is woefully different from what she was when I saw her last. Of course you must bear in mind that I did not have full opportunity of examination such as I should wish. Our very friendship makes a little difficulty which not even medical science or custom can bridge over. I had better tell you exactly what happened, leaving you to draw, in a measure, your own conclusions. I shall then say what I have done and propose doing. "I found Miss Westenra in seemingly gay spirits. Her mother was present, and in a few seconds I made up my mind that she was trying all she knew to mislead her mother and prevent her from being anxious. I have no doubt she guesses, if she does not know, what need of caution there is. "We lunched alone, and as we all exerted ourselves to be cheerful, we got, as some kind of reward for our labours, some real cheerfulness amongst us. Then Mrs. Westenra went to lie down, and Lucy was left with me. We went into her boudoir, and till we got there her gaiety remained, for the servants were coming and going. "As soon as the door was closed, however, the mask fell from her face, and she sank down into a chair with a great sigh, and hid her eyes with her hand. When I saw that her high spirits had failed, I at once took advantage of her reaction to make a diagnosis. "She said to me very sweetly, `I cannot tell you how I loathe talking about myself.' I reminded her that a doctor's confidence was sacred, but that you were grievously anxious about her. She caught on to my meaning at once, and settled that matter in a word. `Tell Arthur everything you choose. I do not care for myself, but for him!' So I am quite free. "I could easily see that she was somewhat bloodless, but I could not see the usual anemic signs, and by the chance , I was able to test the actual quality of her blood, for in opening a window which was stiff a cord gave way, and she cut her hand slightly with broken glass. It was a slight matter in itself, but it gave me an evident chance, and I secured a few drops of the blood and have analysed them. "The qualitative analysis give a quite normal condition, and shows, I should infer, in itself a vigorous state of health. In other physical matters I was quite satisfied that there is no need for anxiety, but as there must be a cause somewhere, I have come to the conclusion that it must be something mental. "She complains of difficulty breathing satisfactorily at times, and of heavy, lethargic sleep, with dreams that frighten her, but regarding which she can remember nothing. She says that as a child, she used to walk in her sleep, and that when in Whitby the habit came back, and that once she walked out in the night and went to East


That was not very well, for she spoke to me thus, with her arms round my neck, in the morning, and I was going home in the morning, and I went home in the morning, with herself and Mr. Barkis in the cart. They left me at the gate, not easily or lightly; and it was a strange sight to me to see the cart go on, taking Peggotty away, and leaving me under the old elm-trees looking at the house, in which there was no face to look on mine with love or liking any more. And now I fell into a state of neglect, which I cannot look back upon without compassion. I fell at once into a solitary condition, - apart from all friendly notice, apart from the society of all other boys of my own age, apart from all companionship but my own spiritless thoughts, - which seems to cast its gloom upon this paper as I write. What would I have given, to have been sent to the hardest school that ever was kept! - to have been taught something, anyhow, anywhere! No such hope dawned upon me. They disliked me; and they sullenly, sternly, steadily, overlooked me. I think Mr. Murdstone's means were straitened at about this time; but it is little to the purpose. He could not bear me; and in putting me from him he tried, as I believe, to put away the notion that I had any claim upon him - and succeeded. I was not actively ill-used. I was not beaten, or starved; but the wrong that was done to me had no intervals of relenting, and was done in a systematic, passionless manner. Day after day, week after week, month after month, I was coldly neglected. I wonder sometimes, when I think of it, what they would have done if I had been taken with an illness; whether I should have lain down in my lonely room, and languished through it in my usual solitary way, or whether anybody would have helped me out. When Mr. and Miss Murdstone were at home, I took my meals with them; in their absence, I ate and drank by myself. At all times I lounged about the house and neighbourhood quite disregarded, except that they were jealous of my making any friends: thinking, perhaps, that if I did, I might complain to someone. For this reason, though Mr. Chillip often asked me to go and see him (he was a widower, having, some years before that, lost a little small light-haired wife, whom I can just remember connecting in my own thoughts with a pale tortoise-shell cat), it was but seldom that I enjoyed the happiness of passing an afternoon in his closet of a surgery; reading some book that was new to me, with the smell of the whole Pharmacopoeia coming up my nose, or pounding something in a mortar under his mild directions. For the same reason, added no doubt to the old dislike of her, I was seldom allowed to visit


a ride a couple of minutes ago. She’ll be down to the Warm Cup any second. “I’ll meet you in a bit,” I say. First I need to find something for Sabrina. We won’t be leaving this trip with matching tattoos—as it turns out, most artists won’t tattoo a pregnant person, thus Cleo’s true resistance to the idea—but that doesn’t mean we can’t find something to hold on to from this place. After Kimmy picks Cleo up, I grab a second caramel latte, iced this time, and wander past shop windows. I have no idea where to begin. I’m hoping I’ll know it when I see it. So far, the best option seems to be matching T- shirts that say GOT LOBSTAH on them, or matching T-shirts that say MAINEIAC over a lobster wearing aviators. I follow a window display filled with lamps and cutesy tea towels around the corner, right to a window display filled with colorful buoys that have been turned into all manner of yard ornaments. I pause to let a grimy Subaru breeze through a stop sign at the next cross street, and that’s when I realize where I am. Easy Lane. The backdrop to our fight last night. Up ahead, I spot the tattoo shop on the left. My first inclination is to get away from the scene of the crime. Then I notice the glossy gold shop number over the door on my right: 125. Number 125, on Easy Lane. It takes me a second to figure out what’s so familiar about that. When I do, I backtrack and check the number of the buoy store. 127. Wrong direction. I’m looking for 123. I wait for another car to pass through the intersection, and then jog across. 123 Easy Lane. The site of my personalized surprise. On the door, a decal reads EARTHEN, along with some hours of operation, but in the glare of bright sunlight, I can’t make out much through the windows. I check the time on my phone: 9:16 a.m. If I remember correctly, the itinerary said Sabrina’s “personalized surprise” for me would start at nine. I waffle for a moment about going in, then bite the bullet and push the door open. A gust of warm air meets me. “Harriet?” a woman’s voice says. I blink as I wait out my pupillary dilation from the sudden change in light. “Yes, hi!” I turn toward the voice, wondering if she can tell I can’t see her, or anything at all, yet. “Your space is all ready in the back,” she says. “Great.” For some reason it doesn’t occur to me until a half second too late that I could tell her I have no idea why I’m here. Or where here is. My vision resolves as she leads me to the back of the shop, the floating oak shelves that line the walls coming into focus along with all the kitchenware for sale on them. Bowls, plates, cups, all in candy-colored tones that pop against the gallery-white walls. The shop’s attendant—a woman with


Our Lady of the Grove Church were marked, along with the home of Hugo and Helene Laroche and even Vince Laroche’s apartment in JAX Brewery noted. Montoya was right, nothing was gelling. But they were getting closer; Bentz could feel it, that little tingle of anticipation that fired his blood whenever they were close. He only hoped they could nail the psychotic son of a bitch before anyone else got hurt. Especially his daughter. Make that his pregnant, recently widowed daughter. Yeah, he agreed with Ty Wheeler, and wished that his shot that night in the bayou long ago had found its mark. Next time, Bentz silently vowed, he wouldn’t miss. * * * “I said, ‘Get up!’” the man ordered. Through the hair that had fallen over her face, Stacy stared up at him, dark above the bright beam of light from his flashlight. He was going to kill her. If she let him, he’d strangle her with that damned fake rosary while the bullfrogs croaked and mosquitoes hummed in this godforsaken swamp. “Now!” he yelled, and something in the bracken behind him rustled, an animal of some kind scurrying or slithering through the woods. For a second he was distracted, glanced over his shoulder, and she caught sight of her dropped shoe. Her fingers wrapped around the narrow arch of the stiletto as she stood, keeping her right hand out of sight. He swung his gaze back to her and, satisfied that she was obeying, looped the rosary of death over her head. As he did, she swung upward. Throwing all of her weight into her shoulder, she thrust the sharp heel of her shoe at his face, aiming for his eye. “Aaaarrrggh!” He yowled in pain. Blood spurted over the shoe and her fingers. She chopped upward again. Fast. Over and over. Bam! Bam! Bam! “Noooo!” Squealing, he tightened the grip on the rosary, twisting it and cinching it over her throat. But the choker prevented the stones from cutting into her flesh. “You little bitch!” he said through gritted teeth, blood running down his face. She raised the high heel again and he grabbed the shoe with his free hand. He ripped it from her sticky fingers, then flung the stiletto into the swamp. “You’ll pay for that!” He dragged her from her feet. Twisting. Grunting. All his muscles coiled. Her second shoe dangled, then fell off to clatter against the rotting dock. “Die,” he ordered, his breath hot. Heavy. Despite the choker, Stacy couldn’t breathe. She grasped the glittering noose with her fingers, but she couldn’t wedge them beneath the heavy wire. Her legs were moving frantically, trying to find ground, but they found only air. “That’s better,” he growled. Satisfied. Smug. Another twist. Oh, merciful God! Her lungs were tight. On fire. She tried to drag in a breath. Could only gurgle. The holy noose tightened. Her lungs would surely burst. She heard popping noises. From her ears and eyes. No, no, no! He shifted, twirling her out over the dark water, dangling her body over


and gloved hands curled over the arms of the chair, he was an artist’s dream. “As Heirs, we inherit the enemies and debts of our father. I am my father’s sole child. I represented an invaluable emotional currency for his enemies. The Citadel was well protected, and my mother rarely left my side.” Arin turned his cheek to the window. His eyes dissolved in the moonlight, swirling in its colors. “When I was two years old, my father executed a Jasadi merchant found guilty of enchanting the weapons of Nizahlan dissidents in the lower villages. There was an outcry from Malik Niyar and Malika Palia. They had wanted him punished in Jasad. Two weeks later, a musrira misted past our guards and into my bedroom.” I frowned, tempted to interrupt. I had begged Dawoud to introduce me to a musrira when I was a child. Most Jasadi magic did not show a preference in how it was expressed or exhibit an affinity toward a particular use. Musriras were one of the rare exceptions. These Jasadis possessed the ability to move through space in spirit. They could vacate their physical forms in a safe place and spirit themselves anywhere they wanted to go. Usr Jasad had been warded to the teeth, but even our most powerful security barriers could not keep out a musrira. “She cursed me. We believe she intended the curse to kill me, but my mother interrupted halfway through. The curse took only half effect. I woke up three days later with a new attunement to magic. I could sense it, feel it.” He turned away from the window. A strand of silver hair came loose at his temple. “Temporarily drain it.” “You said… you once told me my magic felt strong. If it pains you to touch me now, when I can barely use a fraction of it, what would happen if my magic were free?” Arin raised his chin, unmoved by the question. It must have occurred to him soon after the events in the Relic Room. “I can’t know for certain what would happen if your full magic was accessible. I might be able to drain it normally. Maybe I’d never reach the bottom of your magic’s well, so to speak, and could only temporarily drain portions of it,” Arin said. “But if you want my strongest theory, I suspect touching you while you can fully express your magic would kill me.” He offered it calmly, as one might report the presence of rain in the clouds. It took me a minute to gather myself and collect the jaw I’d dropped. “That is quite a theory.” One I doubted had any shred of likelihood. My magic was powerful, but not to the extent that draining it would kill him. That touching me would kill him. “Anything else?” Arin braced his hands against the arms of his chair, clearly ready to conclude the conversation. The dreams I had plummeted through after Soraya’s attack. They were only dreams, but in one of them… “Was your hair black before the


to use mine. I can tell when I’m doing it right because Ben will sigh deeply, and I can feel his heartbeat; it moves hard and fast and I like that I’m the reason for it. When I get home, Cam’s door is shut and she’s playing music. She rarely plays music. I tiptoe past and up the stairs but pause on the landing when I hear voices coming from Jo’s room, of which the door is not completely closed. When I ascertain Jo’s “Oh, fuck, Sam … fuuuuck” isn’t her response to being murdered on a bed that isn’t structurally sound, I attribute the noises to her having sex with Casual Sam. Jo’s moans make my ears burn, and I don’t know if I can move without being heard. Somehow if I’m discovered, the embarrassment will definitely be mine to bear. I take another step and the landing creaks, but they don’t stop. I take the opportunity to run to my room and close the door behind me. Great. I need to use the toilet. Chapter Thirteen I’m nervously tapping my foot on Tuesday when, during our catch-up, I ask Kris, “How was last week’s Creative?” “It was all right.” She shoves her hair back with a headband. “It was shit, actually.” “What happened?” “I think we’re all in a bit of a creative funk,” she says. “We don’t have any fresh ideas and all the new stuff we keep losing.” “Ideas?” I repeat. “So the team can come up with ideas instead of waiting for agents to bring us their titles?” “It’s something Penny started when we were really struggling,” Kris answers. “Instead of continuously trying to outbid other publishers, we’d focus on food writers already on our list and come up with exciting things for them to write about. For example, getting Carmen to write about her stay in Italy was Penny’s idea.” Wow. Carmen Loremo’s Sardinia is one of OTP’s bestsellers. “I didn’t know that was an option.” I write down: What do we want and which of our writers can do it? “It’s a good idea.” “It’s a good idea when we have good ideas,” Kris says. “It’s not easy getting a book about foreign cuisine from our list of writers who are … well, limited in foreign experience.” In other words, homogenous in culture. I nod. “Of course.” “It only worked for Carmen because her husband is from Sardinia so they travel there a lot. We’ll think of something.” She closes her notebook. “Did you manage to get that list of titles up on MDX?” “Yes, but, actually, I’ve had an idea about something.” I pitch her my practiced paragraph on Cooking Combos, a book focused on classic and unique pairings, what you can do with them and why. It would discuss the science behind the flavor combination, as text-heavy, informative cookbooks are popular now, and how to cook classic or unexpected dishes with what you’ve got at home. Kris listens patiently and at the end says she’ll think about it but well done me for


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

and instead of a proper kiss, I merely brushed my lips against his. It was a shadow of a kiss, cool and insubstantial, and I almost wish I could be romantic and say it was somehow transformative, but in truth, I barely felt it. But then his eyes came open, and he smiled at me with such innocent happiness that my ridiculous heart gave a leap and would have answered him instantly, if it was the organ in charge of my decision-making. “Choose whenever you wish,” he said. “No doubt you will first need to draw up a list of pros and cons, or perhaps a series of bar plots. If you like, I will help you organize them into categories.” I cleared my throat. “It strikes me that this is all pointless speculation. You cannot marry me. I am not going to be left behind, pining for you, when you return to your kingdom. I have no time for pining.” He gave me an astonished look. “Leave you behind! As if you would consent to that. I would expect to be burnt alive when next I returned to visit. No, Em, you will come with me, and we will rule my kingdom together. You will scheme and strategize until you have all my councillors eating out of your hand as easily as you do Poe, and I will show you everything —everything. We will travel to the darkest parts of my realm and back again, and you will find answers to questions you have never even thought to ask, and enough material to fill every journal and library with your discoveries.” And that is where we left things. I don’t even know why I am including this, for God knows I do not wish to preserve the details of my romantic life for posterity (and a very short footnote that would be), only I find that writing it all out has made me somewhat calmer. Perhaps I will tear up this entry later. I know that if I put this notebook aside and attempt to sleep, I will simply run over every argument and counterargument in my head, but what else can I do? Shadow is gazing up at me from his forepaws in a woebegone sort of way, as if I have somehow disappointed him. Traitor. SKIP NOTES * Such tokens are a motif of changeling folklore. In the stories, they are commonly found in the possession of the changeling; if wrested away, he or she weakens or vanishes entirely, but they can also be used to threaten or cajole the creature into good behaviour. It was commonplace in early- to mid-nineteenth century Britain for museums to maintain collections of supposed “changeling tokens,” most of which were of questionable provenance; Danielle de Grey wrote a scathing paper on the subject. Unfortunately, to make her point, she also stole a number of tokens from the University of Edinburgh and replaced each with a cap and bells. The rector was unamused, and the result was a short stay in Edinburgh Prison for


“I can guarantee he’s a man.” “That’s not what your son says. The first time we met, he said his wife has been training to be a doctor since she was eight years old.” The widow glances in my direction. “I assume he was speaking of you.” A Dragon is always loyal to his loved ones. I am not the sort of woman to crow, however. “Doctor Wong is known to be the best physician in Wuxi,” Lady Kuo says. “He has published a book of his cases.” The widow sniffs. “We’ve seen it.” “He’s clearly seeking a certain kind of clientele,” Lady Liu comments. “Many people want to align themselves with the wealthy. The rich, in turn, want what they perceive to be the best money can bring them—” “My concern is,” Widow Bao interrupts, “he is not a doctor solely for women.” My mother-in-law bridles. “Doctor Wong has long overseen fertility issues in our household.” Our two guests listen politely: the younger one with twitchy energy, the older one with forced patience. “Our party detoured to Wuxi to see…” Widow Bao slips a hand out from under her sleeve and rolls her wrist in my direction. “We’re traveling with my son because we love him and don’t want him to be lonely, but my daughter-in-law and I have other business. You could say double business. My daughter lives in Nanjing. We saw her when we were there. She’s been quite ill.” “Her doctor says she might die,” Lady Liu says, “but your son has given us new hope in the form of his wife.” “Do not take our request as simply women’s folly,” the widow adds. “My son insisted we come here, for he loves his sister very much and would like to do what he can to reverse the course of her illness. Great rewards can come to a family such as yours in gratitude for your hospitality, guidance, and good deeds.” Lady Kuo remains silent. I can’t imagine her thoughts. “Just think of the morality stories we’ve heard since childhood.” Widow Bao holds out her right hand to give an example. “A poor man helps a beggar by the side of the road. The beggar turns out to be a god or an emperor in disguise, and many gifts are bestowed on the poor man for his kindness and generosity when he himself had so little.” She extends her left hand for her second example. “A family of great wealth and distinction, with storerooms overflowing, refuses to put even a single morsel in a beggar’s bowl. Many years later, after the family has suffered from fires, drought, and bad luck at gambling, who should arrive in a grand procession? We all know the end of the story.” Lady Kuo clicks her fingernails against each other. I take this as an order to speak. “I suggest you visit my grandmother. She is well known in Wuxi for her sublime treatments.” “We’ve heard of her,” Lady Liu says, “but my mother-in-law and I agree that someone young might have fresher


taps on the door to my bedchamber, enters, and serves me tea. She recently turned seventeen. She is the mother of my first grandson and will soon give birth to another child, hopefully another son. My concern, the same one that preoccupied Lady Kuo, is that the Yang wives are not producing enough sons, despite my best efforts to make the women in the household fertile. What’s worrisome is that if we keep on this path, the family will continue to grow smaller and money will become scarcer, as we won’t have enough men to run our businesses or sons to do well in the imperial exams. “When Midwife Shi comes for her weekly visit,” I say to my daughter-in-law, “I expect you to visit the Hermitage so we can both examine you.” (I still have a hard time thinking of Meiling as Midwife Shi, but she took on the title after her mother died.) “I will be there, Lady Tan,” she answers, her head politely bowed. I count on this girl to be an extra pair of eyes and ears for me, so I ask, “Are there others in the household I should see today?” “Fourth Aunt is having trouble with her granddaughter’s footbinding—” “Fourth Aunt should have told me!” “She blames herself that she hasn’t been more vigilant, and she didn’t want to disappoint you.” “Tell her not to worry about my opinion. What matters is that infection doesn’t settle in her granddaughter’s feet. I will visit the child after Midwife Shi leaves.” “Yes, Lady Tan.” I smile at the girl. “How are Lian’s studies progressing?” “He was in his library, working all night.” My smile broadens. “He has always been a good student.” “As you have told me.” “Then you shall hear it again, so you might be a good mother to your sons when they are old enough.” I move to my dressing table to apply rouge and lip color. “I started teaching Lian when he was three. I thought to myself if a child can memorize a nursery rhyme, then why not something more important? I opened the Book of Odes. I remember well the first lesson Lian learned by heart. He who depends on himself will have the greatest happiness. And look! It has turned out to be so.” My daughter-in-law begins to brush my hair. I like the girl. She’s obedient, with a kindly disposition. And she’s particularly adept at styling high buns and attaching ornamental pins and other decorations. “Lian is already a juren,” I go on, as if she didn’t know this already. “He passed this level of the imperial exams at an age earlier than my father, my grandfather, or Lian’s father. Oh, such a bright future lies ahead.” As if in agreement, my daughter-in-law steps to my side so I can see her pregnant belly. I nod to acknowledge her silent message. Then, “Please go ahead to the inner chambers. I shall be along shortly.” My first stops this morning are to the kitchen, the granary, and the weaving room. Next,


for meeting me.” Evelyn’s long hair is pulled back, and she wears a jacket over her blue scrubs. She takes a seat across from him, looking less than thrilled as she wraps her hand around her latte. “It’s decaf, right?” He nods. She takes a sip. “I can’t stay long. We’re really busy.” It’s obvious she doesn’t like him. Sloane doesn’t have friends outside of her work, so naturally she told Evelyn, her closest coworker, about Ethan’s affair. It’s easy to see from Evelyn’s judging eyes that she’s deduced him to be the asshole cheating husband. “I’ll make it quick.” He slides Chelsea’s medical report from the ER across the small table. “Is there anything here that looks unusual to you?” She furrows her brows after glancing at the printed report. “Why don’t you ask Sloane?” “I did. But being my wife, there’s a conflict of interest. A defense attorney would shoot that down. So, I need another opinion. From someone I’m not married to.” She shrugs. “All right, fine.” Ethan takes a drink from his black coffee as he waits for her to look over all the pages. She pushes the short stack of papers in his direction after she scans the last page. “Nothing unusual. The resuscitation went according to procedure. I wouldn’t have done anything differently.” Ethan leans his elbow onto the table. “You were working that day, weren’t you?” She nods. “Did you notice anything unusual?” “What do you mean?” “Well, Sloane was in the middle of Chelsea’s resuscitation, so she might not have noticed her husband’s behavior as well as someone who was able to more objectively observe. Were you?” “No. I was on break when Chelsea Carr was brought in. She was supposed to be my patient, but Sloane took over for me. I feel bad now since—” “Wait. What do you mean Sloane took over for you?” She sits up straight. “Why are you asking?” “I’m just covering my bases. Standard procedure. I don’t know how everything works in the ER.” “Okay. Well, I’m pregnant and wasn’t feeling very good.” “Oh, congratulations. Sloane didn’t tell me that.” Evelyn gives him a slight nod. “Thank you. That’s why Sloane let me go on break even though she was supposed to go first, since her shift started before mine. Anyway, she seemed shaken by Chelsea’s death afterward—some patients hit you harder than others.” She stops to take a sip of coffee. “I’m sure she’s talked to you about it, already. It can be hard having a young, healthy woman brought in like that and not being able to save her. I feel bad, since I should’ve been the one leading the code.” Ethan works to keep his expression neutral. Was Sloane shaken because she realized her lover had killed his wife? Or because she helped him? “Shaken? How?” Evelyn brings her latte to her lips again but pauses before taking a drink. She narrows her eyes. “In the normal way a doctor is shaken when you can’t save a young, healthy patient. Do you really think you’re


in Silas' life, so now you should be on guard. Dunstan doesn't think the plan through, but the idea is planted in his mind. He decides to go on and sell Wildfire, though, for the fun of horse-trading and of hurting Godfrey. Notice that Dunstan's motives are all negative. At the hunt, he lies for the sake of lying. The other men, Bryce and Keating, however, understand what Dunstan's up to--they don't seem any better than he is. Maybe his vices are typical of this social class. Do you think Dunsey's an interesting Villain? Why? Dunstan wangles a high price for the horse, as he expected. But this good luck goes to his head. He doesn't do the sensible thing, which would be to deliver the horse safely right away. Instead, he takes Wildfire on the hunt. When he falls behind the other hunters, he rides recklessly. He pushes the horse to jump over a hedge, and Wildfire falls onto a sharp stake. The horse is killed, yet Dunstan doesn't even seem upset about this accident--he's just glad that no one was watching. He doesn't reflect that his luck has turned bad, or that he's to blame. All of his reasoning centers on what he can do next. He figures Godfrey won't be too angry because Dunstan has another plan--borrowing money from Silas--to offer him. He'd like to rent another horse to ride home, but since he hasn't got enough money, he convinces himself that it's a shorter route to go straight home. With a cocky air, he sets off, thinking about how he'll make people at the pub admire him when he boasts of how he walked all the way home. NOTE: WEATHER Notice the mist gathering here. It may remind you of scenes in movies in which swirling mist creates a sense of imminent danger. The mist in this chapter, however, also symbolizes Dunstan's confused sense of right and wrong. Eliot often uses weather to express a moral environment. This chapter, for example, started on a cold, wet morning, attuned to Dunstan's malicious mind. Watch the role that weather plays as the story moves on. Typically, Dunstan still thinks he's a lucky fellow, just because he's getting home without being seen. Yet he's surrounded by mist, rain, and darkness, and he stumbles along the road until a light shines out. (Note the darkness and light imagery again.) He realizes that it's Silas' cottage. Dunsey's half-baked plan for borrowing money from Silas has been growing in his dim mind as he walked. He decides to get started on it right now. Dunstan is surprised that the old weaver isn't home and that his door's unlocked. The brightness and warmth inside are inviting, though, so Dunstan walks in and makes himself at home. Dunstan, with upperclass prejudice, is surprised that Silas has pork roasting for dinner. Of course, this is out of character for Silas' reputation as a miser, but most poor folks back then couldn't afford meat more than once a week. Remember this when you see how the gentry eat.


aware that the Guild could not interfere directly with the vital spice source because Guild navigators already were dealing in their own inept way with higher order dimensions, at least to the point where they recognized that the slightest misstep they made on Arrakis could be catastrophic. It was a known fact that Guild navigators could predict no way to take control of the spice without producing just such a nexus. The obvious conclusion was that someone of higher order powers was taking control of the spice source, yet the Bene Gesserit missed this point entirely!) In the face of these facts, one is led to the inescapable conclusion that the inefficient Bene Gesserit behavior in this affair was a product of an even higher plan of which they were completely unaware! =========================== Appendix IV: The Almanak en-Ashraf (Selected Excerpts of the Noble Houses) SHADDAM IV (10,134-10,202) The Padishah Emperor, 81st of his line (House Corrino) to occupy the Golden Lion Throne, reigned from 10,156 (date his father, Elrood IX, succumbed to chaumurky) until replaced by the 10,196 Regency set up in the name of his eldest daughter, Irulan. His reign is noted chiefly for the Arrakis Revolt, blamed by many historians on Shaddam IV's dalliance with Court functions and the pomp of office. The ranks of Bursegs were doubled in the first sixteen years of his reign. Appropriations for Sardaukar training went down steadily in the final thirty years before the Arrakis Revolt. He had five daughters (Irulan, Chalice, Wensicia, Josifa, and Rugi) and no legal sons. Four of the daughters accompanied him into retirement. His wife, Anirul, a Bene Gesserit of Hidden Rank, died in 10,176. LETO ATREIDES (10,140-10,191) A distaff cousin of the Corrinos, he is frequently referred to as the Red Duke. House Atreides ruled Caladan as a siridar-fief for twenty generations until pressured into the move to Arrakis. He is known chiefly as the father of Duke Paul Muad'Dib, the Umma Regent. The remains of Duke Leto occupy the "Skull Tomb" on Arrakis. His death is attributed to the treachery of a Suk doctor, and is an act laid to the Siridar-Baron, Vladimir Harkonnen. LADY JESSICA (Hon. Atreides) (10,154-10,256) A natural daughter (Bene Gesserit reference) of the Siridar-Baron Vladimir Harkonnen. Mother of Duke Paul Muad'Dib. She graduated from the Wallach IX B.G. School. LADY ALIA ATREIDES (10,191- ) Legal daughter of Duke Leto-Atreides and his formal concubine, Lady Jessica. Lady Alia was born on Arrakis about eight months after Duke Leto's death. Prenatal exposure to an awareness-spectrum narcotic is the reason generally given for Bene Gesserit references to her as "Accursed One." She is known in popular history as St. Alia or St. Alia-of-the-Knife. (For a detailed history, see St. Alia, Huntress of a Billion Worlds by Pander Oulson.) VLADIMIR HARKONNEN (10,110-10,193) Commonly referred to as Baron Harkonnen, his title is officially Siridar (planetary governor) Baron. Vladimir Harkonnen is the direct-line male descendant of the Bashar Abulurd Harkonnen who was banished for cowardice after the Battle of Corrin. The return of House Harkonnen to power generally is


lurked and wove their evil nets; and the thin waters that spilled from Ered Gorgoroth were defiled, and perilous to drink, for the hearts of those that tasted them were filled with shadows of madness and despair. All living things else shunned that land, and the Noldor would pass through Nan Dungortheb only at great need, by paths near to the borders of Doriath and furthest from the haunted hills. That way was made long before, in the time ere Morgoth returned to Middle-earth; and if one fared upon it he came eastwards to Esgalduin, where still there stood in the days of the Siege the stone bridge of Iant Taur. Thence he passed through Dor Dnen, the Silent Land, and crossing the Arossiach (which signifies the Fords of Aros) came to the north marches of Beleriand, where dwelt the sons of Fanor. Southward lay the guarded woods of Doriath, abode of Thingol the Hidden King, into whose realm none passed save by his will. Its northern and lesser part, the Forest of Neldoreth, was bounded east and south by the dark river Esgalduin, which bent westward in the midst of the land; and between Aros and Esgalduin lay the denser and greater woods of Region. Upon the southern bank of Esgalduin, where it turned westward towards Sirion, were the Caves of Menegroth; and all Doriath lay east of Sirion save for a narrow region of woodland between the meeting of Teiglin and Sirion and the Meres of Twilight. By the people of Doriath this wood was called Nivrim, the West March; great oak-trees grew there, and it also was encompassed within the Girdle of Melian, that so some portion of Sirion which she loved in reverence of Ulmo should be wholly under the power of Thingol. In the south-west of Doriath, where Aros flowed into Sirion, lay great pools and marshes on either side of the river, which halted there in his course and strayed in many channels. That region was named Aelin-uial, the Twilight Meres, for they were wrapped in mists, and the enchantment of Doriath lay over them. Now all the northern part of Beleriand sloped southward to this point and then for a while was plain, and the flood of Sirion was stayed. But south of Aelin-uial the land fell suddenly and steeply; and all the lower fields of Sirion were divided from the upper fields by this fall, which to one looking from the south northward appeared as an endless chain of hills running from Eglarest beyond Narog in the west to Amon Ereb in the east, within far sight of Gelion. Narog came through these hills in a deep gorge, and flowed over rapids bat had no fall, and on its western bank the land rose into the great wooded highlands of Tauren-Faroth. On the west side of this gorge, where the short and foaming stream Ringwil tumbled headlong into Narog from the High Faroth, Finrod established Nargothrond. But some twenty-five leagues east of the gorge of Nargothrond Sirion fell from the north in a mighty


adhesive-taped the victim's mouth and bandaged him off into their glittering beetle cars, so when you arrived you found an empty house. You weren't hurting anyone, you were hurting only things! And since things really couldn't be hurt, since things felt nothing, and things don't scream or whimper, as this woman might begin to scream and cry out, there was nothing to tease your conscience later. You were simply cleaning up. Janitorial work, essentially. Everything to its proper place. Quick with the kerosene! Who's got a match! But now, tonight, someone had slipped. This woman was spoiling the ritual. The men were making too much noise, laughing, joking to cover her terrible accusing silence below. She made the empty rooms roar with accusation and shake down a fine dust of guilt that was sucked in their nostrils as they plunged about. It was neither cricket nor correct. Montag felt an immense irritation. She shouldn't be here, on top of everything! Books bombarded his shoulders, his arms, his upturned face A book alighted, almost obediently, like a white pigeon, in his hands, wings fluttering. In the dim, wavering light, a page hung.open and it was like a snowy feather, the words delicately painted thereon. In all the rush and fervour, Montag had only an instant to read a line, but it blazed in his mind for the next minute as if stamped there with fiery steel. "Time has fallen asleep in the afternoon sunshine." He dropped the book. Immediately, another fell into his arms. "Montag, up here! " Montag's hand closed like a mouth, crushed the book with wild devotion, with an insanity of mindlessness to his chest. The men above were hurling shovelfuls of magazines into the dusty air. They fell like slaughtered birds and the woman stood below, like a small girl, among the bodies. Montag had done nothing. His hand had done it all, his hand, with a brain of its own, with a conscience and a curiosity in each trembling finger, had turned thief.. Now, it plunged the book back under his arm, pressed it tight to sweating armpit, rushed out empty, with a magician's flourish! Look here! Innocent! Look! He gazed, shaken, at that white hand. He held it way out, as if he were far-sighted. He held it close, as if he were blind. "Montag! " He jerked about. "Don't stand there, idiot!" The books lay like great mounds of fishes left to dry. The men danced and slipped and fell over them. Titles glittered their golden eyes, falling, gone. "Kerosene! They pumped the cold fluid from the numbered 451 tanks strapped to their shoulders. They coated each book, they pumped rooms full of it. They hurried downstairs, Montag staggered after them in the kerosene fumes. "Come on, woman!" The woman knelt among the books, touching the drenched leather and cardboard, reading the gilt titles with her fingers while her eyes accused Montag. "You can't ever have my books," she said. "You know the law," said Beatty. "Where's your common sense? None of those books agree with


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

among the spinning dancers. This seemed like any other party, and the normalcy made Lore’s dread go from a slink through her middle to a slow spiral in her chest. Lore looked for Bastian, hoping he was here even if his captors weren’t. She didn’t see him. Nerves made her hand twitch—Gabe tightened his elbow around it, as good as a vise. “You make a good jailer,” she murmured from the side of her mouth. Something in him collapsed, just by a fraction, the steel in his frame buckling. “Lore, please—” “Finally!” On the floor, Alie broke away from her dance partner—Brigitte, who tipped Lore a wave before heading toward the wine table—and nearly ran to them, grinning widely. “I was wondering when you’d get here! The dancing is almost over!” Even with the way Anton’s reveals had twisted everything, having Alie close still felt like a comfort. “I thought it didn’t start until eight?” Lore asked. “The dinner starts at eight,” Alie corrected. “Or a bit after, I guess—I think the idea is to time it with the point of total eclipse.” The reminder of totality—of what August planned to do when the moon covered the sun and dipped the world in darkness—made the dread in Lore’s gut go from a slow spiral to a sharp knot. Alie fanned herself with her hand, drying the glowy sheen of sweat on her brow. “Why August is so adamant about making his select few guests eat in the dark, I have no idea.” A select few guests. So those August thought were on his side, who either wouldn’t interfere with the ritual or, like Bellegarde, planned to betray their King and stop it. Lore wasn’t sure which faction unsettled her more, really. The band struck up again, this time at a slower pace—a waltz. “The last dance of the night.” Alie swallowed, then firmed her chin and looked up at Gabe, who’d been silent since she approached. “Would you dance with me, Gabe?” He flinched; Lore felt it, her hand still imprisoned in the crook of his arm. “I’m afraid I…” “He’d love to,” came a voice from behind them, low and familiar. Bastian, thank the gods. The Sun Prince looked none the worse for wear, other than a clinging tiredness around his golden-brown eyes. His clothing was dark and unadorned, a match for Lore’s gown, his only ornament the golden circlet on his head, this one devoid of garnets. He wore a smile, but his face was pale beneath it. The smile went bladed as he clapped a hand on Gabe’s shoulder, a little too hard to be companionable. “Duke Remaut is never one to leave ladies waiting.” Something dark slithered over Gabe’s face, but he nodded. “I’d love to, Alie.” It sounded genuine, even. Lore thought it probably was, despite everything. His elbow unbent; her hand was free. Bastian took it immediately, his callused fingers closing around hers like a door against a cold night. Alie pulled Gabe toward the dance floor; he looked back over his shoulder, brows drawn low


smelled of fear. "You," he called out to Robb. "You have a name?" "I am Robb Stark, the heir to Winterfell." "This is your brother?" "Yes.,, "You want him alive, you do what I say. Off the horse." Robb hesitated a moment. Then, slowly and deliberately, he dismounted and stood with his sword in hand. "Now kill the wolves." Robb did not move. "You do it. The wolves or the boy." "No!" Bran screamed. If Robb did as they asked, Stiv would kill them both anyway, once the direwolves were dead. The bald man took hold of his hair with his free hand and twisted it cruelly, till Bran sobbed in pain. "You shut your mouth, cripple, you hear me?" He twisted harder. "You hear me?" A low thrum came from the woods behind them. Stiv gave a choked gasp as a half foot of razor-tipped broadhead suddenly exploded out of his chest. The arrow was bright red, as if it had been painted in blood. The dagger fell away from Bran's throat. The big man swayed and collapsed, facedown in the stream. The arrow broke beneath him. Bran watched his life go swirling off in the water. Osha glanced around as Father's guardsmen appeared from beneath the trees, steel in hand. She threw down her spear. "Mercy, m'lord," she called to Robb. The guardsmen had a strange, pale look to their faces as they took in the scene of slaughter. They eyed the wolves uncertainly, and when Summer returned to Hali's corpse to feed, Joseth dropped his knife 358 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN and scrambled for the bush, heaving. Even Maester Luwin seemed shocked as he stepped from behind a tree, but only for an instant. Then he shook his head and waded across the stream to Bran's side. "Are you hurt?" "He cut my leg," Bran said, "but I couldn't feel it." As the maester knelt to examine the wound, Bran turned his head. Theon Greyjoy stood beside a sentinel tree, his bow in hand. He was smiling. Ever smiling. A half-dozen arrows were thrust into the soft ground at his feet, but it had taken only one. "A dead enemy is a thing of beauty," he announced. "Jon always said you were an ass, Greyjoy," Robb said loudly. "I ought to chain you up in the yard and let Bran take a few practice shots at you. " "You should be thanking me for saving your brother's life." "What if you had missed the shot?" Robb said. "What if you'd only wounded him? What if you had made his hand jump, or hit Bran instead? For all you knew, the man might have been wearing a breastplate, all you could see was the back of his cloak. What would have happened to my brother then? Did you ever think of that, Greyjoy?" Theon's smile was gone. He gave a sullen shrug and began to pull his arrows from the ground, one by one. Robb glared at his guardsmen. "Where were you?" he demanded of them. "I was sure you were


Gimme uh lil piece ’bout dis wide.” She indicated as wide as her wrist and hand. “Me and mah chillun is so hongry!” Starks hardly looked at her measurements. He had seen them too often. He marked off a piece much smaller and sunk the blade in. Mrs. Tony all but fell to the floor in her agony. “Lawd a’mussy! Mist’ Starks, you ain’t gointuh gimme dat lil tee-ninchy piece fuh me and all mah chillun, is yuh? Lawd, we’se so hongry!” Starks cut right on and reached for a piece of wrapping paper. Mrs. Tony leaped away from the proffered cut of meat as if it were a rattlesnake. “Ah wouldn’t tetch it! Dat lil eyeful uh bacon for me and all mah chillun! Lawd, some folks is got everything and they’s so gripin’ and so mean!” Starks made as if to throw the meat back in the box and close it. Mrs. Tony swooped like lightning and seized it, and started towards the door. “Some folks ain’t got no heart in dey bosom. They’s willin’ tuh see uh po’ woman and her helpless chillun starve tuh death. God’s gointuh put ’em under arrest, some uh dese days, wid dey stingy gripin’ ways.” She stepped from the store porch and marched off in high dudgeon! Some laughed and some got mad. “If dat wuz mah wife,” said Walter Thomas, “Ah’d kill her cemetery dead.” 88 Zora Neale Hurston “More special after Ah done bought her everything mah wages kin stand, lak Tony do,” Coker said. “In de fust place Ah never would spend on no woman whut Tony spend on her.” Starks came back and took his seat. He had to stop and add the meat to Tony’s account. “Well, Tony tells me tuh humor her along. He moved here from up de State hopin’ tuh change her, but it ain’t. He say he can’t bear tuh leave her and he hate to kill her, so ’tain’t nothin’ tuh do but put up wid her.” “Dat’s ’cause Tony love her too good,” said Coker. “Ah could break her if she wuz mine. Ah’d break her or kill her. Makin’ uh fool outa me in front of everybody.” “Tony won’t never hit her. He says beatin’ women is just like steppin’ on baby chickens. He claims ’tain’t no place on uh woman tuh hit,” Joe Lindsay said with scornful disapproval, “but Ah’d kill uh baby just born dis mawnin’ fuh uh thing lak dat. ’Tain’t nothin’ but low-down spitefulness ’ginst her hus- band make her do it.” “Dat’s de God’s truth,” Jim Stone agreed. “Dat’s de very reason.” Janie did what she had never done before, that is, thrust herself into the conversation. “Sometimes God gits familiar wid us womenfolks too and talks His inside business. He told me how surprised He was ’bout y’all turning out so smart after Him makin’ yuh differ- ent; and how surprised y’all is goin’ tuh be if you ever find out you don’t know half as much ’bout us as you think you Their Eyes


discovered the kitten curled on her bed, a little fluff of black fur with round eyes that was already burrowing into her heart, a female that she’d dubbed Lenore in honor of one of her favorite poems by Poe. She spent some time petting the little purring beast, then located her favorite Nikes, kicked off by the back door, slipped them on, and took off, running through the neighborhood and following her usual route. She noticed the houses as she passed, many with pumpkins, even jack-o’-lanterns on the porches. There was a new strength in her pace, a fierceness in her stride, a determination to find herself. And not only that, she thought as she crossed the streetcar’s tracks, then jogged under the canopy of huge live oak trees and past the grand old homes of the Garden District, but she was going to quit moping around and find the son of a bitch who had killed her husband, the prick who had robbed her unborn child of ever knowing his or her father. At the corner of Washington and Fourth Street, she had the sensation she was being followed, but a quick look over her shoulder told her that she was imagining anyone tailing her. That was the problem. Ever since the attack, she’d felt unseen eyes upon her and she’d been jumpy. Paranoid. Then, discovering that someone had actually been in her house to leave her the disturbing card only increased her case of nerves. She cut past Lafayette Cemetery with its graying marble tombs and wrought iron fence, then headed back to her house where she showered and dressed. Next up? The local animal shelter where she intended to find a big, fierce-looking dog, one that would run with her, cuddle with her, and most of all, deter anyone from daring to think they could ever break into her house again. Once more she thought about the attack, the notes she’d received. Personal messages, aimed at her. Not Jay. He was just, to the assailant, collateral damage. She’d been the target that night. She thought back. She’d been late coming out of the dance studio, had to settle up a problem with her bill with the instructor, and when she’d stepped onto the street she encountered a downpour. Using her umbrella, she’d dashed across the street, run down the alley and, she was certain, the attacker had been waiting. And not for a random victim, no. Otherwise she wouldn’t be receiving the cards. So whoever killed Jay had targeted her. But why then, when he’d entered her house, long enough to leave the message in her underwear drawer, hadn’t he stuck around? Why hadn’t he waited for her and attacked? Why would he be playing this cat and mouse game when before he’d tried to kill her? Why the change in attitude? The answer came in Jay’s voice, echoing inside her head. “Because it’s his sick mind game. He wants to terrorize you. Now that he missed his mark and killed me, he wants to torment you. He’s playing


before." All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not come back yet. It was nearly ten o'clock before he entered, looking pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard, and tearing a piece from the loaf he devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long draught of water. "You are hungry," I remarked. "Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since breakfast." "Nothing?" "Not a bite. I had no time to think of it." "And how have you succeeded?" "Well." "You have a clew?" "I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not long remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of!" "What do you mean?" He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote "S. H. for J. 0." Then he sealed it and addressed it to "Captain James Calhoun, Bark Lone Star, Savannah, Georgia." "That will await him when he enters port," said he, chuckling. "It may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor of his fate as Openshaw did before him." "And who is this Captain Calhoun?" "The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first." "How did you trace it, then?" He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with dates and names. "I have spent the whole day," said he, "over Lloyd's registers and files of the old papers, following the future career of every vessel which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in '83. There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there during those months. Of these, one, the Lone Star, instantly attracted my attention, since, although it was reported as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to one of the states of the Union." "Texas, I think." "I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must have an American origin." "What then?" "I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the bark Lone Star was there in January, '85, my suspicion became a certainty. I then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in the port of London." "Yes?" "The Lone Star had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by the early tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend and learned that she had passed some time ago, and as the wind is easterly I have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins and not very far from the Isle of Wight." "What will you do, then?" "Oh, I have my hand upon him.


of the enemy’s behavior. And then, an idea sparked within him—a calculated risk that could turn the tide. With a resolute nod, J-Dog signaled his squadron to follow. He executed a daring maneuver, plunging his Arrow directly into the heart of the enemy formation. The dragonflies swarmed, their ghostly forms engulfing his ship. It was a high-stakes gamble—one that demanded split-second timing. As the dragonflies converged, J-Dog’s finger hovered over the trigger. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he unleashed a barrage of Phazon Pulsar bolts, saturating the air with radiant energy. The concentrated firepower tore through the nanite cloud, rending it asunder. A shock wave rippled through space, fragments of the defeated dragonflies drifting aimlessly. The sight of their vanquished foes buoyed the spirits of J-Dog’s squadron. It had been but a small victory painted against mounting losses. They regrouped, seizing the opportunity to press the offensive. A renewed fervor coursed through their veins as they engaged another band of dragonflies, employing J-Dog’s innovative tactics to dismantle the ethereal threat. But as effective as J-Dog’s tactics were, they would be nowhere near effective enough to take out an entire squadron of dragonflies. Doing his best to keep the growing dread from creeping into his psyche, he continued to rally his pilots onward over the open channel. This wasn’t sustainable … Fuel was finite, losses through attrition, they were playing a losing game, and, of course, they all knew it. His comms crackled to life. “… Dog, get out of there … all of you … You don’t want to be anywhere near any of those alien fighters.” He recognized Akari, Ballbuster’s, voice. J-Dog gave the order. “Arrows … time for us to bug out of here!” The mass exodus from the battle sphere must have left the dragonflies scratching their respective heads, but only for a moment. It was Adams that fired off the first constrained electromagnetic pulse swath—one that would have been invisible to see but for the incendiary reactions upon the dragonflies. Unable to disseminate their nanites as usual, the dragonfly fighters exploded, momentary fireballs quickly quelled within the vacuum of space. Wrath and Portent were now following suit with their own EMP discharges. One by one, the dragonflies met their demise, their evasive tactics rendered futile against the three warships’ relentless onslaught. The battle space became a theater of explosions and shattered nanite clouds. But J-Dog, along with what remained of his squadron, all of them observing from a distance, wondered if he was missing something here. Self-congratulations were easy, that this small victory was a testament to US Space-Navy resilience and tactical brilliance. But now, as he watched with trepidation what was left of the vaporous, sparkling nanite cloud … it floated away, as if languidly being pushed along by a warm summer’s breeze. A breeze taking it in the direction of Adams, Wrath, and Portent… J-Dog brought his attention to the few remaining outlier dragonflies. “We still got some clean-up here, boys and girls. Over,” he said over the open channel. His pilots were making


the week was out there came a short reply from Mrs Durbeyfield which did not remove his embarrassment, for it bore no address, though to his surprise it was not written from Marlott. SIR J write these few lines to say that my Daughter is away from me at present, and J am not sure when she will return, but J will let you know as Soon as she do. J do not feel at liberty to tell you Where she is temperly biding. J should say that me and my Family have left Marlott for some Time.---- Yours, J. DURBEYFIELD It was such a relief to Clare to learn that Tess was at least apparently well that her mother's stiff reticence as to her whereabouts did not long distress him. They were all angry with him, evidently. He would wait till Mrs Durbeyfield could inform him of Tess's return, which her letter implied to be soon. He deserved no more. His had been a love "which alters when it alteration finds". He had undergone some strange experiences in his absence; he had seen the virtual Faustina in the literal Cornelia, a spiritual Lucretia in a corporeal Phryne; he had thought of the woman taken and set in the midst as one deserving to be stoned, and of the wife of Uriah being made a queen; and he had asked himself why he had not judged Tess constructively rather than biographically, by the will rather than by the deed? A day or two passed while he waited at his father's house for the promised second note from Joan Durbeyfield, and indirectly to recover a little more strength. The strength showed signs of coming back, but there was no sign of Joan's letter. Then he hunted up the old letter sent on to him in Brazil, which Tess had written from Flintcomb-Ash, and re-read it. The sentences touched him now as much as when he had first perused them. I must cry to you in my trouble--I have no one else.... I think I must die if you do not come soon, or tell me to come to you.... Please, please, not to be just--only a little kind to me! ... If you would come, I could die in your arms! I would be well content to do that if so be you had forgiven me! ... If you will send me one little line and say, "I AM COMING SOON," I will bide on, Angel--O so cheerfully! ... Think how it do hurt my heart not to see you ever--ever! Ah, if I could only make your dear heart ache one little minute of each day as mine does every day and all day long. It might lead you to show pity to your poor lonely one....I would be content, ay, glad, to live with you as your servant, if I may not as your wife; so that I could only be near you, and get glimpses of you, and think of you as mine. ... I long for only one thing


not sometimes wakened before dawn, either after one of those dreamless nights that make one almost enamoured of death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques, and that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one might fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled with the malady of revery. Gradually white fingers creep through the curtains, and they appear to tremble. Black fantastic shadows crawl into the corners of the room, and crouch there. Outside, there is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down from the hills, and wandering round the silent house, as though it feared to wake the sleepers. Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colors of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan mirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we have left them, and beside them [68] lies the half-read book that we had been studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the letter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often. Nothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been re-fashioned anew for our pleasure in the darkness, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colors, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of joy having its bitterness, and the memories of pleasure their pain. It was the creation of such worlds as these that seemed to Dorian Gray to be the true object, or among the true objects, of life; and in his search for sensations that would be at once new and delightful, and possess that element of strangeness that is so essential to romance, he would often adopt certain modes of thought that he knew to be really alien to his nature, abandon himself to their subtle influences, and then, having, as it were, caught their color and satisfied his intellectual curiosity, leave them with that curious indifference that is not incompatible with a real ardor of temperament, and that indeed, according to certain modern psychologists, is often a condition of it. It was


Although Molly's death is hardly noticed by the world at large, Eliot says, it seems to have a purpose, setting off a chain of events that will affect many people. One of the first changes is in Silas. His decision to keep the child makes the villagers more sympathetic to him than ever. As before, Dolly Winthrop personifies the best of Raveloe behavior, bringing a pile of baby clothes and helping give the baby a bath. Silas' and Dolly's religions seem more in tune with each other now. Dolly believes heavenly spirits brought the child to Silas. Silas believes the child came from an unknown place, the same one where his gold disappeared--he links the two events in a pattern. Dolly agrees, with her almost pagan belief in the rhythms of nature and the great mysterious workings of fate. Dolly offers to help care for the baby. Silas, still a miser, is determined to do everything, to keep the baby's love for himself. But he is willing to let Dolly, an experienced mother, teach him the "mysteries" of child care. ("Mystery" here means "sacred rites" as well as "unknown questions.") One piece of advice she gives him troubles him, though. She insists he bring the child into the church. Dolly believes in christening the same way she believes in giving children their shots ("noculation")--to protect them from every possible harm. Silas is baffled because he doesn't know the word "christening" (in Lantern-Yard it was called "baptism"). As he speaks of his own religion in a low voice, he still seems bitter. But he agrees to do whatever is good for the child. As he thus moves beyond his own interests, his memory is reawakened. He decides to name the baby Hepzibah, after his mother and sister--though Dolly suggests he shorten it to Eppie. She wishes Silas good luck--which she says comes to anyone who does the right deeds. Since no one knows whether Eppie's been baptized, the rector has to decide which is riskier--possibly baptizing her twice, or possibly not baptizing her at all. (Remember Mr. Macey's concern over the Lammeter's wedding ceremony?) He decides to baptize her, and Silas goes to church for the ceremony. With the spirit of faith dead inside him, he can't interpret what's going on, but he goes for Eppie's sake. NOTE: GOLD Eliot compares Eppie to the gold that she has replaced in Silas' life. The gold is hidden and cold, but Eppie is associated with nature, sunlight, growing things, and bird songs. While the gold carried his thoughts inward, Eppie forces them outward. While the gold isolated him, Eppie demands ties to other people. The gold made him blind and deaf, but Eppie awakens his senses. To carry this beyond metaphor, Eliot shows Silas and Eppie actually going out into the sunshiny day, picking flowers in a meadow, listening to birds. Eliot suggests that Silas is like an insect--an old fly, sluggish after a long winter, who now basks in the spring sunshine. Out in the meadow with Eppie, Silas rediscovers an important part of


Dr. Hannaway. I started the monitor for you.” He’s smiling, but there’s an edge to it. A challenge. Like he’s asking me to jump into a puddle that’s actually twenty feet deep. “Thank you.” Our arms brush together on my way to the podium. I remember his hands, warm, unwavering around my waist, a hushed settle down murmured against my temple, and I suppress a shiver. Have I mentioned that I hate him? “Good morning, and thank you for having me,” I say once my PowerPoint is loaded. The class is (predictably) 90 percent male and (predictably) made of students who are around my age. It’s complicated, being a woman in STEM. Even more so when you’re young and unproven. And even more so when you have a semi-pathological need to get along with others. As the only female grad in my department, I’ve had ample opportunity to contemplate the tightrope that those who are not white cishet men tread in academic spaces. Do I want to be seen as a congenial, affable colleague? Yes, and thanks to a lifetime of APE, I know the exact combination to achieve that: charming self-deprecation, modesty, humorous tangents, admitting to doubt and fallibility. It’s not rocket science (incidentally, a branch of experimental physics I’m obliged to scoff at). Using jokes and simple examples to be a charismatic, engaging speaker is a pretty textbook way to come across as a likable guy. Guy being the operative word. Because when you’re a woman talking about your research, there are anywhere between one and a million STEMlords ready to exploit every little weakness—every little sign that you’re not a lean, mean science machine. The you people want is sharp, impeccable, perfect enough to justify your intrusion in a field that for centuries has been “rightfully” male. But not too perfect, because apparently only “stone-cold bitches” are like that, and they do not make for congenial, affable colleagues. STEM culture has been a boys’ club for so long, I often feel like I can be allowed to play only if I follow the rules men made. And those rules? They downright suck. Like I said, a tightrope. With a bunch of crocodiles throwing their maws open in wait for fresh meat. Well. Here goes. I make my smile a combination of warm and selfassured that doesn’t exist in nature, and say, “Since this class deals with current topics in physics, I’ve prepared a lecture on Wigner crystals, a highly discussed—” A groan. Did someone groan? I look around, puzzled. Students stare at me expectantly. I imagined it. “Wigner crystallization occurs when electron gases that live in a periodic lattice—” “Excuse me?” Cole. Of the green hair. “Dr. Hannaway, are you going to talk about the topic of Wigner crystals from a theoretical perspective?” “Great question. Mostly theory, but I’ll give an overview of the experimental evidence, too.” Next slide—and perfect segue. “Once we achieved the ability to create large inter-electronic distances, Wigner crystallization—” “Excuse me.” Cole. Again. “A question.” I smile patiently. I’m used to this. The last time


to manage food, I trust?" "Anything you like, m1ord, anything at all," the innkeep promised. And may he choke on it, Catelyn thought, but it was Bran she saw choking, drowning on his own blood. Lannister glanced at the nearest tables. "My men will have whatever you're serving these people. Double portions, we've had a long hard ride. I'll take a roast fowl-chicken, duck, pigeon, it makes no matter. And send up a flagon of your best wine. Yoren, will you sup with me?" "Aye, m1ord, I will," the black brother replied. The dwarf had not so much as glanced toward the far end of the room, and Catelyn was thinking how grateful she was for the crowded benches between them when suddenly Marillion bounded to his feet. "My lord of Lannister!" he called out. "I would be pleased to entertain you while you eat. Let me sing you the lay of your father's great victory at King's Landing!" "Nothing would be more likely to ruin my supper," the dwarf said A GAME OF THRONES 257 dryly. His mismatched eyes considered the singer briefly, started to move away . . . and found Catelyn. He looked at her for a moment, puzzled. She turned her face away, but too late. The dwarf was smiling. "Lady Stark, what an unexpected pleasure," he said. "I was sorry to miss you at Winterfell." Marillion gaped at her, confusion giving way to chagrin as Catelyn rose slowly to her feet. She heaTd SeT Rodrik curse. If only the man had lingered at the Wall, she thought, if only . . . "Lady . . . Stark?" Masha Heddle said thickly. "I was still Catelyn Tully the last time I bedded here," she told the innkeep. She could hear the muttering, feel the eyes upon her. Catelyn glanced around the room, at the faces of the knights and sworn swords, and took a deep breath to slow the frantic beating of her heart. Did she dare take the risk? There was no time to think it through, only the moment and the sound of her own voice ringing in her ears. "You in the corner," she said to an older man she had not noticed until now. "Is that the black bat of Harrenhal I see embroidered on your surcoat, ser?" The man got to his feet. "It is, my lady." "And is Lady Whent a true and honest friend to my father, Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun?" "She is," the man replied stoutly. Ser Rodrik rose quietly and loosened his sword in its scabbard. The dwarf was blinking at them, blank-faced, with puzzlement in his mismatched eyes. "The red stallion was ever a welcome sight in Riverrun," she said to the trio by the fire. "My father counts Jonos Bracken among his oldest and most loyal bannermen." The three men-at-arms exchanged uncertain looks. "Our lord is honored by his trust," one of them said hesitantly. "I envy your father all these fine friends," Lannister quipped, "but I do not quite see the purpose of this, Lady


photo again. Somewhere in the same building, Robbie and his family slept. Somewhere out there, so did you. 23 There was once a man they caught because he claimed he hadn’t left the state—but the dead bugs on the windshield of his rental car could only have come from outside California. There was a man they caught because he’d ordered the knife on Amazon. There was a man they caught because his name was on the Starbucks cup in her trash. There was a man who was told that his wife’s body had been found in the woods. He arrived on the scene and instead of running toward the police tape, he ran to the exact spot where he’d left her body. There was a guy whose claim of earlier consensual sex fell apart because his semen was in her body, but not in her underwear or pants. “Because dead women,” the prosecutor explained, “don’t stand up.” There was a woman who managed to cut her captor’s driver’s license into twenty little pieces and swallow them so when they found her body his ID would be in her stomach. And they arrested him. They brought him in for questioning. But they never pressed charges against him. 24 Back in my own room, I lay in bed trying to think. If Robbie killed her, if Robbie lost his temper and became violent, it was likely over you. What else would make him that angry? Well: Some people have rage right below the surface, and an overcooked potato is enough to incite domestic homicide. As far as I knew, that wasn’t Robbie. She’d never gone to class with bruises on her face. She was coming from your show. Had he seen something between the two of you? I remembered the seed of my own initial unease: the way Thalia turned her head offstage, the way she mouthed What? as if someone were back there, waiting for her, upset with her. You were in the orchestra pit, conducting. Omar’s presence in the theater would have been noted. Whereas Robbie Serenho could slip backstage, could walk straight through the clusters of waiting actors with no more than a whispered “Robbie, you’re not supposed to be here!” Their fight could have started when she came offstage and told him to leave. Or maybe he was back there because the fight had begun hours earlier. Maybe he was coasting on hours of rage. Maybe he knew exactly what he was planning. I slept, but my dreams only rehashed things. The photos on Geoff’s bed, the math problem of the bike in the woods. A train leaves Kansas City at 9:00 p.m., headed for the gym. How angry is the driver? In the morning, I texted Fran: I have a quest for Jacob and Max. Could they time themselves, I asked, riding bikes from the gym to the old mattress spot? Could they avoid any newer paths? I didn’t explain. Fran wrote back: Who on earth had a bike?? But sure! They need exercise! It was cold now, and


and doing very satisfactory. She said she warn't ashamed of me. One morning I happened to turn over the salt-cellar at breakfast. I reached for some of it as quick as I could to throw over my left shoulder and keep off the bad luck, but Miss Watson was in ahead of me, and crossed me off. She says, "Take your hands away, Huckleberry; what a mess you are always making!" The widow put in a good word for me, but that warn't going to keep off the bad luck, I knowed that well enough. I started out, after breakfast, feeling worried and shaky, and wondering where it was going to fall on me, and what it was going to be. There is ways to keep off some kinds of bad luck, but this wasn't one of them kind; so I never tried to do anything, but just poked along low-spirited and on the watch-out. I went down to the front garden and clumb over the stile where you go through the high board fence. There was an inch of new snow on the ground, and I seen somebody's tracks. They had come up from the quarry and stood around the stile a while, and then went on around the garden fence. It was funny they hadn't come in, after standing around so. I couldn't make it out. It was very curious, somehow. I was going to follow around, but I stooped down to look at the tracks first. I didn't notice anything at first, but next I did. There was a cross in the left boot-heel made with big nails, to keep off the devil. I was up in a second and shinning down the hill. I looked over my shoulder every now and then, but I didn't see nobody. I was at Judge Thatcher's as quick as I could get there. He said: "Why, my boy, you are all out of breath. Did you come for your interest?" "No, sir," I says; "is there some for me?" "Oh, yes, a half-yearly is in last night -- over a hundred and fifty dollars. Quite a fortune for you. You had better let me invest it along with your six thousand, because if you take it you'll spend it." "No, sir," I says, "I don't want to spend it. I don't want it at all -- nor the six thousand, nuther. I want you to take it; I want to give it to you -- the six thousand and all." He looked surprised. He couldn't seem to make it out. He says: "Why, what can you mean, my boy?" I says, "Don't you ask me no questions about it, please. You'll take it -- won't you?" He says: "Well, I'm puzzled. Is something the matter?" "Please take it," says I, "and don't ask me noth- ing -- then I won't have to tell no lies." He studied a while, and then he says: "Oho-o! I think I see. You want to SELL all your property to me -- not give it. That's


changed it- in our `parlours' these days. Christ is one of the `family' now. I often wonder it God recognizes His own son the way we've dressed him up, or is it dressed him down? He's a regular peppermint stick now, all sugar-crystal and saccharine when he isn't making veiled references to certain commercial products that every worshipper absolutely needs." Faber sniffed the book. "Do you know that books smell like nutmeg or some spice from a foreign land? I loved to smell them when I was a boy. Lord, there were a lot of lovely books once, before we let them go." Faber turned the pages. "Mr. Montag, you are looking at a coward. I saw the way things were going, a long time back. I said nothing. I'm one of the innocents who could have spoken up and out when no one would listen to the `guilty,' but I did not speak and thus became guilty myself. And when finally they set the structure to burn the books, using the, firemen, I grunted a few times and subsided, for there were no others grunting or yelling with me, by then. Now, it's too late." Faber closed the Bible. "Well--suppose you tell me why you came here?" "Nobody listens any more. I can't talk to the walls because they're yelling at me. I can't talk to my wife; she listens to the walls. I just want someone to hear what I have to say. And maybe if I talk long enough, it'll make sense. And I want you to teach me to understand what I read." Faber examined Montag's thin, blue-jowled face. "How did you get shaken up? What knocked the torch out of your hands?" "I don't know. We have everything we need to be happy, but we aren't happy. Something's missing. I looked around. The only thing I positively knew was gone was the books I'd burned in ten or twelve years. So I thought books might help." "You're a hopeless romantic," said Faber. "It would be funny if it were not serious. It's not books you need, it's some of the things that once were in books. The same things could be in the `parlour families' today. The same infinite detail and awareness could be projected through the radios and televisors, but are not. No, no, it's not books at all you're looking for! Take it where you can find it, in old phonograph records, old motion pictures, and in old friends; look for it in nature and look for it in yourself. Books were only one type of receptacle where we stored a lot of things we were afraid we might forget. There is nothing magical in them at all. The magic is only in what books say, how they stitched the patches of the universe together into one garment for us. Of course you couldn't know this, of course you still can't understand what I mean when I say all this. You are intuitively right, that's what counts. Three things are missing. "Number one: Do you


footing. You know how much the food will cost, in case chivalry is dead, you know the dress code and the ambience of the place. And, for extra measure, make sure you tell at least one friend or family member who you’re meeting, where you’re going and what time you expect to return—you know, just in case! “Watch it!” A man and his briefcase push into me and give me a dirty look (the man, not the briefcase) before walking on. My fault for stopping in a stream of pedestrian traffic, but in my defense—if anyone cared to ask—I’d just discovered that Ben could be a potential serial killer and I his next victim. I move aside and stand in the entranceway of a closed bank. Google: Is a first date at his house normal? Nicole91: So I met this guy at a coffee shop and we really hit it off. After we exchanged numbers he sends me a text asking if I’d like to have dinner with him at his place. I’ve only met him once and we got on well but I don’t really know him. I like him though and he seems like a genuinely good guy. Should I go to his house for dinner? SarahTK: Ted Bundy seemed like a genuinely good guy too. Kathy78: I think it’s okay to go to a man’s house on a 1st date but only if you trust him. Anon: Trusting him doesn’t mean anything. We’ve all been duped before. What if people who know him are like yeah he has first dates at his place all the time, it’s completely normal for him and you just happen to be unlucky girl no. 8 and that’s when he murders you? But everyone will back him up because, first of all he’s a man, secondly what idiot woman goes to someone’s house on the first date? (It’s not his fault she gave him the opportunity to murder her, right?) And third, the other dates he’s been on will be like yeah I met him at his place and he was a gentleman and I’m still alive. If I was a murdering sociopath that’s how I’d do it. #justsaying #savethewhales #seriouslyguysourplanetisdying Simone_G: I think a first date at his house is a sign of maturity because he’s not afraid to show you where he lives. It means he wants something long-term. Just let him know that your friends know where you are. Leela: Run girl. Run far and run fast. Helpful. Back to Lisa Fiener. Conversation: being caught off guard or stuck in awkward silence is the bane of every first date. It’s bound to happen if you don’t know each other very well, or even if you’ve exhausted all your get-to-know-you questions beforehand. To combat this, you’ll want a list of things you can talk about to keep the conversation flowing. Here are my top three conversation starters: Given the choice of four people in the world, dead or alive, who would you invite to a dinner party? What’s your most treasured memory?


darkness writhed, coalescing into four thrones before me. I stumbled back. My foot caught on the edge of a sheer stone. If I had a body, I might have bled. Each throne save one held an occupant. They glittered with the glory of the stars and sun, the only light in a barren wasteland. They were time and life and death made magic, existing beyond the realms of earthly souls. Reverent tears dripped from my chin, joining the shallow waters moving beneath the Awaleen. “An eternity of sleep does not guarantee their safety,” said Kapastra, beloved mother of Omal. “What if we wake?” “What if we do not?” whispered Baira. Her beauty seared me so thoroughly I could not lift my gaze a second time. “What if we dwell between the bounds of life and death forever?” “We cannot remain aboveground any longer,” Dania boomed. “Our children need peace.” “Rovial ruined them. Why should we punish ourselves with him?” Baira rasped. “Especially since he is not even—” “Fortify your faith in my prophecy, sister,” Dania said. The Orban Awala’s gaze lingered over the vacant throne, a grief older than the fabric of our world swimming across her features. “Infinite slumber is not our destiny. When—” Dania paused. Her head turned slowly. The darkness pulsed, and she took shape directly in front of me. “You should not be here.” Her power undulated the void around us. “Not yet.” She pressed two fingers to my temples. Warmth replaced the encroaching cold, chasing it to the fringes. Colors filled the shadowy outline of my body. The mist whirled. “Soon, Essiya,” Dania promised. I woke choking on a scream. Eventually, my racing heart slowed. I blinked up at the roof of a tent, far bigger than the one I’d slept in during the trip to Lukub. I sat up gingerly, waiting for the tearing pain from my wound. Nothing happened. I palpated my chest. Smooth skin met my touch. A stirring to my right distracted me from my complete bewilderment. Arin slept soundly, an arm’s length away from my makeshift cot. He hadn’t woken. Crescent shadows circled his eyes, deep enough to bruise. Pushing myself tentatively to a stand, I staggered under a spurt of dizziness and glanced down at myself. They must have cut me out of the gown. I had on a long woolen frock that fit too snugly around my hips. I’d been lying on several stacked bedrolls, yet Arin only had a thin quilt beneath him. I eased myself through the flap in the tent. Dawn hadn’t yet breached the horizon. The air was warm. Far warmer than Lukub. The soles of my feet brushed cracked earth, unsettling tiny pebbles of dry sand. This was an Orbanian landscape. Had we crossed the border? I soaked in these little marvels, grateful to be alive for them. Nine smaller tents clustered near Arin’s. A mighty procession of horses whinnied, clomping their hooves against the ground. How long had I slept? The guards on sentry duty came into view. I ducked into the tent, not


or fishing boats, but those few stared at me as only rural villagers at the edge of the known world can stare at a stranger. None of my admirers offered help. Shadow, padding along at my side, glanced at them with mild interest, and only then did they look away. I have seen communities far more rustic than Hrafnsvik, for my career has taken me across Europe and Russia, to villages large and small and wilderness fair and foul. I am used to humble accommodations and humble folk—I once slept in a farmer’s cheese shed in Andalusia—but I have never been this far north. The wind had tasted snow, and recently; it pulled at my scarf and cloak. It took some time to haul my trunk up the road, but I am nothing if not persevering. The landscape surrounding the village was given over to fields. These were not the tidy hillsides I was used to, but riddled with lumps, volcanic rock in haphazard garments of moss. And if that wasn’t enough to disorient the eye, the sea kept sending waves of mist over the coastland. I reached the edge of the village and found the little footpath up to the cottage—the terrain was so steep that the path was a series of switchbacks. The cottage itself rested precariously upon a little alcove in the mountainside. It was only about ten minutes beyond the village, but that was ten minutes of sweaty inclines, and I was panting by the time I reached the door. It was not only unlocked, but contained no lock at all, and when I pushed it open, I found a sheep. It stared at me a moment, chewing at something, then sauntered off to rejoin its fellows as I politely held the door. Shadow gave a huff but was otherwise unmoved—he’s seen plenty of sheep in our rambles in the countryside around Cambridge, and looks upon them with the gentlemanly disinterest of an aging dog. Somehow the place felt even colder than the outdoors. It was as simple as I had imagined, with walls of hearteningly solid stone and the smell of something I guessed to be puffin dung, though it could also have been the sheep. A table and chairs, dusty, a little kitchen at the back with a number of pots dangling from the wall, very dusty. By the hearth with its woodstove was an ancient armchair that smelled of must. I was shivering, in spite of the uphill trunk-dragging, and I realized I had neither wood nor matches to warm that dingy place, and perhaps more alarmingly, that I might not know how to light a fire if I did—I had never done so before. Unfortunately, I happened to glance out the window at that moment and found that it had begun to snow. It was then, as I stared at the empty hearth, hungry and cold, that I began to wonder if I would die here. Lest you think me a newcomer to foreign fieldwork, let me assure you this is not the case.


cried. "Tell me how you know," my friend simply repeated. "Know? By seeing her! By the way she looked." "At you, do you mean--so wickedly?" "Dear me, no--I could have borne that. She gave me never a glance. She only fixed the child." Mrs. Grose tried to see it. "Fixed her?" "Ah, with such awful eyes!" She stared at mine as if they might really have resembled them. "Do you mean of dislike?" "God help us, no. Of something much worse." "Worse than dislike?--this left her indeed at a loss. "With a determination--indescribable. With a kind of fury of intention." I made her turn pale. "Intention?" "To get hold of her." Mrs. Grose--her eyes just lingering on mine--gave a shudder and walked to the window; and while she stood there looking out I completed my statement. "THAT'S what Flora knows." After a little she turned round. "The person was in black, you say?" "In mourning--rather poor, almost shabby. But--yes--with extraordinary beauty." I now recognized to what I had at last, stroke by stroke, brought the victim of my confidence, for she quite visibly weighed this. "Oh, handsome--very, very," I insisted; "wonderfully handsome. But infamous." She slowly came back to me. "Miss Jessel--WAS infamous." She once more took my hand in both her own, holding it as tight as if to fortify me against the increase of alarm I might draw from this disclosure. "They were both infamous," she finally said. So, for a little, we faced it once more together; and I found absolutely a degree of help in seeing it now so straight. "I appreciate," I said, "the great decency of your not having hitherto spoken; but the time has certainly come to give me the whole thing." She appeared to assent to this, but still only in silence; seeing which I went on: "I must have it now. Of what did she die? Come, there was something between them." "There was everything." "In spite of the difference--?" "Oh, of their rank, their condition"--she brought it woefully out. "SHE was a lady." I turned it over; I again saw. "Yes--she was a lady." "And he so dreadfully below," said Mrs. Grose. I felt that I doubtless needn't press too hard, in such company, on the place of a servant in the scale; but there was nothing to prevent an acceptance of my companion's own measure of my predecessor's abasement. There was a way to deal with that, and I dealt; the more readily for my full vision--on the evidence--of our employer's late clever, good-looking "own" man; impudent, assured, spoiled, depraved. "The fellow was a hound." Mrs. Grose considered as if it were perhaps a little a case for a sense of shades. "I've never seen one like him. He did what he wished." "With HER?" "With them all." It was as if now in my friend's own eyes Miss Jessel had again appeared. I seemed at any rate, for an instant, to see their evocation of her as distinctly as I had seen her by the pond; and I brought out


associate with. Don't shrug your shoulders like that. Don't be so indifferent. You have a wonderful influence. Let it be for good, not for evil. They say that you corrupt every one whom you become intimate with, and that it is quite sufficient for you to enter a house, for shame of some kind to follow after you. I don't know whether it is so or not. How should I know? But it is said of you. I am told things that it seems impossible to doubt. Lord Gloucester was one of my greatest friends at Oxford. He showed me a letter that his wife had written to him when she was dying alone in her villa at Mentone. Your name was implicated in the most terrible confession I ever read. I told him that it was absurd,--that I knew you thoroughly, and that you were incapable of anything of the kind. Know you? I wonder do I know you? Before I could answer that, I should have to see your soul." "To see my soul!" muttered Dorian Gray, starting up from the sofa and turning almost white from fear. "Yes," answered Hallward, gravely, and with infinite sorrow in his voice,--"to see your soul. But only God can do that." A bitter laugh of mockery broke from the lips of the younger man. "You shall see it yourself, to-night!" he cried, seizing a lamp from the table. "Come: it is your own handiwork. Why shouldn't you look at it? You can tell the world all about it afterwards, if you choose. Nobody would believe you. If they did believe you, they'd like me all the better for it. I know the age better than you do, though you will prate about it so tediously. Come, I tell you. You have chattered enough about corruption. Now you shall look on it face to face." There was the madness of pride in every word he uttered. He stamped his foot upon the ground in his boyish insolent manner. He felt a terrible joy at the thought that some one else was to share his secret, and that the man who had painted the portrait that was the origin of all his shame was to be burdened for the rest of his life with the hideous memory of what he had done. "Yes," he continued, coming closer to him, and looking steadfastly into his stern eyes, "I will show you my soul. You shall see the thing that you fancy only God can see." [81] Hallward started back. "This is blasphemy, Dorian!" he cried. "You must not say things like that. They are horrible, and they don't mean anything." "You think so?" He laughed again. "I know so. As for what I said to you to-night, I said it for your good. You know I have been always devoted to you." "Don't touch me. Finish what you have to say." A twisted flash of pain shot across Hallward's face. He paused for a moment, and a wild feeling of pity came over him. After all,


whoso took such things into account was a fool, and in so far as he observed them he would fail to prosper. Not that Buck reasoned it out. He was fit, that was all, and unconsciously he accommodated himself to the new mode of life. All his days, no matter what the odds, he had never run from a fight. But the club of the man in the red sweater had beaten into him a more fundamental and primitive code. Civilized, he could have died for a moral consideration, say the defence of Judge Miller's riding-whip; but the completeness of his decivilization was now evidenced by his ability to flee from the defence of a moral consideration and so save his hide. He did not steal for joy of it, but because of the clamor of his stomach. He did not rob openly, but stole secretly and cunningly, out of respect for club and fang. In short, the things he did were done because it was easier to do them than not to do them. His development (or retrogression) was rapid. His muscles became hard as iron, and he grew callous to all ordinary pain. He achieved an internal as well as external economy. He could eat anything, no matter how loathsome or indigestible; and, once eaten, the juices of his stomach extracted the last least particle of nutriment; and his blood carried it to the farthest reaches of his body, building it into the toughest and stoutest of tissues. Sight and scent became remarkably keen, while his hearing developed such acuteness that in his sleep he heard the faintest sound and knew whether it heralded peace or peril. He learned to bite the ice out with his teeth when it collected between his toes; and when he was thirsty and there was a thick scum of ice over the water hole, he would break it by rearing and striking it with stiff fore legs. His most conspicuous trait was an ability to scent the wind and forecast it a night in advance. No matter how breathless the air when he dug his nest by tree or bank, the wind that later blew inevitably found him to leeward, sheltered and snug. And not only did he learn by experience, but instincts long dead became alive again. The domesticated generations fell from him. In vague ways he remembered back to the youth of the breed, to the time the wild dogs ranged in packs through the primeval forest and killed their meat as they ran it down. It was no task for him to learn to fight with cut and slash and the quick wolf snap. In this manner had fought forgotten ancestors. They quickened the old life within him, and the old tricks which they had stamped into the heredity of the breed were his tricks. They came to him without effort or discovery, as though they had been his always. And when, on the still cold nights, he pointed his nose at a star and howled long and wolflike, it was


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

told me they died in a car crash!" "CAR CRASH!" roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily that the Dursleys scuttled back to their corner. "How could a car crash kill Lily an' James Potter? It's an outrage! A scandal! Harry Potter not knowin' his own story when every kid in our world knows his name!" "But why? What happened?" Harry asked urgently. The anger faded from Hagrid's face. He looked suddenly anxious. "I never expected this," he said, in a low, worried voice. "I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble gettin' hold of yeh, how much yeh didn't know. Ah, Harry, I don' know if I'm the right person ter tell yeh -- but someone's gotta -- yeh can't go off ter Hogwarts not knowin'." He threw a dirty look at the Dursleys. "Well, it's best yeh know as much as I can tell yeh -- mind, I can't tell yeh everythin', it's a great myst'ry, parts of it..." He sat down, stared into the fire for a few seconds, and then said, "It begins, I suppose, with -- with a person called -- but it's incredible yeh don't know his name, everyone in our world knows -- " "Who?" "Well -- I don' like sayin' the name if I can help it. No one does." "Why not?" "Gulpin' gargoyles, Harry, people are still scared. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard who went...bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was..." Hagrid gulped, but no words came out. "Could you write it down?" Harry suggested. "Nah -- can't spell it. All right -- Voldemort." Hagrid shuddered. "Don' make me say it again. Anyway, this -- this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started lookin' fer followers. Got 'em, too -- some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o' his power, 'cause he was gettin' himself power, all right. Dark days, Harry. Didn't know who ter trust, didn't dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches...terrible things happened. He was takin' over. 'Course, some stood up to him -- an' he killed 'em. Horribly. One o' the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore's the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of. Didn't dare try takin' the school, not jus' then, anyway. "Now, yer mum an' dad were as good a witch an' wizard as I ever knew. Head boy an' girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the myst'ry is why You-Know-Who never tried to get 'em on his side before...probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter want anythin' ter do with the Dark Side. "Maybe he thought he could persuade 'em...maybe he just wanted 'em outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just a year old. He came ter yer house an' -- an' -- " Hagrid suddenly pulled out a very dirty, spotted handkerchief and blew his nose with a sound like a foghorn. "Sorry," he