to visit him no more. But it was so miserable going to bed and getting up, and never hearing anything about him, that my resolution melted into air before it was prop- erly formed. It had appeared wrong to take the jour- ney once, now it seemed wrong to refrain. Michael came to ask if he must saddle Minny; I said 'Yes,' and considered myself doing a duty as she bore me over the hills. I was forced to pass the front windows to get to the court; it was no use trying to conceal my presence. " 'Young master is in the house,' said Zillah, as she saw me making for the parlour. I went in. Earnshaw was there also, but he quitted the room directly. Lin- ton sat in the great armchair half asleep. Walking up to the fire, I began in a serious tone, partly meaning it to be true,--- " 'As you don't like me, Linton, and as you think I come on purpose to hurt you, and pretend that I do so every time, this is our last meeting. Let us say good-bye; and tell Mr. Heathcliff that you have no wish to see me, and that he mustn't invent any more falsehoods on the subject.' " 'Sit down and take your hat off, Catherine,' he an- swered. 'You are so much happier than I am, you ought to be better. Papa talks enough of my defects and shows enough scorn of me to make it natural I should doubt myself. I doubt whether I am not altogether as worth- less as he calls me frequently; and then I feel so cross and bitter, I hate everybody! I am worthless, and bad in temper, and bad in spirit, almost always, and if you choose you may say good-bye; you'll get rid of an an- noyance. Only, Catherine, do me this justice: believe that if I might be as sweet, and as kind, and as good as you are, I would be---as willingly, and more so, than as happy and as healthy. And believe that your kind- ness has made me love you deeper than if I deserved your love; and though I couldn't and cannot help show- ing my nature to you, I regret it and repent it, and shall regret and repent it till I die!' "I felt he spoke the truth, and I felt I must forgive him; and though he should quarrel the next moment, I must forgive him again. We were reconciled; but we cried, both of us, the whole time I stayed---not entirely for sorrow, yet I was sorry Linton had that distorted nature. He'll never let his friends be at ease, and he'll never be at ease himself. I have always gone to his little parlour since that night, because his father re- turned the day after. "About three times, I think, we have been merry and hopeful, as we were the first evening; the rest of my visits were dreary and troubled---now with his selfish- ness and spite, and now


be- and the big cormorants sit on the other side- and all kinds of gulls go there. The castle is wonderful too, even if it is all in ruins." "It sounds fine," said Dick. "How does it belong to you, Georgina?" George glared at him and didn't answer. "Sorry," said Dick, hastily. "I didn't mean to call you Georgina. I meant to call you George." "Go on, George- tell us how the island belongs to you," said Julian, slipping his arm through his sulky little cousin's. She pulled away from him at once. "Don't do that," she said. "I'm not sure that I want to make friends with you yet." "All right, all right," said Julian, losing patience. "Be enemies or anything you like. We don't care. But we like your mother awfully, and we don't want her to think we won't make friends with you." "Do you like my mother?" said George, her bright blue eyes softening a little. "Yes- she's a dear, isn't she? Well- all right- I'll tell you how Kirrin Castle belongs to me. Come and sit down here in this corner where nobody can hear us." They all sat down in a sandy corner of the beach. George looked across at the little island in the bay. "It's like this," she said. "Years ago my mother's people owned nearly all the land around here. Then they got poor, and had to sell most of it. But they could never sell that little island, because nobody thought it worth anything, especially as the castle has been ruined for years." "Fancy nobody wanting to buy a dear little island like that!" said Dick. "I'd buy it at once if I had the money." "All that's left of what Mother's family owned is our own house, Kirrin Cottage, and a farm a little way off- and Kirrin Island," said George. "Mother says when I'm grown-up it will be mine. She says she doesn't want it now, either, so she's sort of given it to me. It belongs to me. It's my own private island, and I don't let anyone go there unless they get my permission." The three children stared at her. They believed every word George said, for it was quite plain that the girl was speaking the truth. Fancy having an island of your very own! They thought she was very lucky indeed. "Oh Georgina- I mean George!" said Dick. "I do think you're lucky. It looks such a nice island. I hope you'll be friends with us and take us there one day soon. You simply can't imagine how we'd love it." "Well- I might," said George, pleased at the interest she had caused. "I'll see. I never have taken anyone there yet, though some of the boys and girls round here have begged me to. But I don't like them, so I haven't." There was a little silence as the four children looked out over the bay to where the island lay in the distance. The tide was going out. It almost looked as if they


generations to come. — Mark decided he hated Louise right after he came home from the church ski trip. He had just turned fourteen. “It’s hormones,” her dad explained after Mark had gone into her room and crushed all her oil pastels into the carpet. “I don’t know what the big deal is, Louise,” her mom had said. “They’ll wash out.” That hadn’t been the point. The point was that Mark went into her room and broke her stuff all the time and never got punished enough for it. He tore a self-portrait out of her sketchbook, added zits, and taped it to the bathroom mirror with a word balloon coming out of its mouth saying, I pick my nose. He hid Pupkin in her bed, which she hated. He wouldn’t flush the toilet in their shared bathroom on purpose. He put one of her bras around Baudelaire, the Mitchells’ golden retriever, one Halloween and everyone thought it was hilarious. Not Louise. She realized she couldn’t win, but the one thing she could do was put her head down and work, so she decided to graduate high school a year early. She took AP classes, enrolled in summer school, and lobbied her parents hard to let her graduate her junior year. She stopped drawing for fun and focused on creating a design portfolio. She gave up extracurriculars and got a ride to the C of C every day after school, where she audited as many CAD, Photoshop, and first-year design classes as possible because they were free for the children of faculty. “But you’re just copying what you see in real life,” her mom had said. “Why can’t you do your design portfolio and still draw things from your imagination?” “I’m serious about design,” Louise had said. “You’re too young to be serious about anything!” Louise chopped off her hair and dyed it black because she thought it made her look like someone ready to go to college. “You had such pretty chestnut hair,” her mom wailed. “Brown,” Louise corrected her. “Auburn,” her mother said. “You had wonderful auburn hair. Now you look like Edgar Allan Poe’s daughter.” In the end, thanks to her dad’s persuasion, she did graduate a year early, but her parents didn’t get a second to relax because that was when Mark started talking about BU. It was expensive, their dad told him, but if he wanted to go he could start saving up. “But you paid for Louise to go to Berkeley!” Mark protested. “Your sister is paying for her room and board by herself and she got a scholarship,” their dad said. “I’m being punished because I’m not Louise!” Mark said. “This is total discrimination!” He raged. He argued. He wanted them to foot the entire bill. He got a couple of jobs but couldn’t save a cent. He kicked a hole in their bedroom wall. Louise was glad she’d been on the other side of the country for most of it. Finally, her dad decided it wasn’t worth the endless fights, it wasn’t worth the


the texas, and found it, and then scrabbled along forwards on the skylight, hanging on from shutter to shutter, for the edge of the skylight was in the water. When we got pretty close to the cross-hall door there was the skiff, sure enough! I could just barely see her. I felt ever so thankful. In another second I would a been aboard of her, but just then the door opened. One of the men stuck his head out only about a couple of foot from me, and I thought I was gone; but he jerked it in again, and says: "Heave that blame lantern out o' sight, Bill!" He flung a bag of something into the boat, and then got in himself and set down. It was Packard. Then Bill HE come out and got in. Packard says, in a low voice: "All ready -- shove off!" I couldn't hardly hang on to the shutters, I was so weak. But Bill says: "Hold on -- 'd you go through him?" "No. Didn't you?" "No. So he's got his share o' the cash yet." "Well, then, come along; no use to take truck and leave money." "Say, won't he suspicion what we're up to?" "Maybe he won't. But we got to have it anyway. Come along." So they got out and went in. The door slammed to because it was on the careened side; and in a half second I was in the boat, and Jim come tumbling after me. I out with my knife and cut the rope, and away we went! We didn't touch an oar, and we didn't speak nor whisper, nor hardly even breathe. We went gliding swift along, dead silent, past the tip of the paddle- box, and past the stern; then in a second or two more we was a hundred yards below the wreck, and the darkness soaked her up, every last sign of her, and we was safe, and knowed it. When we was three or four hundred yards down- stream we see the lantern show like a little spark at the texas door for a second, and we knowed by that that the rascals had missed their boat, and was beginning to understand that they was in just as much trouble now as Jim Turner was. Then Jim manned the oars, and we took out after our raft. Now was the first time that I begun to worry about the men -- I reckon I hadn't had time to before. I begun to think how dreadful it was, even for mur- derers, to be in such a fix. I says to myself, there ain't no telling but I might come to be a murderer myself yet, and then how would I like it? So says I to Jim: "The first light we see we'll land a hundred yards below it or above it, in a place where it's a good hiding-place for you and the skiff, and then I'll go and fix up some kind of a yarn, and get somebody to go


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

him comes with a cost. “When we spoke you said you were working on another conservation project.” This isn’t a conversation I want to have with my dad on any morning, certainly not today. “The company is trying out a few new things this year. I’m a part of that.” “LA has plenty of better shops, Connor.” I stare out the windshield. “Dad, come off it. I don’t want to live in LA. I’d see Stevie once a month, if that.” “Kids are adaptable,” he says, and when I don’t say anything in response, he continues. “Listen, you know how I feel. You could have easily come to work for me, C-suite from the get-go, seven-figure salary, but fine. You were doing important work.” I hear his air quotes and swallow down an expletive. Getting into it with him is never worth it. “Now I have to stomach that my son spent a couple hundred grand on school so he could film a bunch of housewives?” I bite back the rant on the tip of my tongue, knowing it won’t make a bit of difference anyway. “It’s not housewives, Dad. Anyway, this is a one-off. The company needed opportunities for product placement, and they asked me to take it on. It’s a huge budget and they’ve already given me the green light to do my next doc when this show wraps.” I wince at the boast I can hear in my own voice, the pathetic attempt to earn his approval. “And then what? You continue to be their cuck the next time they—” “Dad. Enough.” He immediately falls silent. I rarely raise my voice to him. Not long after he’d had his holiday fling with my mum, he’d married a woman he’d dated off and on in college, and they had a couple of kids. When I moved to the States, I lived with them for two years. My father is a multimillionaire who owns one of the largest real estate development firms in the States, and to me, a teenager raised by a poor single mum, money was power. He was intimidating and strict; Dad and I never butted heads because, like my two half siblings, I never dared talk back to him. He’d lecture us all while we sat there silently poking at our overcooked pasta. I moved out the second I could, got a partial scholarship to UCLA, and worked as a waiter to pay the rest of my tuition and to pay my way through film school at USC. I thought that when Stevie was born, he might see this perfect little girl and magically turn into a decent human, but of course he didn’t. He loves his granddaughter as much as he’s capable of loving anything, but the only time he’s ever told me I did a good job was when Nat and I split up, and apparently, I undid all of that by following her to San Diego. In his words: What kind of a man does that? “All right,” he says. “What’s the show? The


And then she was gone. The kitchen shadows felt deeper without her as Roman carried the pot and cups to the sink, realizing that he had never once in his life washed any dishes. He did his best, setting the porcelain back into the cupboard before he retreated to his room, where he glanced at the wardrobe. Still no letter. He slid down to the floor and dozed at last. When he stirred at first light, he saw she had finally written to him. Roman scrambled over the rug, his pulse hammering in his throat as he unfolded her letter and read: I’m safe and well. Don’t worry! I apologize for having to abruptly leave last night. I don’t have time to write a long letter this morning as I need to go. It’s back to the infirmary today, but I’ll write you soon. P.S. I’m hoping to send you more soldier letters this evening or the next, to mail in the post, if you don’t mind. He shuddered in relief, even as he knew whatever had happened last night hadn’t been good. But she was safe and well, and Roman sighed, leaning his head against the floor. The reassurance was like a warm blanket, and he suddenly realized how sore and weary he was. He wanted to fall asleep with Iris on his mind but resisted her taunting draw. His wristwatch was ticking, nagging him. Roman groaned as he checked the time. He rose in a hurry, gathering Iris’s letters, returning them to their hiding place. Quickly, he dressed. There was no time to shave, no time to polish his shoes or even comb his hair. He grabbed his messenger bag and flew down the stairs. He was late to work. “Come, the last of the frost has passed and the garden needs some care,” Marisol said that afternoon. “I could use both of your help. We’ll till today and plant tomorrow.” Iris was relieved to be given a task, even if it was the difficult one of breaking hard ground with a shovel, which she had never done before, growing up on the stone and pavement of Oath. The three of them worked in the B and B’s backyard, where a garden plot lay dormant from winter, covered in weeds and withered old stalks. “It looks like someone was here before us,” Attie remarked, crouching to trace deep gouge marks in the soil. “That would be the hounds,” Marisol said as she worked with a hand trowel. “That’s the trouble with planting a garden in Avalon Bluff. The hounds like to trample everything when they stalk the town at night. Sometimes we go months without seeing them, but sometimes Dacre sends them every night.” Iris and Attie stared at the gouges, which they now could recognize as claw marks. A shudder went through Iris, and she returned her attention to shoveling up the dirt. “You plant a garden every year, Marisol?” she asked, noticing the raised beds off in the corner, where flowers, lettuce, and other cold weather crops flourished.


so cruel as to send you away, my dear. Oh no, no!' The old man, who was stooping over the fire toasting a piece of bread, looked round as he bantered Oliver thus; and chuckled as if to show that he knew he would still be very glad to get away if he could. 'I suppose,' said the Jew, fixing his eyes on Oliver, 'you want to know what you're going to Bill's for---eh, my dear?' Oliver coloured, involuntarily, to find that the old thief had been reading his thoughts; but boldly said, Yes, he did want to know. 'Why, do you think?' inquired Fagin, parrying the question. 'Indeed I don't know, sir,' replied Oliver. 'Bah!' said the Jew, turning away with a disappointed countenance from a close perusal of the boy's face. 'Wait till Bill tells you, then.' The Jew seemed much vexed by Oliver's not expressing any greater curiosity on the subject; but the truth is, that, although Oliver felt very anxious, he was too much confused by the earnest cunning of Fagin's looks, and his own speculations, to make any further inquiries just then. He had no other opportunity: for the Jew remained very surly and silent till night: when he prepared to go abroad. 'You may burn a candle,' said the Jew, putting one upon the table. 'And here's a book for you to read, till they come to fetch you. Good-night!' 'Good-night!' replied Oliver, softly. The Jew walked to the door: looking over his shoulder at the boy as he went. Suddenly stopping, he called him by his name. Oliver looked up; the Jew, pointing to the candle, motioned him to light it. He did so; and, as he placed the candlestick upon the table, saw that the Jew was gazing fixedly at him, with lowering and contracted brows, from the dark end of the room. 'Take heed, Oliver! take heed!' said the old man, shaking his right hand before him in a warning manner. 'He's a rough man, and thinks nothing of blood when his own is up. W hatever falls out, say nothing; and do what he bids you. Mind!' Placing a strong emphasis on the last word, he suffered his features gradually to resolve themselves into a ghastly grin, and, nodding his head, left the room. Oliver leaned his head upon his hand when the old man disappeared, and pondered, with a trembling heart, on the words he had just heard. The more he thought of the Jew's admonition, the more he was at a loss to divine its real purpose and meaning. He could think of no bad object to be attained by sending him to Sikes, which would not be equally well answered by his remaining with Fagin; and after meditating for a long time, concluded that he had been selected to perform some ordinary menial offices for the housebreaker, until another boy, better suited for his purpose could be engaged. He was too well accustomed to suffering, and had suffered too much where he was, to bewail the prospect of change


to be what you knew about me.” “When was this?” Ethan asked. “I don’t know,” I said, but that was a lie. I knew exactly when the first time was. And the last. I sat down on the motel bed, my fingers finding the scar at my wrist. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “Really. I shouldn’t have asked.” “The last time was eight years ago,” I said, ignoring him. I’d come back to town to be with Liv after she got out of the hospital. She wouldn’t talk to me, Kimiko and Marcus would barely talk to anyone, and I’d been suffocating in the silence. I’d gone to the bar I knew my dad didn’t frequent, and Oscar had been there. I took a breath and made myself say the rest. “The first time was eighteen years ago. And a handful of times in between. Every couple years when I was in town and feeling shitty enough that Oscar seemed like an improvement.” “Eighteen years ago you were a kid,” Ethan said. Trust him to do the math. I shrugged and didn’t look at him. “Fifteen. It was my birthday.” “That would make him—” “Old enough to buy the booze,” I said lightly. “It was my idea. I made my own decisions every step of the way. They were terrible decisions, but they were mine.” “That’s statutory rape,” Ethan said. “It doesn’t matter that it was your idea. It was his job not to be a fucking rapist.” “I don’t—I’m not telling you this to get sympathy or something,” I said quickly. He sat down beside me. “All right,” he said. “So why are you telling me?” “Like I said. I just wanted you to know— I didn’t want—” My voice choked off into silence. “I don’t know. I’ve never told anyone before. Cass would kill me. Well, she’d kill him first. Then she’d kill me.” “Is that why you hate him so much?” “More like it’s part of why I hate myself so much,” I said. The room was too cold, and my skin prickled with the chill. “There was a reason I knew Oscar would say yes, when I told him to bring a bottle of rum and a condom and meet me in the woods. When I was eleven, right before…” I waved a hand. I didn’t need to spell it out; before was enough. “Oscar was joking around. Shoved me up against a wall and put his hand up my shirt. Scared the shit out of me.” “That goes beyond ‘asshole,’” Ethan said. He was working hard to sound calm and factual. I watched him carefully. Even as I kept my own tone casual, I was relieved at the anger in his eyes, the strain of keeping a civil tone. “He should have been arrested.” “His dad is the mayor, Ethan; that wasn’t going to happen. Besides, Cody stopped him. Beat the shit out of him, actually.” “Good,” Ethan said firmly. “Cody’s always had your back, hasn’t he? I’m starting to understand why he’s so


just said this stuff, they’d put it down to an accident, like that was my best shot.” When I first saw this, I’d firmly believed he was lying here. I’d stared hard at my TV, trying to see his tells. This time, all I saw was resignation, exhaustion, a lingering bewilderment. “Jesus,” Alder said. “This is why you always wait for a lawyer. You think it’ll make you look guilty, but dude. You have to.” The kids’ talking drowned out the rest of the show: Omar’s conviction and appeal, Thalia’s family fighting to keep him in prison, Lester Holt straining hard at the end for Camelot parallels, something about “no happy-ever-afters.” 42 The slow, slow wheel of my brain finally turned. There was alcohol in Thalia’s stomach, but it wasn’t in her bloodstream yet. If I was right that she’d drunk from that flask backstage, she died very soon after Camelot ended. If she died soon after the show ended, she died while Omar was on the phone. Oh. I did the math again. Jesus. But who would remember, after all this time, if she sipped something backstage that particular night? Who could ever testify to that? 43 “Can we listen to music?” Jamila asked, so we did. It seemed we were waiting for midnight. These kids were young enough that the stroke of twelve still connoted mischief, parties, ghosts, rather than work deadlines and colicky babies and red-eye flights. I had not yet mentioned the flask, the timing. I wanted to think about it, clearheaded, in the morning. I wanted to triple-check my math. “We should turn the lamps off,” Alder said at 11:58. “We should sit totally silent and send out welcoming vibes. And we should record again!” Jamila said she’d fall asleep—she was already lounging on the floor—but Alder’s motion passed. Let’s say that instead of Britt and Alder giggling uncontrollably, shushing each other, instead of Lola shrieking when Alyssa tickled their neck, instead of the hush that finally settled over us, let’s say that Thalia showed up, that her face glowed in the window. Say she had a flask in her hand. I’d been thrown back, that week, to a mental state in which I could remember the sound of her voice. The way, for instance, she said “How random!” The way she’d get hiccups when she laughed. The way she’d sing choir music as she got dressed, the soprano part of “Wade in the Water” rising over her open closet door. So let’s say that this night in Gage House, her face appeared and she said what she’d say if she could: Bodie. The drug theory came from you. You made it up, and they listened. Omar was on the phone. What did they know about DNA in 1995? Let’s say she said: Who has more reason to kill a girl? The guy who tapes her elbow, or the guy she’s sleeping with? Let’s say she said: How often have you thought of my body in the ground? How often have you thought of Omar’s body in


trouble: he was no gossip, even if his friends liked to tittle-tattle. He reached for his pint and grunted. ‘Ah, well, I ent complaining. Nice pint of Hooky. Thanks, Dickie.’ Florence Dawson sat in her bedroom. It was past midday but she was still in pyjamas. The sun streamed onto the duvet cover where Betty Boop danced in red high heels waving a top hat. She wiped the tears from her face, picking up her phone again, pressing the button, listening to the purring tone. There was a male voice, his voice, the one that set her pulse thudding, asking her to leave a message. She took a deep breath and repeated the same words she’d said half an hour ago. ‘It’s me, Florence – I need to talk to you. Please, ring me. I…’ She wasn’t sure what to say next, so she finished the call. He wouldn’t reply: he hadn’t replied to the last five messages she’d left. Since that evening she’d spent with him, he’d deliberately avoided her. Florence chewed a broken nail and her hand shook. Her father was out with the boys, drinking beer at The Sun. Sunday was his day off and he wouldn’t be back for an hour or so. She wouldn’t tell him today. Perhaps she wouldn’t tell him at all. Perhaps she’d run away. She wished she could. Florence swallowed air and it shuddered in her lungs She needed to talk to Malia Johnson. Malia would come straight away; she’d know immediately that something was wrong. She’d hug her and say something kind. But nothing could change the situation. Florence’s hand shook: she was completely alone. She picked up the pregnancy test kit from the bed and stared at the double lines again. Positive. There was no escaping the truth. It was hard to imagine a new life growing before she could see or feel it. She’d suspected for weeks, but now she knew for sure. This moment led to an inevitable chain of events that she couldn’t avoid. She’d have to explain it to her dad, and he’d cry. Then he’d promise to help her and he’d ask the question that everyone would want to know, the one she didn’t want to answer. He’d ask who the father was. She couldn’t tell anyone his name. 8 On Saturday lunchtime, Odile’s café was bustling. Josie, Lin and Minnie – wearing a beret and black raincoat – huddled around the table, chatter bubbling as they spoke over each other, catching up with each other’s news. Florence brought them a tray of food, squeezing between the other tables. Dangerous Dave, Kenny Hooper and Jimmy Baker were tucking into enormous fry-ups and talking about cars. Linval and Rita Johnson ate pumpkin soup while comparing their two children: Malia had been no trouble as a youngster, whereas Adam had never been anything but. Linval had tears of laughter in his eyes as he recalled how Adam had got himself lost in Old Scratch’s woods, not far from Ledbury’s farm, when he was ten years old. He’d been


me for that, I was less surprised than he thought. "We shall lose a fine opportunity if I put off going to Cairo, and I am very much afraid I must go, Handel, when you most need me." "Herbert, I shall always need you, because I shall always love you; but my need is no greater now, than at another time." "You will be so lonely." "I have not leisure to think of that," said I. "You know that I am always with him to the full extent of the time allowed, and that I should be with him all day long, if I could. And when I come away from him, you know that my thoughts are with him." The dreadful condition to which he was brought, was so appalling to both of us, that we could not refer to it in plainer words. "My dear fellow," said Herbert, "let the near prospect of our separation - for, it is very near - be my justification for troubling you about yourself. Have you thought of your future?" "No, for I have been afraid to think of any future." "But yours cannot be dismissed; indeed, my dear dear Handel, it must not be dismissed. I wish you would enter on it now, as far as a few friendly words go, with me." "I will," said I. "In this branch house of ours, Handel, we must have a--" I saw that his delicacy was avoiding the right word, so I said, "A clerk." "A clerk. And I hope it is not at all unlikely that he may expand (as a clerk of your acquaintance has expanded) into a partner. Now, Handel - in short, my dear boy, will you come to me?" There was something charmingly cordial and engaging in the manner in which after saying "Now, Handel," as if it were the grave beginning of a portentous business exordium, he had suddenly given up that tone, stretched out his honest hand, and spoken like a schoolboy. "Clara and I have talked about it again and again," Herbert pursued, "and the dear little thing begged me only this evening, with tears in her eyes, to say to you that if you will live with us when we come together, she will do her best to make you happy, and to convince her husband's friend that he is her friend too. We should get on so well, Handel!" I thanked her heartily, and I thanked him heartily, but said I could not yet make sure of joining him as he so kindly offered. Firstly, my mind was too preoccupied to be able to take in the subject clearly. Secondly - Yes! Secondly, there was a vague something lingering in my thoughts that will come out very near the end of this slight narrative. "But if you thought, Herbert, that you could, without doing any injury to your business, leave the question open for a little while--" "For any while," cried Herbert. "Six months, a year!" "Not so long as that," said I. "Two or


blood. Nothing gruesome. In fact, I thought she was sleeping. I came home from tennis to find her, dressed in a pair of very grown-up, fancy mom-looking black pants with a pale pink blouse tucked in at the waist, still wearing a pair of ballet flats that matched the blouse perfectly. Her hair was blown out, and she had on fresh lip gloss. This version of Mom was the boyfriend-free one, who loved working for John, spending time with me, and keeping our cute little house pristine. She was so happy. So responsible. Or so I’d thought. Mom was lying on the couch, her face serene. I didn’t even walk to her at first, just said, “Mom, you’d better watch out. I’m going to be better than you at tennis soon.” Mom was pretty competitive, so when she didn’t answer I knew she must be sleeping soundly. “Mo-om,” I called. She didn’t budge. I had seen her passed out before, but she usually looked… sloppy. She wasn’t sloppy now. She was perfect. The previous week I had seen her with a man in her bedroom. Well, coming out of her bedroom. He was not perfect. He was rough. And, somewhere deep inside, I knew he was her dealer. Somewhere deep inside I knew he wasn’t hanging her new curtains. And somewhere very much on the surface, I knew she was back on drugs. I knew I should have told Paula or John or June or someone. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. This was the most stable my life had been since before she met Vincent. I couldn’t bear the thought of letting it go. So every night I prayed that she would stop. Every night I prayed that we would get to stay just as we were. She was always good at pretending, my mother. I didn’t want to be like her. But I was good at pretending too. That night, I pretended I didn’t know she was dead. I pretended I thought she was napping in her PTA outfit. When I walked over to her, I didn’t shake her, didn’t scream. I put my shaking hand to her face. She was so still. I whispered, “Paula and Lanier are pulling in to take us to dinner.” I cleared my throat and leaned down to kiss her. “Fair winds and following seas, Mom.” My voice caught in my throat. I walked out onto the porch. I felt preternaturally calm, but my face must have been stricken because Paula ran out of the car, past me. I didn’t follow her. I sat on the steps, and Lanier sat beside me. I left my mother so that I could have that last peaceful moment, so I could remember her flawless face with her slender nose and perfect contouring. I let Paula be the one to call 911 so that my last moments with my mother as I knew her were quiet and calm. If I had stayed even a millisecond longer, I would have had to acknowledge that she wasn’t napping. That that


not move a step to his right lest this crush- ing blade split him open. He dared not step left for a large rattlesnake was stretched full length with his head in the Their Eyes Were Watching God 193 wind. There was a strip of water between the island and the fill, and the man clung to the tree and cried for help. “De snake won’t bite yuh,” Tea Cake yelled to him. “He skeered tuh go intuh uh coil. Skeered he’ll be blowed away. Step round dat side and swim off!” Soon after that Tea Cake felt he couldn’t walk anymore. Not right away. So he stretched long side of the road to rest. Janie spread herself between him and the wind and he closed his eyes and let the tiredness seep out of his limbs. On each side of the fill was a great expanse of water like lakes—water full of things living and dead. Things that didn’t belong in water. As far as the eye could reach, water and wind playing upon it in fury. A large piece of tar-paper roofing sailed through the air and scudded along the fill until it hung against a tree. Janie saw it with joy. That was the very thing to cover Tea Cake with. She could lean against it and hold it down. The wind wasn’t quite so bad as it was anyway. The very thing. Poor Tea Cake! She crept on hands and knees to the piece of roofing and caught hold of it by either side. Immediately the wind lifted both of them and she saw herself sailing off the fill to the right, out and out over the lashing water. She screamed terribly and released the roofing which sailed away as she plunged down- ward into the water. “Tea Cake!” He heard her and sprang up. Janie was try- ing to swim but fighting water too hard. He saw a cow swimming slowly towards the fill in an oblique line. A mas- sive built dog was sitting on her shoulders and shivering and 194 Zora Neale Hurston growling. The cow was approaching Janie. A few strokes would bring her there. “Make it tuh de cow and grab hold of her tail! Don’t use yo’ feet. Jus’ yo’ hands is enough. Dat’s right, come on!” Janie achieved the tail of the cow and lifted her head up along the cow’s rump, as far as she could above water. The cow sunk a little with the added load and thrashed a moment in terror. Thought she was being pulled down by a gator. Then she continued on. The dog stood up and growled like a lion, stiff-standing hackles, stiff muscles, teeth uncovered as he lashed up his fury for the charge. Tea Cake split the water like an otter, opening his knife as he dived. The dog raced down the back-bone of the cow to the attack and Janie screamed and slipped far back on the tail of the cow, just out of reach of the dog’s angry jaws. He wanted


(adj, n) carrier, apostle, errand motherliness, parenthood, gloom, melancholic; (adj) depressed, metallic: (adj) metal, harsh, metalline, relationship, pregnancy, gestation, dejected, dismal, gloomy, doleful; metallics, hard, basic, actual, maternities, parentage, origin, (n, v) low spirits; (n) gloominess, absolute, certain, chalybeate, clearly maternal quality, fatherliness depression. ANTONYMS: (n) expressed. ANTONYM: (adj) soft matron: (n) lady, head nurse, dame, happiness, cheerfulness, metaphors: (n) images, descriptions housewife, dowager, woman, wife, hopefulness, optimism; (adj) happy, meteor: (n) shooting star, aerolite, Donna Belle, matriarch, married bright, cheery, satisfied fireball, falling star, bolide, woman; (v) matronhood. melt: (v) dissolve, deliquesce, vanish, meteorite, meteoroid, effluvium, ANTONYM: (n) patron coalesce, relent, meld, fade, defrost; emanation, evaporation, exhalation matronly: (adj) grave, womanly, (adj, v) run, liquefy; (n, v) thaw. meteoric: (adj) meteorological, brief, ladylike, wifely, sedate, matronlike, ANTONYMS: (v) freeze, solidify, flashing, momentary, swift, maidenly, anile, female cool, set transient, sudden; (v) blazing, in a maturer: (adj) overripe, ripe, ripened memoir: (n) discourse, blaze, ablaze, phosphorescent. maze: (n) tangle, snarl, web, jungle, autobiography, journal, record, ANTONYM: (adj) slow muddle, confusion, complication; story, disquisition, account, methinks: (adv) meseems (v) eel; (adj) delicacy, knot, memory, sermon, pandect, narrative metropolis: (n) city, capital, town, awkwardness memorials: (n) memoir municipality, buffalo, meshed, meagre: (adj) exiguous, paltry, mercenary: (adj, n) hireling; (adj, v) borough, burgh, independence, hull, necessitous, miserable, marginal, sordid; (adj) mercantile, bale meagerly, gaunt, emaciated, materialistic, covetous, commercial, midst: (adj, n) middle; (adv) mid, inadequate, deficient, beggarly. greedy, venal, avaricious, selfish; (v) between; (prep) among, amid; (n) ANTONYM: (adj) ample illiberal. ANTONYMS: (adj) core, center, thick, interior, heart, mechanically: (adv) mechanistically, altruistic, philanthropic waist instinctively, routinely, merchandise: (v) market, deal; (n) mien: (n, v) deportment, carriage, involuntarily, industrially, freight, cargo, product, commodity, bearing, demeanor; (n) look, 304 The Scarlet Letter countenance, appearance, guise, smallness, attention to detail, misfortunes: (n) misfortune manner, aspect, air petiteness, tininess, weeness misgivings: (n) anxiety, doubt, mightily: (adv) powerfully, miraculous: (adj) marvelous, misgiving, apprehension, fear, vigorously, strongly, greatly, astonishing, marvellous, wonderful, suspicion, doubts, concern, potently, fiercely, sturdily, violently, astounding, remarkable, magical, consternation, disbelief, foreboding. robustly, puissantly, vastly. incredible, wonder, stupendous, ANTONYM: (n) equanimity ANTONYMS: (adv) weakly, slightly phenomenal. ANTONYMS: (adj) mishap: (n) adversity, misfortune, mildewed: (v) moldy, rusty, seedy, normal, mundane, unremarkable casualty, mischance, misery, spotted, decayed; (adj, v) fusty; (adj) mirth: (adj, n) merriment, jollity; (n) calamity, misadventure, disaster, ill, trite amusement, happiness, delight, joy, bad luck, catastrophe millionfold: (adv) a million times hilarity, cheerfulness, festivity, misplaced: (v) misjoined, mimic: (adj, v) mock; (v) imitate, gladness, exhilaration. mismatched; (adj) mislaid, inept, mime, copy, impersonate, parody, ANTONYMS: (n) gloom, sadness, inappropriate, disordered, gone emulate; (n, v) counterfeit; (n) misery astray, lost temporarily, misguided, imitator, mimicker, ape mirthful: (adj) gay, jolly, merry, missing, not there. ANTONYM: minded: (prep) inclined; (adj, prep) festive, gleeful, glad, blithe, (adj) found disposed; (adj) willing, apt, ready, amusing, jocund, laughable, comical misrule: (n) chaos, disorder, anarchy, prone, orientated, favorable, misanthropy: (n) hatred, hate, riot, maladministration, disturbance, oriented, prepared, partial incivism confusion, misfeasance, mindful: (adj) aware, attentive, misbegotten: (adj, prep) misbegot; misdirection, government; (v) dead careful, observant, conscious, (adj) illegitimate, spurious, letter heedful, considerate, cautious, bastardly, deformed, fake,


he had to go anywhere beyond the estate boundaries. There was always so much to plan: horses to rest, carriages to maintain, inns to secure. He would do away with all of it if he could. Still, it was part of his role as baron, and he was not about to shirk his duty after his father had always done it so well. There were few things Simon did well, but he hoped filling his father’s shoes in this regard was one of them. He was never so glad to be on the road than when he knew he was on his way back home. This time, he had opted to ride his horse rather than take the carriage, which would follow him with his valet, as riding on his own would bring him back half a day early. He had already been delayed by a massive rainstorm, so he was eager to keep the rest of the journey as short as possible. Calloway Park came into sight none too soon, and Simon’s horse, Hermes, seemed as eager to finish the ride as he was, picking up his pace and seeming to fly down the road. Both man and beast were breathing hard when they came to a halt outside the stables, and Simon rubbed the steed’s sweaty neck in appreciation. It had been a while since they’d had a good bruising ride like that, and they had probably both needed it. Hermes spent far too much time being walked by the stablehands while his master was away on business. Just as Simon was slipping from the saddle, the estate’s head of stables, Jed, stepped out and called, “Master Simon! We didn’t expect you until tomorrow.” Taking hold of Hermes’s reins, he gave Simon an examining look and smiled. Jed was barely thirty, only a year older than Simon, but he had taken to guessing Simon’s mood simply by looking at him, and more often than not, he was right. The two had developed a friendship since the Calloways had taken the stablemaster on. “Eager to be back, I see,” Jed said, rubbing the horse’s neck as Simon pulled out his few belongings he had brought with him in the saddlebag. “More than ever.” Simon threw his bag over one shoulder and took a good long look at Calloway Park. He had always loved this house and the wild grounds around it, and the sight of it never grew tiresome. There was something special about the place, no doubt about it, and he felt like he could breathe again for the first time in weeks. “William has come from London,” Jed said, and Simon could have hugged the man. As much as he loved his family, he did not much like surprises. At least, not ones that concerned him. It was hard enough to keep up with the estate and all the business ventures his father had begun without his family doing anything unexpected. Jed’s ability to decipher Simon’s mood wasn’t a particularly useful skill for a stablehand, but it certainly made


and that I wasn’t potty-trained until I was three.” “But?” “Oh, I’ll show you ‘but,’ ” he muttered, slipping his hand into his pocket and taking out the apartment keys. He unlocked the door with an angry curse word, then stomped toward the dining room table, where he extended an arm and pointed at a yellow manila envelope. “Look at it,” he said. The manila envelope had been ripped open, but she handled it carefully, sliding its contents onto the table: it was full of feathers, as if someone had plucked a chicken. There were also seven long nails, old with rust, and a long piece of thread, knotted seven times. She contemplated this strange assortment of objects with a raised eyebrow, then looked again at the envelope, searching for a sender. There wasn’t one, but the recipient’s address and name scribbled with a black marker did not belong to Tristán. She raised her head quickly. “You stole Abel’s mail?” “I didn’t steal Abel’s mail. The postman keeps leaving it in my mailbox, and I was distracted today so I opened it before I paid attention to the name. And look what I found! I saw my dead girlfriend and now he’s getting a fucking witch’s kit in the mail.” “We don’t know what that is.” “You go to the Mercado de Sonora and shop around blindfolded or what? That looks like witchcraft!” Montserrat had not, in fact, paid too much attention to the wares sold at the market, but what she had seen were candles, powders, sprays, soaps, and incense, all packaged with silly labels that promised money, love, or fortune. She had not come across an assortment of feathers and nails like this; it didn’t look like any of the amarres Araceli might buy. “Why don’t we talk to Abel?” Montserrat asked, as she began stuffing the contents back inside the envelope. “And ask him what, if he’s signed up for the hex-a-lot club of the month?” “Don’t be a dick. We need to hand him his mail anyway.” “Great. We can hire an exorcist after that.” “Yeah, I’m sure there’re a few in the Yellow Pages.” “You think I was drunk and made this all up, don’t you?” Tristán stared at her, and Montserrat stared back until finally she let out a sigh and shook her head. “I don’t know what you saw, and maybe this funny envelope is a coincidence. But in the unlikely event that it’s not, I’m guessing you can’t afford to move to a hotel permanently, so we need to figure out what’s going on.” “Promise you don’t think I made it up.” “I don’t think you did.” “And swear you think I’m clean.” Montserrat wished she could reply with an enthusiastic yes, but all she was able to do was press her lips together and slowly nod. Tristán had been a very active addict, to put it mildly, and his behavior during the lowest days of that addiction had been erratic; there had been moments when he said he could feel bugs under his


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

Seeker had leaked out somehow, and Harry didn't know which was worse -- people telling him he'd be brilliant or people telling him they'd be running around underneath him holding a mattress. It was really lucky that Harry now had Hermione as a friend. He didn't know how he'd have gotten through all his homework without her, what with all the last-minute Quidditch practice Wood was making them do. She had also lent him Quidditch Through the Ages, which turned out to be a very interesting read. Harry learned that there were seven hundred ways of committing a Quidditch foul and that all of them had happened during a World Cup match in 1473; that Seekers were usually the smallest and fastest players, and that most serious Quidditch accidents seemed to happen to them; that although people rarely died playing Quidditch, referees had been known to vanish and turn up months later in the Sahara Desert. Hermione had become a bit more relaxed about breaking rules since Harry and Ron had saved her from the mountain troll, and she was much nicer for it. The day before Harry's first Quidditch match the three of them were out in the freezing courtyard during break, and she had conjured them up a bright blue fire that could be carried around in a jam jar. They were standing with their backs to it, getting warm, when Snape crossed the yard. Harry noticed at once that Snape was limping. Harry, Ron, and Hermione moved closer together to block the fire from view; they were sure it wouldn't be allowed. Unfortunately, something about their guilty faces caught Snape's eye. He limped over. He hadn't seen the fire, but he seemed to be looking for a reason to tell them off anyway. "What's that you've got there, Potter?" It was Quidditch Through the Ages. Harry showed him. "Library books are not to be taken outside the school," said Snape. "Give it to me. Five points from Gryffindor." "He's just made that rule up," Harry muttered angrily as Snape limped away. "Wonder what's wrong with his leg?" "Dunno, but I hope it's really hurting him," said Ron bitterly. *** The Gryffindor common room was very noisy that evening. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat together next to a window. Hermione was checking Harry and Ron's Charms homework for them. She would never let them copy ("How will you learn?"), but by asking her to read it through, they got the right answers anyway. Harry felt restless. He wanted Quidditch Through the Ages back, to take his mind off his nerves about tomorrow. Why should he be afraid of Snape? Getting up, he told Ron and Hermione he was going to ask Snape if he could have it. "Better you than me," they said together, but Harry had an idea that Snape wouldn't refuse if there were other teachers listening. He made his way down to the staffroom and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again. Nothing. Perhaps Snape had left the book in there? It was worth a try.


spot. Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage; the door opened, and the wretch whom I dreaded appeared. Shutting the door, he approached me and said in a smothered voice, "You have destroyed the work which you began; what is it that you intend? Do you dare to break your promise? I have endured toil and misery; I left Switzerland with you; I crept along the shores of the Rhine, among its willow islands and over the summits of its hills. I have dwelt many months in the heaths of England and among the deserts of Scotland. I have endured incalculable fatigue, and cold, and hunger; do you dare destroy my hopes?" "Begone! I do break my promise; never will I create another like yourself, equal in deformity and wickedness." "Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved yourself unworthy of my condescension. Remember that I have power; you believe yourself miserable, but I can make you so wretched that the light of day will be hateful to you. You are my creator, but I am your master; obey!" "The hour of my irresolution is past, and the period of your power is arrived. Your threats cannot move me to do an act of wickedness; but they confirm me in a determination of not creating you a companion in vice. Shall I, in cool blood, set loose upon the earth a daemon whose delight is in death and wretchedness? Begone! I am firm, and your words will only exasperate my rage." The monster saw my determination in my face and gnashed his teeth in the impotence of anger. "Shall each man," cried he, "find a wife for his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone? I had feelings of affection, and they were requited by detestation and scorn. Man! You may hate, but beware! Your hours will pass in dread and misery, and soon the bolt will fall which must ravish from you your happiness forever. Are you to be happy while I grovel in the intensity of my wretchedness? You can blast my other passions, but revenge remains -- revenge, henceforth dearer than light or food! I may die, but first you, my tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on your misery. Beware, for I am fearless and therefore powerful. I will watch with the wiliness of a snake, that I may sting with its venom. Man, you shall repent of the injuries you inflict." "Devil, cease; and do not poison the air with these sounds of malice. I have declared my resolution to you, and I am no coward to bend beneath words. Leave me; I am inexorable." "It is well. I go; but remember, I shall be with you on your wedding-night." I started forward and exclaimed, "Villain! Before you sign my death-warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe." I would have seized him, but he eluded me and quitted the housew ith precipitation. In a few moments I saw him in his boat, which shot


sailors, who demanded admission into the cabin. They entered, and their leader addressed me. He told me that he and his companions had been chosen by the other sailors to come in deputation to me to make me a requisition which, in justice, I could not refuse. We were immured in ice and should probably never escape, but they feared that if, as was possible, the ice should dissipate and a free passage be opened, I should be rash enough to continue my voyage and lead them into fresh dangers, after they might happily have surmounted this. They insisted, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn promise that if the vessel should be freed I would instantly direct my course southwards. This speech troubled me. I had not despaired, nor had I yet conceived the idea of returning if set free. Yet could I, in justice, or even in possibility, refuse this demand? I hesitated before I answered, when Frankenstein, who had at first been silent, and indeed appeared hardly to have force enough to attend, now roused himself; his eyes sparkled, and his cheeks flushed with momentary vigour. Turning towards the men, he said, "What do you mean? What do you demand of your captain? Are you, then, so easily turned from your design? Did you not call this a glorious expedition? "And wherefore was it glorious? Not because the way was smooth and placid as a southern sea, but because it was full of dangers and terror, because at every new incident your fortitude was to be called forth and your courage exhibited, because danger and death surrounded it, and these you were to brave and overcome. For this was it a glorious, for this was it an honourable undertaking. You were hereafter to be hailed as the benefactors of your species, your names adored as belonging to brave men who encountered death for honour and the benefit of mankind. And now, behold, with the first imagination of danger, or, if you will, the first mighty and terrific trial of your courage, you shrink away and are content to be handed down as men who had not strength enough to endure cold and peril; and so, poor souls, they were chilly and returned to their warm - firesides. Why, that requires not this preparation; ye need not have come thus far and dragged your captain to the shame of a defeat merely to prove yourselves cowards. Oh! Be men, or be more than men. Be steady to your purposes and firm as a rock. This ice is not made of such stuff as your hearts may be; it is mutable and cannot withstand you if you say that it shall not. Do not return to your families with the stigma of disgrace marked on your brows. Return as heroes who have fought and conquered and who know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe." He spoke this with a voice so modulated to the different feelings expressed in his speech, with an eye so full


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85.

i NAMIBIA, CROSSING the northern desert in search of desert rhinos, I met

an amiable doctor who was tracking desert lions. They were heavily

persecuted in that part of Namibia, because they often encroached on

farmland. The doctor was darting some, to study their health and

movements. He took our number, told us he’d call if he found one.

That night we made camp by a dry stream. Everyone else was in tents, in

trucks, but I unrolled my mat by the fire and covered myself with a thin

blanket.

Everyone on my team thought I was joking. This area is full of lions,

boss.

I told them I’d be fine. Done it a million times.

Around midnight the radio buzzed. The doctor. He was four kilometers

away and he’d just darted two lions.

We jumped into the Land Cruiser, raced down the track. Namibian

soldiers assigned to us by the government insisted on coming as well. As did

local police in the area. Despite the pitch-dark, we found the doctor easily.

He was standing beside two enormous lions. Both were lying on their

bellies, heads resting heavily on their giant paws. He aimed his torch. We

could see the lions’ chests rising and falling. Quiet breathing.

I knelt beside the female, touched her skin, looked at her half-closed

amber eyes. I can’t explain it, and I can’t defend it...but I felt that I knew

her.

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

As I stood, one of the Namibian soldiers brushed past me, crouched

beside the other lion. A big male. The soldier held up his AK-47, asked one

of his buddies to get a photo. As if he’d made a kill.

I was about to say something, but Billy the Rock beat me to it. He told

the Namibian soldier to get the fuck away from the lions.

Sullen, the soldier slunk away.

I turned now to say something to the doctor. There was a flash. I turned

again,


the child. Then he took it away to bury in the Evil Forest, holding it by the ankle and dragging it on the ground behind him. After such treatment it would think twice before coming again, unless it was one of the stubborn ones who returned, carrying the stamp of their mutilation--a missing finger or perhaps a dark line where the medicine man's razor had cut them. By the time Onwumbiko died Ekwefi had become a very bitter woman. Her husband's first wife had already had three sons, all strong and healthy. When she had borne her third son in succession, Okonkwo had slaughtered a goat for her, as was the custom. Ekwefi had nothing but good wishes for her. But she had grown so bitter about her own chi that she could not rejoice with others over their good fortune. And so, on the day that Nwoye's mother celebrated the birth of her three sons with feasting and music, Ekwefi was the only person in the happy company who went about with a cloud on her brow. Her husband's wife took this for malevolence, as husbands' wives were wont to. How could she know that Ekwefi's bitterness did not flow outwards to others but inwards into her own soul,- that she did not blame others for their good fortune but her own evil chi who denied her any? At last Ezinma was born, and although ailing she seemed determined to live. At first Ekwefi accepted her, as she had accepted others--with listless resignation. But when she lived on to her fourth, fifth and sixth years, love returned once more to her mother, and, with love, anxiety. She determined to nurse her child to health, and she put all her being into it. She was rewarded by occasional spells of health during which Ezinma bubbled with energy like fresh palm-wine. At such times she seemed beyond danger. But all of a sudden she would go down again. Everybody knew she was an ogbanje. These sudden bouts of sickness and health were typical of her kind. But she had lived so long that perhaps she had decided to stay. Some of them did become tired of their evil rounds of birth and death, or took pity on their mothers, and stayed. Ekwefi believed deep inside her that Ezinma had come to stay. She believed because it was that faith alone that gave her own life any kind of meaning. And this faith had been strengthened when a year or so ago a medicine man had dug up Ezinma's iyi-uwa. Everyone knew then that she would live because her bond with the world of ogbanje had been broken. Ekwefi was reassured. But such was her anxiety for her daughter that she could not rid herself completely of her fear. And although she believed that the iyi-uwa which had been dug up was genuine, she could not ignore the fact that some really evil children sometimes misled people into digging up a specious one. But Ezinma's iyi-uwa had looked real enough. It was a smooth


her eyes that I had never seen there before. My lips moved towards hers. We kissed each other. I can't describe to you what I felt at that moment. It seemed to me that all my life had been narrowed to one perfect point of rose-colored joy. She trembled all over, and shook like a white narcissus. Then she flung herself on her knees and kissed my hands. I feel that I should not tell you all this, but I can't help it. Of course our engagement is a dead secret. She has not even told her own mother. I don't know what my guardians will say. Lord Radley is sure to be furious. I don't care. I shall be of age in less than a year, and then I can do what I like. I have been right, Basil, haven't I, to take my love out of poetry, and to find my wife in Shakespeare's plays? Lips that Shakespeare taught to speak have whispered their secret in my ear. I have had the arms of Rosalind around me, and kissed Juliet on the mouth." "Yes, Dorian, I suppose you were right," said Hallward, slowly. "Have you seen her to-day?" asked Lord Henry. Dorian Gray shook his head. "I left her in the forest of Arden, I shall find her in an orchard in Verona." Lord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner. "At what particular point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian? and what did she say in answer? Perhaps you forgot all about it." "My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a business transaction, and I did not make any formal proposal. I told her that I loved her, and she said she was not worthy to be my wife. Not worthy! Why, the whole world is nothing to me compared to her." "Women are wonderfully practical," murmured Lord Henry,--"much more practical than we are. In situations of that kind we often forget to say anything about marriage, and they always remind us." [35] Hallward laid his hand upon his arm. "Don't, Harry. You have annoyed Dorian. He is not like other men. He would never bring misery upon any one. His nature is too fine for that." Lord Henry looked across the table. "Dorian is never annoyed with me," he answered. "I asked the question for the best reason possible, for the only reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking any question,--simple curiosity. I have a theory that it is always the women who propose to us, and not we who propose to the women, except, of course, in middle-class life. But then the middle classes are not modern." Dorian Gray laughed, and tossed his head. "You are quite incorrigible, Harry; but I don't mind. It is impossible to be angry with you. When you see Sibyl Vane you will feel that the man who could wrong her would be a beast without a heart. I cannot understand how any one can wish to shame what he loves. I love Sibyl Vane. I wish to


The wall. The wall defied the imagination - seduced it and defeated it. The wall was so paralysingly vast and sheer that its top, bottom and sides passed away beyond the reach of sight. The mere shock of vertigo could kill a man. The wall appeared perfectly flat. It would take the finest laser measuring equipment to detect that as it climbed, apparently to infinity, as it dropped dizzily away, as it planed out to either side, it also curved. It met itself again thirteen light seconds away. In other words the wall formed the inside of a hollow sphere, a sphere over three million miles across and flooded with unimaginable light. "Welcome," said Slartibartfast as the tiny speck that was the aircar, travelling now at three times the speed of sound, crept imperceptibly forward into the mindboggling space, "welcome," he said, "to our factory floor." Arthur stared about him in a kind of wonderful horror. Ranged away before them, at distances he could neither judge nor even guess at, were a series of curious suspensions, delicate traceries of metal and light hung about shadowy spherical shapes that hung in the space. "This," said Slartibartfast, "is where we make most of our planets you see." "You mean," said Arthur, trying to form the words, "you mean you're starting it all up again now?" "No no, good heavens no," exclaimed the old man, "no, the Galaxy isn't nearly rich enough to support us yet. No, we've been awakened to perform just one extraordinary commission for very ... special clients from another dimension. It may interest you ... there in the distance in front of us." Arthur followed the old man's finger, till he was able to pick out the floating structure he was pointing out. It was indeed the only one of the many structures that betrayed any sign of activity about it, though this was more a sublimal impression than anything one could put one's finger on. At the moment however a flash of light arced through the structure and revealed in stark relief the patterns that were formed on the dark sphere within. Patterns that Arthur knew, rough blobby shapes that were as familiar to him as the shapes of words, part of the furniture of his mind. For a few seconds he sat in stunned silence as the images rushed around his mind and tried to find somewhere to settle down and make sense. Part of his brain told him that he knew perfectly well what he was looking at and what the shapes represented whilst another quite sensibly refused to countenance the idea and abdicated responsibility for any further thinking in that direction. The flash came again, and this time there could be no doubt. "The Earth ..." whispered Arthur. "Well, the Earth Mark Two in fact," said Slartibartfast cheerfully. "We're making a copy from our original blueprints." There was a pause. "Are you trying to tell me," said Arthur, slowly and with control, "that you originally ... made the Earth?" "Oh yes," said Slartibartfast. "Did you ever go


months ago. So why did I feel as if I were falling, tumbling through empty air, with nowhere to land? I heard her say that there was a new growth, larger than the one before, in her abdomen. There was another tumor in her spine, and “spots” in her liver and lungs that were likely new lesions. She didn’t say the words terminal or stage 4. She didn’t have to. Still, my mind struggled against the truth. “What does this mean?” I asked, almost pleading. “I’m sorry, but can you tell me what this means?” She said, “I think it means I’m going to die,” and then she began to cry. A memory came to me: I was a child, eight or nine, lying awake in my room while a babysitter watched television in our living room. I wasn’t in my bed, but curled up in a roll of blankets on the carpet, because at that age I would often lie on the floor when I was too anxious to sleep; there was something about that firmness and resistance, the feeling of all my limbs, my entire small frame, pressing into solid ground, that made me feel safer. No matter how late the hour, I could never fall asleep until my parents got home. What if they lost control of their car in the rain? I used to wonder, on those sleepless nights when I waited to hear their car in the driveway, their voices in the hall. What if they’re lying in a ditch right now? What will I do without them? Who will take care of me? Neither of us expected fairness in life, especially after Dad’s death. But this—this was merciless. Sitting on the woven rug in my bedroom, warm phone pressed to my ear, I heard myself say a word I had never before said in my mother’s presence through sobs that made it hard to breathe. Had I just made her tell me that she was dying? I shouldn’t have asked. I shouldn’t have made her say the words. I hadn’t known it was possible to feel so frantic and so utterly empty, panic clanging in a hollow bell. I tried to think of something, anything to say that might be a comfort—I heard myself making pointless promises, saying that she should call me anytime she wanted; that Dan and I would help; that we loved her and would do whatever we could. I won’t be useless to you the way I was to Dad, I thought. After she had hung up, I huddled on the floor, pressing my palm to the ache that had bloomed deep in my chest. That was where Dan found me a few moments later. From the anguished look on his face, I could tell that he knew what my mother had told me—our house isn’t large, and wails travel easily through the vents. I didn’t ask him if our kids had heard me crying. I didn’t ask if they were worried. The only child I could think about was me. He


. . . fuck, did I fight. I got into some god-awful brawls. I was expelled from a couple of schools. But it was a way to let off steam. To 481/551 tolerate some kind of physical contact.” He stops again. “Well, you get the idea. And when she kissed me, she only grabbed my face. She didn’t touch me.” His voice is barely audible. She must have known. Perhaps Grace had told her. Oh, my poor Fifty. I have to fold my hands beneath my pillow and rest my head on it in order to resist the urge to hold him. “Well, the next day I went back to the house, not knowing what to expect. And I’ll spare you the gory details, but there was more of the same. And that’s how our relationship started.” Oh, fuck, this is painful to hear. He shifts again onto his side so he’s facing me. “And you know something, Ana? My world came into focus. Sharp and clear. Everything. It was exactly what I needed. She was a breath of fresh air. Making the decisions, taking all that shit away from me, letting me breathe.” Holy shit. “And even when it was over, my world stayed in focus because of her. And it stayed that way until I met you.” What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Tentatively, he smoothes a stray lock of my hair behind my ear. “You turned my world on its head.” He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, they are raw. “My world was ordered, calm and controlled, then you came into my life with your smart mouth, your innocence, your beauty, and your quiet temerity . . . and everything before you was just dull, empty, mediocre . . . it was nothing.” Oh, my. “I fell in love,” he whispers. I stop breathing. He caresses my cheek. “So did I,” I murmur with the little breath I have left. His eyes soften. “I know,” he mouths. “You do?” “Yes.” Hallelujah! I smile shyly at him. “Finally,” I whisper. He nods. “And it’s put everything into perspective for me. When I was younger, Elena was the center of my world. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for 482/551 her. And she did a lot for me. She stopped my drinking. Made me work hard at school . . . You know, she gave me a coping mechanism I hadn’t had before, al- lowed me to experience things that I never thought I could.” “Touch,” I whisper. He nods. “After a fashion.” I frown, wondering what he means. He hesitates at my reaction. Tell me! I will him. “If you grow up with a wholly negative self-image, thinking you’re some kind of reject, an unlovable savage, you think you deserve to be beaten.” Christian . . . you are none of those things. He pauses and runs his hand through his hair. “Ana, it’s much easier to wear your pain on the outside . . .” Again, it’s a confession. Oh. “She


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

nearly as universal as their caprice. I selected a little porcelain box which held an assortment of Turkish delights. Tastes vary greatly among the Folk, but I know of only one recorded instance of an offering of sweets going awry. I set the box upon the ledge; for good measure, I placed atop it one of my few jewels, a diamond from a necklace I inherited upon my grandmother’s death. Such gifts I reserve only for very special cases—some of the common fae covet jewels; others don’t know what to do with them. I began to murmur a song. They are the night and the day, They are the wind and the leaf, They lay the snow upon the rooftop and the frost upon the landing. They gather up their footprints and carry them on their backs. What gift is greater than their friendship? What blade cuts deeper than their enmity? My translation is clumsy; I’ve no ear for poetry. I sang it in the tongue in which it was composed, that of the Folk, which prosaic scholars simply call Faie. It is a rolling, roundabout speech that takes twice as long to say half as much in English, with many contrary rules, but there is no lovelier language spoken by mortals anywhere in the world. By some curious quirk—one which has caused much consternation among those adherents to the Hundred Islands Theory[*]—the Folk speak the same language in every country and region where they are known, and though the accents and idioms differ, their dialects are never so variable as to hinder understanding. I ran through the song twice, which I had learned from a hobgoblin in Somerset, then let my voice fade into the wind. I had performed the necessary introductions, so I put my shoes on and departed. SKIP NOTES * The theory that each faerie realm exists on an entirely separate physical plane. Folk might travel from one realm to another on rare occasions, but otherwise scholars argue that the realms have historically had little to do with one another. I myself see this as narrow-minded nonsense, yet the theory remains popular among the older generation of dryadologists, those who tend to sit as department heads and write the most heavily referenced textbooks, and thus it will likely be with us for some time. 21st October—evening Shadow and I left the Karrðarskogur behind and headed into the fells. A rough road wound its way up into the mountains north of the village, which I followed until it petered out—likely it was only a track used by sheep farmers. I carried on, though the ground was boggy in places from the melting snow. Eventually my determination was rewarded as I crested the summit of one of the lower mountains. Beyond, my view was largely obstructed by another, much higher range of mountains, a great convocation of them jutting messily from the green earth brandishing their glacial raiments. Ljosland is a labyrinth of mountains, you’ll understand, as well as fjords and glaciers and every other sharp-edged formation most hostile to


“Always remember your place in the world. If you follow these rules, you will establish yourself as a true and proper human being.” She closes her eyes. She’s hurting too. Only she’s too much of a lady to speak of it. A squeal from my little brother interrupts our shared moment. Yifeng runs across the courtyard. His mother, Miss Zhao—free of her performing duties—glides behind him. Her feet are also bound, and her steps are so small they give the impression she’s floating like… “Like a ghost,” my mother whispers as though she’s read my thoughts. Yifeng flings himself at my mother, buries his face in her lap, and giggles. Miss Zhao may be his mother by birth, but Respectful Lady not only is his ritual mother but has formally adopted him as her son. This means Yifeng will make offerings and perform all the rites and ceremonies after my mother and our father become ancestors in the Afterworld. My mother pulls Yifeng onto her lap, brushing the bottoms of his shoes so the soles leave no dirt or dust on her silk gown. “That is all, Miss Zhao.” “Respectful Lady.” The concubine gives a polite nod and then quietly slips out of the courtyard. My mother turns to the afternoon’s teaching session, which Yifeng and I share. We will spend each day learning together until he reaches his seventh year, when the Book of Rites orders that boys and girls should not sit on the same mat or eat at the same table. At that time, Yifeng will leave our company and move to the library to spend his hours with private tutors in preparation to take the imperial exams. “Harmony should be maintained in a household, but everyone knows how hard this is,” Respectful Lady begins. “After all, the written character for trouble is composed of the character for roof with the characters for two women under it, while the character of one woman under a roof means…” “Peace,” I answer. “Good. A pig under a roof means…” “Prison.” “There is no written character with a man under a roof. Whether animal or woman, we are a man’s possessions. We women exist to give him heirs and feed, clothe, and amuse him. Never forget that.” While my brother recites simple poems, I work on my embroidery. I hope I’m successful at hiding my disappointment. I know Miss Zhao wasn’t the only one entertaining my father and his friends. Yifeng was also being shown off. Now, when he forgets a line, Respectful Lady glances at me to complete it for him. In this way, I’m learning what he’s learning too. I’m older, so I’m much better at memorizing. I’m even good at using words and images from poems in my thoughts and when I talk. Today, though, I stumble on a line. Respectful Lady purses her lips. “You will not take the imperial exams or become a scholar like your brother,” she points out, “but one day you will be the mother of sons. To help them in their future studies,


you bathed? You ought to have waited for me.' 'It's wonderful,' said Bond, deciding to relieve her mind, though irritated with her obvious guilt over this childish mystery. 'You must go in and we'll have breakfast on the terrace. I'm ravenous. I'm sorry I made you jump. I was just startled to see anyone about at this hour of the morning.' He put his arm round her, but she disengaged herself, and moved quickly on up the stairs. 'It was such a surprise to see you,' she said, trying to cover the incident up with a light touch. 'You looked like a ghost, a drowned man, with the hair down over your eyes like that.' She laughed harshly. Hearing the harshness, she turned the laugh into a cough. 'I hope I haven't caught cold,' she said. She kept on patching up the edifice of her deceit until Bond wanted to spank her and tell her to relax and tell the truth. Instead he just gave her a reassuring pat on the back outside her room and told her to hurry up and have her bathe. Then he went on to his room. * That was the end of the integrity of their love. The succeeding days were a shambles of falseness and hypocrisy, mingled with her tears and moments of animal passion to which she abandoned herself with a greed made indecent by the hollowness of their days. Several times Bond tried to break down the dreadful walls of mistrust. Again and again he brought up the subject of the telephone call, but she obstinately bolstered up her story with embellishments which Bond knew she had thought out afterwards. She even accused Bond of thinking she had another lover. These scenes always ended in her bitter tears and in moments almost of hysteria. Each day the atmosphere became more hateful. It seemed fantastic to Bond that human relationships could collapse into dust overnight and he searched his mind again and again for a reason. He felt that Vesper was just as horrified as he was and, if anything, her misery seemed greater than his. But the mystery of the telephone conversation which Vesper angrily, almost fearfully it seemed to Bond, refused to explain was a shadow which grew darker with other small mysteries and reticences. Already at luncheon on that day things got worse. After a breakfast which was an effort for both of them, Vesper said she had a headache and would stay in her room out of the sun. Bond took a book and walked for miles down the beach. By the time he returned he had argued to himself that they would be able to sort the problem out over lunch. Directly they sat down, he apologized gaily for having startled her at the telephone booth and then he dismissed the subject and went on to describe what he had seen on his walk. But Vesper was distrait and commented only in monosyllables. She toyed with her food and she avoided Bond's eyes and gazed past him with an


and brush, exposed roots, alligator nests, and duckweed between the tall, ghostly cypress. Clive complained, “We’ve been over this. Like, what? Five times.” “Take another look,” Bentz encouraged, his frustration mounting. “You know where we are, right, where we’re parked?” “Sure.” Bobby-Dean was nodding, adjusting his cap. He pointed one finger at the screen. “That’s Old Man Ross’s cabin. I recognize his boat.” Clive grunted his agreement. “Yep. And there”—he nodded at the screen—“that’s Dot Miller’s place. It’s just half a mile off Junebug Lane, right by Sugar Corners.” He’d heard that much before. “And what about this?” Bentz asked, feeling a spike in his adrenaline. “Is this—Cyrus Unger’s bait shop?” Scratching his cheek, Clive squinted. “Sure is.” “Uh-huh.” Bobby was nodding. “Yep.” “And what’s that?” Bentz asked, pointing to a cluster of trees at a bend in the water. Nearly covered by brush, it rose like a hill that shouldn’t be in the flat area around the swamp. “Oh—that?” Clive scowled. “Don’t rightly know,” Bobby-Dean said, and slapped at a mosquito that was buzzing near his face. “What you think, Clive?” “Humph.” Clive’s lips curved down as he shook his head. “Not sure. Ain’t no hills out here. Nuh-uh. But maybe an old barn fallen down. Somethin’ like that.” “It’s falling down all right,” Bobby agreed, studying the screen. “Something pretty big. But doesn’t look like a barn. No barn I ever seen. I don’t know.” But he was thinking, his face pulled together and creased, a hand scratching beard stubble. “Can we get a closer look somehow?” “Sure.” Bentz zoomed in, focusing on the mound of the obviously overgrown rubble and wondering why they hadn’t seen the hillock of overgrown, mossy timbers or whatever before. It had been hidden mostly by the canopy of trees. “Oh, I know,” Bobby said, and snapped his fingers as the light dawned in his mind. “Didn’t recognize it from here up top.” He glanced at Clive. “Ain’t that the ruins of the old monastery?” “The what?” Clive stared at the screen. “What’re you talkin’ about?” “A monastery?” Bentz repeated, and felt a little sizzle of adrenaline at the thought of anything Catholic and religious being here. “There’s a monastery here?” “Nothin’ ever came of it.” Bobby looked at his friend. “Don’t you remember? There was talk of it when we was kids. The old folks laughed about it. Some rich guy donated some land to the church, years ago—maybe a hundred, like around the turn of last century or so. But the deal was, the guy would only give the church the property if they agreed to build a monastery on it.” Clive thought hard, but was nodding. “You’re right.” He leaned in closer to the screen. “The way I heard it was the rich old dude, the guy who owned that piece of property, he had a kid who was a priest or somethin’.” “Right. That’s the way I heard it,” Bobby-Dean said. “The upshot was that the deal was struck, and the church tried like hell to build a big ol’ monastery,


taking us home. I thought if I ran away, they wouldn’t do it.” “But you went to Mr. Crews’s place instead.” “I got freaked out. It was so dark. He was supposed to be gone.” “And you said you’d been there before?” “I already told the doctor and the other doctor,” Ella said. “I went there after camp when my mom was working. I used the internet. When he got back, he got me a Coke and, like, chips or something and we talked about stuff before he worked in his room.” “How many times did you go there?” Ella adjusted the pillow under her head. “Every day.” Maud’s chest contracted. “How long did you stay?” “I had to be back at three.” Because she knew I’d be home soon, Maud thought. Both of them knew I’d be home with Louise. “And what did you do, exactly, during that time?” the social worker asked. “I told you. We talked. Then I FaceTimed my friends.” “Where did you talk?” “On the couch.” The officer took notes. “Always on the couch? Did you ever go into any of the other rooms? How about to the bedroom?” “No. On the couch. I was on my phone while he took a shower and changed.” At the word “shower,” Maud flinched. “Where did he change?” the officer said. “In the bedroom.” “Did he shut the door?” “Yes.” “You never saw him without his clothes on?” “No.” Ella sat up. “Why are you asking me these questions?” She looked at Maud. “Did you tell them we did something?” “Ella,” Maud said, “I can’t tell them anything because I don’t know any of this. Please say what happened.” “I am,” Ella said. “Whose idea was it for you to go to Mr. Crews’s place when your mom was away?” the social worker said. “His. He said the connection from his router was better.” “And you never told your mother. Did he tell you not to tell her?” Ella tucked the blanket tighter around her waist. “He didn’t think I should. He knew she wanted me to be reading instead. He didn’t want me to get in trouble.” “When did this start?” Maud asked Ella. “I don’t know. Like, after we all went canoeing.” Three weeks. Fifteen weekdays. Fifteen times, and not one word from Gabriel. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She tried to keep the agitation out of her voice, but it pushed through and Ella raised a stubborn chin. “You wanted me to read. You’d get mad.” “Did you tell Mr. Crews about the self-harm?” the psychiatrist said. “No.” “What did you talk about?” “I don’t know. School. My friends. Sometimes my parents.” “Did you talk about boys?” “A little. Not really.” “About private things?” the police officer said. Ella’s face buckled. “Why are you making it gross?” That afternoon, she was discharged, and they drove to Montgomery Place. Ella had become upset again as they left the hospital, so the psychiatrist prescribed another sedative. In front of the cottage, Gabriel’s truck was gone. The light that Peter


means through which I was enabled to assist their labours. I found that the youth spent a great part of each day in collecting wood for the family fire, and during the night I often took his tools, the use of which I quickly discovered, and brought home firing sufficient for the consumption of several days. "I remember, the first time that I did this, the young woman, when she opened the door in the morning, appeared greatly astonished on seeing a great pile of wood on the outside. She uttered some words in a loud voice, and the youth joined her, who also expressed surprise. I observed, with pleasure, that he did not go to the forest that day, but spent it in repairing the cottage and cultivating the garden. "By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment. I found that these people possessed a method of communicating their experience and feelings to one another by articulate sounds. I perceived that the words they spoke sometimes produced pleasure or pain, smiles or sadness,in the minds and countenances of the hearers. This was indeed a godlike science, and I ardently desired to become acquainted with it. But I was baffled in every attempt I made for this purpose. Their pronunciation was quick, and the words they uttered, not having any apparent connection with visible objects, I was unable to discover any clue by which I could unravel the mystery of their reference. By great application, however, and after having remained during the space of several revolutions of the moon in my hovel, I discovered the names that were given to some of the most familiar objects of discourse; I learned and applied the words, `fire,' `milk,' `bread,' and `wood.' I learned also the names of the cottagers themselves. The youth and his companion had each of them several names, but the old man had only one, which was `father.' The girl was called `sister' or `Agatha,' and the youth `Felix,' `brother,' or `son.' I cannot describe the delight I felt when I learned the ideas appropriated to each of these sounds and was able to pronounce them. I distinguished several other words without being able as yet to understand or apply them, such as `good,' `dearest,' `unhappy.' "I spent the winter in this manner. The gentle manners and beauty of the cottagers greatly endeared them to me; when they were unhappy, I felt depressed; when they rejoiced, I sympathized in their joys. I saw few human beings besides them, and if any other happened to enter the cottage, their harsh manners and rude gait only enhanced to me the superior accomplishments of my friends. The old man, I could perceive, often endeavoured to encourage his children, as sometimes I found that he called them, to cast off their melancholy. He would talk in a cheerful accent, with an expression of goodness that bestowed pleasure even upon me. Agatha listened with respect, her eyes sometimes filled with tears, which she endeavoured to wipe away unperceived; but I generally found that her


a window display filled with lamps and cutesy tea towels around the corner, right to a window display filled with colorful buoys that have been turned into all manner of yard ornaments. I pause to let a grimy Subaru breeze through a stop sign at the next cross street, and that’s when I realize where I am. Easy Lane. The backdrop to our fight last night. Up ahead, I spot the tattoo shop on the left. My first inclination is to get away from the scene of the crime. Then I notice the glossy gold shop number over the door on my right: 125. Number 125, on Easy Lane. It takes me a second to figure out what’s so familiar about that. When I do, I backtrack and check the number of the buoy store. 127. Wrong direction. I’m looking for 123. I wait for another car to pass through the intersection, and then jog across. 123 Easy Lane. The site of my personalized surprise. On the door, a decal reads EARTHEN, along with some hours of operation, but in the glare of bright sunlight, I can’t make out much through the windows. I check the time on my phone: 9:16 a.m. If I remember correctly, the itinerary said Sabrina’s “personalized surprise” for me would start at nine. I waffle for a moment about going in, then bite the bullet and push the door open. A gust of warm air meets me. “Harriet?” a woman’s voice says. I blink as I wait out my pupillary dilation from the sudden change in light. “Yes, hi!” I turn toward the voice, wondering if she can tell I can’t see her, or anything at all, yet. “Your space is all ready in the back,” she says. “Great.” For some reason it doesn’t occur to me until a half second too late that I could tell her I have no idea why I’m here. Or where here is. My vision resolves as she leads me to the back of the shop, the floating oak shelves that line the walls coming into focus along with all the kitchenware for sale on them. Bowls, plates, cups, all in candy-colored tones that pop against the gallery-white walls. The shop’s attendant—a woman with blunt fringe, flared pants, and hoop earrings, all of which look plucked from the seventies—leads me down a hall to a room twice the size of the first one. I pull up short, no less shocked than when I walked into the cottage and saw Wyn there. “Feel free to take whichever wheel you want,” the woman says. “No one else has space booked until four.” I still haven’t managed a syllable when the bells over the shop doors ring behind us, and the seventies demigoddess says, “Let me know if you need help finding anything,” and excuses herself to greet the new customer. I stand there, computing. The back wall is all windows, looking out onto the next street. Wooden shelves, like the ones in the front of the shop, stretch from one wall to the


tears at bay. Christian is going to be so mad. “Can I get you anything before you go to bed?” she asks. I realize how hungry I am. “I’d love something to eat.” She smiles broadly. “Sandwich and some milk?” I nod with gratitude, and she heads into the kitchen. Ryan is still with Officer Skinner. In the foyer Detective Clark is examining the mess outside the elevator. He looks thoughtful, despite his scowl. And suddenly I feel homesick—homesick for Christian. Holding my head in my hands, I wish fervently that he were here. He’d know what to do. What an evening. I want to crawl into his lap, have him hold me and tell me that he loves me, even though I don’t do as I’m told—but that won’t be possible until this evening. Inwardly I roll my eyes . . . Why didn’t he 210/551 tell me about the increased security for everyone? What exactly is on Jack’s com- puter? He’s so frustrating but right now, I just don’t care. I want my husband. I miss him. “Here you are, Ana dear.” Mrs. Jones interrupts my inner turmoil. When I glance up at her, she hands me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, her eyes twink- ling. I haven’t had one of these for years. I smile shyly and dig in. When I finally crawl into bed, I curl up on Christian’s side, dressed in his T- shirt. Both his pillow and his T-shirt smell of him, and as I drift off I silently wish him safe passage home . . . and a good mood. I wake with a start. It’s light and my head is aching, throbbing at my temples. Oh no. I hope I don’t have a hangover. Cautiously, I open my eyes and notice the bedroom chair has moved, and Christian is sitting in it. He’s wearing his tux, and the end of his bowtie is peeping out of the breast pocket. I wonder if I’m dream- ing. His left arm is draped over the chair, and in his hand he holds a cut glass tum- bler of amber liquid. Brandy? Whiskey? I have no idea. One long leg is crossed at the ankle over his knee. He’s wearing black socks and dress shoes. His right el- bow rests on the arm of the chair, his hand up to his chin, and he’s slowly running his index finger rhythmically back and forth over his lower lip. In the early morn- ing light, his eyes burn with grave intensity but his general expression is com- pletely unreadable. My heart almost stops. He’s here. How did he get here? He must have left New York last night. How long has he been here watching me sleep? “Hi,” I whisper. He regards me coolly, and my heart stutters once more. Oh no. He moves his long fingers away from his mouth, tosses back the remainder of his drink, and places the glass on the bedside table. I half expect him to kiss me, but he doesn’t. He sits back,


been bleak before, but now they were downright ugly, and she was all out of places to run. Because of Eitan. Because whether Gauntlet or gate or bus to the beyond, there was always hell to pay. 4 Last Summer She would have stayed in New Haven for the summer. If not for Eitan. Alex told her mother she’d gotten a job on campus, and that was enough for Mira. She thought Los Angeles was temptation for Alex, that she’d step off a plane and fall back into her old life with her old friends. There was no chance of that, but They’re all dead, Mama wasn’t going to put Mira’s mind at ease, and the truth was that Alex didn’t want to go home. She didn’t want to sleep in her old bedroom with the sounds of the 101 like an angry ocean in the distance. She didn’t want to hear about her mother’s latest obsession—gemstone massage, aura cleansing, essential oils, an endless hunt for easy miracles. Leaving Yale felt perilous, a little too much like a fairy tale, a cruel one where once she left the enchanted castle, she’d have no way back. She thought she’d spend the summer with Dawes and Michelle Alameddine, hatching a plan to rescue Darlington. But Dawes had to nanny for her sister in Westport, and Michelle had been difficult to reach, so Alex was mostly left alone at Il Bastone. She’d wondered if the house would reject her after all the bloodshed of the previous semester, the stained glass window that would never be quite as perfect as it had been, the floor still stained with Blake Keely’s blood and now hidden by a new carpet. What if she showed up at the front door and the knob simply wouldn’t turn for her? But on that spring day, when Alex stowed their common room furniture in the basement of Jonathan Edwards, and said goodbye to Mercy and Lauren, Il Bastone’s doorknob had rattled happily beneath her hand, the door springing open like a pair of welcoming arms. She really had meant to find a job for the summer, but business around campus had slowed too much. So eventually, she just stopped looking. She had a small summer stipend from Lethe, and she spent it on junk food, frozen egg rolls, and pigs-in-a-blanket she could heat up in the toaster oven. She hadn’t even asked if she could stay at Il Bastone. She just did. Who else had bled for this place? Alex spent her days examining the course catalogue and talking to Mercy. They’d pieced together as much of Alex’s schedule as possible so that she could get ahead on the reading. She read paperbacks too, one after the next like she was chain-smoking—romance, science fiction, old pulp fantasy. All she wanted to do was sit, unbothered in a circle of lamplight, and live someone else’s life. But every evening was spent in the library. She’d write down Dawes’s suggestions in the Albemarle Book or come up with some of her own, then wait


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

your pride is too powerful. --My ancestors threw off their language and took another Stephen said. They allowed a handful of foreigners to subject them. Do you fancy I am going to pay in my own life and person debts they made? What for? --For our freedom, said Davin. --No honourable and sincere man, said Stephen, has given up to you his life and his youth and his affections from the days of Tone to those of Parnell, but you sold him to the enemy or failed him in need or reviled him and left him for another. And you invite me to be one of you. I'd see you damned first. --They died for their ideals, Stevie, said Davin. Our day will come yet, believe me. Stephen, following his own thought, was silent for an instant. --The soul is born, he said vaguely, first in those moments I told you of. It has a slow and dark birth, more mysterious than the birth of the body. When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets. Davin knocked the ashes from his pipe. --Too deep for me, Stevie, he said. But a man's country comes first. Ireland first, Stevie. You can be a poet or a mystic after. --Do you know what Ireland is? asked Stephen with cold violence. Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow. Davin rose from his box and went towards the players, shaking his head sadly. But in a moment his sadness left him and he was hotly disputing with Cranly and the two players who had finished their game. A match of four was arranged, Cranly insisting, however, that his ball should be used. He let it rebound twice or thrice to his hand and struck it strongly and swiftly towards the base of the alley, exclaiming in answer to its thud: --Your soul! Stephen stood with Lynch till the score began to rise. Then he plucked him by the sleeve to come away. Lynch obeyed, saying: --Let us eke go, as Cranly has it. Stephen smiled at this side-thrust. They passed back through the garden and out through the hall where the doddering porter was pinning up a hall notice in the frame. At the foot of the steps they halted and Stephen took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered it to his companion. --I know you are poor, he said. --Damn your yellow insolence, answered Lynch. This second proof of Lynch's culture made Stephen smile again. --It was a great day for European culture, he said, when you made up your mind to swear in yellow. They lit their cigarettes and turned to the right. After a pause Stephen began: --Aristotle has not defined pity and terror. I have. I say-- Lynch halted and said bluntly: --Stop! I won't listen! I am sick. I was out last night on a