put a stop to this,' she said to herself, and shouted out, `You'd better not do that again!' which produced another dead silence. Alice noticed with some surprise that the pebbles were all turning into little cakes as they lay on the floor, and a bright idea came into her head. `If I eat one of these cakes,' she thought, `it's sure to make SOME change in my size; and as it can't possibly make me larger, it must make me smaller, I suppose.' So she swallowed one of the cakes, and was delighted to find that she began shrinking directly. As soon as she was small enough to get through the door, she ran out of the house, and found quite a crowd of little animals and birds waiting outside. The poor little Lizard, Bill, was in the middle, being held up by two guinea-pigs, who were giving it something out of a bottle. They all made a rush at Alice the moment she appeared; but she ran off as hard as she could, and soon found herself safe in a thick wood. `The first thing I've got to do,' said Alice to herself, as she wandered about in the wood, `is to grow to my right size again; and the second thing is to find my way into that lovely garden. I think that will be the best plan.' It sounded an excellent plan, no doubt, and very neatly and simply arranged; the only difficulty was, that she had not the smallest idea how to set about it; and while she was peering about anxiously among the trees, a little sharp bark just over her head made her look up in a great hurry. An enormous puppy was looking down at her with large round eyes, and feebly stretching out one paw, trying to touch her. `Poor little thing!' said Alice, in a coaxing tone, and she tried hard to whistle to it; but she was terribly frightened all the time at the thought that it might be hungry, in which case it would be very likely to eat her up in spite of all her coaxing. Hardly knowing what she did, she picked up a little bit of stick, and held it out to the puppy; whereupon the puppy jumped into the air off all its feet at once, with a yelp of delight, and rushed at the stick, and made believe to worry it; then Alice dodged behind a great thistle, to keep herself from being run over; and the moment she appeared on the other side, the puppy made another rush at the stick, and tumbled head over heels in its hurry to get hold of it; then Alice, thinking it was very like having a game of play with a cart-horse, and expecting every moment to be trampled under its feet, ran round the thistle again; then the puppy began a series of short charges at the stick, running a very little way forwards each time and a long way back, and barking hoarsely all the


Ehn? What?” Mọ́tárá had spent most of the day in bed reading and rereading texts from Wúràọlá, veering between fear and anger until her head ached. Since Yèyé’s birthday, she had been dreaming about Wúràọlá. In some of the dreams, her sister was dead or in mortal danger. Hit by a car, burnt in a fire, attacked by a mob. The scenarios changed, but one thing remained the same—the instigator was always that Kúnlé. Last night, she had woken up bathed in sweat, nightdress stuck to her skin. Once, she’d crept into Yèyé’s bed, and her mother had spent almost an hour prodding her about what dream had driven her out of her room. That was her chance to tell Yèyé what that coconut-head Kúnlé had done. Instead, she had pretended to fall asleep so Yèyé would not worry about her. “I don’t understand why you can’t get up from the bed and throw these things in the dustbin. You better receive sense and start cleaning up after yourself. Is this how you will behave in your husband’s house, ehn?” Yèyé pointed at the carton of juice Mọ́tárá had left on the floor the night before. “And forty-eight,” Mọ́tárá said, standing up. “What?” “Nothing.” “Wúràọlá’s room was never like this.” For as long as she could remember, Mọ́tárá’s parents had been asking her to be more like her sister. They wanted her to earn the kind of grades Wúràọlá had in secondary school, be as quiet and agreeable as Wúràọlá was with them, help around the house, become a doctor. She had mostly disappointed them on all counts. Crowning it all by failing, of all things, biology in A levels. Now she was supposed to be studying to retake her A level papers, but her textbook had remained unopened since she came back home from boarding school the year before. A second failure would mean they had to give up on their dreams and listen to hers. At least she hoped so. She could not waste another year because her parents wanted her to become Saint Wúràọlá the Impeccable. Mọ́tárá picked up the carton and binned it. “Sort out the clothes and fold them before distributing to each person’s room. Don’t just dump clothes on my bed or wait for Rachel to come and help you fold.” “But—” “Don’t ‘but’ me, just do what I say, you hear.” Mọ́tárá left the room. There was no arguing with Yèyé when she was upset, and she’d come back from her shop yesterday in a bad mood. The thud of pestle against mortar was audible from the landing. It got louder as Mọ́tárá moved closer to the kitchen. Rachel stopped pounding when she saw Mọ́tárá. “You shouldn’t pound things in the middle of the kitchen.” Mọ́tárá wrinkled her nose. The kitchen smelled like blood. Something must have been gutted and cleaned just before she came into the room. Rachel squatted and braced her body against the wooden mortar, grunting as she pushed it across the floor. It made a scraping sound until it stopped beside


focal point of the table was a green marble Kleenex box and Louise realized it was the urn she’d picked out. Mark had insisted that their mom and dad wanted to be cremated and no one could find any instructions to the contrary, and when Louise had called Stuhr’s and they’d told her that the contract Mark had signed was nonrefundable, she’d Googled it and discovered that plenty of families interred cremains in a burial plot. So, cremation it was. Behind the urn stood two framed caricatures of her parents. Her cartoon dad peered through thick glasses at blackboards displaying equations clearly written by someone who didn’t know math. His bristly mustache hung down to his chin, and it must’ve been a recent drawing because he wore the ankle boot on one foot. A bunch of bears dressed like gangsters posed in the background and Louise figured the artist meant them to be the Chicago Bears. “Wrong bears,” she said to herself. Her mom’s caricature sported a crazed grin, and on her right hand, of course, she wore Pupkin with his matching smile. Louise wondered if he should have gone to the crematorium with her mom, but the thought of forcing her dad to share an urn with Pupkin’s ashes for eternity made her breath feel tight in her chest. Pupkin was hopefully in the back of a garbage truck by now on his way to the dump. She felt a pang of guilt about what she’d done, then smothered it. She never wanted to see his creepy grinning face again. Behind her mom and Pupkin, the caricaturist had drawn every single one of her mom’s puppets. Forty years of puppetry filled the frame: Monty the Dog from A Stray in the Manger, Danny the Imagination Dragon, Cosmic Starshine, Meow Meow and Rogers, the Inside-Out Man, Judge Goodsense, Flossy Bossypants, Mr. Don’t, Pizzaface, Sister Whimsical, Deuteronomy the Donkey . . . “Louise,” a man said behind her. She turned to face the only other person who looked like he wasn’t about to lead a chorus of “Puff the Magic Dragon.” He wore a white cassock and had a red heatstroke face, and he squinted at her through tiny glasses. He thrust out his hand. “Reverend Mike. This is certainly a change from our usual congregation.” He smiled at the mayhem. “Thank you for having us,” Louise said, scanning the crowd. “I’m sorry about the craziness, but my mom . . .” “Wonderful craziness,” Reverend Mike said, clutching her hand in his sweaty paw. “Just like your mother. It’s what she would have wanted.” Then Louise saw Mark stride up the aisle wearing seersucker shorts, a seersucker jacket, and a red tie. To Louise’s horror, he also wore sandals. “The man of the hour!” Reverend Mike said, and scuttled off to greet Mark. Everyone seemed to know him. Louise saw Judi, string-puller in chief of the FCP, give him a hug. Puppet people shook Mark’s hand and showed him their spinning bow ties, and he shook their puppets’ hands, accepted their furry hugs,


laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really glad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The evening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of its animation, and almost all its sense, by the absence of Jane and Elizabeth. They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough bass and human nature; and had some new extracts to admire, and some new observations of thread-bare morality to listen to. Catherine and Lydia had information for them of a different sort. Much had been done and much had been said in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been flogged, and it had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married. __ CHAPTER XIII (13) ``I HOPE my dear,'' said Mr. Bennet to his wife as they were at breakfast the next morning, ``that you have ordered a good dinner to-day, because I have reason to expect an addition to our family party.'' ``Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure, unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in, and I hope _my_ dinners are good enough for her. I do not believe she often sees such at home.'' ``The person of whom I speak, is a gentleman and a stranger.'' Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled. -- ``A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr. Bingley, I am sure. Why Jane -- you never dropt a word of this; you sly thing! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr. Bingley. -- But -- good lord! how unlucky! there is not a bit of fish to be got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell. I must speak to Hill, this moment.'' ``It is _not_ Mr. Bingley,'' said her husband; ``it is a person whom I never saw in the whole course of my life.'' This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being eagerly questioned by his wife and five daughters at once. After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained. ``About a month ago I received this letter, and about a fortnight ago I answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases.'' ``Oh! my dear,'' cried his wife, ``I cannot bear to hear that mentioned. Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing in the world that your estate should be entailed away from your own children; and I am sure if I had been you, I should have tried long ago to do something or other about it.'' Jane and Elizabeth attempted to explain to her the nature of an entail. They had often attempted it before, but it was a subject on which Mrs. Bennet was beyond


table. ‘You can talk to me, you know. We are friends, aren’t we?’ He was leaning against the fridge. ‘I hate this job.’ ‘No, you don’t.’ ‘I do. I hate this stupid job. I don’t know why I ever came here. And I hate my night course and every reminder of what I missed out on—’ I struggled to open the wrapper on the plaster but my thoughts kept running on. ‘Just when I think I’ve got a handle on things, my life is turned upside down again. And I don’t even understand what any of it means. Why that book appeared in my room and seems to be talking to me. How Shane died in this house, as if by accident, but it didn’t make any sense. Then my mother beginning to speak again, only to tell me that she was adopted and so nothing is what I thought it was. And now Madame Bowden – I know you think I’m overreacting, but something doesn’t feel right! None of this is normal,’ I said, my hands shaking. I threw the plaster on the floor and gave up. ‘But you know what I hate most?’ I turned to look at Henry, who was just standing there, letting me throw out the jumbled contents of my head. ‘I hate how hard I’ve had to fight against what I really want because I’m so scared of getting hurt again.’ There was a moment of silence, where I almost regretted saying everything out loud. ‘What do you really want?’ I looked up at him, tears in my eyes. ‘You.’ We collided as if our lives depended on it. He swept me up in his arms and kissed me in a way that held nothing back. My entire life focused down to this point – like adjusting the lens of a microscope to find the one thing that matters most. Love. Chapter Fifty-One HENRY We lay in Martha’s single bed, every inch of our skin touching. The wall between us had crumbled with every heart-sore word she spoke in the kitchen, like an exorcism of the past. The truth shall set you free, that’s what they say. We were both laid bare now and I knew then and there that she was my destiny. Every stupid, seemingly pointless, difficult, lonely, challenging thing I had done in my life before this had led me here, to Ha'penny Lane. ‘Are you okay?’ I felt her head nodding against my chest and I pulled her even closer into me. My heart felt ten times its usual size. I felt like I could lift a car, if I needed to. Probably best not to try, but the feeling was there nonetheless. ‘There’s something I never told you,’ I said. ‘Oh God, you’re not engaged to somebody else, are you?’ ‘Very funny. I’ll engage you in a minute if you’re not careful.’ ‘If you’re not careful, I might say yes.’ ‘Did we just get married?’ She laughed a little hoarsely, directly into my ear, which was ridiculously sexy. ‘I might give


living daylights out of each of them, one after another—reducing them to little more than scraps of metal upon the deck. The decimated nanite constructs were now incapable of reforming. As more beetles arrived within the corridor, Reggie relentlessly pursued them. Sonya could tell by the big T-Rex’s expression, he was enjoying himself. Her Jadoo ring was vibrating. She thumb-tapped it, and without looking down at the projected display, said, “Satisfied?” “It’s a good start,” her uncle said, seeming far less impressed than he should be. “How about you let Reggie continue doing his thing while you and Hardy head back to the bridge?” “How’s he going to know where to go?” “Looks like that won’t be a problem; they’re heading en masse toward him.” Sonya, realizing this was probably not someplace she wanted to be, glanced behind herself, then took a tentative step backward. “I have another job for you.” “Terrific, I can’t wait.” “It’s important, Sonya … Important to the very survival of humankind.” “Uh-huh … Exaggerate much?” “I’m not exaggerating in the slightest. We need Adams’ memory banks scrubbed. And not just a cursory erasing of data. Nothing can be left on board that points to the location of our home world. Nothing.” She heard the seriousness in his voice and felt a chill run down her spine. “I’ll do it … but, just so you know, Adams will be unable to—” “Navigate back to Earth? Where Adams is heading, she won’t need that information.” “Copy that,” she said in a clipped voice suddenly at odds with her emotions. She swallowed and blinked away the welling of tears. Will I ever have a real home? Chapter 55 Liquilid Empire Star System Asteroid Command Center Captain Gail Pristy No sooner had the six of them arrived than Resnick was busy checking his ChronoLink. For the umpteenth time, Pristy wondered what the hell that was all about. If destiny was so set in stone, chiseled into the annals of space-time, then what the hell was he looking for? The four others, Derrota, Dr. Kline, LaSalle, and Petty Officer Aubrey Laramie, were far less concerned by Resnick’s actions than they were by their surroundings. It was a subterranean space that dwarfed the one below Lost Tombstone by a factor of a hundred. Everyone squinted against the flashing, strobing lights, complementary colors seeming to be changing value, red to green, yellow to purple, and so on. Prior to stepping into the subterranean ringularity, Resnick had relayed what their final mission would entail. And that after this, the services of the five of them would no longer be required. Whatever that meant … Derrota looked about the vast space with an expression of “ahh.” Pristy joined him. “What are we looking at here, Stephan?” “Simply put, this is the basis, the root cause, of so much suffering, so many deaths.” The others gathered around them, including Resnick. The flux generator loomed above, a breathtaking sight. Derrota continued, “My assumption is the core there … those glowing concentric rings, they’re designed to both harness and


homosexual and one a self-described “straight guy.” His focus skitters wildly across the page, picking up a phrase here, a jarring slur there, and he forces himself back to the beginning. Why have so many fairies come out in the open recently? Wherever I go I run into them—the Village, East Side, Harlem, even the Bronx, Andy reads. And then the answer: We no longer have the energy to hide. You can’t know the strain on a person in always pretending. He realizes he’s biting his nails and forces his hand around his now-cold cup of coffee. That’s Nick the man is writing about. That’s Nick, and it’s the people in tight trousers walking around this neighborhood, and he’s pretty sure his freshman year calculus professor, and at least one of the boys from his dorm, and— He thinks about that man looking back over his shoulder at him, and he thinks about what some other, braver version of himself might have done, and he has to admit to himself, even if never to anyone else, that the article is talking about him, at least a little. At least theoretically. Not really, though, because Andy likes women. Dating women isn’t a burden to him. He isn’t hiding, like that man in the article. Sure, he’s looked at men and felt the same thing as when he looks at women, but he’s always known he wasn’t going to do anything about it. When he learned the words for men who liked men, he knew they didn’t apply to him, couldn’t possibly apply to him, and thank God for it because Andy had enough problems without being queer. Those words weren’t for men who could have happily, cheerfully settled down with a woman. Nothing about that life he could have had—the life he’ll wind up having with someone he hasn’t even met yet, the kind of life he wants—feels like hiding. Andy reads the rest of the article as carefully as he’s ever read any piece of newsprint. He reads the demand for acceptance and basic rights, the rejection of shame and fear. He reads the calm rebuttal of all the usual arguments against homosexuality, and the statement that it makes no sense to argue against a thing that simply is. Andy ought to have guessed that there were people campaigning for homosexual rights in the same way that people campaign for the rights of any subjugated group, but seeing it in print makes it real. That’s what newspapers do, isn’t it? They make things concrete, they make it hard to look away. He imagines what would happen if the Chronicle printed something like this—a call to arms. And the fact is that he can’t. He can’t imagine any paper doing it, but here one is, right in front of him. He goes back to the beginning and reads the article another time, and by the end his sweaty fingers have picked up some of the newsprint. He feels like the text of the article has gotten under his skin, inside of him, because


the Earth, but fire perfects it, and it is fire that brings day into night. As Valentinus said, at the end of the world, the world shall be judged by fire. After the conflagration, there shall be formed a new heaven and a new earth, and the new man will be more noble in his glorified state. This all sounded to Montserrat like the kind of literature that would definitely appear in Enigma, with mentions of this and that alchemist, or an occultist she’d never heard of. She’d tried to understand the book but was having a hard time of it. Maybe she was going into this from the wrong direction. Maybe she needed to talk to a historian. But the one historian she knew was Regina, and Montserrat tried to stay away from her exes, even if the breakup had been relatively clean. In this case, Montserrat’s crime had been the fact that she didn’t like hanging out with Regina’s friends, the lot of whom were professors and grad students from the UNAM. Montserrat found herself gritting her teeth at parties as someone yelled about Foucault. She couldn’t help but look at all those strangers gathered in her girlfriend’s living room and wonder at the fact that they were supposed to be members of the same species. This wasn’t an especially novel sensation, as she’d felt the same thing when previous boyfriends or girlfriends had attempted to induct her into their social circles. On each occasion she cycled through bewilderment, then irritation, finally ending in boredom. Not that she’d dated that much. Dating was but an impulse that flared every three or four years, but she could identify a pattern. A few weeks of affection, then months of growing cold animosity, until Montserrat simply stopped returning calls. At least she’d never made the mistake of moving in with someone, unlike Tristán. And at least her three significant relationships had not ended in spectacular drama—no yelling, no recriminations: a muffled conclusion. Regina had not taken the breakup badly, partially because Montserrat suspected she had never been all that interested in her, which made Montserrat in turn feel better. Besides, Regina and Montserrat had lasted together a little longer than usual, certainly longer than Ismael, whom she’d ditched after a marathon of nine weeks. Her more leisurely half year with Regina had, perhaps, smoothed their finale. One of Regina’s historian buddies would know if the stuff Abel Urueta had told her about radiesthesia and Nazis had any truth to it, or if he had made it up, but Montserrat didn’t feel quite ready to pick up the phone yet. Montserrat went to the kitchen and put water on to boil. The battered kettle stretched her face across its surface, deforming her reflection as she crossed her arms and waited for the steam to rise. The instant coffee was insipid, but she wasn’t fussy, and she carried her cup back to the living room to continue her reading. The opener of the way, the book said, and there was an illustration of a man


keeping his eyes trained on hers. She lifts a hand to her throat, keeping a tight hold on the wrench in her other hand. She narrows her eyes at him while her breathing returns to normal. “You don’t want to play me, Sloane. I always win.” He turns and strides past her Porsche toward the side door of the garage that leads to her yard. She is still standing against the shelving when he opens it and whirls around. “Don’t forget what I said about Ethan.” A wave of fear ripples through her when he smiles. After Brody disappears out the door, Sloane sinks to the cold concrete floor and pulls her knees to her chest. She rubs her neck. Maybe it’s time I go to the police and come forward about the affair. How else would she get Brody to leave her alone? But if what Brody said about the oxycodone is true, and he accuses her of withholding the Narcan intentionally? There would be no way to disprove it. His word against hers. Sloane brings her hand to her face. How did everything get so spun out of control? Out of all the men she could’ve picked to right the capsizing ship of her marriage, why did she have to pick a murdering psychopath? Lifting her gaze to her Porsche, she raises the wrench above her head. “Ahhh!” She screams, hurling the steel wrench into the hood of her car. The tool hits her car with a metallic clang before clamoring to the concrete floor. She stares at the dent, reminded of the devastating news photos of Crystal’s Firebird after she drove it into a telephone pole. She’d always been so quick to judge her mother’s choices, assuming it was her lack of trying that caused things not to work out. Sloane’s chest heaves with every breath. Is this how Crystal felt before she hit that pole? Helpless? Out of control? Scared? If the news of her affair gets out, Sloane would look to the rest of the world like just another jealous girlfriend driven to murder. She swipes away a tear with the back of her hand when her doorbell chime fills the garage. Chapter 38 “Man, nothing like watching the Hawks win in overtime,” Jonah says as they leave the fire station. He turns to Ethan when he reaches his car. “Hey, I’m heading to interview the patrol officer who gave Carr a ride to the hospital. I know we read her report, but I want to see if she remembers anything off about him. You want to come?” “Actually, I’ve got an errand to run. But I’m headed back to homicide afterward.” Jonah waits for Ethan to elaborate, but he doesn’t. “All right.” Jonah opens his driver’s door. “I’ll see you there. I’ve gotta work on that warrant for Carr’s security footage.” After getting into his car, Ethan pulls out his phone and dials Bayside Hospital’s ER. He’s put on hold for a few minutes before a woman comes over the line. “Bayside emergency and trauma center,


have gathered up a stray lamb in my arms; you wandered out of the fold to seek your shepherd, did you, Jane?"     "I wanted you; but don't boast. Here we are at Thornfield. Now let me get down."     He landed me on the pavement. As John took his horse, and he followed me into the hall, he told me to make haste and put something dry on, and then return to him in the library; and he stopped me, as I made for the staircase, to extort a promise that I would not be long. Nor was I long; in five minutes I rejoined him. I found him at supper.     "Take a seat and bear me company, Jane. Please God, it is the last meal but one you will eat at Thornfield Hall for a long time."     I sat down near him; but told him I could not eat.     "Is it because you have the prospect of a journey before you, Jane? Is it the thoughts of going to London that takes away your appetite?"     "I cannot see my prospects clearly to-night, sir; and I hardly know what thoughts I have in my head. Everything in life seems unreal."     "Except me; I am substantial enough. Touch me."     "You, sir, are the most phantom-like of all. You are a mere dream."     He held out his hand, laughing: "Is that a dream?" said he, placing it close to my eyes. He had a rounded, muscular and vigorous hand, as well as a long, strong arm. "Yes; though I touch it, it is a dream," said I, as I put it down from before my face. "Sir, have you finished supper?"     "Yes, Jane."     I rang the bell, and ordered away the tray. When we were again alone, I stirred the fire, and then took a low seat at my master's knee.     "It is near midnight," I said.     "Yes; but remember, Jane, you promised to wake with me the night before my wedding."     "I did; and I will keep my promise, for an hour or two at least; I have no wish to go to bed."     "Are all your arrangements complete?"     "All, sir."     "And on my part, likewise," he returned. "I have settled everything; and we shall leave Thornfield to-morrow, within half an hour after our return from church."     "Very well, sir."     "With what an extraordinary smile you uttered that word ' very well,' Jane! What a bright spot of color you have on each cheek! and how strangely your eyes glitter! Are you well?"     "I believe I am."     "Believe! What is


foes right and left. Ser Rodrik hammered at the big man in the shadowskin cloak, their horses dancing round each other as they traded blow for blow. Jyck vaulted onto a horse and galloped bareback into the fray. Tyrion saw an arrow sprout from the throat of the man in the shadowskin cloak. When he opened his mouth to scream, only blood came out. By the time he fell, Ser Rodrik was fighting someone else. Suddenly Marillion shrieked, covering his head with his woodharp as a horse leapt over their rock. Tyrion scrambled to his feet as the A GAME OF THRONES 295 rider turned to come back at them, hefting a spiked maul. Tyrion swung his axe with both hands. The blade caught the charging horse in the throat with a meaty thunk, angling upward, and Tyrion almost lost his grip as the animal screamed and collapsed. He managed to wrench the axe free and lurch clumsily out of the way. Marillion was less fortunate. Horse and rider crashed to the ground in a tangle on top of the singer. Tyrion danced back in while the brigand's leg was still pinned beneath his fallen mount, and buried the axe in the man's neck, just above the shoulder blades. As he struggled to yank the blade loose, he heard Marillion moaning under the bodies. "Someone help me," the singer gasped. "Gods have mercy, I'm bleeding." "I believe that's horse blood," Tyrion said. The singer's hand came crawling out from beneath the dead animal, scrabbling in the dirt like a spider with five legs. Tyrion put his heel on the grasping fingers and felt a satisfying crunch. "Close your eyes and pretend you're dead," he advised the singer before he hefted the axe and turned away. After that, things ran together. The dawn was full of shouts and screams and heavy with the scent of blood, and the world had turned to chaos. Arrows hissed past his ear and clattered off the rocks. He saw Bronn unhorsed, fighting with a sword in each hand. Tyrion kept on the fringes of the fight, sliding from rock to rock and darting out of the shadows to hew at the legs of passing horses. He found a wounded clansman and left him dead, helping himself to the man's halfhelm. It fit too snugly, but Tyrion was glad of any protection at all. Jyck was cut down from behind while he sliced at a man in front of him, and later Tyrion stumbled over Kurleket's body. The pig face had been smashed in with a mace, but Tyrion recognized the dirk as he plucked it from the man's dead fingers. He was sliding it through his belt when he heard a woman's scream. Catelyn Stark was trapped against the stone face of the mountain with three men around her, one still mounted and the other two on foot. She had a dagger clutched awkwardly in her maimed hands, but her back was to the rock now and they had penned her on three sides. Let them have


was nowhere to be seen. But down beneath me in a cleft of the hills there was a circle of the old stone huts, and in the middle of them there was one which retained sufficient roof to act as a screen against the weather. My heart leaped within me as I saw it. This must be the burrow where the stranger lurked. At last my foot was on the threshold of his hiding place -- his secret was within my grasp. As I approached the hut, walking as warily as Stapleton would do when with poised net he drew near the settled butterfly, I satisfied myself that the place had indeed been used as a habita- tion. A vague pathway among the boulders led to the dilapidated opening which served as a door. All was silent within. The unknown might be lurking there, or he might be prowling on the moor. My nerves tingled with the sense of adventure. Throwing aside my cigarette, I closed my hand upon the butt of my revolver and, walking swiftly up to the door, I looked in. The place was empty. But there were ample signs that I had not come upon a false scent. This was certainly where the man lived. Some blankets rolled in a waterproof lay upon that very stone slab upon which neolithic man had once slumbered. The ashes of a fire were heaped in a rude grate. Beside it lay some cooking utensils and a bucket half-full of water. A litter of empty tins showed that the place had been occupied for some time, and I saw, as my eyes became accustomed to the checkered light, a pannikin and a half-full bottle of spirits standing in the corner. In the middle of the hut a flat stone served the purpose of a table, and upon this stood a small cloth bundle -- the same, no doubt, which I had seen through the telescope upon the shoulder of the boy. It contained a loaf of bread, a tinned tongue, and two tins of preserved peaches. As I set it down again, after having examined it, my heart leaped to see that beneath it there lay a sheet of paper with writing upon it. I raised it, and this was what I read, roughly scrawled in pencil: "Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe Tracey." For a minute I stood there with the paper in my hands thinking out the meaning of this curt message. It was I, then, and not Sir Henry, who was being aogged by this secret man. He had not followed me himself, but he had set an agent -- the boy, perhaps -- upon my track, and this was his report. Possibly I had taken no step since I had been upon the moor which had not been observed and reported. Always there was this feeling of an unseen force, a fine net drawn round us with infinite skill and delicacy, holding us so lightly that it was only at some supreme moment that one realized that one


it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But no letter appeared, and she was completely puzzled. Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take some refreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not very politely, declined eating any thing; and then, rising up, said to Elizabeth, ``Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you will favour me with your company.'' ``Go, my dear,'' cried her mother, ``and shew her ladyship about the different walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage.'' Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol, attended her noble guest down stairs. As they passed through the hall, Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and drawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be decent looking rooms, walked on. Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk that led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for conversation with a woman who was now more than usually insolent and disagreeable. ``How could I ever think her like her nephew?'' said she, as she looked in her face. As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the following manner: -- ``You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I come.'' Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment. ``Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to account for the honour of seeing you here.'' ``Miss Bennet,'' replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, ``you ought to know, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere _you_ may choose to be, you shall not find _me_ so. My character has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most alarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told that not only your sister was on the point of being most advantageously married, but that _you_, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all likelihood, be soon afterwards united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I _know_ it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure him so much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to you.'' ``If you believed it impossible to be true,'' said Elizabeth, colouring with astonishment and disdain, ``I wonder you took the trouble of coming so far. What could your ladyship propose by it?'' ``At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted.'' ``Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,'' said Elizabeth coolly, ``will be rather a confirmation of it;


crosses the foyer, where the etched-steel forest is forever without weather, where the still and silent deer gaze perpetually in witness of those who come and go. He steps outside into the rain just as the mail truck pulls away from the curb. He takes nine envelopes from the box beside the front door, returns to the house, leaves six envelopes on the foyer floor, and descends to the library with three pieces of mail, all from the Department of Motor Vehicles. The licenses, each with his photo but featuring a different name, should get him through the coming year. However, he’ll soon be the most wanted fugitive in history. As those hunting for him become more aware of his capabilities, they’ll adopt strategies and tactics that force him to change identities as frequently as a chameleon changes colors as it scurries across the vibrant palette of a tropical forest. Having drunk two generous servings of cabernet, he concludes that changes to his metabolic process have rendered him immune to the inebriating effect of alcohol—which is a disappointment—though he does feel somewhat relaxed. With a wine as good as Caymus, he’s happy to drink it for the flavor alone, and he pours a third glass. In the armchair, Michael stares at the Pacific, where earlier Catalina had loomed in the distance and container ships had wallowed at anchor in the long lineup for the port of Long Beach. At the moment, all is formless—rushing rain, billowing mist, the ocean a gray amorphia of swells and swales and flung spume. He is at all times linked to the internet by electromagnetic waves produced and managed by his own strangely altered physiology. Without need of a computer, he can for the most part reach into any website or digitized archives with which he is familiar, pore through its content, and access whatever information he needs in seconds, while remaining entirely aware of—and active in—the real world. In addition, if he plants a data trigger in a system, he’ll be instantly notified when the event that he has anticipated in fact occurs; the alert will come in the form of a brief text message he created with the trigger, appearing as neon-blue letters in his mind’s eye, as though he’s a clairvoyant receiving a vision. Sometimes, when he is seeking to assemble and understand a complex chain of information, or when he knows what to seek but not quite where to seek it, he must enter the funhouse maze that mirrors this world in infinite fractal passageways, which is the internet and all linked computer systems, plunge into it rather than merely reach into it. In such a case, for the duration of his explorations, he loses all conscious awareness of the real place in which he exists. He closes his eyes and prepares to enter the wonders of that alternate world built of ones and zeros, which can seem as fluid and chaotic as any moment of any storm. He has learned that negotiating its megacomplexity of channels is easier if he visualizes himself


news like boon companions. The company included more swords than Catelyn would have liked. Three by the fire wore the red stallion badge of the Brackens, and there was a large party in blue steel ringmail and capes of a silvery grey. On their shoulder was another familiar sigil, the twin towers of House Frey. She studied their faces, but they were all too young to have known her. The senior among them would have been no older than Bran when she went north. Ser Rodrik found them an empty place on the bench near the kitchen. Across the table a handsome youth was fingering a woodharp. "Seven blessings to you, goodfolk," he said as they sat. An empty wine cup stood on the table before him. "And to you, singer," Catelyn returned. Ser Rodrik called for bread and meat and beer in a tone that meant now. The singer, a youth of some eighteen years, eyed them boldly and asked where they were going, and from whence they had come, and what news they had, letting the questions fly as quick as arrows and never pausing for an answer. "We left King's Landing a fortnight ago," Catelyn replied, answering the safest of his questions. "That's where I'm bound," the youth said. As she had suspected, he was more interested in telling his own story than in hearing theirs. Singers loved nothing half so well as the sound of their own voices. "The Hand's tourney means rich lords with fat purses. The last time I A GAME OF THRONES 255 came away with more silver than I could carry ... or would have, if I hadn't lost it all betting on the Kingslayer to win the day." "The gods frown on the gambler," Ser Rodrik said sternly. He was of the north, and shared the Stark views on tournaments. "They frowned on me, for certain," the singer said. "Your cruel gods and the Knight of Flowers altogether did me in." "No doubt that was a lesson for you," Ser Rodrik said. "It was. This time my coin will champion Ser Loras." Ser Rodrik tried to tug at whiskers that were not there, but before he could frame a rebuke the serving boy came scurrying up. He laid trenchers of bread before them and filled them with chunks of browned meat off a skewer, dripping with hot juice. Another skewer held tiny onions, fire peppers, and fat mushrooms. Ser Rodrik set to lustily as the lad ran back to fetch them beer. "My name is Marillion," the singer said, plucking a string on his woodharp. "Doubtless you've heard me play somewhere?" His manner made Catelyn smile. Few wandering singers ever ventured as far north as Winterfell, but she knew his like from her girlhood in Riverrun. "I fear not," she told him. He drew a plaintive chord from the woodharp. "That is your loss," he said. "Who was the finest singer you've ever heard?" "Alia of Braavos," Ser Rodrik answered at once. "Oh, I'm much better than that old stick," Marillion said. "If


Dad said they helped him once before, and I don’t know where else to go.” “Tell me, Victor Lawson,” the Doorman said. “What are you willing to do to get him back?” And Vic said, “Anything. Everything.” The Doorman spun on his heels and marched back through the door. Vic blinked after him. Before he disappeared into the darkness, the Doorman glanced over his shoulder, brow furrowed in irritation. “Are you coming? Step to it. I don’t like it when I’m kept waiting. The Blue Fairy less so.” His eyes narrowed when Hap stepped next to Vic, taking his hand once more. “I see,” he said. “Things suddenly become that much clearer. Oh, is the Blue Fairy going to enjoy this. Come, come. There is a storm overhead. You don’t want to be caught in it. I’ve heard those like you could get sick from such things. I’d hate to see that happen to you, Victor Lawson.” He turned back around and disappeared into the darkness. Vic started forward, stopping when Hap didn’t move. He looked back. “What?” Hap looked up at the pyramid. “No m-matter what, we s-stay together. Don’t allow them t-to separate us.” “Agreed,” Nurse Ratched said. “We are stronger together than we are apart.” “Go team!” Rambo cried from on top of Nurse Ratched as it began to rain harder. Together, they walked into the dark and the door to Heaven slammed shut behind them. CHAPTER 21 Darkness. Vic was surrounded by it. Surrounded, that is, until the Blue Pixie appeared as if projected on the wall beside him, wings fluttering. It looked as it had on the door, eyes big, hair flowing. It spun slowly, the curve of its buttocks there and gone. Bathed in blue light, Vic saw the Doorman just ahead of them, moving with purpose, hands clasped behind his back. The Blue Pixie laughed, and though it still sounded like bells, it now had an edge to it, razor-sharp and cutting. “A human?” it whispered as it followed them down the hallway. “A human? How marvelous! Tell me, human. What makes you tick? What runs through your head? Electrical impulses. Thoughts. Learned behavior. Nature versus nurture. Tell me, tell me, tell me.” “Ignore it,” the Doorman said. “Pesky thing, that. It’s merely a program, created by the Blue Fairy. I’ve asked them often to destroy it, but they don’t listen to me. They say it’s necessary. I have yet to see why.” “You wouldn’t,” the Blue Pixie said. “You are simple. You’ll never understand—” “Shoo,” the Doorman said. “Let the Enchanter know we’re coming.” The Blue Pixie pouted, its bottom lip sticking out and trembling. “But I want to play with the human. And besides, they already know.” It looked at Vic. It smiled, its teeth like fangs. Suddenly, it rose up the wall to the ceiling, flying over them before coming down on the opposite side. “These are all screens,” Nurse Ratched said. “It is not real.” The Blue Pixie screeched in anger. “I’m real. Just because I’m incorporeal doesn’t make me any


to be Montag and the people he had worked with until a few short hours ago. Somewhere the saving and putting away had to begin again and someone had to do the saving and keeping, one way or another, in books, in records, in people's heads, any way at all so long as it was safe, free from moths, silver-fish, rust and dry-rot, and men with matches. The world was full of burning of all types and sizes. Now the guild of the asbestos-weaver must open shop very soon. He felt his heel bump land, touch pebbles and rocks, scrape sand. The river had moved him toward shore. He looked in at the great black creature without eyes or light, without shape, with only a size that went a thousand miles without wanting to stop, with its grass hills and forests that were waiting for him. He hesitated to leave the comforting flow of the water. He expected the Hound there. Suddenly the trees might blow under a great wind of helicopters. But there was only the normal autumn wind high up, going by like another river. Why wasn't the Hound running? Why had the search veered inland? Montag listened. Nothing. Nothing. Millie, he thought. All this country here. Listen to it! Nothing and nothing. So much silence, Millie, I wonder how you'd take it? Would you shout Shut up, shut up! Millie, Millie. And he was sad. Millie was not here and the Hound was not here, but the dry smell of hay blowing from some distant field put Montag on the land. He remembered a farm he had visited when he was very young, one of the rare times he had discovered that somewhere behind the seven veils of unreality, beyond the walls of parlours and beyond the tin moat of the city, cows chewed grass and pigs sat in warm ponds at noon and dogs barked after white sheep on a hill. Now, the dry smell of hay, the motion of the waters, made him think of sleeping in fresh hay in a lonely barn away from the loud highways, behind a quiet farmhouse, and under an ancient windmill that whirred like the sound of the passing years overhead. He lay in the high barn loft all night, listening to distant animals and insects and trees, the little motions and stirrings. During the night, he thought, below the loft, he would hear a sound like feet moving, perhaps. He would tense and sit up. The sound would move away, He would lie back and look out of the loft window, very late in the night, and see the lights go out in the farmhouse itself, until a very young and beautiful woman would sit in an unlit window, braiding her hair. It would be hard to see her, but her face would be like the face of the girl so long ago in his past now, so very long ago, the girl who had known the weather and never been burned by the fire-flies, the girl who had known


is yours – the Angostura bitters are for Neil.’ Lin dived in, unwrapping a silver bracelet. ‘Oh, I love it.’ She tore the paper from a book and her face betrayed her terror. ‘A recipe book… Tastes of the Caribbean?’ ‘We’ll have some Caribbean nights in the summer… it’ll be fun.’ ‘Not if I’m cooking, Josie.’ Lin threw her arms around her friend. ‘But thanks so much. Yes, we’ll cook up a storm and dance in the garden. Oh, I can’t wait to hear all about your holiday.’ Josie reached out a hand, patting Lin’s. ‘I adopted a turtle while I was out there. And I’ve brought enough rum back to last us ages. Not that Harry liked rum much…’ She paused, closing her eyes. Lin hesitated. ‘Are you all right?’ ‘I’m fine.’ Josie took a breath. ‘More than fine. When are we next doing lunch with Minnie?’ ‘The Silver Ladies’ lunch? I came round so that we could double check the dates. I think it’s this Saturday, at Odile’s café. Neil’s going for a hike in Old Scratch’s woods.’ ‘I love that you call us Silver Ladies,’ Josie said. ‘It makes me feel like we’re a special group.’ ‘We’re strong women of a certain age… there’s a dignity to the name. I hate getting older… there’s so much prejudice about ageing – and so many problems.’ Lin looked at her fingers. They were stiff and sore this morning. ‘I don’t mind getting older – I just miss Harry.’ Josie exhaled. ‘Minnie couldn’t care less about how old she is. If anyone says anything to her, she tears into them.’ ‘I remember her telling a kid off who called her a crone in the street. What did she say? “Crone means witchlike woman, so I’m going to curse you…” Then she shouted something in Latin that sounded like it had come from Harry Potter.’ ‘It will be nice to see Minnie again.’ Josie cupped her hands around the mug of tea. ‘I wonder what she’s been up to?’ ‘Last time we did lunch, we had all the terrible weather - we went to the pub outside Charlbury. She almost started a fight.’ Josie smiled. ‘The man in the bar was making racist comments at the football on the TV screen. Minnie was amazing.’ Lin put on an aristocratic voice. ‘She said, “If you insist on using out-dated language, young man, then I’d appreciate it if you’d take it outside in the rain. Such terminology belongs in the gutter…” Then she told the publican to throw him out.’ ‘Everyone in the bar was on her side, though.’ Josie sighed. ‘I wish I had Minnie’s courage.’ ‘And her beautiful house in Oxford. She’s done so well.’ ‘She has, Lin.’ Josie pulled a face. ‘Is she still dating the maths professor?’ ‘Didn’t she dump him for the archaeologist last year?’ ‘I can’t keep track of Minnie’s love life. No one can.’ Josie lifted her cup. ‘Another cup?’ ‘Oh, yes, please.’ Lin picked up the packet of cookies from the table. ‘And let’s make a start


ears, muffling all sounds. A round, childlike face, spotted with acne scars and caked with cracked dirt, came into view—the new wraith. That vile man must have seen her approaching behind Io’s back and pushed Io right into her reach. Io just—reacted. She knocked the heel of her hand against the girl’s nose. The wraith flew back, blood spurting from her nose with a sick gurgling sound. Io pushed up, but the mud clung to her, her movements slow and heavy. Her hair was plastered on the right side of her face, making it hard to see, but she had kept the Quilt up. She spotted a bundle of threads in the mist, coming in from her left: Horatio. When he reached for her, she twisted and buried her knee in his stomach. He doubled over with a harrumph—there was her chance. Io scrambled away on all fours, stopping only when she bumped her back into a tall empty trap. She was far enough now; his hooks couldn’t reach her. She was safe. In front of her, Horatio gasped into the mud. “You little shit . . .” Silver slashed through the mist. The wraith’s severed life-thread wrapped around Horatio’s throat. She followed, her body parting the mist, and came to stand above his kneeling form. She stretched her fist back, tightening the cord around his neck. “There are crimes that cannot go unpunished,” she rasped, her young, sweet voice at odds with her ragged appearance. “Hundreds of victims and you forget all of them, is that right? But I have never forgotten. I remember your face. I remember your thrall. I remember your threats.” “Please!” The word ripped through Horatio’s lips like a prayer. “You do remember us, don’t you?” the wraith asked him. “What is my name?” Horatio’s legs kicked and fought, and the wraith loosened her hold on him enough so he could talk. “Raina!” he croaked. “Your name is Raina, and that older one was Emmeline, and that old lady was Ms. Savva! They asked me to kill you, they promised me riches and protection and a new identity in Nanzy, but when I caught you . . . You were kids, tiny and scared, and that lady was so skinny, so old! I was supposed to kill you, but I let you escape, didn’t I? I could have pulled you back with my hooks, but I didn’t!” “You think you showed us mercy?” seethed Raina. “You think you did us a favor? What about the others you killed before us? It was no mercy; it was an apology. And it’s not enough.” On his bottom, legs splayed like a toddler, Horatio looked nothing like a ruthless mercenary. His face was bright red, his eyes bloodshot, his voice trembling. “How do you know all this? Who ratted to you, huh? Was it those bitches? Whatever they promised you, they’re lying, like they lied to me—” “I did not need anyone’s confession. I was made to know your crimes.” “Please,” begged the grace-born, his voice strangled by the life-thread


often would pass swiftly over the western land, over Avathar, or Araman, or Valinor, and plunge in the chasm beyond the Outer Sea, pursuing his way alone amid the grots and caverns at the roots of Arda. There he would often wander long, and late would return. Still therefore, after the Long Night, the light of Valinor was greater and fairer than upon Middle-earth; for the Sun rested there, and the lights of heaven drew nearer to Earth in that region. But neither the Sun nor the Moon can recall the light that was of old, that came from the Trees before they were touched by the poison of Ungoliant That light lives now in the Silmarils alone. But Morgoth hated the new lights, and was for a while confounded by this unlooked-for stroke of the Valar. Then he assailed Tilion, sending spirits of shadow against him, and there was strife in Ilmen beneath the paths of the stars; but Tilion was victorious. And Arien Morgoth feared with a great fear, but dared not come nigh her, having indeed no longer the power; for as he grew in malice, and sent forth from himself the evil that he conceived in lies and creatures of wickedness, his might passed into them and was dispersed, and he himself became ever more bound to the earth, unwilling to issue from his dark strongholds. With shadows he hid himself and his servants from Arien, the glance of whose eyes they could not long endure; and the lands near his dwelling were shrouded in fumes and great clouds. But seeing the assault upon Tilion the Valar were in doubt, fearing what the malice and cunning of Morgoth might yet contrive against them. Being unwilling to make war upon him in Middle-earth, they remembered nonetheless the ruin of Almaren; and they resolved that the like should not befall Valinor. Therefore at that time they fortified their land anew, and they raised up the mountain-walls of the Pelri to sheer and dreadful heights, east, north, and south. Their outer sides were dark and smooth, without foothold or ledge, and they fell in great precipices with faces hard as glass, and rose up to towers with crowns of white ice. A sleepless watch was set upon them, and no pass led through them, save only at the Calacirya: but that pass the Valar did not close, because of the Eldar that were faithful, and in the city of Tirion upon the green hill Finarfin yet ruled the remnant of the Noldor in the deep cleft of the mountains. For all those of elven-race, even the Vanyar and Ingw their lord, must breathe at times the outer air and the wind that comes over the sea from the lands of their birth; and the Valar would not sunder the Teleri wholly from their kin. But in the Calacirya they set strong towers and many sentinels, and at its issue upon the plains of Valmar a host was encamped, so that neither bird nor beast nor elf nor man, nor any creature


ever held. The hilt was brown with two silver dots, and the blade disappeared into a black sheath. When he placed it in his palm, the tip did not extend beyond his middle finger. “What is it for?” he asked. “Swimming,” Sàámú said. “What else would it be for? It’s for your training, you need to learn to protect yourself.” “From what?” Rashidi laughed. “Your voice is shaking, Ẹniọlá. Don’t worry, it’s just to scare anyone that wants to try nonsense.” The next day, Holy Michael gathered all the boys together before they’d even had lunch. He took them behind the house and made them move closer to each other until he was sure none would be visible to the crowd that was spread out on Honourable’s front lawn. Ẹniọlá tried to count the boys who crushed him from all sides but was distracted halfway through at some point between thirty and thirty-five. Most of the other boys were much older. A few who seemed like men had beards that covered most of their faces. Rashidi and Sàámú were far from him, but he could see they were grinning at and greeting the boys around them. Around Ẹniọlá, there were backslaps and hellos, arguments and concerned questions about aging parents, introductions and reunions. All conversations ceased once Holy Michael began talking. He spoke in a low, husky voice that demanded full attention, counting off the things he wanted them to note on his left hand. Honourable would start the distribution at ten, but they were all expected to arrive by nine-thirty. Five people had to join the police on the podium with Honourable. Four would man the podium’s edges, while the others fanned out into the crowd. Their job was to remain invisible as the distribution was happening. They were only to approach the podium if they saw that anyone was trying to attack Honourable. As Thursday approached, Sàámú taught Ẹniọlá to make himself seem even taller, showed him how to arch his back so his shoulders appeared wider. Spread out, spread out, he would bark, demanding to know whether Ẹniọlá was really doing press-ups in the mornings as he had instructed. Rashidi showed him how to walk with the sheathed knife on his person, one hand in his right pocket, always cupping the hilt so he could pull it out as soon as was necessary. He reassured Ẹniọlá that all he would need to do with the knife he’d been given was wave it around or stab the air before him. They were only going to distribute food and gifts to traders in the market after all, and it was unlikely that anything would go wrong. He began walking around with the knife in his pocket as Sàámú had suggested, to get used to it and prepare himself for Thursday. The hilt pushed against his hip bone, forcing him to walk sideways if he wanted to avoid sudden jolts of pain. On Thursday morning, he met Rashidi and Sàámú in front of United. They spent some time arguing about whether they


stack of typewritten pages and six bottles of pills. After that, I do a scan of the bookshelf, thinking the pages could be tucked among all the books Mary had left behind, and check the bathroom for potential hiding spots. Both yield no results. The last place I look is the closet, since I did a thorough inspection of it the night I arrived. Nevertheless, I check Mary’s medical bag, root through her coat pockets, and check the box on the floor that had once held books but now holds nothing. I stand, wiping the front of my uniform, and stare at the patch of clean floor next to the box. Unlike my uniform, it’s free of dust, as if something had sat there until very recently. I noticed it my first night here but gave it little thought. Now, though, I can’t help but wonder what used to be there—and when it was removed. I take a closer look. The dust-free area is rectangular, which would suggest a second box if not for the rounded corners. That means it was something else. Like a suitcase. Mary was a caregiver. She knew the score. A box and suitcase are all we need. With adrenaline buzzing through me, I grab my suitcase and bring it to the closet. With a nervous breath, I place it over the clean patch. It’s like the uniform—not an exact fit, but close enough. As I lift the suitcase from the closet, I notice something that amps up my adrenaline level from a buzz to a roar. On each end of the handle is a metal ring attaching it to the suitcase itself. Each ring is about the same shape and size of the bent piece of metal I found on the terrace. Everything goes sideways, as if Hope’s End is finally, inexorably tipping into the ocean. But it’s only me, shell-shocked by the realization that Mary took a suitcase with her when she left. Inside that suitcase might have been the typewritten truth about Lenora and the night her family died. Now, like Mary, it’s gone. I stagger into the hallway and down the service stairs. The crack in the stairwell, I notice, has gotten larger. It now runs the entire height of the wall, with a second, smaller crack branching out of it. Another crack has formed on the opposite wall. At this rate, the whole stairwell will soon be webbed with them. I shudder, thinking of spiders and flies and sticky strands of cobwebs clinging to my skin. In the kitchen, I head straight to the phone and dial the number printed on the card Detective Vick gave me. The phone rings six times before he answers with a groggy “Hello?” “It’s Kit McDeere.” “Kit.” There’s a rustle as the detective no doubt checks the clock on his nightstand. I do the same with the kitchen clock. Just before midnight. “Do you know what time it is?” “Yes,” I say, my bluntness making it clear I don’t care. “But I thought you’d like to know


or the coolness of the evening with a prime minister or bishop. But

tonight it was just family.

My great-grandmother arrived. I jumped up, offered her my hand. I

always offered her my hand—Pa had drummed it into me—but that night I

could see Gan-Gan really needed the extra help. She’d just celebrated her

101st birthday and was looking frail.

Still natty, however. She wore blue, I recall, all blue. Blue cardigan, blue

tartan skirt, blue hat. Blue was her favorite color.

She asked for a martini. Moments later, someone handed her an ice-cold

tumbler filled with gin. I watched her take a sip, expertly avoiding the lemon

floating along the top, and on an impulse I decided to join her. I’d never had

a cocktail in front of my family, so this would be an event. A bit of rebellion.

Empty rebellion, it turned out. No one cared. No one noticed. Except

Gan-Gan. She perked up for a moment at the sight of me playing grown-up,

gin and tonic in hand.

I sat beside her. Our conversation started out as lively banter, then

evolved, gradually settling into something deeper. A connection. Gan-Gan

was really speaking to me that night, really listening. I couldn’t quite believe

it. | wondered why. Was it the gin? Was it the four inches I’d grown since

last summer? At six foot I was now one of the tallest members of the family.

Combined with Gan-Gan’s shrinkage, I towered over her.

I wish I could recall specifically what we talked about. I wish I’d asked

more questions, and jotted down her answers. She’d been the War Queen.

She’d lived at Buckingham Palace while Hitler’s bombs rained from the

skies. (Nine direct hits on the Palace.) She’d dined with Churchill, wartime

Churchill. She’d once possessed a Churchillian eloquence of her own. She

was famous for saying that, no matter how bad things got, she’d never, ever

leave England, and people loved her for it. I loved her for it. I loved my

country, and the idea of declaring you’d never leave struck me as wonderful.

She was, of course, infamous for saying other things. She came from a

different era, enjoyed being Queen in a way that


from the hill-forts of the Noldor to the feet of Thangorodrim. The watch-fires burned low, and the guards were few; on the plain few were waking in the camps of the horsemen of Hithlum. Then suddenly Morgoth sent forth great rivers of flame that ran down swifter than Balrogs from Thangorodrim, and poured over all the plain; and the Mountains of Iron belched forth fires of many poisonous hues, and the fume of them stank upon the air, and was deadly. Thus Ard-galen perished, and fire devoured its grasses; and it became a burned and desolate waste, full of a choking dust, barren and lifeless. Thereafter its name was changed, and it was called Anfauglith, the Gasping Dust. Many charred bones had there their roofless grave; for many of the Noldor perished in that burning, who were caught by the running flame and could not fly to the hills. The heights of Dorthonion and Ered Wethrin held back the fiery torrents, but their woods upon the slopes that looked towards Angband were all kindled, and the smoke wrought confusion among the defenders. Thus began the fourth of the great battles, Dagor Bragollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame. In the front of that fire came Glaurung the golden, father of dragons, in his full might; and in his train were Balrogs, and behind them came the black armies of the Orcs in multitudes such as the Noldor had never before seen or imagined. And they assaulted the fortresses of the Noldor, and broke the leaguer about Angband, and slew wherever they found them the Noldor and their allies. Grey-elves and Men. Many of the stoutest of the foes of Morgoth were destroyed in the first days of that war, bewildered and dispersed and unable to muster their strength. War ceased not wholly ever again in Beleriand; but the Battle of Sudden Flame is held to have ended with the coming of spring, when the onslaught of Morgoth grew less. Thus ended the Siege of Angband; and the foes of Morgoth were scattered and sundered one from another. The most part of the Grey-elves fled south and forsook the northern war; many were received into Doriath, and the kingdom and strength of Thingol grew greater in that time, for the power of Melian the queen was woven about his borders and evil could not yet enter that hidden realm. Others took refuge in the fortresses by the sea, and in Nargothrond; and some fled the land and hid themselves in Ossiriand, or passing the mountains wandered homeless in the wild. And rumour of the war and the breaking of the siege reached the ears of Men in the east of Middle-earth. The sons of Finarfin bore most heavily the brunt of the assault, and Angrod and Aegnor were slain; beside them fell Bregolas lord of the house of Bor, and a great part of the warriors of that people. But Barahir the brother of Bregolas was in the fighting farther westward, near to the Pass of Sirion. There King Finrod Felagund, hastening from the


the world became too overwhelming. Because of you, the library was more than just a place to read—it was my haven. I will never be able to thank you enough for reminding me the real world can sometimes be as magical as fictional ones. Discover Your Next Great Read Get sneak peeks, book recommendations, and news about your favorite authors. Tap here to learn more. extras meet the author Sara Hashem SARA HASHEM is an American Egyptian writer from Southern California, where she spent many sunny days holed up indoors with a book. Sara’s love for fantasy and magical realms emerged during the two years her family lived in Egypt. When she isn’t busy naming stray cats in her neighborhood after her favorite authors, Sara can be found buried under coffee-ringed notebooks. Find out more about Sara Hashem and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at orbitbooks.net. interview What was the first book that made you fall in love with the fantasy genre? I’d say the major players for binding my heart to fantasy were the Magic Treehouse and Charlie Bone series. The itch to travel for me started young, and those books took me places a plane never could. I will never get over how fortunate I am to share a world of my own in hopes it whisks a reader away. Where did the initial idea for The Jasad Heir come from and how did the story begin to take shape? A story typically takes shape for me around a central question. For The Jasad Heir, I wanted to know: What do you owe to a place and a people you’ve barely known, but without whom you wouldn’t exist? I’m not the biggest fan of revenge story lines, so I was stymied with her character for a while. I kept thinking, what should she do? How should she fight for her kingdom and her people? And then eventually, why should she want to? I wanted Sylvia to feel familiar to eldest daughters of immigrant families in particular, who feel the weight of duty and obligation far earlier than most. But we usually carry it out of love, even when it wears us down. Sylvia was missing love. Responsibilities were stacked so high on her shoulders that she broke, severing herself from any kind of tie or duty so thoroughly that she stopped associating herself with Jasad. In the first half of the book, she refers to them as “they” or “the Jasadis.” There’s the other her, Essiya, who represents an idealized version of herself. Once I had Sylvia’s arc (sort of) nailed down, the rest came easier. I love scheming and court machinations, magical mayhem, book versions of the Rocky training montage, and a villain who doesn’t realize he’s a villain. What was the most challenging moment of writing The Jasad Heir? The most challenging moment was after Soraya stabs Sylvia. Sylvia is vowing to take down Soraya, but her motivations when she makes the declaration are incredibly tricky to balance. She’s torn between her burgeoning


remain in their old posts, although the former is bald, and the last-named boy quite grey. They sleep at the parsonage, but divide their attentions so equally among its inmates, and Oliver and Mr. Brownlow, and Mr. Losberne, that to this day the villagers have never been able to discover to which establishment they properly belong. Master Charles Bates, appalled by Sikes's crime, fell into a train of reflection whether an honest life was not, after all, the best. Arriving at the conclusion that it certainly was, he turned his back upon the scenes of the past, resolved to amend it in some new sphere of action. He struggled hard, and suffered much, for some time; but, having a contented disposition, and a good purpose, succeeded in the end; and, from being a farmer's drudge, and a carrier's lad, he is now the merriest young grazier in all Northamptonshire. And now, the hand that traces these words, falters, as it approaches the conclusion of its task; and would weave, for a little longer space, the thread of these adventures. I would fain linger yet with a few of those among whom I have so long moved, and share their happiness by endeavouring to depict it. I would show Rose Maylie in all the bloom and grace of early womanhood, shedding on her secluded path in life soft and gentle light, that fell on all who trod it with her, and shone into their hearts. I would paint her the life and joy of the fire-side circle and the lively summer group; I would follow her through the sultry fields at noon, and hear the low tones of her sweet voice in the moonlit evening walk; I would watch her in all her goodness and charity abroad, and the smiling untiring discharge of domestic duties at home; I would paint her and her dead sister's child happy in their love for one another, and passing whole hours together in picturing the friends whom they had so sadly lost; I would summon before me, once again, those joyous little faces that clustered round her knee, and listen to their merry prattle; I would recall the tones of that clear laugh, and conjure up the sympathising tear that glistened in the soft blue eye. These, and a thousand looks and smiles, and turns fo thought and speech--I would fain recall them every one. How Mr. Brownlow went on, from day to day, filling the mind of his adopted child with stores of knowledge, and becoming attached to him, more and more, as his nature developed itself, and showed the thriving seeds of all he wished him to become--how he traced in him new traits of his early friend, that awakened in his own bosom old remembrances, melancholy and yet sweet and soothing--how the two orphans, tried by adversity, remembered its lessons in mercy to others, and mutual love, and fervent thanks to Him who had protected and preserved them--these are all matters which need not to be told. I have said that they were truly


sign of any remaining cancer. My mother’s oncologist recommended that she undergo chemotherapy “just to be sure,” but the prognosis, we were both assured, was excellent. Her treatments would be covered by Medicare, which she had just qualified for based on age, sparing her one worry, at least—there was no mountain of medical debt waiting on the other side of this crisis. “The doctors said that after this I should be cured,” she told me. She sounded surprised. I understood why. After she’d recovered from breast cancer, her doctors had steadfastly avoided using that word; they would say that she was in remission, or that there was no further evidence of disease. Many years passed before they would pronounce her “cured.” Three months later, she had another clean scan, and her oncologist said as much again: she was cured. Grateful though she was, she still wondered at the phrase. “I didn’t think they usually said that about cancer,” she said. “I sure hope they’re right.” * * * She flew out to visit us in August, a few months after finishing chemo, toting two giant suitcases. One of them was stuffed with gifts for the kids—watercolors and markers, notebooks and pens, modeling clay and a package of multicolored sand. The three of them made enormous messes at the picnic table on the patio. I have a picture from one of those afternoons: my mom beaming in a peach-colored embroidered T-shirt, looking well despite having lost a dress size to chemo, her close-cropped hair growing back, happy to be bookended by her granddaughters. It was hot and humid, the air flecked with bugs, but she was content to sit in the dappled shade of our Kwanzan cherry tree, reading one of the mystery novels she’d brought with her or chatting with the kids while they played. She spent many hours watching my younger daughter, the only one of us who didn’t seem to mind the heat, soar back and forth on the circular swing we’d hung from a tree branch, her joy a palpable thing as she twisted in flight. Toward the end of her visit, Mom poked her head into my office and asked, “Do you have any Kotex?” Her preferred brand, and what she called all menstrual pads, the way some people refer to any brand of facial tissues as Kleenex. When my first period surprised me on one of our weekends at the beach, she bought me a package of pads and a soft-serve ice-cream cone at the village convenience store, trying to cheer me up. It’s a pain, she acknowledged, but I’ve had my period your whole life, and have you ever noticed, even once? You throw some Kotex in your bag and go on with your life. I found an unopened package of pads in the hall closet and gave it to her. We stood looking at each other, both of us thinking the same thing. Unexplained bleeding was the symptom that had led to her diagnosis the year before. But she’d had two clear scans since finishing


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

“Last night. How would you characterize the brownie you saw in the house?” “I suspect it to be a wight of some sort,” I replied.[*2] “How dull,” he said. “I hate wights—such tedious creatures. Perhaps we should divide our efforts. You go poking about the haunted house whilst I introduce myself to our headwoman. If we’re to be interviewing the locals, etiquette would suggest we start with the one in charge.” “Let’s leave the tavern for this evening, shall we?” I said, knowing that if he went there now, he would not come out again till midnight, and not because Bambleby is much of a drinker, but because he would encounter so many targets for his conversation. He smiled. “As you wish. I approve of your plan, Em. This field study was your initiative, after all.” “I take that to mean that my name will go first in the paper we present at the conference?” “Of course,” he said calmly, as if there had never been any doubt in his mind. Perhaps there hadn’t. His expression was perfectly open in that disconcerting way he has of moving from mischief to guilelessness in the space of a heartbeat. Bambleby never attempts to charm me in the way he did Krystjan. It would not work if he did, and I suspect that he knows this. He swallowed the last of his tea, gave Shadow another pat, and wandered out the door. “Where are you going?” I demanded. “I told you. I won’t be long. Take the time to scribble in that journal of yours.” “And you’re just going to go wandering about the countryside like that?” I said, waving a hand at his robe. The amusement returned. “You needn’t worry about me, Em.” “Worry!” I scoffed, but the hem of his robe had already vanished through the door. SKIP NOTES *1 Bran Eichorn, whose mother was a Ljoslander, wrote one of the few papers on the subject of the Ljosland Folk, though his research is based entirely on oral accounts—it is unclear if he visited Ljosland himself. I will not name the paper here as it is a poor example of scholarship, being mostly a screed disguised as a rebuttal against Danielle de Grey’s “The Importance of Hearth Faeries in the Northern Latitudes” (Modern Dryadology, Spring 1848). Eichorn spent much of his early career obsessed with de Grey. *2 Over the last two or three decades, the word “wight” has evolved in academic discourse to refer to all those household brownies whose behaviour towards their host has become centred around malevolence. 29th October—evening He was lying, of course. After I finished the morning’s journal entry, he still hadn’t returned, so I decided to set out on my own as originally intended. Henry and Lizzie I sent off with my map to investigate a series of volcanic features, as Wendell had suggested. They seemed to understand my directives, though I couldn’t help missing my own students. I trusted them, for they were chosen on the basis of their qualifications and diligence, not their ability to


have run to show him her presents at once, and they would have looked at the pictures and read some of the gardening books and perhaps tried playing the games, and he would have enjoyed himself so much he would never once have thought he was going to die or have put his hand on his spine to see if there was a lump coming. He had a way of doing that which she could not bear. It gave her an uncomfortable frightened feeling because he always looked so frightened himself. He said that if he felt even quite a little lump some day he should know his hunch had begun to grow. Something he had heard Mrs. Medlock whispering to the nurse had given him the idea and he had thought over it in secret until it was quite firmly fixed in his mind. Mrs. Medlock had said his father's back had begun to show its crookedness in that way when he was a child. He had never told any one but Mary that most of his "tantrums" as they called them grew out of his hysterical hidden fear. Mary had been sorry for him when he had told her. "He always began to think about it when he was cross or tired," she said to herself. "And he has been cross today. Perhaps--perhaps he has been thinking about it all afternoon." She stood still, looking down at the carpet and thinking. "I said I would never go back again--" she hesitated, knitting her brows--"but perhaps, just perhaps, I will go and see--if he wants me--in the morning. Perhaps he'll try to throw his pillow at me again, but--I think--I'll go." CHAPTER XVII A TANTRUM She had got up very early in the morning and had worked hard in the garden and she was tired and sleepy, so as soon as Martha had brought her supper and she had eaten it, she was glad to go to bed. As she laid her head on the pillow she murmured to herself: "I'll go out before breakfast and work with Dickon and then afterward--I believe--I'll go to see him." She thought it was the middle of the night when she was awakened by such dreadful sounds that she jumped out of bed in an instant. What was it--what was it? The next minute she felt quite sure she knew. Doors were opened and shut and there were hurrying feet in the corridors and some one was crying and screaming at the same time, screaming and crying in a horrible way. "It's Colin," she said. "He's having one of those tantrums the nurse called hysterics. How awful it sounds." As she listened to the sobbing screams she did not wonder that people were so frightened that they gave him his own way in everything rather than hear them. She put her hands over her ears and felt sick and shivering. "I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do," she kept saying. "I can't bear it." Once she wondered if he


one part of the wall where the creeping dark green leaves were more bushy than elsewhere. It seemed as if for a long time that part had been neglected. The rest of it had been clipped and made to look neat, but at this lower end of the walk it had not been trimmed at all. A few days after she had talked to Ben Weatherstaff, Mary stopped to notice this and wondered why it was so. She had just paused and was looking up at a long spray of ivy swinging in the wind when she saw a gleam of scarlet and heard a brilliant chirp, and there, on the top of the wall, forward perched Ben Weatherstaff's robin redbreast, tilting forward to look at her with his small head on one side. "Oh!" she cried out, "is it you--is it you?" And it did not seem at all queer to her that she spoke to him as if she were sure that he would understand and answer her. He did answer. He twittered and chirped and hopped along the wall as if he were telling her all sorts of things. It seemed to Mistress Mary as if she understood him, too, though he was not speaking in words. It was as if he said: "Good morning! Isn't the wind nice? Isn't the sun nice? Isn't everything nice? Let us both chirp and hop and twitter. Come on! Come on!" Mary began to laugh, and as he hopped and took little flights along the wall she ran after him. Poor little thin, sallow, ugly Mary--she actually looked almost pretty for a moment. "I like you! I like you!" she cried out, pattering down the walk; and she chirped and tried to whistle, which last she did not know how to do in the least. But the robin seemed to be quite satisfied and chirped and whistled back at her. At last he spread his wings and made a darting flight to the top of a tree, where he perched and sang loudly. That reminded Mary of the first time she had seen him. He had been swinging on a tree-top then and she had been standing in the orchard. Now she was on the other side of the orchard and standing in the path outside a wall--much lower down--and there was the same tree inside. "It's in the garden no one can go into," she said to herself. "It's the garden without a door. He lives in there. How I wish I could see what it is like!" She ran up the walk to the green door she had entered the first morning. Then she ran down the path through the other door and then into the orchard, and when she stood and looked up there was the tree on the other side of the wall, and there was the robin just finishing his song and, beginning to preen his feathers with his beak. "It is the garden," she said. "I am sure it is." She walked round and looked closely


card and he could tell Sop thought he was going to win. He hollered, “Ah’ll break up dat settin’ uh eggs.” Sop looked and said, “Root de peg.” Bootyny asked, “What are you goin’ tuh do? Do do!” Everybody was watching that next card fall. Ed got ready to turn. “Ah’m gointuh sweep out hell and burn up de broom.” He slammed down another dollar. “Don’t oversport yourself, Ed,” Bootyny challenged. “You gittin’ too yaller.” Ed caught hold of the cor- ner of the card. Sop dropped a dollar. “Ah’m gointuh shoot in de hearse, don’t keer how sad de funeral be.” Ed said, “You see how this man is teasin’ hell?” Tea Cake nudged Sop not to bet. “You gointuh git caught in uh bullet storm if you don’t watch out.” Sop said, “Aw ’tain’t nothin’ tuh dat bear but his curly hair. Ah can look through muddy water and see dry land.” Ed turned off the card and hollered, “Zachariah, Ah says come down out dat sycamore tree. You can’t do no business.” Their Eyes Were Watching God 159 Nobody fell on that card. Everybody was scared of the next one. Ed looked around and saw Gabe standing behind his chair and hollered, “Move, from over me, Gabe! You too black. You draw heat! Sop, you wanta pick up dat bet whilst you got uh chance?” “Naw, man, Ah wish Ah had uh thousand-leg tuh put on it.” “So yuh won’t lissen, huh? Dumb niggers and free schools. Ah’m gointuh take and teach yuh. Ah’ll main-line but Ah won’t side-track.” Ed flipped the next card and Sop fell and lost. Everybody hollered and laughed. Ed laughed and said, “Git off de muck! You ain’t nothin’. Dat’s all! Hot boilin’ water won’t help yuh none.” Ed kept on laughing because he had been so scared before. “Sop, Bootyny, all y’all dat lemme win yo’ money: Ah’m sending it straight off to Sears and Roebuck and buy me some clothes, and when Ah turn out Christmas day, it would take a doctor to tell me how near Ah is dressed tuh death.” 15 Janie learned what it felt like to be jealous. A little chunky girl took to picking a play out of Tea Cake in the fields and in the quarters. If he said anything at all, she’d take the opposite side and hit him or shove him and run away to make him chase her. Janie knew what she was up to—luring him away from the crowd. It kept up for two or three weeks with Nunkie getting bolder all the time. She’d hit Tea Cake playfully and the minute he so much as tapped her with his finger she’d fall against him or fall on the ground and have to be picked up. She’d be almost helpless. It took a good deal of handling to set her on her feet again. And another thing, Tea Cake didn’t seem to be able to fend her off as promptly as Janie thought he ought to. She began to be snappish a


destiny. Then again, I don’t want Christi- an mad at Taylor—or me, for that matter. Striding confidently past him, I knock on the study door and enter. Christian is on his BlackBerry, leaning against the mahogany desk. He glances up. “Andrea, hold please,” he mutters down the phone, his expression ser- ious. His gaze is politely expectant. Shit. Why do I feel like I’ve entered the prin- cipal’s office? This man had me in handcuffs yesterday. I refuse to be intimidated by him, he’s my husband damn it. I square my shoulders and give him a broad smile. “I’m going shopping. I’ll take security with me.” “Sure, take one of the twins and Taylor, too,” he says, and I know that whatever’s happening is serious because he doesn’t question me further. I stand staring at him, wondering if I can help. “Anything else?” he asks. He wants me gone. Crap. “Can I get you anything?” I ask. He smiles his sweet shy smile. “No, baby, I’m good,” he says. “The crew will look after me.” “Okay.” I want to kiss him. Hell, I can—he’s my husband. Strolling purpose- fully forward, I plant a kiss on his lips, surprising him. “Andrea, I’ll call you back,” he mutters. He puts the BlackBerry down on the desk behind him, pulls me into his embrace, and kisses me passionately. I am breathless when he releases me. His eyes are dark and needy. “You’re distracting me. I need to sort this, so I can get back to my honey- moon.” He runs an index finger down my face and caresses my chin, tilting my face up. “Okay. I’m sorry.” “Please don’t apologize, Mrs. Grey. I love your distractions.” He kisses the corner of my mouth. “Go spend some money.” He releases me. 66/551 “Will do.” I smirk at him as I exit his study. My subconscious shakes her head and purses her lips. You didn’t tell him you were going on the Jet Ski, she chastises me in her singsong voice. I ignore her . . . Harpy. Taylor is patiently waiting. “That’s all cleared with high command . . . can we go?” I smile, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Taylor doesn’t hide his admiring smile. “Mrs. Grey, after you.” Taylor patiently talks me through the controls on the Jet Ski and how to ride it. He has a calm, gentle authority about him; he’s a good teacher. We are in the motor launch, bobbing and weaving on the calm waters of the harbor beside the Fair Lady. Gaston looks on, his expression hidden by his shades, and one of the Fair Lady’s crew is at the controls of the motor launch. Jeez—three people with me, just because I want to go shopping. It’s ridiculous. Zipping up my life jacket, I give Taylor a beaming grin. He holds out his hand to assist me as I climb onto the Jet Ski. “Fasten the strap of the ignition key around your wrist, Mrs. Grey. If you fall off, the engine will cut out


brought her with him. “Ezra!” Genial held my face and kissed me on either cheek. “Felice anñovyani!” “Felishe anyo vienni,” I stuttered in response, which made him laugh. “Good, wow, you already speak Urmanese like a native, impressive!” “You made it, little dude,” Orson said, pulling me into a hug and kissing me on the forehead in a way that still managed to be bro-ish. “How was the flight?” “Comme ci comme ça,” I said. Emily cackled. “Ez, oh my god, you’re a polyglot!” We merged with the traffic leaving the airport and Genial turned in his seat to face us, buoyant like a child thrilled to have the privilege of riding up front. “Ezra, if you are not too tired, we are going straight to the place where we will build the NuLife Center.” “It’s on the beach,” Orson said. “It’s really incredible.” “The first of many of the NuLife Centers,” Genial added. “We will have many of them here, right, Ezra?” I nodded. We were on the highway, moving fast, and I was beginning to feel carsick. “So, Genial, your dad has been president for how long?” Emily was shouting over the wind. She had neglected to pull her hair into a ponytail and it was blowing chaotically all over the back seat, itchy strands slapping me in the face. “For only five years,” Genial shouted back. “And now he is trying to stop the next election.” “What’s his stance on NuLife?” Orson asked, his voice more audible over the wind than anyone else’s. Genial winked impishly at us. “Oh, he doesn’t know about it! But what will he do?” I frowned. This was a new development. The kind of thing that could get us kicked out of the country. “He doesn’t know about it?” Orson asked. “Yes, but he doesn’t know about many things. I keep many things from him. What is the old expression in America? The future walks.” “The future marches on,” I shouted. “Yes! We march on, here in Urmau, past him. Soon everything will march on, yes?” We exited the highway into a small town of clay houses bordering the ocean, the shine of which was fulminous. At the southernmost end of the beach was a plot of land that could have contained a large hotel. We debarked the Jeep and stood on the beach, Genial positioning himself at the water’s edge. “This is the place!” he said. The sun was overwhelming, so I looked at my feet, and when I looked back up, I found I could only see shadows, my eyes flooded with UV, my vision constricted. I took a few deep breaths and waited for it to pass but it didn’t. Orson’s shadow took off its shoes and rolled up its jeans and waded into the water, and Emily’s shadow kicked off its sandals and did the same, shrieking as Orson’s shadow picked her up and spun her around. “What do you think, Ezra?” Genial’s shadow asked. “It’s very bright,” I said without thinking. “Oh—yes. Your eyes?” I blinked. “No, no—I mean,


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

she was under the trees, closed her eyes, took a deep breath of green and dirt. It smelled so clean within the walls of the Citadel, a difference she hadn’t really noticed until now. She was used to the scents of people crowded together, of sea brine, of soot and trash and grime. But here, the air smelled crisp and sharp, as if it were fresh-scrubbed every morning. With a sigh, Lore sat heavily down on the grass. Green stains marred her knees nearly instantly, and she cursed, situating her legs in front of her though the damage was already done. Another sigh, and she let herself fall back, head cradled by the soft loam. Her eyes closed; the summer sunlight filtering through the branches above lit the network of veins in her eyelids, a lurid map of capillaries. It reminded her of the catacombs. Of that awareness waiting at the edge of her grasp, pushed just far enough away to let her function. She almost couldn’t believe she’d lived so long without the barrier Gabe had helped her build. It was as if by finally channeling Mortem when she raised Horse, she’d opened a floodgate. Being within the walls of the Citadel tempered it a bit, but her sense was still stronger than it had ever been before, increasing as the days marched on. Each day that drew her closer to her twenty-fourth birthday. Raising the dead child had battered against her mental shield, and though it still held fast, she could almost taste Mortem at the back of her throat, empty and ashlike. Her fingers itched, as if the threads she’d wound around them had left an indelible burn on her skin, as clear as her moon-shaped scar. It pushed on her from all sides, an encroaching void, a vast and terrible storm of nothing. That’s what was so awful about it, really. The lack of anything. Death was a yawning chasm, a hole with no bottom. Lore wished she was capable of the easy faith the Church taught, capable of thinking there was a Shining Realm waiting once this life was through. Pointless. Even if there was, she’d never see it. Lore shuddered. Despite the clean air and the nice clothes and the plentiful food, despite the illusion of safety being here under the King’s protection brought her, the prospect of raising another dead body was nearly enough to make her run for the docks, for Val and Mari, and beg them to take her back. She’d forgive them everything, if she just didn’t have to use Mortem again. “Fuck me,” she swore softly. “You’ll have to ask more nicely than that.” Her eyes flew open—a dark human-shape bent over her, the sun behind it blurring their features. But then the unnamed shape sat back, and she caught the edge of an irreverent grin, the toss of a dark curl. Bastian’s eyes went to the grass stains on her knees. “Though perhaps someone already took you up on it?” Well, she wouldn’t have to go looking for Bastian. The


Finn Cordial. Brief. There was a measured, almost passive-aggressive distance in the Best, Finn. I haven’t told Noemie that Finn was my one-night stand, which feels strange as we watch him kiss Hallie Hendricks over and over and over. Maybe I’m taking to heart what he said on Saturday: I can forget about it if you can. And maybe I don’t want to ruin her image of him, especially now that I know the depths of her adoration. Because there’s probably an ethical boundary here, and if we crossed it before we even started working together, well . . . Noemie crosses her legs on the couch, flicks away a speck of lint from her sweatpants. “You realize we’ve never been apart for this long, right?” It’s true. In fact, I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve been apart for any significant length of time: the vacation I took with all four of our parents that overlapped with a week of sleepaway camp for her when we were in elementary school, and I refused to let myself have fun because if everyone else was paired up, it seemed unfair that I didn’t have my person. Then there was the summer in college her moms, Aunt Sarah and Aunt Vivi, took her to Europe for two weeks, and though I wanted to go, my internship at Seattle Met magazine felt more important. So I settled for transcribing interviews and gushing over her photos, unsure if what I was feeling was jealousy or loneliness or both. Again, I feel more than slightly shitty about keeping the truth from her. “I miss you already,” I say, meaning it. Moving in with her a few years ago didn’t just save my mental health—it’s a comfort I’ve needed more than I’d like to admit. It’s felt, quite literally, like coming home. “And you’ll look after my parents?” Noemie knows how I worry. “I’ll invite them over for a healthy, low-cholesterol dinner every Sunday night. It will be understated but elegant.” “Perfect, thanks. And . . .” I trail off, scratching at the lavender nail polish I applied a couple days ago. If I don’t paint my nails, then I’ll anxiety-pick them to mangled stumps. “If work gets awful and you need to talk, you know I’m just a few taps away. Even when I’m in Minnesota or Tennessee.” She nods, but I don’t miss how she breaks eye contact. A classic Noemie deflection. In one swift motion, she turns off the TV and hops off the couch. “I should get the mini quiches in the oven.” “And I should probably finish packing. Unless you want some help?” Tonight she’s throwing me a casual wish-Chandler-good-luck party before I leave early tomorrow morning. A week ago, my life was entirely unremarkable, and now I’m about to spend most of my waking hours with a celebrity. Sometimes I’m excited and sometimes I’m terrified and usually, I just want to throw up. Noemie waves me away. “Not a chance. This is your party.” She squints at me.