Arthur, "all I did was ..." "That's very good thinking you know. Turn on the Improbability Drive for a second without first activating the proofing screens. Hey kid you just saved our lives, you know that?" "Oh," said Arthur, "well, it was nothing really ..." "Was it?" said Zaphod. "Oh well, forget it then. OK, computer, take us in to land." "But ..." "I said forget it." Another thing that got forgotten was the fact that against all probability a sperm whale had suddenly been called into existence several miles above the surface of an alien planet. And since this is not a naturally tenable position for a whale, this poor innocent creature had very little time to come to terms with its identity as a whale before it then had to come to terms with not being a whale any more. This is a complete record of its thoughts from the moment it began its life till the moment it ended it. Ah ... ! What's happening? it thought. Er, excuse me, who am I? Hello? Why am I here? What's my purpose in life? What do I mean by who am I? Calm down, get a grip now ... oh! this is an interesting sensation, what is it? It's a sort of ... yawning, tingling sensation in my ... my ... well I suppose I'd better start finding names for things if I want to make any headway in what for the sake of what I shall call an argument I shall call the world, so let's call it my stomach. Good. Ooooh, it's getting quite strong. And hey, what's about this whistling roaring sound going past what I'm suddenly going to call my head? Perhaps I can call that ... wind! Is that a good name? It'll do ... perhaps I can find a better name for it later when I've found out what it's for. It must be something very important because there certainly seems to be a hell of a lot of it. Hey! What's this thing? This ... let's call it a tail - yeah, tail. Hey! I can can really thrash it about pretty good can't I? Wow! Wow! That feels great! Doesn't seem to achieve very much but I'll probably find out what it's for later on. Now - have I built up any coherent picture of things yet? No. Never mind, hey, this is really exciting, so much to find out about, so much to look forward to, I'm quite dizzy with anticipation ... Or is it the wind? There really is a lot of that now isn't it? And wow! Hey! What's this thing suddenly coming towards me very fast? Very very fast. So big and flat and round, it needs a big wide sounding name like ... ow ... ound ... round ... ground! That's it! That's a good name - ground! I wonder if it will be friends with me? And the rest, after a sudden wet thud, was silence. Curiously enough, the only thing that went through the mind


and still alive thanks to his exact attention to the detail of his profession. Routine precautions were to him no more unreasonable than they would be to a deep-sea diver or a test pilot, or to any man earning danger-money. Satisfied that his room had not been searched while he was at the casino, Bond undressed and took a cold shower. Then he lit his seventieth cigarette of the day and sat down at the writing-table with the thick wad of his stake money and winnings beside him and entered some figures in a small note-book. Over the two days' play, he was up exactly three million francs. In London he had been issued with ten million, and he had asked London for a further ten. With this on its way to the local branch of Crdit Lyonnais, his working capital amounted to twenty-three million francs, or some twenty-three thousand pounds. For a few moments Bond sat motionless, gazing out of the window across the dark sea, then he shoved the bundle of banknotes under the pillow of the ornate single bed, cleaned his teeth, turned out the lights and climbed with relief between the harsh French sheets. For ten minutes he lay on his left side reflecting on the events of the day. Then he turned over and focused his mind towards the tunnel of sleep. His last action was to slip his right hand under the pillow until it rested under the butt of the .38 Colt Police Positive with the sawn barrel. Then he slept, and with the warmth and humour of his eyes extinguished, his features relapsed into a taciturn mask, ironical, brutal, and cold. CHAPTER 2 - DOSSIER FOR M Two weeks before, this memorandum had gone from Station S of the Secret Service to M, who was then and is today head of this adjunct to the British Defence Ministries: To: M. From: Head of S. Subject: A project for the destruction of Monsieur Le Chiffre (alias 'The Number', 'Herr Nummer', 'Herr Ziffer', etc.), one of the Opposition's chief agents in France and undercover Paymaster of the 'Syndicat des Ouvriers d'Alsace', the Communist-controlled trade union in the heavy and transport industries of Alsace, and as we know, an important fifth column in the event of war with Redland. Documentation: Head of Archives' biography of Le Chiffre is attached at Appendix A. Also, Appendix B, a note on SMERSH. We have been feeling for some time that Le Chiffre is getting into deep water. In nearly all respects he is an admirable agent of the USSR, but his gross physical habits and predilections are an Achilles heel of which we have been able to take advantage from time to time and one of his mistresses is a Eurasian (No 1860) controlled by Station F, who has recently been able to obtain insight into his private affairs. Briefly, it seems that Le Chiffre is on the brink of a financial crisis. Certain straws in the wind were noticed by 1860 - some discreet sales of jewellery, the disposal


She coughs between gulps for air as Brody places her on her back. His wide eyes are panic-stricken, until he sees her take a couple deep breaths. “That’s it. Just keep breathing. Nice and slow.” She gives him the OK signal, even though she feels like she might pass out, as he encircles his strong arms around her torso from behind. She leans her head back on his shoulder, savoring every breath, as he tows her to the boat. He helps her up the ladder first, and she rips off her dive mask after she steps onto the deck. The boat dips when he climbs aboard behind her. She grips the deck railing and stares over the side into the green water. If it wasn’t for Brody, she would never have come up. Feeling his hand on her back, she tears her eyes away. “I’m so sorry, I should’ve warned you about the bull kelp.” He pats the knife inside the holder around his leg. “It’s why I always dive with a knife.” His eyes search hers after he pulls off his mask. “Are you okay? I can take us back to the house.” She closes the gap between them and reaches her arms around the back of his neck. There’s a red ring beneath his cheeks from where his mask sealed, and she guesses her face is the same. He leans forward and kisses her, gently at first, before pressing his mouth harder against hers. She runs her hand down the back of his head as he pulls her toward him. Together, they move backward into the cabin. She backs against the kitchenette counter, and Brody pushes his hips into hers. Sloane unzips the back of his wetsuit, tugging the material away from his shoulders. Brody pulls his arms out of the suit, placing his palms on either side of Sloane’s face. Biting her lip, she slides her hands down his bare chest and playfully pushes him toward the stairs leading to the bedrooms below. He goes down backward, taking her hand and pulling her against him when she reaches the bottom. Their lips meet, and Sloane lets out a soft groan. She pulls away, breathing hard, as Brody unzips her wetsuit. Her heart beats hard against her chest as his hands run down the sides of her waist. With his hands on her hips, he guides her through the open doorway into the cabin at the end of the narrow corridor. “Brody…” she whispers, as his lips travel down her neck in the dim light shining through the small porthole. For the first time that day, any thoughts of Ethan are completely gone from her mind. They topple onto the bed and her body entwines with his. “Sloane…” Chapter 15 Crime-scene tape already blocks the driveway to the three-story Victorian when Ethan pulls in front of the home on Saturday night behind two patrol cars. The notorious home of Kurt Cobain sits just a few doors down on Lake Washington Boulevard. It’s the first time Ethan’s been called to a


moment she shook my hand.

She seemed immune to that common affliction sometimes called throne

syndrome. It was similar to the effect that actors and musicians have on

people, except with actors and musicians the root cause is talent. I had no

talent—so I’d been told, again and again—and thus all reactions to me had

nothing to do with me. They were down to my family, my title, and

consequently they always embarrassed me, because they were so unearned.

I’d always wanted to know what it might be like to meet a woman and not

have her eyes widen at the mention of my title, but instead to widen them

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myself, using my mind, my heart. With Chelsy that seemed a real possibility.

Not only was she uninterested in my title, she seemed bored by it. Oh, you’re

a prince? Yawn.

She knew nothing about my biography, less than nothing about my

family. Granny, Willy, Pa—who’re they? Better yet, she was remarkably

incurious. She probably didn’t even know about my mother; she was likely

too young to recall the tragic events of August 1997. I couldn’t be sure this

was true, of course, because to Chelsy’s credit we didn’t talk about it.

Instead we talked about the main thing we had in common—Africa. Chelsy,

born and raised in Zimbabwe, now living in Cape Town, loved Africa with

all her soul. Her father owned a big game farm, and that was the fulcrum of

her world. Though she’d enjoyed her years at a British boarding school,

Stowe, she’d always hurried home for the holidays. I told her I understood. I

told her about my life-changing experiences in Africa, my first formative

trips. I told her about the strange visitation from the leopard. She nodded.

She got it. Brilliant. Africa does offer moments like that, if you’re ready. If

you ’re worthy.

At some point in the evening I told her I’d soon be entering the Army. I

couldn’t gauge her reaction. Maybe she had none? At least it didn’t seem a

deal-breaker.

Then I told her that George and Marko and I were all heading off the next<span


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

his stasis. With an anguished sound, he finally drew his knife, slashed at one of the Presque Mort. They were on him in an instant, overwhelming him, hauling him away. He gave a wordless shout, one that almost resolved into Alie’s name but never quite made it there. A sickening thunk as a fist crashed into his temple; he slumped to the ground. Someone grabbed Lore’s braid, fallen from its jet pins, and jerked it backward. She snarled, but the Presque Mort’s arms closed around her, kept her confined. It took two to do the same to Bastian; the Sun Prince thrashed, shouting curses that echoed through the slowly darkening atrium. One of the monks struck out with a dagger; the sharp edge sliced through Bastian’s eyebrow, sheeting blood and shocking him into enough stillness to be subdued, arms twisted behind his back. The shadow of the moon moved closer to the low-hanging sun. The Presque Mort who held Lore steered her toward August’s throne. The Sainted King stood motionless and aloof, hands behind his back. Another Presque Mort—the one from the leak, walking almost normally on a prosthetic foot—approached the dais and handed the King a dagger, cast in silver and scrolled over with gold. It matched his throne, a marriage of night and day, sun and moon. “It was always meant to be this way,” he said quietly, pitched so only Lore and Bastian could hear. “Mortem and Spiritum, bound together, held by the same person. The age of many gods is past; now, there’s only room for one.” “So you decided it should be you?” Lore’s voice was harsh, made hoarse by the way the Presque Mort held on to her hair, her neck stretched forward like an offering. She had to strain to see August, fingering his fine knife. “Apollius decided it should be someone in our family.” August shrugged. “He chose incorrectly, when deciding on the specific person, but that can be easily remedied. When we are one—when I become His avatar, His vessel—He will understand.” The Presque Mort hauled Bastian up on the platform as he spat and cursed, twisting in their grip like a cat. His flailing fists had connected with more than one of them—the Mort who held his arms had a rapidly blackening eye, and a bruise bloomed on another’s cheek as his hand tangled in Bastian’s hair and wrenched his head back, just like Lore’s. Bastian squinted through the blood from his head wound, chest heaving, teeth bared. August sighed as he looked at his son, always the disappointed father. In return, Bastian laughed, quick and sharp. “How fitting,” he snarled. “You always did have to do things as ostentatiously as possible.” The King shook his head. A streak of sorrow crossed his face, quick and bright as a passing comment, made more terrible for how genuine it was. “It never could’ve been you,” he murmured. “No matter what Anton’s vision said.” “Because I’m not pious enough?” There was no chance of escape; still, Bastian fought against the Mort holding him, muscles


without uttering a single word. I rush forward, my arms outstretched. But she doesn’t reach for me. As soon as I touch her, a long, agonized cry escapes her throat, and then a terrible silence engulfs us. Bezi rushes up, but I wave her away and slowly put my hands up in front of me. I take one step forward. “Tasha. It’s okay. It’s me. It’s Charity.” She steps back, and her bare feet against the wooden floor make a wet sound. That dark substance smeared across her body is blood, and her bare feet are trailing it across the floor. She holds her stomach with her bloodied hands. I approach her slowly, speaking softly. “Tasha?” I whisper. I try to keep my voice calm, but I’m failing. “Tasha. I’m here. You’re safe now. What—what happened to you?” “Char—Charity?” she asks like she’s unsure she recognizes me—one of her oldest friends. Her voice is hoarse, like she’s been crying or screaming for hours. She angles herself toward me. The light from the kitchen illuminates the part of her body that had been in shadow, and I’m so utterly horrified by her horrendous injuries that I have to stifle the urge to vomit. Her right eye is swollen shut, the lid purple and bulging like the orb is trying to escape its socket. Blood and dirt are smeared across her entire face. Her bottom lip is split clean open, the pulpy pink insides pushing out. Her hair is caked with mud, and it’s hard to tell, but I think she’s missing some teeth. I slowly put my hands on her bare arms as she holds them close to her body. She tenses at first, then relaxes just enough for me to see a long horizontal gash to her belly, and even though it’s caked with mud and bits of leaves and dead grass, I see something fleshy and pink and wet beneath. My heart sinks. Her insides are showing through the injury, and I’m having trouble understanding how she’s alive, much less on her feet. Bezi clamps her hand over her mouth, stifling a sob. Kyle grabs a blanket from the couch and slips it around Tasha’s bare shoulders. She doesn’t flinch away or cry out, just tilts her head back and looks up at the ceiling. I grab the edges of the blanket and pull it closed in front of her, covering her horrible injury as if that will make it go away. “What happened to you?” I ask again. Tasha wobbles and as her legs buckle, Javier swoops in and catches her before she hits the floor. I grab her legs and help him lower her onto the couch. Her chest rises and falls in an erratic pattern, and a halting rasp gurgles from her throat. “What the hell happened to her?” Javier asks as he kneels at her side, his hands trembling as he props a pillow under Tasha’s head. Kyle rushes to the lodge doors and locks them. I eye the pile of chairs over the secret hatch in


the way, and the whole party swam to the shore. CHAPTER III A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale They were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank--the birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable. The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had a consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, `I am older than you, and must know better'; and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, `Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! I'LL soon make you dry enough!' They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon. `Ahem!' said the Mouse with an important air, `are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! "William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--"' `Ugh!' said the Lory, with a shiver. `I beg your pardon!' said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: `Did you speak?' `Not I!' said the Lory hastily. `I thought you did,' said the Mouse. `--I proceed. "Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--"' `Found WHAT?' said the Duck. `Found IT,' the Mouse replied rather crossly: `of course you know what "it" means.' `I know what "it" means well enough, when I find a thing,' said the Duck: `it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?' The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, `"--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--" How are you getting on now, my dear?' it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. `As wet as ever,' said Alice in a melancholy tone: `it doesn't seem to dry me at all.' `In that case,' said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, `I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--' `Speak English!' said the Eaglet. `I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more,


expression. The Sainted King took a long drink, draining the cup, then set it back down on the arm of his throne. “Time grows short. Bastian’s Consecration will begin soon, and all of us must be there.” August flicked his fingers at Gabriel like one might gesture to a well-trained dog. “Gabriel! Step forward, please.” The look on the duke-turned-Mort’s face was drawn and tense as he stared at August. But Gabriel followed orders, stepping up to where the Sainted King waited. He kept his head down, eyes trained on the floor. His docility rankled her, for reasons she couldn’t quite name. That strange feeling of familiarity she had toward the Mort told her that he wasn’t supposed to be like this, placid and easily led, smothering the flames of his anger. He was someone who should let it burn. August stood and descended from his throne of spiking iron. The throne was on a slightly raised dais, and he remained on the bottom stair, putting him right at eye level with Gabriel—clearly deliberate; the King didn’t want to look up at someone he deemed beneath him. The Sainted King stretched out his jewel-scabbed hand to place it on the Mort’s shoulder. “I know you wish to leave your title behind,” August said softly. “I know it has brought you nothing but trouble and shame.” Lore’s eyes narrowed. She was very familiar with the way people wielded pity like a bayonet, hiding the desire to make sure you knew your place behind false concern. August wasn’t trying to comfort Gabriel; he was trying to intimidate him. “But you’ve always known that someday you would be expected back in court,” August continued. “This is your chance to redeem yourself. To show the Citadel that the Remaut family isn’t made wholly of traitors who give up at the slightest hint of conflict. You know the Tracts as well as I do: Parental sins are passed on to the children. Your father’s treason is carried in your blood.” “I was ten.” Gabriel’s voice didn’t waver, showed no emotion but for the slight emphasis on the number. The look in his one blue eye was far away, unfocused. “I was ten, and Jax had just killed my father and carved out my eye. I didn’t know what else to do.” So that’s how he’d lost the eye. Jax had taken it. Anton had used the maiming to bring Gabriel into the Presque Mort fold, and now August used it as proof Gabriel carried sins that weren’t his. Lore decided, then, that she really hated both of the Arceneaux brothers. “And that’s how they remember you.” August changed the course of the conversation smoothly; he was practiced at this, apparently, feeling out the cracks in someone and working them open. “As someone who hid.” Almost absently, Gabriel reached up and touched his eye patch. “Anton gave me a place,” he said quietly. “Anton told me I could work to cleanse my line, if I joined the Presque Mort.” “You reentering the court doesn’t make you less of


know that I’m safe, that I belong. 33 REAL LIFE Saturday WYN LEFT THE drapes and windows open last night, and now the room is cold and bright, salt wafting in on the breeze, and bringing with it the distant squawk of herring gulls. My body feels like melted ice cream, in the best way. Bits of last night glance over my mind: hands fisting into bedding and hair and skin, ragged whispers and pleas. And then everything that came before. The fight. The rest of the week. Everything with Wyn. That today is the last day of our trip. The pleasant soreness gives way. Now I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus, then backed over and hit one more time at an angle. Wyn is fast asleep, one arm still draped over my ribs and one corner of his mouth lifted. My chest aches at the sight. Usually, he’s a back sleeper. We used to fall asleep curled up like this, but we’d never get any rest until he shifted onto his back. If we were fitted together like spoons, he’d always start moving restlessly in his sleep, and we’d find our way to each other in a heady, lust-crazed blur. Which was great until the morning, when we both had to get up for work or school. He’s made it through the whole night beside me, but the whole night, for us, was no more than a couple of hours. He doesn’t so much as stir as I slide out from under him. He always looks younger when he’s asleep. I wonder if that’s some evolutionary trait: What animal could stand attacking someone who looks so peaceful and innocent? Okay, I could, but the nice thing would be to let him sleep. I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweater and sneak out of the room, making my way through the silent house. As eager as I am to fix what happened last night, everyone’s either still asleep or in hiding. After a couple of minutes of aimlessly wandering the kitchen, I decide to walk into town and get everyone drinks from the Warm Cup as a peace offering. I’ve often thought that the world saves its very best weather for days when you feel like everything’s gone wrong, and today is no different. It’s gloriously sunny, with a refreshing breeze. When the sun reaches its high point, Knott’s Harbor will no doubt be sweltering. Or sweltering for the midcoast anyway, which is to say extremely comfortable when compared to the swampy summers of southern Indiana or the burning-under-a-microscope heat of July in New York City. A midcoast summer day is the exact day you pine for in the dead of winter. Still, after ten minutes of following the curving road, past overflowing rhododendron bushes and graying wood-shingled inns being scraped and repainted for the hundredth time, I’m wishing I’d put a tank top on under my sweater. I’ll have to find a cab back, easier said than done in a tiny village like this. Usually,


in a higher rank of life. They were so deserving, that a little higher should have been enough: but as it was, how could she have done otherwise?--Impossible!--She could not repent. They must be separated; but there was a great deal of pain in the process-- so much to herself at this time, that she soon felt the necessity of a little consolation, and resolved on going home by way of Randalls to procure it. Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins. The refreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary. It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard that neither "master nor mistress was at home;" they had both been out some time; the man believed they were gone to Hartfield. "This is too bad," cried Emma, as they turned away. "And now we shall just miss them; too provoking!--I do not know when I have been so disappointed." And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her murmurs, or to reason them away; probably a little of both-- such being the commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the carriage stopt; she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were standing to speak to her. There was instant pleasure in the sight of them, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in sound--for Mr. Weston immediately accosted her with, "How d'ye do?--how d'ye do?--We have been sitting with your father-- glad to see him so well. Frank comes to-morrow--I had a letter this morning--we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty-- he is at Oxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be so. If he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; I was always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have just the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather. We shall enjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could wish." There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston's, confirmed as it all was by the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not less to the purpose. To know that she thought his coming certain was enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in their joy. It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits. The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment's thought, she hoped Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more. Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command, as well as the route and the method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled, and congratulated. "I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield," said he, at the conclusion. Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm


Master of Beasts had no time for last words before its throat glowed like a coal, and fire came hurtling from its mouth. Siyu gasped. So did the spectators – those who could. The blaze cooked the Master of Beasts like a steak before it swept across the stands, setting hair and clothes aflame. Now more wings sliced overhead, and the sky was twisting and writhing with monsters. Tunuva took Siyu by the hand and pulled her towards the underground chamber. ‘Lalhar, Canthe,’ she shouted, ‘to me!’ The wounded ichneumon shadowed them, sporting a limp. ‘Tuva, the girls,’ Siyu cried. ‘We have to get the girls—’ ‘I know.’ Tunuva towed her through the tunnel of animals, breaking cages open as she went. ‘Go, now, king of beasts,’ she urged the desert lion. ‘No one brings you to your knees.’ Growling, the lion stood. Siyu ran up the steps ahead of her. They emerged into beating sunlight and turmoil – Carmentum, stripped of order, harrowed by wyrms. Talons snatched at people and livestock, lifting them from the paving stones. Long tails smashed into houses. Red fire exploded across every street, feasting on both the quick and the dead, setting the trees aflame. The Priory had never anticipated this. For five centuries, its warriors had waited for the Nameless One, knowing they stood ready to defeat him – one wyrm, never hundreds. No story had warned of that. The wildcats ran past, along with a pack of painted hounds, barking in a frenzy. Spear in hand, Tunuva followed Siyu. Instinct told her to stop and fight to the death, but this was not a battle she could win. Better that she survived, to warn Esbar. She caught the waft of brimstone. Turning, she tightened her hands on the spear. A creature was lumbering up the next street. It had clearly been a lioness once. Some nightmarish force had bloated it – stretched out the spine, the claws, the neck. Its head was set too high, swaying as a hooded serpent did before a strike. She remembered the ox, the tormented ox that had hatched in the Priory. This beast fixed its soulless gaze on her, teeth skinned and smeared with gore. She ran straight towards the creature, slewing her body straight between its legs. Behind her, Siyu sliced at its flank, while Canthe hurried past its other side, protecting Lukiri. They found the little street crumbled, and a winged beast dying on its shattered roofs, brought down with a harpoon. ‘No,’ Siyu cried. She dropped her spear. ‘Dalla, Hazen—’ She started to grab desperately at the rubble. ‘Siyu.’ Tunuva restrained her. ‘Siyu, it’s too late.’ ‘I have to look!’ ‘Listen to me. They might have got out and gone to their uncle. I hope so. If not, they are dead.’ Tunuva grasped her elbows. ‘I have to leave now, to warn the Priory. Come with me.’ Siyu stared back at her, her eyes full. ‘Did you kill him, Tuva?’ ‘No, sunray. Saghul ordered it. I’m sorry.’ Tunuva looked her in the eyes. ‘Please, Siyu.


create beautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. We live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of autobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty. If I live, I will show the world what it is; and for that reason the world shall never see my portrait of Dorian Gray." "I think you are wrong, Basil, but I won't argue with you. It is only the intellectually lost who ever argue. Tell me, is Dorian Gray very fond of you?" Hallward considered for a few moments. "He likes me," he answered, after a pause; "I know he likes me. Of course I flatter him dreadfully. I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall be sorry for having said. I give myself away. As a rule, he is charming to me, and we walk home together from the club arm in arm, or sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer's day." "Days in summer, Basil, are apt to linger. Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. It is a sad thing to think of, but there is no doubt that Genius lasts longer than Beauty. That accounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate ourselves. In the wild struggle for existence, we want to have something that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and facts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. The thoroughly well informed man,--that is the modern ideal. And the mind of the thoroughly well informed man is a dreadful thing. It is like a bric--brac shop, all monsters and dust, and everything priced above its proper value. I think you will tire first, all the same. Some day you will look at Gray, and he will seem to you to be a little out of drawing, or you won't like his tone of color, or something. You will bitterly reproach him in your own heart, and seriously think that he has behaved very badly to you. The next time he calls, you will be [11] perfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, for it will alter you. The worst of having a romance is that it leaves one so unromantic." "Harry, don't talk like that. As long as I live, the personality of Dorian Gray will dominate me. You can't feel what I feel. You change too often." "Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it. Those who are faithful know only the pleasures of love: it is the faithless who know love's tragedies." And Lord


may mark my words you will come some day to a craggy pass of the channel, where the whole of life's stream will be broken up into whirl and tumult, foam and noise; either you will be dashed to atoms on crag points, or lifted up and borne on by some master wave into a calmer current as I am now.     "I like this day; I like that sky of steel; I like the sternness and stillness of the world under this frost. I like Thornfield; its antiquity; its retirement; its old crow-trees and thorn-trees; its gray faade, and lines of dark windows reflecting that metal welkin; and yet how long have I abhorred the very thought of it; shunned it like a great plague-house! How I do still abhor "     He ground his teeth and was silent; he arrested his step and struck his boot against the hard ground. Some hated thought seemed to have him in its grip and to hold him so tightly that he could not advance.     We were ascending the avenue when he thus paused. The hall was before us. Lifting his eye to its battlements, he cast over them a glare such as I never saw before or since. Pain, shame, ire impatience, disgust, detestation seemed momentarily to hold a quivering conflict in the large pupil dilating under his ebon eyebrow. Wild was the wrestle which should be paramount; but another feeling rose and triumphed; something hard and cynical, self-willed and resolute; it settled his passion and petrified his countenance. He went on: "During the moment I was silent, Miss Eyre, I was arranging a point with my destiny. She stood there by that beech-trunk a hag like one of those who appeared to 'Macbeth' on the heath of Forres. 'You like Thornfield?' she said, lifting her finger; and then she wrote in the air a memento, which ran in lurid hieroglyphics all along the house-front, between the upper and lower row of windows. 'Like it if you can!' 'Like it if you dare!'"     "'I will like it,' said I. 'I dare like it;' and (he subjoined moodily) I will keep my word. I will break obstacles to happiness, to goodness yes, goodness; I wish to be a better man than I have been; than I am as Job's Leviathan broke the spear, the dart and the habergeon; hindrances which others count as iron and brass I will esteem but straw and rotten wood."     Adle here ran before him with her shuttlecock. "Away!" he cried, harshly; "keep at a distance, child; or go in to Sophie!" Continuing then to pursue his walk in silence, I ventured to recall him to the point whence he had abruptly diverged: "Did you leave the balcony, sir," I asked, "when Mdlle. Varens entered?"     I almost expected a rebuff for this hardly well-timed question; but, on the contrary, waking out of his scowling abstraction, he turned his


Library on the edge of the Gobi Desert, sealed up for a thousand years and discovered, quite by accident, by a Taoist monk who knocked down a wall whilst leaning against it and smoking his cigarette. Behind it, he found a mountain of ancient documents, piled almost ten feet high, containing scripts with seventeen different languages. Who is to say what treasures are yet to be rediscovered, what lost things are waiting to be brought to light? At least, that is what I reminded myself as I spent yet another night in the bed and breakfast I couldn’t afford, writing up notes in my journal about the bookshop that didn’t exist. Had it ever existed? All I had was a letter from one of the world’s most successful rare book collectors to its owner, a Miss Opaline Gray, discussing a lost manuscript. And where had I come across such an unusual piece of correspondence? In the only room in the world where possibility became reality – an auction room. I had spent years looking for the one, the big discovery that would make my name in the world of rare books, and this was the closest I had ever come. I should’ve been on a flight back to the UK days ago. I took another mouthful of ‘the black stuff’, as the locals called it. Motivation comes in all shapes and sizes and my motivation for staying in Ireland was to avoid looking like a complete failure. That was what everyone expected – including me. If no one takes you seriously, how can you ever hope to do so yourself? I blamed my father and had no qualms about it. My very first memory of him was one of betrayal. He’d told me to stand up and ‘perform’ with my new toy microphone. It must have been Christmas and he had some of his mates over. I sang some songs, who knows what, but all I remembered was his laughter – the way it almost resembled a wolf snarling when he was really drunk. The others joined in and my cheeks burned so much I hardly noticed the hot liquid running down my legs. ‘He’s pissed himself!’ my father wheezed, falling off the chair with amusement. I can’t recall what happened after that. My mother must have come and rescued me. But from that point on I was always tagged with the reputation of being a cry-baby; too sensitive. It didn’t help that my sister Lucinda came out of the womb with her fists ready for a fight. He respected her. In fact, we were all slightly intimidated by her. And so my position as the runt of the litter was firmly established. Until I found that Rosenbach letter. Suddenly, I became a man of destiny, as though all of those years missing out on vital stores of vitamin D by ensconcing myself in libraries would finally be vindicated. I ended up spending so much time reading books in the library that everyone thought I worked there and eventually, I thought so


fifteen minutes from her neighborhood. High winds carried the sparks far afield, allowing the blaze to grow and fan out for miles. Unlike the wildfires I remember from childhood, this one roared parallel to some of the busiest roads in the area, ravaging parkland, businesses, and thousands of homes. I was shocked to see news of the runaway destruction, although California wildfires had been in the news for weeks, and I’d heard about the terrible air quality in the Bay Area, Seattle, Portland, Vancouver. My home region lacks a major urban center and rarely draws outside media attention. But the damage was too vast to be ignored, and terrifying headlines and images from my parents’ tiny town of a few thousand residents soon filled my social media feeds. I checked on friends and acquaintances and tried to call my aunt, who had inherited my parents’ house after my mother died. When I didn’t get an answer, I texted Paula, who confirmed that she, her husband, and my aunt were safe—and so was Buster. They were all hunkered down at Paula’s, in sight of the flames but hoping they wouldn’t need to evacuate. They couldn’t say whether my parents’ home had survived. Dan and I scoured the internet for local news reports, searching for the name of my parents’ park and other nearby landmarks. We watched shaky video footage shot by local residents; paused and zoomed in on aerial video shared by local news outlets, trying to identify my parents’ neighborhood. When I stumbled over an article about entire groves of ponderosa pines lost to wildfire, I felt another kind of grief. What if the cemetery had been leveled, too? I pictured the peaceful graveyard, with its hundred-year-old oaks and pines, bare and smoking; my parents’ gravestones scorched and illegible. I thought again of their house, their windows facing the mountains, their closets stuffed with clothing and linens and boxes of family photos, their shelves full of books and religious art and my grandmother’s glassware and collectibles—was any of it left? When they sold the house I’d grown up in, the thought of strangers owning it—whether they made it their own, updated and flipped it, or tore it down to build something new—hadn’t caused me a moment’s distress. I’d never lived in their second Oregon home or grown deeply attached to it, but it was a place that was theirs, a place that held memories of our final visits. Even if all their belongings were gone, the loss was a small one compared with what many in the region were experiencing: people had lost their loved ones, their homes, their livelihoods. Still, I knew that I would grieve if all that remained of my parents’ life together was now ash and smoke. * * * Before wildfire season began, I had a video call with a friend who had recently moved to San Francisco. She took the call outside on her balcony, angling her screen to show me the just-barely view of the bay. She looked so cool and comfortable, I tried not


had carried him out on to the neck of land. He was surrounded on all sides by chasms of empty air. There was nowhere to hide, even if one did not have to go on. He paused on the narrow neck and looked down. Soon, in a matter of centuries, the sea would make an island of the castle. On the right hand was the lagoon, troubled by the open sea; and on the left-- Ralph shuddered. The lagoon had protected them from the Pacific: and for some reason only Jack had gone right down to the water on the other side. Now he saw the landsman's view of the swell and it seemed like the breathing of some stupendous creature. Slowly the waters sank among the rocks, revealing pink tables of granite, strange growths of coral, polyp, and weed. Down, down, the waters went, whispering like the wind among the heads of the forest. There was one flat rock there, spread like a table, and the waters sucking down on the four weedy sides made them seem like cliffs. Then the sleeping leviathan breathed out, the waters rose, the weed streamed, and the water boiled over the table rock with a roar. There was no sense of the passage of waves; only this minute-long fall and rise and fall. Ralph turned away to the red cliff. They were waiting behind him in the long grass, waiting to see what he would do. He noticed that the sweat in his palm was cool now; realized with surprise that he did not really expect to meet any beast and didn't know what he would do about it if he did. He saw that he could climb the cliff but this was not necessary. The squareness of the rock allowed a sort of plinth round it, so that to the right, over the lagoon, one could inch along a ledge and turn the corner out of sight. It was easy going, and soon he was peering round the rock. Nothing but what you might expect: pink, tumbled boulders with guano layered on them like icing; and a steep slope up to the shattered rocks that crowned the bastion. A sound behind him made him turn. Jack was edging along the ledge. "Couldn't let you do it on your own." Ralph said nothing. He led the way over the rocks, inspected a sort of half-cave that held nothing more terrible than a clutch of rotten eggs, and at last sat down, looking round him and tapping the rock with the butt of his spear. Jack was excited. "What a place for a fort!" A column of spray wetted them. "No fresh water." "What's that then?" There was indeed a long green smudge half-way up the rock. They climbed up and tasted the trickle of water. "You could keep a coconut shell there, filling all the time." "Not me. This is a rotten place." Side by side they scaled the last height to where the diminishing pile was crowned by the last broken rock. Jack struck


looked at me, and then looked over my head, and then looked all round me, and then he drew his hand across his lips and laughed. "I think I shall be out of this on Monday, sir," he said to Wemmick. "Perhaps," returned my friend, "but there's no knowing." "I am glad to have the chance of bidding you good-bye, Mr. Wemmick," said the man, stretching out his hand between two bars. "Thankye," said Wemmick, shaking hands with him. "Same to you, Colonel." "If what I had upon me when taken, had been real, Mr. Wemmick," said the man, unwilling to let his hand go, "I should have asked the favour of your wearing another ring - in acknowledgment of your attentions." "I'll accept the will for the deed," said Wemmick. "By-the-bye; you were quite a pigeon-fancier." The man looked up at the sky. "I am told you had a remarkable breed of tumblers. could you commission any friend of yours to bring me a pair, of you've no further use for 'em?" "It shall be done, sir?" "All right," said Wemmick, "they shall be taken care of. Good afternoon, Colonel. Good-bye!" They shook hands again, and as we walked away Wemmick said to me, "A Coiner, a very good workman. The Recorder's report is made to-day, and he is sure to be executed on Monday. Still you see, as far as it goes, a pair of pigeons are portable property, all the same." With that, he looked back, and nodded at this dead plant, and then cast his eyes about him in walking out of the yard, as if he were considering what other pot would go best in its place. As we came out of the prison through the lodge, I found that the great importance of my guardian was appreciated by the turnkeys, no less than by those whom they held in charge. "Well, Mr. Wemmick," said the turnkey, who kept us between the two studded and spiked lodge gates, and who carefully locked one before he unlocked the other, "what's Mr. Jaggers going to do with that waterside murder? Is he going to make it manslaughter, or what's he going to make of it?" "Why don't you ask him?" returned Wemmick. "Oh yes, I dare say!" said the turnkey. "Now, that's the way with them here. Mr. Pip," remarked Wemmick, turning to me with his post-office elongated. "They don't mind what they ask of me, the subordinate; but you'll never catch 'em asking any questions of my principal." "Is this young gentleman one of the 'prentices or articled ones of your office?" asked the turnkey, with a grin at Mr. Wemmick's humour. "There he goes again, you see!" cried Wemmick, "I told you so! Asks another question of the subordinate before his first is dry! Well, supposing Mr. Pip is one of them?" "Why then," said the turnkey, grinning again, "he knows what Mr. Jaggers is." "Yah!" cried Wemmick, suddenly hitting out at the turnkey in a facetious way, "you're dumb as one of your own keys when


than a week before she died, she’d written DB, o/y. You’d have to tell me what the second part meant (one year? only you?), but on the same day was a purple X. I turned the planner around for Vanessa. “Have you heard the name Denny Bloch?” I told her everything I suspected about your relationship with Thalia, and she was disgusted but not shocked. How could any woman truly be shocked by predation? We pored over the planners for the next twenty minutes, both of us mindful of the time—I’d have to race back for class—and there were definite patterns, like the correlations back in the fall between purple Xs and the nights we had Follies practice. And then, a gold mine: During the October opera trip to New York, three blue Xs and two purple ones. “There were only two other guys on the trip,” I said. “Definitely not Omar Evans.” I wrote the other names on a napkin for Vanessa: Kellan TenEyck, who was dead, and Kwan Li, now a principal tenor with the English National Opera. I told Vanessa what I’d seen at Bethesda Fountain. Even so, the purple and the blue could both have been Robbie—could have been, for instance, intercourse and blow jobs. Vanessa was the one who proved otherwise. I went through ’94–’95 and she went through ’93–’94. We were quiet until she hit her pen on the table. “Here,” she said. Thalia had written Ski Team—away at Hebron across the whole weekend of March 4 to 6, 1994. A time when the ski team was definitively gone to Maine. But there was a purple X that Saturday. “She wouldn’t have gone with the ski team, would she?” I shook my head. “They didn’t let friends travel with the team. She maybe could have signed out to someone’s house and—but no, look, she had tech rehearsal that weekend.” Little Shop wet tech was written in much smaller letters than Robbie’s ski team commitment, but it was there. And if Thalia had failed to show for tech rehearsal, the one vital day when I was fully in charge, it would have been seared in my memory. “So,” she said. I nodded. “So.” Vanessa pulled the senior planner to the middle of the table. “The week she died,” she said. “The blue X here on Wednesday, in brackets. What are the brackets?” “Maybe she still had her period,” I said, “and they—maybe it was something other than sex.” “Maybe he pulled out,” she said, and I reminded myself that yes, Vanessa was an adult, not someone I needed to protect from any of this. I said, “She was with both of them on Thursday.” “It’s so much sex,” Vanessa said, and laughed drily. “Can you imagine being that young?” I shook my head. I said, “My impression—and maybe you know more than I do—my impression is that Denny Bloch was never really investigated. For Thalia’s death.” I didn’t know how this would go over, didn’t know how upset she might be at the suggestion that the case


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

ask after the possibility of dessert. Nothing elaborate—an apple tart or bread pudding will suit. God in Heaven, but I am tired of fish stew and sailor’s bread.” I could not imagine such a message eliciting a favourable response from Krystjan Egilson, so naturally I said nothing. Bambleby leaned forward and took my hand. “I suppose you’ve guessed why I’m here. Let me assure you, it’s not what you think.” “Oh?” I knew exactly why he was here. To take credit for my research. “I have the utmost respect for your abilities, Emily. Please do not interpret my presence to mean that I think you’ll make a mess of this opportunity. Nothing could be further from the truth.” I withdrew my hand, shrivelling into a ball of anger. “Oh, wonderful.” “I’m here to assist,” he assured me, perfectly oblivious. “And I’m sure that this desire to be helpful has nothing to do with a fear that someone other than yourself might get the credit for conducting the first comprehensive investigation of a yet unproven species of Folk?” He gave me a wide-eyed look of surprise. “That wouldn’t be very sporting. I like to think that I’ve always been a good friend to you. Why else would I have volunteered to write the foreword to your encyclopaedia?” I was going to club him over the head with my encyclopaedia when it came out. Was it really necessary for him to always be reminding me that I needed him? “As a matter of fact, my findings are quite advanced,” I said. “So you may discover that whatever research you undertake here only serves to back up my conclusions.” “Indeed?” To my chagrin, he looked excited rather than resentful, and I realized that he truly did see us as colleagues rather than competitors. The problem with Bambleby, I’ve always found, is that he manages to inspire a strong inclination towards dislike without the satisfaction of empirical evidence to buttress the sentiment. “Will you show me the data you’ve collected thus far?” His eagerness was interrupted by a yawn. “Tomorrow, perhaps?” I tapped the rim of my mug, watching him. “What form do you anticipate this assistance taking, precisely?” He gave me a different sort of smile, and I felt a chill creep down my back. There is something that Bambleby does which would be noticeable only to those who spend a great deal of time around the Folk. It is the way in which his emotions seem to slide through him like water, one giving way to another as abruptly as waves on the shore. This changeability would seem disconcerting or false on a human face, but it is just the way the Folk are made. He leaned forward. “Are you familiar with the International Conference of Dryadology and Experimental Folklore?” His voice had a teasing edge, for of course I was familiar. ICODEF is the most prestigious conference in our field, held annually in Paris, to which I had not once been invited. Bambleby went every year, damn him. “I’m a featured speaker this


doubts. The Mufsids would be held responsible—maybe Lukub, too, because of the Hound. In the melee, I’d be forgotten. It’s a good plan.” I hadn’t considered the enormous amount of trust Arin had shown by allowing me access to his wounds. He’d sat there, rigid, contemplating the methods of his own assassination. Though I couldn’t confirm it in the gloom, the prickling on the back of my neck suggested he was watching me. I lifted a shoulder. “It didn’t occur to me,” I said truthfully. “I have to plan in advance for cold-blooded murder.” The carriage jolted, rocking to the left. Wes rapped on the window in apology. “Peculiar woman,” Arin mused. The carriage rattled on, carrying us into the heart of Essam Woods. The trip to Lukub took three days. Three days of jumping at every noise, bathing in the river, and sleeping at the base of the tree with the least ants. Arin’s eyes grew more bloodshot the closer to Lukub we rode. I doubted he had slept more than an hour. The open, uncontrolled environment must have been scraping his nerves raw. The Nizahl brigade met up with us an hour away from the palace. Fifty soldiers, stiff in their Nizahl uniforms, knelt when Arin descended from the carriage. The sea of black and violet unsettled me to my core. “My liege, if you will,” Jeru said. He gestured at the carriage the soldiers brought. The new carriage resembled Felix’s gilded nightmare more closely. Undeniably Nizahlan, it rose on massive black wheels, the body painted obsidian and outlined in violet. Sleek and menacing. Twin wings crested from the sides of the carriage, their iron feathers gleaming in the moonlight. Sefa, who possessed an unshakable need to verify her surroundings through contact, reached for a wing. Wes caught her wrist. “If you value your finger, think again.” The Nizahl royal emblem, a raven soaring between two crossed swords, had been meticulously painted across the side. The raven’s beady gaze followed me. I observed the new soldiers with contempt, following Arin into the carriage. Did we really need fifty soldiers for the Banquet? Two panels in the window pushed outward, and Arin didn’t stop me from throwing them open. I poked my head out. “Greetings, traveler,” I told Wes. He startled violently on his horse. His head bobbed level with mine, such was the carriage’s ridiculous height. The tree line had thinned a few miles behind us, leaving greater room for the carriage to maneuver. The soldiers spilled behind us like rot trickling from a forgotten fruit, the beat of their horses reverberating around me. “Get inside!” Wes ordered. I glanced at Arin. “Can you command him to be nicer to me? Or at least less tightly wound?” Arin unfurled a map of the Ivory Palace onto his lap. “No.” “I suppose that would be hypocritical, coming from you.” Wes groaned, long and loud. Luckily, everyone else was riding out of earshot. “Sylvia, you’re going to have to exercise some forethought before you speak,” Arin said, uncorking a pocket-size vial of


little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim. "Oh, oh, oh! What have you done? I'm spoiled! I can't go! My hair, oh, my hair!" wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her forehead. "Just my luck! You shouldn't have asked me to do it. I always spoil everything. I'm so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I've made a mess," groaned poor Jo, regarding the little black pancakes with tears of regret. "It isn't spoiled. Just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion. I've seen many girls do it so," said Amy consolingly. "Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I'd let my hair alone," cried Meg petulantly. "So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out again," said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep. After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the united exertions of the entire family Jo's hair was got up and her dress on. They looked very well in their simple suits, Meg's in silvery drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin. Jo in maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light glove, and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect "quite easy and fine". Meg's high-heeled slippers were very tight and hurt her, though she would not own it, and Jo's nineteen hairpins all seemed stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable, but, dear me, let us be elegant or die. "Have a good time, dearies!" said Mrs. March, as the sisters went daintily down the walk. "Don't eat much supper, and come away at eleven when I send Hannah for you." As the gate clashed behind them, a voice cried from a window . . . "Girls, girls! Have you you both got nice pocket handkerchiefs?" "Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers," cried Jo, adding with a laugh as they went on, "I do believe Marmee would ask that if we were all running away from an earthquake. "It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real lady is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief," replied Meg, who had a good many little `aristocratic tastes' of her own. "Now don't forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my sash right? And does my hair look very bad?" said Meg, as she turned from the glass in Mrs. Gardiner's dressing room after a prolonged prink. "I know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind me by a wink, will you?" returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch and her head a hasty brush. "No, winking isn't ladylike. I'll lift my eyebrows if any thing is wrong, and nod if you are all right.


the sky, Through which Aurora shews her brightening face; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve: Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave: Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave. THOMSON In the morning, Valancourt breakfasted with St. Aubert and Emily, neither of whom seemed much refreshed by sleep. The languor of illness still hung over St. Aubert, and to Emily's fears his disorder appeared to be increasing fast upon him. She watched his looks with anxious affection, and their expression was always faithfully reflected in her own. At the commencement of their acquaintance, Valancourt had made known his name and family. St. Aubert was not a stranger to either, for the family estates, which were now in the possession of an elder brother of Valancourt, were little more than twenty miles distant from La Vallee, and he had sometimes met the elder Valancourt on visits in the neighbourhood. This knowledge had made him more willingly receive his present companion; for, though his countenance and manners would have won him the acquaintance of St. Aubert, who was very apt to trust to the intelligence of his own eyes, with respect to countenances, he would not have accepted these, as sufficient introductions to that of his daughter. The breakfast was almost as silent as the supper of the preceding night; but their musing was at length interrupted by the sound of the carriage wheels, which were to bear away St. Aubert and Emily. Valancourt started from his chair, and went to the window; it was indeed the carriage, and he returned to his seat without speaking. The moment was now come when they must part. St. Aubert told Valancourt, that he hoped he would never pass La Vallee without favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt, eagerly thanking him, assured him that he never would; as he said which he looked timidly at Emily, who tried to smile away the seriousness of her spirits. They passed a few minutes in interesting conversation, and St. Aubert then led the way to the carriage, Emily and Valancourt following in silence. The latter lingered at the door several minutes after they were seated, and none of the party seemed to have courage enough to say--Farewell. At length, St. Aubert pronounced the melancholy word, which Emily passed to Valancourt, who returned it, with a dejected smile, and the carriage drove on. The travellers remained, for some time, in a state of tranquil pensiveness, which is not unpleasing. St. Aubert interrupted it by observing, 'This is a very promising young man; it is many years since I have been so much pleased with any person, on so short an acquaintance. He brings back to my memory the days of my youth, when every scene was new and delightful!' St. Aubert sighed, and sunk again into a reverie; and, as Emily looked back upon the road they had passed, Valancourt was seen, at the door of the little


my attempts at three of those four children;--there they are, Henry and John and Bella, from one end of the sheet to the other, and any one of them might do for any one of the rest. She was so eager to have them drawn that I could not refuse; but there is no making children of three or four years old stand still you know; nor can it be very easy to take any likeness of them, beyond the air and complexion, unless they are coarser featured than any of mama's children ever were. Here is my sketch of the fourth, who was a baby. I took him as he was sleeping on the sofa, and it is as strong a likeness of his cockade as you would wish to see. He had nestled down his head most conveniently. That's very like. I am rather proud of little George. The corner of the sofa is very good. Then here is my last,"--unclosing a pretty sketch of a gentleman in small size, whole-length-- "my last and my best--my brother, Mr. John Knightley. --This did not want much of being finished, when I put it away in a pet, and vowed I would never take another likeness. I could not help being provoked; for after all my pains, and when I had really made a very good likeness of it--(Mrs. Weston and I were quite agreed in thinking it very like)--only too handsome--too flattering--but that was a fault on the right side-- after all this, came poor dear Isabella's cold approbation of--"Yes, it was a little like--but to be sure it did not do him justice." We had had a great deal of trouble in persuading him to sit at all. It was made a great favour of; and altogether it was more than I could bear; and so I never would finish it, to have it apologised over as an unfavourable likeness, to every morning visitor in Brunswick Square;--and, as I said, I did then forswear ever drawing any body again. But for Harriet's sake, or rather for my own, and as there are no husbands and wives in the case at present, I will break my resolution now." Mr. Elton seemed very properly struck and delighted by the idea, and was repeating, "No husbands and wives in the case at present indeed, as you observe. Exactly so. No husbands and wives," with so interesting a consciousness, that Emma began to consider whether she had not better leave them together at once. But as she wanted to be drawing, the declaration must wait a little longer. She had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait. It was to be a whole-length in water-colours, like Mr. John Knightley's, and was destined, if she could please herself, to hold a very honourable station over the mantelpiece. The sitting began; and Harriet, smiling and blushing, and afraid of not keeping her attitude and countenance, presented a very sweet mixture of youthful expression to the steady eyes of the artist. But there was no


to then. Plus I felt desperate in my need to catch up. Catch up to what, or to whom, I can’t be sure. I needed to make all my romantic mistakes in one day—okay, one weekend—so I could get them out of the way and get to the good stuff that was sexy and fun. Except I didn’t realize they were mistakes until after they’d already given me chlamydia, not to mention I would’ve kept dating that particular mistake if he hadn’t acted like such a freak about it. One night four or five weeks into my sneaking downstairs to have emotionally unfulfilling intercourse in a sparsely furnished apartment below mine (its contents: a soup pot, a card table, one chair, assorted milk crates, a television, a bed in the living room, a bed in the bedroom) with a different mistake—a niceish man who was fanatical about soccer but not about the idea of a girlfriend—I left said mistake passed out across his bed and got up to pee and squeegee his semen out of me before quietly masturbating into the toilet and seeing myself out like I always did. But this time, dude jumped out of bed to follow me. Was he worried I was going to drink his last Muscle Milk? Steal the plastic crate he used as an end table? I grabbed a blanket to hide the myriad embarrassments of my body in the light of the television, whose eerie blue glow he insisted on keeping on while “making love” (sir, if you refer to it as “lovemaking,” then it’s against the rules to have the TV on), and stammered, “Oh, okay, this is what we’re doing?” while we both groped for the bathroom light switch. I tried to pee as he babbled about something dumb while standing sentinel outside the door, then I thought to myself, “This is kind of nice, does this mean he’s my boyfriend now?” as I tried to hot-water-rinse whatever UTI-causing bacteria he’d deposited inside me down his sink. It only took another two weeks of late-night creeping for him to regularly start asking if he could come into the bathroom and watch me as I went. I am not one to make a value judgment on anyone’s fetish, but he couldn’t really see anything through the opacity of the toilet and the density of my human hips and thighs, so what was even the point? Was he soothed by the sounds of trickling water? Aroused by the sight of a woman struggling to make conversation while trying to will her bladder empty? It was awkward, especially when coupled with the hurdle of my newfound performance anxiety. It’s one thing to psych yourself up enough to put on a dog collar (did that once) or take a bite from a doughnut with a penis through its center (did that more than once???), but peeing on command is difficult! I was nervous! Like what if I tried forcefully pushing out my pee and a huge squelching turd slipped out at the same time, you know


bed, which was still a pallet since the mattress was at the infirmary. But it looked like Attie had added a few more blankets to the pile, creating a soft place for them to sleep. “It’s beautiful,” Iris whispered. “And much appreciated,” Roman said, shutting the door. “I sadly can take no credit for this. It was all Attie.” “Then I’ll have to thank her tomorrow,” Iris said, turning to glance at Roman. His gaze was already fixed on her. Iris swallowed, feeling awkward. She didn’t know if she should go ahead and undress, or maybe he wanted to undress her. Sometimes his face was hard to read, as if he wore a mask, and before she could reach for the top button of her jumpsuit, he spoke. “I have a request, Winnow.” “Gods, Kitt,” she said before she could stop herself. “What now?” The corner of his mouth lifted, amused. “Come and sit next to me on our bed.” He walked past her and knelt on the pile of blankets, careful of his leg as he situated himself with his back against the wall. Iris followed but chose to unlace and remove her boots before she stepped on the blankets. She helped Roman with his, and so that was the first article of clothing removed between them. Their shoes. She settled beside him. His heat began to seep into her side, and she realized how brilliant this was going to be, sleeping next to him every night. She would never get cold again. “All right, Kitt,” she said. “What is your request?” “I would like you to read something to me.” “Oh? And what is this something?” “One of your letters.” That caught her by surprise. She cracked her knuckles but thought it was only fair of her to return the favor to him. “Yes, all right. But only one. So choose wisely.” He smiled down at her, his hand reaching to the floor beside the pallet. “You keep my letters at your bedside?” she asked. “I reread most of them every night.” “You do?” “Yes. Here it is. This is the one,” he said, handing her a very wrinkled piece of paper. She smoothed the creases from the letter, skimming a few lines. Ah yes. This one. Iris cleared her throat, but she glanced up at Roman before she began. He was intently watching her. “There’s one stipulation, Kitt.” “I can’t look at you while you read,” he surmised, remembering his own dilemma. Iris nodded and he shut his eyes, leaning his head against the wall. She returned her gaze to the paper. She began to read, and her voice was deep and smoky, as if she were pulling the words from her past. From a night when she had been sitting on the floor of her room. “I think we all wear armor. I think those who don’t are fools, risking the pain of being wounded by the sharp edges of the world, over and over again. But if I’ve learned anything from those fools, it is that to


obtain one look of affection from thine eyes; my beloved, awake!' "The sleeper stirred; a thrill of terror ran through me. Should she indeed awake, and see me, and curse me, and denounce the murderer? Thus would she assuredly act if her darkened eyes opened and she beheld me. The thought was madness; it stirred the fiend within me--not I, but she, shall suffer; the murder I have committed because I am forever robbed of all that she could give me, she shall atone. The crime had its source in her; be hers the punishment! Thanks to the lessons of Felix and the sanguinary laws of man, I had learned now to work mischief. I bent over her and placed the portrait securely in one of the folds of her dress. She moved again, and I fled. "For some days I haunted the spot where these scenes had taken place, sometimes wishing to see you, sometimes resolved to quit the world and its miseries forever. At length I wandered towards these mountains, and have ranged through their immense recesses, consumed by a burning passion which you alone can gratify. We may not part until you have promised to comply with my requisition. I am alone and miserable; man will not associate with me; but one as deformed and horrible as myself would not deny herself to me. My companion must be of the same species and have the same defects. This being you must create." Chapter 17 The being finished speaking and fixed his looks upon me in the expectation of a reply. But I was bewildered, perplexed, and unable to arrange my ideas sufficiently to understand the full extent of his proposition. He continued, "You must create a female for me with whom I can live in the interchange of those sympathies necessary for my being. This you alone can do, and I demand it of you as a right which you must not refuse to concede." The latter part of his tale had kindled anew in me the anger that had died away while he narrated his peaceful life among the cottagers, and as he said this I could no longer suppress the rage that burned within me. "I do refuse it," I replied; "and no torture shall ever extort a consent from me. You may render me the most miserable of men, but you shall never make me base in my own eyes. Shall I create another like yourself, whose joint wickedness might desolate the world. Begone! I have answered you; you may torture me, but I will never consent." "You are in the wrong," replied the fiend; "and instead of threatening, I am content to reason with you. I am malicious because I am miserable. Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator, would tear me to pieces and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I should pity man more than he pities me? You would not call it murder if you could precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts and destroy my


as near as they dared to the wreck. The fishermen were looking at the wreck in wonder. When they saw the children on board they halloo-ed loudly. "Ahoy there! What's that ship?" "It's the old wreck!" yelled back Julian. "She was thrown up yesterday in the storm!" "Don't say any more," said George, frowning. "It's my wreck. I don't want sightseers on it!" So no more was said, and the four children got into their boat and rowed home as fast as they could. It was past their breakfast-time. They might get a good scolding. They might even be sent to bed by George's fierce father- but what did they care? They had explored the wreck-and had come away with a box which might contain-well, if not bars of gold, one small bar, perhaps! They did get a scolding. They had to go without half their breakfast, too, because Uncle Quentin said that children who came in so late didn't deserve hot bacon and eggs- only toast and marmalade. It was very sad. They hid the box under the bed in the boys' room. Tim had been left with the fisher-boy- or rather, had been tied up in his back yard, for Alf had gone out fishing, and was even now gazing from his father's boat at the strange wreck. "We can make a bit of money taking sightseers out to this wreck," said Alf. And before the day was out scores of interested people had seen the old wreck from the decks of motor-boats and fishing-smacks. George was furious about it. But she couldn't do anything. After all, as Julian said, anybody could have a look! Chapter Nine THE BOX FROM THE WRECK Contents- Prev/Next THE first thing that the children did after breakfast was to fetch the precious box and take it out to the tool-shed in the garden. They were simply longing to force it open. All of them secretly felt certain that it would hold treasure of some sort. Julian looked round for a tool. He found a chisel and decided that would be just the thing to force the box open. He tried, but the tool slipped and jabbed his fingers. Then he tried other things, but the box obstinately refused to open. The children stared at it crossly. "I know what to do," said Anne at last. "Let's take it to the top of the house and throw it down to the ground. It would burst open then, I expect." The others thought over the idea. "It might be worth trying," said Julian. "The only thing is- it might break or spoil anything inside the box." But there didn't seem any other way to open the box, so Julian carried it up to the top of the house. He went to the attic and opened the window there. The others were down below, waiting. Julian hurled the box out of the window as violently as he could. It flew through the air and landed with a terrific crash on the crazy paving below. At once the


good.” “Ghanaian too. I think she’s even Christian,” I add. I obviously have no idea if she is the latter, but Mum looks pleased. “Maybe she can mentor you for your future career,” she says. “Mum, I work in publishing.” “And so? Can you not keep your options open? Publishing doesn’t make you a lot of money, does it? How much does Kristine make?” “Mennim.” Mum raises her eyebrows and a wide smile breaks out across her face. We continue to converse in Twi and she corrects me where I go wrong until I can repeat it correctly. “Try and find out Kristine’s salary.” “That will be difficult.” “I bet Angelina makes more.” “Maybe.” “Maame,” she says after a while. “Yes, Ma.” “Seriously, when do you think you will marry?” I smile and look her in the eyes. “Not any time soon.” * * * When I get back to the flat, I pour myself a glass of water and sit in the kitchen, drinking it slowly. Upstairs, I untie my hair, brush my teeth and shower, standing with my head low under a cascade of hot water. When out and dressed, I sit on the floor facing the window. I stare out to the sky with my back leaning against my bed and my legs crossed. “Hi, Dad.” I wait to see if the sky changes at all and when it doesn’t, I continue. “It’s me, Maddie. I’m not one hundred percent sure how heaven works, whether you can see me or if it’s possible to tune out everyone else who’s talking to heaven right now just to hear me, but it’s worth a shot. I thought I would start doing this, if you don’t mind. We didn’t talk much when you were here; I always thought you didn’t care, but maybe you thought I was the one who didn’t care. Regardless, maybe we could get to know each other a bit better; start from the beginning almost.” I clear my throat. “I’m twenty-five now, twenty-six in four months. I know your memory was slipping at the end so you couldn’t remember those kinds of things, but you’re healthy again now, that’s how heaven works, right? When Mum and I went to see you at the funeral home, your feet were no longer swollen. Can you walk on your own now, Dad? Can you run? You must feel so free. You can stretch your fingers and run laps in the clouds. “I haven’t heard you have a proper conversation in years and I know it’s because your brain wouldn’t let you. You must be talking people’s ears off now. I wish I’d recorded your voice…” I would get a tissue but I don’t want to move, so I use the back of my hand to pat my face dry. “Maybe it’s not even a physical thing up there and it’s just your weightless soul and that, for you, is just a feeling, so you’re not actually running or stretching but you are weightless. The soul thing would explain how everyone fits


even to sight, and conveyed the ugliest possible idea of the state of society to which they could have been adapted. One exception there was, however, in a very antique elbow-chair, with a high back, carved elaborately in oak, and a roomy depth within its arms, that made up, by its spacious comprehensiveness, for the lack of any of those artistic curves which abound in a modern chair. As for ornamental articles of furniture, we recollect but two, if such they may be called. One was a map of the Pyncheon territory at the eastward, not engraved, but the handiwork of some skilful old draughtsman, and grotesquely illuminated with pictures of Indians and wild beasts, among which was seen a lion; the natural history of the region being as little known as its geography, which was put down most fantastically awry. The other adornment was the portrait of old Colonel Pyncheon, at two thirds length, representing the stern features of a Puritanic-looking personage, in a skull-cap, with a laced band and a grizzly beard; holding a Bible with one hand, and in the other uplifting an iron sword-hilt. The latter object, being more successfully depicted by the artist, stood out in far greater prominence than the sacred volume. Face to face with this picture, on entering the apartment, Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon came to a pause; regarding it with a singular scowl, a strange contortion of the brow, which, by people who did not know her, would probably have been interpreted as an expression of bitter anger and ill-will. But it was no such thing. She, in fact, felt a reverence for the pictured visage, of which only a far-descended and time-stricken virgin could be susceptible; and this forbidding scowl was the innocent result of her near-sightedness, and an effort so to concentrate her powers of vision as to substitute a firm outline of the object instead of a vague one. We must linger a moment on this unfortunate expression of poor Hepzibah's brow. Her scowl,--as the world, or such part of it as sometimes caught a transitory glimpse of her at the window, wickedly persisted in calling it,--her scowl had done Miss Hepzibah a very ill office, in establishing her character as an ill-tempered old maid; nor does it appear improbable that, by often gazing at herself in a dim looking-glass, and perpetually encountering her own frown with its ghostly sphere, she had been led to interpret the expression almost as unjustly as the world did. "How miserably cross I look!" she must often have whispered to herself; and ultimately have fancied herself so, by a sense of inevitable doom. But her heart never frowned. It was naturally tender, sensitive, and full of little tremors and palpitations; all of which weaknesses it retained, while her visage was growing so perversely stern, and even fierce. Nor had Hepzibah ever any hardihood, except what came from the very warmest nook in her affections. All this time, however, we are loitering faintheartedly on the threshold of our story. In very truth, we have an invincible


lugubriously as the long train of sleds churned by. With the last remnant of his strength he managed to stagger along behind till the train made another stop, when he floundered past the sleds to his own, where he stood alongside Sol-leks. His driver lingered a moment to get a light for his pipe from the man behind. Then he returned and started his dogs. They swung out on the trail with remarkable lack of exertion, turned their heads uneasily, and stopped in surprise. The driver was surprised, too; the sled had not moved. He called his comrades to witness the sight. Dave had bitten through both of Sol-leks's traces, and was standing directly in front of the sled in his proper place. He pleaded with his eyes to remain there. The driver was perplexed. His comrades talked of how a dog could break its heart through being denied the work that killed it, and recalled instances they had known, where dogs, too old for the toil, or injured, had died because they were cut out of the traces. Also, they held it a mercy, since Dave was to die anyway, that he should die in the traces, heart-easy and content. So he was harnessed in again, and proudly he pulled as of old, though more than once he cried out involuntarily from the bite of his inward hurt. Several times he fell down and was dragged in the traces, and once the sled ran upon him so that he limped thereafter in one of his hind legs. But he held out till camp was reached, when his driver made a place for him by the fire. Morning found him too weak to travel. At harness-up time he tried to crawl to his driver. By convulsive efforts he got on his feet, staggered, and fell. Then he wormed his way forward slowly toward where the harnesses were being put on his mates. He would advance his fore legs and drag up his body with a sort of hitching movement, when he would advance his fore legs and hitch ahead again for a few more inches. His strength left him, and the last his mates saw of him he lay gasping in the snow and yearning toward them. But they could hear him mournfully howling till they passed out of sight behind a belt of river timber. Here the train was halted. The Scotch half-breed slowly retraced his steps to the camp they had left. The men ceased talking. A revolver-shot rang out. The man came back hurriedly. The whips snapped, the bells tinkled merrily, the sleds churned along the trail; but Buck knew, and every dog knew, what had taken place behind the belt of river trees. Chapter V The Toil of Trace and Trail Thirty days from the time it left Dawson, the Salt Water Mail, with Buck and his mates at the fore, arrived at Skaguay. They were in a wretched state, worn out and worn down. Buck's one hundred and forty pounds had dwindled to one hundred and fifteen.


easily attainable for the small-minded man. I skip my visits to Grandmother and Meiling. I don’t want them to know my humiliation. I’m determined to hold on to Maoren and keep him to myself. I recall the illustrated books I saw before my wedding. On those nights that Maoren does come to my room, I surprise him with new twisting and turning. It’s exciting and different, but my monthly moon water comes again. A profound disappointment… We go back to the usual ways of most husbands and wives. It’s all so routine and sad that it takes a couple of weeks for me to notice that even my husband’s fascination with my feet has vanished. Then he begins to sleep in his library, saying he wants to put his effort into his next attempt at the imperial exams. That’s when I realize it’s only a matter of time before my mother-in-law will do her duty and bring in a concubine. I feel myself slipping into the syndrome my grandmother always warns me about. I keep up with Ailan’s footbinding, but I lose interest in Yuelan’s and Chunlan’s embroidery and other domestic skills. Then the worst comes to pass. My mother-in-law finds a concubine for Maoren. I stay in my room, refusing to meet the girl. Poppy tells me she’s fourteen and exceptionally beautiful: “She’s called Snowpink, and her cheeks are as lovely as the pink of sunrise on freshly fallen snow.” I curl into a ball. Despair. Failure. I have only myself to blame. If Snowpink has a son, I’ll be able to adopt him as a ritual son, as Respectful Lady did with Yifeng and Lady Kuo might do with Manzi. But I want my own son, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life having to accommodate a concubine of elevated rank. In my mind, I try to fight back. Who knows how Maoren will react to his mother’s gift? Maybe he won’t like the girl. But my battle with myself is doomed, because what man wouldn’t like someone fresh, young, obedient, and malleable? A few days later, Maoren comes to my room in the late afternoon. He holds a letter sealed with wax. It’s addressed to me, but he opens it and scans to the end. “Lady Liu has written to you,” he says. “She wants you to know that her mother is as mentally sharp as before her troubles began.” He looks to me for an explanation, but I don’t give one. “Lady Liu’s sister-in-law… It says here she suffered damage from weeping?” Again he peers at me, but I’d never tell him about what I discussed with Lady Liu and Widow Bao. “I’m happy to inform you that the sister-in-law is much improved after three months, just as you said she would be. She also thanks you for introducing her to Young Midwife. She writes that there will be news forthcoming in that regard.” While this information lifts my spirits briefly, I’m too defeated to ask to see the letter myself. There’s more to


wrist to the floor. Pupkin saw what was in her hand and he screeched and clapped his hands together. “Whee! Whee! Whee!” he cried. “Hurry!” Mark shouted and Louise pressed the trigger and the saw screamed to life. It felt hungry in her hands, it lurched forward, it wanted to cut. It was loud and she didn’t know if she could make herself do it, but over its screeching roar she heard as much as she saw Mark screaming, mouth so wide his jaw looked dislocated, face red and sweaty, and she aimed for the infinity tattoo on his right forearm, and before she could stop herself she brought the saw down in the middle of infinity’s arc. It went in fast, like there was nothing there, like it was cutting air, and everything around her misted red and Louise’s face went hot. Then it hit bone (his radius, her Girl Scout brain said) and the intolerable screeching of the saw went up an octave to an ear-shredding yowl, like the drill at the dentist’s office. The saw juddered and shook in her hands, burning vibrations trying to force her palms open, trying to make her let go, as she pushed the spinning blade through Mark’s radius. Thick gobbets of fat splattered her face and knuckles and she was screaming and felt hard grains of bone dust settle on her tongue and she pressed her lips together and tasted her brother’s blood. Mark screamed and Pupkin screamed with laughter and danced on the end of his half-severed arm, and then the blade was clear of bone, and Louise, resistance suddenly removed, lurched forward. The saw struck concrete and shot out a shower of white sparks and Louise smelled something burning and she knew it was her brother’s bone, and then the saw hit the second bone in his forearm (ulna, her Girl Scout brain noted), but it barely slowed the blade down. Louise leaned forward, putting her weight on it, sparks shooting into her face, blood misting Pupkin’s face, the garage full of Pupkin’s laughter and her brother’s screams, and then she was through and Pupkin fell at a strange angle, and the circular saw shot forward, screaming against the concrete floor, and she released the trigger and everything went quiet except for Mark screaming. Louise looked at Pupkin and he was still writhing and she told herself that was just a reflex action of Mark’s severed arm inside him but he was crawling deliberately toward the hammer, dragging Mark’s ragged red stump behind him as it hung from his puppet hole. She stood up and grabbed him, palms still numb from the saw, and tore him off the end of Mark’s arm and ran over and jammed him in the trash can and slammed the lid. Mark’s arm was surprisingly heavy in her hand. She looked at Mark, retracting around himself, mouth wide in a silent scream, curling into a fetal ball around his arm stump as it jetted blood across the concrete floor in a high-pressure spray, pulsing to the


tense and histrionic dialogue. I could gently correct these tendencies while encouraging Skylar to think up the solutions herself. “And then, again, there’s a lawyer on the scene out of nowhere.” I tap the page. “Do lawyers grow on trees, Skylar? Maybe they have a spidey sense for marital discomfort?” Then: “Do Chloe and Christopher have a weird incest thing going on, or is that just how you’ve chosen to portray all of their sibling interactions?” Then: “Does every single Chinese person in this neighborhood know each other, or did you just find that convenient for the plot?” Then: “I wonder if there’s any better imagery you can use for sexual tension than literally biting into a strawberry.” Then: “‘She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.’ Really?” By the end of it I’ve convinced most of the class that Skylar’s story is horrible—whether they agree, or whether they’re scared of invoking my ire, I don’t care. We’ve picked her voice and style to shreds. Her metaphors are unoriginal, her dialogue is wooden (at one point I even make Johnson and Celeste act out a scene, just to highlight how cringey it sounds out loud), her plot twists are all borrowed from readily recognizable pop-culture sources, and she overuses her em dashes and semicolons to the extreme. By the end of our session, Skylar is close to tears. She has stopped nodding, frowning, or reacting to any bits of criticism whatsoever. She merely stares out the window, lower lip trembling, fingers twisting the top page of her notebook into tiny pieces. I’ve won. It’s a pathetic victory, sure, but it’s better than sitting here and suffering their mocking glares. That hot, vicious satisfaction stays with me through the rest of the morning. I conclude the critique circle, assign homework, and watch them flee wordlessly out the door. I’ve only made things worse, I know. Now I’ll have to sit before their resentful, condescending faces for another week and a half. I’m sure that, behind the scenes, they’ll bitch about me endlessly until this workshop is over. I’m sure they’ll join the chorus of Juniper Song haters online. But I’ve at least made myself into a terror rather than a punch line, and for now, I’m all right with that. Once they’ve left the classroom, I pull out my phone and Google “Candice Lee Juniper Song Athena Liu.” Johnson’s words have been stuck in my mind all morning: There’s a quote from a former editorial assistant at Eden; she says it always felt fishy. My breath quickens with fear as the results load. What does Candice have on me? But the relevant article—another tiresome Adele Sparks-Sato hit piece—contains nothing new. Candice offers no damning evidence, no new shreds of proof that haven’t been overanalyzed to bits by the internet already. Just a vague quote that means nothing much at all. I close the article and scroll through her social media accounts. Candice’s Instagram is private; her Twitter has been inactive since last March. Her LinkedIn, however, announces she’s recently taken


breakfast he and Aunt Louisa would have to hurry out and buy a new pair of boots. At school they would be astounded. "Hulloa, Carey, what have you done with your foot?" "Oh, it's all right now," he would answer casually, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He would be able to play football. His heart leaped as he saw himself running, running, faster than any of the other boys. At the end of the Easter term there were the sports, and he would be able to go in for the races; he rather fancied himself over the hurdles. It would be splendid to be like everyone else, not to be stared at curiously by new boys who did not know about his deformity, nor at the baths in summer to need incredible precautions, while he was undressing, before he could hide his foot in the water. He prayed with all the power of his soul. No doubts assailed him. He was confident in the word of God. And the night before he was to go back to school he went up to bed tremulous with excitement. There was snow on the ground, and Aunt Louisa had allowed herself the unaccustomed luxury of a fire in her bed-room; but in Philip's little room it was so cold that his fingers were numb, and he had great difficulty in undoing his collar. His teeth chattered. The idea came to him that he must do something more than usual to attract the attention of God, and he turned back the rug which was in front of his bed so that he could kneel on the bare boards; and then it struck him that his nightshirt was a softness that might displease his Maker, so he took it off and said his prayers naked. When he got into bed he was so cold that for some time he could not sleep, but when he did, it was so soundly that Mary Ann had to shake him when she brought in his hot water next morning. She talked to him while she drew the curtains, but he did not answer; he had remembered at once that this was the morning for the miracle. His heart was filled with joy and gratitude. His first instinct was to put down his hand and feel the foot which was whole now, but to do this seemed to doubt the goodness of God. He knew that his foot was well. But at last he made up his mind, and with the toes of his right foot he just touched his left. Then he passed his hand over it. He limped downstairs just as Mary Ann was going into the dining-room for prayers, and then he sat down to breakfast. "You're very quiet this morning, Philip," said Aunt Louisa presently. "He's thinking of the good breakfast he'll have at school to-morrow," said the Vicar. When Philip answered, it was in a way that always irritated his uncle, with something that had nothing to do with the


his eyes as he hovered over me, his thigh against mine. “Exactly what I said. I had sex,” I said. I needed him to stop touching me. I pushed him off, and he sprang away like I’d sprouted thorns. I yanked my shirt down where it had ridden up and smoothed my hair back into order. “We’ve been broken up for days, and you fucked someone else?” Mitch asked, incredulous. “Yeah, well. It’s what I do, apparently,” I said. “Who?” he demanded. “No one you know.” I grabbed my bourbon and took a few swallows. My head was ringing, my shoulders tensing as memories snarled together. Cheap blanket against my bare shoulders—no, a concrete wall. Hole in the roof the size of a fist, leaves shivering just beyond. The smell of the forest. The smell of gasoline. Of all the shit in my life, I’d thought I was over this part, but apparently I wasn’t. Mitch’s fly hung open. I hadn’t noticed him undoing it. Everything was weirdly blurry around the edges. My hand shook. “I don’t get a name, at least?” he asked, affronted. “Oscar,” I said, not thinking, not thinking about now at least, and then I shook my head. “No, it wasn’t, it—” “You don’t even remember his name?” he asked with sneering contempt. “Get out,” I said, not looking at him. “It’s my apartment. This is my bed.” “Then I’ll go.” I stood. He shook his head viciously. “Forget it. You can stay here tonight. But after that I want you out of here.” He strode out, slamming the bedroom door behind him. A moment later I heard the front door follow suit. Probably going out to drive around angrily. I sank back onto the bed, head dropping into my hands. What the hell just happened? I should have just fucked him so he could feel like he was helping. But when he’d touched me, all I could feel was Oscar’s hands. Oscar hadn’t smelled of aftershave and lotion; he’d had that cut-wood scent of the mill, machine oil, sweat. He’d laid down the ratty blanket like it was the most noble thing anyone had ever done for a girl, and right before he thrust inside me he told me, Don’t worry, it’s supposed to hurt. I threw back the rest of the bourbon, feeling it scorch down my throat. Why had I said Oscar? That was years ago. And it was yesterday. The flesh does not acknowledge linear time, a therapist had once told me. The past is written alongside the present on our skins. I told him he should have written poetry instead of prescriptions. He accused me of deflecting insight with sarcasm. He was the one who’d told me that it was a mistake to order my life into Before and After, as if the attack was the root of every bad thing that had happened since, as if my life had been utterly reordered by the cataclysm that found me. And he was right. Oscar was Before, and he was After, and he was,