way, by which he thought they could ascend the cliff to the carriage. He pointed to the woody steeps above, which St. Aubert surveyed with an anxious eye. He was already wearied by his walk, and this ascent was formidable to him. He thought, however, it would be less toilsome than the long and broken road, and he determined to attempt it; but Emily, ever watchful of his ease, proposing that he should rest, and dine before they proceeded further, Valancourt went to the carriage for the refreshments deposited there. On his return, he proposed removing a little higher up the mountain, to where the woods opened upon a grand and extensive prospect; and thither they were preparing to go, when they saw a young woman join the children, and caress and weep over them. The travellers, interested by her distress, stopped to observe her. She took the youngest of the children in her arms, and, perceiving the strangers, hastily dried her tears, and proceeded to the cottage. St. Aubert, on enquiring the occasion of her sorrow, learned that her husband, who was a shepherd, and lived here in the summer months to watch over the flocks he led to feed upon these mountains, had lost, on the preceding night, his little all. A gang of gipsies, who had for some time infested the neighbourhood, had driven away several of his master's sheep. 'Jacques,' added the shepherd's wife, 'had saved a little money, and had bought a few sheep with it, and now they must go to his master for those that are stolen; and what is worse than all, his master, when he comes to know how it is, will trust him no longer with the care of his flocks, for he is a hard man! and then what is to become of our children!' The innocent countenance of the woman, and the simplicity of her manner in relating her grievance, inclined St. Aubert to believe her story; and Valancourt, convinced that it was true, asked eagerly what was the value of the stolen sheep; on hearing which he turned away with a look of disappointment. St. Aubert put some money into her hand, Emily too gave something from her little purse, and they walked towards the cliff; but Valancourt lingered behind, and spoke to the shepherd's wife, who was now weeping with gratitude and surprise. He enquired how much money was yet wanting to replace the stolen sheep, and found, that it was a sum very little short of all he had about him. He was perplexed and distressed. 'This sum then,' said he to himself, 'would make this poor family completely happy--it is in my power to give it--to make them completely happy! But what is to become of me?--how shall I contrive to reach home with the little money that will remain?' For a moment he stood, unwilling to forego the luxury of raising a family from ruin to happiness, yet considering the difficulties of pursuing his journey with so small a sum as would be left. While


of capturing them. They’re bred for the cold; they could survive in the worst storms, they’re stronger than us, faster than us. They might even be smarter than us. Are they our friends? We don’t know.’ ‘Have they ever tried to escape?’ ‘Never.’ Leaving the first enclosure they descended to level two. At the centre of these underground chambers was an immense dome, as though one of the great mosques of antiquity had been carved under the ice. At the top of the dome a ventilation shaft rose directly to the surface of the Ross Ice Shelf. During these summer months, shafts of sunlight found their way down inside, reflected from mirror to mirror. Despite the immense beauty of this chamber, it had been nicknamed the Asylum – a prison for the radical new forms of life that had gone awry. At the base of the dome was an orbital ring of cells arranged in a petal formation, each cell containing a malformed species, each a demonstration of why this degree of genetic experimentation had once been forbidden. The adapted creatures were as startling as they were dangerous, as wondrous as they were terrifying, some resembling visions from medieval hellscapes, while a few were a muddle of so many different animals they had no cohesive form, an impressionistic mess of limbs and eyes. None of them could ever collaborate with people. Yet there was value in studying every life, even these mutants, to observe how they matured, to scrutinize what had gone wrong with their bodies and minds. Uncontrollable and occasionally immensely strong, they regularly tried to escape. Heavily armed guards were housed inside a fortress in the centre of the Asylum, protected by walls of spikes, in a state of constant alert, armed with powerful sniper rifles, grenades and shotguns. Some of the cells had been destroyed by their occupants, doors kicked free. From other cells came a chorus of sounds strange and familiar, reverberating around the dome, a religious ceremony of monsters – hisses and howls overlapping with the unmistakably human sounds of anguish. Zariffa walked up to one of the cell doors, peering through the grate, searching for the ice-adapted species inside. Adjusting to the gloom, she saw the creature in the corner standing upright on two muscular lizard legs, its back against the wall, arms crossed, as though patiently waiting for a commuter train. Its hexagonal scale-skin was the colour of the shadows it lurked within. Its eyes were yellow soap bubbles bulging out of a smooth round skull. Its pupils seemed to float freely inside these yellow eyes as though not attached to any optic nerve. ‘What is it?’ ‘It’s a Troodon.’ ‘What is a Troodon?’ ‘A species of dinosaur.’ The idea had been to combine two of the planet’s most evolutionary successes – man and dinosaur – in the hope that their strengths would amplify each other. Since neither species was evolved to survive in the extreme cold, the ice adaptations were substantial. The dinosaur selected was the little-known Troodon, a human-sized theropod of the Cretaceous


she leaves a trail of Hershey’s Kisses and cigarette butts all over her beautiful penthouse!! It would be so frustrating and hilarious and maybe they would have a compelling fistfight at the end! SEASON FIVE Episode 2: “Unoriginal Sin” Is Carrie the best choice to be Brady’s godmother? My favorite sub-friendship in the group was always Miranda and Samantha. They had a very sweet cackling-witches-on-the-sidelines thing going that I love. They know Carrie is ridiculous and kind of stunted as an adult, and they would be passing knowing glances as the jaded adults with mortgages in the room, and that was just so great. When Miranda succumbed to the pressure to have Brady baptized, I was like, “Okay, sure, whatever, I’ve been sprinkled with holy water, too.” But then when she chose Carrie to be his godmother, I was like, “HUH?!” Even if Carrie and Miranda were tighter pals, let’s look at this from the perspective of fiscal responsibility. (Yes, I want to throw up just from typing that, but what are godmothers for anyway?) Samantha had a good job and plenty of money and owned her own place, if I am thinking about who takes my kid if I get run over by a city bus, I am picking the lady with a 401(k), okay? Even if Samantha didn’t want to touch the kid, we know that she would hire the best nanny and send him to the ritziest boarding school. And when he came home for winter break, Miranda could rest easy knowing that he wasn’t sleeping in a shoe closet. Carrie wouldn’t even be mad! “Fun Aunt Who Buys Designer Toys” is much more her vibe anyway! Episode 4: “Cover Girl” I know people talk about how the dude Miranda met at Weight Watchers was nice and got a raw deal, but I counter that opinion with this: Miranda shouldn’t have gone to Weight Watchers in the first fucking place! She should’ve spent the entire season eating Milky Ways and blocks of cheddar cheese or whatever it is you crave after you push a slimy, wailing football out of your body. I know that the fashion is the point, but our girl couldn’t get a few months of sweatpants episodes while her vagina fused itself back together?! Episode 5: “Plus One Is the Loneliest Number” Man, I’m a bitch. That fancy book party Carrie had? The one with the flowers and catered snacks?! That shit is absolutely not happening. Nobody’s regular-ass book tour looks like that. A color scheme? A stylist?! BAHAHAHAHA SHUT UP. No, Carrie’s book event’s gotta look like all the ones I’ve ever had: crammed in the back of an independent bookstore with a dozen disheveled people who just got off work staring expectantly up at her as she stammers through an intro for a book those folks are definitely not gonna pay thirty bucks for; while other people mill around in the background shopping, yelling at their kids, trying to get a coffee at the in-store café, and loudly stage-whispering, “WHO IS THIS? IS HER


gently, Clarimonde took out a dagger from between the folds of her clothes and sliced the man’s neck with an expert hand. The sight of the spray of blood sent Montserrat reeling against Tristán’s chest, clutching his shirt. Her fingers felt unnaturally warm, blistering almost, and in her mouth there was a sour taste. The blood dripped into the bowl, turning it crimson. Clarimonde Bauer motioned to her assistants, signaling for them to come closer. Tristán and Montserrat were pushed forward. She moved mechanically, one foot in front of the other, heart thumping, until Clarimonde stepped behind the projectors and greeted them with a half smile. The woman extended her hands, and one of the men gave her the can of film and the book Montserrat had been carrying in her purse. Clarimonde looked at the objects reverently. “I’m so pleased you could come,” Clarimonde said, carefully handing back the film and the book to one of her men. “Wilhelm has given me exact instructions as to how we should proceed.” Now that they had approached the projectors, Montserrat could smell the blood that was dripping into the bowl, as well as another sickly, pungent, almost sickeningly sweet scent. The aroma of rotting meat. “The three of you must be present to cast the spell,” Clarimonde said. “All six runes must be drawn using fresh blood, while the nitrate print plays. The dubbed copy you made will play at the same time, mixing sound and image. There are a few words to be said: we shall speak them. Then we will coax Wilhelm back from the dead.” Clarimonde motioned to one of the women who had walked with her into the room, and who now drifted toward the low table with the yellow cloth. The woman slipped the cloth aside, revealing the corpse of Abel Urueta. This was the source of the stench in the room. “That…my god, you are all insane,” Tristán said, shaking his head. He turned, looking at Ewers’s congregation. “All of you! Bunch of crazies!” As Tristán spoke, Montserrat tilted her head and looked at one of the mirrors decorating the ballroom. She’d caught sight of a blurred reflection there, a swift, subtle movement that made her swallow. Ewers. Behind the glass. Watching and listening. Her hands were trembling, but she clasped them together. “I said all three,” Clarimonde replied, her half smile now a wide grin. “A corpse is better than an item from the deceased. You should have no trouble conjuring Abel.” “What?” Tristán asked. “I’m not doing a single thing.” “Yes, you will. You both have your parts to play. In return, Wilhelm has promised to be generous,” she said, looking at Tristán, then turning to Montserrat. Clarimonde expected them to nod quickly and agree. Or else, perhaps to cower in terror. Montserrat released her hands and stared at the mirror. “And all we have to do is summon a ghost, draw a few runes, and chant a sentence,” Montserrat said. “Well, guess what, we aren’t idiots. We bring your friend back to life, you’ll


It wasn’t a denial. Mrs. King stepped forward. “I’ll guess what he said, then. He got himself worked up. Said he couldn’t keep a secret. Wouldn’t meet his Maker without reconciling his affairs.” Miss de Vries considered this. “No,” she said, reaching for a pear, polishing it idly against her dark sleeves. “No?” “He wasn’t thinking of his soul, Mrs. King. He was thinking of...” She shook her head again, a smile playing on her lips, something strangely close to disgust. “He was thinking of his future.” She began peeling the pear. Her motions were faultless. She handled the blade with such dexterity, such absolute precision. Mrs. King couldn’t help but recognize that trait too. “His future,” Mrs. King repeated. “His name, his precious name, that wonderful thing he’d made for himself.” Mrs. King frowned. “But there was no risk of anyone forgetting that.” Miss de Vries’s eyes widened. She took a step back, let out a mocking laugh. “No risk?” She raised her hands. “But that’s too splendid! You are like him. Just as dense and self-involved as he was.” Her face darkened. “You think all this will last forever? This place, this house? The name ‘de Vries’?” She gave Mrs. King a long look. “It’ll be gone by next Whitsun, if I’ve anything to do with it.” Mrs. King studied her. In that moment, she remembered the girl Miss de Vries had been. In the days when she still lived in the schoolroom, when she wore her hair loose and wild, when her skin was scuffed and greasy. When she was still being trained, when the governess was strapping rods to her back and shoving marbles in her mouth. Eyes hard and bright and furious, all angles and points, voice unsteady. “I see,” Mrs. King said. She reached for Miss de Vries. She wanted to touch her, to cross the divide. There had always been a pane of glass between them: they had preserved it perfectly. “I understand.” Miss de Vries drew back, a swift movement. She balanced the knife between her fingers, and said, with something approaching a laugh, “D’you know what he told me? ‘You’ve got it the wrong way round. Mrs. King’s the one with rights on you.’” Lockwood’s mouth went slack, aghast. Guests tripped into the supper room, making for the buffet tables, voices shrill on the air. Miss de Vries stood upright, her carriage perfect, ignoring them. Eyes on Mrs. King, skewering her, anger coursing. Mrs. King remembered what Mr. de Vries had said: Tell anyone you like. Urging Mrs. King to do it. Longing for her to destroy his other daughter. “He wanted to punish you.” “Yes.” “For wanting to be married.” “For wanting to be free.” “And?” said Mrs. King, gently. “What did you say?” Miss de Vries laid down the knife. “I said, ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ He didn’t like that. I’d never spoken to him like that before. He started coughing.” A dark flash in her eyes. “Did he?” said Mrs. King. “Yes. He couldn’t speak. I thought


‘I’m afraid Mr Fitzpatrick no longer works here. Can someone else be of assistance?’ I fidgeted with my hands and then shoved them deep into my pockets. Matthew had been my one constant from the moment I arrived in Dublin. When I thought of him, I thought of things being right. Now everything felt wrong again. ‘Madam? Can I help you with anything?’ ‘Where is he? I mean, when did he leave?’ ‘I’m not permitted to give out private information.’ My only friend from the past was no longer here, and what did that mean for my manuscript? I had to believe that Matthew would have kept it safe for me. ‘It’s just that he was keeping something of significant value for me and I’ve come to claim it.’ ‘I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I suppose it doesn’t make much difference now. Mr Fitzpatrick, Matthew, was killed just over a year ago.’ I could hardly speak. ‘B-but that’s not possible!’ She was telling the wrong story. A story about somebody else. ‘There must be some mistake …’ ‘The Germans had just begun bombing London.’ ‘No, that can’t be right. Matthew wasn’t a soldier, he wasn’t in the army—’ ‘I’m sorry, I know it’s difficult. He was visiting family there. It was simply a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ I couldn’t make sense out of it. All this time he was gone and I hadn’t even known. My time at St Agnes’s was still stealing things from me. I felt completely robbed of everything I’d known. ‘If you could give me your name, I will check the records and see if there is anything outstanding in his files,’ she suggested, softer now that she could see my distress. ‘Um, yes. Opaline Carlisle. Or perhaps Gray, I’m not sure.’ She checked and rechecked. There was nothing. Wherever he had put my manuscript, he had not left a paper trail. It was as I would have wanted, total secrecy, but neither of us had known then what was to come. Now I had no way of getting it back and in that moment, I no longer cared. Josef visited again and helped me to unpack what remained in the attic. I found more of my belongings, some boxes with my books neatly packed inside, and one of the old mechanical bird music boxes belonging to Mr Fitzpatrick. It was broken. ‘There’s nothing more sad than a tuneless bird,’ I said and put it aside. When I looked up he was staring at me, thoughtfully. ‘You must open the shop again.’ The wooden shelves seemed to whine a plaintive sound. He might as well have suggested I fly to the moon. ‘I couldn’t possibly.’ ‘Why not?’ It was always so simple for men. Just do this or that, whatever you please. ‘For one thing, no one is supposed to know I’m here. My prison is far stricter than yours and if anyone found out … The thought of going back there …’ I hadn’t realised I


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

IT'S DOING!" Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could. "Out of the way, you," he said, punching Harry in the ribs. Caught by surprise, Harry fell hard on the concrete floor. What came next happened so fast no one saw how it happened -- one second, Piers and Dudley were leaning right up close to the glass, the next, they had leapt back with howls of horror. Harry sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor's tank had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house screamed and started running for the exits. As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry could have sworn a low, hissing voice said, "Brazil, here I come...Thanksss, amigo." The keeper of the reptile house was in shock. "But the glass," he kept saying, "where did the glass go?" The zoo director himself made Aunt Petunia a cup of strong, sweet tea while he apologized over and over again. Piers and Dudley could only gibber. As far as Harry had seen, the snake hadn't done anything except snap playfully at their heels as it passed, but by the time they were all back in Uncle Vernon's car, Dudley was telling them how it had nearly bitten off his leg, while Piers was swearing it had tried to squeeze him to death. But worst of all, for Harry at least, was Piers calming down enough to say, "Harry was talking to it, weren't you, Harry?" Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the house before starting on Harry. He was so angry he could hardly speak. He managed to say, "Go -- cupboard -- stay -- no meals," before he collapsed into a chair, and Aunt Petunia had to run and get him a large brandy. *** Harry lay in his dark cupboard much later, wishing he had a watch. He didn't know what time it was and he couldn't be sure the Dursleys were asleep yet. Until they were, he couldn't risk sneaking to the kitchen for some food. He'd lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, ten miserable years, as long as he could remember, ever since he'd been a baby and his parents had died in that car crash. He couldn't remember being in the car when his parents had died. Sometimes, when he strained his memory during long hours in his cupboard, he came up with a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light and a burning pain on his forehead. This, he supposed, was the crash, though he couldn't imagine where all the green light came from. He couldn't remember his parents at all. His aunt and uncle never spoke about them, and of course he was forbidden to ask questions. There were no photographs of them in the house. When he had been younger, Harry had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take him away, but it had never happened; the Dursleys were his only family. Yet sometimes he thought


head on a massive scale. His cunning was wolf cunning, and wild cunning; his intelligence, shepherd intelligence and St. Bernard intelligence; and all this, plus an experience gained in the fiercest of schools, made him as formidable a creature as any that intelligence roamed the wild. A carnivorous animal living on a straight meat diet, he was in full flower, at the high tide of his life, overspilling with vigor and virility. When Thornton passed a caressing hand along his back, a snapping and crackling followed the hand, each hair discharging its pent magnetism at the contact. Every part, brain and body, nerve tissue and fibre, was keyed to the most exquisite pitch; and between all the parts there was a perfect equilibrium or adjustment. To sights and sounds and events which required action, he responded with lightning-like rapidity. Quickly as a husky dog could leap to defend from attack or to attack, he could leap twice as quickly. He saw the movement, or heard sound, and responded in less time than another dog required to compass the mere seeing or hearing. He perceived and determined and responded in the same instant. In point of fact the three actions of perceiving, determining, and responding were sequential; but so infinitesimal were the intervals of time between them that they appeared simultaneous. His muscles were surcharged with vitality, and snapped into play sharply, like steel springs. Life streamed through him in splendid flood, glad and rampant, until it seemed that it would burst him asunder in sheer ecstasy and pour forth generously over the world. "Never was there such a dog," said John Thornton one day, as the partners watched Buck marching out of camp. "When he was made, the mould was broke," said Pete. "Py jingo! I t'ink so mineself," Hans affirmed. They saw him marching out of camp, but they did not see the instant and terrible transformation which took place as soon as he was within the secrecy of the forest. He no longer marched. At once he became a thing of the wild, stealing along softly, cat- footed, a passing shadow that appeared and disappeared among the shadows. He knew how to take advantage of every cover, to crawl on his belly like a snake, and like a snake to leap and strike. He could take a ptarmigan from its nest, kill a rabbit as it slept, and snap in mid air the little chipmunks fleeing a second too late for the trees. Fish, in open pools, were not too quick for him; nor were beaver, mending their dams, too wary. He killed to eat, not from wantonness; but he preferred to eat what he killed himself. So a lurking humor ran through his deeds, and it was his delight to steal upon the squirrels, and, when he all but had them, to let them go, chattering in mortal fear to the treetops. As the fall of the year came on, the moose appeared in greater abundance, moving slowly down to meet the winter in the lower and less rigorous


your name is first. Oh, I'm so proud!" Diana flung the paper on the table and herself on Anne's bed, utterly breathless and incapable of further speech. Anne lighted the lamp, oversetting the match safe and using up half a dozen matches before her shaking hands could accomplish the task. Then she snatched up the paper. Yes, she had passed-there was her name at the very top of a list of two hundred! That moment was worth living for. "You did just splendidly, Anne," puffed Diana, recovering sufficiently to sit up and speak, for Anne, starry eyed and rapt, had not uttered a word. "Father brought the paper home from Bright River not ten minutes ago-it came out on the afternoon train, you know, and won't be here till tomorrow by mail-and when I saw the pass list I just rushed over like a wild thing. You've all passed, every one of you, Moody Spurgeon and all, although he's conditioned in history. Jane and Ruby did pretty well-they're halfway up-and so did Charlie. Josie just scraped through with three marks to spare, but you'll see she'll put on as many airs as if she'd led. Won't Miss Stacy be delighted? Oh, Anne, what does it feel like to see your name at the head of a pass list like that? If it were me I know I'd go crazy with joy. I am pretty near crazy as it is, but you're as calm and cool as a spring evening." "I'm just dazzled inside," said Anne. "I want to say a hundred things, and I can't find words to say them in. I never dreamed of this-yes, I did too, just once! I let myself think ONCE, `What if I should come out first?' quakingly, you know, for it seemed so vain and presumptuous to think I could lead the Island. Excuse me a minute, Diana. I must run right out to the field to tell Matthew. Then we'll go up the road and tell the good news to the others." They hurried to the hayfield below the barn where Matthew was coiling hay, and, as luck would have it, Mrs. Lynde was talking to Marilla at the lane fence. "Oh, Matthew," exclaimed Anne, "I've passed and I'm first-or one of the first! I'm not vain, but I'm thankful." "Well now, I always said it," said Matthew, gazing at the pass list delightedly. "I knew you could beat them all easy." "You've done pretty well, I must say, Anne," said Marilla, trying to hide her extreme pride in Anne from Mrs. Rachel's critical eye. But that good soul said heartily: "I just guess she has done well, and far be it from me to be backward in saying it. You're a credit to your friends, Anne, that's what, and we're all proud of you." That night Anne, who had wound up the delightful evening with a serious little talk with Mrs. Allan at the manse, knelt sweetly by her open window in a great sheen of moonshine and murmured a prayer of gratitude


of the digital universe, without need of a desktop computer or laptop, with neither a tablet nor a smartphone nor other device, Michael feels a little like he felt as a boy in early adolescence, when sometimes he experienced exhilarating dreams in which he could fly effortlessly, like the gliding pelicans. CHASING A GHOST Sudden torrents beat on the triple-pane, hermetically sealed windows of the late Simon Bistoury’s office. Wind-driven rain that falls without thunder or pyrotechnics, in a particular quality of sullen daylight, in an intense volume, can summon a precious memory and fill Durand Calaphas with yearning. This is not a sentimental feeling, not in the least maudlin or melancholy. It’s a sharper variety of nostalgia, a keen longing to relive a moment of triumph, combined with a fervent hope that he’ll one day experience something as profoundly satisfying as that best moment of his past. He swivels the office chair to watch the silver rain that slices through the gray morning. Although his current task requires urgent attention, he allows himself two or three minutes to imagine that he is four years in the past, on an assignment that led him to an unexpected enemy of the state. The handsome Nantucket-style shingled house on the harbor. The French windows full of soft light, a promise of warmth in the cold rain. The wife glimpsed in the kitchen, busy with baking. The puddled patio furnished with teak chairs and tables. The dock, the gangway, the slip, the fifty-six-foot coastal cruiser snugged in the single berth. Light in the below-deck portals. The drumming rain masks what small noises he makes while boarding the boat and descending the spiral companionway. Gifford is at work in the galley, preparing to use a metal cleaner on the stainless-steel sink. He looks up, surprised, and says, “Felicia didn’t say you were coming.” A short conversation ensues. However, Durand has not paid this visit to hear Gifford’s excuses or his confession. He zippers open his raincoat as if to take it off, draws a somnifacient-dart gun, and scores a direct hit in Gifford’s neck. The man collapses, unconscious. Calaphas drags him into the vessel’s only stateroom, which is furnished with built-in cabinets, a bed, and one armchair. He hoists Gifford into the chair. A gun safe is fixed to a rail of the bed frame; the number code to open it is Gifford’s birthday. Calaphas retrieves the pistol, puts the barrel in Gifford’s mouth, and blows out the back of his skull. He positions the gun on the man’s lap. The ISA will make sure that the coming investigation will be cursory. In that moment, Calaphas knows he is a giant among men. He has the courage and the fortitude to do anything required of him, absolutely anything; he’s destined for greatness. In this age when most people have such soft spines that it’s a wonder they are able to stand erect, it is a rare individual who can, at the call of duty and without remorse, kill his brother. The memory is not sweet. He


break it.’ ‘You won’t, perhaps not. He might. What if he has a reaction to the movie?’ ‘I’ve never seen him do anything clumsy.’ ‘He’s never seen a movie. The first time people saw L’Arrivee d’un train en gare de La Ciotat they ran out screaming, imagining this train on the screen was going to crush them.’ ‘You’re right, I don’t know how he’s going to react. That’s the test.’ ‘I like you. You interest me. But I can’t risk it.’ ‘I’ll bring it back by the end of the day.’ ‘Why not bring him here? I can set up the screening room. We all watch together.’ ‘They’re not allowed above the ice.’ ‘Why is that?’ ‘The Senate doesn’t think he’s ready.’ ‘They don’t think he’s ready? Or they don’t think we’re ready?’ ‘Both.’ ‘You ask a lot and offer little.’ Zariffa opened the case and affectionately put her hand on the projector, pondering the issue. ‘Did you have a movie in mind?’ Yotam blushed like a teenager being asked out on a date. Zariffa studied his reaction. ‘Something sentimental, I can tell.’ ‘Edward Scissorhands.’ ‘The Tim Burton movie? I can see why you chose that movie – a movie about an outsider, someone who looks different to us, fitting in with our society – yes, I understand.’ ‘To see if he can relate to the main character.’ ‘A man created by scientists.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘But it is a fantasy movie. You should show him how we were. As people. Our cities. Our arrogance. Our complacency. Our brilliance. Our dirt, our clothes, our colours, our cars. You can’t show him something that isn’t real.’ ‘He’s read thousands of books. He knows more about the past than we do. The test is to see if he can empathize. To see if he can care about a fantasy, a fiction, make-believe – to feel something for a character that only exists as flickers of light.’ It was clear that Zariffa was growing more intrigued by the scenario. ‘You can borrow the projector. On one condition.’ ‘Name it.’ ‘I come with you.’ ‘That’s not possible.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘You’re not allowed into the chambers.’ ‘You could get me in.’ ‘I could try, yes.’ ‘Be honest with me. The movie isn’t the only test.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You must be curious to see how I react to him. If an open-minded artist such as myself can’t tolerate the sight of him, what chance is there for the rest of society, correct?’ Yotam smiled. He liked Zariffa and wondered why he hadn’t come to her movie screenings. He needed to find a better sense of balance in his life. He was working too much. In trying to save people, he’d forgotten how much he enjoyed their company. ‘What are you doing right now?’ MCMURDO CITY THE ROSS ICE SHELF FINAL STAGE CHAMBERS SAME DAY YOTAM DIDN’T HAVE OFFICIAL PERMISSION to bring Zariffa down to the chambers, but this wasn’t a society built around rules or regulations; citizens of McMurdo could do whatever they wanted as long as it


family,” he’d said, “I’ll have my attorneys ensure that not one word of your book ever gets published.” Kristi had refused to be intimidated. “We’ll see about that.” After a short exchange, she’d driven off and written what she’d seen as the truth driven by the facts of the case. All the threatened lawsuits never materialized. The book had been published and became a best seller. Of course Reggie had remarried quickly. Now she and Hamilton made their residence in a historic three-story home built by a famous architect in the 1880s. Completely renovated, but keeping all of its original charm, it claimed a private courtyard, pool, five bedrooms and five baths, and had been featured in several architectural and cultural magazines, the spreads including shots of the loving couple who owned the prestigious home. And it was only a few blocks from Kristi’s cottage, in a more prestigious part of the Garden District. She hadn’t realized he lived so close to her and the thought was disconcerting, but she shoved it aside. For now. So, what about his daughter? Lindsay? She’d been a child, preteen when she’d discovered her mother’s body. Kristi searched the Internet. After the second trial, Lindsay Cooke was barely mentioned in the press and seemed to be in college at a small school in the Midwest and avoiding the limelight that her father so adored. Kristi spent the next couple of hours reading articles about both Hamilton and Reggie Cooke, scrolling through one after another on her computer screen. She also checked out Hamilton Cooke’s social media accounts and Reggie Lucerno Cooke’s law firm’s Web site. Clicking through all the information on the couple, she saw photographs and watched short videos, all of which seemed slick and polished, as if professionally created and edited to show Reggie or Hamilton in perfect light. Older shots were included and displayed an earnest Dr. Hamilton Cooke in medical scrubs, often with a young patient. In the more recent images he was always dressed casually, his hair longer and peppered with gray, an easy smile and a noticeable twinkle in his blue eyes. Kristi leaned back in her chair. She twiddled a pen as she thought about Cooke. She believed to this day that beneath Cooke’s suave and debonaire veneer lay a cold-blooded killer, a man who thought he was smarter than everyone else in the room and had the credentials to prove it. Cooke was a sociopath with a dark and murderous side. During the time when she’d researched The God Complex and Murder Kristi had discovered that Cooke’s first wife had planned to divorce him. Beth Cooke had confided as much to her sister, only two weeks before her tragic, fatal accident. She had even set up an appointment with a prominent New Orleans divorce lawyer, but had died three days before the meeting. Not, in Kristi’s estimation, a coincidence. She looked again to her computer screen where the most recent image of Cooke was still displayed. It was another professionally crafted shot of him seated at his desk,


and closer like maybe this time he can make me stay, like maybe this time our story can have a different ending. And I realize that this entire day has been leading to this moment. The past few weeks we’ve avoided the talks about “us,” but, even still, we’ve grown closer and, at times, it feels like we haven’t skipped a beat. While I want this to be a stupid wedding fling, I know that it is more than that. I know that I have carried Huff in my heart all these years; I have never let him go. As if we’ve been practicing it every day for the past seven years we’ve been apart, our breaths quicken and fall at the exact same pace, a crescendo in a melody that we had, at one time in our lives, practiced until perfect. He kisses me one last time, rests his forehead on mine, and I marvel at how perfectly in sync we still are. I smile, but Huff doesn’t. He steps away, and I can see the reality of this moment hitting him. We are not teenagers. We are thirty and thirty-two years old, and we should not have done this. A look of terror crosses his face. “I can’t.” Sadness and guilt flood through me all at once. “I know,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t—” He interrupts me. “No. I can’t be apart from you again. I need you, Daphne. Seeing you these last few weeks has reminded me that what I have with you, I don’t have with anyone else. Not this,” he points from himself to me, and I know he means our chemistry, our physical connection. “But the way we see eye to eye, the way we challenge each other. Leave Steven. We should be together.” Now I am panicking, and I try to make a joke. “You are ruining our cool, nostalgic, super-hot wedding sex.” It sort of works. He flashes me a small smile, and I absolutely melt. “Besides, I’m not with Steven,” I say. “I haven’t been with Steven for years. I thought you knew that.” “But Lanier said…” His face registers his sister’s lie, and he bangs the heel of his hand on the wall. “Damn it, Lanier.” I am, I have to admit, upset now too. She told him I was with Steven? The tiniest part of me has hoped she would approve of this relationship now, if there ever was one. But Lanier apparently still doesn’t trust me. “Daph, forget Lanier. Let’s do this. Finally.” I consider his offer briefly because, well, it’s what I want to do. But I shake my head. “If we get together right now, Lanier will know it’s because we met up at the wedding and she’ll blame me. She’ll be furious.” Huff sighs and rolls his eyes. “Damn, Daph. Why do you care so much? What happened back then was a long time ago. She has to realize that.” He is partially right. But our big breakup, when we were twenty-three and twenty-five, had


recently killed in action how she felt

about my being publicly intoxicated.

(She was against it.)

If I die in Afghanistan, I thought, at least ll never have to see another

fake headline, read another shameful lie about myself.

I thought a lot on that flight about dying. What would it mean? Did I

care? I tried to picture my funeral. Would it be a state funeral? Private? I

tried to imagine the headlines: Bye, Harry.

How would I be remembered by history? For the headlines? Or for who I

actually was?

Would Willy walk behind my coffin? Would Grandpa and Pa?

Before I’d shipped out, JLP sat me down, told me I needed to update my

will.

My will? Really?

If anything happened, he said, the Palace needed to know what I wanted

to be done with my few belongings, and where I wished to be...buried. He

asked so plainly, so calmly, as you’d ask somebody where they’d like to

have lunch. But that was his gift. The truth was the truth, no sense leaning

away from it.

I looked away. I couldn’t really think of a spot where I wanted to spend

the hereafter. I couldn’t think of any spot that felt sacred, besides Althorp,

maybe, and that was out of the question. So I said: Frogmore Gardens?

It was beautiful, and slightly removed from things. Peaceful.

JLP gave a nod. He’d see to it.

Amid these thoughts and recollections I managed to doze off for a few

minutes, and when I opened my eyes we were swooping down to Kandahar

Airfield.

Time to put on the body armor. Time to put on the Kevlar.

I waited for everyone else to disembark, then some Special Forces guys

appeared in the alcove. They returned my weapons and handed me a vial of

morphine, to keep on my person at all times. We were now in a place where

pain, injuries, trauma were commonplace. They hurried me off the plane

into a four-by-four with blacked windows and dusty seats. We drove to


pick of women.” If he had his pick, he would choose . . . But Simon didn’t let himself finish that thought. “I am better on my own,” he said, though he didn’t believe it. He had been lighter and freer the last few days than he’d ever been since Father’s death, and it definitely wasn’t because Forester was visiting. “I have no desire to be a baron, Simon,” William said, fully serious. “You need to get yourself an heir.” Simon refused to think about that. “Come. Let’s get you down to breakfast, as I assume you’re too stubborn to call for a tray.” William grimaced. “I was never meant to be trapped in one place, Simon. Not like . . .” He shut his mouth before he finished, but they both knew what he had been about to say. Not like you. Simon had never minded the fact that his future was tied to Calloway Park. Only that the many businesses his father had started so often called him away beyond the duties of Parliament. Without those, he would happily remain in this part of the country when he wasn’t needed at Lords. William was the one who liked to travel, who liked to be pulled this way and that. Simon wanted stability. Contentment. Something more fulfilling than filling his coffers with money he didn’t need. “Help me up, will you?” William kept his arm around Simon’s shoulders, and when they stood, he was far lighter than Simon liked. This fever had taken a lot out of William. Though his brother protested, Simon maintained his hold on him the entire journey to the breakfast room, where he would ensure his brother ate as much as possible to gain back his strength. The breakfast room wasn’t empty, as Simon had expected. Olivia was there, probably eager for their race that morning, but he was surprised to find Forester with a plate of food as well. He was generally the sort to stay up into the long hours of the night and sleep late into the morning. Then there was Lucy, who looked almost sick as she sat beside Forester and refused to look up when Simon and William entered the room. “Ah, the invalid has risen,” Forester said a little too loudly. “We were wondering how long it would take you to join us. Are you going to watch the great race with us?” William lifted an eyebrow. “Race?” “Simon has finally agreed to race me on horseback,” Olivia proclaimed with a wide smile. “Again?” Pulling away from Simon, William used the backs of the chairs to maneuver himself around the room and into the chair next to Lucy’s. Simon tried not to let jealousy rise up in his throat, but he failed miserably. He had thought the ache he felt for Lucy was bad before, but now that William was back to charm her with his smiles, Simon was tempted to lock himself in his study and never leave. The time for dreaming was over. “Hurry and eat,” Olivia said, hopping


Well, you should ask Clarimonde Bauer and José López about that, they were his most beloved disciples and they both are practicing magicians to this very day.” “You’re kidding,” Tristán said. “What, they’re still following his teachings?” “Clarimonde Bauer kept reprinting his works for years and years. She only stopped with the book because she fell into financial duress. José López still goes around with a flask of graveyard dirt under his shirt and a chicken foot to cast hexes. And if you look around the city, you’ll see Ewers’s runes pop up here and there, among the graffiti.” “His runes,” Montserrat said. “You mean his cult is still active?” “My aunt doesn’t only spend time in Acapulco because of the weather. A few years ago, when she had that stroke, she felt it was related to Ewers. That someone or some people were casting spells using his magic system. She saw runes on an abandoned building, not far from here, and recognized them. Since then, she tries to stay away from Mexico City as much as she can. There is still magic in these streets, magic Ewers once wielded. His congregation may not be as numerous as it was when he was alive, and Clarimonde’s money does not stretch as far as it once did. But there are always true believers who recall the good old days.” Tristán felt a shiver go down his spine. He remembered an empty lot near his apartment, surrounded by a tall wooden fence that was plastered with posters for concerts, boxing matches, and even pornographic movies. Sometimes, the posters were covered with graffiti before another wave of posters camouflaged the scribblings. He wondered if, underneath layers of cheap paper and colorful ink, there were symbols of old magic, like corpses bricked into walls. “Would your aunt have contact information for Clarimonde and José?” Montserrat asked. “No, she wouldn’t. Clarimonde married and I think remarried, but that must have been a long time ago.” “And she became a publisher?” “Sure, I suppose. She was certainly not going to make it as an actress,” Marisa said scornfully. “Not that she tried to stick to it after Ewers died. José kept writing, but I’m certain he hasn’t had any credits in ages.” “He was a writer? What did he work on?” Marisa seemed surprised. “Why…on Beyond the Yellow Door, of course. He co-wrote it. Abel and he were friends, they’d worked together.” “José López is Romeo Donderis?” Montserrat asked. Now it was her turn to sound surprised. “You didn’t know?” Abel never specified what José López did for a living, only that he worked on the film. Montserrat looked thoughtful. “Abel said your aunt gave him money one time when he needed it. She might have his contact information, after all.” “No, she would not. She does not wish to talk about those days. Spells? Cults? You understand why I asked that this all be background? And why you can’t tell anyone that I was the one who mentioned these things?” Marisa said. Her words were calm, but


by my side?” “V-vic.” “You did what you did because you were made to. My father did what he did because he was made to. What the Blue Fairy showed us isn’t you. It isn’t him.” “It is,” Hap said, so bitter that Vic could practically taste it. “You s-saw what I’ve d-done. I … hurt. I killed. Big ones. L-l-little ones. It didn’t matter. I k-killed them all.” Vic closed his eyes, leaning his head against the wall. “I know.” He pushed the images away, flashes of crimson, the flatness of HARP 217’s voice. “You remember all of it, don’t you?” “Yes. Let me g-go. Let me l-leave.” Vic almost pointed out that if Hap wanted to leave, there was little Vic could do to stop him. Instead, he asked, “Where would you go?” “I d-don’t know. Somewhere.” “Yeah, I don’t think that’s a good idea. What if something happens to me and you’re not there?” He opened his eyes in time to see Hap shaking his head. “I think I need you. As much as you need me.” “Hurt,” Hap said through gritted teeth. “I c-could hurt you.” “You could,” Vic agreed. “But you haven’t yet.” “Your neck is bruised.” Vic winced before pushing on. “You know everything and you’re still just sitting there. Do you want to hurt me?” Again, but he didn’t say it. “If it’ll g-get you to stop t-talking.” Vic huffed out a breath. Hap’s eyes flashed. “You should h-hate me.” “If I did, I would have to hate Dad too.” “You d-don’t?” Vic hesitated. Then, “No. I don’t think so. I … it’s complicated. I’m angry. I’m tired. I should never have come here. I’m not going to leave. It’s a contradiction. Discordant. A logic failure. My father created death and as penance, he created life. I’m his guilt.” He pressed a hand against his forehead. “There’s a storm in here. And I don’t see a way through it. He did what he did. You did what you did. But he is still my father. You’re still my friend. I can’t forget that, even after all I’ve seen.” “Stupid,” Hap growled at him. “S-stupid human. You sh-should have left me in the Scrap Yards. You should have l-left me to die.” “But I didn’t,” Vic said. “I made a choice. I fixed you.” “I d-don’t owe y-you—” “I’m not saying you do,” Vic snapped. “You’re free to do whatever you want. Go. Run as fast as you can. Never look back.” Vic took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “But I have to try. And I promise you, that if we succeed, I’ll do everything I can to help you. You hurt. You killed. But you’re more than what the Blue Fairy showed you to be. The same with my father. I’m not scared of him. I’m not scared of you.” “You sh-should be.” “I’ve made my choice.” He squeezed Hap’s arm. “I need you to make yours. You’re not a puppet. Not anymore. Your strings have been cut. You’re free, Hap.” He pushed


waved the long curls of the gentlemen's wigs, and shook the window-hangings and the curtains of the bedchambers; causing everywhere a singular stir, which yet was more like a hush. A shadow of awe and half-fearful anticipation--nobody knew wherefore, nor of what--had all at once fallen over the company. They thronged, however, to the now open door, pressing the lieutenant-governor, in the eagerness of their curiosity, into the room in advance of them. At the first glimpse they beheld nothing extraordinary: a handsomely furnished room, of moderate size, somewhat darkened by curtains; books arranged on shelves; a large map on the wall, and likewise a portrait of Colonel Pyncheon, beneath which sat the original Colonel himself, in an oaken elbow-chair, with a pen in his hand. Letters, parchments, and blank sheets of paper were on the table before him. He appeared to gaze at the curious crowd, in front of which stood the lieutenant-governor; and there was a frown on his dark and massive countenance, as if sternly resentful of the boldness that had impelled them into his private retirement. A little boy--the Colonel's grandchild, and the only human being that ever dared to be familiar with him--now made his way among the guests, and ran towards the seated figure; then pausing halfway, he began to shriek with terror. The company, tremulous as the leaves of a tree, when all are shaking together, drew nearer, and perceived that there was an unnatural distortion in the fixedness of Colonel Pyncheon's stare; that there was blood on his ruff, and that his hoary beard was saturated with it. It was too late to give assistance. The iron-hearted Puritan, the relentless persecutor, the grasping and strong-willed man was dead! Dead, in his new house! There is a tradition, only worth alluding to as lending a tinge of superstitious awe to a scene perhaps gloomy enough without it, that a voice spoke loudly among the guests, the tones of which were like those of old Matthew Maule, the executed wizard,--"God hath given him blood to drink!" Thus early had that one guest,--the only guest who is certain, at one time or another, to find his way into every human dwelling, --thus early had Death stepped across the threshold of the House of the Seven Gables! Colonel Pyncheon's sudden and mysterious end made a vast deal of noise in its day. There were many rumors, some of which have vaguely drifted down to the present time, how that appearances indicated violence; that there were the marks of fingers on his throat, and the print of a bloody hand on his plaited ruff; and that his peaked beard was dishevelled, as if it had been fiercely clutched and pulled. It was averred, likewise, that the lattice window, near the Colonel's chair, was open; and that, only a few minutes before the fatal occurrence, the figure of a man had been seen clambering over the garden fence, in the rear of the house. But it were folly to lay any stress on stories of this kind, which are sure


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

he’s certainly pining after you.” “No.” Her laugh was short and harsh. “He isn’t.” “Could’ve fooled me.” “Fooling you is not a difficult task.” Now it was his turn to bark a harsh laugh. “Not for you, maybe.” A pause. Then, softer, “Why’d you tell me, then?” “Because you threatened to send me to the Burnt Isles if I didn’t.” The path ahead forked, split into uneven halls. Lore stopped, breathed. Hung left. “That isn’t all of it,” Bastian said behind her. There was a quality to his voice she hadn’t heard before, though. Doubt. “You trust me, Lore. Despite everything, despite yourself, you trust me.” “You haven’t given me much choice.” But it didn’t come out like an accusation. “I didn’t feel like I had much choice, either.” The doubt in Bastian’s tone grew a harder edge. “I keep trying to figure out why I wanted to know about your childhood, about who you were. Why I needed to know. To protect myself from August, sure, but it was more than that. It was like… like something pushed me. Like it had happened before, it would happen again, and I was part of it whether I wanted to be or not.” They weren’t the same words Gabe had used by the well, but they were an echo all the same. The sense of things falling into place around them, the sense of being moved into position by forces so much bigger than themselves, bigger even than kings and wars. She and Bastian and Gabe, comets that couldn’t help colliding. Lore turned around. Bastian’s eyes glittered, angry and lost. “I know you.” Bastian said it like a sentencing. “And you know me. Why is that, Lore? Why does it seem like I’ve always known you?” It could’ve sounded romantic, in any other context. But here, it just sounded like pain and confusion, one more unquantifiable thing. Lore stared at him and said nothing. “Tell me I’m not alone in that.” The Sun Prince wasn’t one to beg, she knew; Lore thought this was probably the closest he’d ever gotten. It splintered in her, a wound that had been healed and reopened time and time again. “Lore, tell me I’m not alone here.” And wasn’t that all she’d ever wanted? Not to be alone? She stared at him across the dark and the torchlight, the rocks and bones. “You aren’t.” It came out hoarse; she swallowed. “You aren’t alone, Bastian. I feel it, too.” Then she turned and started forward again. Behind her, Bastian pulled in a ragged sigh, and followed. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE Nothing is new. —The Book of Mortal Law, Tract 135 Lore could tell the first chamber they came to wasn’t the one they were searching for. The map in her head told her to walk straight past it, to keep winding farther into the dark. But Bastian paused, raising his flickering torch to the splintered wooden door. “Should we check this one out?” “It isn’t the right one,” Lore said, pushing ahead. It was cold this deep beneath the earth,


the first person.) Her commentaries bridge the gap between Raveloe and your world. Sometimes she needs to explain attitudes and ideas that would seem strange to "modern" readers. (There's a lot of this in the first chapter.) Sometimes she shows you parallels between the events of the story and your own life. (Look, for example, at Chapter 2, where she compares Silas' hoarding to the way sophisticated men bury themselves in their work.) These comments keep you from getting too caught up in the story. But this is intentional--Eliot wants you always to think about the moral significance of what is happening. Some readers resent this preaching and feel that the story itself teaches the lesson well enough without her comments. Yet other people enjoy her interpreting remarks, feeling that they open up depths of wisdom in this seemingly simple novel. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: FORM AND STRUCTURE Silas Marner is divided into Part One and Part Two, separated by sixteen years in time. The flashback in Chapter I travels an equal sixteen years in time, creating a fundamental symmetry. Some readers have felt that the gap between the two parts is too long-they would like to watch Silas being transformed by his love for Eppie, not just be told about it. Yet in Chapter 14 Eliot does show the first stages of the process in detail, and in Chapter 16 she backtracks to fill in even more. This novel is divided into two parts in another, more important way. While Silas follows a cycle from misery back to happiness, Godfrey Cass follows an opposite path, from a life rich with possibilities to an unfulfilled existence. Eliot shifts back and forth between these two plots continually. Silas and Godfrey rarely meet face to face, yet they are linked--through Dunstan, who cheats Godfrey and robs Silas, and later through Eppie, whom Godfrey abandons and Silas adopts. Some readers feel the novel is split in two, that Silas' half is like a simple folktale with its happy ending, while Godfrey's half is a complex psychological study with a sad, realistic conclusion. Other readers say that the two halves are separated by different moral climates. In Silas' story, fate is ruled by mysterious pagan gods. Human beings can only surrender themselves and trust these inscrutable divinities. Godfrey's story is like a stern Greek tragedy, where a man's own actions lead inexorably to a tragic climax. Pain and suffering are necessary for him to purge himself of his sin. To counteract this split, Eliot's elaborate system of parallels, contrasts, and symmetries holds the two stories together. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 1 With the very first sentence of this book, you are swept back in time. "In the days when" sounds like "Once upon a time," the traditional fairy-tale opening. Next you're drawn to a distant place, buried deep in the hills. And finally you're introduced to creatures of another race, shrunken, distorted, and pale, like gnomes. Eliot writes in the rhythms of blank verse and a hushed, solemn tone. The next few sentences focus entirely upon the


nice couple we made. Maybe a kiss at the end of the night.” She paused. “At one point, he excused himself to go to the bathroom. When he didn’t come back after a while, I went upstairs and found him staring into your room through your cracked door. Watching you as you changed clothes.” Marion involuntarily crossed her arms over her chest, as if the boy were there now. “That’s awful.” “He ran out of the house when I caught him, and then I resigned from the math club for good. I don’t know why I even bothered.” “It’s not your fault, what happened.” Marion wished she could throttle Stan. At the same time, she was amazed and gratified that Judy would have asked for her advice on a prom gown. “He’s the one who should have resigned, not you.” “For a long time, I thought it was your fault.” “He was a creep. There are plenty of them out there.” She was thinking of Dale. “But they’re not all like that. Dad’s not like that.” Judy looked up at the city skyline to the south, which rose high above the tree branches. “There’s something going on with him.” “With Dad? What do you mean?” “I know what he does every second of every day, practically, but sometimes he goes off to these appointments that aren’t in the calendar. Hours that are not accounted for. He’s slipping off to do something, and I’m not sure what it is.” How strange. “Do you think he’s seeing someone?” While their father had been pursued by several women he’d encountered over the years—at the tennis club, or when they were all out to dinner, ladies who were obviously smitten by his mix of charm and gruffness—he’d never followed up. “It’s the only thing I can think of. But why would he hide it?” Judy checked her watch. “I have to go.” “Already?” “I have to get back downtown.” “Well, I loved seeing you,” said Marion, and she meant it. Something about Judy brought her back to earth, reminded her that she was solid and safe. To her surprise, Judy leaned in and gave her a hug. Marion remembered when they were little girls and would fling themselves into each other’s arms over the silliest things: the promise of ice cream after dinner, the radio announcing a snow day for the school district. They stood there, embracing in the cold wind, and Judy murmured in her ear, “I’ll come to see you.” “You will?” Marion almost fell in her surprise, her skate sliding out from under her, but Judy caught her right in time and they both laughed. “Next Thursday is the opening day for the Christmas Spectacular. I’ll leave a ticket for you for the six-o’clock show. Is that all right? You’ll come?” Judy gave a quick nod. “I’ll be there.” CHAPTER THIRTEEN The first two shows of the Christmas Spectacular went by in a whirlwind for Marion, and while she adored the applause and the smiling faces of the children who waited for autographs


only raising my voice, and saying any thing two or three times over, she is sure to hear; but then she is used to my voice. But it is very remarkable that she should always hear Jane better than she does me. Jane speaks so distinct! However, she will not find her grandmama at all deafer than she was two years ago; which is saying a great deal at my mother's time of life--and it really is full two years, you know, since she was here. We never were so long without seeing her before, and as I was telling Mrs. Cole, we shall hardly know how to make enough of her now." "Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon?" "Oh yes; next week." "Indeed!--that must be a very great pleasure." "Thank you. You are very kind. Yes, next week. Every body is so surprized; and every body says the same obliging things. I am sure she will be as happy to see her friends at Highbury, as they can be to see her. Yes, Friday or Saturday; she cannot say which, because Colonel Campbell will be wanting the carriage himself one of those days. So very good of them to send her the whole way! But they always do, you know. Oh yes, Friday or Saturday next. That is what she writes about. That is the reason of her writing out of rule, as we call it; for, in the common course, we should not have heard from her before next Tuesday or Wednesday." "Yes, so I imagined. I was afraid there could be little chance of my hearing any thing of Miss Fairfax to-day." "So obliging of you! No, we should not have heard, if it had not been for this particular circumstance, of her being to come here so soon. My mother is so delighted!--for she is to be three months with us at least. Three months, she says so, positively, as I am going to have the pleasure of reading to you. The case is, you see, that the Campbells are going to Ireland. Mrs. Dixon has persuaded her father and mother to come over and see her directly. They had not intended to go over till the summer, but she is so impatient to see them again--for till she married, last October, she was never away from them so much as a week, which must make it very strange to be in different kingdoms, I was going to say, but however different countries, and so she wrote a very urgent letter to her mother--or her father, I declare I do not know which it was, but we shall see presently in Jane's letter--wrote in Mr. Dixon's name as well as her own, to press their coming over directly, and they would give them the meeting in Dublin, and take them back to their country seat, Baly-craig, a beautiful place, I fancy. Jane has heard a great deal of its beauty; from Mr. Dixon, I mean-- I do not know that she ever heard about it from any


us with no child's steps. "Run, Scout! Run! Run!" Jem screamed. I took one giant step and found myself reeling: my arms useless, in the dark, I could not keep my balance. "Jem, Jem, help me, Jem!" Something crushed the chicken wire around me. Metal ripped on metal and I fell to the ground and rolled as far as I could, floundering to escape my wire prison. From somewhere near by came scuffling, kicking sounds, sounds of shoes and flesh scraping dirt and roots. Someone rolled against me and I felt Jem. He was up like lightning and pulling me with him but, though my head and shoulders were free, I was so entangled we didn't get very far. We were nearly to the road when I felt Jem's hand leave me, felt him jerk backwards to the ground. More scuffling, and there came a dull crunching sound and Jem screamed. I ran in the direction of Jem's scream and sank into a flabby male stomach. Its owner said, "Uff!" and tried to catch my arms, but they were tightly pinioned. His stomach was soft but his arms were like steel. He slowly squeezed the breath out of me. I could not move. Suddenly he was jerked backwards and flung on the ground, almost carrying me with him. I thought, Jem's up. One's mind works very slowly at times. Stunned, I stood there dumbly. The scuffling noises were dying; someone wheezed and the night was still again. Still but for a man breathing heavily, breathing heavily and staggering. I thought he went to the tree and leaned against it. He coughed violently, a sobbing, bone-shaking cough. "Jem?" There was no answer but the man's heavy breathing. "Jem?" Jem didn't answer. The man began moving around, as if searching for something. I heard him groan and pull something heavy along the ground. It was slowly coming to me that there were now four people under the tree. "Atticus...?" The man was walking heavily and unsteadily toward the road. I went to where I thought he had been and felt frantically along the ground, reaching out with my toes. Presently I touched someone. "Jem?" My toes touched trousers, a belt buckle, buttons, something I could not identify, a collar, and a face. A prickly stubble on the face told me it was not Jem's. I smelled stale whiskey. I made my way along in what I thought was the direction of the road. I was not sure, because I had been turned around so many times. But I found it and looked down to the street light. A man was passing under it. The man was walking with the staccato steps of someone carrying a load too heavy for him. He was going around the corner. He was carrying Jem. Jem's arm was dangling crazily in front of him. By the time I reached the corner the man was crossing our front yard. Light from our front door framed Atticus for an instant; he ran down the steps, and together, he and the man


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

know that there is someone on this planet who loves you unconditionally and deeply because of who you are and how you carry yourself. I’m so glad to have known you, Connor.” He looks down again, taking a slow, deep breath. “I don’t know what to say right now.” “I know. That was a lot. You don’t have to—” “No,” he says quickly. “I mean, there is so much I’d like to say, and I’m not sure how to articulate any of it.” I bite my lips, willing myself to not speak over him. “If you know what happened with Smash Course,” he says slowly, “then I presume you understand why I had to continue to stay away.” Hope flares alive, hot and thrashing behind my ribs. “Yes.” Connor looks at me quizzically. “I expected you to tell me it’s all bollocks.” “It is bollocks,” I say. “But you get to choose how you handle it. You clearly knew that I wouldn’t care what Blaine or anyone else has to say about it, and you made the decision that’s best for you. How can I be upset about that?” He looks at me, surprised. “Don’t you get it, Connor?” I say. “I’m telling you I love you. I want what’s best for you, even if that isn’t me.” Connor opens his mouth to reply but Brenna approaches behind him. I cut him off. “Brenna’s coming over.” Turning in his seat, Connor smiles at her. “What’s up?” She looks shaken. “Do you have a second?” “Join us.” I pat the seat beside me. But she shakes her head. “Sorry, I—I think I need to cover this one with Connor solo.” She lowers her voice to him. “We have the results.” I lean in. “My results?” Neither of them looks at me, but Brenna nods at him. “I want—” she says, and then gives a shaky smile. “You and Rory will need to figure out the edit plan, that’s all.” “Oh, right.” Connor turns back to me. I try to read the forecast in his expression. “Is everything okay?” “Everything’s fine.” His smile is only a flicker across his lips. “We need to finish this conversation, but can we do it another time?” This entire change in vibe has me jittery and uncomfortable. “Yeah, totally.” I stand. “Fizzy,” Connor says. “All good.” I move around him, but he stops me with his hand on my forearm. “I mean it. We need to finish this.” I nod but don’t say anything else. It would come out strangled and broken anyway. I’m glad I told him everything I wanted to say, but I don’t feel better the way I expected to. If anything, I feel worse, especially with the prospect of truly finishing this to look forward to. forty-nine FIZZY I’m not surprised that I don’t hear from Connor before the live finale begins, but I would be lying if I said the last day and a half wasn’t lonely and stressful. Everyone in my life assumed I’d be busy with something or someone else, but


is not, is not, damn it, a sophisticated, cruel carnival of humiliations. How did her nipples taste, perv? It hasn’t been crafted for his endless mortification, but for his transcendence. The hateful memory of the candy between Britta Holdstrom’s breasts compounds exasperation into rage, even as his priapism is as painful as a grossly swollen boil. When he killed Gifford, his brother’s widow had given him the dead man’s solid-gold Rolex, which was an omen—a sign, a promise—that his time was coming, his glorious future. The gamemakers need to be reminded of that promise. Gifford can’t be killed twice, though it would be such a relief if he could be killed again and again. Here, now, Calaphas can find no one to kill, no one at all, by the time that he reaches the foyer. Then comes a clattering noise. Like wood knocking wood. Elsewhere in the house. His attention is drawn to the stairs, to the second floor, to the revived prospect of triumph and relief. NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH Juan is seventy-four, and Walter is seventy-five. They are retired, and a life without work doesn’t sit well with them. Once successful entrepreneurs, they can spend only so much time on the golf course, on the bocce ball court, competing in pickleball tournaments, and playing cards with their wives and friends before they start adding double shots of vodka even to their nightly beakers of Metamucil. Consequently, they are always seeking new pursuits and projects, what Juan calls “reasons not to go crazy while we’re waiting for Alzheimer’s.” During the past six months, they have been acting as an unofficial neighborhood watch one or two nights every week, mostly between eleven o’clock in the evening and three o’clock in the morning, cruising the community in Juan’s F-150 pickup. Back in the day, two burglaries a year was a crime wave. Now that Central American gangs have flooded across the open border, life here has gotten to be more of an adventure than it once was, with two burglaries a month. And the perpetrators aren’t lone wolves anymore. They come in crews of four or more, in paneled trucks well disguised as vehicles belonging to one public utility or another, or to a federal bureau like the ATF or the EPA, and they have several methods of defeating alarm systems. Unlike burglars in the past, these new boys aren’t after a few pieces of good jewelry, a little cash, and maybe a hockable sterling-silver tea service. In addition, they take antiques, art, audio-video equipment, major appliances, and a luxury automobile or two. Because people foolishly share their lives on social media, the bad guys are now expert at discovering who is on vacation. If people happen to be at home, they are beaten or threatened at gunpoint, tied up, and tucked away in a closet for the duration of the operation, which can take a few hours. Juan and Walter have no patience for crap like that. They call themselves “geezers with attitude.” As is the case with most law-enforcement agencies in recent years,


from him.’ ‘Karlsten boils the blood. As might this mudpot, should we fall in it,’ Thrit added, ‘but at least we’ll die in better company.’ He tossed a stone into the hot grey slurry. ‘And I don’t think I can bear another tall story from Witchbane.’ ‘If feasting bores you, I have something to stir your interest.’ ‘A lonely chieftain with a chiselled jaw?’ ‘That describes me.’ ‘Oh. Yes, so it does. A lonely chieftain, chiselled of jaw, who also happens to be a man?’ ‘If I had one of those, I wouldn’t share.’ Regny took a wineskin from her surcoat and drank, passing it to him when she was done. ‘A messenger arrived this morning, bringing word of a sickness in Ófandauth. His Majesty commands us to ride ahead and judge whether it’s safe for him to visit. If there is sickness, he wants us to ensure the safety of the Issýn.’ The Issýn had once been the most respected of snowseers. She had helped sway Hróth to the Six Virtues, later becoming a sanctarian. Bardholt still visited her village sometimes. ‘All of us?’ Wulf asked. ‘We’ll bring Sauma,’ Regny said, ‘but Karlsten will stay here. I’ve had my fill of him for a few days.’ She took out her blade and whetstone. ‘It will be nothing. Just sun folly.’ When Wulf snared her gaze, she looked away. He knew when Regny was unsure. **** They slept on the floor of the feasting hall with most of the royal household. Every crack and opening was caulked to block the sunlight. Close to dawn, Wulf woke to Sauma shaking him. With a stiff nod, he knuckled his eyes and groped for his fur boots. The sky was a freshly scraped hide, raw and stretched. Outside the hall, the lith waited around a pit fire, Vell red-eyed and pasty. Though Wulf ignored Karlsten staring death at him, he was glad when Regny emerged. ‘Hair of the hound?’ he muttered to Vell, passing him a wineskin. Vell took it with a grunt. Regny carried a pair of tongs. She used them to lift an ember from the fire, holding it up to all of them. It was said that the Saint had held on to his sword throughout his duel with the Nameless One, even when its fiery breath had seared Ascalun to a glow. Bardholt liked that detail of the story – an illustration of courage and fortitude. Most red-hot swords would destroy the flesh, but sinners in Hróth could always atone by holding a burning coal for a time. ‘Karlsten of Vargoy,’ Regny said, ‘you swore to your lith that you’d keep their secrets. Yesterday, you broke that oath. You betrayed the virtue of fellowship, which bound the Saint and his Holy Retinue.’ She held the coal towards him, the light catching in her pupils. ‘Ask the Knight of Fellowship for mercy. Show that you are willing to suffer for your vice.’ Karlsten sniffed in contempt. He plucked off his left glove and looked Wulf in the eye before he slowly turned


class="Apple-converted-space">

To keep people here longer. So they'll buy more stuff.

I was gobsmacked. You can do that? By law?

A bit panicky, I resumed running up and down the aisles, filling my

trolley as best I could, keeping an eye on the clock, then rushed to the

checkout. That was always the trickiest part, because there was no honing

the checkout: it all depended on others. More, the checkout counter stood

right beside the news racks, which held every British tabloid and magazine,

and half the front pages and magazine covers were photos of my family. Or

my mum. Or me.

More than once I watched customers read about me, overheard them

debating me. In 2015 I overheard them frequently discussing whether or not

I’d ever marry. Whether or not I was happy. Whether or not I might be gay. I

was always tempted to tap them on the shoulder...E/lo.

One night, in disguise, watching some people discuss me and my life

choices, I became aware of raised voices at the front of the queue. An older

married couple, abusing the cashier. It was unpleasant at first, then

intolerable.

I stepped forward, showed my face, cleared my throat: Excuse me. Not

sure whats going on here, but I dont think you should be speaking to her

like that.

268

https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t.:me/Afghansalarlibrary

The cashier was on the verge of tears. The couple abusing her turned and

recognized me. They weren’t in the least surprised, however. Just offended

to be called out on their abuse.

When they left, when it came my turn to pay, the cashier tried to thank

me as she bagged my avocados. I wouldn’t hear of it. I told her to hang in

there, scooped up my things and ran, like the Green Hornet.

Shopping for clothes was so much less complicated.

As atrule I didn’t think about clothing. I didn’t fundamentally believe in

fashion, and I couldn’t understand why anybody would. I often got mocked

on social media for my mismatched outfits, my ratty shoes.


Everyone expects a lift at the end of that song. Or a dancing flash mob. She clearly didn’t think it through.” “Her oversight is my gain. Which song did you pick?” He rubbed his chin, as if he hadn’t already spent hours pondering this. “Let me guess. ‘You’re So Vain’?” Natalie’s mouth dropped open. “Knew it. Get moving.” He performed a pretty stilted version of the hustle. Not because he wasn’t amazing at it, but because Natalie was on the verge of giving up the fight. She was starting to bump her shoulders to the music and Lord, when Natalie allowed herself to enjoy him, even for just a few minutes, it was like holding a puppy in one hand and a foot-long hoagie in the other. Bliss. “For the record, though, I could have lifted you Johnny Castle style.” Natalie was already shaking her head. “This dress has about forty pounds of crystals sewn into it. I would have knocked you out.” “I’m known for absorbing blows to the head without losing a step.” “Should we test that theory?” “No, but we should definitely test the lift theory when we get home.” They were in the middle of the dance floor having this conversation, and August was pretty damn sure Natalie had no idea she was dancing. As if he didn’t already find this woman attractive beyond human comprehension, she had to go and look good cutting a rug, too. Just effortless and fluid and sexy. In rhythm. How was it even fair? “You’re proposing that, after we’ve both consumed our fair share of champagne, we go home and try the Dirty Dancing lift?” He winked at her. “You’re damn right, princess.” She pitched toward him, laughing. “Do you think they’ll give us lollipops if we’re brave enough in the emergency room?” “Maybe we’ll get lucky and end up on Sex Sent Me to the ER.” “In your wildest dreams, Cates.” “In your wildest dreams, Cates.” Natalie jolted slightly. “Oh my God, I’m Natalie Cates now.” His bow tie was suddenly way too tight. “It has a certain ring to it.” The shake it down, shake it down now portion of the song started and he hit the running man while she effortlessly worked the Batusi. Shit, he was falling deeper for her the longer this song went on. His team would love her. They’d worship the ground she walked on for not putting up with his crap but occasionally giving in, wouldn’t they? “We’re doing the lift.” “We’re so not doing the lift.” “What are you afraid of?” “A concussion, for one.” He scoffed. “You seriously think I would ever drop you? My beloved wife?” This time when she laughed, her eyes were sparkling, the sound piercing him right in the middle of his chest. Although he wondered if she would be laughing if she knew he wasn’t laying it on all that thick. She danced for another few seconds, then rolled her eyes up at the ceiling. “Fine, we’ll try it. But if I end up with an injury,


frantically as she practically jumps up and down in relief. “Hello? We need help! We’re at Camp Mirror Lake. Please!” She pauses and her brows push together. “What? Hello? No. Mirror Lake. The camp! Please!” She holds the phone away from her face, and tears fill her eyes. “The call dropped.” “Do you think they heard anything you said?” Kyle asks. “Will they send somebody?” “I—I don’t know,” Bezi says. Kyle slumps onto the recliner with his head in his hands. “This cannot be happening.” Javier moves toward the door, slipping on his coat. “I’m going to the office to call an ambulance from the landline.” Kyle looks up. “Whoever did that to her is still out there, and you’re just gonna go for a fuckin’ stroll?” “What else are we supposed to do?” Javier asks angrily. “Just let her die?” Kyle shakes his head. “No. But—” “But nothing,” Javier says. “I’d go look for Bezi’s keys, but I feel like I’d be wasting time. I’m going to the office. You all keep looking. I’ll be right back.” For the first time in the last few days, it seems like he’s genuinely concerned about somebody other than himself. “I’ll go with you,” Bezi says. I start to protest, but Javier beats me to it. “Nah,” he says. “I’ll be okay. Stay with her.” He moves to the front window and peers out into the dark. “I’ll take a flashlight. Once I’m inside with the door locked, I’ll flash the light on and off three times; that way you know I’m safe. I’ll call an ambulance and the police; then we’ll all get outta here and never come back. Sound like a plan?” I nod as Javier slips a flashlight in his pocket and tenses his entire body like he’s getting ready to run a race. Kyle gets up and opens the door for him, and Javier bolts down the steps, disappearing into the dark. Kyle slams the door shut, locking it, and I crane my neck at the window to try and track Javier. I see the reflective yellow stripe on the back of his coat as he books it to the front office. A few moments later, three flashes come from the window and I exhale a sigh of relief. “He’s in,” I say. “He’s safe.” Tasha stirs, and I rush to her side as Bezi takes hold of her hand. Tasha groans, and her hands open and close into fists. “I know it hurts,” Bezi says. “Try not to move too much.” I grab a stack of hand towels from the kitchen and bring them back to the couch. I gently lift the blanket covering Tasha’s belly. A terrible sinking feeling settles over me as I get a good look at the wound. I make my face a mask, but inside I want to scream. I press the towels against the wound, and Tasha groans. Tasha is dying. If we don’t get her some help soon, she is not going to make it. “Por—Porter and Paige,” Tasha whispers through her


school and had the luck of coming upon Becky Thatcher at the head of Meadow Lane. His mood always determined his manner. Without a moment's hesitation he ran to her and said: "I acted mighty mean to-day, Becky, and I'm so sorry. I won't ever, ever do that way again, as long as ever I live -- please make up, won't you?" The girl stopped and looked him scornfully in the face: "I'll thank you to keep yourself to yourself, Mr. Thomas Sawyer. I'll never speak to you again." She tossed her head and passed on. Tom was so stunned that he had not even presence of mind enough to say "Who cares, Miss Smarty?" until the right time to say it had gone by. So he said nothing. But he was in a fine rage, nevertheless. He moped into the schoolyard wishing she were a boy, and imagining how he would trounce her if she --------------------------------------------------------- -196- were. He presently encountered her and delivered a stinging remark as he passed. She hurled one in return, and the angry breach was complete. It seemed to Becky, in her hot resentment, that she could hardly wait for school to "take in," she was so impatient to see Tom flogged for the injured spelling-book. If she had had any lingering notion of exposing Alfred Temple, Tom's offensive fling had driven it entirely away. Poor girl, she did not know how fast she was nearing trouble herself. The master, Mr. Dobbins, had reached middle age with an unsatisfied ambition. The darling of his desires was, to be a doctor, but poverty had decreed that he should be nothing higher than a village schoolmaster. Every day he took a mysterious book out of his desk and absorbed himself in it at times when no classes were reciting. He kept that book under lock and key. There was not an urchin in school but was perishing to have a glimpse of it, but the chance never came. Every boy and girl had a theory about the nature of that book; but no two theories were alike, and there was no way of getting at the facts in the case. Now, as Becky was passing by the desk, which stood near the door, she noticed that the key was in the lock! It was a precious moment. She glanced around; found herself alone, and the next instant she had the book in her hands. The title-page -- Professor Somebody's ANATOMY -- carried no information to her mind; so she began to turn the leaves. She --------------------------------------------------------- -197- came at once upon a handsomely engraved and colored frontispiece -- a human figure, stark naked. At that moment a shadow fell on the page and Tom Sawyer stepped in at the door and caught a glimpse of the picture. Becky snatched at the book to close it, and had the hard luck to tear the pictured page half down the middle. She thrust the volume into the desk, turned the key, and burst out crying with shame and vexation. "Tom


this, but there’s something called the Danny Horst Rule. And the amazing thing is, I’m Danny Horst.” “Touché.” “Chuckles, you and Noah are the ones who decide if it matters. It doesn’t seem like it matters to him so that just leaves you.” “When you put it like that, it almost makes me sound like a self-sabotaging asshat.” “I’m not going to say the rule doesn’t exist, but it’s like Santa Claus. It’s only real if you believe in it.” “Well, if you’re Jewish and I’m agnostic…thank you for this, Danny.” “Anytime, Chuckles. And things are good with me and Lucy.” “Give my regards to Nigel.” * * * — When my phone rang the next morning at seven, I again, of course, thought it was Noah, until I saw on the screen that the call was from my aunt Donna. “Oh, Sally, Jerry isn’t doing well,” she said after I’d answered. “I think he has it.” “You think he has—” I paused, but I already knew. “Covid?” “On Sunday we went over there with Barbara, and we were sitting on the deck, but it started raining so we went inside. We tried to stay six feet apart, then Barbara tested positive and I’m sure it’s because her grandsons are staying with her, and Nicholas works at Starbucks.” “When you say Jerry isn’t doing well—do you mean—what do you mean?” “I talked to him on the phone just now, and he sounds weak and a little, well, a little disoriented. He said something about clearing snow from the driveway. Sweetheart, I want to help, but with my diabetes and Richard’s cardiomyopathy, I’m afraid it’ll get all of us. I went there this morning and rang the doorbell, hoping he’d come to the window so I could see him for myself, but he didn’t. Who’s the mother in the family next door?” “Charlotte?” “She came out when she saw me on Jerry’s stoop and said that at five in the morning Sugar was wandering in their yard with no leash. They also didn’t get an answer when they knocked on Jerry’s door, and she said she was about to call the police when she saw me pull up in Richard’s car.” “Where’s Sugar now?” “I told her Jerry’s not well, and she said they’ll keep her.” Even more alarming than the idea of Jerry having Covid was the idea of Jerry letting Sugar wander the neighborhood unattended; he never did that. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll come back. If I get in the car now”—I meant, of course, in Donna’s car—“I can be there tomorrow morning, but I’ll check flights, too.” I wondered if she’d try to dissuade me. Instead, she said “Sally, he told me not to call you, but I thought you should know.” * * * — “Hey,” Noah said when he answered his phone, and his voice contained the scratchiness of sleep. “I think Jerry has Covid,” I said. “I just tried to reach him, but he didn’t pick up. Sorry for waking you.” “No, it’s fine. Are you considering


pigeons untouched by his hands. He shaped the world. He did things to the world. The world was bankrupted of ten million fine actions the night he passed on." Montag walked in silence. "Millie, Millie," he whispered. "Millie." "What?" "My wife, my wife. Poor Millie, poor Millie. I can't remember anything. I think of her hands but I don't see them doing anything at all. They just hang there at her sides or they lie there on her lap or there's a cigarette in them, but that's all." Montag turned and glanced back. What did you give to the city, Montag? Ashes. What did the others give to each other? Nothingness. Granger stood looking back with Montag. "Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there. It doesn't matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime." Granger moved his hand. "My grandfather showed me some V-2 rocket films once, fifty years ago. Have you ever seen the atom-bomb mushroom from two hundred miles up? It's a pinprick, it's nothing. With the wilderness all around it. "My grandfather ran off the V-2 rocket film a dozen times and then hoped that some day our cities would open up and let the green and the land and the wilderness in more, to remind people that we're allotted a little space on earth and that we survive in that wilderness that can take back what it has given, as easily as blowing its breath on us or sending the sea to tell us we are not so big. When we forget how close the wilderness is in the night, my grandpa said, some day it will come in and get us, for we will have forgotten how terrible and real it can be. You see?" Granger turned to Montag. "Grandfather's been dead for all these years, but if you lifted my skull, by God, in the convolutions of my brain you'd find the big ridges of his thumbprint. He touched me. As I said earlier, he was a sculptor. 'I hate a Roman named Status Quo!' he said to me. 'Stuff your eyes with wonder,' he said, 'live as if you'd drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It's more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories. Ask no guarantees, ask for no security, there never was such an animal. And if


they walked toward the car and flung some more out the window at stoplights. No vehicle seemed to be following them, and the street in front of Antares was deserted when they parked. She threw more nails and quickly dug her hand into her purse, finding her keys and opening the door. The lobby was a mess, filled with streamers, plastic plates, and cups. She saw pizza boxes piled in a corner. The office Christmas party must have taken place on Friday, and nobody would clean up until Monday. She had completely forgotten about the celebration. “Come on,” she told Tristán and guided him down the long hallway flanked with tall mirrors and doors leading to the offices and editing bays. They turned left. The storage rooms were closed at night, and as Montserrat jimmied the lock she thanked God that it was the holidays. There was no chance they’d be interrupted. She flicked on the lights and they were in a vast room with shelves filled with blank cassettes for the duplicates they made. Past a tall pile of boxes there was a door with a sticker that said “Vault One” on it. “We keep the masters there,” she told Tristán. There too they stored some of the older equipment that nobody had the heart to throw out, including a Moviola that had supposedly been used by Carlos Savage. On the other end of the room there was a door with a sticker that said “Vault Two.” It was a glorified closet rather than a room. Inside it was the steel fireproof cabinet where she’d stashed Ewers’s reel. Montserrat forced the lock to the small vault, opened the cabinet, and quickly stuffed the film can into her purse. She was still carrying Ewers’s book with her, which she supposed was oddly fitting. She closed the cabinet, and they headed back the way they’d come. When they reached the long hallway that would take them to the lobby, they paused. An old woman stood at the other end of the hallway, wrapped in a dark navy coat, her white hair pulled back from her face and pinned perfectly in place. Montserrat did not recognize her at first but then something in the way she held herself up allowed Montserrat to connect the dots. “Alma,” Montserrat said. She had aged a decade in the span of a few days. “I want that film,” the woman said. Her voice was hoarse, but her eyes remained sharp and knowing. “We’re going to destroy it. Like you should have done.” “That film is power. Ewers’s magic has kept my old age at bay for over thirty years.” “It doesn’t seem to be working anymore.” “No,” Alma conceded, slowly walking toward them. “You and Abel did something. You threw everything off balance. It’s cost me a lot to find you and come here. All my reserves of power, every inch of my magic…but it’ll be worth it.” Before Montserrat could reply there was a great popping sound and the lightbulbs above their heads began to waver and


THRONLS 175 "No matter, we ride the rest of the way." He had two horses waiting. Ned mounted up and trotted behind him, down the trail and into the city. Finally Baelish drew rein in front of a ramshackle building, three stories, timbered, its windows bright with lamplight in the gathering dusk. The sounds of music and raucous laughter drifted out and floated over the water. Beside the door swung an ornate oil lamp on a heavy chain, with a globe of leaded red glass. Ned Stark dismounted in a fury. "A brothel," he said as he seized Littlefinger by the shoulder and spun him around. "You've brought me all this way to take me to a brothel." "Your wife is inside," Littlefinger said. It was the final insult. "Brandon was too kind to you," Ned said as he slammed the small man back against a wall and shoved his dagger up under the little pointed chin beard. "My lord, no," an urgent voice called out. "He speaks the truth." There were footsteps behind him. Ned spun, knife in hand, as an old white-haired man hurried toward them. He was dressed in brown roughspun, and the soft flesh under his chin wobbled as he ran. "This is no business of yours," Ned began; then, suddenly, the recognition came. He lowered the dagger, astonished. "Ser Rodfik?" Rodrik Cassel nodded. "Your lady awaits you upstairs." Ned was lost. "Catelyn is truly here? This is not some strange jape of Littlefinger's?" He sheathed his blade. "Would that it were, Stark," Littlefinger said. "Follow me, and try to look a shade more lecherous and a shade less like the King's Hand. It would not do to have you recognized. Perhaps you could fondle a breast or two, just in passing." They went inside, through a crowded common room where a fat woman was singing bawdy songs while pretty young girls in linen shifts and wisps of colored silk pressed themselves against their lovers and dandled on their laps. No one paid Ned the least bit of attention. Ser Rodrik waited below while Littlefinger led him up to the third floor, along a corridor, and through a door. Inside, Catelyn was waiting. She cried out when she saw him, ran to him, and embraced him fiercely. "My lady," Ned whispered in wonderment. "Oh, very good," said Littlefinger, closing the door. "You recognized her." "I feared you'd never come, my lord," she whispered against his 176 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN chest. "Petyr has been bringing me reports. He told me of your troubles with Arya and the young prince. How are my girls?" "Both in mourning, and full of anger," he told her. "Cat, I do not understand. What are you doing in King's Landing? What's happened?" Ned asked his wife. "Is it Bran? Is he . . ." Dead was the word that came to his lips, but he could not say it. "It is Bran, but not as you think," Catelyn said. Ned was lost. "Then how? Why are you here, my love? What is this place?"


of Enva’s Day “Where are the other dash-packs?” Marisol asked. They were the first thing she looked for when she returned to the B and B with Attie and Keegan. She picked up the two burlap bags that were sitting on the kitchen counter, eventually glancing to where Iris and Roman were cleaning off the table. Roman paused. “They should all be there, Marisol. I laid out four of them.” “That’s odd,” Marisol said with a frown. “Because there are only two.” Iris watched as Marisol searched the rest of the kitchen, her pulse dropping. “Marisol? I think someone must have stolen them.” “Stolen them?” Marisol echoed, as if the thought of stealing in Avalon Bluff was unheard of. “What makes you think that, Iris?” “Because there were footprints in the garden, leading into the house.” “Garden?” Keegan said, glancing at her wife. “Did you actually plant one, Mari?” “Of course I did! I told you I would. But it wouldn’t have happened with quite a bit of help.” “Show me.” Attie was closest to the doors; she led the way into the afternoon light. It was strange, how quiet the world felt now. Even the wind had abated, Iris noticed as she followed the others out onto the terrace. Keegan let out a low whistle. “It looks nice. You remembered to water it this time, Marisol.” Marisol playfully nudged Keegan’s arm. “Yes, well, it wouldn’t have happened without Iris and Attie.” “Indeed. And I see what you were talking about, Iris.” Keegan walked to one of the rows, crouching down to trace the lump in the soil. “You covered up their trail?” “Yes, because I wanted the garden to look nice for you,” Iris explained in a rush. “But I have a perfect imprint of the boot.” She brought the dirtmarked paper to Keegan. Keegan studied it with a frown. “A soldier’s boot, then. They must have come into the house during the evacuation and taken two of the dash-packs. I’m surprised. My company knows better. They never steal from civilians.” “It’s fine,” Marisol said. “Whoever it was must have needed resources, and I’m glad to have given to someone in need. I can easily make three more bags. In fact, I’ll do that right now.” “Three more?” Keegan said, gently grasping Marisol’s arm to stop her. “You only need to make two, darling.” “Yes, and one for you as well,” Marisol replied with a smile. “Since you’re here with us now.” “Of course.” Keegan loosened her grip and Marisol retreated to the kitchen. But Iris saw the sadness that flickered through the captain’s eyes as she glanced at the garden again. As if she sensed this might be the last time she would enjoy it. Everything was changing. Iris could taste it in the air, as if the season had crumbled like an ancient page, skipping summer and autumn to usher in the creeping chill of winter. Soldiers were stationed everywhere in their olive-green uniforms and helmets, preparing the town for the imminent battle. Barricades now sat in the streets,