what this might do to Britt’s testimony, or what it might do to my own testimony tomorrow. Omar did not deserve this. 12:20: So they’ve been in bench conference forever, I can hardly even hear anything ughghghghgh I was at the checkout counter; I was walking down the icy sidewalk; I was drinking my bottled Frappuccino on the corner like a wino. 12:45: They got like 2 more qs out and now another bench conference 1:15: Can’t believe I’m missing class to stare at these lawyers’ backs The call from Amy March came a little after five. I was lying on the bed in a sandpapery hotel robe, my hair wet, unable to nap because the elevator was too loud through my wall. She said, “I know you might have heard some things today. I don’t want you to worry. Listen, though, nothing’s for sure yet, but we might—we’re reevaluating if we want you on the stand.” The smoke detector on the ceiling blinked red—a tiny, constant test-warning. She said, “It seems their whole tack is to centralize you in all this, to cast doubts on your honesty and intentions.” “So shouldn’t the judge see me so he knows that’s not true?” She hesitated. “We do want that testimony about her planner, but putting you up could backfire.” She sounded so apologetic, as if the issue were my ego rather than the case. “We genuinely have enough with the blood. That’s the core of our argument. You’re one person who should’ve been interviewed, but we have others. They’re building up to hitting you hard on cross, and if we don’t put you up, it signals we have plenty without you.” I said, “That makes sense.” It did, but I could hear the devastation in my own voice and certainly Amy could, too. I said, “We won’t have a chance to name Denny Bloch, then.” “I know, I know,” she said. “But at this point, I think it dilutes the case.” She sounded so careful, so conciliatory. Not for the first time, I worried Amy thought I was hung up on my own agenda. I said, “Can I come watch the proceedings, then?” I already knew the answer: I’d be a distraction there, too. What she said, though, was “You’re still on our list; nothing’s definite. If you can stay in town that’s great, and you’re still sequestered.” “Right.” “We’ll probably rest late Monday or early Tuesday, and then you can go.” I calculated that I could use the next few days as a writing retreat. I was deep into my research on Marion Wong and the Mandarin Film company. I could lose myself in that all day. But writing time was a sorry consolation prize. All I wanted was to be on the stand. Your name had been sitting in my throat for four years, waiting to get out. I’d been waiting four years to see Omar, to look


business, but a tailor’s shop? That intrigued her. “My father was a tailor,” she said with a smile. “Perhaps yours found an interest in the profession as well, though I didn’t know barons often purchased shops and trades like this.” “They don’t. My father was unconventional in many ways—this, in particular—and if he hadn’t been so profitable, as well as attentive to his seat in Lords, he probably would have been shunned by the upper ten thousand. There are few acceptable professions for a gentleman to begin with, and most of Society would agree that a baron who spends his time among the working class is an insult to his station.” He sat forward so he was looking at the same page as her, his frown far less appealing than his smile. For a moment there, he had actually been happy. “From what I understand in this letter—which is far less than I’d like, mind you—the tailor in question is in need of supplies and has sent me a request to purchase them. I would have thought he purchased such things himself.” Lucy considered that. “Unless your father took it upon himself to be a patron,” she suggested. “Perhaps the tailor has been struggling, and the late Lord Calloway was a benevolent supporter.” Simon frowned even more. “From the income I have seen in my accounts, Mr. Pike is hardly struggling.” “Ah.” Lucy was pretty sure she knew exactly what the situation was, though she had no idea how to explain it to a man who had been born to a fortune rather than having to build it up through his own efforts. Running his father’s businesses had given him a good understanding of how to raise capital through a trade, but some things could come only through experience. But what reason would he have to listen to anything she said? “I believe,” she began slowly, “the tailor is right.” She searched the many papers strewn about and found one that listed the general income from the shop, as well as what money came into Simon’s coffers each month. The two were not dissimilar. “I could be wrong, but I think I understand what is happening.” Simon leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on her. “Then, that makes one of us. If you enlighten me, Lucy, I will be most in your debt.” It was by far the other way around, but Lucy wouldn’t say so, not unless she admitted the truth about herself. One problem at a time. “I believe all profits beyond Mr. Pike’s salary are sent to you, as the owner.” “That is the point of purchasing the shop, is it not? To generate income? The man is paid a considerable amount, from what I can tell.” “Enough to care for his family, yes, but not enough to purchase tools and fabric. Expenses that are usually taken from the excess profits . . . my lord,” she added because she didn’t want him to think she was being condescending. She bit her lip; she hardly expected a


the man who made it and the reason he made it remained mystery. Another time they chanced upon the time-graven wreckage of a hunting lodge, and amid the shreds of rotted blankets John Thornton found a long-barrelled flint-lock. He knew it for a Hudson Bay Company gun of the young days in the Northwest, when such a gun was worth its height in beaver skins packed flat, And that was all--no hint as to the man who in an early day had reared the lodge and left the gun among the blankets. Spring came on once more, and at the end of all their wandering they found, not the Lost Cabin, but a shallow placer in a broad valley where the gold showed like yellow butter across the bottom of the washing-pan. They sought no farther. Each day they worked earned them thousands of dollars in clean dust and nuggets, and they worked every day. The gold was sacked in moose-hide bags, fifty pounds to the bag, and piled like so much firewood outside the spruce-bough lodge. Like giants they toiled, days flashing on the heels of days like dreams as they heaped the treasure up. There was nothing for the dogs to do, save the hauling in of meat now and again that Thornton killed, and Buck spent long hours musing by the fire. The vision of the short-legged hairy man came to him more frequently, now that there was little work to be done; and often, blinking by the fire, Buck wandered with him in that other world which he remembered. The salient thing of this other world seemed fear. When he watched the hairy man sleeping by the fire, head between his knees and hands clasped above, Buck saw that he slept restlessly, with many starts and awakenings, at which times he would peer fearfully into the darkness and fling more wood upon the fire. Did they walk by the beach of a sea, where the hairy man gathered shell- fish and ate them as he gathered, it was with eyes that roved everywhere for hidden danger and with legs prepared to run like the wind at its first appearance. Through the forest they crept noiselessly, Buck at the hairy man's heels; and they were alert and vigilant, the pair of them, ears twitching and moving and nostrils quivering, for the man heard and smelled as keenly as Buck. The hairy man could spring up into the trees and travel ahead as fast as on the ground, swinging by the arms from limb to limb, sometimes a dozen feet apart, letting go and catching, never falling, never missing his grip. In fact, he seemed as much at home among the trees as on the ground; and Buck had memories of nights of vigil spent beneath trees wherein the hairy man roosted, holding on tightly as he slept. And closely akin to the visions of the hairy man was the call still sounding in the depths of the forest. It filled him with a great unrest and strange desires. It


picked up a virus somewhere. With an exhilarating sense of purpose, I sprinted back home, ensuring I returned suitably sweaty and out of breath. When Benjamin emerged fresh from the shower, I greeted him brightly. “Morning, Chief.” “Good morning.” He was in a crisp white shirt and light gray pants, his suit jacket slung over his arm. “I want eggs. You’ll have two slices of toast.” “Yes, Chief.” In the kitchen, I prepared his scrambled eggs the French way—stirring constantly with a pat of butter. Benjamin was on his laptop at the breakfast bar, but we didn’t chat. The silence had less to do with our M/s agreement, and more to do with his disinterest in me. I couldn’t blame him. My universe had dwindled over our years together and I had little, if anything, of interest to contribute. When I set the plate in front of him, he spoke. “I’m worried about you.” “Me?” My voice was tight. “Why?” “I think you have an exercise addiction.” “I don’t,” I said breezily. “I just like to stay in shape for you.” His gray eyes appraised me over a forkful of eggs. “You’ve gotten too thin again. You know I don’t like it.” “I’m going to build up my lower body,” I said. “Get more muscle on my thighs and booty.” “You can go to the gym for one hour from now on. Not two.” I couldn’t question his dictate; that was our agreement. I followed his rules or there were repercussions. But one hour was not long enough for me to sneak out the back and go to Jesse’s apartment. We would barely arrive when we’d have to turn around. Again, I worried that Benjamin knew about the affair, but passive-aggressive punishment was not his style. If he knew I was cheating on him, I would feel it. “David Vega’s wife is planning a breast cancer gala. I told him you’d help out.” “Of course,” I said, though I already had a charity case. “May I go to the drugstore today? I need some vitamins. And a few toiletries.” “You may.” He swallowed the last forkful of eggs. “You need to find a way to contribute to society, Hazel. It’s embarrassing to have a wife who does nothing but jog and lift weights.” My face felt hot with humiliation, though I should have been used to it by now. “What about your little bakery idea?” I’d told him my dream in the early stages of our relationship, when I thought he was kind and nurturing. It resurfaced on occasion—as a way to demean me and my puny goals. “You’re obviously not an entrepreneur.” He slid his empty plate toward me. “But you could design a menu, decorate the place. It would give you some profile at least. And then I’ll find someone to run it.” “Thank you, Chief.” “Do some sketches. Look into some locations. And call Vanessa Vega,” he said, standing. “She’s expecting to hear from you.” * * * Later, I drove to Walgreens, then to the deli for soup


put in prison and hanged, he commenced blubbering himself, and hurried out to hide his cowardly agitation. Still I was not rid of him. When at length they com- pelled me to depart, and I had got some hundred yards off the premises, he suddenly issued from the shadow of the roadside, and checked Minny and took hold of me. " 'Miss Catherine, I'm ill grieved,' he began, 'but it's rayther too bad------' "I gave him a cut with my whip, thinking perhaps he would murder me. He let go, thundering one of his hor- rid curses, and I galloped home more than half out of my senses. "I didn't bid you good-night that evening, and I didn't go to Wuthering Heights the next. I wished to go exceedingly, but I was strangely excited, and dreaded to hear that Linton was dead, sometimes, and some- times shuddered at the thought of encountering Hare- ton. On the third day I took courage---at least I couldn't bear longer suspense, and stole off once more. I went at five o'clock, and walked, fancying I might manage to creep into the house and up to Linton's room unob- served. However, the dogs gave notice of my approach. Zillah received me, and saying 'the lad was mend- ing nicely,' showed me into a small, tidy, carpeted apart- ment, where, to my inexpressible joy, I beheld Linton laid on a little sofa, reading one of my books. But he would neither speak to me nor look at me through a whole hour, Ellen; he has such an unhappy temper. And what quite confounded me, when he did open his mouth it was to utter the falsehood that I had oc- casioned the uproar, and Hareton was not to blame! Unable to reply, except passionately, I got up and walked from the room. He sent after me a faint 'Cath- erine!' He did not reckon on being answered so. But I wouldn't turn back; and the morrow was the second day on which I stayed at home, nearly determined to visit him no more. But it was so miserable going to bed and getting up, and never hearing anything about him, that my resolution melted into air before it was prop- erly formed. It had appeared wrong to take the jour- ney once, now it seemed wrong to refrain. Michael came to ask if he must saddle Minny; I said 'Yes,' and considered myself doing a duty as she bore me over the hills. I was forced to pass the front windows to get to the court; it was no use trying to conceal my presence. " 'Young master is in the house,' said Zillah, as she saw me making for the parlour. I went in. Earnshaw was there also, but he quitted the room directly. Lin- ton sat in the great armchair half asleep. Walking up to the fire, I began in a serious tone, partly meaning it to be true,--- " 'As you don't like me, Linton, and as you think I come on purpose to hurt


was rapt except for Susan Lehigh, who was standing at the back of the audience, checking her watch. Each second she spent looking at the watch’s face, I became increasingly sick to my stomach, nervous for Orson, angry at Carol. Orson went through his speech, I talked about dealing heroin, the women in the living room gasped and sighed and interrupted Orson to ask questions about his noble and beautiful life. And then it came time for the Synthesis, and Carol craned her neck toward Susan Lehigh. “Susan! We’ve been waiting for you,” she said. “Oh no, I couldn’t,” Susan Lehigh said, wrinkling her nose under her sunglasses. Carol and the other women tried to encourage her, asking her to be Orson’s guinea pig, to try something new for a change. And where a normal person would have given in, Susan held fast. “I’d really rather not,” she said severely. So Orson Synthesized another woman, an investor in a startup Carol had also invested in, and the woman cried and shivered and the room erupted in applause. And afterward Carol invited us all into the dining room, where her chef had prepared a buffet of various meats and vegetables and fruits and cheeses. I bummed Orson’s lighter and a cigarette and went out to smoke on the balcony overlooking the city. It was night and the streets were yellow-orange under the streetlights, the people on them doll-like. I leaned on the guardrail and blew curls of smoke into the air ahead of me, imagining them floating over the city like cumulus clouds. I turned around and saw Susan Lehigh closing the sliding glass door behind her, a cigarette of her own between her fingers. She leaned on the guardrail next to me. “Do you mind giving me a light?” she asked. She was still wearing her sunglasses. I lit her cigarette and she puffed on it with the assuredness of a lifelong smoker, turning to survey the city. “Pretty at night, isn’t it, Ezra?” I nodded, remembering that I was supposed to have grown up on the streets. “I’m used to seeing it from the alleys.” “Mm,” she said, and took another drag. “What a nice change of pace for you.” “It really is,” I said, feeling somehow like I was defending myself. “It’s incredible, the world Orson opened up for me.” She looked at me. “I know about you and Orson, Ezra.” “What do you know, Ms. Lehigh?” “You haven’t touched heroin. And he hasn’t lived that noble Nebraskan life. It’s obvious, don’t you think?” I swallowed. “You’re flim-flam men,” she said. “Con men.” Adrenaline pricked beneath my skin. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” I said. It was a stupid thing to say. “It makes me sad we gave you that impression, because we’re really not.” I was babbling. She laughed. “Relax, I’m not going to expose you or whatever it is you’re worried about. I think you’re both very smart. I admire what you do.” She tucked a length of hair behind her ear. “You know your audience, you


her question. `Why did they live at the bottom of a well?' The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, `It was a treacle-well.' `There's no such thing!' Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went `Sh! sh!' and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, `If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself.' `No, please go on!' Alice said very humbly; `I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be ONE.' `One, indeed!' said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. `And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--' `What did they draw?' said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. `Treacle,' said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. `I want a clean cup,' interrupted the Hatter: `let's all move one place on.' He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: `But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?' `You can draw water out of a water-well,' said the Hatter; `so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?' `But they were IN the well,' Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. `Of course they were', said the Dormouse; `--well in.' This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. `They were learning to draw,' the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; `and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--' `Why with an M?' said Alice. `Why not?' said the March Hare. Alice was silent. The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: `--that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness-- you know you say things are "much of a muchness"--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?' `Really, now you ask me,' said Alice, very much confused, `I don't think--' `Then you shouldn't talk,' said the Hatter. This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot. `At any rate


It possessed three distinct propulsion systems: one for standard propulsion, one for wormhole traversal, and a mysterious auxiliary system that the computer struggled to analyze. Lu-puk promptly ordered a diagnostic test, considering the possibility of an internal issue with his scanners. The crew of the third ship comprised various species, including the bipedal mammals from the first vessel, as well as a few artificial entities. Lu-puk licked his lips and glanced back at the moaning Bliddit. Being on duty when new species stumbled into the trap meant a bonus payout. He could afford to purchase more delicacies for his mate next time, perhaps even some for their brood of twenty. An alert appeared on the screen, causing his tail to lash harder and his spikes to bristle at full attention. If the information was correct, he would receive a significantly larger bonus than usual. Double-checking the data, he transmitted the stream to the admiral’s ship and sent a signal. Within moments, the image of Admiral Plu-tik—seven meters tall and adorned in deep red-purple hues—materialized within his mind. “What is it, Commander?” the admiral inquired. “Three ships have arrived simultaneously,” Lu-puk reported. “Multiple alien species, including one artificial and another that we have encountered before.” Something in his tone must have alerted Plu-tik, as the admiral’s spikes also rose. “Harvested?” he questioned. “No, sir. Last time, they destroyed their data before we could determine their location.” The admiral’s inner eyelids flickered back and forth, and a grin spread across his face, exposing his teeth. “Data?” he asked eagerly. “Sent,” Lu-puk replied. A moment of silence followed as the data streamed into Admiral Plu-tik. Lu-puk glanced at the Bliddit once more, contemplating whether he had time for another bite before the admiral finished reviewing. He suspected he did, but he didn’t want to risk it. Eating while conversing with a superior was an invitation for punishment, ranging from food confiscation to becoming the meal himself. He rubbed the scarred gouge on his side, a reminder of his past insolence during basic training. No, he would exercise patience and see what transpired. “Very well,” Admiral Plu-tik declared. “Why can’t the computer analyze the propulsion system of the smallest ship?” “Unknown, sir,” Lu-puk responded. “A diagnostic and sensor adjustment is underway. Shall we commence the harvest?” The admiral’s inner eyelids closed, and he emitted a long, contemplative hiss. “Are they trapped?” “The two larger ships, yes, Admiral. The status of the third ship is unknown, but they are not making any attempts to escape at present, only conducting scans.” “For now, leave them be,” the admiral instructed. “Monitor and report any unusual activity. And ensure your computer is functioning properly. I want to know the propulsion system of the other ships before the next cycle begins.” The image of the admiral gradually faded from Lu-puk’s mind, and he refocused his attention on the computer. He commanded a thorough scan of all the creatures aboard the ships, as well as their mechanical, electronic, and quantum systems. It would take hours to complete, affording him ample time. Slithering


went out into the garden. She had just taken a piece of bread and cut herself some cheese. It was all left on her plate. The other three stared at it in distress. Anne was upset. How could she have been so silly as to forget she mustn't mention Tim? "Oh, please call George back!" she said. "She didn't mean to kick me. It was an accident." But her aunt was very angry with George. "Finish your meal," she said to the others. "I expect George will go into the sulks now. Dear, dear, she is such a difficult child!" The others didn't mind about George going into the sulks. What they did mind was that George might refuse to take them to see the wreck now! They finished the meal in silence. Their aunt went to see if Uncle Quentin wanted any more pie. He was having his meal in the study by himself. As soon as she had gone out of the room, Anne picked up the bread and cheese from George's plate and went out into the garden. The boys didn't scold her. They knew that Anne's tongue very often ran away with her- but she always tried to make up for it afterwards. They thought it was very brave of her to go and find George. George was lying on her back under a big tree in the garden. Anne went up to her. "I'm sorry I nearly made a mistake, George," she said. "Here's your bread and cheese. I've brought it for you. I promise I'll never forget not to mention Tim again." George sat up. "I've a good mind not to take you to see the wreck," she said. "Stupid baby!" Anne's heart sank. This was what she had feared. "Well," she said, "you needn't take me, of course. But you might take the boys, George. After all, they didn't do anything silly. And anyway, you gave me an awful kick. Look at the bruise." George looked at it. Then she looked at Anne. "But wouldn't you be miserable if I took Julian and Dick without you?" she asked. "Of course," said Anne. "But I don't want to make them miss a treat, even if I have to." Then George did a surprising thing for her. She gave Anne a hug! Then she immediately looked most ashamed of herself, for she felt sure that no boy would have done that! And she always tried to act like a boy. "It's all right," she said, gruffly, taking the bread and cheese. "You were nearly very silly- and I gave you a kick- so it's all square. Of course you can come this afternoon." Anne sped back to tell the boys that everything was all right- and in fifteen minutes' time four children ran down to the beach. By a boat was a brown-faced fisher-boy, about fourteen years old. He had Timothy with him. "Boat's all ready, Master George," he said with a grin. "And Tim's ready, too." "Thanks," said George, and told the others to get in.


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

said Hall. "Warn't speakin' to us, wuz he?" "Disgraceful!" said Mr. Bunting, within. "'Disgraceful,'" said Mr. Henfrey. "I heard it--distinct. "Who's that speaking now?" asked Henfrey. "Mr. Cuss, I s'pose," said Hall. "Can you hear--anything?" Silence. The sounds within indistinct and perplexing. "Sounds like throwing the table-cloth about," said Hall. Mrs. Hall appeared behind the bar. Hall made gestures of silence and invitation. This roused Mrs. Hall's wifely opposition. "What yer listenin' there for, Hall?" she asked. "Ain't you nothin' better to do--busy day like this?" Hall tried to convey everything by grimaces and dumb show, but Mrs. Hall was obdurate. She raised her voice. So Hall and Henfrey, rather crestfallen, tip-toed back to the bar, gesticulating to explain to her. At first she refused to see anything in what they had heard at all. Then she insisted on Hall keeping silence, while Henfrey told her his story. She was inclined to think the whole business nonsense --perhaps they were just moving the furniture about. "I heerd'n say 'disgraceful'; that I did," said Hall. "I heerd that, Mis' Hall," said Henfrey. "Like as not--" began Mrs. Hall. "Hsh!" said Mr. Teddy Henfrey. "Didn't I hear the window?" "What window?" asked Mrs. Hall. "Parlour window," said Henfrey. Every one stood listening intently. Mrs. Hall's eyes, directed straight before her, saw without seeing the brilliant oblong of the inn door, the road white and vivid, and Huxter's shop-front blistering in the June sun. Abruptly Huxter's door opened and Huxter appeared, eyes staring with excitement, arms gesticulating. "Yap!" cried Huxter. "Stop thief!" and he ran obliquely across the oblong towards the yard gates, and vanished. Simultaneously came a tumult from the parlour, and a sound of windows being closed. Hall, Henfrey, and the human contents of the Tap rushed out at once pell-mell into the street. They saw some one whisk round the corner towards the down road, and Mr. Huxter executing a complicated leap in the air that ended on his face and shoulder. Down the street people were standing astonished or running towards them. Mr. Huxter was stunned. Henfrey stopped to discover this, but Hall and the two labourers from the Tap rushed at once to the corner, shouting incoherent things, and saw Mr. Marvel vanishing by the corner of the church wall. They appear to have jumped to the impossible conclusion that this was the Invisible Man suddenly become visible, and set off at once along the lane in pursuit. But Hall had hardly run a dozen yards before he gave a loud shout of astonishment and went flying headlong sideways, clutching one of the labourers and bringing him to the ground. He had been charged just as one charges a man at football. The second labourer came round in a circle, stared, and conceiving that Hall had tumbled over of his own accord, turned to resume the pursuit, only to be tripped by the ankle just as Huxter had been. Then, as the first labourer struggled to his feet, he was kicked sideways by a blow that might have felled an


us on the rooftop, the features snapped right into place—fast and easy, like normal. When I saw Sue and Mrs. Kim—looking positively ethereal in their traditional hanbok dresses—I saw their lovely faces right away. I could see Witt and Mr. Kim just fine in their suits as well—their faces just sensibly resting on their heads as if they’d never been gone. If I didn’t know the person at all, though—Witt’s grandmother, for example—the faces stayed disjointed. If I knew the person a little bit—an acquaintance, say … the face might start out unreadable but then slide into place a little later, like it resisted for a minute and then finally gave in. It was unbelievably trippy. But it was also progress. I confess, I’d been hoping to put on that dress, walk out on that roof, and see every face with total ease in a blaze of triumph—just exactly like old times. But it wasn’t exactly like old times. In some ways, it was better. Because seeing familiar faces again was a joy. And not seeing unfamiliar faces? It was fine. It was manageable. The last time I’d been on this roof at a party, I was positively nauseated with fear. But tonight? I was okay. If I recognized a person, great. If I didn’t, that was okay, too. That was triumphant in its own quiet way. Before the party, I’d come up with a throwdown phrase in case I started to panic, and it went like this: “Help me out here. I have a facial recognition problem. Have we met before?” Want to know what the hardest part of that phrase was? The word help.” Which, as we know, had never been my thing. But I wasn’t asking anyone for anything hard, I told myself. I wasn’t asking for help with trigonometry, or climbing El Capitan, or storming the beaches of Normandy. All anyone had to do was answer one easy little question. This, I reminded myself, like all hard things in life, was an opportunity. A chance for me to practice asking for help. And: Have we met before? You couldn’t buy a better starter phrase for that. A person could fulfill that request with one syllable. That’s what I told myself. No big deal. I practiced it over and over while I was getting dressed, and then I’d walked across the roof—as ready as I’d ever be—while arguing with the nervousness in my chest in a way that would make Dr. Nicole very proud. This was doable. No dry heaving out behind the mechanical room necessary. I could just … breathe. And admire Mrs. Kim’s magazine-worthy tables. And feel the rays of the setting sun warming my skin. And enjoy my skirt’s ruffles swishing around my calves. And sway a little bit to the music of the band. If that’s not a triumph, I don’t know what is. * * * ON A SCIENTIFIC level, it was totally fascinating to watch the fusiform face gyrus somewhere in between functioning and not functioning—seeing it do its thing in real time.


was a pretty simple merger, but you never knew what crazy requests would come down the pike at the eleventh hour. “I can stay,” Finn says. I shake my head. “We both know I’m using this excuse to avoid thinking about the mess I’ve made of my personal life.” He pauses and then says, “You’re a good person, Daphne. It will all work out.” So why hasn’t it yet? I want to ask. But I don’t. After work, I walk down the tree-lined sidewalk slowly, savoring my favorite time of day, when the heat dissipates and the shadows play, when lights from inside happy homes shine on families filled with love. I pin on a smiling face as I walk through my front door. Henry races through the hallway in clean but ever-so-slightly too-tight pajamas that accentuate his tummy and jumps into my arms. I bury my face in his warm neck, kissing his wet hair that smells of baby shampoo. The panic of how I almost risked his future today overwhelms me. The day he was born I promised I would protect him no matter what, that I would choose him over everyone and everything else. Today I almost broke that promise. But, in the end, I didn’t have to. We’re okay. It’s all okay. “Where’s Daddy?” I ask as I put him down. “Making dinner.” “Is that what I smell?” I walk into the kitchen, where music is softly playing on the Bluetooth speaker and Steven, as if he is in Top Chef, sprinkles salt on something in a pan. “I’m sorry. Who are you and what have you done with my baby daddy? Clean kid? Dinner on the stove?” He turns and smiles that glittering Steven smile. I have to admit, this picture of domesticity is pretty appealing. He pops the cork on a bottle of champagne and pours himself a glass and me a glass of sparkling water. “What are we celebrating?” I ask. “Being alive.” And I remember what I adore about him. Today I had been consumed with the idea that I have ruined everything, that I have done nothing productive and that I am making everything worse for everyone around me, while Steven is celebrating because he has oxygen in his lungs. And so I decide that I will be like Steven. I will celebrate tonight because I am still youngish and upright and healthy, and I have a beautiful child. “Henry,” Steven says, as he raises his glass, “to your wonderful mommy.” “My beautiful mommy!” Henry chimes in, hugging my leg. He looks up at me. “Mommy, Aunt Lanier came over when you were gone.” “Oh, yeah,” Steven says. “She said… I don’t know. Something, something, something, she’s sorry. Something, something, something, can you meet her at camp at five tomorrow?” “Um, no. No, I cannot.” June walks in, and I squeal and hug her. It’s the first time I have seen June wearing something other than a camp shirt in years, and I like it. My heart aches a little that Lanier won’t


why Squire Cass throws big raucous parties and spends his time at the local pub--his wife died long ago. Eliot expresses here her ideal of woman's role--as a source of order, refinement, and loving feelings. Lacking a mother, the Cass sons have turned out badly. Compare this all-male family to Silas Marner's, which seems to consist only of himself, a mother, and a sister. Eliot lets you hear the village gossip about Dunstan and Godfrey. While Dunstan sounds thoroughly bad, Godfrey seems good-hearted. But people have been worried about Godfrey's behavior lately. Everyone's hoping he'll straighten himself out by marrying Nancy Lammeter, obviously the daughter of another important Raveloe family. Now you meet the Cass brothers in person, so you can make up your own mind about them. As Godfrey stands by the fire, the parlor around him defines his gloomy mood. It's dimly lit and messy, full of pleasure's leftovers--discarded hunting clothes, half-empty mugs of beer, ashy pipes, and a dying fire. When Dunsey, who's been drinking, strolls into the room, his jeering tone lives up to the villagers' opinion of him. Agitated, Godfrey demands that Dunstan return the money he borrowed from Godfrey, which was a tenant's rent payment. Dunstan knows how to manipulate Godfrey, though. He threatens to tell the Squire about Godfrey's marriage to drunken Molly Farren, and Godfrey reacts with fear. Now you know why lately Godfrey's been acting strangely. NOTE: PARALLELS Like Silas, Godfrey is taken advantage of by a thieving brother. (Dane was like a brother to Silas.) Both hope to marry a nice young woman but are prevented by shameful situations--Silas' conviction and Godfrey's marriage. What obvious contrasts, however, can you point to? This is the first scene Eliot dramatizes directly. She doesn't comment much, except to show characters' gestures and expressions. In slangy, lively speech, the brothers refer casually to people they know, whom you haven't met. You've caught them in the midst of life, with upcoming events (the hunt, Mrs. Osgood's party) and ongoing quarrels. Afraid of their father, they blackmail each other. Godfrey declares he may confess his marriage to the Squire to shake off Dunstan's hold on him. But Eliot takes you into his thoughts, to show that this springs from desperation more than courage--Molly's been threatening to reveal herself to his father, anyway. He thinks over the consequences of confession: losing Nancy and being disinherited. Bred to a useless life, he couldn't do anything for a living. Dunstan knows how to handle his brother. He sits back, waiting until Godfrey has cowardly talked himself out of this move. Godfrey realizes that he must sell his horse Wildfire to get the money. Actually, this is Dunstan's suggestion, and Dunstan convinces his flustered brother to let him sell the animal. Compare Dunstan's cool confidence in his own luck to Godfrey's nervous decision to risk getting caught rather than turn himself in. Which brother seems the stronger in this scene? Which brother do you like better? Why? After Dunstan has left, Eliot enters Godfrey's thoughts with sympathetic insight into his problems. Surprisingly,


do you think you’re so complicated?” “Because everyone else does.” I shake my head, rolling to my side to face her and propping my head on a hand. “Not me. You’re a Rubik’s Cube with four blocks.” She laughs, reaching across her body to smack my chest. “Hey.” “A maze with a straight line through the middle. It’s just that most men are quite stupid.” I can tell she wants to be mad but the delight in her eyes burns bright. She reaches up, brushing my hair off my forehead. “Careful,” she says. “Careful what?” Her lips are soft and wet, her neck bare and stretching endlessly, soft for my mouth. I can see her pulse beating just beneath her jaw and want to press my face there and absorb the feeling of her fire thrumming under my touch. “You gonna rough me up for being straight with you that you’re just a big, messy softie?” She drags her fingers along my temple and down my jaw. “Are you trying to make me want you?” “I think that’s the problem,” I say, adjusting my head in my hand. “I don’t really have to try.” Fizzy smiles distractedly. “Because you’re so sexy?” “Obviously.” She rolls back to her side, tracing her thumb along my bottom lip, and not even an oncoming train could get me to evade her touch. I can see in her eyes, too, that she understood my true meaning. I don’t have to try with her because everything between us is too easy. Too obvious. Too good. The idea that she’d end up with a Jude or even a Nick seems laughable now. But so is the idea that she’d end up with me. Trying to clear the fog of alcohol and desire, I pull away from her touch. Her eyes refocus and she blinks away from my lips. “Uh-oh,” she whispers. “The spell is broken.” “Nah, it’s late. I’m sure you’ve got more wedding celebrations early tomorrow. I should head home.” Fizzy frowns. “Let’s put on a movie or something. You’ve been drinking.” “I’ll cab it.” I move to climb from bed, but she cups a hand over my forearm, stilling me. “Connor. You should stay here. I can behave myself. I promise.” I laugh. “You’re not the only one who needs to behave, sweet. Historically I just have more self-control. I don’t think I do tonight.” She sucks in a sharp breath and exhales it shakily. “I’ll have it for us, then. I know we can’t fool around.” “For about a hundred reasons,” I say. “The most obvious one being the show. A second, equally important one being that for you it can be just sex, and for me it’s something more sincere. I don’t want one without the other, and unfortunately, sincerity seems to be off the table.” “Does it?” she asks quietly. I stare at her, at her thoughtful pout and lashes fanned on her cheeks as she closes her eyes and exhales again. “What does that mean?” I ask. “I don’t think this is just


me that I should comply with his request. Turning to him, therefore, I said, "I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit Europe forever, and every other place in the neighbourhood of man, as soon as I shall deliver into your hands a female who will accompany you in your exile." "I swear," he cried, "by the sun, and by the blue sky of heaven, and by the fire of love that burns my heart, that if you grant my prayer, while they exist you shall never behold me again. Depart to your home and commence your labours; I shall watch their progress with unutterable anxiety; and fear not but that when you are ready I shall appear." Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any change in my sentiments. I saw him descend the mountain with greater speed than the flight of an eagle, and quickly lost among the undulations of the sea of ice. His tale had occupied the whole day, and the sun was upon the verge of the horizon when he departed. I knew that I ought to hasten my descent towards the valley, as I should soon be encompassed in darkness; but my heart was heavy, and my steps slow. The labour of winding among the little paths of the mountain and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced perplexed me, occupied as I was by the emotions which the occurrences of the day had produced. Night was far advanced when I came to the halfway resting-place and seated myself beside the fountain. The stars shone at intervals as the clouds passed from over them; the dark pines rose before me, and every here and there a broken tree lay on the ground; it was a scene of wonderful solemnity and stirred strange thoughts within me. I wept bitterly, and clasping my hands in agony, I exclaimed, "Oh! Stars and clouds and winds, ye are all about to mock me; if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me become as nought; but if not, depart, depart, and leave me in darkness." These were wild and miserable thoughts, but I cannot describe to you how the eternal twinkling of the stars weighed upon me and how I listened to every blast of wind as if it were a dull ugly siroc on its way to consume me. Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamounix; I took no rest, but returned immediately to Geneva. Even in my own heart I could give no expression to my sensations--they weighed on me with a mountain's weight and their excess destroyed my agony beneath them. Thus I returned home, and entering the house, presented myself to the family. My haggard and wild appearance awoke intense alarm, but I answered no question, scarcely did I speak. I felt as if I were placed under a ban--as if I had no right to claim their sympathies--as if never more might I enjoy companionship with them. Yet even thus I loved them to adoration;


tires were coated in mud, its metal body dinged by bullets. It rolled in from the western road, which Iris knew led to the war front. “Oh my gods,” Marisol said with a gasp. She dropped her basket and ran, following the lorry as it drove down another road. Iris had no choice but to set down her basket and follow her. “Marisol! Marisol, what’s happening?” If Marisol heard her, she didn’t slow. Her black hair was like a pennant as she raced, as everyone around them followed suit, until a huge crowd gathered around the lorry. It parked at the infirmary, and that was when Iris, sore for breath with a stitch in her side, realized what this was. The lorry had brought a load of wounded soldiers. “Quickly, get the stretchers!” “Easy, now. Easy.” “Where’s a nurse? We need a nurse, please!” It was madness as the lorry’s back doors were opened and the wounded were carefully unloaded. Iris wanted to help. She wanted to step forward and do something—Do something! her mind screamed—but she could only stand there, frozen to the road, watching. The soldiers were dirty, smeared in grime and blood. One of them was weeping, his right leg blown off at the knee. Another was missing an arm, moaning. Their countenances were blanched in shock, creased in agony. Some were unconscious, with battered faces and ripped uniforms. Iris felt the world tilt. But no one paid her any attention as she turned and vomited. Get a grip on yourself, she thought, hands on her knees, eyes closed. This is war. This is what you signed up for. Don’t look away from it. She straightened and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She turned, envisioning her brother. If Forest were in that lorry, she would go to him with confidence. She would be calm and collected and helpful. She wove through the crowd and helped a soldier down from the lorry bed. Iris noticed the girl could hardly stand upright; she had a gut wound. The blood on her dark green uniform was sticky—it smeared onto Iris’s hand and jumpsuit, crimson as a rose—and the girl groaned as Iris eased her inside the infirmary. There weren’t enough beds. A nurse at the door motioned for Iris to take the girl down the right-hand corridor after looking at her wounds. “Find any place you can where she’ll be comfortable,” the nurse had said, and Iris was now searching for a spot. But there was only the floor—even all the chairs were taken—and Iris could feel the girl slowly losing consciousness. “You’re all right,” Iris said to her when she whimpered. “You’re safe now.” “Just … put me down … on the … floor.” Iris did, gently, leaning her against the wall. The girl closed her eyes, hands pressed to her stomach. Overwhelmed, Iris found the closest nurse, who was rushing by with a bucket of bloody water and rags. “Please, there’s a soldier over there who needs attention. I’m not sure what to do to help